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housedeaubemarle · 7 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."

╔═════ஓ๑♥๑ஓ═════╗

end

╚═════ஓ๑♥๑ஓ═════╝

#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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housedeaubemarle · 1 month ago

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FFXIV Write 2024 #23: On Cloud Nine

Twenty one.

“Shall we make a wager, my lord?”

“It would depend on the wager.”

“Five summers. Give me five summers to find someone I might like better. If I don't, then I shall gladly marry you.”

“Five summers is a long time for a man who's waited thirty one for you.”

“Ah, but I have only just begun. I haven't yet waited even one summer for anyone at all. Surely your kind nature would grant me that.”

“...how could I say no when asked so rationally? Five turns it shall be then, my lady.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Twenty six.

“My lord.”

“Lady Philomene.”

“I believe you may have a question for me.”

“Many, to tell you truth.”

“Choose the first one wisely, I implore you. It will determine the rest.”

“...are you certain you can live with me as your husband?”

“...that's such a silly question that it surely cannot count. Ask again.”

“Truly, Philomene, the wager be damned. Are you su-”

“...”

“...ask me properly, Vouloix. Then I can kiss you again and we can finally be happy.”

end.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite #philomene de aubemarle #vouloix de aubemarle #look the twins' mom and dad had a real romantic deal going on okay #I'd expand on it if I had more wrinkles in my brain

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housedeaubemarle · 2 months ago

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FFXIV Write 2024 #2: Horizon

featuring mentions of the Losstarots by @escherstrange-ffxiv

In post-Calamity Ishgard, the changing seasons don’t truly mean much for obvious permafrost reasons. Yet the city’s residents have gradually found ways over the turns to distinguish between them. The weather will never not be cold, but there are minute changes only Ishgardians could and would ever recognise: the slight drop in temperature which allows for exactly one (and only one - this is still Coerthas) less layer of clothing, a few days of witnessing actual snowdrops bud and bloom, less foggy afternoons so the frost is made brighter by more reflected sunlight.

It is why, within one of the drawing rooms of Aubemarle manor, the orange-yellow flames in the hearth have been allowed to burn down to almost embers. The Dowager Viscountess’ insistence on actual wood rather than fire crystals means there’s also the last faint remnants of crackling logs. Gentle clinks of porcelain - cup against saucer, teaspoon against rim - resound amidst the room’s occupants.

The Dowager’s lady’s maid, Nisette, ever present and ever discreet, sits in one corner next to a window. The sunbeams of the mildly sunnier spring day shine through onto her darker grey-purple skin. Under such natural light, she can better see the sewing she always has with her. Rips and tears in fabric disappear beneath her efficient hands, while her ears keep sharp for any slight command from her employer.

That lady, in a gown of burgundy, sits further away on a sofa, reading a singular sheet of paper as she sips milky tea from her cup. She is watched carefully by a third figure – her taller, darker haired daughter, the viscount.

“Dearest, it is quite unladylike to stare so hard,” says the older lady, her eyes never leaving the paper in her hand.

“I’m not staring, Mamma. I’m waiting.”

“Then it’s quite unladylike to wait so hard,” she replies smoothly, still focused on her reading material.

The viscount sighs but does indeed turn her eyes to her own cup of tea; she sips, letting the fragrance fill her senses as the sweetness coats her tongue pleasantly. More quiet clinks and rustles of fabric fill the room, along with the almost hypnotic crackling. It doesn’t soothe Oudine as much as she would like.

Just as she finishes her cup, and opens her mouth to ask if her mother was done staring into the soul of the poor sheet she holds, the Dowager lowers it and sighs. She looks over at her daughter, and stretches the paper out to her.

Oudine plucks it gently out of her fingers. “Well, Mamma?”

“I must own that it’s refreshingly direct. Usually one tosses complimentary words and phrases at one's quarry till an invitation is condescendingly thrown back,” says the Dowager, managing to even make the way she sips her tea wry. “This one simply asks to introduce themselves.”

The viscount is far too accustomed to these kinds of remarks to let it bother her. She glances down at the page again. The signature at the bottom still intrigues her; ever since the letter had first arrived, and her mother had given a fairly brief summary of the sender's circumstances, she'd wondered at it.

“...how long have they been away?”

