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housedeaubemarle · 6 months ago

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(The Silver Tattler, Is. 10)

“Darling Philomene, is Oudine quite alright?”

The Dowager Viscountess sits in her chair, as upright as always, sipping fragrant Ishgardian tea from a porcelain cup. A sumptuous tea service sits between her and her companion, complete with pastries, water biscuits and a generous wedge of good Ishgardian cheese to accompany the latter. One would think two highborn ladies whose ages totalled to about 130 turns would have smaller appetites than the amount of food warranted - one would be mistaken.

She looks at the older lady before her whose face is full of concern. Seeing as it's her sister-in-law, Perette de Hellyes, as lovely a soul as one could hope to meet, it is genuine.

So she sighs. “Perfectly fine, dear. If the Viscount de Aubemarle hasn't enough sense to keep her name out of tawdry publications, she at least has the wherewithal not to let it trouble her.”

Perette nibbles a madeleine delicately, as the concern is replaced by some relief. “Domin and I had been rather worried - this is the first time we've heard our niece being spoken of in such a manner.” She waves a hand encircled by a jadeite bangle airily. “Not that we really believed you would countenance a match between her and the Losstarot head, fond as you are of those young men.”

Philomene snorts. “Fond, indeed. When have I ever given the impression I was fond of them?”

“Well dearest, you must admit: giving away opportunities to be introduced to members of the ton after just one meeting is a hint if nothing else. And have you not been quite kind to them in public?”

She sniffs. “My generous daughter wouldn’t have heard of anything less. As it is the wish of the viscount, I must do my duty as a member of her household.”

Perette grins, knowing full well the Dowager’s peculiar way of expressing affection: denying it utterly in words but showing it in contradicting deeds. “Such an obedient Aubemarle, my love. I am proud of you.”

Philomene gives her a look before returning to the previous topic. “Well, regardless of my… fondness, if you insist on calling it that, I will not have my darling girl be shackled to such an inexperienced innocent. Lord Joshua is yet to be fully tried in our crucible since the ton has been more concerned with his older brother on the whole. Now they will be paying more attention to him; it ought to be a worthy learning experience.”

Perette's eyes twinkle. “That cannot be the right description for someone who has been through a Garlean invasion.”

Her sister-in-law shakes her head. “There are different wars fought here, as well you know. Garlemald quakes before the judgement of Ishgard's beau monde.”

The ludicrous statement makes Perette laugh, even as she understands the sentiment. “And have you considered that Oudine may have her own plans? She is more than of age, and can make her own decisions without your approval – a union with Losstarot is not exactly that poor a prospect.”

Philomene arches an eyebrow at her. “Perette my love, only you may say that to join hands with a man of that house is not a poor outlook.” She takes another sip, and shakes her head. “Whichever bride Lord Joshua brings into that family is going to need a stomach of iron to confront such an unsavoury history, to say nothing of the veritable wealth of rumours.”

“And if Oudine should find herself in love at long last?”

This gives the Dowager pause, but only to set her teacup down and laugh. “Love! My daughter and Joshua de Losstarot!”

“I don't see why you should scoff so,” protests Perette. “From what I see, he is as eligible a bachelor as any! A steady young man with clear ambition, and rather good looking too. Not quite as handsome as the older brother, but certainly features one may appreciate even up close.”

“Fury love you, sister,” replies Philomene with some incredulity. “Would you marry Lucinne- no, stay; of course you would. She chose Felixient and you agreed.”

Perette shakes her head. “Now really darling, Felixient is a lovely man.”

“Oh yes, and without a single sensible thought in his pretty head, even after becoming a father,” says Philomene dryly and without hesitation. “It says much that your featherhead of a son-in-law is, by leaps and bounds, more acceptable than either of the Losstarots as they currently stand. It will take a few more turns before the reason they had to be reinstated even begins to fade into obscurity.”

Perette's amusement, in spite of this (long-familiar) abuse of her son-in-law, is written all over her face. “And that is your only objection if Oudine should wish to marry Lord Joshua? His current standing in society?”

Philomene narrows her eyes at her. “Perette, what has my daughter said to you?”

Perette immediately raises a hand in surrender. “Absolutely nothing, I promise you faithfully.” She sighs. “I merely think it would be nice to see Oudine in an actual romance for once. The poor dear has never found anyone who suits her. Not that she’s had any head for it in recent turns, understandably, but nonetheless…”

Philomene snorts. “She could if she would but listen to good advice.”

Perette gives her sister-in-law a wry smile. “All your dossiers and reconnaissance have yet to bear fruit, I take it.”

The Dowager rolls her eyes. “Stubborn girl.” But the words have no real critique in them.

“Well,” says Perette, picking up a biscuit and the cheese knife. “Perhaps it's for the best Oudine hasn't actually lost her heart to him. Apparently the younger Losstarot was seen stepping out with a mysterious woman some mornings ago; not too long after sunrise, as I’ve understood.”

A silence falls as she cuts a small corner of cheese to spread on her biscuit.

“He what.”

Perette immediately looks up, cheese forgotten. The Dowager's posture has gone more still than earlier, and from afar it would have been nothing remarkable.

But Perette has known her for well over thirty years, and can tell the glitter in Philomene's dark brown eyes is one of utter displeasure. The twitch of her lips is also tellingly unhappy.

“My dear one, you just said-”

“I am aware, love. He what?”

The thought that she may have spoken carelessly crosses her mind rather too late. Perette sets down the knife. “Now darling, it’s all just talk – I heard from one who heard from another and so on and so on. You know how it works,” she says soothingly. “It’s nothing certain at all.”

Philomene does know how it all works, which is why her frown is relentless. “And where did you hear this uncertain whisper from?”

Perette lets out a breath. “My dresser happened to mention it – with all good intentions, to be fair to her; the Tattler also reaches the Foundation after all, and she'd remembered the name of Losstarot.”

The Dowager closes her eyes in consternation, very nearly trembling with indignation. Pity and gossip from a lowborn woman because a prospective suitor has (apparently) moved on within mere suns – suns! – of (allegedly) courting Oudine: her precious girl, treasure of her years, only daughter of herself and Vouloix de Aubemarle.

How dare he.

From the far reaches of her (unjustified) mental outrage, she catches Perette’s voice. “Darling, it is most likely all a falsehood. Besides, you just said there is no possible chance of Oudine ever marrying him. Why in the Fury’s name should this bother you so?”

“Because!” snaps Philomene, and her eyes open at the same time. “It subjects her to the mortification of even more vulgar rumours! The cheek of it – waltzing with my daughter and then stepping out with some common woman?”

Perette is quite used to these wild mental leaps but this is a particularly tricky labyrinth. Still, she tries to keep up. “Philomene, we have no idea who this woman is, common or otherwise. And I really do think a man ought to be free to converse with anyone he pleases – goodness, where would anyone be if one waltz shackled us forever to conversation with that singular individual and only them? It would be lunacy.”

“That is not what I meant!”

Perette blinks. She has a vague clue what Philomene does mean, but can’t quite parse it. She settles on something more sensible. “At any event, I hardly think he set out to offend – and again, if it’s true which it well may not, did you not also just say he is an inexperienced innocent in the ways of the ton? He’s hardly a rake, from what I can tell – it’s unlikely to be anything but a simple misunderstanding. How could he possibly know a mere walk might be twisted into anything more?”

“Well, he should!”

A deeply hidden part of Perette wants very much to laugh at this farce, and particularly at the petulant tone her sister-in-law has taken. Yet any outward show of humour at this point would probably result in an unfortunate incident involving the butter knife. So she quashes the impulse and turns all her energy to calming down the tempest which has arisen. (And also discreetly moves the knife closer to her side of the table).

“My dearest Philomene, one of your best qualities has always been your maternal devotion to Oudine. I know you desire nothing but the very best for the dear girl. The offense is only natural, to be sure.”

Philomene breathes in, and out. That much is true.

“And if anyone so much as forcibly plucks a hair from her head, I am assured you would go to war with them, be they ever so highly placed as the count of Durendaire, or as dangerous as the Tribunal's inquisitors themselves. So what is the lord of an old, noble and recovering house to you?”

That is also true.

“No one, my love, could doubt your affection for your children. None at all.” Perette refills Philomene's cup. “But you know, my dear, your dedication sometimes overwhelms you, understandably of course. Yet I know you are far too sensible a woman to let it overtake you for long. You must remember your health, dearest, lest you be overwrought – we are not as young as we used to be, after all.”

Philomene finally lets Perette's calming – almost cooing – tone settle over her, relenting enough to even drink the fresh cup of warm tea.

“There now,” says her sister-in-law, still employing her mollifying tone. “Isn't that better? Now we may think comfortably.”

She gives Perette a look. “You are not entirely subtle, sister.”

Perette just beams. “Which is just as well since I had no such intentions.” She picks up a madeleine and places it on Philomene's plate for emphasis.

Philomene, in spite of herself, breathes in and out. “Well. After the service he has rendered, one supposes Joshua de Losstarot may be given the…” she sips her tea again, as if to swallow her feelings, “benefit of the doubt, in the face of… admittedly baseless, vulgar hearsay.”

Perette keeps smiling. “Precisely. An eminently more reasonable approach, I say. You've met the young man more often than I have, so you would know far better than any rumour monger, of course.”

“...well, I can’t say I know him all that well,” says Philomene slowly, allowing herself to be convinced by this notion. “But certainly I know enough that he is not inclined to even dally with women, much less keep a mistress hidden somewhere.”

“There you are then,” says Perette, patting her on the hand. “I’m sure they mistook him for someone else. White hair and grey skin are so common these days after all.”

Philomene’s cup rattles a little more than it should on its saucer, but Perette’s tone is perfectly empty of any implications. She does mean what she says.

So the Dowager merely reaches for the madeleine and bites into it, as her sister-in-law takes the opportunity to change the subject.

“Ah, my son, what a rare pleasure to find you home for a change.”

Remont looks up from where he’s been perusing a journal in the study. He immediately places it back where it’d been on the shelf and strides over to his mother. “My dear Mamma, you talk as if you want me tied to your apron strings.”

She takes the arm he proffers with one hand, while the other holds onto her habitual walking stick. An eyebrow is raised in his direction. “Can you deny that we’ve not had you at our dinner table for the past ten suns?”

“Now madam, it’s easy enough to confess I haven’t been there. Yet do consider how five of those ten have been spent out socialising alongside you and the viscount,” says Remont with an easy grin as he leads her to an armchair. “And I distinctly recollect being in the same carriage as you, both to and fro on at least three of those five occasions.”

The Dowager snorts, though the smile is evident. “At least you have such grace to admit the other two did not see you return with us.”

He stands in front of her, still smiling amusedly. “I’m a wretch and a scapegrace, but not a liar.” He adds, before she can open her mouth, “As much as I can help it.”

She gives him a look, putting both her hands on the topper of her cane. “Hmmph. You have your father’s silver tongue.”

“As precious a gift as his name,” he says, with evident sincerity. It mollifies his mother enough to employ a softer tone.

“Remy my dear, I’ve heard some things from your aunt this afternoon. I should like your opinion on them.”

He bows in assent. “They are yours as best as I may give them, ma’am.”

“It involves your sister in some capacity.”

Only a sharp-eyed mother would have noticed some of the casual ease disappear from his posture, though he manages to keep himself quite relaxed overall. “Oh?”

She looks him directly in the eyes, and it is like looking into her own, which makes it easier for the question to emerge: “Has she a tendre for Lord Joshua?”

Remont is genuinely taken aback, staring at her in such shock that the question seems thoroughly answered. Nonetheless, she waits for him to gather himself so she might have solid confirmation.

“My lady mother,” he says at last, feeling like he’s just climbed over the Coerthan mountain range without benefit or aid of magic or mount. “What, in all the names of the divine Twelve, gave you that impression? You cannot still possibly think the Tattler was entirely correct.”

“I was given that impression, dearest, by your aunt asking me that exact question.”

Remont shakes his head. “Dear Aunt Perette, always on the lookout for her niece and nephew’s potential soulmates.”

The Dowager raises an eyebrow. “As am I, for my own children. Thus I must ask directly since subterfuge is beneath us.” Such a blatant mistruth and his accusatory stare bounces off her.

He sighs. “No Mamma, Dine doesn’t fancy either of our cousins in such a way. She has become very attached to them both, and would seek their good and happiness, but it is no tendre.”

“And she has told you this?”

Remont looks at her despairingly. “Mamma, will you not ask her yourself rather than doubt my word for it?”

“I will not subject your sister to such embarrassment when she has so many other concerns to deal with.”

“And I am worth subjecting to this embarrassment? Have I no other concern?”

The Dowager does, in fact, love her son very much, for it is only a real mother’s affection which could offer, in as dry a tone as could be mustered: “My dear child, when have you ever been embarrassed in matters of the heart?”

“I could start!”

She gives him a wry look so devoid of belief, it should have been immediately hauled into the Tribunal for interrogation and executed for heresy.

Remont throws his hands up in exasperation. “She hasn’t told me in so many words, but it is clear to see, Mamma. Dine has no intention of setting her cap for them, and the feeling is mutual.”

“Alright, then tell me this: has either of those boys any serious intention of courting anyone this season?”

Her son goes from exasperation to bewilderment. “I… I honestly couldn’t tell you. Mamma, why would you be remotely interested in the matter? Are you thinking of adopting them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; one son is more than enough.” She huffs. “My lord Joshua was allegedly walking out with a young woman of unknown origin soon after the Tattler was published. Just after dawn no less. Your aunt’s own dresser brought the news to her.”

Remont can feel a laugh rising dangerously to the surface. Oudine had told him about her pre-breakfast, not-quite-rendezvous with Joshua. She's going to screech at this unexpected development. “R-really now? Did she say what the young woman looked like?”

“No, she did not,” says the Dowager with a more pronounced scowl. “Hence my question to you, as one who has spent far more time with my lord than I have.”

Remont keeps his hilarity down admirably. “I assure you, Mamma, if Joshua has any, ah, particularly close connection, it is not known to me. Nor, I’d wager, to him, considering how he has little real interest in the matter.”

The Dowager’s eyebrow rises higher. “Is he not the one who keeps speaking about the future of his house?”

Remont smiles helplessly. “It doesn’t quite translate to courtship nor its success.”

“Hrrrmph.” She taps her fingers on her walking stick, looking away from her son and at the fire crystals in the hearth, thinking and digesting the new information she’s received. Remont stays quiet, watching his mother’s face.

“Your sister has always hated being the subject of gossip, yet she has handled this without complaint,” she says eventually, thoughtfully. “Outwardly at least.”

“She’s bearing it gracefully, yes.”

The Dowager looks back at him. There is concern mingled with sharpness in her eyes. “Yet she’s not as inured to it as you and I, my son. I don’t know what you’re both scheming, but for my sake, have a care.”

Remont blinks. “What could we possibly be planning, Mamma?”

She snorts, as she pushes herself up from her seat, using her walking stick. “I hardly know. Call it a mother’s instinct, if nothing else.”

He looks at her for a moment, then breaks into a fond smile, and stepping closely to her, kisses his mother on the cheek.

“Thank you, mother mine.”

The Dowager gives him a look. “And what have I done that's worth such thanks?”

“Why, for giving us life of course. Is that not what you’ve constantly reminded us?” he says with a grin. It becomes wider when she swats him on the shoulder, in quite the same way his sister often does.

“Impudent boy,” she says, though she smirks. “Are you staying for dinner?” When he nods, she smiles in satisfaction. “I will see you and your sister then.”

He bows and watches her leave the room, walking stick softly thudding with every other step. When he’s left alone again, he lets out a sigh, sinking into the armchair she has vacated. He does not look forward to if and when the Dowager discovers the other piece of gossip Oudine is planning to manufacture. Then he pictures Joshua's face when he finds out yet another rumour - now with his specific name in it - is spreading and chokes on a laugh.

“From no scandals to two in seven suns; Fury love you, Joshua de Losstarot…!”

End.

#ffxiv oc #philomene de aubemarle #perette de hellyes #joshua de losstarot #remont de aubemarle #oudine de aubemarle #(to be clear: it was oudine in a dress and bonnet to be on the safe side)#(there was Scheming to be done not courting)

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housedeaubemarle · 10 months ago

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The Grand Hunt - Part 4: The Trophy

Part 1: The Call

Part 2: The Tracking

Part 3: The Hunt

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv who keeps on being amazing and mindbogglingly strong - we did it! We finished it!)

~*~

“Excuse me sir, has something happened? Why does everyone look so worried?”

The airship port worker furrows his brow, scratching his head under his tweed cap. Considering how the questioner has just stepped off the ship, a thick cloak round her shoulders and luggage in hand, the question makes sense.

“Horde attack about two hours past, lady - terrible business. The guards are out there now, sweeping the grounds; Ishgard even sent the Knights, and no wonder - two blasts they threw and the ground shook like nothing else. Hear tell they’ve already sent word to Twinpools for the dragon hunters.” He grimaces. “Think there were some casualties, poor souls.”

The eyes of the lady before him widen visibly. “Fury have mercy.”

The worker shakes his head. “Once a dragon, always a dragon.”

“I beg to disagree,” is a sudden reply. It comes from an Elezen who steps up neatly beside the lady. He’s visibly taller than her, but also wears travel garb, with bags in both hands. “Nidhogg’s hordes don’t speak for those who seek peace with Ishgard.”

The dock worker is about to object, but sees the glint in the newcomer’s dark brown eyes, even as his posture is relaxed, and voice civilly smooth.

“Well, can’t blame a man when half the cliff is gone,” he says gruffly.

“No, perhaps not.” He looks sideways at the woman, whose brow is wrinkled in concern. “Come on, Dine. Sooner we get home, sooner you can get that look off your face.”

She nods, then looks back to the worker. “Thank you. Fury keep you,” she says kindly before moving away with her companion.

The worker bows shortly, still stinging a little from her companion’s remark. He turns back to his duties, not quite hearing a shocked “Cillien!” from behind him.

Some way away from the airships, Cillien faces his employer, his face the very picture of surprise. “Lady Oudine?” His blue eyes dart to the person with her; the shock increases sharply. “Lord Remont! Wha- how-”

Remont tilts his head in some confusion. “That should be our question considering how we had planned this as a surprise.”

Cilien stares at him as if he were speaking Doman. “S-surprise?”

“Yes, Rem said he’d come home with me to visit Mamma,” says Oudine with no less bewilderment. “We took the first airship out of Tailfeather, and the wind was with us. But we just heard there was an attack-” She stops. “Why are you here?”

“I… ah…” Cillien looks back and forth between his masters, trying to find the right words. “Well-”

“Cillien, I found them!”

Everyone looks up to see a much shorter Hyur running towards them, panting from his efforts. “It took some doing but they’re-” He screeches to a halt, suddenly realising exactly who Cillien is standing with. “Milady! Milord!”

Oudine’s mouth opens again to see another familiar face, in a completely unexpected place. “Lamb?”

Remont’s eyes jump from the dismay on Cillien’s face, to the horror in Lamb’s, to the utter stupefaction of Oudine’s. He puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder bracingly, as he asks, “Who exactly have you found, Lamb?”

~*~

“Isillud…? Izzy.”

The exhaustion is too deeply set, so it takes a few more shakes before the grey Elezen can bring himself to bleary consciousness. Stiffness and aches begin clamouring for attention across his body, resulting in a heartfelt groan. The waking world is too cruel for someone who’s been through as much as he has in one morning. Eventually, very eventually, his eyes focus.

A very tall, rather tanned Elezen, with short chestnut hair and an undercut, vaguely familiar dark brown eyes and attractive cheekbones, looks back at him. He wears a small smile as he places a mug on the bedside table.

“It’s been a while, cousin.”

It is a familiar scene with a familiar feeling: The languid tone like silk in his ears, the aroma of coffee tickling his nose, and too-bright sunlight pushing through the thin curtains.

The only difference is that Isillud Losstarot isn't buck naked; he checked.

That's when he realises he's still in the present: He's at Falcon's Nest, he brought Rewelle here. He sits up but the room begins to spin and he falls back onto the pillow. "Rewelle, will she be alright…?"

That that should be Isillud’s first question makes Remont’s smile grow.

“She’s been stabilised, the healer told us, but still not awake,” he says, putting the back of his hand against Isillud’s forehead, gently brushing his bangs aside, to check for a temperature. He puts it to the side of the patient’s face as well, for good measure. “We won’t move her home until she regains consciousness.”

Satisfied that there isn’t a fever, he settles a thin blanket back over Isillud, now a little paler from his exertions. Remont sits back in the wooden chair next to the bed.

Isillud leans into Remont's hand, reluctant enough to look a little pained when his cousin returns to his chair but awkward enough to not look him in the eyes. "I see," he simply says.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but the innkeeper said you’ve been out cold since you got them to see to Rewelle. Had to check if you were rational, in addition to being alive. Also to keep Dine from worrying herself to death over you.” The smile becomes rather rueful. “Her concern also involves your brother despite his absence. Do you wish us to let him know where you are?” The dark brown eyes take on a curious gleam. “Or are you expecting him shortly?”

Remont's question assures him that Joshua and Escher weren't around at least, though he silently prays they made it to Ishgard without rousing suspicion. "Just tell Joshua we are…well." His pretty face frowns a little, "...What are you doing here?"

The other man considers his response. Izzy looks like he's been crumpled up and thrown about like a - while still beautiful - scrap of paper despite the stoic message for his own brother. Whatever agreement they'd had in the past - when they’d found out exactly whose son each of them had been - doesn't preclude a little levity to try and ease the tension.

So he just says lightly, “Taking care of you, since it seems you can't be trusted to do it yourself.”

The tips of Isillud's ears flush slightly pink at Remont's answer. He's still your cousin, Izzy, he reminds himself. "I just do it differently," he retorts, sulking slightly. Remont might remember that he sleeps in and used to neglect regular meals but it doesn't mean he'll admit it. Not to family, anyway.

Remont chuckles. In culinary terms, it’d be a dark chocolate brownie of a laugh: delightful, warm, maybe just a little too rich for comfort. Just a touch.

“Very well, little cousin, though I’m not sure I agree with your methods.” He leans back in the chair, looking as comfortable as if it were the plushest armchair known to man. “I’m here to visit my dear old mother - a surprise from her darling boy whose new haircut I’m sure she will adore.” He turns his head left and right rather proudly.

Isillud can't help but smile at the cornrows in the side. "She will certainly have much to say about it. I don't think I fit the style, though I do see its appeal."

Remont almost asks whether his cousin sees the appeal in the haircut itself, or on him specifically, just to see if the smile will become a blush.

Instead, he continues, “Also I wanted to see my celebrated cousins for myself. Dine says you’ve been acquitting yourselves well in high society.”

Isillud twirls a lock of his hair, partly flustered and partly proud at Remont's compliment. "It's all Joshua, really. He has a knack for it I never had. And you? Are you still adventuring?"

“I'm flattered that you think me, a spoiled highborn son, an adventurer,” says Remont with a boyish grin. “Say rather I've not been travelling much, not since we’ve expanded the Ranch’s breeding facilities to keep up with demand. Even I’ve had to be on hand, getting up at odd hours to help feed the chicks and check on the nests. Yet I never thought I’d see orders coming from the likes of Doma, so it's worth it.”

"Never thought I'd see the day Remont de Aubemarle becomes a chocobo rancher instead of bounding off on the next adventure. Perhaps you might take up the mantle of Viscount too?" Isillud teases.

The other Elezen just smiles; he's not about to take easy bait like that. “Hardly. ‘Tis Dine’s good management, I believe, much like Joshua’s knack.” He gazes at Isillud for a short minute, as if looking for something. Then his smile seems to grow quite gentle. “Such reliable siblings we’ve been blessed with, Izzy. Strange, isn’t it, that they care so much for us in spite of our own opinions?”

Isillud snuggles back into bed, loosening a button on his collar; he's not slept fully clothed in bed since childhood and it smothers him so. "As we do for them. It goes both ways."

Remont doesn't miss the flash of neck and collarbone, and also doesn't take such bait, sitting quite comfortably in his chair.

“Will you tell me what happened, if I ask nicely?” His tone would be more suited to asking whether Isillud prefers tea or coffee.

Isillud's beaming smile is half hidden by his pillow and the soft strands of white hair falling over his face. "Let me hear your best attempt first, cousin." Even if Remont is a cousin and older, he's not going to let him off easy.

Remont snorts in amusement, enjoying the look of angelic innocence radiating off the other Elezen. it's the white hair, he thinks - quite a halo-like appearance. He moves his chair, just so he can lean closer.

“If you wanted a bedtime story, you could've just asked.” And because Remont can't help himself, he reaches out to stroke Isillud's soft hair, like he's soothing a child to sleep.

“The innkeeper says a man carried the lass in, and said he'd been hired to escort her to her cousin's in the Nest. They'd gotten caught in the attacks and she'd gotten hurt terribly. Please get a healer at once, the man had said, and a clean, airy room. Don't bother about him; he would shift for himself. Of course that wouldn't do, so this most compassionate proprietor had one of his workers give the man a room while they hastened for help for the poor young lady.

“Cillien and Lamb, the reason we found you, say the innkeeper perhaps had misheard. Lord Isillud had merely been kind enough to offer his escort for Rewelle to her cousin's at the Nest, particularly since her ladyship the Viscountess requested for both the lords’ assistance. They are here because they'd heard of the attacks and became worried.”

Remont's fingers don't stop their slow, languorous movements, just like his calm, even voice.

“It is extremely curious why you didn't take the easier route of the airship, and somehow ended up just outside the Bridge where the cliff got destroyed.”

His touch reminds Isillud of when his mother used to put him to bed, her long fingers gently massaging his scalp as she told stories of illustrious and noble ancestors.

"Extremely curious indeed," he murmurs, hovering over the edge of sleep with such gentle ministrations. "Why, it almost seems like it was entirely orchestrated to get rid of some ne'er do wells who had attacked one of the Viscountess's staff…and perhaps as a warning sign to the ignoble who employed them."

Remont just hums in reply, saying nothing more. He watches his cousin's eyes close fully again, making sure to keep patting Isillud's head till the breathing is slow, and even-paced.

��You and your brother have done much for us, Izzy,” he whispers. “I wonder if you even knew the risks you undertook.” He drops a quick – and to his credit, quite fraternal �� kiss on Isillud's brow then rises to quietly leave the room.

Outside, his sister stands, hands crossed, staring at the door of Rewelle's room as if it had committed a cardinal sin.

Only when he calls her name and touches her shoulder does she look up. The glare softens at once. “Is he alright?”

Remont nods. “Come, we shouldn't talk here. Let’s take a walk outside.”

The siblings head downstairs, where Cillien is having an overdue bite to eat. He stands when he sees his masters appear, but Oudine waves him back down.

“It’s alright, please carry on with your meal. I must confer with my brother on what to do next.”

“Yes, milady.”

Remont throws him a smile as he nods at Cillien's plate. “Any good?”

Cillien returns a helpless grin. “Aubemarle has spoilt me hopelessly, milord, but it will do. Cook would have an opinion or three, I shouldn't wonder.”

Remont chuckles, and even Oudine finally cracks a smile. “Good man.” He gives Cillien another nod and walks with his sister out of the inn.

Instinctively, Oudine tucks her hand around Remont's elbow as they begin their aimless stroll. The streets bustle with activity - people are running back and forth, spreading news and rumours alike. Several armoured men move amongst the crowd.

“It seems we owe our cousins thanks,” says Remont in a low voice, unfazed by his surroundings.

“How so?”

“Izzy alluded to an attack on one of the staff, and an ‘ignoble’ whom the attackers worked for.”

Oudine stares out into the street, swiftly putting theories and possible pieces together. “Ajax.” Her brows meet in a fierce glare. “That bastard arranged an attack on Rewelle?”

Remont is probably the only person who wouldn't bat an eyelash at Oudine swearing. “I am unsurprised. Even Tramault can't make things disappear if Ajax is involved directly.” He narrows his eyes. “The Losstarots must have lured Rewelle's attackers out of the city. I assume they had plans to get rid of them somehow, but dragonfire would have changed everything. I can't quite account for Joshua, but then, it's best for the head of the Losstarots not to be seen.”

Oudine’s mind races with this new information. “Then that means they used Rewelle as bait. Joshua and Isillud might have been discovered. They could have been killed.” Her grip around Remont's elbow tightens. “Idiots.”

Remont pats her tense hand. “Rewelle wouldn't have agreed if she didn't want to.”

She shakes her head. “She's a maid in our employ. There is something to be said for power imbalances.”

“Like the one between us and the Gaussains,” replies Remont calmly. “I think they had little choice.”

Oudine falls silent, but her hold on his elbow does loosen a little.

“Why?” She asks at last. “Why would they do so much for us? For Rewelle? They're finally starting to see progress within Ishgard - the name of Losstarot is becoming more known for their generosity amongst the lowborn and abilities to the high. Why risk all that for… for such distant kin as us?”

Remont looks at his sister. “I thought you liked them.”

“I do like them, hence I refuse to treat them as tools to be used when convenient and put away when not,” says Oudine with frustration. “Rewelle too is not an object for us to move as and when we please.”

“...Dine.” now he pauses, so he can look her in the eye. His voice is gentle.

“Have you considered, perhaps, they also like our family enough to help us? That when they heard Rewelle was in trouble, they helped because it was right to do so, Gaussains or no?”

Oudine stares up at her brother's serious expression. Then she looks down, shaking her head at herself.

Remont pulls her into a tight hug. “I'm sorry I left you with those Ishgardian beasts for so long, Viscount. You seem to have forgotten that there are trustworthy men even here.”

She closes her eyes, leans her forehead against his shoulder. “Then stay longer this time, Rem. At least long enough to help me hunt down one of them.”

He smirks. “You're set on it then.”

“Yes.” She raises her head, and the expression on her face resembles the Dowager's when provoked. “Gaussain has overreached.”

Remont's smirk widens. “Understood, milord. First, we have to take care of our injured.”

She nods. “I have some ideas.”

~*~

Early the next morning, a carriage draws up to the Losstarot residence. While Remont remembers Isillud's tendency to sleep in, they also want to check on Rewelle and Lamb who's been tasked to watch over her while the Aubemarle party returned to Ishgard the evening before.

Remont jumps down to go knock on the front door.

“Remont de Aubemarle,” says the Elezen to Ser Drouhont. “Apologies for such short notice, but we're here for Lord Joshua de Losstarot. We'd like to bring him to Falcon's Nest, if he would be so kind as to accompany me and Viscount Oudine.”

"Mine apologies, but the young lord was entertaining an eminent Sharlayan scholar until late last night and is now nursing a dreadful headache. He has given express orders to not be disturbed." Drouhont bows deeply. "May I have the honour of passing him a message when he wakes?"

Remont only just manages to bite back a laugh at this frank declaration. He knows of Joshua enough to conclude Isillud isn't the only one paying for their part in this scheme.

“I understand. Pass him my sympathies, and an invitation to the Polar Head inn, in Falcon's Nest. If he can't rise, please reassure him we will return his brother safely before the day is out.”

When he returns to the carriage alone, Oudine just raises her eyebrows inquiringly.

He grins. “Joshua is indisposed, but I've left the message. I'm sure he'll come find us.” Or not, depending on how long his head keeps pounding.

Oudine casts a doubtful look at him. “I know it's early but isn't he worried about Isillud?”

Remont snickers as the carriage goes on its way to the airship port. “Don't fret, Dine - those brothers have their own way of taking care of each other.”

Meanwhile, Drouhont closes the manor doors with a quiet click then drifts to the drawing room where Joshua lies with an ice pack on his head, shoes kicked off haphazardly and resting at a table leg.

"Fuck you Izzy, you left me with a fucking madman," Joshua mutters, the few short years spent in Limsa showing in his colourful language. He doesn't even move his head to look at Drouhont. "Who was it?"

"Lord Remont de Aubemarle came to bring you to Falcon's Nest to see your brother. I told them you are unwell as per your orders and he said he will return Isillud safely before the day is out."

Joshua tenses. He moves his head but moans when the room spins, returning to his initial position on the pillow. "So he's well, and they've found out."

"That would seem to be so, milord. Shall I prepare a carriage?"

"What for, to yell at him? We all know what happened. I'll yell at him when he comes back." Joshua turns to the backrest - the patterns are more soothing to sore eyes - and curls up. "Keep telling people I'm sick, Drouhont."

"Very well, milord." Drouhont bows and drifts out the door. He wonders briefly if his ex-commanding officer is aware of it yet.

~*~

Ser Lucille sighs at the slightly wider gap between Black Iron Bridge. "Dragonfire, you say?"

"Well, there was a report of a Sharlayan scholar at The Pike doin' some research."

She rolls her eyes. If it's who it is, the dragons are less paperwork. "We'll find them if we have the time. For now focus on weeding out the dragons. They must be around somewhere."

~*~

Sydney takes a sip of Thavnairian chai - hot, burning, and creamy, just the way he likes it. A half-folded letter is tossed carelessly onto a side table. "Nasser."

A tall broad-shouldered Raen pokes his head out from the kitchen, wiping his spice-laden hands. "Sir?"

"Our guest should be reaching the airship landing soon. Could you pick him up and bring him straight to his destination?"

"You do not wish to meet him?"

"I don't want to hear a common thug's desires." He removes his pince-nez to wipe the lenses.

"Very well." Nasser hangs up his apron by the door and heads out.

~*~

Back at the Polar Head, there is a knock, then another, on the door of Isillud's room.

Lamb the footman had also been tasked to see to Isillud's needs. While it might have been a chore some days ago, Lamb now would run to Dalmasca and back if Isillud wished it. Anything could be done for the one who saved Rewelle.

“Lord Isillud?”

Isillud groans at the door. Not even when he was in exile was he subject to so many interruptions. Instead he throws the pillow over his head and sleeps some more.

Lamb can’t help grinning when he hears the groan from within. Instead of leaving, he opens the door quietly. Without another sound so as not to disturb the snoozing figure in the bed, he leaves a can of hot water, an enamel basin and a fresh towel on the bedside table. On the chair, he drapes a clean shirt and trousers - originally Cillien’s - since he’s fairly sure Lord Isillud would prefer a change of clothes when he wakes, even if it’s just humble cotton and linen.

He leaves as silently as he entered, then moves onto another room. Its occupant doesn’t open her eyes until he hovers over her.

She blinks awake, focuses on his face, and offers a smile. “No luck then?” she asks in a hoarse, weak voice. It’s still music to Lamb’s ears after her entire ordeal.

It is well after midnight, in some blessed hour, when Lamb is jolted awake from where he’s bent over, half sleeping on Rewelle’s bed. His lower back yells mutiny at him, but it is nothing since he’d just felt someone touch his hair.

