#mayhaps one day ill properly fix this up

[bonez-yard]

So late on this-

This is for RadioApple Trick or Treat day 1: Vampire!

I was gonna have it colored and whatnot but um,,, yea-

Please do not STEAL/COPY/REPOST my art!!!

[essektheylyss]

How about a "wearing their lover’s clothes" one, though going out of intent here: mayhaps Essek wearing something of Caleb's because Essek's wardrobe is a little oh-so-conspicious? 👀

this turned into a bit of Fjord friendship but I could not imagine you would mind lol.

This bedroom of the building Fjord has rented for them all to lay low for a while is smaller even than the one he had occupied at the outpost, and a far cry from the cool, dim room of his own now-empty home, but the ocean breeze that meanders lazily through the open balcony doors makes the summer’s heat almost bearable, and the linen curtains that it catches on shade the room from the harshest of the morning sun.

“You should change,” comes the whisper at his back, as he peers through the curtain into the narrow side street below, as bare arms snake around his waist, and he leans back into Caleb’s chest, humming softly and letting his eyes close for a moment.

“Into what? I have nothing here besides what I had with me in Aeor, and none of it is suited for the Menagerie Coast.” He has already shed his fur-lined cloak and mantle, and Caleb fumbles with the clasp of his outer robe, leaving him only in his base layer, and he is reminded again of how different the Coast is from where he has just left, where even one layer of wool is too warm.

“Jester is already planning a shopping trip, but you cannot wear this.” He tugs at the thick sweater that Essek still has not shed. He has abandoned a lot today, and he is not excited to lay himself wholly bare here, a final rejection of everything he has just left.

While he retains the clothing he wore before their hasty and unannounced teleport out of the outpost, he can pretend like maybe if he cast a spell, he could return, that things would be the way they were, even though he knows it’s not true.

Caleb’s arms wrap tighter around him, and he shivers as lips press into his hair. He has to wonder how a part of him can even consider that the way things were was preferable to this.

He pulls the sweater over his head and drops it with the other lined, heavy clothes he has shed. “And what do you propose I wear instead?” he asks, crossing his arms over his now bare chest and turning to face Caleb, who raises an eyebrow.

“Well, I thought you may want to borrow something of mine.”

Essek slouches just a bit to stare up at him, emphasizing the sizable height difference between them. “I don’t think your clothes will fit.”

“My shirts will be a bit large, but they’ll be fine.”

“I can’t exactly forgo trousers.”

“No, I suppose not.” Caleb grins wickedly, and Essek momentarily considers kissing him to wipe the smirk off his face. “I bet I know someone who could alter a pair of pants, though.” He pulls a copper wire from his pocket and speaks into it. “Fjord, we could use some assistance, if you have sewing supplies somewhere in your tool kit easily accessible.”

Essek blinks. “Fjord?”

“Of course.” Caleb lets go of him and turns to the bed to rummage through his things, unceremoniously dumped there an hour earlier by Fjord himself as he had distributed the contents of their recently-retrieved bag of holding. “He says he’ll be right up.” He holds up some well-worn brown trousers, and offers them to Essek. “How about these?”

“Anything is fine.”

Caleb grins again at his resigned voice as a knock echoes on the door, and Fjord pokes his head inside. He raises an eyebrow as his eyes find Essek, taking a seat on a chest at the end of the bed, and Caleb, still sorting through clothing, both shirtless. “Can I help you? Tell me you have a favor to ask that will get me out of this shopping trip.”

Essek barks a laugh. “It is quite optimistic of you to think your girlfriend will allow that.”

“Essek has nothing to wear, so I thought I’d lend him something of mine, but he is of course, ah—“

“Short,” Essek offers, deadpan, and Fjord laughs this time.

“Well, you’ll have to put the pants on for me to fit them, but yes, I can make that happen.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and unfolds a small leather-wrapped sewing kit, setting pins on the nightstand as Essek awkwardly shuffles to Caleb, where he is at least somewhat out of Fjord’s view as he changes. The pants that Caleb offered are at least six inches too long, and a bit large in the waist, but admittedly less ill-fitted than he’d expected.

Fjord beckons him over and pins the hem, and Essek stands perfectly still for several minutes in silence. He is familiar with getting fitted for clothing, but he is not particularly comfortable when it’s a friend doing the fitting.