There is a very brief pause - perceptible only by Oudine who is her own daughter - before she says, coolly, “Five turns.”

The viscount’s whole posture goes still for a moment. It would seem then that five turns ago, everyone’s fates had been traded for far less peaceful alternatives, not just the Aubemarles.

“What do you think, Mamma?”

The Dowager raises an eyebrow. “You are head of the house, Viscount. Tis your decision whether to receive them or no.”

She smiles faintly. “I would seek your counsel.”

“Ah, then ‘tis simple: Write them that we will happily be at home on a date convenient for both parties.”

Oudine hesitates, taken by surprise. “I was… quite sure that you would say no.”

The Dowager smiles in amusement. “Whyever would I? 'Tis a miracle of Halone, do you not agree? Far be it from me to be ungrateful for the resurrection of distant relatives from the presumed dead. And they are connected to the Repouxs no less!”

Her daughter eyes her for a moment then lets out a breath. “You think they're cheats, don't you? You want to challenge and humiliate them directly. Subject them to interrogation the likes of which would be approved by the Tribunal.”

“My darling girl, how could you accuse our own family members of being cheats and impostors? Who would dare impersonate such a noble house? And certainly I would never have such inhospitable intentions.” The Dowager sniffs loudly. “Besides, interrogation is too gauche for this house.” (These absolute bouncers make even Nisette smile to herself though she knows far better than to raise her head from her stitchwork.)

Oudine does her best to level an admonishing look at the Dowager. “You mustn't. Papa said anyone admitted into our home is an honoured guest.”

“Ah, dear Papa,” she replies with a genuinely fond smile. Yet the fondness is given a slightly sharp edge by something close to mischief in her dark brown eyes. Though of course it isn't mischief directly - the Dowager is too old and too dignified for such larks. “It is for his sake that I open our doors to those poor boys. Rest assured if they are truly our long lost relatives then no humiliation of any kind will occur.”

Oudine had been far more prepared to argue on behalf of these would-be relatives. Her mother acquiescing so quickly feels like the older woman has cheated, but she can't see how exactly.

So she says, “I can see you are determined. But I will still try to seek confirmation with someone from the Holy See's offices before I reply.” She doesn't mention that such information may not be allowed to be publicly released, or how long it might take to obtain such knowledge through the current bureaucracy. It's more than likely that they'll have to rely on hearsay and rumour to see them through the visitation.

The Dowager keeps smiling, as if she hears what Oudine isn't saying. “Of course, my dear. You will do what is right and proper.”

Oudine looks doubtfully at her, but stands anyway. “I will let you know what I find.” She leaves the drawing room, determined to begin her inquiries.

The Dowager shakes her head as her daughter leaves, still savouring her tea. “Do you remember the Losstarots, Nisette?”

Nisette lifts her eyes up and nods. “Yes ma'am, though I had never chanced to see them myself.”

The Dowager hums. “What with one thing and another, we never managed to host them here while La Incomparable was alive. She was a most extraordinary beauty, you know. Tis a pity she had no daughters to inherit her looks - though I suppose there's no reason her sons may not be beauties either. If I recall rightly, her second son might have had some semblance of a chance."

Nisette says nothing, waiting for the Dowager to continue.

"To be sure, death would have altered that in no uncertain terms. If these impostors can find someone of that make, it will be most impressive.” She smirks, sharp eyes gleaming. “I almost look forward to what dawns on our horizon. Wouldn't it be quaint if they were genuine?”

“Indeed, ma'am.”

end.

#FFxivWrite #FFxivWrite2024 #ffxiv oc #Philomene de Aubemarle #Oudine de Aubmearle #Blynisette 'Nisette' Dechamberre #spoilers: they WERE the real deal!#huzzah!#the Losstarot brothers my beloveds

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housedeaubemarle · 3 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 #oudine de aubemarle #philomene de aubemarle #perette de hellyes #joshua losstarot #(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)#remont de aubemarle

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housedeaubemarle · 16 days ago

Text

Les Yeux d'Une Mère (The Eyes of a Mother)

It is uncharacteristically late when Oudine arrives home. Unable to find the man she’d tried to chase after, she’d meandered back in a confused state. By the time the front door opens to her, and she heads upstairs as quietly as possible, her confusion has become a strange roiling mass of embarrassment, frustration… and melancholy.