The candles have gone out, but he can vaguely see her looking at him.

“Thank the Fury and all the gods,” says Lamb fervently, grasping her hand and pressing it to his lips without thinking. He gets up to see her face closer, still holding onto her hand.

“Where…” she tries, but the sound is weak and creaky. She winces at a pain that shoots into her torso.

“Falcon’s Nest. Lord Isillud rescued you.”

She breathes out, relieved. “Is he… safe?”

“Yes, he’s alright. He’s fine.”

“Good…” Her eyes begin to close again, sleep regaining its hold. “Stay, please?”

The grip on her hand gets tighter. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

Rewelle smiles, then drifts back to sleep.

He shakes his head. “Think milord’s sleeping off the amount of heroics from yesterday.”

Rewelle chuckles, though it aches to do so. “No armour, yet a knight.”

Lamb tucks a loose strand behind her ear. “For which I’ll be eternally grateful.”

She looks at him with her dark eyes, taking in his expression. “...thank you, Lamb.”

“Whatever for?”

The smile, even with lips as pale as hers, is rather like early summer: lovely and bright. “Everything.”

Lamb can’t say anything to that, so he just leans over to kiss her forehead. “Could you keep anything down, do you think?”

“Not yet. Maybe… maybe after her ladyship arrives.” Rewelle sighs. “She knows?”

Lamb smiles helplessly. “I think she and Lord Remont worked it out. She said she had a plan for you.”

“...am I going to lose my job?”

Lamb laughs the first hearty laugh he’s done in weeks.

~*~

“I left him some things in case he woke up before you arrived, milord, but so far he hasn’t stirred.”

While a much-relieved Oudine has gone in to visit Rewelle, Remont laughs outside in the corridor. He holds a box in one hand. “I expected as much. I’ll take it from here, Lamb. Thank you.”

The footman bows with an amused smile, letting his master be.

“Izzy, I’m coming in whether you're ready or not,” he says out loud.

Within the room: "If you're not naked and down to fuck, I'm not accepting," Isillud mumbles softly into his pillow through gritted teeth. What does he need to do to get some proper sleep around here??

The door remains shut. From experience, Remont has to surmise he's being cussed at.

“I've no idea what you're saying, but it can't be good,” he says with much amusement. “Do I have to eat all of these eclairs myself then?”

Oh, to be torn between sweets and sweet slumber, Isillud's eyes snap open but only to consider whether Remont meant literally or figuratively. "Urghhh," he groans, rolling out of bed (still in his previous clothes because he's lazy like that) and shuffling to the door, swinging it open.

To Remont, Isillud is, in a word, amusing: the messy hair, tired circles under his eyes, clouded green irises - no one would believe this was the absurdly beautiful Lord de Losstarot who visited the Viscountess just three days past even.

He takes about five seconds to absorb the details of this shambling husk of a noble, then grins.

“Dear cousin, if you're going to insist on being a hero, then you'll have to bear the consequences.” Remont holds up the box. “Half a dozen of ‘Lord Isillud's favourites’, with Cook's compliments, since ‘his lordship actually asked for it a while ago’.”

He ruffles Isillud's bedhead affectionately. “Have a few of those, then get dressed if you please. Rewelle and Dine would like to see you.”

"I didn't ask for it to turn out that way," Isillud mutters, scratching his hair and his crotch with the coordination of a seasoned pro before taking the box. "...give me half a bell."

After scarfing down three, he finally feels human enough to wash his face, wipe the grime and dirt from his body and change into the clean clothes laid out on a chair, though the gloves stay on. He claps his hands to dispel the dust as best he can, pockets the ear clasp, then heads out to meet everyone, prim and proper as he can look in the given circumstances.

In the corridor, Remont smiles approvingly at Isillud’s improvements. “This way, my lord.” He leads the way to Rewelle’s room, and opens the door.

Inside, on the same kind of bed Isillud wishes he was still in, Rewelle lies under some blankets, covering her up to her shoulders. Her complexion has barely any colour in it, and the morning light shows scratches and bruises across one side of her face. But her eyes are open and clear, looking at Oudine who sits closely by her bedside.

When those same eyes catch sight of Isillud, Rewelle gives him the widest, warmest smile she can manage. She would have done the same even if he had been covered in slime and mould.

“Lord Isillud,” she says hoarsely, but in a welcoming tone.

Oudine glances up at him and though she doesn't really smile, she wordlessly vacates her chair, gesturing towards it.

Thinking it a courtesy that should last no more than a few minutes (Rewelle needs her rest after all), Isillud stands at the foot of the bed, politely declining Oudine with a shake of his head and a raised palm.

"How are you holding up?"

Oudine steps aside as her brother uses one hand to gently push him forward. “You won’t hear her from there,” says Remont.

Isillud is duly moved closer to where Rewelle’s head rests on the pillow. She can’t help a tiny laugh at the way the nobleman seems so hesitant, quite unlike any highborn she’s seen before. “Alright enough, milord.” Her eyes shine up at him despite the lack of strength in her voice. “More than I would be without your help. Thank you for saving my life.”

He is about to speak, but stops. What does he say?

You're welcome.

It was nothing.

'Tis your courage that saved you.

Nothing works. She must not know it didn't go to plan. Oudine will have our heads if she knows how much danger Rewelle was in. But they already know she was out where she shouldn't be, and he brought her back; the circumstances are too suspect; too timely.

Between the choice to tell all or to leave questions, he answers the only question that needs answering: He takes out the ruby clasp and gently places it on her blanket. "They will harass you no more, Rewelle. Breathe easy."

Remont sees the ruby glint under the light, and recalls years ago, when he was still regularly haunting all the smoky clubs and lounges highborn Ishgardian sons patronised, how often Ajax's older brothers had complained they couldn't wear other jewels in front of their father. That everything was about those ‘damned Thavnairian rubies’ they couldn't get rid of. Seems like the baby of the family was allowed to bend the rules, thinks Remont with some wry amusement.

His sister is reflecting on a different memory. He said that to me when he visited us the first time, thinks Oudine from where she stands. I wonder who gave him similar reassurances. Why it was needed.

That last question is answered as soon as it is asked. It had been five summers in exile, five summers of shame; five summers of having your family torn apart and scattered to the winds, not knowing if anyone had survived. Not knowing if you could survive without hope of regaining what you'd lost.

Breathing easily, concludes Oudine, would have been a luxury.

From where she lies, Rewelle looks down at the valuable earring. Her eyes widen at the implications. She tries to lift her hand but her body still feels too heavy. So she wiggles her fingers from out of the blankets at least, managing to pinch Isillud's loose sleeve (Cillien's shirt had been a few ilms wider in just about every measurement - a common occurrence when your frame is as rake-thin as Isillud's).

“Then… it's over?” She even glances at her masters, as if to seek confirmation. Remont smiles, Oudine nods. Rewelle looks back up at her rescuer, whose face is all kindness, and tears cannot help but spill over.

Months of torment ended. Yisa avenged. There is hope again for the normalcy she had once enjoyed before all this. She could walk freely again, on her own, without fear.

Though it hurts to do so, Rewelle breathes in, so she can speak a little louder, with more emphasis. “I can never repay you, milord. Not in this lifetime. But you will be in my prayers every night. Thank you, truly.”

Isillud's sleeve slides a little off his shoulder, gooseflesh showing on his grey complexion. He simply nods. He doesn't deserve her gratitude, not when he's the reason she's in bed. He looks at Remont, silently pleading, ‘Can I go now?’

Without missing a beat, Remont steps forward. “Come, Rewelle. Lord Isillud is a rather shy individual,” he says, winking at her conspiratorially, and moving her hand gingerly back under the blankets. “And Lamb will turn us into porridge if we keep you up any longer. Do us a favour and rest; there’ll be time later.”

Rewelle smiles through the tears. “Yes, milord.”

Remont puts both hands on Isillud’s shoulders, not bothering to put the sleeve back. “Almost done, cousin. Courage now,” he murmurs as he steers Isillud out of the room, without letting him go.

They wait outside, Isillud confused – more courage? Again? – while Remont is poker-faced and keeps his hands on Isillud’s shoulders. Then Oudine emerges from the room a minute later, shutting the door behind her.

She gazes at Isillud, more serious than he has ever seen her. Every time they have met before, whether in public or private, Oudine has always had a welcoming smile and a kind greeting for him and Joshua. This… is new.

“You risked so much more than your lives, do you know?” she says, low-voiced, her grey eyes directed straight at his green ones. “This is Gaussain we face. Gaussain, with direct line to Durendaire. Gaussain, with such wealth and power, Haillenarte had to be extra careful in rejecting their offers - Count Baurendouin himself would have capitulated, if not for Lord Stephanivien.”

Remont squeezes his shoulders; warmth goes through Isillud’s skin. Courage.

“Gaussain holds us Aubemarles in his hands, at least until recently. I was too young and desperate to understand when he offered to help after our father died, but that is Tramault’s way: find the weak, hold them by the neck until they go limp or die.” Her fists are clenched tight, white at the knuckles. “And Mamma decided it was fine to ask you to do this, to endanger yourselves for us, when you and Joshua have worked so hard…!”

In one swift movement, Isillud is yanked from Remont’s hold into a tight hug, Oudine’s fierce whisper beside his ear and her arms around his shoulders.

“Don’t you dare do this again, Isillud de Losstarot. We could have lost all of you…!”

She knocks the wind out of him with her sisterly embrace and the implications of his involvement begin to dawn on his groggy mind.

The rules have changed. They are no longer commoners where what the rich do have nothing to do with them, nor does getting rid of a spoilt brat's thugs simply stop at the thugs. In Ishgard, the chain is long, sometimes obscured by multiple links as it trails up, up the long ladder of command, winding and doubling back on rungs.

They have yanked the chain. Once Tramault de Gaussain cottons on to what he and Joshua are doing, there is no turning back.

But this is what Joshua wants. For noble House Losstarot to be where it was. Where we were. If it means knocking House Gaussain off its pedestal, it is the path we choose to walk.

A hand slowly, carefully creeps up Oudine's back and pats it. Once, then twice.

We will rise, we will rise. And when we return then the reckoning begins.

"Thank you for your concern, cousin."

[May the Rood ever flourish.]

The End (for now).

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #rewelle laubaut #lambin forrest #oudine my love how are you so kind but have so many trust issues (I know how but still)#she had a Very Long Word with her mother the night before #not that the Dowager was remotely sorry for getting others involved but the point was made #the entire Aubemarle staff now is going to think Izzy is honestly really shy in private #Joshua you poor boy what did Escher DO

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housedeaubemarle · 10 months ago

Text

The Grand Hunt - Part 1: The Call

Follows after 'A House Call' but without any direct connection.

Part 2: The Tracking

Part 3: The Hunt

Part 4: The Trophy

(written, as always, with the inimitable and ever patient @escherstrange-ffxiv who has been nothing but hospitable in allowing me to use her boys for FFXIV-Regency-with-a-side-of-Downton-Abbey-related shenanigans; I am much obliged)

tw: harassment, stalking, assault, blood

~*~

It has been about a month since the grand ball of Maintigny, a much-talked-of event in which joyous merrymaking and - because this is Ishgard - gleeful scandalising had taken place. Ishgardian highborn society still reflects on that starry night with fascination if not delight, much to Lady Oisinne de Maintigny’s satisfaction. Even certain members of the High Houses have been heard to still bring that night into conversation.

That was then. Now, it is a calm early morning in late spring, and among the correspondence delivered (with increasing regularity) to House de Losstarot is a faintly-scented notecard, bordered with handsome filigree. Directly in the centre of the card is one handwritten sentence in (perhaps vexingly) familiar cursive script and brown ink.

‘The Dowager Viscountess Philomene de Aubemarle kindly requests the pleasure of the Lords Joshua de Losstarot and Isillud de Losstarot’s company at her home, this day at 11 o’clock.’

There is no instruction on what to do if they are unable to give her ladyship the pleasure of their company.

~*~

"I swear to the Twelve if it's another social…"

Isillud reads and rereads the card. "To call someone so early and at such short notice for just a social call is most unlike the dowager."

"You think it's something else?"

He pockets the card. "She has done much for us; the least we can do is be prompt."

As if on cue, the carriage stops in front of House Aubemarle, with the crow perched on Isillud's shoulder helpfully cawing to inform the siblings. Joshua shields his eyes from the glare of the morning sun while Isillud gives three solid knocks on the door.

30 seconds later, ever reliably, Marceaux stands in the doorway. Not a single eyelash bats at the appearance of the dark bird on Isillud’s shoulder.

“Good morning, my lords. My lady will receive you in her drawing room. This way please.”

He guides them to said room, different from the cream confection they’d been received in on their first visit. This one is decorated in shades of pale dusky rose and pastel pink; nothing loud or garish, but it gives the impression of more warmth than the previous drawing room. Such warmth is augmented by a low fire burning in the hearth. And there, on another sofa before yet another full tea service on a similar low table, sits the Dowager Viscountess. She’s been staring into the fire, hands folded in her lap, when Marceaux announces “Lord Joshua de Losstarot and Lord Isillud de Losstarot” as he opens the door.

She turns her head, but does not rise since she is the elder relative. The woman sitting beside her, a Duskwight with sandy brown hair tied in a bun, does stand however, in order to give a respectful curtsey to the gentlemen. She appears older than the Losstarots, but bears no resemblance to the Dowager.

“Good morning, my lords. Your punctuality is commendable indeed. Please have a seat.” There is a brief pause when she notices the crow. Then she turns to her companion, bids the lady bend closer so that she may whisper something right in her ear.

“At once, milady,” replies the woman, and disappears quickly from the room, closing the door behind her.

Meanwhile, the Dowager herself sits forward, and begins pouring a milky beverage into the porcelain cups. It is Ishgardian tea this time, it appears.

“I am sure the invitation was an inconvenient surprise, and you have my apologies. It is frankly barbaric to send a card at seven o’ clock and expect one’s guests four hours later on the same day."

All of them step forward to take their seats, with Joshua saying, "Not at all, Viscountess. It is our pleasure to serve after the kindness you have shown us since we first met."

"Even so, I shall be direct in order to make up for such discourteous manners.”

She finishes pouring and looks up at them.

“I would like you to hunt down some people and enact justice on behalf of House de Aubemarle.”

Joshua's gracious smile changes to confusion at the Dowager's request. The crow tilts its beady eyes curiously at the Dowager though Isillud is the least affected of the trio.

"Like vigilantes?"

The Dowager tsks. ”Not quite vigilantes, my lord. I do not wish you to make a career out of it. But time is of the essence, and I find myself in need of some resourceful young men.”

She sits back against the sofa with her cup, but doesn’t lean into the cushions. Her posture is as straight as ever.

“Last evening, just after sundown I was told, two of our housemaids were returning from running errands at the Crozier, when some men accosted them. Those brutes made them the typical perverse propositions their kind always does, and when our maids tried to flee the situation, they were grabbed and manhandled into an alley.”

The calm on her face gradually gives way to stiff anger, as she continues.

“It is surely by the mercy of the Fury that they successfully fought off these assailants before anything worse occurred, although not without some cost. They arrived home, both terrified, one wounded. It was not without effort to even discover from them the series of events I have just told you. Such is their condition that they cannot recollect anything that may help us conclusively identify these savages. Suspicions are all we have.”

The Dowager’s grip on her teacup tightens as her anger mounts.

“Ishgard is no city for the faint hearted. It has its myriad dangers. However, no one who wears the uniform of House Aubemarle has ever had to fear for their safety or dignity, from the Pillars to the Foundation. Someone has dared to touch our people. Something must be done.”

Joshua taps his chin, eyebrows knit as the cogs turn in his head. "Possibly the first time, or they aren't the only victims… Viscountess, do you know if your servants were the first attack in the Crozier? Have there been other noble houses who have this same issue?"

“To my knowledge, we have the misfortune to be the one and only occurrence. None of my circles have mentioned such violence in any capacity. And I would have heard if there had been such incidents.” She shakes her head. “Most of our concerns for safety involve idiots duelling each other over petty concerns, and the occasional, deluded individual who imagines their thievery will go undiscovered.”

The door of the room opens quietly, admitting the woman who had left earlier. She sets a small bowl of blackberries on the table.

The Dowager glances over, then gestures at it. “For your bird, if it should care for it, Lord Isillud.”

She continues, addressing the woman who's resumed her seat beside the Dowager. “Nisette, what were the girls doing in the Crozier?”

“They had been to the locksmith, milady. Mr Ofanleitasyn had ordered a new lock and key for the back kitchen door. There was a message sent in the late afternoon to say it was ready.” Nisette herself presses her lips together in some distress, and hesitates. It is only when the Dowager nods that she continues.

“The others wouldn't have let Rewelle go in the first place, as no one was available to accompany her. But Rewelle insisted. She even roused Yisa earlier than usual to go with her.”

The Dowager’s frown is disapproving, but she doesn't say anything. She turns back to her guests.

“My lords, there is a reason I do not believe this is any mere attempt at a robbery. As I said earlier, thieves who try to rob a noble house, much less servants who were not carrying anything particularly valuable, are deluded fools.

“No, this involves Rewelle, and thus suspicions, regrettably, must fall on Lord Ajax Gaussain.”

Isillud nods to his crow. "Go on, Will. Don't forget to thank the Viscountess for her hospitality." The crow glides to the bowl, cawing and bowing its head before helping itself.

Joshua has a look of distaste when he hears the name. "You think Lord Ajax fancies your servant and this is his way of intimidating her?"

The Dowager’s lip twitches slightly upwards at Joshua’s unhidden reaction. “Your brevity, Lord Joshua, is admirable though I find ‘fancy’ too agreeable a word for what is at play here.”

She lets out a breath, as if bracing herself for her own elaboration.

“He first caught sight of Rewelle late last year when he accompanied his mother here on a visit. I was preoccupied with my recovery, and so for ten days, my servants had to endure the foolish amount of bouquets and trinkets he sent to the manor’s back door in an attempt to woo her. All those ‘tributes’ were disposed of as soon as they were discovered. When a necklace arrived, they felt compelled to inform me and my daughter, despite my condition. I made Oudine bide her time while I wrote to Lady Amitte regarding the inappropriacy of her son’s behaviour. The necklace was also returned.”

(Beside her, Nisette nods silently as she keeps her head down, focusing on some stitching she has produced.)

“That woman,” says the Dowager with sharp disgust, “had the gall to say, ‘respectfully’, that her son would not ever pursue a lowborn woman, and perhaps, I had let my illness cloud my judgement. Nonetheless, as a ‘favour’ to myself and the name of Aubemarle, she would let it be known to her family, and request her son to inform his own… associates, that we would not countenance the harassment of our servants. She even sent that ridiculous necklace back. Our outrage at seeing it in this house again, I will not describe.”

The short silence which follows is filled in only by the sound of the crow’s beak clinking gently against the bowl as it picks up berries.

“For a time, it seemed Lady Amitte’s motherly advice worked. Nothing more darkened our back door, and we ensured no Gaussain ever entered our home again, no matter how many calling cards they left. Then, the shadowing began.” The Dowager takes a sip of her tea, more to calm herself than out of thirst. “Rewelle would go out into the city, and distinctly feel herself being watched. The girl thought it her own imagination, and so kept it to herself.

“Until the day he directly approached her in the Crozier.” The Dowager’s lip curls in a sneer. “I will not repeat the odious promises and reassurances he poured into her ear. Being one of her status, Rewelle could not safely deny his attention and was forced to have his company all the way to our back door.

“Mr Ofanleitasyn witnessed Lord Ajax leaving after Rewelle ran into the kitchen, frightened and upset. He himself asked to see my daughter at once and reported the entire incident.”

(Nisette has been silently glaring at her thread for a few minutes, as if the sewing had insulted her entire family line.)

“The servants were instructed not to let Rewelle run errands if possible, and if she had to, one other person was to be with her at all times. For her part, Oudine went to speak directly to Lord Tramault.”

The Dowager puts the cup down on her lap, and looks the Losstarots in the eye. She had already been angry from the moment she began her story.

The calmness of her tone doesn't match the fury burning in her dark brown eyes.

“‘Sending a lowborn woman little presents and walking her home is no crime’ was the answer given.”

Joshua looks at Isillud; the older brother notices the stare and instead turns to pet his crow, smoothing out the feathers with his fingers.

"Indeed it is no crime, but," Joshua rises and paces the floor. "It is the inability to bow out like a gentleman after rejection that makes it twice as rude."

"She's just a conquest," Isillud adds. "Being the youngest just means he still has his mother's petticoats to cower under." A tiny smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

Joshua sticks his hands in his pockets, scowling at Isillud. "Some people just have all the luck," he mutters darkly. "That makes retribution more satisfying."

"But all you have right now are suspicions." The bright emerald eyes of the older Losstarot look to the Dowager. "Please allow me to speak to Rewelle and her companion, Viscountess. Even if it's hired thugs, it'll be a start."

The Dowager stiffens visibly. “‘Just a conquest’ indeed. You know, your house currently possesses a most noble motto, 'May the Rood ever flourish', but perhaps ‘en toutes choses, brièveté’ would be more appropriate.”

Joshua is amused by the motto enough to grin, despite the Dowager's expression. "It would be ungracious to beat around the bush when you have spoken plain, Viscountess."

She gives him a look, then eyes Isillud warningly. “I shall not have one of this house be hunted, physically or verbally. Aubemarle has always taken care of those in our protection. I must ask for delicacy in your inquiries.”

Isillud remains serious. "If all goes to plan, she need not utter a word. I'll speak to them in your presence if it will allay your doubts." Joshua nods along with a smile that says, ‘He knows what he's doing.’

The older lady looks at each brother in turn, as if to appraise their intentions, then shakes her head. “Have a care, my lord. Such a promise, in the presence of others, will only inflame the rumours of your family's abilities.”

The Dowager stretches her hand towards her attendant, who instantly puts away her stitching and places the Hornbill walking stick into her mistress’ hand. She gets up, prompting everyone else to stand.

“I will have them brought here. When your interview is concluded, have the goodness to stay a little longer - there are other things you ought to be apprised of before you begin any kind of search.”

Nisette curtsies, both Losstarots bow, the Dowager leaves. Only the gentle crackling of the fire, and the soft clicks of a crow’s beak fill the air upon her exit.

As soon as they are left alone Joshua flails. "Really? Here? And you call me reckless, Izzy, they're maids, the gossip will reach Ajax within two bells, no longer, and we'll lose the lead."

Isillud stares evenly at his brother. "And what was your plan?"

He hems and sputters back, "I-I don't know, use Rewelle to lure him out, make a rumour you're marrying her?"

"Ajax Gaussain has been telling every willing ear that I have bedded every man on the star, and you think he'll believe that?"

"He's not wrong!"

Isillud sticks a finger up at Joshua, "Not true, Marceaux still has his virtue intact."

"...Eventually!"

The crow caws, flapping its wings and making a clawing motion with its feet. Both brothers shout, "No!" in unison at it.

Joshua scratches his head, "Whoever's doing this, we must lure them out of Ishgard first, there are too many eyes and wagging tongues to be subtle."

Isillud takes the liberty to settle in on the couch, sarcasm plain on his face, "I'll try."

~*~

The brothers wait - suggesting, disagreeing, re-suggesting, disagreeing again - for quite some time, before there is a polite knock on the door.

In a way, the young lords are to be pitied when expecting only two people, seven individuals instead pour through the doorway, practically filling the room. From the group, three of them come forward: two Wildwood Elezens - one wears a maid’s uniform, while the other has on a dark green gown, a chatelaine jingling softly with its accoutrements as she moves - and one Keeper Miqo’te, dwarfed by everyone in the room.

Despite the vast difference in height, it is the Elezen maid who clings to the tiny Miqo’te girl, hand never leaving the latter’s shoulder. Her long, lustrous jet-black hair is tied back neatly, leaving two thin bangs to frame her lovely - worried - face. Her eyes are dark, with thick black lashes; below them are a shapely nose and rosy lips upon a fair, smooth complexion. If she had been highborn, the entirety of Ishgard would have fallen over themselves in their efforts to win even just a smile from her. This could not be any other than the Rewelle spoken of earlier.

Her support, Yisa, is a sight once never seen in the city, but now becoming ever so slightly more common. The first thing one is drawn to are her large, luminous eyes, their irises white like the full moon. They are well matched by her white hair, woven with faint pink-purple highlights, and two sharp furry ears that point upwards. A small braid hangs on each side of her blue-grey face. Thick white bandages are wrapped around her tiny forearms, going up past the puffy sleeves of her uniform; above her collar peeks the corner of another bandage.

The Elezen in the green gown, with honey-gold hair and pale green eyes, curtsies deeply. The retinue behind her, consisting of one Hyur woman, another Hyur man and two more Duskwight men follow suit with their silent greetings. All of them look grimly determined.

When she raises her head, the green-gowned one has a distressed expression despite her polite greetings. “Good afternoon, milords. I am Mrs Marinterre, the housekeeper. I was instructed to bring you Rewelle and Yisa.”

(Rewelle’s grip tightens. Yisa reaches up to her shoulder to pat her friend’s hand.)

“I do beg milords’ pardon for the intrusion of my other colleagues,” says Mrs Marinterre. “They are… very much concerned for Rewelle and Yisa. My lady, the Dowager Viscountess, has suggested that perhaps you might be able to put their fears to rest.”

(The Hyur footman at the back, with dark brown hair and black eyes, looks particularly unconvinced.)

It is not done for servants to question their betters like this. In any other circumstance, this would be unheard of in such a tightly-run ship as the Aubemarle house. It would seem that they have been given special dispensation by the Dowager herself. Tellingly, Marceaux is absent - he had no say in any of this. Allay their doubts as well, not just mine, the Dowager is saying.

In the Losstarots’ case, they hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly is not this. Isillud's eyes widen, his jaw slacks as he takes in the features of each and every servant. Joshua's mouth opens but no sound comes out, making him look like a goldfish with each false start. "Uhh…"

But Isillud has not spent the last 5 years wandering the world in vain; he may still be adjusting to the inner workings of Ishgard's high society but he knows people, and people always need something to believe in.

You wish to make a show of this? So be it.

The painfully thin Elezen exhales, back straight, legs crossed. "Before I begin, I simply ask my captive audience that what will soon transpire does not leave the room." He puts a finger to his lips. "Ishgard is never ready for some secrets." Once he has the room's (silent, doubtful, confused) consensus, he removes his gloves with his teeth, because he knows he's absurdly beautiful when he does it.

Joshua cringes at the scene, covering his face with his eyes while facing the door. He mentally calculates how long it will take the room to realise his disappearance; before he even begins the crow perches on his shoulder, claws digging through his jacket.

If Izzy stays, so do you, it says.

Isillud extends his hand to the crowd: a slender hand but with its fair share of cuts and creases, the sign of a life that hasn't been without its obstacles yet soft and graceful as a noble's hand should. He slowly sweeps his hand across the servants.

It stops in front of Yisa, not Rewelle.

"Perhaps, Miss Yisa, if you went first, you could assure Miss Rewelle of my intentions?" He drops his voice, soft and low as if he was coaxing a man to his bed. "You only need to hold my hand."

~*~

Tiny Yisa looks up at the very tall noble with his hand outstretched towards her. Well, all of them are tall, noble or not. But he seems taller, and from the way his green eyes glow (not even a Keeper’s eyes glow like that), and his voice calls like a turtledove to its mate… more curious than any other Ishgardian she’s met.

Her large eyes take him in, disconcertingly direct. Ishgardian servants don't look their masters so rudely in the face. But what she sees makes her blink slowly, consideringly. An ear flicks.

Then she turns from Isillud to look up at Mrs Marinterre and the rest of the staff. “He will help. There will be more danger if you all stay.”

“Yisa…” says the Hyur woman at the back, brow wrinkling in deep concern.

The Miqo'te nods encouragingly. “Go. It will be fine.”

Mrs Marinterre looks at her thoughtfully, then at Rewelle. The black haired maid draws in a deep breath. “Please,” she says softly.

The housekeeper nods decisively, then curtsies towards the Losstarots. She turns around and begins gently shooing everyone out.

“But-!”

“Come on, Lamb,” says one of the Elezen footmen, pushing his Hyur friend to the door. He stops to glance at the scene before him, the light gleaming on his glasses, before sweeping his still-protesting colleague out. Mrs Marinterre closes the door firmly.

In the much emptier room, Yisa looks back at Isillud. “I do not know your secrets, my lord, but I think you should love them better. Do you still wish me to go first?”

Neither brother knows what to say at this Keeper's ability to clear the room, in spite of the Dowager’s permissions, to boot.

Though Joshua looks at his brother for guidance, Isillud simply looks at the young woman in front of him, taken aback by her kindness. His hand falters as he says, "...thank you." Yet he still extends it to her. "Only if you wish it, otherwise it's best to proceed to Rewelle's."

Yisa nods, then very gently takes Rewelle’s hand from her shoulder. She squeezes it reassuringly.

“I am still here. I am well,” she says. “Be brave. Tell him what happened.”

Rewelle takes in yet another deep breath, then releases it. “Alright.”

Like an officiant at a wedding, Yisa softly places Rewelle’s hand into Isillud’s, then rests her own atop her friend’s. After an instant, she removes it.

“I woke Yisa up earlier than she needed to,” begins the maid hesitantly. “I wanted her to go with me to the locksmith’s since everyone else was so busy. With my lady Viscount out of the city, we wanted to make the house ready for her return. The others didn’t wish me to go, but…”

Rewelle’s worried brow now takes on a defiant turn. The delicate air of her previous expression disappears. “I didn’t want to be some… some bird in a cage. I didn’t want his lordship to win. So I insisted I go. Yisa was very kind to agree to come. Lamb kept arguing with me, kept saying to leave it to the next morning, but I wouldn’t listen.

“We got to the locksmith’s well enough. I even taught Yisa one of our children’s rhymes on the way. We said hello, and collected Mr Ofanleitasyn’s parcel. It was a small thing - just a lock and a key, wrapped in paper - so I slipped it into my pocket. The sun was going down, I remember.

“Then…” She pauses, swallows, continues. “Then, halfway on our walk back, Yisa said she could feel something strange.” Rewelle glances at the Miqo’te who nods solemnly, eyes still bright and gleaming. “She gets these… notions, when things aren’t right. When someone doesn’t mean well. So I said, hold my hand, and we’ll walk as quick as we can.

“Then two men. Two Elezens because they were too tall to be anything else. They stepped out right in front of us, blocking our way. Said… said nasty things about us.” Rewelle’s hand begins to tremble as her breathing picks up. “I told them to leave us alone, that we were from the Aubemarle house. They laughed. They laughed. Said that we could have been from Durendaire and it wouldn’t have mattered one whit.

“Then one of them said they knew the Viscount was away. That the old lady Aubemarle was just… was just…” She instinctively grips Isillud’s hand tighter, to try and stop shaking. Tears of anger pool in her eyes. “Was an old baggage with no power to protect us.”

Yisa reaches out to take her other hand, holding it tightly.

Rewelle, a little bolstered now, exhales. She continues. “Yisa told me there was another one of them behind us. So I told them they were rotten scum and their mothers would die of shame if they smelled their stench, and while they laughed, I threw the parcel at one of their heads.”

A very small, grim smile peeks out - the first time she’s done so since she entered the room. “I think I managed to get one of them, because one said something about their ‘bleedin’ eye’. While they did that, we ran sideways. I felt the one at the back lunge for us but we were too quick. At least… for a moment, we were too quick.”

The smile vanishes. “They grabbed us from behind. Called us all sorts of names. Dragged us into an alley… there was… a knife. Maybe two. They pointed it at us, said that if we didn’t want to be cut to ribbons and thrown out of the city into the abyss, we’d come along quiet-like.

“The knife frightened me. Greatly. I couldn’t move when I saw the blade. So I just kept quiet and nodded. But Yisa…” She looks at her friend, and tears roll down her cheeks. She sniffles, trying to breathe through the memory, but keeps going.

“She leapt right at them, my lord. Like some sort of fearsome beast, screeching and yowling. She’s so small but so lightning fast, they couldn’t get at her properly. I don’t know how she did it, but she got all three men. She got them so fast in the dark.

“Yisa was the one who dragged me out. Told me to run and not stop. And we did. We ran all the way to the back door. I didn’t know…” Rewelle shakes her head. “I didn’t know Yisa had been so hurt until we reached home, and I saw all her blood on the floor.”

Rewelle stops; she raises her head to look up at Isillud, wordlessly pleading for him to say it is enough.

~*~

Isillud's eyes are shut tight, losing himself in the depths of her memory. Her narration fades into background noise as he retraces Rewelle's footsteps around Ishgard, looking up at the men who accosted them.

A ruby clasp in one ear, too luxurious for a thug.

He stares at the blade through her eyes, pointed at her neck: Small enough to be missed when one's frozen in fear yet large enough to show off.

Show the mark to Joshua, he has an eye for brands.

The thugs themselves have faces far too common in Ishgard, right down to the eye colour, but the clasp is as good a clue as any. His head bows lower as the memory goes on, fingers slowly wrapping around Rewelle's hand.

Watch, don't look away as Ishgard did when your house fell.

The pool of blood jolts Isillud; he pulls away as if her touch is fire, his breath hitches from the rough return to reality and his eyes snap open at Rewelle's tear-streaked face silently pleading to him. He looks at his bare hand, then slowly to her. It is hard to smile, not after what he has seen; he simply bows from his seat till his forehead touches his knees. "Thank you Miss Rewelle, you have been extremely helpful." He nods to Yisa, a silent cue that he's done.

Joshua - leaning against the couch the entire time - looks expectantly at Isillud. "There are things I'll need to show you when we get home," Isillud says, "I think you'll be able to recognize some if not all of them."

Rewelle, very surprised by the reaction but relieved that whatever strange thing the milord had been doing is over, steps back. She would have fallen if not for the steady hand of Yisa, who is staring at the lord, bent over double on the sofa. The other highborn, the younger one, seems at a loss for what to do himself apart from respond to his brother in the affirmative.

She looks back at Rewelle. “Are you alright?”

The Elezen hasn’t stopped shivering, but still answers, “Y, yes. I’m… fine. I will be.”

“Good. You will be.” Yisa pats her hand reassuringly and finally lets go. “Please will you go and find Mrs Marinterre? Tell her milord is finished here.”

“Yisa?”

The Miqo’te smiles at last. “I will join you very shortly.”

Rewelle nods. She curtsies to both the lords, murmurs a thank you and a good afternoon, and leaves quietly.

Yisa watches her go, then kneels in front of Isillud. The noble’s breathing is laboured, and she can see that he shakes.