“This is the quick and dirty method, and you are, somehow, not nearly as disproportionately skinny as your boyfriend, so I’m not going to bother much with the waist,” he says. Essek flushes further at that, and Caleb coughs behind him. “It will be a bit of a shit job, but it’ll work well enough for an afternoon. If you are attached to this pair of pants for whatever reason, I can do it properly tomorrow, but Jester threatened to start baking if she does not get out of this building within an hour, and then the entire day will be lost.”

“Is there anything here to bake with?”

“Yeza and Veth already returned with their groceries, so I imagine she will go knocking for some flour soon enough.” Fjord pulls back. “Okay, you can take them off now.”

Glad of the warmth, Essek flushes and strips the pinned trousers carefully to avoid getting stabbed. He puts his own pants back on in the meantime, even with as hot as they are, and Fjord gets to work.

“Where did you learn to sew?” he asks, taking a seat on the bed and helping Caleb organize the pile there, keeping an eye on Fjord’s deft stitching.

“Fjord was a sailor,” Caleb pipes up, but Fjord shakes his head, barely glancing up.

“It was certainly a useful skill on a ship, kept me in the good graces of whatever crew I happened to be a part of, but I learned to sew at the orphanage. Otherwise I wasn’t going to have much in the way of clothes, as fast as I grew as a child.”

“Orphanage?” Essek blinks. “I don’t think I knew that.”

“No, I don’t believe you did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not something I speak of often. It’s not far from here, actually.” He speaks around a few pins in his mouth easily. “Caleb, these are very worn out. They’re going to need a patch on the knee soon enough.”

“Ah, yes, they are… they’re the first pair I stole after I escaped.”

Fjord raises an eye at the pair of them, landing on Essek, who fidgets again.

Caleb changes the subject by tossing a thin linen shirt to Essek. It buttons halfway down, without much in the way of a collar, and he pulls it over his head. Already it’s an improvement over the wool he has abandoned on the floor, and he stands to collect it and fold it and tuck it away in the chest, where he wonders if he will need it again. Already it feels like a shoddy disguise, a costume he put on trying to be someone.

Wearing Caleb’s clothes, it doesn’t feel like he has quite settled into someone else, but it’s a step closer to someone he wants to be, without all the constraints of the life he has shed.

What little he carries by way of possessions put away in the small closet, which Essek imagines they will later magick to accommodate a bit more space, Caleb settles beside him on the bed and fixes one button that has not been pulled all the way through.

“You look good in my clothes,” he comments softly, and Fjord makes a derisive retching sound in his throat without looking up.

“If you want my assistance, please wait until I have finished and left, thank you. I’ve third wheeled Beau and Yasha too many damn times—“

“Alright,” Caleb says, laughing. The heat of this city in midsummer is stupefying, and the shift in weather—in life, really—has been quite a lot for just one day. Essek rests his head in Caleb’s lap, fingers threading through his hair, and exhales.

“How long do you think that’ll take?” he asks, his voice already thick with sleep, and Fjord glances at him.

“Maybe another half an hour,” he says, and if he wants to make another teasing comment, he hides it well.

“Okay,” he yawns. He weaves his hands around Caleb’s shin, and lets his eyes close. They have time, of course. He can rest for a few minutes while Fjord completes this sewing, while Caleb combs through his hair, while the breeze from outside pulls the fear from him with every new breath. “Wake me then.”

[coffeestainsandcashmere]

Hellu 🙂 I had this potentially fluffy idea about Theo and Draco where one of them is ill (mayhaps a cold) and the other takes care of him. Could you write this? I love all the things you write btw

Awww! What a sweet prompt. Here’s Draco with the flu after a gruelling quidditch match...

___

“Fuck…” Draco mumbled, staggering as he tried to cross the room.  

Groggily, Theo sat up, his curly hair all over the place, his eyes prickling as he tried to blink the lingering sleep from his mind. “Draco, what’s up? It’s the arse-crack of dawn… You alright?”

His soaked quidditch kit was still mouldering on the floor where he’d peeled it off himself the night before, and from the sounds of the churning lake above the dungeons, the weather had not improved.  

Theo got no response, and Draco’s head sagged. His knees gave out a heartbeat later, and he slumped to the floor like a dropped puppet.  

Scrambling out of bed, Theo flung himself down beside him and touched the back of his hand to Draco’s forehead. Fever-hot and drenched in sweat, Draco barely even managed a groan. His pale cheeks sported an unhealthy flush, and he mumbled something that Theo didn’t catch.  