Her brother meets her at the top of the stairs unexpectedly. One look at her face tells him the evening hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing. “What happened?”

Oudine gives him a tired look. Her voice is flat. “Everything.”

“What?”

Some minutes of explanation later finds Remont trying to suppress laughter since his mother’s bedroom is just some yards away. His sister slaps him on the shoulder at such amusement.

“It’s not funny!” she hisses. “He could have been called out for a duel, and for what? Being a fool? It’s not worth it!”

Remont has to take a few moments, despite the sting in his shoulder, to calm down enough to ask, “Did you catch any names at all?” When she shakes her head, he says, “At least tell me what these noblemen looked like.”

The description - whatever Oudine can remember past the haze of humiliation - is enough to trigger a memory of Remont’s. An acquaintance who spent more time at Le Renard had pointed out the man in the street one day; it wasn’t difficult to remember that distinguished figure.

“That sounds like Viscount Armand de Courcelle, which means the man whom Ross… propositioned was likely Le Renard’s owner, Evreux Mouraut. Makes sense why my lord became upset - they’re lovers.”

“What?” A cold fear runs through her entire body; she groans. “By the gods Rem… I shouldn’t have interfered…!”

Remont pats her on her shoulder gently. “You weren’t to know. You just wanted to save Ross from a potential duel.”

“He saved himself! He literally turned and bolted, and just left me there, so I ran too!”

Remont presses his lips together to hold back a smile. His sister running is a rare thing, and thus in this light, amusing.

Oudine’s voice is almost a wail at the sight of Remont’s face. “It’s really not funny!” she says again, as if that would get through to her twin.

“Calm down, Dine. It’s not as bad as you think it is.”

“I just embarrassed myself for nothing in front of a viscount and his lover–”

“You’re also a viscount.”

“That’s not the point-”

The sound of a door opening sends nearly the fear of the Fury shooting into both Aubemarle twins. The sight of the Dowager Viscountess does send the fear of the Fury directly into their respective bloodstreams.

There is an unnerving pause, before the older lady says, “Ah Oudine my love. You’re home. A word with you if you please.” She heads back into her room before either of her children can say anything.

Oudine barely stops herself from a wince. She throws an alarmed look at her brother who shakes his head, trying not to smile. They both know that tone – disobey and at least four out of seven hells would break loose.

“Courage, ma soeur,” he murmurs, a grin escaping him as he does so.

The alarm in her face instantly becomes an annoyed glare before she turns around to enter her mother’s bedroom, schooling her expression into something more neutral.

Inside, the dowager is already sitting in a comfortable armchair by the fire, the Enchiridion on the side table next to it. Oudine prays quietly not to be read a homily; she doesn’t feel equal to the task. Not tonight. The dressing gown her mother wears, and the silk cap on her head, signals the dowager is close to retiring for the night. Or at least, she would have been if she hadn’t clearly been waiting for the viscount to return from whatever gallivanting she’d been doing.

As Oudine approaches, the Dowager looks up with a (deceptively) pleasant smile. She holds out a hand, which Oudine takes gingerly. She leans forward to kiss her mother’s cheek.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now, Mamma,” she says, keeping her voice light as can be, as she sits at her mother’s feet like she usually does.

“How could I possibly do so when my darling girl sent a message at the eleventh hour of the day, saying she wouldn’t be home for supper? When the same child of my bosom returns to the house smelling of whiskey and cigars?” The older woman wrinkles her nose at her. “It is entirely one thing when Remont does it, but it is not done for one of your status.”

Oudine does not sigh outwardly though she does slip her hand from her mother’s hold. “Because he is a man?”

“Because none of the Twelve have seen fit to equip my son with the proper sense of sobriety and propriety of his station, despite all his natural and nurtured advantages,” says her mother without missing a beat. “You on the other hand have. Or at least ought to have.”

The viscount looks up at her with some restrained annoyance. “I have been out many nights before, Mamma. And at twenty seven, I don’t believe it warrants such critique.”

The Dowager’s smile disappears, replaced by a disapproving frown topped with a raised eyebrow. “Mais Le Renard Argenté, ma chérie? C'est aller trop loin.”