So in her calm, even voice, she asks very gently, like someone trying to lead an injured animal out from wherever it has curled itself up in: “Milord, I know this is not done in Ishgard. But I am not Ishgardian. Would you let me ask Menphina for her blessing for your trials?”

Isillud busies himself by putting on his gloves, clasping his hands together in an effort to stop the shaking. He ponders over Yisa's offer, looking over her features for… what, he does not know. Her offer is plain yet he knows many would politely decline for the Fury's blessing is more than sufficient. Men have triumphed over dragons with it alone, after all.

And yet he remembers when he knew the Fury was no longer enough.

He smiles gently, nodding once. "That is very kind of you, thank you."

Yisa stands, raises one small hand as if in benediction. She shuts her own eyes now, and begins to murmur.

It is not in Common nor Ishgardian, but something else entirely - the sounds wash over each other, syllable upon syllable brushing each other gently, like the susurration of long grass swept by wind under the pale light of a full moon. It is calming, and soft, and somehow, strangely cooling, even in the warm drawing room.

There may, or may not, be a faint, thin layer of frost surrounding Joshua, Will and Isillud as Yisa prays. It disappears as soon as one blinks.

The blessing is not long. She ends with ‘Menphina’, then reopens her eyes. Their luminosity seems to have increased as she smiles. “You too are kind, milord, to accept a servant’s small prayer, and not to Halone the Fury at that.”

“The Fury is one of the Twelve. She would not begrudge a prayer from her kin.” It is curious how the chill in his hands is not like the Ishgardian cold, but a soothing breeze to calm his heart.

A touch of approval appears in Yisa's expression. “Menphina the Lover sees fit to bless you, for you love. Too hard sometimes, She says, but you love, all the same.” She steps back, and curtsies. “Thank you both, milords. May your hunt be courageous, your prey worthy.”

"Thank you," Isillud says quietly as she leaves, her white tail brushing the door before it closes.

The crow appears to examine itself, poking its head beneath its wings and waddling in a circle shaking imaginary frost off its tail. Joshua, however, experiences none of it, instead his mind drifts to Zeir. Is she well? Has she returned to the Shroud? He bites his lower lip. Will I ever have the chance to make up for what I did?

"Joshua."

The boy snaps back to reality. Isillud straightens his coat, standing by his side. "Let us say our farewells to the Dowager and be on our way. We have tough work ahead."

~*~

Against expectation, the lords Losstarot needn’t leave the room to find her ladyship. The Dowager herself comes in not long after Yisa’s departure - no doubt informed by the able Mrs Marinterre that the lords have completed their questioning - and unlike earlier, quite alone. Her walking stick is an able assistant as she moves into the room, quicker than people usually imagine.

She takes her place in a chair this time, holding onto her cane. There is no preamble whatsoever, no reference to, much less apology for, the peculiar ill-discipline of her staff, and absolutely, no mention of Yisa’s oddness.

“So gentlemen, do you believe the noble name of Gaussain has been dragged into this sordid affair, or is it merely the ramblings of an old woman?”

"There seem to be clues pointing to it - a ruby earring and a blade. For a thug to brazenly wear a ruby in Ishgard knowing the implications means they must know the Gaussains in some form," Isillud explains. "Do you know if they have any such associations, or employ a certain group of people?"

Despite herself, and the fact that the young lord has brought up rubies - something the Gaussains have worked for years to be associated with - the Dowager raises an eyebrow. “You flatter me by thinking one of my age would be privy to the activities and agendas of men three times younger than myself.”

Seeing Joshua begin to open his mouth, she waves a dismissive hand - a little jest, in the only way the Dowager knows how.

She looks away to stare at the fire, consulting memories of conversations and gossip that might be of use.

At last, she says. “I have only little pieces of knowledge, my lord. I beg your indulgence if these are irrelevant to your efforts.

“First: House Gaussain, you may know, trades in bladed and edged weapons, but I do not place confidence in that regard. Their reach is long established, and far - most in the Pillars, and perhaps even the Brume, could have a Gaussain dagger. I have heard they were recently trying to reach some form of understanding with House Haillenarte regarding firearms, but that might be unimportant.

“Second: among Lord Tramault’s favourite subjects is his family’s rubies. Oudine had been at a meeting once where he claimed their exclusivity and rarity were unmatched in this city. That their quality and cut could only be found in a place that knew gemstones just as Ishgard knew ice and snow.” Her voice flattens when she adds, “Lord Tramault’s love of the irritatingly dramatic is second only to his love of deriding Ishgard.”

She huffs, then continues. “And third: Lady Hailleone was lamenting how her younger grandsons had been frequenting a most unsuitable establishment. It was not enough that the place exposed her darlings to unsavoury dealings, but to be situated within sight of St Reymanaud's Cathedral was practically blasphemy.”

The Dowager looks up at them expectantly. “Those grandsons of hers are frequently seen in Lord Ajax's company. I shouldn't doubt that two noblemen of your stature will be able to locate the place, and persuade people to talk.”

Then her brows furrow in an actual confused expression. “Thugs wearing rubies in the Pillars? How stupid could they be?”

Joshua files the information in his head for further use, especially of House Gaussain's arms dealings. "The lure of luxury is often irresistible, Viscountess. Give a man or woman a free bauble and if it matches their eyes they'll wear it for life." He snorts derisively at his own opinion, one seemingly learned from experience. “Also, why does Lord Tramault still stay in Ishgard if he hates it so much? A man of his wealth could easily settle well in Ul'dah."

Isillud's ears have perked at the mention of grandsons. "An unsuitable establishment, you say? Tell me more."

While Joshua rolls his eyes, the Dowager holds back a remark - not a thing she's accustomed to, so it annoys her somewhat - about how Isillud seems rather too eager to keep the rumours regarding him much too alive. They are here to do her a favour, and what is more, have clearly accomplished more in one hour than she could have done in a day. So she should at least try to be as helpful as she can bring herself to be.

She replies to Joshua instead. “Spoken like one older than his years.” She shifts her weight, leaning a little bit more on her cane. “There has been a House Gaussain in Ishgard for as long as memory holds. I can only assume that for all his contempt, the respect and regard given to a house that has withstood so much is still an incentive to stay.”

Then she eyes Isillud, whose own green eyes have sparked a little more awake, still inexplicably waiting for her to come back to his question.

“Young man, I have a feeling you can tell me far more about unsuitability. I ask you to remember your health at the very least. I do not know where this place is; perhaps one of my servants might have an idea. If my son were here, no doubt he’d be able to even tell you the number of bricks used to build it.”

She pauses a moment, then evidently reaches some decision within herself, because her indignation has not left her body nor her mind. It hasn’t left since she was told what had happened the night before.

“Let me be blunt, my lords. I myself am mother to a rascal and a wretch, so I am peculiarly not unaware ofcertain liberties men will take. However, there are rakes, and there are degenerates.”

She glares at the fire as she speaks, perhaps a habit when there is no justifiable target to direct her anger towards. “Remont does not press attention on maids who do not desire it. He has flaws aplenty - the stubborn and deliberate inability to accept a refusal is not among them. Ajax, on the other hand, has no such honour. I am sure you have heard any amount of gossip regarding his… proclivities. No doubt the side effects of his selfishness, left to their own devices without succour or recourse, are pitter pattering around the Brume. But he is ever shielded, for he is a Gaussain.”

She is a little too far from the hearth for the firelight to fall on her face, but it does not appear necessary. Fury is what lights her eyes, as it had done earlier.

“I have played this game too long not to predict the outcome if I did what I ought. Whether it is I or Oudine who speaks, the High Houses will not be of help, not for the likes of a lowborn servant or a foreign Miqo’te. They will be of even less help if House Gaussain is involved.

“If you manage to find evidence, make it ironclad, unless you wish to see exactly how unforgiving Lord Tramault is when it comes to what he would call slander. Even if his youngest is an acknowledged libertine, Rewelle remains physically unharmed. There will not be a case to make in his eyes; there will be reprisals. One false step, and both Aubemarle and Losstarot will pay dearly.”

She looks up at the Losstarots finally, stern and determined.

“But some devil drew blades on unarmed, untrained girls. He cannot be allowed to escape unscathed.”

Joshua puffs his chest at the Dowager's praise, recognition he has long sought to hear. Returning to Ishgard had indeed been the right choice.

"Ajax may be well-protected, Viscountess, but whether all his hirelings are is another matter," is Isillud’s comment.

Joshua looks at his brother. "You suggest a warning?"

"Provided we find the right men." Isillud pats his crow’s head, which it uses to nuzzle his hand. "We're looking for someone who has a scratched eye and a ruby earring."

"Doubtful Ajax will have them remove it, and it's probably a very loyal one." Joshua ponders briefly. "So they must come to us."

It is hard to tell whether Isillud is smiling at his crow or because he has a plan. "A shame we are very decent, lawful, upstanding young men."

Joshua seems to agree. "We'll talk to your servants about the place, the sooner we begin the less people will notice." He bows and turns on his heel to the door.

Isillud follows after taking a few seconds to reassure the Dowager. "We shall see that justice is served. Fury keep you, Viscountess."

“And the same to you both,” says the Dowager, inclining her head. The rage has simmered down palpably. She is the Dowager Viscountess again, at home in her drawing room without care. “I shall await news, good or otherwise.”

She waits an extra minute after they leave. Only then does she allow herself to sigh out loud, looking up at the ceiling.

“Vouloix my love, put in a word with the Fury if you please. Your daughter has already been through much - surely you'll not see her house endure any more trouble.”

She pauses as if awaiting an answer, but of course, none arrives.

Outside, Marceaux is ready and waiting. His expression is far less poker faced than before, replaced instead with some concern, and mostly eagerness to help. It is also his way of apology for the previous rudeness of his subordinates, despite the Dowager's sanctioning their actions.

He bows to the brothers. “Milady the Viscountess has instructed us all to be at my lordships’ service. If there is anything any of us may assist with, I beg milords to allow us to do so.”

Isillud Losstarot demonstrates that he CAN have restraint, surprisingly, when he speaks to Marceaux. "Firstly, I hear the Gaussains place much pride in their rubies. Please send a sample to the house - preferably with some eclairs." And with a straight face too. "Secondly, include the address of the place Lady Hailleone's grandsons frequent, I suspect we may find our culprits there if not the Brume."

He bows politely to the older man. "I shall inform you anon if we require a third request. We thank you for your assistance."

The Losstarots make their due exit, climbing into their carriage. Joshua waits for it to move before he speaks. "You're trying to throw spies off with the eclairs, but you won't survive a bar fight."

"Neither can you," Isillud retorts.

"Hmph." The youth sulks, watching House Aubemarle shrink in the distance.

Isillud steeples his fingers, watching his brother through them. "We're going to tell them a story instead."

"Puh-lease," Joshua snorts. "Everyone knows how close we are with the Viscountess."

"Which makes a betrayal even more irresistible, doesn't it?"

Joshua whips back to his brother. The initial reaction is of shock and horror. It freezes, then softens. "Ah."

Isillud's eyes seem luminous in the darkened carriage without the sun shining in from its curtained windows. "Stay home and wait for the package; be ready to receive my call."

"I thought you'd send me to the Brume."

"No, it's better if we look even more fractured than we already are."

"I beg of you, don't suck cocks until it's done."

"No guarantees."

~*~

Barely an hour later, a snow white Chocobo arrives at the front of the house of the Losstarots. Its tall rider alights swiftly, secures the bird to a post and walks up to the door. A box wrapped in plain brown paper hangs from a handle made of securely-tied twine in his hand.

Two polite knocks elicit the presence of good Ser Drouhont at the door. With a quick smile, the blonde rider of the Chocobo presents the Dowager Viscountess’ compliments to the lords Losstarot, with a token. A sense of deja vu hangs in the air as the parcel is delivered.

The rider bows, bids Ser Drouhont a good afternoon and as quickly as he arrived, goes on his way.

Within the privacy of the house, when the paper is inevitably cut away, and the twine kept safely, half a dozen golden-brown muffins greet the eye. They're still warm and emit a pleasant aroma of honey and vanilla.

Tucked between the muffins on the left is a tiny thing wrapped in white crepe: a thinly wrought necklace. Nothing any highborn Ishgardian would bother with, but the very slim chain isn't remarkable. It is the simple, rather small teardrop of a pendant, gleaming a clear blood red under the light, that explains its inclusion in the box.

Meanwhile, a twice-folded piece of paper sits atop the muffins on the right, bearing a message in unfamiliar handwriting:

‘Eclairs would take too long, so Mr Ofanleitasyn asks pardon for only being able to make honey muffins. Her ladyship warns that the jewel on the necklace is suspected to be Gaussain since it was the one given to Rewelle, but it is not certain. Her ladyship - in her words - has never been tempting enough to receive as precious a gift as a Gaussain ruby.

Lady Hailleone de Chaunollet had been rather misdirected, perhaps deliberately. Find Journey’s End, a merchant of potions towards the back of the Crozier. Give the proprietor 3000 gil, and ask for a bottle of Lovers Meeting. They will grant you access to the bar beneath.

Good hunting to you all.’

To be continued

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #philomene de aubemarle #yisa bajhiri #rewelle laubaut #I was supposed to take a break #then the characters wouldn't stop talking #so now here we are #tw: assault #tw: blood #tw: stalking #tw: harassment

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housedeaubemarle · 9 months ago

Text

By Way of an Apology: Part 4

A follow up to The Grand Hunt - the Losstarot lords and the Aubemarle twins go on a picnic.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

(Written with @escherstrange-ffxiv who probably wasn't anticipating a day trip to turn into a 2D1N thing, but here we are!)

~*~

A night full of cricket songs and frog croaks passes peacefully. Dawn brings equally strange sounds Oudine hasn't even thought of in years: birds. They twitter and trill, greeting the sun as it glides above the horizon. It is enough to rouse the sleeping Elezen, hazily wondering where she is and what is all the noise about and this doesn't feel right. Why doesn't it feel like her bedroom?

She blinks, as memories and senses come back to her slowly. She's in the Shroud, in Fallgourd Float, in the Bobbing Cork. Her cousins are in another room. Her brother…

Oudine sighs. He didn't knock last night - it would have been easy enough to ask where her room was - and she wonders if that's a good or bad sign this time. She turns her head to look at the curtained window; the pale light of early morning peeps through. Soon it will be time to go.

Soon though, not just yet. She takes her time to get out of bed, wash up and dress in a new linen shirt under yesterday's outer garb. She brushes her dark brown hair, now flowing loose, pondering if she could ever match Eddy's skill. It takes but an instant to decide she could never. So she gathers her hair into a simple, loose braid and ties the lace ribbon at the end. It will have to do.

Stepping out of her room quietly, Oudine finds a passing employee to discreetly ask where the privy might be. After that needful visit, she wanders downstairs to the main hall. None of her party is to be found.

It is still rather early, she decides. So she strolls outside, and is instantly charmed by the fresh scent and air of forestry. It is vastly different from the frosty breezes of home, and yet – strangely – familiarly comforting in a way she cannot place. She stands by a railing, filling her lungs with the balmy air of the Shroud, marvelling at its quality. Birdsong floats above her, completing the atmosphere.

So taken is she by this new experience that it takes the sounds of footsteps and conversations of a passing group of adventurers to jolt her. The mild concern for her brother returns. Perhaps he'd gone to their cousins’ room after all.

Oudine reenters the inn, and inquires at the counter. Luckily the staff remember the sole woman within the group of Elezens which had irritated, then cajoled their cook into special dishes. So it isn't long before she stands before the Losstarots’ room door and knocks twice.

“Is anyone awake?” she asks, trying to modulate her voice so she doesn't disturb guests in the other rooms.

~*~

Men sleep deeply; birds, less so.

Wil squeezes his eyes tightly to tune out the knocking, but the Losstarots only possess mortal stamina and are still sleeping soundly. He yawns loudly, swinging his legs over the bed, careful not to wake up his love, and shuffles to the door clad in only a pair of breeches to cover his modesty.

For all his foibles, William Corvus is a human and a crow. Not one or the other, but both. So while it is mean-spirited to call Wil a bird brain, it is simply a word that describes him best when he forgets to glam over his wings and opens the door to greet Oudine.

Wil yawns, smooths his hair down and smiles. "Ah, Miss Oudine! How kind of you to visit, neither one is awake yet - at least it looks like they aren't. Or- oh! You're looking for Remont, yes? I don't think he came back, I would've heard it."

Throughout his rambling a large pair of feathery black wings flaps oh-so-slightly behind him.

“Go- what are you doing!”

It is likely due to Oudine's upbringing that the first shriek of surprise is because of an almost naked Wil opening the door. She may have had a brother running round the Aubemarle manor for half her life but that is Remont. Remont in just breeches is a very different case from this.

This is…

Wait. Wait. This is-

A blush fast-spreading across her face, Oudine's eyes widen as they look upwards, beyond Wil's ears, right to the large, unmistakable and what looks like very real, honest to goodness, wings.

This is a dream. I'm still in bed, supplies her mind, in an attempt to control the alarm coursing through her entire body.

Then the black feathers rustle, just like those on her Chocobo, and the ones at Marlstone.

‘...particularly proud of the time I swooped into the water and reaching out just at the right time…’

‘Izzy saved my life so I simply go where he goes.’

‘Hi, I'm Wil.’

“You're the crow-?!”

That second shriek escapes her instinctively. She claps her hand over her mouth, staring in shock for one more second.

There may well have been plenty of people who would have handled this turn of events with aplomb.

Oudine is not among them. She turns and runs.

~*~

Joshua wakes at the first scream. He blinks the sleep from his eyes to be greeted with an eyeful of black wings.

That wakes him immediately.

He practically leaps from the bed, reaching the door under three large strides and slamming the door shut. "Wil, your wings!"

"I'm the cr- oh Joshua, Oudine here is looking for- hm? What about my wings?" He turns his head to the point on his back that Joshua is frantically pointing at. "...oh. Oh no." He shakes Isillud up. "Izzy, Izzy! You gotta wake up! We got an emergency!"

"Oudine saw Wil's wings, Izzy!"

Now Isillud cannot ignore the onslaught on both his ears, turning around and getting an eyeful of bare chests and wings. His eyes widen some more.

"I'm so sorry Izzy, I wasn't careful, I was sleepy and-"

"Never mind that!" He rummages through the heap of clothes looking for his to wear. "Wil, make sure Oudine doesn't leave the Bobbing Cork until either Joshua or I catch up to her!"

Wil salutes, "On it!" and then jogs to the open window, getting ready to jump.

Joshua flings a shirt at him, which Wil deftly catches before falling out backwards, leaving a trail of falling feathers. "Oi, at least get dressed!" Amidst a flurry of rustling fabric and blame ("I told you this would happen sooner or later!") The boys get dressed and halfway presentable before rushing out and going separate ways: Joshua towards the dining room, Isillud to the entrance.

Wil gets a bird's eye view of the compound; seeing no one running about he figures everyone has to leave by the entrance, and the crow lands right in front: feet apart, beady black eyes scanning passersby for her.

He is far swifter than Oudine’s clumsier, highborn legs. She’s only halfway thudding down the stairs when she hears the rush of air, a burst of movement and looks up to see a dark bird standing at the entrance with an intention to… she’s not entirely sure, but he looks ready to do something.

Panic - blind, irrational panic - sends her fleeing back up the stairs. Her braid comes loose, the lace ribbon fluttering away behind her. The only thing she can think of now is her room. She speeds towards it, slams the door shut, locks it, and slides down it on the inside, breathing heavily.

What sort of magic is this?? What magic turns a man into a bird? Or a bird into a man!?

As soon as the question hits her, there is a very brief moment of terrible doubt. Then she shakes her head frantically. No, no. For any number of reasons, despite all this weirdness, they are not. They have never been; they were absolved, and thus cannot be. Crows are not dragons.

And he'd sung for the crowd. He'd been puzzlingly captivating. He loves Izzy. Izzy wouldn't let anything happen. Joshua wouldn't let anything happen.

The slow beat of convictions, one after another going round in a circle, arrests the panic. Oudine’s breathing begins to slow, though she remains sitting on the floor against her door, dazed.

~*~

Oudine U-turns to her room faster than Wil can catch her. To other people it looks like a crow chasing down an elezen woman, chastising her for an offence. Wil doesn't make it to her room, so he stands outside it, cawing softly as if politely asking her to come out, he won't hurt her, he swears.

Isillud brakes on his heels when he hears cawing, slowly tracing his steps until he sees Wil in front of a door. He picks up the crow to meet his eyes and speaks to it. "She's here?"

"Caw!"

Wil hops to her shoulder; Isillud takes a deep breath and knocks gently. Once, twice. "Oudine, it's me, Izzy. I apologise for startling you, but we need to talk." A pause. "...When you're comfortable to do so."

The knocks make her start - she's been so preoccupied in her own head, she hasn't heard Wil's cawing. Izzy's soft voice reminds her it is not done to make someone stand outside a locked door to have a conversation. And there is absolutely a need for conversation.

She hesitates, then says, “Give me… give me a minute.”

Oudine slowly gets to her feet; her long hair falls around her, which can only be yet another sign she's lost all control over herself. She stares at the door - as if it can tell her what to do - takes in a breath, then opens it very tentatively. There is an involuntary step back when she sees the bird on Izzy's shoulder.

‘Be controlled. If you do not watch yourself, you will not learn to watch for others.’

She breathes in. The words her father had given her once become an anchor.

“Come… come in.”

Isillud knows it is rude to stare, especially when a lady's hair is unkempt. Perhaps not the most subtle but he says it only for her ears, "...The current trend for Gridanian women is a single high ponytail, tied at the back."

Just then someone climbs the stairs heavily - it is Joshua, still looking around for his next destination to search. Isillud saves him the trouble by waving him over then pressing a finger to his lips. Discretion is vital to a distressed woman.

"Did you find her- oh."

While she did invite him in, he waits at the threshold for her to prepare herself.

The bewildered fear that has been thrumming through her for at least ten minutes immediately slams itself into confusion. Then she realises what he means.

The confusion twists into exasperation. Of all times to be told what to do with her hair. A man she had assumed was her cousin's paramour is also his pet bird, morphing at apparent will - and she's being told what the fashionable hairstyle is in this part of the world.

“Thank you, but I seem to have lost my ribbon anyway,” she says, a little stiffly. Though she does gather her hair and smooths it down behind her ears so she doesn't look a complete fright.

She spies Joshua behind; the exasperation dissipates, becoming hesitation again. “Come inside. Anyone could have heard me.” She walks further in without waiting, seating herself on a chair. She doesn't cross her arms, but holds herself in a sort of loose hug.

Her grey eyes hold a storm of emotions, but for the most part, it is apprehension and confusion.

"Would you like Wil to…to find your ribbon..." The bird waits for an answer.

Joshua looks at his brother with no small amount of incredulity but says nothing. Oudine looks stressed enough.

Her inner resources have never known a more trying time, not even in the face of other nobles who are entirely more arrogant, self-serving and infinitely ruder than Izzy currently is being. No lesson in etiquette or protocol or even a meeting in the House of Lords is the match of Isillud Losstarot. Would even her mother know what to do or say at this time?

She stares at him in disbelief for a minute.

“I…” The consternation collapses as she drops her face in her hand in defeat. “Yes. Please. And while he does, please tell me what's going on.”

Isillud speaks very softly to his crow, "...trace…entrance…" and off it flies.

Joshua looks between them, decides this is something his brother should speak privately about, and leaves with a soft click of the door. "I'll wait outside in case Remont returns."

Meanwhile Isillud racks his brain the entire time. How does he start? Where does he even start? With Joshua out of earshot he is free to tell the whole story if he so chooses, but is it even wise to?

Eventually he settles on answering her question. Just the facts, she doesn't need to know everything else that lead to this. He sits at the edge of her bed, clasping and unclasping his hands.

"Wil is half-crow fae, which means he can switch between forms when he wishes. I discovered his true name after a series of incidents, which bonded him to me." Silvery-white hair in need of a haircut falls over his face as he looks at the floor. "Wil doesn't lie and he meant no harm with his actions, but he can be a little…" Pause. "...flighty."

Isillud looks back up at her. "...I'm sorry you had to find out this way." He does seem to regret the incident, at least on his face.

She had looked up when Izzy began his explanation in his soft-spoken way. Her fingers are curled against her mouth, while she leans on her knees, listening.

Half-crow… fae. A faerie. He said he comes from a kingdom, long lost.

Everything about his words to his demeanour to his outfit clicks into place; it relieves her to find a measure of familiar territory. For in her childhood, there had been plenty of such tales, bound between whimsical covers. Fae folk, who were tricksy, playful, whose names were so important they were a means of control. To know a faerie's real name is to have their life in your hand.

Stories for children… come true.

Oudine gazes at the regret written across his face and in his emerald green eyes. She looks at the way his hands move nervously.

A great secret this must have been. Not something to tell a relative whom one had only been acquainted with for just a few months. What good would it have done for her to know anyway? Look at her reaction when she did find out (though to be quite fair, it had been two shocks in a row, not just one). Perhaps he would never have spoken of it if Wil hadn't opened the door - and that would have been a wise thing to do. But she knows now.

There have never been so many surprises in her life before the appearance of the Losstarots. And since her father's sudden death, surprises have left a bitter taste in her mouth, though a part of her admits it doesn't really justify the screeching and running.

“...will whatever led you to him reoccur? Are you and he safe?” She asks at last, remembering old legends of two fae courts at war with each other since memory began. “He said… something about a Garlean.”

His brows furrow ever so slightly, staring at a point just above the tip of her ear. His mind flips through past events - of Gnaeus mal Ennius and his plotting that literally undid him, of a broken staff in splinters becoming one with the earth, and of holding Wil, watching and hoping he did not walk into the light.

Part of him scoffs at Oudine's question - what would she do if he said no? What can House Aubemarle, who could not protect their servants from a common thug, do against a mad Garlean and fae magicks? But he stops that thought in its tracks. Time has taught him of unlikely allies at unlikely times; House Aubemarle is one.

A soft smile curls the corner of his lips. He shakes his head. "No, it will not. It's over. We are safe."

Joshua knocks once before opening the door just enough for his voice to be heard, "Wil has your ribbon, Oudine."

“Thank you, Joshua. Please come in… both of you.”

Oudine looks down at the floor, thoughts settling at last. They are safe in this regard. She needn't fear magic from this avenue. There is now space for the implications of her undignified behaviour to present themselves in full.

Faeries, she does not know; manners she does. And hers have been bad manners indeed.

“...may I be frank?” she says softly, though the shame in her voice is clear. “I asked, to know if I should fear for you. For me. For my house. So if you say all is done, then all is done. I will pry no further.

“I know not what else to add, but that I'm sorry for behaving the way I did. I am no adventurer. I have never really left my home, and the few times I did, I travelled in the protection of my family, my brother, and now you. It is a spoiled existence I lead. Of things beyond Ishgard, I read, and listen, and imagine – but clearly my imagination is limited.

“There is much I don't know, but my ignorance doesn't justify reacting so poorly to someone who has done me no harm.” She looks back up at Izzy, the tone now more sober but still softly spoken.

“You have my silence. I doubt anyone would believe me even if I wanted to tell them. Except maybe Remont. But I will not speak of this even to him if you say so.”

Isillud Losstarot is awash with shame: in a single confession she lays bare her concerns for her house. She will prevail, he is certain. Discretion and honour always wins, and so she will.

"You have nothing to apologise for. Anyone would be shocked in your situation." A brief thought amuses him, "As eccentric as adventurers are, we do not have wings. Even Wil's would prompt a few to attack him." He continues. "It's not that I mind telling Remont, but I think he has figured some of it out on his own. Your telling him will simply confirm his suspicions."

He bites his lower lip. "I once put Wil in danger because I did not realise the value of his name. Your assurance is more thought than I put in back then." He bows from his seat. "Thank you."

There is much grace and gentleness in the way Izzy offers his reassurances and his thanks. It warms Oudine within, and she finally smiles.

“You're very kind, you know. All of my household calls you that.”

Isillud can only smile at her comment. Perhaps he only pays forward the kindness he was showed, who can say?

The Wil that enters could be mistaken for a sheepish country bumpkin of an elezen; he peers in, taking a slow step at a time, ribbon loosely entwined between his fingers. "Sorry for scaring you, Oudine. It was an accident, I really don't show my wings in this form."

She turns to the door as Wil comes in, and the smile grows. Now that she isn't so blindsided, she can picture Izzy's crow in the sheepish way he moves, in his stance. And the charm from yesterday still exists even in his hesitance; she imagines it would be quite hard to remain angry at him. Startled, and bemused perhaps, but not angry.

She stretches out her hand towards him, palm upwards in an inviting way. “I'm sorry to you as well. You didn't deserve me screaming at you like that. Thank you for finding my ribbon.”

Wil bows gallantly, presenting the ribbon to Oudine like a trophy. "Don't worry, getting yelled at like that is no big deal - why, when I was under mal Ennius he-" A gentle tug from Isillud prompts him to stop. "-anyway I've had worse. No worries." Wil waves it off with a beaming smile. If he were a crow he would have gently head butted her by now.

~*~

Outside, Joshua leans against the door frame, waiting for Remont, though not for much longer as light footsteps resound across the wooden floor. From round the corner, the tall figure of Oudine’s erstwhile twin emerges.

Wherever he’s been doesn’t seem to have affected his cheery nature since he looks as fresh as he did the previous morning. At least his face does; his clothes are certainly not as crisp and neat as they had been, with the waistcoat hanging loose and one button of his linen shirt looser. In one hand is a bunch of bright purple flowers, wrapped in paper at the ends.

He’s surprised to see his cousin in front of the room he’d been told had been given to ‘the young lady with the grey eyes’. Still, he smiles in greeting.

“Well met, cousin. Apologies for leaving you all so suddenly last night.” He glances at the door. “I assume you’re waiting for Dine?”

Joshua un-leans from the door, straightening his own dishevelled waistcoat and shirt (their clothes had been worn in a rush after all, though for much different reasons than Remont). "No trouble done, in fact you saved us the cost of an extra room." He eyes the door and pulls it closer. "Indeed, she had some trouble with her…hair. How's your new friend, by the way?"

Remont’s smile is crooked. “Touche. They’re well enough; there were no regrets.” He does the opposite of Joshua, leaning against the wall. “Is my sister very angry that I left? She hates it when I do this. Hence…” he gestures with the flowers in his hand.

"If she is, she has done a fine job of hiding it," Joshua replies, crossing his arms and leaning back against the door frame. "I think she's doing her hair."

~*~

Wil tilts his head at her hair. "Would you like me to help you with that?"

Fist to mouth, Isillud finds the scenery outside the Bobbing Cork much more fascinating, Ixal or no.

Oudine eyes Wil with trepidation. Despite hearing Eddy’s voice in her head screaming no, she asks, tentatively, “You… you know how to dress hair?”

"Doesn't everyone?" Wil starts fluffing and spreading her hair out, looking for a brush. He parts the top of her head into a few locks and begins braiding. His fingers are surprisingly deft, weaving parts in and out and tying it together with her ribbon, then picking up her hair loosely curling it around his wrists before letting it all fall over her left shoulder. "Tada!" Wil does a little dainty clap, peering at his handiwork from a few angles.

Isillud doesn't hide his awe as though he has discovered something new about Wil. "This is rather good."

"Of course! It's all the rage in Il Mheg."

"Really?"

"Sure it is!"

The grey elezen frowns, trying to recall. "I don't remember anyone with that hair."

"We'll go back there to confirm." Wil gives his partner a thumbs-up, reaching for the doorknob. "She's ready!"

~*~

“She hides well, yes,” is Remont's reply. The sound of Wil's voice makes his head snap up instantly, all languidness gone at the realisation there's a man in his sister's room. “What-” He springs up from the wall.

The door opens just in time. Remont strides towards it and blinks. Inside is Izzy, sitting on the edge of the bed, Wil from last night beaming proudly and Oudine, standing up with an impeccable hairdo, a lock of her dark brown hair falling gracefully over her shoulder. From what he can see, it seems more intricate than usual, and flatters her face very well.

Remont blinks again. “Dine?”

Her grey eyes, which had been directed at Wil with amusement, widen at the sight of him. There's an undercurrent of relief in her voice, below the surprise. “Rem!”

Remont looks at all the occupants of the room, Joshua still outside, then back at his sister. He isn't sure what circumstances would have led to them all gathered here, but decides to leave that for later.

He steps inside. “Joshua said you were fixing your hair. It looks very nice.”

“Thank you,” she says, then smiles at Wil. “It's all Wil's cleverness. It turns out our new friend has a talent for it.”

Remont smiles at the man, and bows. “Then thank you, sir, for aiding my sister.”

He turns back to Oudine, and holds out his flowers. “These will suit you, I think.”

She can't hide her surprise at the appearance of blooms then tilts a wry look at him. “Am I supposed to forgive you now for being so rude to us last night?”

Remont has at least enough grace to look somewhat embarrassed. “Sorry, Dine. Needed to walk someone home.”

“She must live a very long way from here then,” replies his relentless sister.

He says nothing, appealing silently with what appears to be genuine remorse in his dark brown eyes.

Oudine sighs, taking the flowers from him. He'd even bothered to hunt down her favourite triteleias, so she asks, “did she at least know what you were about?”

“I promise you she did.” He smiles a little. “I'll give you the details later if you wish, Dine, but assuredly she did.”

She eyes him a minute longer then shakes her head. “I'm not the only one who should hear an apology.”

Remont looks ruefully at Izzy and Wil, and bows. “Quite right. My apologies, gentlemen; not the thing to disappear on everyone like that.”

Isillud smiles as if this isn't the first time he's seen Remont do this. "I do hope she was worth the trouble."

Wil puffs his chest like a crow would after it's completed a feat; quite similar to when he caught the fish, in fact. Seeing the flowers gives him more ideas. "Those would look beautiful in your hair like a crown, Oudine! Would you let me?"

Joshua looks at the chronometer on the wall. "I wonder what the skywatcher has to say about Ishgard today."

Remont coughs, looking at the same chronometer. “Probably snow and ice, cold as anything, the usual. Shall we get breakfast? I'm starving.”

Oudine laughs softly at Wil's enthusiasm, and his suggestion. He really is charming.

“I would be honoured. Would you lend me Wil for awhile, Izzy? Since we leave the Twelveswood today, I fancy a flower crown would be a perfect souvenir. Perhaps the gentlemen can find breakfast for us in the meantime.”

Isillud gets up and bows to Oudine. "Would you like anything in particular for breakfast?"

Wil is already weaving a crown with the flowers, getting ready to stick some in her hair if needed.

