#lanvalloix

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 1: Crux

late because of course I get murdered by a persistent migrane right as FFXIVWrite starts I will break my ass to catch up

The brewer shut off. Esredes’ usual boots clicked across the white wooden flooring as he approached the table, wrapping his fingers around the handle of the teacup and pulling it out from the little machine as a small smile came to his face. Ah, the afternoon cup of tea. The instant brewing machine was quite the interesting little trinket, even if its tea quality did not compare to the traditional method. Even still, when Esredes’ thermos ran out, instant tea was much better than to spend the rest of the workday tealess. He returned to his desk and set the tea down to cool, returning his attention to the book in front of him he had been using to reference. The only job where you had to reference the law documents of Ishgard more than a Temple Knight besides Inquisitor was political assistance, he had long been convinced of this since starting the job. Luckily, Ferrant, ever the gracious employer, had written down the exact pages to reference in a little note, making the process much more streamlined than it would be otherwise. The space was nicely ambient when no one was inside. Beyond the occasional churning noises of the brewer, the idle sound of footsteps outside the door or in the offices on either side of him, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the murmurs of chatter muffled by the white walls, the only sound in the space was the turning of pages and the scribble of his pen. Just the perfect level for Esredes to maintain his optimal focus and continue on in perfect, mild contentment. That is, except for when the door opened and another person came in, which happened to occur just as Esredes was about to take his first sip of tea. In came a man of typical highborn dress who Esredes had definitely never seen before, shutting the door behind himself and folding his hands behind his back as he came and stood in front of Esredes’ desk. He had a little smile on his face that seemed pleasant enough to accompany it. “Good afternoon— Mr. Rosemond, correct?” Esredes took a sip of tea and set it down on the desk. “That would be me, yes, you have the correct office. What brings you here today? Please, pull up a chair if you would like,” he said, gesturing to the two available on either side of the desk. “Oh, I won’t be but a few minutes.” The man replied. “I was told you were someone to come to for a project I am thinking of doing. You hold the title of negotiating specialist, correct?” Esredes picked up his tea for another sip, his eyes drifting to the painting of the Path of Knowing displayed on the wall to his right a moment, before quickly returning to the visitor. “Specialist is in fact the way to put it. That being said, I am not on those duties at the moment, but, I still am happy to answer inquiries related to them. However, for direct requests, they have to be filed through the government first before they are assigned to me. All of this aside, how may I help you?” Esredes had a somewhat reliable system of telling the ways people asked this question by now. This man’s eyes were not clouded with hidden judgements, there was no slight tension to his body posture or way of delivery that were the telltale signs of knowing who he truly was. A lot of loyalists were very bad at hiding it. Instead, this must be mere business as usual. Wonderful, ordinary news. He had not yet had to remind people he wasn’t paid to entertain them by kicking them out of his office- though he had been sorely tempted when that blonde-haired abusive commander decided he had a right to walk in- and was content to keep the streak going. “Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said, doing a gentleman’s bow and then reciting his full name and title, most of which went right through Esredes as usual. “I have headed a number of construction projects for my house, as well as contributed to the Firmament. Recent developments in the Firmament have given me a spark of inspiration, but I wanted to get the word of a professional before proceeding to the next phase of my plans,” the man continued on in that genuine tone of unawareness, truly and simply trying to conduct a business meeting. “Admittedly, inspired as I was, I knew immediately I was out of my usual territory. But if you would trouble me to answer some of my questions, I believe I can make something great happen in due time.” Hm, all right. Esredes couldn’t help but smile slightly as he took another sip. He was listening. “I take it this idea of yours is one involving dragon kind, yes? By all means, go on.” “What can you tell me about Sohm Al?” Not Anyx Trine for once? All right, this was something different. Esredes set his teacup down and folded his hands in his lap. “Well, it is important to the dragons. It is known especially as a resting ground, somewhere dragons travel when they feel their life is slipping away. The entire formation is solid crystal, making it an interesting sight to behold and an even more interesting sight to set foot in, if one could. Unfortunately, with the Nidhogg minions dwelling around the place, I’m not sure when it will be that one can set foot on it safely.” “And that is the problem, is it not?” The man asked. “With his minions around, Hraesvelgr’s children cannot truly retake their place in Sohm Al. They still risk their rage coming down on them.” “They’ve been making progress on their own time.” Esredes said, picking up the teacup. “Give it due time, and Sohm Al will be clear again.” “We owe the dragons much for what our nation has done to them,” the man said. “And that is why this idea occurred to me. We should help them reclaim Sohm Al. What if we could turn Sohm Al into a paradise for man and dragon alike? That would be much like the old times, in which we can fix it up for them as a gesture of goodwill.” Esredes almost spit out his tea. Instead, he inhaled a bit too much of it, keeping it up at his lips longer than need be to hide this fact. Slowly, he lowered his teacup, and looked back upon the man. “I do see where you mean to go with this, I really do- but Sohm Al is not the place for it. Other locations in the Churning Mists, perhaps, but not there.” The man’s expression dropped a little. “Not Sohm Al? Why wouldn’t it be a suitable location?” “It is sacred ground to the dragons.” Esredes said. “Man building on it, however well-intentioned, would be disrespectful to the place. Trust me, I do believe in reintegration of the species, but there are some spaces the dragons need to have to themselves, and Sohm Al is one such place. Not to mention, any singular house’s efforts would take much too long to be worth doing.” “I believe you misunderstand my point, sir.” “What is there to misunderstand? You presented it pretty clearly. Just trust me, you want to leave the dragons to their own affairs on this particular manner. Human intervention may do more harm than good.” The man was silent for a moment. His expression dropped further, his smile disappearing completely and his eyes narrowing at Esredes. “I have to admit, for someone who works directly with dragons, your perspective is not as I expected, Mr. Rosemond. Can you not see the merit? Can you not see how this could reshape the future?” Esredes’ eyes narrowed slightly back at the man. No amount of tact could stop him from picking up on what those words really meant. But he utilized the best tool in his arsenal- he held his tongue just long enough to formulate his response. “I have no further things to say on the matter.” He paused to sip his tea. “You wanted my opinion as a professional, and I have given it. In the meantime, I suggest you look into speaking with Tarresson de Dzemael, difficult as it may be to get ahold of him. He may be able to provide you additional insights towards your ambitions.” The other man was silent for another moment. “Very well,” he finally said. “Have a nice rest of the day, Mr. Rosemond.” And then he quickly left, just like that. Esredes sighed and leaned back in his chair, draining the last of his tea. A small smile slowly spread across his face as the ambience of the room settled back in. The streak continues, Esredes told himself. I didn’t have to ask him to leave, he did it himself. All was peaceful and well in the office once more, for now. He but had a legal document to get back to consulting, and be carried back into the steady rhythm of the work until the next interruption. But first, Esredes got up and walked over to the brewer. He needed another cup of tea. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@sonofishgard​ for cameo mention! And of course, @heartofthefury​ for Ferrant