Oudine stares at her, in disbelief first, then dismay, before finally resignation. There are only so many ways her mother could have found out, and all of them are named Remont de Aubemarle. This betrayal would be remembered. “It was your son’s suggestion, mamma. He would never send me into danger.”

“Danger, never. Impropriety, usually. You are not obliged to take up those suggestions which are unsuitable, brother or no.”

“It wasn’t unsuitable. He was just… trying to cheer me up,” she says, eyes moving to the fireplace. A weariness has settled in - the whiskey and its accompanying artificial bravery has long since receded.

The ensuing silence speaks volumes about how absurd the older woman finds this statement. The Dowager’s eyebrow, which has gone impossibly higher, adds a crescendo of incredulity.

Oudine doesn’t see it since she keeps her eyes on the glow of the fire, continuing with, “Mamma, it is a perfectly legitimate establishment – beautifully appointed, filled with people of titles galore, and all above board.” She pauses for a moment. “Even if it isn’t exactly the kind of place you would patronise.”

The Dowager sniffs. “My dear girl, there are a dozen hundred places in this city filled with the creme de la creme of Ishgard I would never step foot into, yet I have never deemed them unseemly. What I hear of this Le Renard has me fearing for Ishgard’s future.”

“One would think the revelations of the Holy See’s lies would have done that already,” is Oudine’s dry answer.

“There is no need to be blasphemous, child,” says the Dowager with some severity.

“It isn’t,” retorts her daughter, finally looking back at her mother with obvious annoyance. “Why does it matter? I am Viscount Aubemarle, and I ought to be able to go where I please.”

“You are Viscount Aubemarle, thus you ought to go where you must.” The Dowager’s lips thin into a grim line. “What business could you possibly have at Le Renard? It could hardly be to find a prospective husband.”

“Don't think me such a fool as that!" snaps Oudine in sharp exasperation. "Of course I had no business being there at all! That’s precisely why I went-” She sees her mother’s eyes widening by a fraction and abruptly stops. The last time Oudine had raised her voice at the Dowager was before her coming of age, many summers ago when there had been plenty of fighting to do between a young woman and her headstrong mother.

“I…” She visibly deflates, sinking her face into one hand. “I’m sorry, Mamma. I’m just tired.”

The Dowager looks on for a moment, then with a quiet sigh, rests one hand on her daughter’s head. Those who didn't know her would have said it was done far more gently than thought possible. “There is more to this, yes? Tell me.”

The touch on the crown of her head makes her look up. The weariness is written all over her face now, along with a frustration that she could not allow herself to show beyond the walls of Aubemarle manor.

“This propriety you speak of, the position in which I stand, ought to be of more use. Yet I feel so helpless, and clumsy… and ineffectual. Papa did so much, and I have done so little. I am twenty seven – five years have I been viscount, and what have I to show for it?

“I am so inadequate, Mamma. I fall short of so much – there are people I ought to be able to help, yet I cannot. There is so much I don’t know, and cannot see – for Fury’s sake, I can’t even see Moogles. The world has so much to offer… and I haven't enough wit to grasp them.”

She bends her head again, but rests it against her mother’s knee. The dam has broken now, and the waters come forth in waves. “I went tonight… to try and prove something. To prove to myself that I could take what I’d learned in the East - the ability to hold myself up comfortably in such a different environment - and bring it here. Apply it here at home, where there are places as foreign as Othard to me.”

Oudine closes her eyes, awash with shame and discontent at her conduct. “I think I failed. And it makes me feel…”

The Dowager waits, gently brushing her fingers against her daughter’s hair. It is still in the braid she had returned from the East with – and hadn’t pinned back up. The older woman had naturally voiced her doubts about it but Oudine had persisted.

“It makes me feel like Papa would have been disappointed.”

There is a moment filled with nothing but the crackling of the fire. Then the Dowager speaks, firm and assertive.

“Your father would have been proud of you.”

Oudine doesn’t raise her head, shaking it instead. The Dowager reaches down slightly to tweak her ear. That gets her to look up at her mother with some distress. “Mamma.”

The Dowager lifts her eyebrow admonishingly again. “Listen well, my girl. Your papa has never been anything but proud of you. And to see you trying something new would have given him more reason to feel that way. I doubt he would have allowed me to scold you as I have tonight if he were here. Just as I doubt very much if he would have allowed you to wallow in your self-pity.”