Oudine thinks for a moment, glancing at Wil.

Papa would certainly have liked you, she thinks. More so if he knew of your faerie origin.

She doesn’t know why her father comes to mind so often today, but… maybe certain surprises needn’t be so bitter. She smiles at Izzy.

“Perhaps you could surprise me, and let me learn to try something new.”

Remont looks sideways at her, even as she is smiling at their cousin. Oudine hates surprises. He casts a questioning look at Joshua.

Joshua shrugs, hooking his arm under Remont's elbow. "Let's go, I hear their buffet selection is particularly appetising this season." The brothers flank Remont as they escort him down.

The buffet at the dining hall lays out a variety of salads, with a small area for sliced meats and condiments and breads towards the end. Isillud has no problem picking out a salad he likes and a croissant or two to go with it.

"Is it strange to see Oudine behaving as such?" Joshua asks Remont.

Remont ponders the question as he looks at the spread before him, picking out slices of fragrant breads first. His answer is low-voiced.

“Change unsettles her, and makes her melancholy. You’d think the Calamity and the war would have made her at least more accepting of how change is inevitable, but not quite.” He spoons out dollops of strawberry jam, lingonberry jam and marmalade on his plate. “But she treasures people, like our late father. Change for the good of a person can be endured, even embraced.”

“Still, surprises are changes she cannot control. And that is difficult for her personally, as well as one in her position as the head of our house,” he continues, picking up slices of plain ham and those with herbs mixed into it. “I haven’t heard her say something like that since we were young.” He smiles, and there is regret in the expression. “I confess, I was one of those who taught her how to hate surprises, I think.”

He looks at Joshua, pausing in front of the salads. “I am not as steady a brother as yourself, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now. Quite a few unpleasant surprises did Dine experience extricating me from youthful mistakes.”

He goes back to selecting lettuce leaves and cherry tomatoes so he may go to their table with a full plate. “I’m not sure what happened before I arrived, but if just one night out of Ishgard has done this,” He chuckles. “Gods only know who my sister will become if she travels further.”

"I don't believe I know the cause of your father's death, only that he did." Joshua fashions the bread and meat into a sandwich. "How did it happen to shock Oudine so badly?" He gets a little slap on his shoulder from his brother for his question. "What?" he frowns. The question surely isn't that tasteless.

"Travel changes a person, Remont. I think you know this." Isillud has started eating his salad sandwich - being the convenient man he is, he has simply stuffed his salad into his sliced croissant and eats it whole. "Do you ever imagine what sort of person you'd be if you were forced to stay in Ishgard?"

Remont grimaces at Joshua’s question, but makes himself talk after a swallow of the coffee he’d picked up beside the salads. It's a valid query, and one he asks himself each time he thinks of it. The plate he put together remains untouched on the table.

His eyes are shadowed, while he stares at nothing. “We all woke up one morning, five years ago. He didn’t.” He inhales once. “We called healers and chirurgeons; even a representative of the Temple Knights was requested. All said his heart had stopped in the night, with no sign of foul play. Beside my mother, he’d slipped away in his sleep… and that was that.”

He taps his finger on his cup absently. “We had no heart to investigate further; there were more urgent matters to attend to.” He looks up at the brothers, a small smile across his face. It has no humour in it, only sorrow. “You’ve met my mother. I wonder if you can imagine her… broken. For three years, that was all she was, while Dine and I picked up the pieces around us. I went to Tailfeather to scout for an opportunity, while she stayed as Viscount to pull on whatever string we still had, and we both put our mourning into our work. Things worked out eventually… but there were many difficult months.”

“...it would have been one thing if he were ill, or if we wielded staff or sword, and he’d died to an enemy’s blow,” he says, bending his head back to stare at the food. “But Viscount Vouloix was benevolent and beloved, and he kept his house in the same order. If his heart is what killed him, then perhaps it had just grown too large.”

He pauses for half a minute then shakes his head. “Forgive me. I know loss and grief are not strangers to you. But Dine has been the anchor of our house since his passing – not even my mother will disagree. It takes a toll on her even if she bears it well.”

Remont seems to shake himself mentally as he takes another swig of coffee. Then he looks upwards at the ceiling. “As for what I’d be if I couldn’t leave Ishgard…” He smirks sardonically, and it is strange for such a cold expression to cross his face. “Unimaginable. I’d have either turned into a fiend or ended up dead, causing my family more grief. I’m glad for the city becoming open again, whether we’re ready or not.”

He shrugs. “I certainly wasn’t when I went to Dravania. It was among the best things to happen to me.” He gives Izzy a warmer smirk, despite Joshua being right there. “Met you for one.”

The brothers listen to Remont attentively as they head to a table to wait for Oudine, eating silently until Remont finishes. Even after that they look at the table, their chewing slows to a stop.

"It must not have been easy," Isillud finally breaks the ice. "All those loose ends to tie and sort out. Your house is extremely blessed to have such a capable heir in Oudine. It is only our luck that our affairs were sorted out by the church."

"If it can be called such," Joshua mutters into his orange juice. "A reset is what it is."

"Our condolences on your loss, Remont. Full glad am I to have you and Oudine here with us now, able to relax and recreate at leisure after your hardship." He returns Remont's smile with his own, the tips of his ears sporting a dash of pink.

Joshua seems to allow this moment between them and says nothing, simply looking on while taking in the breakfast crowd in the hall.

~*~

Back in Oudine's room, Wil places the crown on her as if he crowns a queen, then slides the smaller flowers in between her braids, seemingly at random. When he is done her hair looks like a river sprinkled with freshly fallen flowers.

For her part, Oudine marvels at the transformation Wil has wrought in her appearance. Within the glass of the dressing table, her dark river of hair, with its purple star-like flowers, has never looked more enchanting. Even she has to admit to herself: she does look quite fetching.

“Thank you Wil; what a wonder you are! This is fit for a formal spring ball, not just a holiday.” Her eyes twinkle up at him. “I can only imagine what the nobility of Ishgard would pay for you to dress their hair like this for special occasions.”

"Spring ball, holidays, same thing." Wil waves it off. "There's dancing and people are happy, that's all that matters."

She beams at him with pure delight. “How proud Izzy must be of you.”

He smiles blankly at Oudine's comment. "Why…would Izzy be proud of me? It is I who should be proud of him! He's smart and beautiful - really beautiful - and he can fire an arrow at a target at fifty paces! I'm just a crow."

Oudine rises from her seat. “Not just any crow you are. A lovely crow indeed, to stay by Izzy’s side all the time, to protect him. To sing in such harmony with him, and to make him happy.” She smiles warmly. “I would be over the moon to have someone like you in my life, Wil, though I’ll admit perhaps I’d be quite confused a lot of the time.”

She pats his shoulder gently. “Well, best not keep them waiting any longer. Shall we go show them your masterpiece?”

Wil chuckles, bowing to the new princess in the room. "We fae are simpler than you think - we're bound to one who knows our true name, it's just that he happens to be my love too. If he tells me to sing or to protect or blow up a prison wall that shakes the foundations of the building I will because it's an order from him! …I shouldn't have said the last one out loud, should I?" He holds out his hand to escort her to the others.

Oudine takes his hand, after a start at the mention of blowing up walls. She smiles, just a little helplessly. “Um, perhaps not with strangers,” she says as they walk out.

~*~

Downstairs, Remont smiles gratefully at his cousins. Izzy's words ease the stifling grief that had arisen, sending it back into the deepest recesses of his chest.

“And long may it continue, o brothers Losstarot.” He raises his coffee cup in a toast to them and sips.

His seat faces the entrance of the hall, so he's among the first to spot Wil and Oudine walking in together, the former looking like a graceful gentleman escorting a lady to a ballroom. And the latter…

Remont's eyes widen a fraction, eyebrows rising. Then he grins, and gets to his feet to bow: a silent homage to the sister who had never given her looks more than perfunctory thought, now crowned as a princess of spring. Even as a brother, he'd never any doubt that Oudine was rather pretty, even if there were many more who outshone her looks.

But just for today, for this morning, her bright eyes and the blossom crown give her a magnetic radiance. Little wonder that quite a few eyes turn to the entrance to stare.

He can see her flush from across the room, and laughs. “Izzy, your love is a true wonder. Dine blushes too rarely in my opinion, and here he is, turning her red as a sunset so easily.”

Isillud can't help but fill his chest with pride when he sees Wil's handiwork. "She does look lovely, doesn't she?"

This makes Joshua whip around and stare at his brother - Izzy actually noticing what a woman looks like? A Calamity could be on the horizon. Isillud notices the dumbfounded eyes on him and tilts his head quizzically, "What?"

They make their way to the table soon enough, Oudine still blushing.

Remont bows again. “Dine, you look marvellous. We must keep you like this until we get home, then immediately set you up with the nearest eligible bachelor. Perhaps Lord Stephanivien? I hear he's still single; you'll win him in seconds and have everyone gnashing their teeth with jealousy. Or maybe we should barge into the Holy See to visit our Lord Speaker-”

Oudine smacks his shoulder. “Don't even joke about such things. Both those gentlemen have too much to deal with already.”

Remont merely grins, then pushes the plate towards her. “As you wish, your highness.”

She rolls her eyes then smiles at her cousins. “If you ever want to consider setting up some sort of salon in Ishgard, I don't think you'll want for customers. Wil's talents would be highly sought, and lucrative I shouldn't wonder.” She picks up a knife to spread jam on her bread.

Isillud and Joshua give each other a quick look before stifling a laugh. "Perhaps we could have Wil teach a class at the Community Centre," Joshua says.

"Yeah! I could teach people and they could make an income from it, nobles love personal stylists." Wil's eyes light up, hands mimicking braiding hair, "And if the competition is opposed to it I can ex-"

"We'll put it on the cards," Isillud quickly cuts in, shoving a large bowl of salad in front of Wil.

“Much as I've enjoyed our stay, when should we leave?” Oudine lets out a small sigh. “I unfortunately have appointments to keep tomorrow.”

Joshua picks off the remnants off his plate. "We'll leave once we're all done with breakfast. I'll get the porters to bring our things out.” He takes care not to point out the luggage is mostly Oudine's.

Remont slides a look at her. “Not… him, surely.”

“No, not yet.” There's a grimness to the way her mouth is set. “I wanted to tell Tramault he can have his gil and much good may it do him. But I wonder if there's some wisdom in letting him still think he can own us.” She bites into the corner of the bread, letting the mix of lingonberry and marmalade's sweetness take the edge off the name. “We'll see. I want to speak to Uncle Regnier first, and consider our options.”

“Hmm.” He looks at the others, explaining, “Our uncle's house, Vaillant, is a vassal of Durendaire, so they've had run-ins with Gaussain before.” Remont snorts. “The name isn't a particular favourite with Baron Regnier, but he is canny; the man hasn't lived 75 summers without learning a thing or two.”

Oudine raises her eyes to the brothers and Wil. “We're planning to sever ties with Gaussain at last, now that we can buy them out. A large part of my savings has been for this moment, and Rem has brought in the last bits we need. It will be costly, and Tramault will be difficult, but it'll be worth it - having him hold our leash would be far worse.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow at Oudine's update. "You plan to buy out his share of the ranch? Will Gaussain even deign to sell?"

Oudine picks grimly at her own salad. “It’s part of what I want to speak to my uncle about. If I can get the backing of a few other nobles – or even have someone proxy for us, saying they have the lion’s share of Marlstone rather than Aubemarle – it might be enough to at least get him to sign an agreement.”

“You’d just be exchanging one hand for another on our leash with a proxy,” says Remont, picking at the same plate as his sister. “And Tramault would never believe you’d sell out this quickly. We’ve only just become profitable. The Doma contract was a boon we didn’t see coming.”

“I know, I know.” She shakes her head. “Gods, I was a fool to think his ‘investment’ was a better option than an outright loan. Damn my pride.”

“We were desperate,” says her brother. “I wouldn’t blame yourself so harshly.”

She still wears a dissatisfied turn of her lips. “I should have known better regardless.” Then she sighs again. “I just remembered. We must look for knights for Marlstone, Rem. I don't want any coincidental ‘accidents’.”

Remont eyes his sister a moment, then looks back at Izzy and Joshua. “Don't suppose you know any good bodyguards so Tramault doesn't succeed at setting our office on fire?”

"When you say 'bodyguards' are you looking for someone…permanent? Or a long-term contract?" Isillud adds, "Some only run escort missions or for nothing more than a moon at most."

“I think permanent security is our safest option, though Tramault is more subtle than his son. But in that, he’s more dangerous. And it’s high time the Ishgard office had some form of security detail anyway.”

“Maybe even the house needs its own guard,” murmurs Oudine. “Though Father never considered it.”

She pauses a moment, then sets down her fork. Her expression is apologetic. “Forgive me - I didn’t mean to suddenly bring up business while we’re still out here. I wanted to end our outing on a happier note.”

"You're saying he'd be more amenable to signing away his share if the other holders said they had a majority over you." Joshua taps his salad fork on his lips, humming while giving his brother the side-eye. "Remont's right, you'd just be indebted to another."

"Unless the proxy is someone they trust." Isillud drains his cup of tea, bringing a glass of juice closer.

Joshua's face twitches. "Izzy," he starts, "We can't afford shares, not now, anyway."

"But we eventually will. And it's good to diversify."

The younger Losstarot rolls his eyes. "I don't think this is something you can sleep your way through."

"If I can get a dozen strangers to vouch for my identity, then I can do this." He sips his juice loudly so he doesn't have to see the look of creeping horror upon his brother's face.

"You did not."

The slurping continues.

"You have contacts, Izzy! You have them! Why did you even-"

The empty glass thuds on the table. Isillud Losstarot calmly wipes the juice from his lips, ignoring his brother's increasingly rabid frothing. "I'll draw up a list of candidates for your security posts, some older adventurers seek more stable work. While this isn't the ending you hoped, I daresay this is a better option."

Both Aubemarle siblings look on at this exchange in quite stunned silence. Even Remont loses vocabulary as he hears what Izzy is saying. It is no small proposal he makes (even the bit about sleeping around), and this doesn't include the unspoken trouble he's taking on to suggest personnel for Marlstone.

“Cousin,” says Oudine at last, “We couldn't possibly ask anything of you again. Not after what you've done for us already. I didn't speak of Gaussain to do so, I just… I wanted you to know what we were planning just in case.” She lets out a breath. “It's already being mentioned in some circles that our houses are close. If we irritate Tramault enough, his grudges run deep, and your risks increase. Right now at least, no one connects either of you to Rewelle's case.” A worried wrinkle appears in her brow. “I know you are more than capable of defending yourselves, but I have no intention of… making use of you. Or our connection.”

She smiles a little here. “My mother will say this is vulgar of me to speak so plainly, but I see no other way: Losstarot is an old and venerable name. With all your efforts, you will rise in time. I can already foresee it. I do not wish to be any hindrance to you.”

Remont has been silent all this while, then breathes in. “Dine is saying you shouldn't throw away your options for our sake. Which you might be since Tramault is a fairly petty bastard despite all his grand talk. For some godsdamned reason, they've curried enough favour with Durendaire to have valid backing. Likely the rubies if I'm to speculate, but their familial link is also pretty well-documented, allegedly.”

He smirks a little. “If you have a personal quarrel with Gaussain we haven't heard of, the more the merrier. But our mother practically foisted our problems on you once. We aren't about to do so again.” He raises an eyebrow. “Also: all twelve?”

“Rem!”

"You misunderstand." Isillud crosses his legs, leaning back on his chair. "This isn't a favour. This is a business proposal. We buy some of the shares, just enough to have a voice, saving you the trouble of finding a proxy or convincing some old farts that the Viscount of their House should have a major stake in their own farm." He looks at Joshua, "And it would be nice to have chocobos to call our own to transport cargo, wouldn't it? Saves on rental."

Joshua props his head on his hands and sighs loudly. "Sounds nice except we need to find some shares to buy first unless Oudine would like to loan us hers." He quickly adds, "Please don't," to his cousins across the table before returning to Isillud, "And do it the proper way, godsdamnit, I'll close an eye to whatever schemes you have to prevent House Gaussain from poking into our affairs but-"

"But you won't abide by adultery and fornication, understood." Isillud strokes Wil's chin after the man shows him his clean plate and effusive praises for the food. "And it was all twelve; The other seventeen were contacts from my work who were all too happy to vouch for me for jobs well done. The last was from House Dailemont. That carried the most weight."

Remont chuckles. “I regret to say it Joshua, but the deeper in you go, the more adultery and fornication you'll find among the lesser houses; gossip is one thing, but half of them have a grain of truth.”

It's not the adultery I care about, it's that it always gets back to me," Joshua answers, not hiding his annoyance, "Why do adventurers need to tell me they met-"

"Language." Isillud cuts the conversation dead; formative years spent in Limsa have influenced Joshua more than he thinks.

Oudine’s eyebrows rise, recognising one of the famed goldsmiths of Ishgard. “Our mother has a pair of Dailemont earrings, a gift from our father long ago. An old, distinguished name indeed.”

She looks at the way Izzy leans back, the way he has taken on a different sort of air than the reassuring man in her room earlier. There sits Lord Isillud, not the head of the house… but its neck. She glances at Joshua then back at the older brother; both of them have the talent to combine forthrightness and cunning, to switch back and forth as needed. It’s a necessary skill in Ishgard, but perhaps more formidably, they can convince others they were either one or the other when they are really both, in curious mixes.

It could work, thinks Oudine. You have more reason to trust them than you ever did Gaussain. That deal was made in fear and desperation. Let this one be made in courage, and good faith.

She smiles a little, sitting up straighter. “My lords, I am honoured by your interest – and trust – in our company. Allow me to consult with my brother.” She looks at Remont. “What say you?”

Remont smiles amusedly. “Oh, are we doing this now? Very well then.” He straightens in his chair, clears his throat. “The name of Losstarot is in good standing within our society, and their house does splendid work with the community centre they share with the people. I say aye.”

“Then the ayes have it.” Oudine looks back at Izzy, meeting his green eyes. “If you are in earnest of this pursuit, agreements can be drawn up after we return to Ishgard.”

She turns to Joshua. “For this to work, you'll need some of mine and Rem's shares. So while I wouldn’t loan you some, Joshua, I would sell you a portion for a song.” She smiles. “Or a dance, like the one you gave me yesterday.”

“Then consider mine as payment for Dine's hair,” says Remont with a grin. “It'll be the most expensive hair appointment I've ever spent on, but I do owe her a few nameday gifts.”

"I accept your offers, Viscount and Lord de Aubemarle. I look forward to a fruitful venture. " Isillud extends a gloved hand across the table to them.

Joshua follows Izzy's cue and does the same. "I'll ask Sydney for a loan."

"He better give us the gil given how loaded he is," Isillud mutters behind gritted teeth. "If he doesn't want to be a Lord he's going to pay for that privilege."

Oudine and Remont shake hands with both brothers warmly. “As do we, my lord,” says Oudine, tone formal, although her eyes twinkle. “I’m not sure if it will help, but I’ll also write to Sydney as soon as we reach home,” she adds, with just a little hesitation. “Just to… well, introduce myself, I suppose.”

“Make it a good letter, Dine. That loan will be needed, I think, but not for us.” Remont smiles in amusement. “Thank the Fury Marlstone is kept mostly within the family.”

Oudine nods. “Our uncles, Baron Regnier de Vaillant and Lord Domin de Hellyes hold a goodly portion respectively. Aunt Perette also holds a small percentage.” She looks aside, thinking and calculating. “If they each sell you a portion of theirs, it will outweigh Tramault enough to convince him I and Remont will not have control of Marlstone. That may get him to sell his shares to you, if he’s sure you wouldn’t return it to us.”

“We’ll think on that later. First, we must amass the capital,” says Remont. “Uncle Domin and Aunt Perette are amiable creatures. I doubt they’ll give you much trouble once you explain what’s going on. It's Uncle Regnier whom you'll have to convince. Family or no, Gaussain or no, he runs his business efficiently, and he doesn’t suffer fools much.”

Oudine shakes her head. “No, he doesn’t. But one doesn’t become a weaponsmaker of renown in our city by being easy.” She smiles a little, looking at her cousins. “I doubt this is what you expected upon returning to Ishgard, but well. Here we are.”

Joshua frowns: an interesting division of shares. "Interesting that Marlstone is owned by your family members save for Traumault, yet he is satisfied as long as you don't own it. Curious. But we want the family name restored and cleared of a crime we did not commit, and if it means wading through court intrigue and politics and petty grudges, so be it."

Isillud purses his lips at the mention of restoring the family name, as if he has his own opinions but chooses to stay silent. "It appears we have plans to draw up once we return. Drink and eat your fill, everyone. The road home does not appear to be a smooth ride."

Long after breakfast is done, Oudine's luggage is piled into the carriage and they all follow after. As the Chocobos run a-pace from greenery and bright air towards cold fog and ice, she dozes against her brother's shoulder. The morning has taken its toll; try as she did to stay politely awake to converse with her companions, her eyelids closed, lulled by the rocking of the carriage. One loose triteleia has landed in her lap.

Remont is content to let her use him as a pillow, as he stares out at the scenery. Suddenly, as if the thought has been preying on his mind all the while, he says softly, “It is curious, isn't it, why Gaussain hates the name of Aubemarle so particularly. He commonly invests in various businesses, so we thought ours was just one of those he snapped up in a desperate hour. It was only after that when he allowed obvious contempt to show, though at least the rest of his family hasn't been as outwardly disrespectful.”

He smiles faintly. “Dine and I speculated my mother must have caused him serious offence at some point, but we have never been sure. One more mystery we had no time to resolve.”

"It could be a hint of something deeper or that's Gaussain's nature, who's to say?" Joshua shrugs, "I prefer working on what we have now rather than waste time on speculation. Gaussian can sit on his thumbs and be indignant about it for all I care."

Isillud leans on the carriage door, smiling at his crow perched at the driver's seat like a co-pilot. Wil had bade farewell to the twins after breakfast, returning to oversee the loading of their bags.

The younger Losstarot stretches, adjusting for comfort. "Talk to your relatives, get the shares. That's all there is to it."

~END~

Onto the epilogue

(The epilogue is short, I promise.)

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #william corvus #Oudine reads a lot but Remont has a more elastic imagination #after this she's going to bury her nose in books about magic just so she isn't taken by such surprise again #(oh oudine you have no idea)#Wil has my lifelong affection for gussying up Oudine so well #love this birdbrain (affectionate)#(the twins completely forgot a family party they were supposed to attend that night by the way)#(their mother is Very Disapproving when they turn up in the late-afternoon barely in time to get ready)

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housedeaubemarle · 10 months ago

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The Grand Hunt - Part 3: The Hunt

Part 1: The Call

Part 2: The Tracking

Part 4: The Trophy

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv who's gamely joined this adventure that's gone so far beyond my expectations, and I wouldn't have it any other way)

~*~

Rewelle looks out to the highlands beyond Falcon's Nest. Black Iron Bridge stands out in the frozen wasteland, the path littered with slimes and beasts. She takes a deep breath, then pulls her hood over her head as she walks down the steps leading out.

“You're leaving at first light.”

The adrenaline and fear running through her body make her colder than before. The soft light of dawn, just beginning to bloom above the horizon, is a small comfort.

“Don't sprint – you’ll draw the beasts’ attention.”

She’s lived in this place her entire life. Ishgardian born and bred, and proud of it.

But right now as Rewelle clutches the straps of the satchel she’s carrying, as if she had taken minimal belongings from the house, she has never wanted anything less than to be here.

“But don't go too slow either; they may smell a rat. Hurry like you want to meet your cousin.”

Her grip tightens as she makes herself walk, one foot in front of the other. Soon the cobblestones of Ishgard proper are left behind, making way for frozen soil and thick snow.

Fury send me where I must, with courage and discipline, in the light of the divine. Let me not quail in the wake of this calamity; here is your spear, here is your helm, here is your righteous justice, O Fury of the Gods…

Hymn after hymn, prayer upon prayer, and step by step, Rewelle pushes forward, trying to keep on the worn, iced-over path without slipping. The wind’s howling accompanies her, along with the muffled sounds of snuffling beasts, scratching claws and the strange squelches of other things she would rather not meet face to face.

“You will be followed. They'll probably try something before the sentries can spot you. Be on your guard as soon as you see the huge chains of the Bridge.”

Rewelle pushes a lock of hair out of her face, gulping in icy air as her boots crunch the snow beneath. When prayers to the Fury come to their end, she tries to imagine her friends back at Aubemarle, tries to hear their voices and see their faces. There’s Aeda’s cheerful optimism, there’s Yisa’s light-filled eyes, there’s Denisot’s reassuring tones, there’s Bremmant’s easy grin, there’s Lamb’s overbearing, overprotective, underappreciated face.

“Last thing, Miss Rewelle: when the time comes, shield your head and run.”

Rewelle takes in one more deep breath, and plunges forward.

Some way behind her, buoyed by the expectation of success, three shadows follow. Behind snow-covered outcrops and taller snowdrifts, they maintain a safe distance, watching the lone figure trudge through the brilliant white terrain of Ishgard’s outskirts.

They watch her walk determinedly, and think: Not long now. Not long. Before the bridge, we’ll jump and finally get our damned wages.

~*~

Joshua picks up the gadget and observes the numbers click upwards. "Half a malm to Black Iron Bridge."

"Good, now take the aether counter and point it to the base of the tower and tell me how much is the highest aspected aether." Escher leans against the buttress of the top of the tower tapping a pencil on a notepad.

"Don't let him know what we're doing."

Joshua squints at the counter. "Ice aether, 9900."

"Of course ice aether is over 9000," Escher grumbles, "Fire? Lightning?"

"Fire…2000…"

Escher gets up. "Good enough for a control." A wave of his hand raises the nouliths to his height, aiming at least 6 fulms from the bridge. Fire aspected aether streams into his nouliths, glowing hotter with each mote.

"He needs plausible deniability. We need plausible deniability."

The nouliths converge into a single point, firing a stream of fire akin to a serpent rushing to the bridge. Joshua's breath catches in his throat, immediately bringing up the first gadget to see where Rewelle - and his brother - is. His heart thumps rapidly, hoping it doesn't hit Rewelle - or Isillud.

"Bit weird for your brother to suddenly have plans when he told me to come here ASAP."

~*~

Isillud pulls his snow-white hood lower as he crouches against a rock, trying to blend against the background as he trails Rewelle.

His ears perk: the soft crunch of snow a constant rhythm. He turns behind and sees three heads bobbing behind a snow drift.

Good, they came.

~*~

None of the three men notice anything extraordinary as they go past a camouflaged Isillud. Their full concentration is on Rewelle, controlling their movement in case she takes fright prematurely. Overpowering her would be only too easy, but the day has decided to begin especially cold, and the wind turns biting.

“Let's get on with it,” growls Andreau.

Hourlinet looks to Padiloux who's peering forward, calculating how long more before they can pounce - far enough from the city so there are no witnesses, not near enough to the bridge for help. When he nods, only then do they pick up speed, making a beeline for the girl.

Ahead of them by several crucial fulms, Rewelle has just seen the gigantic, jutting points of the Bridge, piercing upwards like the Spear itself. Then, right before the wind picks up again, she hears them: pounding footsteps that belong to no creature of the land. She throws a glance over her shoulder, sees the speeding figures and with an involuntary cry, picks up speed to flee. The wind makes hee veer more towards the left even though she's doing her best to reach the Bridge straight on.

She runs, and runs, and runs, but the crunching behind her gets ever closer.

And then, right before a gloved hand can make contact with her person, the ground about four fulms away inexplicably explodes in a violent blast of… flame.

The impact throws her off her feet, flinging her like a ragdoll into the snow. There is a deep ringing in her head as she crashlands into the frozen ground. She can only gasp through the pain stabbing into every muscle of her body. Stinging heat radiates far across the area, even managing to steal over towards her.

The Warden? Here?

Her spinning, confused thoughts almost blur together, but when she picks up her head, she can see her pursuers too haven't been spared. All three are struggling to rise.

Run while they can't. Now.

Rewelle gathers every ounce of strength she can muster and forces herself upwards, rapidly following the force of the icy wind. Her satchel, stained with blood she hasn't noticed yet, lies crushed in the snow.

Padiloux is the first to heave himself to his feet, despite the aches shrieking their way through his burly body, specially in his ribs. When he can finally see straight, Rewelle has regained the lead she'd had before the explosion. He roars in rage, taking after her.

Behind him, staggering upwards, Hourlinet is swearing up a storm. “Gods fucking dammit,” he spits as a rivulet of blood flows down his face. There had been a rock at exactly the right place when he’d hit the ground.

Andreau, bruised and shaken, is not helpful as he stares at the impossibly scorched earth. “Fire? Fire, here?! What the fuck-”

The explosion, the blood, the pain - it is all too much. Hourlinet grabs Andreau by the collar.

“Get the girl, NOW,” he growls, shoving Andreau in the direction Rewelle and Padiloux have already flown in. The order shakes the man out of his bewildered horror; he starts running.

Hourlinet takes another minute to swear again before he wipes the blood from one eye, and sprints in the same direction.

~*~

"Eh, could be better." Escher scribbles in his notepad. "Can you check how much aether is concentrated in the spot? Want to check if there's any dispersion."

Joshua picks up the aether counter when he sees a cluster of shapes around the explosion area. They are still, but one moves. One looks confused, standing still but looks around. Another runs away towards the bridge. Joshua doesn't need a spyglass to confirm who it is. He points at the bridge to Escher, "Professor! Someone's in trouble at the bridge! We have to help!"

"Huh, wha?" The pink hyur squints through the cold and frost. "How? We can't fly fast enough from here."

"The nouliths!" Joshua points, "Do the same thing you did earlier!"

"What, with fire? There's not enough ambient fire aether here for a shot that big." Escher explains without any urgency.

He thinks of dragonfire. "Yes, yes it has to be fire! Just make it big enough to stop them!"

"Hang on, I think I have an idea." Escher flips the nouliths upright, whirring to life. Below them the bonfire at the base of the watchtower flickers and dies out to the faint cries of the guards below. He directs the nouliths to the bridge, arcing through the currents, gradually lighting up a bright orange until it hits an invisible barrier. He looks at Joshua, "What's the reading on my nouliths?"

"Uh….four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine."

"...fuck's sake. It'll do." The nouliths have no convergence point unlike earlier: they aim at the ground six fulms from the cliff between Black Iron Bridge. Joshua can hear the sound of aether charging up to a shrill peak. It fires just as another thought crosses Joshua's mind. "Wait, I don't mean ALL of them-!" He immediately slaps Escher's hand but it only breaks his concentration just enough to veer the nouliths' aim deep into the cliffside. "Hey-!"

The explosion is massive.

White snow and black soil spray to the heavens like a geyser laying dormant for millennia. Rocks arc to the ground and down the ravine. The shrieks of various beastkin are faint but audible. When the sounds fade and the smoke thins there is a loud CRACK, and part of the cliff tumbles down to crash into the frozen river below, creating another explosion.

The pair can only watch, as does everyone in every watchtower all the way to Falcon's Nest (and perhaps even the Convictory).

Escher speaks first: "You did this," he says, weakly pointing at the carnage.

Joshua looks like he's been slapped with another heresy charge. "What?!"

~*~

Isillud raises his bow to aim for Padiloux when the first explosion hits, throwing him face-first into the snow. He shakes his head counting to 10, keeping low to steady himself. Frantic shouts pick him back up in time to see Rewelle sprinting towards the bridge.

Unlike them, he sees the aether aimed at the ground.

There is no time to shoot; he sprints away and in a wide arc around what he thinks to be the centre of the oncoming attack to get to Rewelle. It hits the edge of the cliff instead; he frowns at the discrepancy but there is no time for calculations as the ground gives way, pulling everything down with it like crockery on a falling tablecloth.

He pulls his hood back - to hells with identity, she needs to know she can trust him - and stretches his arm out, calling her at the top of his lungs. "REWELLE!"

~*~

“Lamb…?”

Whatever expression is on her face makes him frown hard. More gently than he’s ever done in the years they’ve known each other, he raises his hand to brush his knuckles against her cheek.

“You can do this. You're as stubborn as they come and as brave as they make.” Lamb's dark eyes bore right into hers. “Give them hell. Then come home.”

Her lungs are on fire. So is her heart, and her stomach. Everything within burns and singes, and her feet are beginning to become leaden. The last vestiges of her strength are fading, but the bridge with its potential of safety is still so, so far away. Breathing becomes so hard.

Rewelle wheezes and gasps, as the shooting pains that had been dulled by the shock are coming back at the most inconvenient times. She has no idea that there is blood seeping and soaking through her black uniform, ragged and singed by the blast she endured. All she cares about now is how much slower she has become, how unable her body is to keep up with her will.

Please. Please, she begs, tears streaming down her face as she feels herself slow down. She can’t hear the ensuing boots coming closer, can’t feel the growing pressure in the atmosphere as something larger and fiercer than anything she’s ever known or imagined approaches with growing speed. Please help me, Fury please-

Time slows. Exactly three seconds before the echoes of the splitting cliff face boom across the tundra, a voice – the whisper of a young girl – speaks right into her ear.

Duck.

That one sound apparently shoots straight into her central nervous system, as Rewelle instinctively flings herself down. She lands with a muffled thump, and the pain of it nearly knocks her unconscious.

CRACK!

Around her, the world shakes, as if Hydaelyn itself is ending. The deafening groans and crashes of falling rocks and stones drown out the screaming of those caught in its wake. Unlike her, two of her pursuers, fuelled by adrenaline and inertia, hadn’t managed to stop before the very edges of the crumbling rocks.

“REWELLE!”

Somehow, the sound of her name cuts past all the chaotic noise of the world smashing apart, through all the conflicting temperatures of ice and fire. She knows that voice. She heard it thank her in her ladyship’s drawing room, albeit softer and smoother. She's always had a knack with voices.

She chokes on a reply. She can’t speak, suffocating as blood enters her lungs.

Breathe, goes the same soft, child’s voice in her ear.

How?

Like this.

From nowhere, fresh, cooling air suddenly floods her lungs, rushes up through her throat, and expels from her mouth in a loud, sharp gasp. Blood sprays onto the ice. But that one breath gives her just enough time, just enough will, to find Isillud's glowing green eyes, and grab hold of his forearm. He yanks her further backwards, safely away from the unsteady ground.

“Be… careful-” is all Rewelle can manage, before everything - finally - goes black.

~*~

Hourlinet's groans alert Isillud to the thug's presence. Placing Rewelle's head gently on the snow, he steps cautiously to Hourlinet, removing the katana from the belt behind him and slamming the scabbard vertically in front of the man's face.