“You need to get to the hospital wing,” Theo muttered. “Come on.”

Supporting him under one arm, Theo wrangled an old t-shirt on over Draco’s head and led him up out of the dungeons. At this time of the morning, there was hardly anyone about, and Theo thanked their ancestors for that small mercy. He nearly lost Draco a couple of times as he slithered out of his grasp, sagging and stumbling, but Theo's wiry body was stronger than many gave it credit for, and he finally lurched into the hospital wing with Draco barely clinging to consciousness at his side.  

“What on earth…?” Madam Pomfrey chirped as she looked up from her desk at the far end. 

“Ordinary flu, I think,” Theo grunted as he struggled with Draco’s not inconsiderable weight. Slender he might have been, but he was all muscle, with hardly an ounce of fat on him.

“Put him in bed three,” she said matter-of-factly, but Draco’s grey eyes rolled and he lost consciousness properly this time, sliding out of Theo’s hands and nearly hitting the floor before Theo got a better hold of him. “Levicorpus,” Madam Pomfrey barked, and Draco rose, floating over to the bed and settling gently. “Why didn’t you just bring him up here like that?” she scoffed.  

“Mostly because of the indignity of it,” Theo admitted. “Though it would probably have been easier.” He was warm and sticky himself now from the effort of supporting Draco all the way up there.

After some fuss and further scoffing, the matron managed to wake Draco long enough to get a Pepperup Potion down him, and then told him to rest.  

“Can I stay?” Theo asked quietly and she fixed him with a long, steady look.  

“Very well, but he’s here to rest, alright?”

Theo nodded, and picked up Draco’s hand, absently stroking his thumb across the bumps of his knuckles and tracing the engravings on his signet ring.  

Twenty minutes later, Draco’s eyelids fluttered and his lips moved.  

“Drake?” Theo whispered, but his boyfriend only groaned.  

His head lolled feverishly to one side and he sucked in a wheezing breath, moaning and half-sobbing. A shudder ran right through him and he twitched once or twice too.  

“Easy,” Theo crooned, rising and stroking Draco’s damp forelock out of his eyes. “Shh, shh,” he breathed. “It’s alright. You’re safe here. Those are just memories… Rest, Draco…”

“Theo!” Draco choked, eyes rolling back.  

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

“…Theo…”  

Still stroking his beautiful, silver hair, Theo pressed a kiss to his sweaty forehead. “I know. I know. I’m here.”

Looking up, he saw that Madam Pomfrey was returning, and this time she had a draft of dreamless sleep in her hands. “Get this down him now that the Pepperup has started to work,” she said without preamble.  

Supporting Draco’s lolling head, Theo coaxed him awake, and managed to ease the potion down, sip by sip, until Draco sagged again and went limp in his arms. Theo set the empty bottle down on the bedside table and continued to stroke Draco’s hair until the bell for class sounded.  

The flush in his cheeks faded over the course of the day, and after supper, Draco was sitting up in bed. When Theo returned that evening, he found Draco resting but awake, a potions textbook held loosely in his hands.  

He looked up as Theo strode down the row of beds, and smiled openly. “Hey,” he said, voice a little rough.  

“You’re looking better,” Theo smiled as he sank down on to the bed and interlaced his fingers with Draco’s own. “How are you feeling?”

Draco nodded once.  

“You’re supposed to be resting, you know?” Theo said, eyeing the book. “Where’d you even get that anyway?”

“Pansy stopped by after classes. I asked her if she had anything I could read, and she practically flung this at me.”

Theo leaned in to press a kiss to Draco’s lips, but he pursed them and leaned back. “I’ve got death breath, Theo,” he scowled, appalled that Theo would be willing to kiss him after a night and a day in the hospital wing.

Laughing, Theo grabbed his sharp chin and turned him back to face him. “And I’ve got garlic breath,” he grinned before kissing him fiercely.

___

If you enjoyed, please reblog and share! I’m new to the fandom on here and appreciate all the help I can get!

___

writing masterlist | Ao3

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

An old friend’s flight

Before Rosaire received the letter, he learned of the flight by accident.