Oudine doesn’t quite know if she’s being comforted or being reproached again, but then, that’s par for the course with her mother.

“Whatever transpired in that place is hardly worth mentioning. I do not wish to know. However,” she settles back into her chair. “I can see you’re trying to be your father again, dearest. And that will never do. You must be Viscount Oudine de Aubemarle. If you insist on anything else, it will only backfire, as I suspect it did tonight.”

Her daughter stares up at her, absorbing this strangely encouraging advice. “...Papa would have tried to help a stranger in distress, Mamma.”

“I’m sure he would have.”

“He would have succeeded too. Instead of… embarrassing himself in front of nobility.”

The Dowager shakes her head. “That I would not be so quick to decide, my dear. The fact of the matter is that he isn’t here, and thus we will never know.” She raises an eyebrow. “Which nobility?”

A very faint, utterly humourless smile touches Oudine’s lips. Here it comes – the mortification of looking like an ass in front of an influential member of the ton wouldn’t be complete without a reprimand about said mortification. “Rem tells me one of them was likely Viscount Armand de Courcelle.”

Yet instead of the reproach she expected, the Dowager snorts expressively. “My lord Armand at Le Renard? I should have guessed.”

Instantly, Oudine's eyes widen to their fullest; she sits up to stare at her mother. “You know him?”

“I know of him, to be precise. We come from the same generation after all.” She tilts her head at her daughter. “His late wife was a Dzemael, you know, and his mother a de Borel.”

The colour seems to drain from Oudine’s face. Gods save Ross; he’d offended more than either of them had anticipated. “Then… why are you so calm?”

“Because,” says the Dowager dryly, “your brother is a newborn babe compared to that man’s proclivities. He’s not let dragons, war or embarrassment stop him for over sixty summers now. If he himself doesn’t acknowledge the emotion of shame, I doubt he’d bother about it in others.” She shakes her head. “A handsome enough man in his day – handsome still for some, though he reserves it for his paramours.”

“...paramours? I only saw the one earlier-” Too late. Her mother has already heard the words.

The Dowager rolls her eyes but refrains from comment. Clearly her ladyship has seen and heard more than her children expected of her. “Don't worry yourself about them. ‘Tis more than likely Armand de Courcelle and his… partner have forgotten you by now.”

“...I can’t tell if that’s good or not,” says Oudine with a slightly stronger smile now, and some reassurance within her heart.

The Dowager smirks. “Discretion is the better part of valour, my treasure.” She chucks Oudine under the chin. “Ma cherie, I did not want you visiting Le Renard not because I think you incapable. I did not want you visiting because you are not yet settled.” Dark brown eyes meet grey ones head on.

“I am not yet such a doddering old fool that I do not see your restlessness. Your body is home – your soul is not. Not yet. And to fling yourself into such a place as Le Renard – it is aptly named, look you – when you are not wholly yourself is foolhardy behaviour (which explains why your brother encouraged it). Of course you tried to be your father tonight. You always do when you do not feel you can be yourself.”

Oudine blinks. She hadn’t realised the Dowager had noticed. “...Mamma… how could you know all that?”

The answer is so matter-of-fact, the question seems almost ludicrous. “You are my daughter. Of course I would.”

Oudine’s smile stretches. “And about Le Renard. If you’ve never been…?”

“Do you really think this manner of gentleman’s lounge is anything new?” The Dowager snorts again. “They went by different names and much more subtlety when I was younger.”

“...are you saying you went-”

“I do not pretend to understand the draw of such places,” says her mother out loud, bowling over Oudine’s would-be question. “But then, it is not meant for me to understand; that is perfectly clear. To demand comprehension would be the height of impertinence. Whatever they do behind their beautifully appointed walls is their business. But if it affects my daughter, then it becomes mine.”

Oudine smiles amusedly at that. Sometimes – just sometimes – her mother had her own charms. “I think I’ll be alright now, Mamma. I promise.”

The Dowager eyes her for a moment, then gives a decisive nod. “Very well.”

“And regardless, I don’t think I’ll be visiting again anytime soon. Even if my lord de Courcelle wouldn’t recognise me.”