"And how much will it take you to leave Ishgard on your own volition - without a trace?"

~*~

Hourlinet's thoughts have been whirling like the snow around him as he tries to catch up to his companions. The gash in his head doesn't do him any favours, though he persists in keeping his knees up as far as he can. There have been worse injuries in his past but this was supposed to be an easy job.

The sudden boom - another thrice-damned hellsent explosion - and what sounds like a shattering of godly proportions, answers his thoughts with thundering irony, shaking him off balance. He staggers, but still stays upright. One hand goes up to swipe more blood from his face while, groaning and swearing, he tries to see ahead.

By the gods–

Hourlinet has never seen the like. There in the distance, the sun has risen high enough to show all the world what has happened: a huge portion of the cliff near the bridge has fallen dangerously away. Echoes of great amounts of earth and rocks crashing into ice and water are still resounding through the air. The last few sprays of soil and debris keep falling as if there were no end. Crucially, he can feel the edges of a great and powerful heat, emanating in all directions.

Then here, right before his nose, the end of a scabbard being held by the idiot noble from last night. He's standing in front of Rewelle, lying unconscious on the ground.

Hourlinet's eyes widen in shock, staring back at the glare of unnatural emerald. His thoughts slam into place - they’d been bloody well tricked. Isillud's question goes unheard as a more important idea takes hold: what else could explain such disastrous firepower in this place?

“You called them here! You damn well called the bloody Horde down on us, you heretic!” Hourlinet's outrage at being outmanoeuvred drives him to snatch the blade strapped to his thigh. “Just for the sake of that wench!”

Normally the word would have Isillud seize up, the fear of fates worse than death pinning his bones to the ground till he struggles for breath.

Now fury burns his lungs.

One swing of the scabbard swats Hourlinet's hand away, knocking the blade into the snow. "The wench has family and friends and likes and dislikes! She has brains and sense and courage unlike you and your shitestain of a so-called lord!"

The second swing clocks him in the jaw, slamming into his stomach and making sure the man stays down. "And you dare to put her beneath you, damned cretin! Did nothing I say yesterday register in your thick skull?!"

The blade sings when Isillud unsheathes it, hovering dangerously close to Hourlinet's jugular, "I'll not repeat myself, Hourlinet: will you quietly leave Ishgard of your own accord, or shall I help you with it?"

Winded, pained and now horrified that this twig of an Elezen does in fact have the ability to wield the long foreign sword in his hand, Hourlinet’s mind supplies the following equations: resist any further, and having his throat slit may even be the soft option. The hard option is getting sawed into pieces by inescapable draconic fangs (apparently some of the rumours, and a small amount of Ajax’s blabbering had been true). Do as the madman says, escape, get on that ship to Thavnair which had been originally meant for the girl, and he might survive long enough to bring back the claim of heresy against the Losstarots. Ajax would probably still pay good money for this little tidbit, at least, once the blithering idiot got done with the inevitable temper tantrum over losing Rewelle.

How exactly all that might be accomplished will have to be left to the future. Right now, Hourlinet’s concern is survival. Either Padiloux brother would have ripped out a second or third or even fourth knife if they were here, but Hourlinet had been in charge of talking for a reason.

Besides, they aren’t here right now, and in his gut, Hourlinet knows they’re never going to provide their protection or backup ever again. All the more reason to leave as quickly as he can, while he still can. The Gaussain brat would just have to find someone else to shove around.

These mental calculations are completed in a matter of seconds. “I yield,” he wheezes. “Swear it: you’ll not see my face here again.”

The grey Elezen extends a gloved hand to Hourlinet; if he thinks Isillud is going to help him up he's sorely mistaken. "Your earring. You'll have no use for it once Ajax de Gaussain is informed of your incompetence." Even when he's threatening to lop an ear off his fingers look they're beckoning him over.

In spite of everything, including that blasted finger that utterly mocks him in its temptations, Hourlinet is sorely tempted to spit a choice swear at the nobleman. However, for once, he keeps his thoughts to himself. There’ll be other ways for him to get aboard the ship - word won’t reach his soon-to-be-previous-employer in time for him to be barred.

Hand shaking, he grabs the clasp from his ear and spitefully flings it at Isillud’s feet instead.

Isillud steps on the clasp, throwing a pouch at Hourlinet’s stomach. Inside is a one-way airship ticket to Radz-at-han with 500 gil - enough for a snack during the trip.

"Never let it be said House Losstarot isn't gracious." The blade inches away from his neck yet remains close enough to strike should he get any funny ideas. "Now go before I change my mind," Isillud snarls.

~*~

"So we both agree dragonfire caused the thing?"

"Yes."

"Nidhogg's brood seeking revenge, blah blah blah, and all that."

"Yes."

"And we absolutely weren't doing distance versus potency testing, just gauging ambient aether for science."

"Yes, that's right."

"And you'll help me convince Aymeric it's safe to let me enter Ishgard?"

Joshua pinches the bridge of his nose, "I'll try, no guarantees but it should be doable."

"Cool, cool, cool. Glad we could come to an agreement. Better pack these up so nobody suspects anything." He packs his nouliths and apparatuses back into the padded case he brought along. "Thank you for your help."

"Gods, I can't imagine how Izzy could bring himself to sleep with you."

Escher nearly slams the suitcase on his fingers. "What?! No, no! We never slept together. Who the hells told you that?!"

Joshua is doubtful. He crosses his arms, "How did you meet then?"

"I paid him to pay someone for me."

"He said he met you at a pleasure house."

Escher is doubtful. "I think I would remember if I banged someone like him."

"Hard to say. You're quite the madman."

Escher gives the younger elezen two finger-guns. "You got that right."

A cold wind blows between the thick silence around them.

"...That wasn't a compliment, was it."

"No."

~*~

Back in Ishgard, within Aubemarle manor, the door to the Dowager Viscountess’ drawing room opens. The mid-morning sun streams in through a window, falling on the Dowager and Nisette sitting nearby.

“Milady,” says Marceaux, with an actual tremor in his words. “There are reports of major dragonfire at Black Iron Bridge. I was just told the Temple Knights are on their way to investigate.”

The Dowager, who had instantly looked up at the sound of her butler’s voice, frowns. “Dragons? There hasn’t been any sort of attack for months–” Then she sees how the colour has drained from Nisette’s face and the worry in Marceaux’s eyes.

She has been very careful not to see all that goes on in her house ever since her request of the Losstarots. It isn't lying if she has no idea of what's going on. Besides, it's already enough to fib about getting their distant relatives involved - something the Viscount would never have agreed with. Considering how she’s due home this very evening, it's vital the Dowager keep up any kind of purposeful ignorance she can.

In this instant though, she can't help knowing just who the butler and lady’s maid would be concerned about.

Her eyes narrow. “They're there then. All three of them.”

Marceaux and Nisette both nod, silently pleading with their mistress for… something. Anything.

She thinks a moment, then speaks. “Send Cillien to the Nest; give him supplies and our crest for good measure. Make haste, but be cautious. Tell him to send word on the situation as soon as possible.”

Marceaux bows and almost runs out of the room. His training is the only thing that makes him shut the door quietly before he sprints for the stables.

~*~

The thundering of Escher's handiwork is beginning to fade, replaced by the unmistakable sound of fast marching across the snow. It's coming from the direction of Ishgard, which means the Holy See is going to get involved in just a few minutes. There are shouts coming from the Bridge as well; people are coming from Falcon's Nest to see what's going on, since the explosions seem to have stopped.

Isillud, carrying Rewelle's body gingerly, has been watching a figure get progressively smaller in the distance. Hourlinet's knife and earring are already safely pocketed in his coat.

He draws in a deep, tired, icy breath. The day has only just begun.

~*~

Joshua slips out of the highlands with Escher (in a hood) in the midst of the chaos of both garrison and Temple Knights both rushing to the location. The Convictory will soon join the fray eager to earn their title, for surely only a large dragon or a horde enough for everyone can only inflict damage of such magnitude. He dares not inform anyone of his brother's impending arrival - not even the innkeep for if anyone knew they’d seen it, they would be questioned.

When Isillud carries Rewelle in, there are no soldiers to question them - they have all gone to Black Iron Bridge. He keeps the story short: She paid him to escort her to her cousin's house when they are beset by an explosion, and another. The staff nod sympathetically; who hasn't lost kin to the horde? They take her away to be cleaned and treated, leaving him in another room.

It is only when the body knows there is respite that Isillud crumples. His ears ring from the explosion. His eyes water from the debris. He coughs like an old man from the dust choking his lungs as his vision darkens, curling into a fetal position, a spiral of limbs and torso, until sleep claims him.

To be continued

#ffxiv rp #ffxiv oc #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #escher strange #rewelle laubaut #hourlinet #padiloux brothers #philomene de aubemarle #every time escher shows up I cheer #then he does something and I remember why he's on the run #this part is also known as 'hourlinet's terrible horrible no good very bad day'

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housedeaubemarle · 10 months ago

Text

A House Call: Epilogue du Oudine

Follows after the events of 'A House Call'.

~*~

On the same day that two servants of House Aubemarle delivered their employer’s messages in the morning, two highborn Ishgardians sit down to afternoon tea in the Viscount’s personal study. The Dowager is having her afternoon repose, so there is no danger of being interrupted.

Which is why there is no hesitancy in one of them speaking in a rather disbelieving tone, “Let me see if I have this right. As penance for this social transgression, you dropped right into their laps: invitations to events where you undoubtedly will introduce them personally to your inner circles, access to two extremely popular entertainment venues to increase their chances of being noticed and spoken to, new custom designs by one of our foremost fashion houses and free, efficient transportation. And you even included treats.”

Oudine breathes in the sweet fragrance of her mulled tea, tinged with spices she couldn’t name. Ishgardian tea was all well and good, but the stronger taste of Ul’dah’s beverage is a better comfort in times of consternation.

“Yes. Though Etoile is already acquainted with them by happenstance, and I'm not entirely sure what such experienced traders and travellers who’ve seen the ravages of a Garlean occupation would need with mere Chocobos, so perhaps those don't count.”

“Oudine de Aubemarle, you’ve basically handed them the key to the city.”

“Don't exaggerate, Vliaisse; House Losstarot is still related to all four High Houses of Ishgard. This is just-”

“Just? What is ‘just’ about these favours they have received? This isn't even counting how often and how much you've mentioned ‘my lords Joshua and Isillud Losstarot’ in such glowing terms as to directly contradict the rumours of their false claims to the title. I was right there when you told Lord Hugenot himself you had had the pleasure of their visit, hoping to further their acquaintance, a fresh addition to the usual faces in Ishgard etcetera etcetera!”

Oudine has to smile. “Your memory is truly a marvel, my dear.”

“For Fury’s sake, debutantes would have sold a kidney for a box at the theatre, their soul for the invitation to the Maintigny ball - I hear that Valentione and Lanencourt are already answered for. There're rumours speculating which of the Fortemps themselves will be there - not just if they'll go, look you. Then there's your mother's concert. Your aunt de Hellyes always attends with Lord Domin himself, and let me guess: your aunt Vaillant and her progeny have said they will come.” When Oudine nods, Vliaisse throws up one hand in exasperation. “That puts everything in place then, from Aubemarle to Vaillant to Durendaire if they know what they're about. And from what you've told me, at least one of them knows how to do this little highborn cotillion of ours. They'll go from heretical outcasts to belles of the ball in a month!”

“I doubt a month will be enough.”

“Three months then, after the child lord attains majority,” says Vliaisse dismissively. “Are they cognisant of the honours given them? Have you considered what will happen if your efforts are for nothing? If they squander all the apologies you thought necessary?”

Oudine sighs. “I have. It still ought to have been done, even if they give me the cut direct in future.”

Vliaisse raises an eyebrow. “Good gods, darling, you didn't murder the man in your home. Was it really so bad as that? Your mother, respectfully, is famous for her uncongeniality. If they are as highborn as they claim, and have intention to make headway in your circles, they ought to have been more prepared. You just said the Losstarots are kin to all the High Houses - why then begin with Aubemarle?”

Oudine doesn’t answer, merely looking coolly at her friend. A pair of sharp eyes, blue as the waters of the Rhotano Sea, return a steady gaze.

She breathes out, setting her cup down. “I can only suppose they heard of the Viscount de Aubemarle’s naivete.”

Vliaisse tsks disapprovingly. “Come now, self-pity is not the thing. You are a grown woman of twenty seven, not a child.”

“If you persist in cutting up my good offices and casting shadows over the pieces, then I shall indulge in as much sulking as I like.”

The other Elezen frowns a little more at her before relenting. “Very well. Still, let us have the full account. I’ll not make a peep till you are done.” Her hand reaches across to pat Oudine’s soothingly.

Mollified, the Viscount narrates the short but eventful morning call that day, her mother’s testing of the new head of House Losstarot, the mystifying perspicaciousness of Lord Isillud and the unintentioned offence which had been committed.

Vliaisse does as she promised, listening patiently and keenly. For Oudine’s sake, she holds back a laugh at the part about the eclair, then frowns towards the ending.

“So, Vliaisse? Did the error merit such apologies?”

The darker skinned woman shakes her head slowly. “Well… if I were in your shoes, an invitation to the concert and Mr Ofanleitasyn's pastries would honestly have answered. But,” she says quickly when Oudine looks distressed. “We all know of your usual generosity in normal circumstances. Now that you are the one who has erred, I understand better.”

There is a short pause before Vliaisse continues, carefully. “You must realise that in the grand, crude, scheme of things, they have won. If they don’t act accordingly…” it will be the fault of House Aubemarle for pushing their reintroduction.

Oudine twists her lips in a grimace. “Yes, if one must put it that way. But I would rather be a gracious loser.” The memory of Joshua's eager curiosity and Isillud's soothing reassurance cannot but surface.

“I want to believe in them, Vliaisse. When men return from the dead, I would rather not bury them back in the earth. Besides, sins of the father should not be inherited by the sons.”

Vliaisse notes the faraway look in Oudine's eyes. She and Remont had always been close, and closer still after their father's death; to have her brother necessarily faraway created a space within Oudine that no one else really filled. And for one who exerted herself so much in public, those she could be at ease with behind closed doors were fewer than Vliaisse thought was healthy.

She sighs. “I suppose the hammer that accidentally strikes fingers instead of the nail still produces bruises, in spite of its intentions. And for someone as composed as Lord Isillud, it must have been a particularly large one.”

“Yes. And if I think of someone bruising me in relation to my own mother…” Oudine makes a low dissatisfied grunt.

“...the Dowager does not deserve you.”

Oudine has to smile at that familiar phrase. “Don’t be too hard on her. More than half of those apologies were through her sole arrangements.”

“What, even Cant and Candour?”

“Even that. She promised her patronage for one future production in exchange. Not,” she lifts her hand to forestall Vliaisse's next comment. “Aubemarle money. Her own.”

Vliaisse closes her mouth. “Hmm.” There’s a moment’s pause, then she leans in, whispering theatrically, “I don’t suppose she’s lost a marble or two?”

“Vliaisse!” but Oudine is laughing now, and at least the air is some degrees lighter. They resume sipping their teas in a comfortable quiet.

Vliaisse stirs her cup contemplatively. “Still, at the end of the day, one has to wonder why such a story set him off. I see no harm in learning what one’s mother was like before one’s birth.”

Oudine shakes her head. “I meant what I said in my letter: sacred ground. ‘Tis not for you nor I nor Mamma to touch.” She takes a swig of her warm tea, pauses and says, “Mamma said Lord Isillud needs more armour if he is to stay here. I wonder if he has not already too much armour in some other way - the kind that makes his eyes glow so… preternaturally green.”

“...Oudine, you’re related.”

The Viscount instantly swats her friend’s hand. “I was not going in that direction, and you know it. Ridiculous to even suggest it.”

“Yes, since you don’t specialise in eclairs-”

“Vliaisse Vilauclaire!”

Vliaisse giggles. “Whatever Lord Isillud de Losstarot is or is not, he had best be ready. Even without your involvement, his appearance alone has stirred up the hornet's nest, as has Lord Joshua’s youth, to say nothing of the unspeakable reason they vanished from Ishgard five years ago. The gossips will have much material to work with in the coming months. To think I only anticipated explosions from the Fiouront affair. What, have you not heard the latest? Seems the heir has…”

Oudine props her cheek up with one hand, letting her friend draw her into the familiar but ever-roiling rhythm of other highborn scandals. Her own brush with it has taught her she has more stomach for being a spectator.

I have done my part, Losstarots, and so has Mamma. It shall not be the fault of Aubemarle if you do not regain your footing.

End.

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #ffxiv oc lore #oudine de aubemarle #vliaisse vilauclaire #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #the Losstarot brothers my beloveds

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housedeaubemarle · 9 months ago

Text

By Way of an Apology: Part 3

A follow up to The Grand Hunt - the Losstarot lords and the Aubemarle twins go on a picnic.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

(Written with @escherstrange-ffxiv - a delight and a gem all around, don't listen to her refuting it)

~*~

The cook of the Bobbing Cork looks at her employer in utter indignation. Behind her, some assistants scurry back and forth, letting their leader deal with things.

“Can't ye see we've got any amount of visitors here today? This entire kitchen's near to bursting with orders and ye want me t'do summat special, just because some highbrow-seeming visitors decided they're stayin, oh and by the way, here's a dozen fish to cook in twelve different ways?”

The innkeeper flaps his hands in an attempt at placating her. “Now, Cook, it's not a dozen is it? Merely seven mid-sized ‘uns! And they ain't fussy, they said - just one in a lemon and garlic sauce, and another steamed with ginger! The rest they leave to your hands, and they'll pay extra! Weren't ye just sayin’, t'would be nice to have a little more variety in your repert-”

“Steamed! Does this ancient ruin of a kitchen look like Yanxia to ye! What's next, Limsa-style coconut puddin?!”

“Well now that you mention it-”

“Raffe, I swear upon the Twelve, ye march right back out there and tell them hoity toity Ishgardians since only them frozen folks put on these sorts of airs–”

“Couldn't agree with you more, madame,” comes a new voice from the entrance of the kitchen.

Both innkeep and cook spin round to face two very tall Elezens who've come to see what the delay of their rather early dinner is about - one ridiculously beautiful fellow with grey skin on the left looks politely concerned, while a less beautiful but certainly handsome one on the right sports a white grin. It's like seeing a Prince of Winter and a Lord of Autumn standing side by side.

“We Ishgardians are wholly unsupportable, it's quite true,” continues the brown-haired visitor smoothly. “I must offer my apologies - it seems we've quite put you out with our requests.”

Raffe is sputtering rapid denials, but the cook has gamely recovered her spirit after 20 seconds of staring at the double whammy of physical beauty in front of her.

“If ye knew it'd put us out, then don't be making such a fuss and just order off the board, why don't ye?”

Isillud looks at Remont with a face that silently asks him to reconsider the orders, or come to a compromise. "Steaming does take a while from my experience, and there are only four of us. Perhaps leave the intricate recipes to Olanfeitasyn instead?

He turns to the cook, "Fish doesn't sit well with me so you would only need to cook for three, in a style suited to your convenience, what say you?"

Remont holds back a laugh, watching the cook falter in the face of Isillud's eyes and the silk-hemmed-with-sharp-glass tone he's taken. He puts a hand on his cousin's back, just over the shoulder blade, winks at him, then looks back at her.

“My cousin is quite right: the steaming is a bit much, now that I think on it. It's my sister's first time here, you see, and I let my enthusiasm run away with me. I wanted to show her all the fine facilities your inn has always afforded me, including the cuisine. I've always said the Bobbing Cork ought to advertise its meals as much as it does its soft beds.”

He has absolutely no compunction about taking the cook's hand and bowing over it. “Forgive my lack of consideration, madame. I hope my cousin's suggestion would be more agreeable than my foolishness.”

The cook blinks up at this young man, full of graceful contriteness, and then at the other young man, holding himself with proper dignity. “W-well,” she clears her throat. “If ye'd just said that from the first, there'd have been less trouble.”

“Right then,” says Raffe quickly, catching a distinct glint in a pair of green eyes and desperate to see this happy conclusion materialise. “Please, let me see you back to your table, gentlemen, and allow me to present you with our best beers, on the house of course.”

As he begins to dutifully escort Isillud out of the kitchen, Remont lingers behind, having a short, low-voiced conversation with the cook, now rather much calmer. Still, he manages to catch up with Isillud well before they reach the table where the others sit waiting.

“Bow and arrows and katanas don't seem to be your only weapon of choice,” he murmurs.

"That my mouth is a lethal weapon should come as no surprise to you, dear cousin; you have firsthand experience." Isillud's hands sink into the pockets of his breeches, smiling triumphantly as he approaches the table. "No steamed fish, but we'll have a fish dinner nonetheless."

"Who convinced the cook first, you or him?" Joshua asks.

"Remont's ability to tame chocobos extends to grumpy cooks too."

At that comment, Oudine looks at her brother with some suspicion as he takes up a seat beside her. “What happened? Why are you so red?”

“Ghastly heat in the kitchen,” he says simply, high colour staining his cheeks. “Little wonder she wasn’t in a mood to humour ‘hoity toity Ishgardians’.”

Her brow wrinkles. “Oh dear. We offended?”

Remont chuckles. “Mightily. Only to be expected really. Still, Izzy took point, and we gained ground in the end, so all’s well. Oh good, the beers.”

Four pints of cool amber beers arrive, along with a surprise appetiser – carrot nibbles – borne by Raffe himself. He beams particularly at Oudine. “So good of you to patronise our establishment, miss. I hope you enjoy your time here at the Bobbing Cork.”

She immediately smiles with just the right amount of agreeable politeness. “That’s most kind of you. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

He bows and hurries away, leaving Oudine to look at Remont and Isillud in confusion. “What in the Fury’s name did you both do in there?”

"Nothing," Isillud's answer is simple, shoving a carrot nibble into his mouth followed by a swig. "We apologised and compromised and came to an agreement just as good businessmen do. Didn't we, cousin?" And just as effortlessly he throws the ball into Remont's side of the court.

“Businessmen or desperate noblemen,” is Remont's quip after he swallows a gulp of very decent beer, all things considered.

“Then why did the innkeeper single me out?”

“He likes your face perhaps.” Oudine's entire aura of scepticism makes Remont pat her on the head. “You're on a holiday, Dine - let it go.”

She swats his hand away familiarly. “Fine, but I'm not helping you if the cook comes out with a cleaver.”

“That is most certainly not going to happen,” he says primly.

Joshua's eye twitches at the pint; he takes a sip followed by a soft groan, waving down a waiter for a glass of juice, any juice. "I'll never understand how people enjoy the taste."

Amused, Remont asks, “How have you managed all the balls and parties so far? Highborn blood is essentially a mix of ale, wine and champagne.”

"Sips. As long as they see my lips touching the glass, most are satisfied." Joshua drinks as soon as the juice hits the table. "It's rare to find a drink I enjoy, it all tastes mostly awful." Isillud cocks an eyebrow at his brother's lament, wondering to himself if perhaps something is wrong with Joshua's taste buds.

The aroma of spices and fish fill the air as their dishes are brought out: First is a bowl of popoto salad, followed by three plates of fried fish with lemon and garlic sauce generously slathered over the plate. Another plate of vegetables lands at Isillud's side of the table. Satisfied that the main dishes have arrived, he brandishes his fork. "Bon appetit."

If Oudine has been raised in a household with a Roegadyn chef who insists on at least two types of sauces or gravies if there will only be one kind of meat on the table, she doesn’t show a single sign of expecting it at the Bobbing Cork.

Her eyes light up at the appearance of all the food, and the waft of garlic hits her senses with delight. Not for her some of her peers’ upturned noses at the herb. When she looks up at Remont, he grins.

“Knew you'd like it.”

Oudine laughs. “I take everything back - well done, you two. Bon appetit!”

They have barely begun to tuck in, when three more orders arrive. A platter of Blood Tomato salad, dollops of its dark vinegar covering the fresh vegetables, is set on the table. Swiftly following is a dish of sauteed chanterelles, its buttery scent rising to tempt noses and appetites.

Finally, a tureen of warm soup is placed carefully in the centre, with an accompanying ladle and extra bowls. Sliced and cubed vegetables bob amongst chunks of white meat in the aromatic broth – more fish it seems.

“I hope you don't mind,” says Remont, reaching for a spare bowl, “that I bartered the rest of our haul for these. Though I did beg for Wil's catch to be used in the soup. Where is he by the way? I haven't seen him since we came in.”

The boys' jaws drop at the amount of food trotted out before them. Perhaps 5 years is too long even for them to get used to the amount after careful and simple portions; Remont's consideration for Isillud's dietary needs give the slender Elezen an appetite he never thought existed until now.

Though he nearly drops his fork when he hears about the soup. "You took Wil's catch-"

A tall Elezen storms into the inn, clad in a strange black top decorated with a long feather side skirt and dark pants. Dark heavy boots clomp on the wooden floorboard with each step, tousled brown hair with white highlights hiding the annoyance on his face. "He STOLE my FISH I- Izzy!" His face lights up, skipping over and glomping the startled grey man.

Joshua stares pointedly at the pair, back to their cousins, then back to his brother, silently prompting him to say something. Luminous green eyes dart around the table before he starts.

"...I think we can afford to feed one more mouth."

This dramatic entrance manages to take even Remont by surprise, though he catches the (thankfully) empty bowl that fell out of his hands in time before it hits the floor. His mind immediately grabs hold of the stranger's words before the man had enveloped Isillud. Stole his fish? Who did? Who’s he? What fish?

Oudine stares at the outburst of affection before her, a forkful of fried carp hovering halfway to her mouth. Yet the shock is quickly overcome since there is a more pressing need to be hospitable to someone who is clearly Isillud's friend. Not to mention she can feel the pressure of curious eyes and ears surrounding them; calm must be restored as soon as possible.

She puts down her fork, and smiles. “By all means, we have more than enough to go around. Please join us, sir. Would you care for a beer, or something else?”

"Really? Oh you're too, too kind. A beer would be nice but I really want- my fish! Oh thank you love, how did you know?" Isillud ladles a heaping bowl of fish soup with as many chunks of fish meat and immediately passes it to Wil to shut him up. On his part, Wil seems to be content with only the soup, cheerfully passing everything else over to Isillud. "You need to gain some weight, Izzy, or Oudine will start worrying", he tuts.

Joshua's eyes grow wide as saucers, almost throwing his spoon at Wil. Thankfully Isillud catches on and immediately cuts in, "I told him about us, and you."

"Oh, yes, yes! Izzy's told me so much! Hi, I'm Wil," he waves across the table.

My fish. Love. Oudine. Wil.

The words all flash in Remont's mind in quick succession, one after another. The conclusion made is impossible, and yet it is insistent.

Rare are the times that Remont de Aubemarle doesn’t have at least an adequate response to a situation wholly unexpected. Whether in the ballrooms of Ishgard or the forests of Tailfeather, he relies on the grace of tongue or body to rescue him, a grace that seldom fails.

Seldom. Not never.

He only just manages to keep from blurting out what isn’t supposed to be noticed. In some desperation, his eyes go sideways to his sister. She looks surprised, but still smiles as she picks up her fork again.

“Master Wil, it’s nice to meet you. Do you live around these parts? Or are you too situated in Ishgard?” She glances calmly at Remont. “Will you call for another beer, Rem?”

Polite inquiry. Civil discourse. Surprises and shocks later. The Viscount is holding a meeting.

Decision made, Remont hails a waiter, asks for another pint, then sits back with his own to let Oudine work.

Compared to the Losstarots, Wil has enough exuberance for all three of them. His hands flail and sway in time with his words, fully in the moment. He nods at the right times when Oudine or Remont speak, hanging onto their words like gospel, laughing at their jokes. At times he seems to have the dignity of a statesman holding court with diplomats with his hands clasped in front of him: in between he exhibits childlike curiosity at food, using his cutlery to pick and eat tiny bites. Almost birdlike, some would say.

"Neither, I'm from a small country far from Eorzea - don't look for it, it's long gone. Izzy saved my life so I simply go where he goes. Yes, our paths do cross often, funny how fate works, doesn't it? You'd think the Twelve have a hand in it. What about you? Izzy tells me you're a Viscount, is that a job description?"

Remont has been genuinely holding up his portion of the very genial conversation very admirably, right up to the point Wil asks of the viscountcy. It is a question posed with, to him, a little too light a touch. He maintains a smile, but drinks his beer to swallow down the sudden, unexpected sting with the liquor.

Naught but a curious question from a foreign stranger. We're not in Ishgard. Don't impose your thoughts onto someone else. Father would have laughed. You know he would have.

In the next moment, as if to reassure him, Oudine laughs good-naturedly. Her amusement helps ease the tension in his jaw.

“In a manner of speaking. An ancestor of ours was once of House Dzemael, and was bestowed the title. We are far removed now, of course. We pledge no specific fealty to them but in the common manner all the lesser houses follow the lead of Ishgard's High Houses, to say nothing of the House of Lords and House of Commons.”

"Uh huh, uh huh," Wil nods, clearly looking like he doesn't have a clue about how Ishgardian nobility works.

She picks up a wedge of tomato from her plate. “But all that seems quite mundane now that I've heard Izzy saved your life. May I ask how that happened?”

He perks up when asked about the story he loves telling. "I was working for a Garlean officer - real nasty fellow - when Izzy saved me from him with the power of love!" He poses dramatically at the table. Isillud meanwhile takes great pains to avoid eye contact, eyes only on his food.

"And he is such a smart man, when he found out who I worked for he lured me with his charms and threatened to send my head back to my boss if I didn't betray him and follow his orders!" He drapes his arm around Isillud's shoulder, cheek against cheek. "You should tell them the story Izzy, it's so much more interesting when you tell it!"

"I rather not," Isillud mumbles, trying to hide words in between bites.

"Oh? Okay, but I think Remont would appreciate the time you fu-mph!"

"Perhaps in less polite company," Isillud quickly cuts in, shoving a spoonful of fish soup into his mouth. "If you keep talking you may lose your fish~" he sings. With that the man is mollified, happily chewing and swallowing his meal.

Joshua decides it is a good time to drink his beer, awful it may be. "I did not know any of that."

Oudine rests her chin on one hand, observing the way Isillud hasn't met their eyes since Wil took his seat at the table. The smile on her face widens just a little when she hears Joshua's comment, and when he actually touches his previously pristine pint.

“Storytelling perhaps is not his strongest suit, though I doubt Master Wil minds. I'm very glad to meet someone who cares so much about him, sir, and whom he cares for very much in turn. We have grown quite attached to both our cousins, you see, so to see them happy cannot be but gratifying.”

Suddenly, she tilts her head in a considering way. “Oh! Then your crow must be named after this Wil. What a very sweet gesture, Izzy.”

Remont takes refuge in eating more fried fish, trying not to let humour overtake him.

She continues with all amiability. “Can you imagine Izzy's very clever crow even caught the fish that's in this soup? We were all most impressed.”

Wil puffs his chest out at what he perceives to be compliments from Oudine. "Izzy's crow is very, very clever indeed! Why I daresay it could be as clever as me, I was particularly proud of the time I swooped into the water and reaching out just at the right time…"

Sting now dissolved, it is impossible for Remont not to grin after this entire speech, and the way it has been given. He also hears that last addition, but lets it pass. It's still a pleasant evening after all.

The teasing lilt is evident in his voice. “Intelligent, charming and brave – Izzy, is there nothing you can’t do?”

"Women."

Joshua answers Remont so matter-of-factly Isillud chokes on his food. Wil pats his back, immediately offering his beer to his lover with soft comforting words. "There, there, Izzy, slow and deep breaths."

Joshua's single-worded answer doesn’t just affect Isillud. Their taller Aubemarle cousin has the odd feeling he might actually die from internal haemorrhaging since his gut isn't being allowed to release the amount of hilarity that's attacked him. The roaring laughter that would ensue is most certain to draw far more attention than their black-clad, energetic visitor.

To save himself, Remont claps Oudine once on the shoulder in either apology, thanks or both, struggles to mumble something about Ishgard, and bolts from the table. Oudine spares him a glance just to see him run out of the inn, while some of the other tables stare at his exit.

Isillud glares at Joshua from behind the hair fallen over his face, silently saying, "If he outs us you're in just as much trouble too," which prompts Joshua to clear his throat. "A-are we all done with dinner, we mustn't keep dessert waiting!"

Wil is excited. "There's dessert?!"

Oudine beams at the others above the half eaten platters and dishes of their meal. At least the tureen of soup has been done enough justice, since only about a quarter is left.

“Rem is quite right - we nearly forgot to send word to our mother of us staying overnight. Dessert would be marvellous, Joshua. What are we having?”

"Uh, for dessert we have uh…" Joshua looks around frantically, which catches the attention of an observant waitress. This miqo'te tilts her head, content to gaze at the attractive Elezens at the table. "Cook has apple pies fresh from the oven just this evening if that's to your liking, and you will like it." The cheeky smile she gives feels like a guarantee though he looks around the table for agreement.

Wil nods eagerly while Isillud buries his head in his hands, wondering about the many ways Remont will have a field day with tonight.

“Fresh apple pie sounds delightful,” says Oudine, nodding smilingly. “Just four slices, if you please. I'll nibble from Rem's plate - I don't think I could finish an entire slice myself after the feast we've just had.”

The sight of how deeply Isillud's face has gone into his hands gets past the outer shell of Viscount Aubemarle to the centre where Oudine is; there's a wave of sympathy – perhaps she's gone a little too far. She isn't sure what she could say to help at this point however. She tries anyway.

“Ton amant est très engageant, Izzy. Je suis content qu'il t'ait trouvé, toi et nous,” says Oudine, and hopes her Old Elezen may at least convey her genuine intentions. Puzzled as she is by Wil’s patter in contrast to his demeanour, at least one thing cannot be mistaken: he adores Isillud absolutely (and more demonstratively than the nobles of Ishgard in public). For that, most eccentricities can be forgiven.

Oudine gets Isillud out of his embarrassment and dread. It relieves him that they have not written him off as eccentric or an embarrassment when common nobles would have done so. For that he comes out of hiding and lets Wil drape himself all over him as much as he wants.

"Merci."

How long has it been since he spoke Old Elezen? He surprises himself with the words he has not used for five years. He remembers the first time he struggled with Common at Revenant's Toll while adventurers patiently taught and refined his vocabulary. His whole life has been defined by the kindness of the friends he makes; to know Oudine is worming her way into that list warms him.

"What did you say Izzy? That sounds so romantic! Say it again!" Wil prompts, bumping heads with him like an eager affectionate pet.