The day before they'd set out from Ishgard, south towards Fallgourd Float with a gaggle of the Institute's employees in tow, he had stopped by the Dufresne Bellworks offices. He was there to see his wife at work -- he often was, lurking about, peering over her shoulder, unhelpfully distracting her from her papers -- but before climbing the front steps, he circled 'round to the back, where, adjacent to the warehouse loading dock, the long stables stood. 

He was there to see someone who would not be coming with them. 

  Fortemps Snow-Mountain Jonquil was hatched from one of the finest hunter lines in Ishgard -- and therefore easily the world. He was properly a yellow but of a color called "false-gold," with feathers that shaded to an intense copper-red at their tips, varying from bright goldenrod just after an autumn molt to a delicate electrum hue at the height of summer. By the time he was a tall, broad cockerel of two years, he was stunningly beautiful. 

And yet, in the stables of House Fortemps -- commonly (and, in the proud opinion of Rosaire Ledigne né Saincourant, incorrectly) described as second only to those of Durendaire -- beauty that was merely stunning fell short of snuff. At the pinnacle of chocobo breeding, perfection was the standard, and the slight tarnish on this male's color, the faults in his gait, and the weak curve of his beak all consigned him to a slightly inferior tier. 

Of course, the bird-breeders of Ishgard would never waste a chocobo only slightly short of standard, especially one as sharp-witted and steady as Jonquil. He was enrolled in training under the masters of the Fortemps methodology, taught to defend and fight for a rider, to charge headfirst into threatening claw and flame when bid, to respond under saddle to minute direction, and to execute fine maneuvers for both field and foxhunt. He graduated with distinction, his only flaw a slight excess of cleverness, and was expected to be handed off to some lesser noble, a favorite knight or perhaps a lady with a masculine, outdoorsy sort of mien, someone with a strong enough hand and will to keep the bird from overriding direction with what he decided best. 

Rosaire might never have met him if his friend had not so strongly insisted. Inquisitor Ledigne was, at the time, the thinnest he had ever been -- just recovered from an illness he dared not name to anyone; indeed, the thought that the signs of what exactly had befallen him might be read, on his face or in his voice, by one of his acquaintances so terrified him that just stepping out in public sent a cold chill through his veins. But his friend -- a barely-sufferable fop, yes, but a decent sort deep down, under all the makeup and the two or three layers of waistcoats -- would not quit badgering him, and so, with shuddering dread, Rosaire consented to join him. 

He was surprised to be led to the Fortemps stables (though mayhap he ought not to have been, given how practical his friend's boots were that day,) and when they arrived in front of the correct stall, the last of his trepidation melted away in the presence of its magnificent inmate, who gazed, with calm and contemplative reserve, down at the Elezen before him. 

"Something, is he not! Staid -- just like you!"

Rosaire shot his friend a look, but admittedly, he could not feel much insulted by a comparison to this beast. When he was handed a krakka, he readily took it to relay up to the bird (who, while he accepted the offering, made clear that snacks alone would not suffice to buy either his friendship or his dignity.) "An acquisition for your House?" 

"Hmmmm," was the grinning answer. "He'd make a fine hunter or cross-country bird. Not yet trained for the tilt or under heavy barding, but perfectly capable of disemboweling a wolf or bandit. Quick-witted, too, if one wanted him trained in fieldwork or advanced dressage. A very good bird -- he'd have been worth a pretty, pretty sum on the Eorzean market in the days when we could sell them as we wished!"

While his friend nattered on, Rosaire looked the cockerel over carefully. The daylight was just beginning to wane, and so it was no surprise that this bird, like so many others in the stable, was looking just a little disorderly, with bits of white fluff sticking upright amidst his feathers. On the opposite wall hung some curry tools; he stepped over to take a comb off the rack. As he made his way back, he raised it into the chocobo's vision, watching his eyes; the bird cocked his head and clucked, a kweh deep in his chest. Now this, more than the krakka root, was a valuable item to bring to the negotiating table.

"Ought I get the boy to let you in?" asked his friend, sounding particularly pleased and amused. 

"If I'm permitted, and his handler thinks it wise," though Rosaire suspected, based on the bird's reaction, that his presence would be readily tolerated in exchange for a groom. 

"But of course you're permitted!" his friend chortled. "He's to be your bird, if you'll have him." 

Rosaire looked back at him, startled. "Beg pardon?" 

"You're without now, correct? Admittedly, he is no Nelle, certainly not yet. But he's a young bird, ready to be shaped and molded as you see fit. And look at that bearing -- a worthy mount of an inquisitor, would he not be!" 