[ebrel]

A Sword to Die By

Ebrelnaux tasted acid on his tongue as the air began to sizzle, turning lights to black and mirrors to shine as windows to a void of swirling, faceless shadows. And he felt it again. The spear sinking wetly into his throat, cutting it open with evisceration, digging out his windpipe like a ribbon until he tasted his voice no more. His murder was a masterpiece. It was done by the best of its brutal profession. And as Ebrelnaux was murdered, his mind made him soak in all the details.

Details he never did see.

He imagined him. The face of his murderer—what the man’s hands felt like as they took his near decapitated neck and beseeched his face into the ground to crush away his features.

The Dragoon spluttered awake wet with sweat for company, grabbing his spear to deathly defer the black air space by cutting it with a clear, crisp and quick strike. And he stared as his spear met nothing in the air. He maimed no murderer coming in the night. No, Ebrelnaux boggled at the starless ceiling above his head. The inky, complete black that came with a sense of strangulation. He wondered at the warmth he felt—queer on his skin, and he wondered why he could see wardrobes made of dense mahogany, not the Highlands mountain-reaching skyscape.

Where was he?

Buried beneath blankets, the walls were pressing in. Sweat beaded from the Dragoon’s brow as he fought and fell and landed flatly on a rich, cotton-soft rug, clattering with his spear for half the grand house to hear.

He calmed himself. He forced himself to watch and wait for black things to filter free and turn several shades of saturated, colourless grey. And they did. Paintings, statues, richness surrounded him at every corner. Even the rug beneath him was a rare black bear, skinned to perfection to carry the beast’s ebony claws across the polished, glittering floorboards.

Lanval. He was sired to sleep in a manor Ser Lanvalloix never slept in himself.

It was a manor as much as it was a museum made to make the mind wander upon Ser Lanval’s privilege—to taste his riches and his family power. It was a stage as much as it was filled with rooms lining riches and baths ever poured by dotting servants, with lush beds to lie in. They showered their master with loyalty and love. A good lord, or they were paid well and fine from his pockets.