Her mother shakes her head. “It is his loss.” When her daughter’s grey eyes twinkle at that, she smiles at last. “Ah, la voilà enfin. C'est mieux. Now, it is high time we were both in bed. Goodnight, child. I will see you in the morning.”

Oudine rises, kisses her mother on her cheek, then on the other. “Merci beaucoup, chère maman.”

She steps outside, walking down the corridor to where she knows her brother waits in her study. Remont looks up with some concern and contrition at her entrance. He can already guess some of the conversation, which is why he starts to say, “Now, Dine, before you harangue me, Mamma would have had my head on a spike if I hadn’t told her-”

“Traitor,” says his sister, crossing the room to swat him on the shoulder. It’s a light hit however and he blinks at this lack of force compared to earlier, and the absence of heat in her voice. In fact, her expression has lightened up quite a lot from before.

“...what did she say?”

Oudine smiles fondly. “She knows I’ve not been myself. And that’s why she didn’t want me to go.” She grins, a particular light stealing into her eyes. “Did you know there were gentlemen’s lounges like that back in her day?”

Remont stares at her for a moment then also grins – a mirror of his sister’s. “Do tell.”

End.

Note: To be very clear, IC =/= OOC. I for one find LRA very cool, and its patrons exceedingly intriguing. Also whatever is written here about my lord Armand is based on their carrd, and past conversations in the Discord I happened upon. Not to mention the Dowager doesn't know him well, if at all, so what she has are general impressions, not certain knowledge. She's also blatantly biased towards her own children as much as she reads them the riot act regularly. Which all means to say: take her with several pinches of salt. God knows I do, as do her kids.

Though to be honest, this Dowager of mine surprises me with her nuances each time she insists on talking (which she did today after Oudine's little escapade to Le Renard). Unfortunately, her nuances only emerge when she's with her family. Otherwise, she's a cantankerous, difficult noblewoman for all the world - but that's also the kind of image she wants to project so I can't quite say no to that.

Oudine is beginning to uncurl; Remont is starting to become more careful. I look forward to what this family shows me in the future.

@escherstrange-ffxiv's Ross is - and I say this with nothing but affection and well-wishes - so unhinged, you may as well rip off the door and install curtains instead. Especially when he's spiralling and has no idea how to deal with Emotions (big mood honestly). Long may he keep his skin intact for us to enjoy his antics.

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #ffxiv oc lore #philomene de aubemarle #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #vouloix would have just laughed #a lot #remont takes after him in that sense #though as her father he'd have said take someone with her rather than go alone #it was a learning experience to be sure #she goes back to her braided updo after this #a reminder that she's home #and to keep control of herself #...but also with an implicit determination not to fear change so much despite herself

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housedeaubemarle · 1 month ago

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FFXIV Write 2024 #27: Memory

Sometimes, though she confesses this to no one, she worries she will forget him.

As the summers come and go, she wonders if there will come a day when she wakes and no longer recalls how the smiles he gave her had always been different from those he wore in public. How he had frowned in disappointment whenever she had gone too far, and shook his head in disapproval when she defended her actions. How he'd kissed her, ever gently, when she attempted to make amends in spite of her own stubbornness. She wonders if those three winters of being frozen in her mourning had been her way of sealing his every expression and every movement in her mind so that she wouldn't lose him again. If such a period would be enough to combat the inevitable passage of time and the erosion of her senses.

Then she catches how Oudine's grey eyes twinkle, as she whirls merrily in a spontaneous dance the younger ones have started. Remont's laughter is familiarly bright and rich as he locks elbows with one cousin and then another, spinning round and round in their makeshift reel within the de Hellyes’ living room.

The Dowager breathes out quietly in relief. There he is, she thinks, plain to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. Where they are, there he is. So long as they breathe, he does too – and that is a blessing indeed.

end.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite #philomene de aubemarle #if there's anything constant in her contrariness #it's her devotion to vouloix (even whenever she's vexed)#I'm always determined to have that at the forefront of her character

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housedeaubemarle · 2 months ago

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FFXIV Write 2024 #20 : Duel

A sequel/companion piece to @escherstrange-ffxiv's entry for #18 Hackneyed

“…lordling …opo-opos... directly to Lady Hanrieaux…!”