The waitress brings out four slices of apple pie, each with a generous scoop of ice cream.

~*~

Some time later, after Remont has laughed so hysterically he frightened several visitors who've been taking an evening stroll near the lake, paid handsomely for an express message to be taken to the Aubemarle manor in Ishgard and seen to it that the gazebo is made ready for after-dinner entertainment, he walks back into the slightly more crowded Bobbing Cork. Unsurprising since it’s after dusk when most begin seeking food and board.

There's amusement and some relief to see the party he'd so abruptly left still sitting, eating and for all intents and purposes, having a good time. Wil is still as animated, but Isillud appears more content and Joshua less tense. Oudine seems to also have relaxed her guard.

“Apologies for leaving so suddenly - Mamma would have sharp words for her inconsiderate children if we didn't at least try to inform her of our intentions.” He pauses, looking at his plate, then raises an eyebrow at his sister. “Dine, is there a reason I have more apple pie than ala mode?”

Oudine finishes the last of her beer. “I was too full for my own, but we were told we would like the cook's apple pie.”

“So I repeat my question: what happened to my ice cream?”

Oudine smiles with perfect innocence. “It was lovely.”

Remont shakes his head. “Lutin,” he says without any heat, picking up his fork. “I took the liberty of preparing the gazebo. We only have to pick up our orchestrion – Izzy you will also dance at some point – and be on our way when we're ready.” He smiles at Wil. “We'd be glad to have you join us, Master Wil.”

Wil has started a self challenge to see how many apple cubes he can stuff into his mouth when he perks up at the mention of dancing. "Mmph? Danf? We ge' ta' dansh?"

Isillud stops mid-spoon. "Me? Why?"

Joshua eats a spoonful of apple pie a la slush. "Just do it, Izzy. It's training."

"I don't need to dance, you do."

"I'll figure it out when I get there."

"Then you won't mind if we figure it out together, hmm?" Isillud smiles the smile of one getting one over brother dearest while the dear brother narrows his eyes at him, unable to speak out when the crow is in earshot.

"Fine."

~*~

Dessert soon finished and the various leftovers packed neatly (“if these dishes return to the kitchen as they are, we’ll never be allowed back here, even if Ser Aymeric himself begs on hands and knees,” says Remont decisively. “We’ll figure out what to do later.”), they vacate the inn, and head back out into the cooler night air of the North Shroud. The weather has held very well, and Fallgourd Float is as beautiful at night as it is in the day.

Oudine takes a moment to admire how prettily the Bobbing Cork stands – like a large warm lamp – in the middle of the dark forestry, before she turns round to see the gazebo.

“Oh Rem, that’s beautiful!”

Remont, his arms occupied by the table orchestrion, raises his eyebrows. “Well, well.”

Small spherical lanterns, glowing softly yellow like little full moons, dangle from the pillars. Smaller lights - the sparkly white stars to the lanterns’ moons - are scattered between them. A few plump cushions have even appeared on the floor, atop a thin rug. Holding the rug down are two standing iron lanterns so there’s more than enough light to see by. There’s plenty of space for dancing to the side, as he’d asked.

"That's so pretty! It reminds me when the presidential palace was decorated for special occasions with lanterns like that! No rugs because nobody sat on the floor for formal events but…" Wil prattles on about places and events foreign to everyone but himself though Isillud listens and nods along.

The two Hyur adventurers Remont had hailed for a favour while he’d been out earlier wave at him as they all approach. “Did as you asked, mister! What’d you think?”

He admires their handiwork accordingly. “Miss, sir, you’ve outdone yourselves. My thanks for your excellent work,” he says as he gives them a small pouch full of gil. Thinking quickly, he adds, “Here, a bonus”, and gestures for Joshua to hand over the food to them.

Joshua hands over the food, he has half a mind to ask them if they have seen Zeir (adventurers smart enough to stay safe and alive on this side of the Shroud probably deserve credit, he thinks) but decides not to.

The pair of adventurers look surprised to receive the boxes, but are politely grateful and go on their way, leaving the others to occupy the gazebo.

Remont sets the orchestrion down on the rug, while Oudine places her rolls beside it. Then she looks up at her cousin with an eager smile. “Before we all get distracted, Izzy, will you favour us first with your violin? Any of your favourites would do.”

Joshua sits on the rug cross-legged, taking a cushion to hug for now. The latches on Isillud's violin case snap open: a mahogany brown violin lies amidst padding. The surface has a baby chocobo painted on it. Isillud removes a pair of silk gloves packed inside - thinner than his current pair of leather gloves, but sufficient protection for him - and sits down to tune the instrument.

"What if I accompany something on the orchestrion?" he suggests.

Remembering his words in the boat this afternoon, she doesn't insist on a solo. Oudine looks through the few rolls she brought from home, touching each as if she's trying to remember the melodies.

She smiles at the last one, and picks it up to place it in the orchestrion.

“I hope you don't mind me being rather clichéd, even though you've both been kind enough to take us to the North Shroud.”

The orchestrion clicks and whirrs. A pause, then the first slow, stirring notes of ‘Against the Wind’ begin to rise into the night.

Soft strings fill the night air; Isillud readies the violin, replacing the tune's violin with his own. His fingers search for the notes but he keeps up. Music fills the night around Fallgourd Float, everyone relaxing and easing into their chosen spot in the gazebo.

Except Wil.

"This…isn't exactly dance music, is it?"

Joshua has his eyes closed when he answers. "No, but I don't mind."

"This won't do," Wil clicks his tongue and looks at the rolls. "'Scuse me Viscount don't mind me just looking for some livelier music before we all fall asleep." His face brightens as he unfurls a roll, scanning over the notes as the score plays out in his head. He immediately scoots over and shows it to Isillud, "Izzy, you can play a fiddle, right?" The violin stops abruptly as the grey elezen squints at the score under lantern light.

"You need to talk to Etienne about those eyeglasses, Izzy," Joshua mutters.

"It's just dark," he grumbles back, handing the roll to Wil. "If Oudine doesn't mind?"

Wil turns to Oudine with large brown puppy eyes, showing the roll to her. "Can we play this to dance, pleeease?" Rhythm of the Realm is written in cursive on top.

Oudine, who's had her chin on her knees as she hugs her legs, thoroughly sinking herself in the violin's notes and the picture of her snowy mountainous home, wakes from her reverie when the song abruptly stops. At Wil's question, she sits up, duly swallowing the disappointment of not hearing the song to its original conclusion. She had brought up dancing, not musical appreciation first, and those eyes are very large.

When she looks at the label, she laughs. “Sir, if you wish to take on such a lively song, then I am all for the idea.”

Remont, lounging beside his sister and lulled into contentment by the song earlier, gets up to read as well. His laughter is louder than Oudine's.

“Rhythm of the Realm! Master Wil, you honour us with the challenge,” he says, all previous stillness gone. He rises to his feet, and helps Oudine up. Then he looks over at the others with his white grin.

“Come on then, can't dance a ceilidh with just three bodies! Put down the violin, Izzy; on your feet, Joshua!”

“We can't really dance it with five either,” says Oudine with another laugh as she gets into position opposite him.

“Tis a romp, not a ball,” replies Remont easily. “We'll improvise.”

"Four first, Remont," Isillud chuckles, adjusting his fingers to the strings, "Wil issued two challenges."

Wil pulls Joshua up. "Up we go, it's about to start!"

The orchestrion starts. The opening notes are swift and furious; it takes all of Isillud's concentration to keep up the tempo, fingers flying across the fingerboard. Once he gets into it the rest is child's play, and he begins to relax, his posture loosening. He taps a foot in time with the beat and while he dances alone, a dance is still a dance.

It is absolute madness from the beginning, because what else can one expect from Rhythm of the Realm? The frantic fiddling sets the pace for fast twirling and skipping, as Oudine and Remont hook elbows, laughing at the way they’ve memorised the opening (a result of many hours of impromptu practice with each other and various cousins in years past). They spin and step, spin and skip, spin and step then break. Oudine grabs Joshua, Remont grabs Wil, and the spinning begins anew – a little slower now to match the marching pace of the middle of the song.

By some miracle, they all manage to step in time to the music, Remont just barely managing not to kick Wil in the calves, Oudine somehow making sure Joshua’s boots don’t crash into hers. They exchange partners again, now Oudine’s elbow locked with Wil’s and Remont’s with Joshua’s. Round and round the turning goes as Izzy ably keeps up with the orchestrion. Round and round, flashes of the lantern lights, moonlight shining off the water of the lake and dark shadows of the gazebo’s thin pillars zip past hurriedly one after another.

The lively dancing and music draws a curious crowd from the inn to the gazebo where they gather around to listen. None of the party notice as a couple or two have their own little dance at quiet corners. Others, seeing the veritable flying and twirling the Ishgardians are doing, start their own improvised reels as well, particularly some excited children infected by the dancers’ exhilaration.

The air fills with delighted squealing and laughing over the music that keeps going, and going; strangely, every misstep, squashed toes and bump in the night is taken with no offence and much humour – because after all, what else can one expect from the rhythm of the realm?

The final frenetic minute of fiddling returns the original partners to each other, doing one last round of spinning and skipping till the orchestrion music fades, and Isillud’s violin ends on a triumphant high note.

There’s a brief pause.

Then, uproarious applause cracks the quiet. Startled, every one of them turns to finally realise there’s a crowd further out, hooting and hollering in appreciation.

“Encore! Encore!”

“One more! Give us another!”

“Again, again!”

Breathing hard, Remont stares at the unexpected scene, then at his sister, who can only laugh as she tries to catch her breath. Then he looks back at Isillud with a grin that could split his face in half if it got any wider.

“Maestro, what say you?”

When Isillud lays down his violin, the song fades and applause and cheers ring in his ears. All around them are men and women of all ages cheering and clamouring for an encore. Surely they mean someone else? The orchestrion, even? The tips of his ears heat up. In front of him: Wil looking on adoringly. Joshua gives a slow clap for even he will acknowledge talent when he sees it. Oudine flush with laughter and joy, and Remont, playfully nudging him for another round.

His chest heaves, catching his breath as he slowly turns to Wil and smiles. A smile turns into a smirk, and Wil catches the glint in emerald. The man nods. "We'll play another song," Isillud tells Remont.

He steps to the centre this time, the orchestrion silent. A bass lays the foundation, building up like glass stairs spiralling up to the moon. Wil straightens his back; a handsome voice fills the gazebo.

“Through the silent woods tonight,

I am guided by moonlight,

For the first time so alone fearing no shadow

“Like my mother before me I follow this path

Knowing love will find me…”

Oudine and Remont stare as a rich melodious tone emerges from Wil's mouth. They take a moment to exchange a shocked look, then quickly decide to handle this later. Not for nothing are they their mother's children, and time spent being surprised is time spent not dancing when there is a beautiful tune at hand.

“I'll find me a partner; best get Joshua before he runs,” says Remont with a wink. He walks lightly down from the gazebo, and it takes him only another minute to walk up to a young woman swaying with the music, and offer her his hand.

Around them, the crowd is already moving to Isillud and Wil's duet - some are dancing a jig of their own, others have split off into duos to swirl and spin in improvised waltzes and country dances. It isn't the heart-racing tempo of the previous song, but it still takes some doing to keep time, so there's plenty of giggling and laughing as people stumble and twirl together. Those who don't opt to join the dancing stand in rapt attention, captivated by violin and vocals harmonising together so well and so fittingly.

“O wide open midnight sky, please

Carry my voice aloft

Far away where she waits

Lover's moon…”

Oudine moves swiftly and, as she did this morning, slips her hand round Joshua's elbow. She beams at him.

“Dance with me? We can follow our own pace.”

Joshua scans the crowd - there are so many Miqo'tes about, it would be easy to lose them if they are indeed there - that Oudine's approach surprises him. There is a flash of disappointment that turns to relief: had he been truly audacious to hope that Zeir would want to even see him?

"I've never been taught to dance, but if you would deign to teach…" He takes her hand and leads her to the floor. He steals glances at Remont and his dance partner, keeping moves in mind to use later. Hold hand up, twirl the girl around, maybe don't lean Oudine down like that…

She catches the searching look on his face, but just smiles. “I'm no instructor, but Viscountess Philomene de Aubemarle was a dancer most prodigious in her younger days. When she found neither of her children would take to an instrument, she made sure they at least wouldn't embarrass her on the dance floor.

“‘Grace and accuracy’, she would say, ‘is secondary. Primary is partnership’.” Oudine shakes her head. “Don't ask why she doesn't apply that to her life. However we move, we move in tandem, cousin - that’s all a dance really is, whatever the style. If we stumble, we apologise, we correct, we move together again.”

She chuckles. “Also you survived Rhythm of the Realm! That was baptism by fire, you know. So come, enjoy your brother's talents.”

"That- thank you," he demurs, letting Oudine show him the ropes.

They get into position, Oudine helping Joshua to lead her on the basic counts of four. One: left foot backward; two: step to the right; three: feet together; four: right foot forward. And on, and on, till they're in a clear waltz to the winding song.

He stumbles remembering the order of feet, but a few repetitions gets him dancing more smoothly, simply sliding his feet along the floorboards. "Your mother must have been a very strict teacher."

“Strict…” she thinks on it then laughs a little. “Yes, rather, but it served me well as a debutante in hindsight. It made me less afraid to match steps with any lord or even a count. After all, who could be worse than Mamma?”

Meanwhile Isillud and Wil finish their acoustic duet with a flourish, prompting the audience to fill the area with applause. "Thank you, thank you and goodnight!" Wil waves to the crowd, eating up the attention. Isillud steals a chance to sit down and rest, looking for something to quench his thirst. Wil skips off, seemingly reading Isillud's mind. "I'll grab us some drinks!"

The smile Oudine gives Joshua next is apologetic. “Which reminds me of what I wished to say to you. I'm afraid I've been too much like Mamma today. I must apologise to you for being so overbearing, from my overpacking to the dancing. It's just,” she laughs sheepishly. “I've not been so at ease for awhile, not till today, so I quite forgot myself. I'm sorry, and thank you for a very lovely day, truly.” Her eyes crinkle with her grateful smile, right as the song ends and the crowd applauds.

Joshua gives a sympathetic smile of sorts. "Have you now? I didn't notice, I simply chalked it up to you being with family." He stretches his arms, then crouches to stretch his legs. "And if word reaches Ishgard of your impropriety I'm certain you'll find a way around it, no?" He tilts his head to her, his smile twisting into a schemer's. "Perhaps it is I who must learn from you, cousin."

Wil skips back with not only a bottle of wine but a pitcher of juice and a stack of glasses. In the dark his robes flap like wings, looking like an oversized thieving crow pleased with its haul. "I got us drinks! And maybe some nibbles! It was just sitting there so it must be free, right?!"

A lalafell jogs trying to keep up with the man's long Elezen legs shouting about taking a customer's food and how they simply stepped out to the privy.

Isillud's smile withers. "Oh Twelve," he squeaks in a very tiny voice.

Oudine doesn't have time to respond to Joshua's question with anything but a laugh, when Wil returns with the - evidently - ill-begotten goods. The shouts get louder as the irate lalafell keeps insisting on the depravity of young people these days and how a decent person just couldn't sit down to a nice meal without some uncivilised individual swiping it all.

She looks around quickly, but there is no tall chestnut-haired Elezen with an easy grin and a merry laugh to be seen or heard anywhere.

“Do you want to take this one, or shall I?” She murmurs to Joshua. “Because my darling brother seems to have gone missing in the dancing, Fury take him.”

"Izzy always says I have to learn, so I'd best do it." Joshua straightens his shirt and smooths his hair, walking past Wil and kneeling respectfully to the lalafell. "Sir, I apologise for the misunderstanding, my friend is rather simple-minded in his desire to entertain." He motions to the group. "Would you care to join some Ishgardian nobles for some light conversation? We'll share the cost, of course."

The invitation to hobnob with some titled people along with a shared cost of food is a sweet deal and the lalafell accepts, sitting down along with the group. "Torim Polorim, on a business visit from Limsa. I must say this is an unexpected development."

Oudine follows her cousin’s lead, sitting politely and pouring a glass of wine out for their new companion. She offers a conciliatory smile.

“I’m Oudine, of Ishgard. Forgive us our high spirits, sir; it is most kind of you to allow us to join you in these circumstances.” She tilts her head curiously. “May I ask what your trade is?”

"Nothing remarkable, simply trading foodstuffs to and from Gridania. Limsa supplies the seafood, Gridania supplies the vegetables, and together we are all nourished! What about you folks, are you in trade too?"

Joshua starts, "Aye, my trade is between Garlemald and Dalmasca. Say what you will about the Garleans but their magitek products do bring convenience when used for good."

Torim nods. "That's quite the niche trade though I applaud your initiative. Your missus must live well."

Joshua blinks. "Who?" Then stares at Oudine.

Oudine doesn't miss the look. Several responses run like lightning through her mind, one after the next. Amongst them is the mature - and frankly kind - option. It should behoove her, who had just apologised for being too much like the Dowager, to do the correct thing.

On the other hand, she's on holiday, she's with family, and she's been dancing, which means the adrenaline hasn't quite left her body. Also, didn't he say it himself: he has to learn. Is this not an opportune moment to practise graceful conversation?

So she merely smiles demurely, picks up the pitcher of juice and pours out a glass carefully. Then she holds it out to her cousin, still smiling though there is a slight twitch to the corner of her mouth. “Here, Joshua.”

Isillud presses a finger to Wil's mouth. "Shh," he whispers.

Joshua is at a loss: between his brother's silence, Remont's absence and Oudine doing…that means it falls on him to respond.

He plucks the glass from her and drinks. "Thank you, cousin."

The lalafell nearly falls out of his seat. "Oh! M-my apologies, I-"

But Joshua interrupts him, "An honest mistake many have made, sir, and no wonder given how close we are. Perhaps I should consider it, hm?" at the last part he winks to Oudine.

Oudine presses her lips together - the wink is unfair. She places a hand on her chest, affecting surprise.

“Now, my lord, I must ask you to tread carefully - we are, as my brother always says, distant cousins. And amongst the highborn Ishgardian houses, that isn't any very real impediment to matrimony. Though you ought to consider it extra carefully when you think of precisely who would be your mother-in-law.”

She looks at the lalafell merchant with an amused smile. “But perhaps I might trouble you for an outside opinion, Mr Polorim. Do you think we would make a good match? I would ask for my other cousin as well, but he is already quite well spoken for.”

Oudine’s whole attention now turns to Torim. If she looks at anyone else, she is likely to fall apart laughing.

"W, well, I must say familial matters are entirely out of my jurisdiction, being a humble merchant," Torim stammers, clearing his throat very loudly, "I can only say that whoever your match is, they are certainly fortunate to have someone as beautiful and good-natured as you, Miss."

Joshua pours the lalafell another drink, serving the bottle along with it. "And they would certainly be, indeed, regardless of her mother's opinion. Thank you Mr Polorim for your answer; if not Oudine's heart then mine is certainly at ease."

A slouched back, an easy smile, relief in his voice to assure nothing wrong was said and no harm was done. Soon the matter is forgotten and it is time to retire for the night, as they bid goodbye to their new acquaintance.

Joshua looks for Remont, leading Oudine to the Bobbing Cork. "Do you think he'll be using his room tonight?"

For the first time that day, she grimaces, for her brother's conduct and the inconvenience it has caused. “I'm sorry to say I can't tell. If his plans go awry, it'll serve him right to spend the night out in the cold for abandoning us like this. Though he'll say Tailfeather is worse.”

She shakes her head as they near the warmly lit building. “Don't worry about him, cousin. He can take care of himself. And I will personally box his ears the moment I see him tomorrow morning for this rudeness.”

Oudine pauses then looks at him sideways with a smile. “You know, Joshua, if you keep this up, there'll not be just a few caps set for you. Best be careful around the matchmaking mammas when we return to Ishgard.”

The young Elezen wants to say something, but stops himself. This is what he's worked so hard for, isn't it? "I hope so, House Losstarot needs an heir." Isillud says nothing, piercing green eyes searching his brother for matters unsaid.

Oudine smiles helplessly. “Heirs are at least three steps ahead. I was rather hoping you might find someone who suits you first.”

"Well I was going to spend the night under the eaves-" Wil mentions it so cheerfully until Isillud places a gloved hand over his mouth. "You will stay with me tonight."

Joshua steps in front of them with a terrorising smile. "No, you two will stay with me tonight. I have a spare bed and it won't do to spend gil on an extra one."

"I don't think-"

"You. Stay. With. Me. Tonight." Joshua insists through gritted teeth.

"...Very well." Isillud mutters, storming darkly past them to the counter.

Joshua nods and gives Oudine a thumbs up. "He'll get over it."

“Oh,” she says quickly, seeing the disgruntled stalk Isillud does past them, “please, at least let me pay for the rooms. I did agree to stay as well. And I made Rem bring extra shirts, so if you need one, they're…”

She starts. A horrible blush rises, as she's suddenly reminded of the absolute absurdity of bringing a change of clothes for herself and her brother on what she had expected to be just a day out. In Remont's case, because she had fully expected him to be drenched in a river of some kind: two changes of clothes.

“Um, I… I will… go… Izzy, wait!” she darts for the counter, trying to flee her embarrassment.

Joshua is left behind with Wil, of all people. Neither know what to do with each other as they both helplessly watch Oudine make Isillud accept her offer of hospitality. Not that it was a bad thing, they simply weren't that close.

Isillud puts up a hand: stern but gentle. "We invited you, Oudine. The clothes are…of no import." He signs off the register and motions to a concierge to take his cousin to her room. "We'll let you know if Remont returns first thing in the morning."

Oudine concedes when she sees the look in his eyes. Gentleman that Isillud is, the uncommon insistence from him should not be disobeyed.

She bows to him, and to Joshua and Wil from a distance. “Thank you, cousins, Wil. Goodnight, and pleasant dreams to you all.”

The concierge leads her upstairs to a good-sized, clean, and unfussy room. The luggage is already within, all sitting to the side, making way for a bed with a dressing table against a wall. (A spare bed, she is relieved to note, would fit just fine.)

A washstand, complete with towel, enamel basin and a large metal can stand beside it. Opposite the bed is a fireplace, but no flame or fire crystal sit within - a slight surprise to her Ishgardian sensibilities.

With her thanks, she tips the concierge an amount of gil for their service. She is duly left alone to divest herself of her boots and outer layers, stripping all the way to her chemise beneath since it's actually warm enough to do so.

It only just occurs to her then, as she pours out warm water into the basin to wash her face, what a day it's been. How much has she learned?

Joshua was once sickly, and his guardian had been an Ala Mhigan woman. He can imitate an Ala Mhigan voice to perfection. He wields an axe, but wishes for a different weapon. He takes care of Izzy in his own way. He can dance, given time. He speaks bluntly, till his hand is forced.

Isillud can't really eat seafood or meat, but takes to vegetables. He has a (very) foreign lover. He plays the violin very well. He never did dance, in the end. He speaks less often but with a layer more of… caution (most times).

Sydney is alive. And in Radz-at-han with his daughter.

Oudine pauses a little while she pats her face dry with the clean towel.

In spite of their mysterious circumstances – the way Joshua's eyes looked before she'd asked him to dance, the sound of Isillud's voice in the boat, the shared looks when Wil turned up – they have been frank in many degrees. And kind, in a lot of others.

To have been trusted with as much insight as she has, from those who’ve had no reason to like, much less trust, any Ishgardian, is a privilege.

She lets out a breath. “I think you would have liked them, Papa,” she murmurs. She smiles a little. “Especially Wil.”

Oudine continues her routine. Without her lady's maid, it takes far longer to unpin her hair and brush it all out. By the time she tumbles into the very soft bed, her mind is hazy enough to dissolve into almost-instant sleep. Her very last thought is of Remont.

Be careful, you wretch.

~*~

"It's a good thing Oudine thought to bring a change of clothes," Joshua says as he hangs his shirt over a chair, "I should have had the foresight to be as prepared as her."

Isillud, however, has no problem throwing his clothes in a heap at the foot of his side of the bed. "I think it is a thing with women. They're always prepared for anything." Wil meanwhile grabs pillows and arranges the bed like it's a nest. "Physically and mentally, she seems to know what to say or do."

"You get wiser with age," Wil says, settling in the folds of blankets and pillows with a contented sigh, "You'll both get there."

"Speak for yourself," Joshua retorts, "You're the one storming in as a human to take your fish back," he laughs snidely, "As if being taller would help, hah."

Wil pouts, sinking his head under his pillow. Isillud pulls the covers aside to snuggle in with Wil. "To his credit he drank almost all of the fish soup so I'd count it as a win." Despite sharing a bed meant for one Isillud and Wil manage with a lot of adjusting where do the long limbs go until he is in Wil's embrace.

Joshua pulls the blankets up to his neck. "I will not hear a peep from either of you tonight, do I make myself clear?"

"The sooner you sleep, the less you'll hear," Isillud mumbles from the crook of Wil's neck.

"I mean it! Hands where I can see them!"

Onto Part 4

Special shoutouts about this part:

Strangers being drawn to music and breaking into spontaneous happy dancing in the town square/outside the gazebo is MY JAM

Everything about Izzy's violin playing and Wil's beautiful warbling singing is brilliance, and @escherstrange-ffxiv is wonderful for producing the moment

Joshua being an absolute lil' shite (WOMEN - Joshua please)

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #william corvus #Torim is responsible for the rumours getting back to Ishgard about how house Losstarot and Aubemarle are maybe sorta perhaps courting (??)#(they're not)

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housedeaubemarle · 9 months ago

Text

By Way of an Apology: Epilogue

A follow up to The Grand Hunt - the Losstarot lords and the Aubemarle twins go on a picnic.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

(Written with @escherstrange-ffxiv, whom I salute for the stamina for this entire Very Long Picnic)

~*~

A day later, a letter is sent by mail, addressed to a particular location in Radz-at-han.

To Mr Sydney Bardorba,

Warm greetings and my compliments to you and your daughter. I had been informed by well-informed sources that you wouldn't mind a letter, but I beg pardon for my imposition regardless.

My name is Oudine de Aubemarle of Ishgard. I write to inform you that certain changes have come upon us here, and while they are unconventional in certain ways, they are welcome. Kind changes, as a matter of fact, and charming. I understand that you intend no business in Ishgard, and my family name may not quite elicit too many gentle thoughts, but I had thought you may like to know regardless.

I hope you are well, and that your daughter thrives. If there ever was a chance for them to meet, I have some young cousins who might make good friends. But perhaps that is a hope too impertinent when I am unsure if you will even read this. Nonetheless, I assure you that only I and my brother, Remont, have your direction, and we will be discreet.

I wish you all success in every endeavour, and have the honour to remain, yours sincerely,

Oudine de Aubemarle.

~*~

While the letter is on its way East, a basket covered with cheesecloth is delivered far sooner by a familiar-looking servant to the community centre. For the lords Losstarot, the bespectacled Elezen says with a polite bow, as quickly as can be managed since the basket's contents are best served warm.

Inside sits an entire plump, fragrant pie, its crust a lovely golden brown. Tucked beside it, wrapped in thin crepe paper to protect it from grease, is a small velvet box.

When it’s opened, a shiny silver signet ring is revealed, gleaming under the light. An elegant ‘W’ has been engraved on its face.

Also inside is a tiny folded note:

‘For the one who made a fairy queen of a mere mortal, with gratitude and in friendship.

P.S: Cook seeks your kind critique, and from those in the community centre if possible, on his first attempt at a pure vegetable pie. – O & R’

End.

(Okay, NOW we're done.)

(...until we go confront Gaussain, but that's for another time.)

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #sydney bardorba #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #william corvus #I (the author) promised Wil a shiny bauble so here's his shiny bauble

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housedeaubemarle · 9 months ago

Text

By Way of an Apology: Part 2

A follow up to The Grand Hunt - the Losstarot lords and the Aubemarle twins go on a picnic.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

(Written with @escherstrange-ffxiv whose experience and grace are sheer gifts)

~*~

The carriage trots past the gates of Fallgourd Float after a quick inspection at the gate; once at the aetheryte the men hop off and unload the items to the side with Joshua paying the carriage driver and guard. He thinks perhaps they should save up for a carriage if the excursions become more frequent, besides it doesn't seem proper for a noble house to lack a carriage…

His thoughts are interrupted by Isillud shoving a hamper into his arms. "Find a spot while I make sure they have rooms in case we need to stay overnight," he orders while heading into the Bobbing Cork while slinging a violin case over his shoulder.

Hampered by the food hamper, he scans the compound and sees a gazebo overlooking the river, which is where he heads to unpack.

~*~

“It’s… it’s an inn.”

Remont stretches luxuriantly while his sister stares up at the flowing lines of the building and its soft green roofs. She would be more appreciative of its beauty and the wonder of it being right in the middle of a lake if something embarrassing has not just occurred to her.

“One of the best in the area,” he says easily.

The staring does not abate, until she finally asks, “Rem, why did no one tell me the Bobbing Cork is an inn?”

Remont blinks, not just at the distress in Oudine’s voice but also the look on her face. “Didn’t we say?”

“No! I thought it was just a, a glade in the woods with a stream of some kind!” She gestures frantically at the small hill of luggage that has been unloaded. “We could have brought so much less! The orchestrion could have stayed home!”

“Well, it’s not like we’re picnicking in the Bobbing Cork, so some of those things are still justified.”

Oudine puts one hand over her face. “They must think we’re absolute idiots, just foolish highborns with no sense of priorities.”

“I did try to dissuade you, in case you forgot,” says Remont with a grin. “You said we should bring entertainment-”

“Remont de Aubemarle, I swear to the Fury…!”

He dodges a lunge from his sister laughingly, dancing away from her irritated hands with all the natural ease of a Twelve-given grace. He even has time to grab his bow and quiver, and jump away. “Time to help Joshua, I think!” he says, sprinting in the direction of the gazebo.

Oudine watches him go, vowing to make him pay somehow. Then she looks back at the bags and boxes. They seem to mock her with their shape, especially the fishing rods that stick conspicuously out.

“I’m going to snap them all in half,” she mutters, although she does the direct opposite by picking them up carefully and walking towards the gazebo as well.

~*~

Joshua lays out the cutlery around the food on the portable table they'd brought for the occasion. Distant laughter and shouts cause him to look up at Remont twirling and skipping away from her smacks and jabs. The young man frowns, wondering what could have caused her consternation with him.

Two porters slump at the pile of luggage Isillud points to but perk up when he presses coin in their hands and a word in their ears. Satisfied that matters are seen to, he heads to the gazebo, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. "They have two rooms available, I'll either cram in with you and Remont on the floor or find an alternative." Wil lifts off from his shoulder and takes his place at where Isillud sits, as if he too is a guest.

"Where's your violin?" Joshua asks.

Isillud points to the porter lugging the table orchestrion behind him. "They brought music so I stored mine."

Oudine is close by enough to hear this last exchange. A dismayed sound escapes her. “I'm so sorry. I foolishly assumed we might need more things than we really require,” she says, shooting a glower at Remont who seems to be trying to communicate telepathically with Wil. He keeps his fingers to himself though since the beak looks sharp and the eyes exceptionally intelligent.

She looks back up at Isillud, her light grey eyes apologetic and appealing. “I'd very much like to hear you play today, if you'd be willing. Neither I nor Remont play any instrument, despite our mother's best efforts, so it's always nice to have someone around who does. I'd be happy to go retrieve it.”

Remont glances at his sister's face, wearing a rare expression that makes her look far younger than her age, and smiles to himself.

"Are you sure? The table orchestrion would certainly sound less lonely…very well then, I can't say no to an earnest request. No, I'll do it. I think I have an idea. Hold my seat, Wil." The crow caws once as Isillud jogs back to the inn and back out with his violin case, the crow hopping aside when he takes his seat. He whispers thanks to the crow while tickling its chin.

Joshua unpacks the food and spreads it over the table. "It's not your cook's food - it's nothing like, but ours are community centre regulars so it's certainly homemade. Some scoff at lowborn fare, but sometimes we just want something unpretentious." He stuffs a cockatrice meatball into his face with his fingers. "So how did you two pass the time in your youth?"

Oudine beams with pleasure at the return of the violin case and its owner, as she takes a little bit of everything within her reach and puts it on her plate.

“Mr Ofanleitasyn has said before, quite wisely,” she says, after a delicious bite of salad, “true gourmet is not made by the plate it's served on, but the heart which makes it.” She grins. “And whoever made this put much love into it, I think. The dressing is wonderful.”

Remont is also munching appreciatively. “Agreed - if Dine and I don't fight over the urchin loaf, it'll be a wonder.”

Oudine snorts. “That's also how we spent our time as children: tussling over food when Mamma and Papa weren't looking.”

“You make it sound like we were barely fed,” says Remont with a laugh.

“Rem, you behaved as if we were barely fed,” returns his sister with a raised eyebrow. “Though there was a time when you weren't home enough to fight with me over pudding.”

Remont raises his own eyebrow at her, in mock-offence. “Really, sister? In front of our dear cousins?”

Oudine has taken a bite of loaf and just smiles as she chews.

Joshua nudges the bowl of morel salad towards Isillud. "I reminded them to make extra for you," he simply says, scooping a double helping of salad into his bowl. "Do you think you can take the urchin loaf?"

The other grey elezen eyes a loaf, picking at the base. "I haven't eaten seafood for a while." He takes a tiny bite from the corner, chewing so slowly his jaw moves only after a second, moving the piece between his cheeks. He takes a deep breath, two, before swallowing. Finally he nods and continues his dainty bites. "Thank you," he says, breaking off a chunk for Wil to peck at pleasure.

"I don't think we ever fought for food," Joshua muses, "I was a sickly child so my meals were brought to me."

Isillud adds, "Sometimes by me. After meals."

Oudine smiles at this show of brotherly affection. “I can’t imagine you being sickly at all, seeing you now. I’m glad you turned out so healthy.”

Remont has taken notice of Isillud’s care in eating. A memory flickers suddenly of his cousin turning rather green at the sight of a steak. “Fish suits you better, Izzy? Remind me to have Cook bake a herring pie for you; it’s divine. Something about a secret seasoning, but he’ll probably take that to his grave.”

Joshua nods. "I was sick when we left Ishgard, but my caretaker is a firm believer in fresh air and exercise so she put an axe in my hand and said it would make me better."

"She wasn't lying," Isillud shrugs, taking in a forkful of salad. "It seems I can still eat seafood, though I err on the side of caution. The herring pie does sound lovely, it would be an insult to not attempt."

"It would be a bigger insult if you threw up, Izzy."

"Maybe if I pick out the meat?"