Ebrelnaux guessed at the latter of the two more than the first.

Presented with a bed made of soft down and layers upon layers of blankets and pillows, Ebrelnaux proved he could find no sweet kiss of sleep even here, surrounded by such soft luxury.

How long had it been since he last slept in a bed, truly? Ebrelnaux was born spoiled with riches, with glittering gemstones glided into the wood of his four-poster bed, never wanting for much unlike the dirt and soot smudged faces and swollen stomachs of those in the Brume. His was high society. Sir Lanval’s sort of society. But that was long ago. The Dragoon scarcely remembered when he last shared a bed.

Or — he does. The memory attached to it was a dagger with a barbed edge and crooked tip sawing for his throat.

Ebrelnaux caught light bleeding in through the bottom of his bedroom door. A golden glow growing ever greater. It started as a dim, murky mist but ended thick as butter as the bearer of the torch stood on the other side and waited. And the torchbearer remained silent.

Ebrelnaux wondered who it was. Who the two stunted shadows of slippered feet were as they waited and watched on the other side of his door.

He imagined it was Ser Jacques.

Ebrelnaux was, perhaps, thirty-five in his years—he had stopped counting after the Song and on his 30th year—and young was he for one of his surviving stock. Dragoons were always made young and made never to last — be it a bent and broken spine which sired them into retirement or shattered skulls sent like bags of flour to jagged rocks high above the snowy canopy of Coerthas.

And although he was a few fingers in count older than the man, Ebrelnaux saw the man as a boy.

Ser Jacques’ view of the world was precious like a child’s mind. The Dragoon wanted not for the man’s company for fear of corrupting it. He much preferred Lanval’s company — a man as death-seeking as himself.

The Dragoon caught wind of his face in the dark, glazed and glassy-eyed as a ghoul looking back through a tall, full-length mirror potted near the door.

The torchlight touched the Dragoon’s features as he stayed puddled on the bear rug, surrounded by spilt cushions and covers.

Ebrelnaux had the same sort of face as Sir Lanval’s brother?

Upon seeing him without his helm, Ser Lanval could scarcely look at him more.

If what the Dragoon had to mind was to come to pass, he would need to change his face enough for looking eyes never to note him nor recognise him. And make it so Ser Lanval had indifferent thought enough to watch his face as his hand turned to the city to play at her politics.

The first card had been placed upon the table — it’s your move next, Castien, Ebrelnaux thought as he watched his face and his silver-blue eyes turn slick and ever dangerous. He had murder in his eyes.

Will it be a killer sent with a spear at midnight or poison sent with wine this time? Ebrelnaux turned his eyes to slits and flitted to the torchlight still billowing through his door.

He will prove to be the son his father sired even if it sends the Dragoon to meet the ground faster than any of his aether-infused skydives.

He said it to Ser Lanval—

Once the deed is done, Ebrelnaux will fall upon Ser Lanval’s sword. Ebrelnaux felt it in his blood when Ser Lanval showed his colours true in the snow and sent down fists and violence—

Ser Lanval is like him. And that is the sword Ebrelnaux wishes to die by.

[sonofishgard]

Killing intent rings out through the atrium, clear and unmistakable.

Death. Soon. There will be death. Breathe while you yet may.

In the hallowed halls of the Holy Vault, a humanoid statue wreathed in the armored robes of Halonic ceremony inhales a deep, measuring breath. Spear in one hand, shield in the other. It waits, blending with the world around it, a coagulated shadow in the dark. One statue among others.

The graven image's digits scarcely twitch upon its weapon. Nowhere mouths chatter and screech, whispering black madness to the effigy as it does to the hearts of all men.

You will lose. You will die painfully to the intruders. They are coming for you. 

They know your name.

Still, it waits.

Silent and still, the effigy gathers its strength from the promise of death to come. Weak and misbegotten men succumbed to these whispers in their darkest hours; add their life-blood to warm baths and flap their arms when casting themselves from ledges.

Ser Lanvalloix of the Order of Monastic Knights needs only wait. Death will come to him. He will meet it.

He will meet it because his soul, a faceted gem of a red so profound that its translucence was lost, resonates with the promise of death and the mad search for it. His melody is one of ruthlessness, a chord in an ensemble of war. Light and dark whispers alike carry the same promise of annihilation.