Partenelle. His face expressed no pain -- he made sure it never did -- but in his chest, he felt it, a dull pang. That was the name of a beautiful hen, who, at the age of six, grew a crest and started mounting the others. She was removed from the breeding program and retrained as a reconnaissance mount, and, by a circuitous series of events, ended up the chocobo of a high-ranked inquisitor after the loss of his Achille (good, faithful Achille) in an ambush. He was, by then, no longer much undercover, but that did not mean he was not constantly back and forth across Coerthas, making life annoying for the inquisitors in whose cases he meddled and nightmarish for the heretics he tracked. Many adventures they had, close shaves and chases, times he'd knelt over her body frantically physicking, once when it was he he'd thought might have died had Nelle not roared up, eyes full of murderous rage, and caved his attacker's head in with her foot. 

Nelle was a fierce, tenacious chocobo, prone to snapping at fingers that didn't belong to Rosaire. They were the best of friends; he was closer to her, probably, than any of his Spoken acquaintance. By the time of his stroke, she was aging a little, though that decreased her fight only barely. She was a good, good bird. And when his brother took control of Rosaire's affairs during his incapacity, he promptly sold her to a lesser House, who bestowed her on a knight -- and she proved her worth (and the knight his) within a fortnight, by carrying him straight into Halone's Halls. Only a small part of his body could be recovered to return to his family; of Nelle, there was not even a feather.

They had been beautiful, copper-tipped, sun-mote glistening feathers. False-gold. 

"I don't know," he sighed as he combed underfluff out from Jonquil's flank. "Mayhap I've no need for a personal chocobo anymore." 

"Don't talk nonsense, Ledigne," his friend laughed, raising his hand to clap him on the back -- then deciding not to as the cockerel fixed him with the evil eye. "Every man of breeding needs a personal chocobo."

"'Tis very generous of you, but--"

"Ah," came the twinkling response, "but 'tis not I who is generous. I'm only the messenger, you see, for his most high and puissant lordship. 'Tis he who wished you not to be without, after all you have accomplished for our sovereign House -- and," he added, more quietly, "all you've suffered of late."

Rosaire raised his brows high; that was quite a thing, if true, and he wasn't sure he immediately believed it. But he turned back to Jonquil, running the comb along his wing contemplatively. "... If that's the case," he at last admitted, "then I shall have a difficult time protesting indeed." 

And he did have need of a personal chocobo, for many of the twelve years that followed. 

It was true that following his collapse, the First Inquisitor quietly disallowed him to work any cases -- though what part of his decision was due to true concerns about Ledigne's mental capacity and what part to Leusignac's waxing influence was hard to say. But Rosaire did not end up as unoccupied as might have been expected. There was still his network of contacts across Coerthas to tend, even if he could not much leverage it in service of Ishgard anymore; there were properties to inspect and investments to manage among the few his brother failed to liquidate. And Jonquil -- surefooted, unflappable Jonquil -- faithfully served.

There was even a bit of excitement now and then. Bandits and heretics became dense enough on the roads that Jonquil was called upon to stand in front of his master more than once, even to take an arrow in the flank for him. He refused, as taught, to carry a rider across precarious ice or snow, and once, very memorably, broke a stay to lift his unconscious Elezen to his feet and help him into the saddle. Rosaire flushed at that memory; he might have died for his foolishness if not for his bird.

He was no Partenelle, true. And he was no Achille. Instead, he was Jonquil: steady, calm, aloof. Polite to every Spoken (and to every chocobo, too, once Rosaire finally consented to having his stones out.) Wise and watchful in the field -- gentle and quiet under the teeth of a comb. 

He, too, was a very good bird.

And, Rosaire thought with a sigh as he approached the Dufresne stables, he might never ride him again. 

Perhaps he could, if he really wished. Jonquil had, after all, received special training in carrying wounded riders, and perhaps that could be adapted for a rider who'd permanently lost use of his left side. And Jonquil had already learned to disobey certain unsafe commands; he was smart enough to learn to compensate for his master's partial blindness. 

But -- Rosaire and he were both no longer young. The former now tired very easily, and he rarely left the city -- and when he did, he traveled by carriage or airship straight to the next town. And Jonquil, though certainly no doddering senior yet, might not take to training as well as he once did, might not enjoy it.