“How… Dowager Aubemarle is losing her wits… mountebanks…”

Baroness Symonne de Vaillant fanned herself as she crossed the hall, weaving through the crowd. Along the way, she smiled and nodded at those who greeted her, but didn’t stop till she reached her destination: the side of a lady in a gown of dark purple and black, with matching amethysts round her neck and dangling from her ears. She was watching the room intently, but instantly smiled at the baroness’ approach.

When Symonne reached her, she leaned forward to kiss the air beside each of the baroness’ cheeks. “Sister. Delightful to see you tonight.”

“Likewise. You look very fetching, my dear. You ought to wear purple more often.”

"I most certainly will after such approval." The Dowager placed both hands over her walking stick’s handle. “What news?”

Baroness Symonne unfurled her fan again, fanning herself in slow, elegant movements. Her voice was modulated so only her companion would hear her. “Lady Hanrieaux is leaning heavily on you being hoaxed by your relatives. That could be the only reason for Lord Joshua’s rudeness."

Her sister-in-law snorted expressively. “Is that the best she can do? That excuse is moons old.”

The baroness smiled. “Originality has never been her strong point.”

“That much is being proven every summer.” The Dowager rolled her eyes. “Her aspirations to be an influence on the ton are overshadowed by her desolate taste in fashion.”

Symonne chuckled, still fanning herself as her eyes scanned the room, falling on the subject of their conversation at the far end of the room. Tall feathers in her unusually tall headdress pinned to her hair quivered as the lady laughed at something. “And yet there are willing ears to listen to her and ready mouths to repeat her words.”

The Dowager followed her gaze, and smiled serenely. “There will be others who do the same for us. Speaking of which, here comes one of the wider pairs of ears in Ishgard.” She called out towards a gentleman with salt and pepper hair who had just turned the corner nearby. “Lord Drividot! It has been an age!”

The man she’d hailed stepped forward quite willingly. “My lady Viscountess, Baroness Vaillant. Splendid to see you – what a crush this evening eh?”

“Good evening, Lord Drividot,” said Symonne with a pleasant smile. “We missed you at the Mayeulons’ gathering the other night.”

“An honour to be remembered, ma’am.” He said with a genuinely pleased grin and a bow. “Did I miss anything of import?”

The Dowager slid a look at her sister, who just continued to fan herself quietly, then back at Drividot with a sharp smile. “Oh the usual gossip and rumours, although…” She leaned in, and Drividot did the same to eagerly listen. “There was a particularly striking on dit. Apparently one of our most noble ladies has been hiring musicians.”

“And what might be so particular about that, if I may ask? Music is hardly anything unusual,” said the gentleman with a raised eyebrow.

“My dear sir, do attend: musicians. Not music.” She flicked her eyes towards Lady Hanrieaux’s direction. “An entire quartet, whilst the lord of the house is away these past few nights, for her singular amusement.” She smiled. “Speaking for myself, I would be simply exhausted after only one night. But then, I am old and haven’t such ardour.”

Lord Drividot’s face was the very picture of restrained glee as he followed her gaze. Then he turned back to her. “Well, well. A quartet you say. For multiple nights. What a lover of the arts this lady must be.”

Baroness Symonne raised her fan higher to obscure the struggle she was having not to laugh. With admirable self-control, her sister-in-law nodded gravely. “One might even say, an insatiably involved patron of such arts.”

“Quite,” said Lord Drividot with a grin. “Well, I shall not monopolise your attention, ladies. A good evening to you both.”

They nodded in farewell, watching the gentleman move away. He was soon at the elbow of another man, and in the midst of their conference, nodded in the direction of Lady Hanrieaux. Lord Drividot’s acquaintance laughed aloud once, then they parted ways.

Symonne slid a glance towards the Dowager and finally let herself chuckle. “Did you know he would be here?”

“A lucky meeting,” she said with a shrug, watching as the gentlemen disappeared into the crowd. “It is a fortune his mind has a tendency towards vulgar assumption. With any luck, the rumour mill will do its usual inflammatory work, and we'll have someone whispering to us of her unspeakable sordidness within a week. It might be too much to hope for her to winter in Ul'dah, but we shall see."

“Indeed,” replied her sister with a knowing smile. “Tis a fortune for the Losstarots as well.”

The Dowager’s face was perfectly blank. “Now what could that possibly mean, my sister?”