The bloodsong quickens suddenly, resonating with killing intent, and the world goes bright with it.

Two men enter the room, boiled leather shoe soles not so much as whispering as their feet brush along marble. They can sense a wrongness to the room, but cannot determine why. They begin to search before risking to delve further within the bowels of the Vault with possible threats at their back.

A hand brushes the effigy’s chest and still it does not move. It waits. Bides its time. Immortals have no word for patience - and this ones purpose stretches into eternity.

The intruder backs away and the statue animates with a long step forward, spear swinging, its blade screaming through bone, hair, blood and brain as its arc takes a portion of skull with it. The body flops with twitches, long dead even before striking ground.

The second intruder is already on him, but mundane knives do not penetrate through armor meant to withstand a dragon’s talons. The second kill takes time. Dozens of strikes fall true to cripple and exsanguinate the enemy rather than kill them outright.

And when the second man finally dies, he returns to his silent, immobile vigil and sleep. The bodies being carted away do nothing to perturb his serenity.

Should the proper parameters be met, he would animate before consciousness fully blossomed. Reaction trained into instinct is faster than thought.

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 28: Bow

Moths were attracted to the light, but what was attracted to the darkness?

Esredes Rosemond, a shapeshifter just like any noble, or Ishgardian for that matter. It was all the matter of the game, and while he had learned it very early, he nevertheless hated it at many times.

It was his parents that taught him one of the key mechanics of shapeshifting. When they got going, it was in his nature to argue back, to devour their words so his own may find purchase. But it was a battle that could not be won, and only made the retaliation worse. It took until he was sixteen to fully grasp the strategy involved there and his place in the world. People responded better when he was quieter, when he didn’t let his flame show, when he gave the illusion that he was fully and willingly stepping into their court with many knives under his coat. A flame, after all, burned people, and people were afraid of fire. They preferred a small flame on a candle, something they believed would not cause a house fire.

And when you presented as a mere ember on a candle, they took you through more of the house, and you got to see exactly what you were dealing with. For they could easily blow you out just like that, but you could just as easily brush up against a piece of wood and start the fire. A delicate game, for a delicate balance, and still, he hated every second of it.

Sometimes when they blew the candle out, he was simply in no position to reignite and set anything on fire. They not only blew the candle out, but they took it out of the holder entirely and snapped the wick off, perhaps even the entire candle, and then asked it to do everything for them with nothing in return.

Sometimes the split candle simply went away. Sometimes it was forced to stay.

The list of names only grew over time. Alastor, who left him after declining to help him further only to come back when he needed help. Heilyn, repeating his son’s mistakes, coming back after putting a knife to Esredes’ throat and begging for him to help get rid of an Inquisitor he set on his own ass. More towards the present, there was Pyralis, completely rude to him for trying to help him only to come back begging in the most peculiar of ways.

He set these people on fire without remorse.

The sergeant who completely humiliated him in public, the witch who thought she could come back to him for help after calling him a monster only to throw that back too, the utter psychopath that was Ivarault coming into his office, the Inquisitor who harassed him begrudgingly trying to ask his help only to then try to humiliate him further. He would set all these people on fire without remorse too, but he wasn’t a powerful enough ember to do the job. At least, not without the little candle being eviscerated completely.

But that was the role of a candle. It gave light, it set fires, it was discarded as a common household item. Candles were made to be burned out.

Esredes had seen his fair share of candles that burned much more beautifully than himself, as well, so much larger and more refined than his simple little one. And each time he saw them, he was fascinated by their presence.

Except for Ferrant, anyhow. That had been a candle that snuck up on him when he wasn’t prepared, and Esredes was afraid of being burned alive. It was hard not to, it was during one of his first trips back into the city after his pardon, he wasn’t even wearing red, and the man had just walked behind him and asked his name as if any random person would do something like that. So bright were his words, but all Esredes could focus on was the fire. I want you to work with me, had been the crux of his words. And when he told him he was uncertain he could come back to the city at all, he launched into a little rant of questions about what Esredes wanted from life, if he wanted to start a fire and do something meaningful, that he had many choices to think about. No fucking shit. Is this the life I am thinking of leading? Esredes had thought to himself in that moment. One where nobles will just take advantage of my weakness to get me to do their bidding? No, then perhaps coming back was a bad idea. Perhaps he should stick to the wilderness. Yet somehow the Lord seemed to pick up on his distress, and was quick to apologize multiple times. Ferrant was a bright candle, but he was too enthusiastic for his own good sometimes. Even still, his flame was mesmerizing despite its imperfections, and for a while Esredes perched like a moth right behind the flame of this man a few years his junior. I can’t let Ferrant down. I must prove myself to him or else. It was just his overactive mind, though, in the end. Ferrant didn’t need to be impressed, and he realized in time they were but similarly sized candles. So the moth fluttered on to other flames.