And he certainly would not and did not enjoy a life spent so much in a cramped stable, housed so close to other birds. Yes, he tolerated them, following his alteration, but he had no interest in feathered friends; Spoken company was more agreeable to him, and he got sadly little of it these days. After Rosaire's most recent stroke, Jonquil was lent permanently to Faucheux, his former protege, who of course would never fail to keep his bird fed and groomed, but who, as a secretary at the Bellworks offices, also rarely left the city, and even then, usually by airship and then straight back. In consequence, many bells did Jonquil now spend in this or that stall in this or that stable, quiet and well-behaved, yes, but surely bored.

In decades past, when a lord's favorite chocobo began to grow old, it would sometimes be retired to the family's estate in the country, given to the care of the stablekeep and allowed to snooze and sunbathe in the fresh, clean air. That was, of course, right out, not least because Rosaire despised his natal House, whose lands were, last he heard, practically abandoned to the snows anyway. But even if he found a rancher he trusted -- much of the land in Coerthas lay under those conditions these days. The southron lands were warmer but full of southerners, not fit to care for such a precious charge. And besides, Jonquil was not yet so old; a life of roomier idleness might prove more comfortable but no less boring. And if he were paddocked with other birds -- pah! 

He needed work, though not quite in the same way that the gate-unlocker, the board-ripper, or the self-plucker needed work. Easy Jonquil, patient Jonquil, who endured these long unstimulating days with gentle stoicism, deserved work. Something suited to a bird so intelligent and yet so biddable -- tracking, dressage, polo, even, though the last was especially and comically unlikely to expect of either Rosaire or Faucheux. And, frankly, expecting either even to take up regular hacking during the warmer months was a bit of a wishful thought. 

Rosaire sighed as he stepped inside, pausing at the treat bucket near the entrance to pocket a few cubes of krakka and turning to shuffle down the aisle. A few of the flightier animals -- mostly visitors' saddle-birds -- balked and whistled at the man with his strange gait, but the majority of the inmates -- stolid draft beasts used to far louder clashes and bangs in the manufactory district -- paid him no mind. He stopped first at Lir's place, awarding him a cube for his faithful service to his lady wife, then moved on down the line towards where Faucheux kept Jonquil housed.

Mayhap, he thought to himself, I might encourage Ser Perrine to take Faucheux on a vacation. Mayhap to La Noscea, where the weather is not so foul. Ask them to tour the farmland of the interior on chocoback, discover if there's aught to learn there and bring back to the Institute's projects. See if a pleasant change of scene might encourage them -- and give poor Jonquil an adventure to enjoy.

Because he deserved an adventure, that good bird -- 

... who, he then realized with astonishment, was absent, along with all his tack and saddle, from his stall. 

When he returned home, he found the letter; for explanation, he went first not to Miss Oleander but to Father Michandel -- though the Ledignes' upcoming stay in the Shroud meant he could soon consult the former, too. 

"Eloped?" Rosaire repeated, brows raised high. 

"So it would appear," Michandel replied with a sigh. "You'd think they were running away from a proper wedding, wouldn't you." 

"Yet I can't fault them, having recently been through one," Rosaire found himself chuckling, "and at some points in the planning wished to run away from it myself." And besides -- it suits them, he thought, smiling at the mental picture of Ser Perrine standing in the Cathedral in a gown, pledging to be gentle and obedient to her husband and master -- and the look that would be on said 'master's' face.

And later, as a Pepin footman helped him into the hansom, he glanced at the bird in front and smiled again. Neither he nor Michandel knew quite where the couple were, and so he was left to roll a half-dozen scenarios around in his imagination as his carriage rattled over the cobbles: a shady path on the edge of the Shroud, whispering with melting snow, green budding on the boughs above -- a promenade in the Goblet, fountains sparkling in the cheerful sun -- the white sands of salt-scented Bloodshore, upon which wind two parallel trails of easy, ambling chocobo tracks.

He was happy for them -- for Perrine and Faucheux -- and for blue-feathered Petty, and for Jonquil. For, while he prayed they did not travel far nor face great dangers on their journey -- but if they should, they had with them a companion who was not only capable of serving but eager: good, noble-hearted, steady and strong, a worthy bird, everything a chocobo should be.

And he got to have his adventure, wherever it might be. 

(( With small guest appearance by @halonic. :3 ))