"Maybe just ask for a vegetable pie."

Isillud sulks at the next forkful of salad. "Only if he uses the secret seasoning."

Oudine looks over at Wil, who’s busy with his own portion of the loaf. “I’ve been meaning to compliment you on Wil's training, Isillud. He’s so intelligent, and he listens so well. I wish our Chocobos were half as tractable.” She shakes her head. “A lot of Marlstone’s resources go into helping our trainers find new ways to make their breaking-in easier and faster.”

Isillud stops chewing at Oudine's effusive praise of Wil, crow and man staring at each other briefly before laughing together. "Caw!"

"Hah! Wil came to me as you see him. He doesn't follow orders well-"

"Caw! Caw!" Wil pecks his master's sleeve.

"-but with careful phrasing it can be done." The crow is successfully mollified. "Tailfeather chocobos are wild but they do make for good stock and they obey once trained. I'm certain Remont will be able to talk them down eventually."

Remont chuckles merrily, swallows his mouthful of meatball, and replies, “I'm flattered, but no amount of sweet talk will convince a Rouncey not to stomp you into the ground if they're in an ornery mood. And after three years, I'm only just managing the chasing and roping part of the whole endeavour. No, the persistent training, I must leave to the professionals.” He points a fork playfully at Wil. “Should Marlstone invest in crow mail next, Dine? Could give the postal Moogles a run for their money with clever Postmaster Wil at the helm.”

Oudine laughs, not at the suggestion but at the look of intrigue the crow manages to give. Somehow Wil conveys every inch of having understood Remont, and manages to seem as if he’s considering the idea.

“Best to let that lie, brother dear. I think Master Wil is clever enough not to go looking for trouble when he needn't do so.” Then she pauses, the conversation rewinding itself in her head. She looks back at Joshua. “Pardon, I'm not sure I understood completely - she put an axe in your hand?”

Isillud and Wil seem to have a hushed conversation about the possibility of a courier business, "No Wil, you cannot transport explosives. No explosives whatsoever, you promised…" is the most audible line from Isillud's mouth which earns him an indignant, sulking crow pecking at a meatball scrap.

Joshua nods. "Aye, she swiped an axe from the Marauders' Guild in Limsa and said - I remember her words clearly - 'If you're gonna be mad then take it out on some rocks before you hurt yerself or worse, someone else.'" He gets the Ala Mhigan inflection and falsetto down pat. "I wasn't properly trained in it, I should consider properly taking up a new weapon."

While Remont grins at the aside Isillud is having with Wil, Oudine is wide-eyed, listening to apparently how Ala Mhigan parental figures deal with their wards. “Practical, if unconventional. And clearly effective,” she remarks after some thought. “My cousin's eldest son could have done more with that growing up, though he's matured into a more sensible young man, thank the gods.”

Remont snorts. “Just say Iseterre was sent straight from any one of the hells, Dine. We've certainly claimed as much.”

“He has improved tremendously, you know.”

“Yes but he can't change the fact he was still a young hellion for about 12 years.”

“Better than one who's been a hellion for 27 and counting.”

Remont snickers. “Touche. Joshua, your search for a new means of fighting is over. A flush hit like that must surely count for good instruction.”

Oudine resists the impulse to throw a spoonful of Sohm Al tart at him - it'd be a dreadful waste of food. “Is there something you're partial to?” She taps her finger against her chin thoughtfully. “Cousin Cevilia still has good connections with the Knights - it would be little trouble to seek private instruction for bladed weaponry. Or perhaps you'd like to try something entirely different?”

"Who's Iseterre?" He lops off the top of his Sohm Al tart. "I'm still mulling my options, on one hand I already know how to swing an axe, but it seems useful to learn to wield a rapier or a sword. Even my brothers know how to use a sword - albeit this brother's sword being a bit more exotic."

Remont, having just put a last chunk of morels in his mouth, instantly chokes on them. A second after, the hacking intensifies when Oudine's boot slams against his shin under the table.

He spins round in his seat, back to the Losstarots, coughing violently, though it suspiciously sounds like laughter at certain intervals. Oudine stands to slap her hand several times against his back, perhaps a touch more forcefully than is strictly needed.

“Goodness, Rem, are you alright?” She looks up at the brothers with a bright smile, one hand continuously whacking Remont's back. “Is there any tea or water?”

Remont is bent over double, coughing harder and even shaking a little.

"Oh, the drinks!" The hamper rustles and clinks as Joshua rummages and pulls out several bottles of refreshing Coerthan spring water. "We're not going to drink from the lake as pristine as it looks, don't you worry." He pours a glass for Remont out of courtesy, then puts the bottle next to it. "Did I mention Izzy learned the way of the Hingan blade? They call it a katana."

Isillud looks up at the mention of his name. "An acquaintance offered to teach me, the training was brutal. He would wake me at 4 in the morning for breakfast, then a run along the beach, a hundred push ups…" He slumps. "Terrible times."

A strange sort of keening - very much like the whine of air escaping a non-sentient balloon - floats from Remont's direction. Oudine doesn't even bother with the glass, grabbing the bottle instead to hand to her hapless brother. The shaking has only gotten more pronounced since Isillud's elaboration of brutal training.

“Th, that's certainly a gruelling regimen,” says Oudine over Remont attempting to quell his sudden asthma attack with huge gulps of water. “A… kata-na, you say? You might be the only one in Ishgard carrying a Hingan weapon at this time. A friend of mine, Lord Martinet de Thierremont, specialises in imports from Doma and Hingashi, but I've not heard him mention weaponry per se. I'll introduce you next time we're all at the same party.”

Her brother contributes to the conversation with a soft hiccup and, unmistakably, a giggle.

Oudine's mind whirls a little before it lands on a relatively safe subject.

“Um, Iseterre is our cousin Margelyne's eldest son, Baron Regnier de Vaillant's grandson. Our first cousin once removed, in short.” She smiles helplessly. “Suffice to say, Iseterre caused his parents much heartache as a boy, perhaps beyond the average child. He would come home daily, covered in cuts and bruises, wounds and gashes from fighting with others in the streets or at his academy. Other times, he’d pick fights with his brother or cousins, disrupting many gatherings for no real reason. A fine boy, but rash and unwilling to see the good in softer means.”

Remont, having caught enough breath and regained some amount of control but strangely refusing to turn around, adds, “Hated people accusing him of being a soft highborn with no guts, cowering behind his grandfather. Thought talking things out and playing nice was the coward's way of escape.”

“He's long since grown out of it though,” says Oudine. “He's just turned twenty. You may have seen him around at some parties: a tall young man with bright blue eyes and dark hair. I'm told the latest debutantes are starting to set their caps for him, since being a pugilist has given him rather broad shoulders.”

“No swords then, exotic or otherwise,” says Remont, some mirth burbling in his voice.

Oudine side eyes him and just sighs, sitting back down. “That, I can't say for sure.” She takes a sip of water from the glass. “You don't wish to wield this kata-na as well, Joshua?”

"In Ishgard, perhaps," Isillud begins, "But I once fought a man who claimed to be from house Dzemael who also wielded a katana. Curious, indeed…Iseterre sounds like a fine young man, as is expected from your house.I take it he's also learning the advantages of diplomacy?"

Joshua shakes his head. "I'll let Izzy have the privilege of being the first samurai in the family." Isillud smiles softly at the comment, taking another bite of dessert. Whatever opinions he has on the weapon is safely hidden in him. "Do you have any recommendations, Oudine? I'd like to know what you and Remont think," he adds.

Remont has turned around by now, the hilarity finally dissipating into calmness. He still can’t look Isillud in the face lest he be set off again. “Iseterre is heir to House de Nillefrant, so yes, he’s learning he can’t punch his way through every social situation.”

He tilts his head. “There’s no rule that says the head of a noble house cannot wield a greataxe, you know. Though a rapier would also strike fear into the hearts of those who dare challenge Joshua de Losstarot, a war axe or a halberd would achieve quite the same effect.”

Beside him, Oudine makes a mental note to inquire who in House Dzemael would be so familiar with Eastern weapons as to challenge Isillud to a duel. She looks at Joshua thoughtfully, taking in the curious eagerness of his expression, trying to weigh what she knows of him with the depth of what she doesn’t.

“I wonder…” She hesitates a little, then continues, “I wonder if a greatsword would not suit you. I’m no expert in the matter, but it seems to me that your strength, and your forthrightness, might suit such a blade. You fight not from a distance, I think, but head-on, without fear.” She smiles. “Perhaps all you Losstarots do.”

Joshua frowns in distaste at the mention of the halberd, poking at his food as if he's wielding one. "Father was a dragoon before he married our mother; while it may seem like a way to carry on a legacy, I'd rather…not."

There is no lashing out nor anger, simply a fast-sounding statement from a young man who tries so hard to inject life into his voice. Oudine’s suggestion does intrigue him, and the frown relaxes into a more thoughtful expression.

"A greatsword would be about the size of the axe you carry, at least you won't require extra strength to wield it," Isillud adds, now just holding his crow’s wings and letting it dance a little crow jig on his knees.

Joshua offers a small gracious smile to his cousin. "Thank you for the compliment, Oudine. It's not something I've considered, both the weapon of choice and…how you see us."

The food dwindling, Isillud looks to the lake. "Would you like to walk around, sit in the boat, fish? Or perhaps something else in mind?"

Oudine beams at Joshua, while Remont offers a bow in his direction, and an understanding smile. Then he rises to his feet and stretches. “Well, I for one am going to work off all this delicious food by ‘harassing the denizens of the river’. Anyone joining me?”

“I'll leave that to you, thank you,” says his sister, even as she laughs at the sight of a capering Wil. “I'd like to sit in the boat, enjoy the sun and dip my fingers. That water looks inviting.”

“That's also fishing in some ways.”

Oudine snorts. “My fingers aren't appetising to fish, I don't think. Here, help clear up first before you run off.” She stands, and picks up her empty plate to stack it atop Remont's. “What about you, Joshua, Iz- Isillud?”

Isillud takes Oudine's and Remont's plates from her to stack with his. "Joshua first called me Izzy when he couldn't pronounce my name when he was a child, and the name stuck." Wil flaps off to the water, eyeing for fish.

"'Tis an affectionate nickname, nothing more." A simple statement with a gentle smile and a nod to Oudine subtly giving her permission to continue.

Then: "Remont used it too," as he takes the plates to the inn, possibly persuading the kitchen staff to clean the dishes.

Joshua looks to the boat, eager to be away from Oudine’s reaction. "I'm no fisher but I'll watch!"

There are exactly ten seconds of almost-silence, filled in by the sound of Remont snickering, sauntering down from the gazebo, accompanied by Joshua, quickly giving Oudine a wide berth.

A high pitched, ineffectual shriek, which follows Isillud up the path, shatters the quiet.

“I- you- I knew that! I already knew that! You didn't need to tell me, I already knew that Izzy you wretch!!”

Remont drops his fishing rods, convulsing in hilarity again before he can even reach the pier.

Isillud grins behind the stack of plates as he enters the inn.

Joshua simply wishes he had drowned in Limsa's docks the year before so he didn't need to hear all this, picking up Remont's rods with a tired expression. "I hope you enjoyed him, at least."

Remont can barely breathe for laughing. Joshua's remark just sends him into another fit of hiccups and giggles.

“C-cousin,” he eventually manages, tears rolling from his eyes. “G-gentlemen don't k-kiss and tell.”

"Clearly not all his lovers are gentlemen because some have seen fit to tell me what a great man he is." He hands Remont the rods after pulling him up.

By now, Oudine has left the gazebo, hurried along by incredulous embarrassment. She strides to the boat, stalks past Remont and Joshua and relieves her feelings with an exclamation of “Men!” without breaking her pace.

"And that's just the ones who do each other," Joshua deadpans at Oudine, walking to her side to help her into the boat.

Her brother chokes on another laugh, following behind. The day is honestly going better than he'd hoped.

“Joshua, I beg you-” she takes his hand to steady herself as she climbs in, though what she's begging Joshua for is left unsaid.

"I'm not sure if it'll fit the three of us, so I'm more than happy to sit here and watch you attempt to catch dinner," he says easily.

Remont grins as he kneels at the end of the pier, undoing his pack, revealing bait and hooks. “Darling sister, you are twenty seven. I don't think these matters are exactly something you're ignorant of.”

“Remont, it isn’t ignorance I'm concerned with. Growing up with you was an education in things a seventy year old would blush at.”

“Very virginal seventy year old that would be-”

She instantly looks at Joshua. “He's yours, if you'd be so kind.”

Remont laughs. “Let's give the lady the boat for now, cousin, though we'd best keep it tied to the pier. Wouldn't want her floating away to escape our masculine humour.”

"I shan't," Joshua answers, waiting till she's inside the boat before letting go of her hand.

Oudine scoffs, scooting to the further end of the boat to enjoy the scenery. It does much to soothe ruffled feathers since it isn't long before she's removed her outer coat, and uncuffed her sleeves. Dangling her hand in the cool water, she closes her eyes, using her folded coat as a thin pillow.

She can vaguely hear Isillud's tones return, and the cawing of Wil in the background; sometimes Remont or Joshua exclaims at the splashes of a fish fighting back futilely.

Joshua sits at the pier watching Remont fish, sometimes offering advice to a man who has more experience than him. "Pull harder!" he shouts, cheering his cousin on when the battle intensifies.

All the sounds blend together as a gentle hum, in addition to the balmy breeze that rustles through the trees above her. Ishgard could never afford this, Oudine thinks with a contented sigh.

Seeing his brother and cousin embroiled in the intricacies of fishing, Isillud heads towards her. "Would you like to release the boat, Oudine? It would get you further away from Remont," he teases.

She doesn't open her eyes, utterly comfortable as she is under the sun, and laughs. “I'd say yes, but I have no idea how to row a boat properly. So unless you'll join me in here, no thank you.”

Behind them, there are groans of disappointment as a particularly strong fishy opponent manages to break the line, escaping with its life and Remont's bait.

"If you are amenable to company of a questionable repute, I could take you around the lake for a round or two." His head cants slightly towards the groan; one whistle and Wil swoops over the surface, yanking the fish out of the water and onto the pier, one foot proudly on the flopping fish.

"Showoff," Joshua grumbles.

Remont, rather wide-eyed at this display of fishing prowess, looks at Wil, then at Isillud. For an instant, one could almost imagine a distinct charge in the air between them.

He covers his eyes with a hand. “Fury take you Izzy, why am I related to you?” The groan of disappointment is equal to the one earlier, now with an added side of frustration.

There's barely any time to react to this, as Isillud finds himself set upon by two unexpectedly insistent hands.

“Get in now,” says Oudine firmly.

Isillud doesn't get to answer as he's dragged into the boat with a tiny yelp; he blinks as his cousin – by some supernatural drive of embarrassment – quickly unties the boat from the pier and pushes off determinedly.

Now thoroughly stuck in the boat, he doesn't have a choice but to entertain Oudine so he rolls up his sleeves revealing slender but toned arms from years of archery and training, and begins rowing.

"Does our tryst offend you, Oudine?" He asks, his voice even and calm as if asking her about her hobbies.

Oudine stares at him, processing both the question and the tone it's been asked in. Her mind is rather like her previously neat hair: in some disarray, with several strands having escaped with all her exertion. She thinks of almost every answer she might give.

Yet her cousin is here, inescapably thanks to her abrupt and rather impolite conduct, and he seems to be asking a genuine question. So honesty is due.

“Well…” she says, folding her knees in and hugging them. “No, Izzy. It doesn't. To be quite candid,” a blush begins to rise despite herself. “Rem could hardly do worse than a member of the rising House of Losstarot. And he has done worse – not in terms of status, you understand, but… personalities.”

She looks aside to the lake. “And you are distant cousins, as Rem always makes sure to tell me. It's just…”

She sighs. “I don't think he is clear in what he seeks, and his… carelessness has cost people their hearts. I don't wish for him - or I - to lose you or Joshua over… over a rupture.” She glances at him, the blush still across her face. “Not when he's clearly fond of you.”

Isillud rows silently, eyes on obstacles while ears to Oudine's words. It takes a while for him to speak.

"Remont suffers the same affliction as all nobles: When he wants for nothing, there is nothing he wants. Which is to say as long as he has no deep need nor yearning he will continue to drift."

The only other sound is the sound of the oars lapping quietly over the water. "Loss is simply one way of reaching that point. Joshua knows what he wants because he has experienced losing it but he doesn't realise that isn't the only thing he wants."

He smiles at his cousin. "I simply hope it happens sooner than later. Lifelong regret is a terrible affliction in one's old age."

Oudine takes in all he says quietly, watching those magnetic green eyes, and the turn of his mouth as he speaks. At the mention of loss, and the smile he gives her, there is an acute twinge in her chest.

She turns back out to the lake. “Perhaps you're right, about that… affliction. My brother has never sought headship of the house, nor has he really cared for the good word of the beau monde. If not for our father's passing, he might still be just another spoiled layabout in Ishgard.” She breathes in deeply, then exhales. “I can only be grateful he loves us enough to listen, and to do so much for us.”

There's a period of silence, of thinking, as the sounds of water lapping against the boat surround them. Then she asks, still looking at the waters. “What do you want, cousin, so as not to regret in old age?”

Isillud places the oars up and out of the water, looking at the scenery: Ahead, trees dotted with the first blooms of spring along the Twelveswood; above, a flock of birds cut through the blue sky. Below, something circles their boat once before finding it wholly uninteresting and moving on. A breeze ruffles his hair, his fingers picking at the hem of his black leather gloves. Green eyes search the area, ears listen to birdsong for an answer.

"...I see no reason to think so far ahead."

Melancholy flickers in his eyes when he looks at his hands; a blink and it's gone. "Would you like to stay the night? We could have the fish Remont catches for dinner."

Oudine, apparently mesmerised by the afternoon sunbeams playing on the surface of the lake, completely misses the flash of emotion.

She does however, turn round at the soft sadness in his first sentence, quickly smothered by the lightness of the second.

There is no reason for her to probe, nor is there any courtesy in doing so - she too has things she keeps to her chest, for her own varied reasons. Isillud himself is already wearing what she privately deems his serenity mask - a face for times when nothing else but silence or distraction seems prudent. She recognises it, considering she has her own variant when she must be Viscount Aubemarle instead of merely Oudine.

Whatever future he isn’t thinking of, whatever years ahead he doesn’t wish to discuss, perhaps that can all wait. On a day as pleasant as this, on a lake as calm as this, and under the rays of a sun as soothing as this, maybe there is indeed no reason to think so far ahead. For now.

So, Oudine just tucks a stray lock behind one ear as the breeze sweeps again through their hair, and smiles warmly. “It seems it wasn’t entirely foolish to bring a change of clothing after all. Yes, I would love to, if only to hear your violin after dinner.”

Isillud blinks. "You brought a change of clothing? Did you think we were going to roll in the m- never mind, pray forgive my impudence." He blushes at her anticipation. "I hope you don't mind that my playing isn't as refined as it should be. I don't have much time to practise.”

She merely smiles and says, “Maybe we can even have your brother practise his dancing with Rem.”

“If Remont is a good dancer, it would help to teach Joshua some moves. They don't teach how to dance in the import-export business – simply scandalous." He begins rowing back to the pier, where Joshua waves to them.

"I hope you like fish, because that's all we'll be having for the next two days."

Isillud gets out first to moor the boat. "That won't be necessary, Joshua. We'll be eating it all tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Aye, we're staying overnight."

Remont’s eyebrows rise, immediately looking over to Oudine who’s stepping lightly out of the boat, her coat over one elbow.

He puts a hand on one hip, grinning. “Whose idea was that?”

"I simply thought it would be a waste if we loaded back all the luggage after all the effort the porters took unloading them," Isillud teases with a slight chuckle. "Now that I know this is Oudine's first visit outside Ishgard, we must make it a bit more memorable than just a picnic."

As Remont chuckles, Oudine comes over to inspect the various unlucky finned and scaled victims of his hunt, all gathered in a convenient basket. “Rem, if I’d known you’d be this enthusiastic about fishing, we should have just started a fishery in Limsa instead.”

She looks up, shakes her head at his perspiration, and pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe his brow. “This place is lovelier than I imagined; it would be a shame not to stay longer if we can.”

Remont meekly submits to this sisterly attention, even bending a little so she can reach up to mop up the sheen of sweat. “Always a man of ideas, our Izzy.”

Oudine smiles. “Yes, he is.”

He catches the expression, and the tone, and cocks his head slightly. “What did you chat about out there?”

She pockets the slightly damper handkerchief again. “Just getting to know each other.”

Remont meets her eyes and quirks a smile. “Is that so? Well then, that’s nice.” With that, he sets to packing up his reels and equipment.

Oudine looks to Joshua, her smile widening into a grin. “And after our dinner: dancing, dear cousin. Remont is a fine dancer, and with Izzy’s music, it should be quite fun.”

Joshua balks a little at the word 'dance'. "Dance? But there's only you? Must I dance with Remont? What steps would I learn?!"

Isillud puts his hand on his brother's shoulder and pushes him along. "The correct steps. Learn well; you don't know when the next opportunity is."

Onto Part 3

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #william corvus #look when Rem met Izzy neither of them had a clue they were distantly related #and continued NOT knowing until the second time they hooked up #Oudine lost about five years of her life when Remont casually mentioned it in a letter #their mother will never find out

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housedeaubemarle · 9 months ago

Text

By Way of An Apology: Part 1

A follow up to The Grand Hunt - the Losstarot lords and the Aubemarle twins go on a picnic.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

(Written with @escherstrange-ffxiv; my eternal gratitude for her long suffering patience and the lending of her Losstarots. I love them with all my heart.)

~*~

Sunlight illuminates the dining room so brightly that Joshua squints as he rifles through the picnic basket. "Morel salad, cockatrice meatballs, urchin loaf, Sohm Al tart…"

He counts each one while nudging each into its own corner in some attempt to keep them separated in the picnic basket. It's nothing compared to what House Aubemarle’s cook can whip up, but their cook hasn't worked for them for over thirty years either.

Birdsong is rare in frigid Ishgard since the Calamity, which is why Joshua had suggested to Oudine that they take a carriage to the North Shroud. “The Bobbing Cork is so well-guarded you will forget the Ixal exist, and there are pavilions to watch the spring blooms within its grounds. You have my word that our picnic will be a peaceful one.”

He searches for his brother who is inspecting the chocobo carriage outside along with his bow and arrows, counting and hoping he won't use any.

The young lord hopes this will be more than an adequate apology, loading the basket under the carriage seat.

~*~

“There you are, milady - I'm sure it should hold for the entire time you're out.”

Before her glass, Oudine turns her head a little to see what she could of the low braided bun. Secured with a number of artfully hidden pins, a lace ribbon had been threaded through it. Wisps of hair had been allowed to escape, the tendrils hanging loose round the sides of her face.

“I never cease to be amazed, Eddy,” says Oudine with a beaming smile. “Though I'm obliged to wonder at the lace.”

Eddy tuts. “Picnics and lace never go amiss, Lady Oudine. And you are nowhere close to your dotage, so I'll not hear anything of you being ‘too old’ for it.”

Oudine laughs easily. “Very well, seeing as it's such a fine day, I shan't argue.”

Eddy looks at her mistress with satisfaction. Ever since her return from Tailfeather and the alleged dragon attack at Falcon's Nest, the viscount had been preoccupied with all manner of paperwork and arrangements of some kind. It is good to see her looking so carefree for a change.

A knock on her door, and the permission to enter, admits a tall figure whose hair had needed a fraction of the time to dress.

Remont, handsome in a dark red waistcoat, linen sleeves rolled to the elbow and black trousers, leans in the doorway with an air of mock-exasperation. It would have had devastating effect on anyone but his sister and her lady’s maid.

“Dine, must we really bring the table orchestrion? And those rolls too? That's just more weight with all the other stuff. We're going on a picnic, not moving to the Bobbing Cork.”

Oudine glances at Eddy who just grins, then looks at her brother wryly. “You're the one who

wanted to bring the rods and reels and your bow and arrows. Not to mention, you wrangle Chocobos for a living - a small instrument is hardly any burden.”

“Aha, so you admit it: I'm the one who'll be carrying the thing about.”

She rolls her eyes though she's smiling, getting up from her dressing table. “If the brothers Losstarot insist we bring no food - not even eclairs - we should at least provide some entertainment.”

“What, you don't think I'm entertaining enough for all of us?”

“I think you'll eat, nap and then harass the denizens of the river with your fishing rod, ignoring the rest of us.” She pauses as they all head out of her room, descending the stairs. “I assume there's a river by the name.”

Remont laughs. “By the Twelve, Dine, how have you never been there? I would think cousin Valtin at least would have kidnapped you on a day trip.”

She colours in embarrassment. “I was ill the one time our cousins went, if you recall. It was awful to know everyone had gone and I was stuck here with a head cold.”

Remont pats her head. “Poor darling,” he coos, then chuckles when she swats his hand away. “We'll even have you in Gridania any day now, just you wait. Speaking of which…” he grins, seeing Marceaux glide to the front door. “I do believe our hosts are here.”

~*~

Joshua stands alone at the door while Isillud waits by the carriage talking to the crow perched on his gloved hand. He adjusts his waistcoat and straightens up when the door opens.

"Good morning Marceaux, would you inform Oudine her royal carriage has arrived?"

Fury be thanked that Marceaux has almost perfected total control over every facial muscle he possesses, or he might have actually smiled at this. He merely bows, poker-faced, saying, “At once, milord. The Viscount and Lord Remont are-”

“Right here,” interjects Remont cheerily from behind Marceaux. He gives a wave and a grin. “Give us a minute to bid la grande dame goodbye! Marceaux, load the various sundries into the carriage, won’t you? There’s a good man.” Oudine waves beside him, offering Joshua a brilliant smile, before quickly disappearing inside.

Marceaux appears to also have perfected control over his subordinates since the two footmen left in the Aubemarle house appear from nowhere, picking up the various boxes and bags to further laden the royal carriage outside.

It doesn’t seem possible but the Aubemarle siblings do reappear in only a few minutes, still in high spirits for two people who’ve just had an audience with the Dowager.

“Goodbye, Eddy!” calls Oudine as she leaves the house.

Eddy waves from the doorway. “Have a lovely time, miss!”

Such is Oudine’s excitement that she forgoes her usual formalities, slipping a hand familiarly around Joshua’s elbow when she meets him at the carriage. “I’m so glad the weather turned out fine - it’s perfect.”

Remont saunters over, already enjoying the prospect of a leisurely day with good weather and pleasant company. He grins at Isillud and Wil. “Thank you for coming to get us, cousin. I’ve packed rods and reels enough for us, so I look forward to some good fishing.”

~*~

Joshua would have offered to help Marceaux, but the footmen pick up the boxes and bags before they even open their mouths. Seeing the amount of bags piling up begins to make Joshua slightly concerned. "They're not planning to stay for a week at the Bobbing Cork, right?" He asks his brother, meeting him at the carriage.

"I think they're just not used to travelling light," Isillud answers, occasionally pointing at places where the footmen can stack the remaining bags. "Remont does seem to let Oudine indulge."

"You talk about Remont like you know him well," Joshua's brows knit slightly, "Were you close before I was born?"

Isillud's ears take on a fine shade of pink as he glances at Wil scraping and examining its feet while staring back at him. "...Somewhat."

Joshua doesn't get the chance to ask further as Oudine skips out and loops her hand around his elbow. He almost pulls back in surprise but thankfully stops himself in time. "Hopefully the weather stays this way, but even if it doesn't I've packed something that should help pass the bells." He puts a finger to his lips, curled up in a knowing smile.

Isillud sucks his breath. "Fishing, right." He is not the one who spent their formative years next to the La Noscean waters. "I'll cheer you on when you trounce my brother with the larger fish."

~*~

Oudine raises both eyebrows, amused by this show of secrecy. She'd not seen such a look on Joshua's face till now. It would be good to get to know him and Isillud a little better, in easier surroundings than formal balls and parties, or her mother's drawing room.

“I have faith in you, Joshua,” she says smilingly, letting herself be helped into the carriage, even if her pants and boots don't make it necessary. At some point, they had fallen into the habit of using each other's first names, though the Viscount had yet to work up the gumption to ask Isillud if she too could call him Izzy, like her brother does. Maybe today, she thinks.

Remont gets in to sit beside her, looking over at the younger Losstarot with a grin. “Would the Shroud hold enough interesting catches after you've crossed the Rhotano?”

Joshua laughs. "I'm no fisherman but I think even the most seasoned fisher will tell you the Navigator never reveals all her secrets at once." The carriage driver wakes the chocobos and they begin the journey past the gates. "Which is to say, of course, there are myths that lurk in the waters of the Shroud, who knows if we're lucky enough to debunk one today?"

He looks between Isillud and Remont then asks, with light cluelessness, "Isillud seems to speak of you with some amount of fondness, were you close before I was born?"

Isillud chooses to look out the window and admire the white blanket of snow draping Coerthas's scenery.

In the opposite seat, something in Oudine goes extremely still, though she knows well enough to keep smiling. Trust your brother. You must trust him. And then perhaps throw him off Ishgard when he's not looking.

Remont blinks once, twice, glances at Isillud's serenity, and bursts into laughter.

“I'm glad,” he says, choking a bit, “that Izzy has fond memories of a distant relation!” He wipes a tear from his cheek. “We were close at a certain point, yes, but our acquaintance began after your birth.”

Remont looks over at his sister with a grin. Oudine's smile slips, when she sees the twinkle in his eye, and fills her own eyes with meaning only a twin could.

Don't you dare.

But it would be so diverting.

No.

Remont returns a beaming smile to Joshua. “I remain fond of your brother of course, as I do of you, and the rest of my cousins. I'm quite glad, frankly, about our reunion. Are you not?”

Oudine bites the inside of her cheek, both to keep from laughing and from jumping out of the carriage.

Isillud's face sinks deeper into the hand propping up his head, hiding his mouth from the others, staring intently into the snow as if he's on the lookout for stray Ixal or bandits.

It doesn't take Joshua long to figure out what happened. You. Fucking. Slut.

Green eyes narrow into slits, observing and judging Isillud so hard the Fury would object, but lest it sour the mood before they even reach the borders of the Shroud, he laughs along with Remont.

"Of course! You're the closest thing to family we have now, and I'm glad we get along. Really. Truly." He then weaves his fingers together, the webbed parts locking into each other. "You've got to keep family close, right, Izzy?" He beams at the other grey Elezen.

Isillud chokes, quickly looking at Joshua with a mortified expression. "Wha-"

“I think,” says Oudine smoothly, sliding a hand onto her brother's, and giving him a very quick pinch, “sometimes it's easier to love one's family when one is away.”

Remont, wincing from the admonishment, gives her a sideways glance. “This is about me isn't it?”

Oudine removes her hand, putting it back in her lap. She gives him a knowing look. “Do you really think you'd be able to weather Mamma with so much grace as you do now if you weren't in Dravania half the year?”

Remont pauses to consider this then shudders. “No, quite right. I would be guilty of matricide.” When Oudine frowns, he quickly adds, “I'm exaggerating of course.”

She turns to Joshua. “I'm also glad you've returned to Ishgard, and chose to reconnect with us. Though… I wonder if I might ask an impertinent question.”

"Certainly Oudine. There are no secrets nor impertinence between us." Joshua side-eyes Isillud with a barely-concealed smirk. "Right, Izzy?"

Oudine doesn't quite know how to interpret this interaction, or what to make of this dynamic. But they had worked together to help Rewelle, she is sure of that at least. There may be some things she will never know for certain, but one thing has caught her curiosity since the start of their reacquaintance with the Losstarots.

She hesitates, then asks very gently, “I'm sorry to cause any pain by asking, but… do you know anything about your eldest brother, where he might be or if he is… alive?”

The brothers look at each other, then quickly answer in unison: "He's all right."

"Has a business in Radz-at-han. Very successful." Joshua nods and smiles.

"His daughter's well, but his wife died fleeing to Ul'dah via Gridania. Very tragic." Isillud adds almost immediately.

"He's rich."

"Everyday people clamour at his house for succour."

"Whatever that is."

"Whatever it is he's giving, it works."

They give a final decisive nod. "Yup." Neither seem entirely keen to elaborate, though Joshua softens the cut a little with, "I'm sure he won't mind if you send him a letter."

"Just don't let your mother know."

The speed at which all of this is conveyed throws Oudine somewhat off-balance. Sydney, alive and a widower? A successful businessman in Radz-at-han, a place so far-flung from her, it may as well be on a different star altogether? But their youngest brother is the head of the house?

She offers a dazed nod. “I… I see. Then that's a relief, to have all of you well. I'm glad. Yes, ah, perhaps a letter later on.”

"It's indeed the Fury's blessing that we are all alive," Joshua replies. "If you're wondering, Sydney relinquished his role to me. We agreed that I would be the most suitable to bear the family name, being one with the least questionable reputation." For all his refreshing speech and demeanour Joshua maintains his knives well. Isillud however seems unaffected, accustomed to his brother's ways by now.

Remont laughs a little at Oudine’s reaction, less fazed by surprises of this kind both by nature and by experience. “I've to admit I've not been to Radz-at-han myself, and not many in my acquaintance can tell me much of the place either. What is it like?”

"Colourful. The aroma of spices in their food will make your mouth water, and that doesn't include the men." At the last part Isillud has a wistful smile on his face, thinking of a past tryst.

"From the humid tropical climate to its spicy food and colourful streets, it's an entirely new culture to experience. You wouldn't expect such a place between dreary Garlemald and Othard, but it is what it is." Joshua chimes in. "And that's not counting the progress they make in alchemy. I hope you’ll be able to visit when you're able, Remont. The stories you'll be able to tell are priceless."

Oudine’s brow wrinkles a little, hearing Joshua speak so bluntly. Though Isillud doesn’t seem to mind, and it clearly has been an established fact, it doesn’t seem quite fair to her to keep bringing it up. Excesses or no, he is still Joshua’s brother, the one with one metaphorical hand on the shoulder guiding him through the rifts and valleys of their highborn circles.

But then, she thinks, she doesn’t know Joshua’s personal principles nor any relevant history that would have him speak so. And they are family within a closed carriage. Perhaps he thinks it safe to speak freer than he would at a highborn gathering. Either that, or a couple of months in Ishgardian highborn circles have yet to teach him the wisdom of restraint, especially when it comes to one’s allies, something that her five years as Viscount has taught her is a precious asset.