He only seemed to seek out a specific kind of candle each time. There was Kalas, the Emerald Atoner, who he recognized was not exactly a perfect flame either. But nonetheless, he had drawn him in with all the talk of how heroic Esredes seemed, how the man seemed to be able to be so open about his bloody past and instead become a public hero- how did he do something like that so perfectly? Regardless, Esredes’ heart had cold spots, and he craved the warmth brought by him. He stuck his hand right next to the flame and let the warmth be almost scorching. He would have probably burned himself, if not for the selective presence of the man limiting his exposure to the flame. And by the time he saw it again, once more, it was just a flame like any other. Kalas was a fun presence, but he was just that, a man, a friend. Esredes could feel the heat without being so close now.

There was that Au Ra knight, of all things, who had saved him from an angry loyalist in the Brume. He truly was a shining example of chivalry, something Esredes himself could only be in awe of, but he was just that, an encounter that went with the wind.

As time went on, Esredes didn’t find himself coming so close to the flames he found particularly bright as before. Here and there he stepped a little closer, but he left it at that. And then one day out of the blue, he stepped into the presence of an incredibly radiant candle. It was just a man having lunch near the Fortemps manor. Nothing more than a wave, if a man was enjoying himself, who was he to deny him the pleasure? Only for him to be addressed back by name, and given a name that was nothing but chatter around Ishgard to him before. High Inquisitor Alphinoix Luitomiere. Most Inquisitors were soulless husks, enemies for Esredes to try and bring down, but this one was a true pillar of justice and anti-corruption, perhaps one of the only true Inquisitors in existence. Yes, for as measured and polite as his demeanor was, he could see that shining silver and blue candle. It had to be one of the most bright flames he ever saw, even rivaling Ysayle herself. Still, he was absolutely going to be burned to a crisp if he got too close, no doubt about it. Righteous or not, he knew he was not exactly a holy pillar of justice himself. So he maintained his distance from the flame, only for said flame to ask him for help. To spend time in the Blue Room, away from the prying eyes and ears of Ishgard, to finally talk to someone he decided in that moment he trusted. Had the man just stepped right into Esredes’ meager flame, asking him not to burn him? So the man went to you, Esredes said. So he wanted to be a person and not a High Inquisitor, that was fine. Esredes had a task now, to treat the man as a colleague and peer, and he was going to place himself at the optimal distance from the flame. Close enough to warm one another, but far enough so he wouldn’t plunge himself right in. He told himself this over and over as the taste of flames beckoned him closer. You could expect nothing but what was given from a candle like that. It was more than enough to do one’s part to be sure it kept burning.

And when it was all said and done, there Esredes returned to candles like his own, ones he knew well. The flames of his circle of trusted associates. His flame helped light all of their wicks and keep them burning, without setting them on fire. Esredes held each candle close in his hands and fanned the delicate flames of each one.

Yes, the most comfortable candles were the ones you knew would never draw away from fueling themselves on your own fire.

—

@thecalmnessandthestorms / @heartofthefury Alastor, Heilyn, Ferrant

@1emon-vii Pyralis

Kizo Lanvalloix (unnamed mention)

Sere Ymiraude (unnamed mention)

Arius Ivarault

Zenith Alphinoix

Star Brenciar (unnamed mention)

@emeraldeorzean Kalas

[ebrel]

Something silver shot like diamond dust and set Ebrelnaux from his lump to meet something solid again.

 Ebrelnaux was stood on a plateau. A thin, plummet-promising slab of stone jutting out from the Vault like a crooked arm beckoning in the coming dawn. Several layers of the same spun beneath it, circling the Vault itself. Pink and burnt orange hues were beginning to win a war with the long night, ushering in the first bloody colours of sunrise.

 But damn it all, what was that?

 Ebrelnaux dared test a step across the plateau. He wanted most to reach Lanval. They were separated by some yalms.

 But he was too late. Something was wrong. Ebrelnaux could feel it in his bones and he could not clear the distance fast enough. He was paralysed with the same fear he had as a boy. The boy, ever eager in the snow, quivering as he held his first wooden weapon at the heels of his lord, pretending in his boyish brilliance to be a man when fear had him by the throat.