She keeps her thoughts to herself, and lets her brother talk more. He asks the Losstarots for more details of Radz-at-han’s food, culture, its alchemical dealings and yes, its men too, receiving far more information than he could have hoped for. Those dark brown eyes of his spark with enthusiasm, and Oudine predicts she’ll eventually receive a letter from the East. Not so soon perhaps since he had promised to stay in Ishgard for as long as she needed, but he would surely get there in time.

“And the women?” asks Remont, purposefully ignoring Oudine who raises her eyes to the heavens. “Are they as colourful as their menfolk?”

Isillud blinks. "I didn't notice."

Joshua doesn't miss a beat. "All the same, but our experiences are bound to differ." He glances out the window and beckons to Oudine. "Look, we're in the Shroud now." Snow gives way to rock and gravel trails, the hills dotted with greens and reds. Even the beastkin they see are different; spriggans hugging their crystal chunks scatter about.

"Just past Florentel's Spire and we'll be at the Bobbing Cork soon."

Somehow I don’t think women are a forte of the Losstarots, thinks Oudine with amusement as she follows Joshua’s lead to look out.

Her eyes widen at the splash of colours, its vibrancy a profound change from all the ice and snow of home. The temperature, she suddenly notices with a jolt, has changed; her breaths are no longer visible as wispy clouds. It may even be necessary to remove her coat when they arrive at their destination. As the Chocobos run, she spots more creatures roaming and bobbing beyond, and she leans a little further out to catch sight of them.

“What are those strange things?”

Remont leans beside her. “Balloons - Voidkin.”

Oudine’s face takes on a sceptical expression. “They don’t look very balloon-like.”

Her brother laughs. “They float in a balloon-like way. They don’t do you any harm if you don’t provoke them, unlike that.”

Oudine turns to where her brother is pointing at a fairly large, dark, looming thing. Even from a distance, she can see a nasty looking tail and pincers. “Fury have mercy,” she says, eyes getting even rounder.

“Banemites, they’re called,” says her brother helpfully.

She grimaces at the sight. “I can’t imagine having to fight any of those.”

He grins. “They’re really not so bad after awhile. Their webs are used for all manner of things: mostly velveteen, but also canes and instruments.”

Oudine nods, feeling her inexperience in the ways of life so far from Ishgard’s noble houses. There is only so much reading stories and listening to others could do. Here is a vast world beyond hers, and three of them in the carriage live in such a place.

“How small Ishgard seems,” she murmurs, still staring out at the changing scenery around them.

Onto Part 2

(For the record, this was written in late April to mid-May; we were supposed to be on a break then @escherstrange-ffxiv texted me 'I have an idea (uh oh)' and a Gdocs link

It's just a picnic, why did it get split into 4 parts-)

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #isillud de losstarot #joshua de losstarot #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #william corvus #it got split into 4 parts because Gdocs clocked in at 56 pages #when they go picnicking they Go Picnicking

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escherstrange-ffxiv · 16 days ago

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Oh my GOD I FORGOT to post @archaiclumina's Starlight pics!

Thank you so, so much for indulging my request and setting aside time to make these, you made so many good shots of my babies (with bonus @housedeaubemarle's Oudine) enjoying the season.

Once again, thank you.

#ffxiv screenshots #escher strange #ireul aberystwyth #rossignol martinez #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot #oudine de aubemarle

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housedeaubemarle · 10 months ago

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A House Call

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv, without whom none of this would have existed in the first place)

Followed by 'A House Call: Epilogue du Oudine'.

~*~

"Sydney should be here," Joshua grumbles, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve.

"Probably for the best." Isillud thinks it wiser not to tell his younger brother of their brother's reply.

An hour ago:

Sydney's laugh was of a man who had suffered at the hands of House Aubemarle. It was long, sharp, and bitter. "HAHAHAHA good fucking luck," he said before the linkpearl fell silent.

Isillud's eyes narrowed at the fireplace, as if telepathically setting his brother on fire all the way at Radz-at-han. "Bitch."

"He could have given us some tips. I've never met the viscountess."

"Neither have I, Joshua." Isillud smooths his hair back, waiting for the door to open.

~*~

Marceaux, butler to House Aubemarle perhaps since the time of the Ancients, opens the door to two lanky Elezen gentlemen.

The eye first takes in an absurdly beautiful face on the right, accompanied by well-sculpted - youthful - features on the left. Another second of scanning addresses the similar bone structures, Duskwight skin, points of ears, and builds of the pair before him. Yet a third instant notes the ruffles of cravats and shirts, unobtrusive cufflinks and neatly pointed shoes, while filing away for future reference, certain wrinkles in cloth that either point to a household without laundry maids or worse: untrained servants.

“Our relatives, the Losstarots, are due tomorrow morning, Marceaux. We will not be home to anyone else till their visit is complete.”

“Very good, milady.”

He opens his mouth, just as the trained eye submits a fourth report: the pairs of eyes looking back at him - one impassive, one defiant - are shockingly green.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Whom may I say is calling?”

Joshua straightens his back, clearing his throat and whipping out a card in between his fingers. “Lord Joshua Losstarot and my brother, Isillud. We are here to meet with Viscount Aubemarle."

The card is a crisp white card printed only with his name and a coat of arms. He looks as dignified and lordly as a young man due to come of age in 3 days (figuratively) can be. Isillud simply nods and smiles at the butler.

Marceaux wordlessly and gingerly receives the tiny rectangle. He peers at it, absorbing that this is, in fact, the Lord Joshua Losstarot. Still holding the card respectfully in his gloved hands, he bows and moves aside to wave them through.

“Welcome, milords. If you would be so kind as to follow me, I will direct you to the Chantilly Room.”

He awaits acknowledgement of this, and at the briefest nod from Lord Joshua, neatly spins on his heel and walks down the hall at a moderate pace. He does not turn to see their reaction to the interior, though if one were to conduct an interview later, Marceaux would hardly dare suggest anything but satisfaction with the tasteful wallpaper of ivory striped with off-white, matching an elegant marble floor in swirling shades.

The door of the Chantilly Room opens to, indeed, cream-coloured curtains, off-white painted walls and carpets of a darker grey-blue. Within, on a low table opposite a pale blue sofa, sits a full tea set. Along the walls are ornaments of various styles and sizes on sturdy shelves, while two painted lacquer screens stand at a corner. A gilded wall mirror completes the furnishing.

“Please make yourself at home, milords.”

Marceaux waits for a count of five, trusting their lordships to seat themselves comfortably, before he closes the door with a quiet thud. From the corner of his eye, he sees the barest whisper of a skirt and hears a stifled giggle.

He represses a sigh - and the thought that Lord Joshua’s brother’s reputation precedes itself - before quickly heading upstairs.

~*~

Being away from Ishgard for five summers has dulled their aesthetics towards interior decoration. Joshua shifts his weight, rocking back and forth on his heels. "How long do we have to wait, Izzy?"

Isillud glances at the decor, taking in the details as he walks past the ornaments, mentally placing them in their possible places of origin. "You don't ask, Joshua. You just sit and look around. Gives you an idea of what to talk about." He peers at some. "Hingan teacup. Gyr Abanian charm. If they don't travel, their friends do."

"How do you know they didn't buy it?"

"You don't buy a single teacup, Joshua."

Joshua points to a row under the gilded mirror. "What about that miniature fan and those dancing figurines then? Took their friends long enough to realise what they liked?"

Isillud glances at the mirror, sighs, then sinks into the couch.

The wait isn’t as agonisingly long as Joshua anticipates. Barely two minutes after Isillud sits, the door opens again.

“Good morning, my lords.”

The woman offering her greetings is tall and fair, dressed in a blouse of soothing dusty blue with gauzy bishop sleeves, and black trousers. Waves of shiny, dark brown hair have been woven into neat braids, then pinned into a singular tidy bun; bangs frame either side of her face. Clear grey eyes crinkle above a pointed nose; lips coloured an inoffensive shade of cameo pink form a warm smile.

She stretches out a hand towards Joshua first, as is correct etiquette.

“I am Oudine de Aubemarle. I suppose we could be called cousins of sorts.”

Joshua straightens his jacket before taking Oudine's hand and barely touching his lips with it. "Joshua Lo-" he is interrupted by Isillud's cough. "-Joshua de Losstarot, a pleasure to meet you Viscount."

He steps aside for his brother. Compared to his, Isillud seems smoother, like he trained his entire youth for this moment.

"Milady." Isillud's baritone voice is like silk brushing across her hand. "Will your mother not be joining us?"

Oudine blinks. It hasn’t been that long since she’d received hand kisses as greetings, surely. Is she so accustomed to shaking hands on business that gallantry has become a surprise?

Focus, Oudine.

She keeps smiling. “She will, in just a moment. Her toilette requires a little more attention, seeing as the sons of her longtime connections are here.” Oudine gestures to the sofa. “Please, do sit. The staff will bring some light repast by and by, so we will have to contend with tea first. I hope red tea is to your taste.”

As her guests sit, and she picks up the teapot to pour, she continues. “If you don’t mind me saying so this quickly in your visit, hearing of your reinstatement was personally gratifying. I’m glad the Holy See is making what amends it can, though perhaps,” she looks up at them, noting the arresting green gazes of both brothers. “Such hurts will take a longer time to heal.”

"I shan't lie, it's equal parts relief and resentment," Joshua replies. "We can't even give a proper funeral for our parents and grandfather, but at least we have our home back." He shoots his brother a pointed look. "Not entirely, but I'll take what I can get."

Idillud picks up his teacup and inhales once before sipping. Leaning back against the sofa signals to Joshua he has no intention of carrying a conversation - he's only there to supervise the lord-in-training, nothing else - and so Joshua continues. "I do confess my surprise that you are the current viscount, milady." Joshua's voice is markedly younger, and with youth carries a tone of eagerness instead of nosiness. "I thought it would be your brother."

This is not a question Oudine has heard for a few years now. She takes a quick glance at Isillud, apparently absorbed in his tea. Is this the usual pattern? The older brother hanging back, the younger taking the lead? Then again, knowing what they do of Sydney, perhaps House Losstarot must needs rely on its youth. And youth, Oudine knows, requires training.

“I’m sorry to hear of your parents and grandfather. It is… difficult, when one does not have the chance to say the goodbyes one desires.”

She gestures invitingly to the sugar bowl, lifting its lid.

“As for Remont, let us just say it has long been an unspoken understanding in our family that birth is not necessarily the best judge of headship. My father’s passing was perhaps the culmination of that understanding.”

She smiles at the young man in front of her. For a moment, she remembers her younger brother as he had been ten years ago, though perhaps Joshua has more palpable vitality.

“I think, in that, we have something in common, Lord Joshua.”

“And what would that be, my love? Is the head of Losstarot too an insouciant younger brother?”

Oudine nearly drops the lid. She whips around to see the Dowager Viscountess herself standing in the doorway, attended by Marceaux. She is shorter than everyone present, but commands a presence that could even match the likes of Count Charlemend de Durendaire. Smooth, very pale blonde hair that borders on white is neatly put up. A wan but clearly inquisitive smile sits on her slightly wrinkled, but still clear, face, matched by a raised eyebrow. Two hands fold atop her cane, topped by a handle in the shape of a finely carved Hornbill head.

“Mother!”

The brothers stand and bow respectfully to the Dowager. “Viscountess," they greet, though only Joshua continues. "It is good to see you well." He keeps up the smile, waiting for the Dowager's response, while Isillud tugs his gloves up, checking that he is still wearing them.

The Dowager reaches out, not towards her visitors as Oudine had, but for her daughter. Marceaux has already melted away, shutting the door.

“Well as can be, praise unto the Fury,” she says with a sigh as Oudine dutifully takes her hand and escorts her eight steps forward to a sturdy chair near the sofa. “Remember not to get old, young men - it brings too many inconveniences.”

She sits, waving at them to do the same. Then silence falls, awkward and spiky, as the Dowager seems to read the Losstarots’ very souls.

“Hrrmph,” she says at last. “Whatever he believed, at least Cletienne's eyes outlived him. And you,” she nods at Isillud, “I see la incomparable again in your face, so clearly you have your mother to thank for your looks. Though your reputation is entirely your own.”

There is a slightly louder clink of porcelain, as Oudine turns from where she’s pouring a fourth cup of tea to give her mother an inscrutable look. The Dowager, sitting upright in her chair, returns an impassive glance, then turns back again to her guests.

“Well, Lord Joshua? You’ve not answered my question. Or perhaps I should seek answers from another authority on the subject, eh Lord Isillud?”

Isillud's cup rests on the saucer with another audible clink. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out from it; Joshua starts instead.

"Isillud is well aware that his reputation would not bode well for the house; hence why it was agreed upon that I should bear the title." The younger man flashes his brightest smile, "We are much alike in that we have overstepped our more-deserving siblings to wear our mantles, Viscount." His tone dances lightly over the sunbeams spilling through the windows.

Isillud doesn't look at the pair, merely smiles as the lanky man leans into the sofa, crossing his hands on his lap. "Hmph," he softly laughs, snow white eyelashes fluttering shut.

Joshua's shoulders relax, sloping just enough to be noticeable. "You must be curious about what we've been up to over the last five summers, we would be glad to indulge your questions."

The Dowager shows no sign of relenting. “Ah, so the answer is no. Insouciance isn’t quite the description. Dear heart,” she says, looking at Oudine who has continued to drop two lumps of sugar into the delicate cup she holds. “Your brother’s carelessness evidently is an idiosyncrasy of his own. You are to be sympathised with, it seems.”

Oudine mumbles a form of non-committal reply, simultaneously giving her mother tea, and delicately removing the walking stick for the old lady’s convenience.

Clearly, this was no longer the Viscount’s game. Though, to be fair, it hadn’t been from the moment she’d handed her mother the Losstarots’ formal letter of introduction a few weeks ago. Oudine glances again at Isillud, looking for some kind of solidarity between older siblings.

There is none to be found. The older brother appears to be fully meditating on the merits of some otherworldly matter. It is a shame, thinks Oudine, she can’t bring herself to do the same since her mother has started speaking to Lord Joshua again.

“Is there possibly anything more dramatic than the antics of the Warrior of Light and the Scions?” asks the Dowager, carefully stirring her cup. “Did you too ride a dragon overhead into Ishgard, guns a-blazing so to speak? Do tell us from the beginning; we are all attention, Lord Joshua.”

Joshua's laugh isn't of a carefree boy - courtesy and restraint swaddle it. "If there are I'm afraid I wasn't privy to it. My story is simpler than that: Taken under the wing of a trader, I simply learned the ropes of her business. Aside from the usual cargo she offered safe passages to refugees seeking to flee the Garlean occupation, when she abandoned it after Ala Mhigo and Doma's liberation I simply abided by her decision. There are other trade avenues to pursue after all." Joshua is less careful with his tea, even a tiny slurp echoes in the room. "Crude, but it pays the bills for now."

Isillud leans forward, nudging his cup towards Oudine. "May I have more tea, milady?" When she refills his cup, slender gloved fingers brush against hers when he lifts his cup.

"Joshua needs to learn. He will be fine. Breathe easy, cousin." Emerald irises rise to her eyes, almost glowing with a divinity that vouches for him.

His cousin wonders when he had the capacity to notice her unspoken pleas for help. She decides to question it later. The intense gaze and silken touch on the hand are distractions enough (and suddenly, Oudine reaches a deeper understanding with her brother).

“If it’s learning you both sought here, then you won’t leave disappointed,” she murmurs in reply, though as she returns to stand behind her mother’s chair, her posture is slightly more at ease.

The Dowager on the other hand, sips calmly as Joshua recites the undoubtedly summarised adventures of five years.

“My, my. Refugees from the Garlean occupation, Ala Mhigo and Doma. Your youth belies your profound experiences, young man. And the delicacy you’ve offered in your storytelling is appreciated but unnecessary.” Her dark brown eyes go straight through Joshua. “Pray tell what your trade entails currently. Aubemarle claims acquaintance with any number of lesser houses that deal in commerce, though we ourselves do not have such businesses.”

Behind her, her daughter quietly shifts her weight; the ease dissolves from Oudine’s spine.

Joshua's smile tightens, eyes set straight at the Dowager. He clears his throat.

"A variety of merchandise from the east. Thavnair, Garlemald, Dalmasca even. The trade routes are perilous and there is no shortage of demand from these nations." Sip. "I simply bring people what they want for a fee, I should be glad to give you our current catalogue should you wish." The legal catalogue is what goes unsaid in his explanation.

The Dowager tilts her head slightly. “‘Bringing people what they want for a fee’. What a simple explanation it is. Have you considered a different career, Lord Joshua? Perhaps a writer for one of our illustrious newspapers? Some of their pieces are so concise, they do the exact opposite of their express purpose: to inform the public. You would do perfectly, I shouldn’t wonder.”

A knock on the door interrupts the plummeting social temperature of the room. Marceaux silently glides in, bearing a tray full of small plates. Upon them are refreshments suited for a mid-morning interlude with distinguished guests: pastries that do not flake, but can be savoured in two bites, eclairs that aren’t overfilled so as not to embarrass enthusiastic eaters, finger sandwiches that make for dignified chewing.

(Thank the Fury for small mercies, thinks Oudine.)

The butler sets the silver tray down, right beside the teapot. The Dowager’s nod sends him gliding back out of the room.

“Do help yourselves, my lords,” says the Dowager smoothly.

Joshua laughs but the heat within tightens around his gut. He's running out of options to please her, and a choice reply remains at the tip of his tongue only because Isillud would likely kick him off the sofa if he said it. The introduction of desserts has done nothing for him, for he is mentally flipping through a notebook about what to do during social situations like this. Unfortunately, the book is still fresh and blank.

He turns to his brother only for him to notice two things: Firstly, Isillud has seen Marceaux. Secondly, the glint in Isillud's eye.

No, oh no you don't-

Isillud doesn't take his eyes away from the door long after the butler has left. He plucks an eclair from the plate and without so much as looking at what he's doing, places it at his lips and sucks the cream from the hole with no pretense what's on his mind.

Joshua's world crumples in on itself. If Isillud does not hide what's on his mind, neither does Joshua with a mortified expression on his face. He does the first thing he can think of to snap his brother out of his reverie: he elbows him really hard in the ribs. It works - Isillud jolts back to the room, blinking innocently at Joshua.

"What?"

Oudine de Aubemarle, with the seasoned practice of someone who has been trained to ignore that which couldn’t possibly have occurred in the drawing room of a highborn Ishgardian house, immediately speaks in her modulated, pleasant tone.

“It is good, isn’t it? Though he is our own cook, I must personally recommend Mr Ofanleitasyn’s creations. Lord Joshua, perhaps you might like to try a sandwich.”

She walks forward swiftly, picking up one of each kind to place on a small plate, then turns back around to the Dowager.

“I myself requested Cook to prepare these, Mother. They’re your particular favourites after all.”

The Dowager’s lips had already parted, perhaps to deliver a homily against the obvious dereliction of the world outside Ishgard and its regrettable influence on wayward young men. Something in the look she receives - hidden from view of the Losstarots - makes her put her lips back together and nod.

“Thank you, my pet. Such thoughtfulness,” she says, and even gently pats the Viscount on the cheek.

Oudine turns back, places two small sandwiches on a plate and offers it to Joshua. The smile that accompanies it, she hopes, would read as an apology and encouragement.

He must and will learn, yes, but the older sister in her cannot help herself.

Joshua whips over to the plate of sandwiches. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before mustering weakly, "Y...yes, thank you." He shoves a sandwich into his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose. If he cannot say anything he might as well have something in his mouth for it.

A second of watching his brother's reaction later, Isillud shrugs and takes a dainty bite from his eclair. "A Roegadyn, then? How long has he been in service?"

“Oh, ever since I can remember, quite frankly,” says the Viscount. She looks to her mother, who hands the younger noble her still-full cup of tea. Oudine silently puts it back on the low table, and proceeds to pour a fresh, hot cup.

“Mr Ofanleitasyn has been with us these last 30 years or so. One of my late husband’s many flashes of brilliance,” says the Dowager, the tone just ever so slightly more conciliatory. “He may be a Roegadyn, but his abilities produce thoroughly Ishgardian fare.”

The dark brown eyes of the lady gleam as she continues with, “If memory serves, your mother quite enjoyed a variant of Dzemael Gratin he made once in the past. I believe she was carrying your eldest brother at the time, and so could not attend one of our dinners. Seeing as it was her first pregnancy, she could not help but be cautious. We had a dish delivered over to her, and she returned a most gracious note of thanks.” She pauses a moment. “La Incomparable had excellent taste.”

The Dowager receives the new cup of tea from her daughter with an arched eyebrow. There. Happy? It seems to say.

Yes, returns the answering smile of Oudine.

Chewing slowly, Joshua blinks at the story. "Huh, I didn't know that. Did you know that, Izzy?"

Isillud doesn't answer; he narrows his eyes at the Dowager, lips thinned into a single line. Her words have stirred him though he clenches his fists and says nothing.

It felt like a slap, that this woman of distant relation would have a vivid story to tell of their mother. A reminder of their place: If only she knew what has become of her children. One a swindler, the other a harlot. And you dare show your face around Ishgard? For shame.

Isillud finishes his eclair and wipes his fingers on a handkerchief. "Come, Joshua. We have tarried enough."

"Huh? But we just started-" The look on his brother's face shuts him up. "Thank you for your hospitality. It was a pleasure meeting you both, we shall call upon your house in the near future."

He gives a quick bow and jogs after Isillud, who doesn't even bother with niceties as he heads for the door.

The Dowager silently watches the rapid departure of both young men with unexpected calmness, even having the presence of mind to set her teacup down on the table.

Beside her, Oudine is less able to control herself. “What-”

“Oudine.”

She looks at the Dowager, surprise - and since they’re alone, some hurt - in her face. “Mamma?”

The old lady reaches out, and instinctively, her daughter clasps her hand.

“I know I promised never to interfere in your dealings as Viscount. But I ask you to trust me when I tell you: do not run out to seek an explanation from them, at least for the present. Will you, dearest?”

Oudine purses her lips. Part of her is itching to do exactly that - to demand an answer, if not resolution, for this abrupt end to a visit she had had every intention of helping along. People she trusted had warned her, gently, about the possibility of these being impostors, of interlopers stealing the noble name of Losstarot, and the resulting connection to the Aubemarles. They had asked her to be extra cautious, knowing that the current Viscount de Aubemarle was inclined to see the better side of others, sometimes wishing to be right, rather than knowing she was right. She had wanted, dearly, to prove them wrong, to be able to say - firmly - that the new head of Losstarot is genuine, and that their claims are true. She still does.

The other part - the one which has seen her mother work what could only be magic on the dizzying social circles of Ishgard’s lesser houses, which has witnessed the Dowager Viscountess call on, and call out, rival houses no less powerful or influential than they, without batting an eyelash - makes her grip her mother’s hand tighter.

Finally, she asks, almost demands. “Did you tell that story of their mother on purpose? Did you aim at Lord Isillud?” Neither woman hears the front door of the house slam shut. The rooms are too well-built.

“If I aim at anything, which I will pretend to understand for the moment, logic dictates I ought to aim at the head sitting right before me,” says the Dowager. “No, dearest. My intention had been to give those boys a memory they could not have had; a keepsake now that they must step into their elders’ shoes.”

She looks back at the yawning doorway of the Chantilly Room.

“I forget that the young - especially young, “resentful” prodigals - may not look as kindly on memories as those of my age.”

After a moment, the old lady frowns. “House de Aubemarle can only claim to be far relations. There are others who are closer cousins, in higher places, and with even more accounts of the Losstarots as they once were. Lord Isillud will need stronger armour. And more flesh on his bones, if he intends to remain in this city.”

Oudine cannot help wanting a complete diagnosis. “And Lord Joshua needs…?”

Her mother snorts. “Time. And more polish in his address.”

Oudine shakes her head, before realising what the Dowager had said. She takes in a deep breath, releases it. “You were listening outside the door when I first entered the room, weren’t you?”

The Dowager makes no answer, merely returning the grip on her daughter’s hand. The Viscount can only sigh, and finally sits down for the first time since she’d welcomed the Losstarots to their home.

Still clinging to her mother’s hand, she says consideringly, “You believe them to be real then. They are the long-lost Losstarot sons, now returned.”

The Dowager looks surprised. “Of course, dear heart. No charlatan worth their salt would have stormed out so violently.”

A wave of tired regret washes over Oudine and she closes her eyes. “Then we have given offence to our own. And it involves their mother.” She opens them again to stare at the ceiling. “How on earth can we make amends?”

“My sweet girl, ever forgiving. Thus is the discourtesy already forgotten.”

Oudine lets herself frown, obviously and deeply frustrated, at her mother. It’s been a very long morning, no matter that the fiasco had really only lasted for all of fifteen minutes or less.

The Dowager smiles. “You are Viscount de Aubemarle. You will think of something. Besides,” she nods at her daughter. “You have their calling card, do you not?”

Oudine slips her free hand (it’s also annoying how she doesn’t even want to let go of her mother, despite everything) into a trouser pocket. She pulls out the innocuous white card Marceaux had given her, and stares at it.

“...hmm.”

As the Viscount thinks and plans, the Dowager leans forward towards the table. She picks up an eclair, snorts at a thought that has just occurred to her, and takes a delicate bite.

~*~

It is three days later, when there is a knock on the door of the Losstarots’ residence.

Ser Drouhont, Temple Knight-turned-steward, all of 7 fulms (possibly more) and pitch black skin opens the door. "Good morning. Whom shall I say is calling?" The wind whips his long hair about, thankfully long and heavy enough that it doesn't obscure his face.

Before this very impressive figure stand two Elezens, both in the livery of House Aubemarle. The darker skinned one wearing a small pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his face bows respectfully. The grace of his movement is unhampered by the neatly wrapped parcel in his arms. Beside him, a very lovely black-haired maid with dark eyes dips in a polite curtsey, a clearly laden basket despite its cloth covering, in hand.

“No one, sir. We are only here to present my lady Viscount Aubemarle’s compliments, and seek your goodness to deliver them to your master,” says the bespectacled footman in an even tone.

"My masters are unfortunately currently indisposed, but I would be glad to hand it over to them."

The footman bows again. “Thank you, we are most obliged.” He offers the brown paper parcel, secured by twine, to the steward first, before taking the basket from his colleague to hand it over as well. “Good morning to you,” he says with a last bow. The maid curtsies and follows the footman’s lead to go.

They’ve only gone a few steps when, right before Ser Drouhont closes the door, the maid turns back to call out with a brilliant smile: “Don’t ignore the box at least! It’d be a terrible waste!”

Drouhont hooks the basket on the crook of his arm, watching the servants leave with a confused look on his face. Within the house, Joshua leans over the banister halfway down the stairs. "Who was it?"

"Compliments from House Aubemarle with a reminder to not ignore the box." He looks at the twine-wrapped parcel with the same impassive face and flat tone. "T'would be a waste to do so."

That makes the younger elezen curious enough to take the parcel off Drouhont's hands and set it on the dining table. Drouhont puts the basket nearby, turning the cloth over to reveal its contents.

"Let's see what we have here…" Joshua muses, unfolding a blade from a pocket and starts cutting the twine.

"Oh-"

Joshua stops. "What?"

"Twine can be reused…I could use it to wrap my paintings…"

Joshua simply stares at his steward. He should be used to the man's airy comments by now but he was unpredictable when he wanted to. He shakes his head and continues demolishing the wrapper to get at the contents within.

Brown paper crinkles and rustles, falling away to reveal a perfectly square but good-sized, black, lacquered box. On its lid, a spray of flowers blooming from a shapely bough, made of inlaid mother-of-pearl, grows from the bottom corner. Closer inspection easily reveals that the box is made up of three layers and the mild sweet fragrance of baked goods begins to waft upwards. A thick looking packet sits against the box, along with a thinner, lighter envelope. On both, small wax seals, no doubt from a signet ring, bear the crest of House Aubemarle.

In the basket’s case, its contents are less enigmatic. Fresh fruit of various kinds sit within: Coerthan and mirror apples, La Noscean oranges, Lowland grapes, Pixie plums, even a few lemonettes. There is also a singular pineapple, most of its spiky crown carefully cut off for convenience. In the midst of such vibrant colours, the stark white of a small card stands out.

Not even Joshua can resist the allure of freshly baked goods. "She wasn't kidding about her cook," he says as he picks up the packet and envelope, using the blade to pry the seal open.

Meanwhile Drouhont removes the fruit from the basket and sorts it into an artful arrangement, mumbling to himself, "A fine still-life subject for a painting…Master Joshua, there is a card inside here too." He passes the card firmly held between his fingers to his lord, who now has three things to read.

The thin envelope contains a single-sided letter with the crest of House Aubemarle emblazoned in the top centre of the page. In other words, the official letterhead of the Viscount. The handwriting beneath is neat and evenly spaced, flowing in black ink.

To Lord Joshua de Losstarot, head of House Losstarot, & Lord Isillud de Losstarot,

I give greeting to my cousins both, and present our apologies for this late letter.

To come straight to the point, we ask forgiveness for treading upon sacred ground without care. While it is not lost upon us how hollow that may ring after what has transpired, please believe that it is meant sincerely.

What we should have conveyed that day, but did not, is simply this: words do not suffice for how your house has suffered great losses, in many respects. House de Aubemarle has no power to bring back what was, but we will assist - if you are willing, and should need it - in building what will be. The accompaniments to this letter are more concrete tokens of our friendship.

I hope we shall meet again in future, in more fortuitous circumstances. Belatedly, and truly, we welcome our cousins Losstarot back to Ishgard.

Yours sincerely,

Oudine de Aubemarle, Viscount Aubemarle.

Out of the thicker packet comes a small collection of papers and stiffer cards of varying sizes.

One of the cards is an elegantly decorated invitation. The space for recipients has been filled in by hand: Lord Joshua de Losstarot and Lord Isillud de Losstarot are requested for the pleasure of their company at a formal ball at the mansion of House Maintigny in a month’s time. Lady Oisinne de Maintigny is to be addressed should they accept or decline the invitation.

Yet another invitation, on a marginally smaller card but no less elegant, also requests the pleasure of the lords Losstarot’s company, this time at a musical concert, intended to showcase the talents of the newest protege of the Dowager Viscountess Philomene de Aubemarle. It is to be held at the Saint Llafymae Rooms in a fortnight, with acceptances or declines to be addressed to her ladyship at the Aubemarle manor.

Much smaller in size are four narrow tickets. Identically printed on them are admittances to the latest theatrical sensation of Ishgard, Cant and Candour. The tickets read that they are specifically for box seats on any night while the play is performed.

A folded note comes next, unsealed, so it can be opened to read, in the same ink and handwriting as in the longer letter: ‘The Viscount Aubemarle presents her compliments to the manager of the Lightfeather Proving Grounds, and with great pleasure, wishes to make known to your goodself my lords Losstarot, newly returned to Ishgard. Kindly make them welcome at the usual box whensoever they desire.’

Yet another sheet of paper similar in thickness to the note contains the simple name and address of Etoilier at the very top. Underneath the letterhead is a message from its proprietress who is delighted to know that their chance meetings in the past could be continued in a more formal fashion. Etoile Wintour reassures her lordships that new suits will be ready in good time before the Maintigny ball, and invites them both for fittings in three weeks. Though there is not much fear there since she already has their precise measurements. She presents her compliments and looks forward to their appointments.

And lastly, the smallest of the ‘accompaniments’ is a white business card. Upon it is printed ‘Marlstone Chocobos’ with an address in Ishgard below it, and another address in Tailfeather on a third line. Flexing it under the light reveals an embossed off-white crest in the upper right corner, that of House de Aubemarle. When turned over, there is a third handwritten message, in the same neat handwriting and the same black ink:

For any reason, if you are ever in need of a fast bird, bring this to the Marlstone office here. If in Dravania, seek out Remont. You will be given one of our finest, no questions asked, no charge. - O.A.

Once the detailed contents of the packet are perused, the last small card from the fruit basket is almost comical in its simplicity. The writing is in brown ink, and a cursive script far different from all the handwriting earlier. The message is brief:

You’ve only just begun. Eat, then fight.

Joshua shuffles through the cards growing increasingly perplexed. "Oh gods, there are so many events; do these people not do anything except socialize?!"

"That is indeed what they do, Master Joshua," Drouhont answers, carefully stacking the apples into a 3D pyramid. "Networking is very important in Ishgardian high society if you wish to remain relevant. Even a soldier of middling rank is expected to be present at the Forgotten Knight once a week at least."

"Drouhont, I can't attend all these on my own." He fans out the theatre tickets. "There are four tickets here and I don't appreciate music as much as…" His eyes follow the stairs, "Him."

"It matters not which Losstarot attends…only that one does." Drouhont frames his arrangement with his fingers, moving a fruit an ilm to the right to adjust.

"In case you have forgotten," Joshua's voice rises. "The other Losstarot is currently drowning in self-pity with only a blanket to maintain his modesty."

"You seem certain he'll always be crushed by the weight of the expectations he's failed, milord."

The younger elezen sighs, turning his attention to the box. He opens each tray to find out what's inside.

The first layer is a jigsaw puzzle of pastries: danishes, butter croissants, apple tarts, jam tarts, even a fig pastry or two to complete the picture. All have been made specially to fit the size of the box, and to be eaten in a single bite.

The second layer opens up to heavier stuff: currant scones give off a delightful scent of butter and sugar; slices of mille-feuille are artfully dusted with fine sugar and cocoa powder; a row of simple pain au chocolat sits with gleaming golden-brown skins.

The third and last layer is filled with nothing but eclairs, covered in chocolate icing.

Joshua twitches visibly at the tray of eclairs; he considers pushing it aside and bringing up only the first layers but changes his mind and slots the small card from the fruit basket among the eclairs before closing it up and lugging it upstairs. "Drouhont, bring the fruits up- on second thought, do as you like with those."

He kicks the door open; the crow roosting at Isillud's head caws in surprise and hops up to the headboard. Etienne turns and raises his eyebrow just slightly. Joshua Losstarot puts the box loudly on the side table and roughly yanks his brother's shoulder over to face him.

"Wake up, Izzy. You have a society to impress."

Isillud stares blankly through dull green eyes. Joshua removes the last tray and puts it in front of him. "See this? The dowager acknowledges you. Mother would've been proud." The crow tilts its head at the baked delicacies, plucking an eclair and gliding over to Etienne's work desk to pass to him.

Joshua grips his brother's chin between his fingers; the Fury lives in his voice, in the determination writ across his face. "You want expectations to live up to? Live up to the lord of House Losstarot's. Live up to mine."

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end

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#ffxiv oc #isillud losstarot #joshua treegarden #oudine de aubemarle #philomene de aubemarle #ffxiv RP #ffxiv oc lore #poor dear Oudine #she tries very hard

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