 “L-Lanvalloix,” Ebrelnaux barked, the whip was in his voice again, each word a crack, “down, damn it, r—!”

 Lanval saw it first—a form which released itself out of the night, so quickly did he appear to shift and become from the sky a man. Was he always there? Close enough to taste the mint on his breath and feel a breeze each time he billowed by? Ebrelnaux had no room to ponder for the shadowy figure blinked wickedly fast, coming behind Ebrelnaux and using the man’s distraction to aid in the sudden steel the stranger had to hand.

 “Clip a bird’s wing,” the stranger said, dragging his blade through drachenmail in a hunt for Ebrelnaux’s blood, “and watch him fall.” And down. Down Ebrelnaux fell. His leg cut, bleeding, gushing with crimson as a lower layer rushed up to greet him hard.

 He landed all wrong. He was not moving anymore.

 And as the dark swam in and out, Ebrelnaux was certain he saw blue wings.

   Ebrelnaux saw a face with green, worldly eyes and a wickedly barbed dagger in his hand which dripped with crimson. Blood splatter sprayed up his arm. It was that scene again. Of walking in to find your companion broken and beaten and dead. But it was not him this time. It was Lanval.

 Ebrelnaux stirred from his nightmare with it still stuck between his teeth, coming to flounder beneath the sheets only to feel something solid, something warm, something absolute by his side.

 He caught a scent of clove first before he realised—

 Lanvalloix was there. He was breathing and sweetly living. Exhausted after meeting with a red raven, gold their stage, and a promise Ebrelnaux was not prepared nor ready in his heart to face him.

 He should be dead.

 Liar. He was always a liar—green eyes, a handsome face, and a mouth spinning lies like a spider spins its silk. The betrayal. Hurt. Confusion. It flashed and smacked at Ebrelnaux’s tired mind, pulling in pain and pressure to rattle beneath his skull. And try as he might, comfort was no friend of his tonight.

 Lanvalloix had worked his magic fast enough. His light-blessed tricks which turned a wound completely closed and stitched together the skin. But wounds were superficial. Ebrelnaux will host a limp for a few days, perhaps a scar if Lanvalloix fumbled in fret to heal him—which he never—and he will survive for another day. Another day being lied to. Another day not knowing what any of this meant.

 He shifted.

 Lanvalloix spread long and warm within their shared bed. Soft and sweetly asleep. And wordlessly, a proud man made of drachenmail and forged from the Song sought to seek comfort by reaching for cloth, and then by slipping in and slotting into place behind him. He wondered whether Lanvalloix was too lost in his sleep to notice this. Notice how gentle Ebrelnaux’s hands were as they moved with purpose to secure Lanvalloix to his side. Limbs tangled. Ebrelnaux caught a whiff of soap and clove close to a pale neck near where his nose came to rest. And all felt a little right again—just enough, at least—like a glint of dawn coming in to wan out the night. Here, he found relief.

 Moonlight poured like liquid through the tall windows, curtains shoved aside. Lanvalloix did that for him—gave Ebrelnaux a beautiful slip of a star-studded sky.

 A fever slowly crept into being, pulling Ebrelnaux beneath its wings. No dreams dared to stir with a blue-winged creature by his side.

[sonofishgard]

the basics ––––

NAME: Lanvalloix Prejugaire de Dzemael

AGE: 41

ETHNICITY: Ishgardian Elezen

GENDER: Male

SEXUALITY: Celibate

CARRD: https://lanval.carrd.co/

physical appearance ––––

HAIR: Blond

EYES: Lilac Purple

HEIGHT: 6′8″ft / 208 cm

BUILD: Muscular

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: A scar along his right cheek and across the jaw. The fanciful tattoo on his left eye draws some attention away from it.

COMMON ACCESSORIES: Halonic rosary commonly wrapped around his sword hilt. He also wears a copy of the Enchiridion at his belt.

personal ––––

PROFESSION: Chaplain, Knight

HOBBIES: Training, drilling, cooking

LANGUAGES: Common tongue, Elezen,

RESIDENCE: Temple Knight barracks, Ishgard

BIRTHPLACE: The Pillars, Ishgard

PATRON DEITY: Halone, the Fury

FEARS: Betrayal, excommunication, breaking vows, redundancy, the Warrior of Light, the Echo

traits –––-

extroverted / introverted / in between

disorganized / organized / in between

close minded / open-minded / in between

calm / anxious / in between

disagreeable / agreeable / in between

cautious / reckless / in between

patient / impatient / in between

outspoken / reserved / in between

leader / follower / in between

empathetic / unemphatic / in between

optimistic / pessimistic / in between

traditional / modern / in between

hard-working / lazy / in between

cultured / un-cultured / in between

loyal / disloyal / in between

faithful / unfaithful / in between

additional information ––– –

SMOKING HABIT: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

DRUGS: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

ALCOHOL: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

[sonofishgard]

Night Terrors

Time spent in the trenches of the Ghimlyt Dark had gifted Lanvalloix with a talent found only in career murderers and the vanquished. He could wake at a moment's notice, shedding sleep quickly and rising from his bed armed.

In the few seconds that followed Ebrelnaux’s clamor, the master of the house had performed a quick check. There was a trench blade in his hands that he could not remember drawing, which meant that his hands were free to twitch towards the sword sheathed at the underside of his bed. Weapons secure. Senses unperturbed. 

His vision began to make sense of the shadows of his bedroom, congealing them into comprehensible shapes. Wardrobes. Suits of armor. Clerical robes. Walls lined with weapons. Tapestries from Ala Mhigo, screens from Doma, and Legatus’ helmet. Memories of a time not so long ago - trophies of war.

Memories and trophies of days he longed for.

All seemed well at a glance, but all could not be well if he'd wakened so suddenly.

The Elezen stole out of bed, spinning the knife in his grip so that the dull side of the blade would lay flat against his wrist. He was a big man, to play at games of stealth. Taller than many of their kin, with a form littered with age old scars and wiry muscle. Pain from injuries sustained the previous day brought the world into focus.

Clarity through pain. He had been raised in the same savage school of thought as Ebrelnaux.

His steps were muted. Over time, he had come to know what boards would strain and creak when measured to his weight. Each one of those empty suits of armor could hide an enemy. But he sensed none.

Progress was slow and lack of continued racket made tracking difficult. It reminded him of countless nights spent patrolling the Holy Vault’s gilded halls. He shone brightly, in those blessed days, when one’s word was bond.

Lanval did not shine so now: he’d put Ebrelnaux in his own room out of pettiness and despair. The Dragoon would be better suited for Ilbeaux’s quarters, in which the Chaplain had slept only moments before. The room boasted a grand window which a man of Ebrel’s skills could use as an entry and exit point. But he couldn’t bear the thought of it. It was terrible to look into his late brother’s face. If the man slept in his room or wore the clothes fitted for another, he might begin calling the wrong name.

Firelight dancing down the hall flattened him against the walls suddenly, bidding him to squint  and strain to listen. An impossible thought lanced through him: would Ebrel need to answer a blade with his name on it?

He watched as the figure lingered by the door. A shift of grip, the chaplain poised to throw his knife. The light grew faint, wandering in the opposite direction. A look was hazarded down the hall, detaching from his armored color to watch as the lantern was carried away to the ground floor.

The patrol continued with the blade clutched between two digits. Slinking past his - no, Ebrelnaux’s - quarters, and into a parlor that served as the centerpiece to the second level of the manor. It was smaller than the one on the first floor, lacking in grandeur and flourish in favor of accommodating bookshelves. Nothing out of place.

Rather than engage in a staring contest with a woman three hundred years dead, he pressed on.

Doors came and went. Around and around the perimeter. Jacques’ room, powder room, storage, staircase to his right, Ebrel’s room down the way, staircase down the hall.

Still, nothing. Rather than sulk back to his quarters, disappointed with a lack of bloodshed or evening drama, Lanval entered the parlor and eased himself into a grand chair. The Knight scoured the room, caught the determined glare of an ancestor’s portrait and sighed.

He would stay for hours, a silent protector twirling a blackened blade, waiting to greet the dawn of a new day.

[ebrel]

To Ser Lanvalloix

A letter of crisp repute sits scented with vanilla and musky flowers. The writing is of a rich, well-practised hand. Loops and curls and unnecessary flicks roll throughout the writing, painting the picture of a hand that spent a good portion of his time in study for letter making.

The ink is deep red rather than black.

Ser Lanvalloix Prejugaire—

 Fair tidings. I pray to the good goddess that your health is fine and fit. That Halone and Her will sees you at your strongest, at the peak of your charms.

 Though I trust no such soft swill shall risk being found by the end of my ink’s scrawl, for that is not the reason for this letter.

 To exchange pleasantries—neither of us have the spare time for such sweet succour. Instead, let us not waste parchment and ink and reach the reason for my writing.

 I am Castien de Clermont of the House Durendaire—and I do believe you host a dead Knight Dragoon in your house—a rat by the name of Ebrelnaux. My brother. Though perhaps he calls himself something different. A bard to his own dead melody, his lies no doubt kept decay from his flesh for the several years I thought him locked within his ivory tomb.

 I know not the lies which wet his lips or to what he calls himself.

 Do you think I care to ask? Such a tricky thing, speaking to the dead. Had I the foresight, perhaps I would write to my brother rather than see this letter delivered to your deck with a rogue’s finger press. But he will burn it rather than read it, and I need your eyes to feast upon these scribbled words so you might hear my warning.

 I buried my brother and took the mantle he was ill-fit to wear. Push aside our family politics, that black butchery which is our promised hierarchy. I am the eldest son to rule the roost and find purchase upon his house’s throne. Through luck and chance, a dagger took Ebrelnaux’s throat and left him bloodied. He died in his ever snow. And there, by law, he remains.

 Why do I mention laws? Because Ishgard meanders well with them. Laws are what governs us.

 I speak of law for that is the simplicity of it—his death certificate is solidified. The House took to the black for six months in mourning of his passing. And now I feel thrums across the spider webs I have stretched out across the city. A sensation of his violence pinging down silver moon-soaked threads—of my brother taking his spear to hand and fighting for the good honour of a murderer in a trial of combat seen before the Tribunal.

 Make this stop.

 If you enjoy having a pet dragon-slaying rat in your house, make this stop.

 Question less. Tug at his leash. Keep him occupied on other matters so he might be blind to answers he is seeking.

 Consider this my warning. My threat. If you enjoy sucking in air between your teeth, then further you will enjoy keeping Ebrelnaux out of the light he is heading toward. For neither you nor I will survive the fire he will summon when he meets the sun.

 Keep the rat in his cage before a second knife slithers across his throat in the night.

 Or yours.

 For the Fury,

Ser Castien de Clermont

[ebrel]

Castien was a waif. He was ill. And Selest, who had been summoned here with no known topic set for discussion nursed her nerves in her belly in secret. She was a mistress at these games. At delivering insults behind simpers and smiles and leaving just enough of a jab to make someone walk away and wondering whether she complimented them coyly. Or insulted them down to the ground with clever words.

It was her game.

But she struggled to play to Castien’s rules.

Her elder brother had spread out a feast for just two. Baked bowls of roasted vegetables, honey-glazed ham and treats ranging from her favourited sweet carrot cakes and steaming pies with melting middles. Selest did not know where to start. Or if she was even allowed to. She had been ushered into the house by a steward who said little. With his crescent moon spectacles perched on the tip of his slip of a nose—the steward watched her in the corridor as she stood and waited for assembly. And he stalked after each step as if he feared she might swipe a silver candlestick holder as she made her way to the dining hall.

Frankly, he was beginning to aggravate her to the bone.

But all of that was wiped right off as Castien entered the dining room.

He looked dreadful.

A pale, wan complexion with a delicate grimace pinned prettily in place. Castien moved to sit where Father once sat—in a chair meant for Ebrelnaux. And he sat looking so small and so thin, so delicately soft that Selest found herself frowning and worrying about the health of a brother she hated.

Her digits twirled around her skirt beneath the table.

“Selest,”—Castien lifted wine to his lips and stole a sip— “you might begin soon before your favoured foods grow cold.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Pardon me?”

“Why have you invited me here—no, forced me to be here to watch you waste food? Can you even eat? You look sick, brother. As sick as a meek chocobo. You have no ice in your eyes. You do not love me. Let us not pretend, sweetest big brother, that you care to idle over tea in my company and hear well about my daughter.”

Selest stared down the long table, eyes as thin like a dagger.

“What do you want?” the young lady asked.

“I wish for you to deliver a letter for me.”

“A letter? What am I? The Holy See’s blessed pigeon post?”

Castien folded his fingers over the table and waiting in quiet. His servants knew this quiet. They knew to fear it. They flooded from the room, escaping out of their little servant doors, and leaving their master to sit with a heart popping and hissing behind him.

His silhouette was red with the lights from the fire. Castien’s shadow danced.

“Who is the letter for?” Selest asked, tongue toying with an answer. “Ebrelnaux?”

“No,” Castien muttered, lips red with wine. “Ser Lanvalloix.”