“Nothing, dear. Just thinking out loud.”

end.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite #philomene de aubemarle #symonne de vaillant #ishgardian noble NPC no.364 #philomene has played this game for about forty years #and so has symonne #don't mess with the old ladies of Ishgard

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housedeaubemarle · 2 months ago

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FFXIV Write #17: Sally

About thirty seven summers ago:

“Well met, Lady Repoux.”

The young woman with very pale gold hair turned around, and very prettily did she do so, it had to be said. Her dark brown eyes crinkled in a genuine smile to see who had addressed her so politely, in a voice as smooth as the flowing waters of Coerthan rivers.

“Why, my lord Aubemarle! This is a most pleasant surprise. What brings you to the Crozier?”

The tall Elezen before her, grey eyes twinkling, bowed in greeting. “I have an appointment with Lord Gerraldieux, but I am not one to turn away such a fortuitous meeting as this.” He cast his eyes and an equally pleasant smile upon the lady’s companion: an Elezen with elegant posture who was still too young to rein in the annoyance radiating from him. “Good afternoon, sir; I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Vouloix de Aubemarle, at your service.”

The young man returned a polite, if stiff nod. “How do you do? Francquet de Imbertain.”

Vouloix dipped in an elegant little bow before turning to the lady he'd addressed. “And has anything caught your eye in particular, my lady?”

Her brown eyes gleamed. “I must admit, not precisely. There is so much to see, after all, and new wares come in each day. Heavens help the woman who knows not her own mind with such bountiful choices.”

“Or the man,” replied Vouloix with a grin. “And yet the fewer options there are, the more one laments the lack of variety.”

“Such changeable creatures we Spoken are,” said the lady with a shake of her head. She looked at her companion with a smile. “Do you not think so, my lord?”

Francquet cleared his throat. “Changeable and contradictory, yes; not knowing what we seek yet not seeking what we know.”

Vouloix chuckled at that. “Well put, my lord. A fortune indeed, Lady Philomene, to have such a conversationalist at your disposal.”

Philomene's sharp eyes threw him a meaningful look, something akin to a warning of some kind, above a genial smile. “Yes, Lord Francquet has been delightful company, and kind as well since he has faithfully accompanied me on my meandering strolls through the market.”

“Dear lady, how could anyone wish for anything but to meander with you?” said Francquet with a large smile, sincere enough for anyone watching.

Philomene’s laugh was a touch too quick. “Flatterer!” And when she glanced back at Vouloix who only smiled inscrutably, the laugh extended just a little too much. “Oh I do beg your pardon, my lord; we're keeping you from your errand. Pray do not hesitate to name me as the reason you are late; I shall certainly apologise to Lord Gerraldieux next I see him.”

Vouloix laughed softly, admiring such an accomplished dismissal. "He would be thoroughly appalled if I used you so badly. Could I instead give him your regards rather than any unnecessary apology?"

Philomene's warm smile returned at that. "Yes, with all my heart."

He bowed courteously, matched by a curtsey from Philomene and a bow from Francquet. “Then I shall accept that commission and bid my lady and my lord a good day.” When he straightened, he added, “May what you seek find you without delay.”

And because the twinkle in Vouloix’s eyes was pronounced, Philomene couldn’t help herself, saying just as he was about to step away, “Then shall I expect you at the Quiloud’s ball tomorrow?”

The smile grew slightly softer at that hint. “You can, if I may reserve a dance with you.”

“What if you may not?”

Vouloix didn’t trust himself to look at Francquet’s face, not that he wanted to take his eyes away from the delightful challenge in Philomene’s expression. It would be the height of scandal if he were to kiss her face right in front of Francquet, right there in the middle of the Crozier – but by Halone, the temptation was ever growing. Three summers since their first meeting, and he still hadn’t found anyone who tempted him this way.

He lowered his voice, meeting her eyes directly. “Then I will endeavour to be more delightful company till I am worthy.”

Philomene pressed her lips together. That gaze he’d just levelled at her was unfair. “Good afternoon to you, Viscount Aubemarle.”

“And to you, Lady Philomene,” he murmured, pleased to see a flash of colour rise to her cheeks. With another nod to Francquet, whose face was becoming redder by the moment, he sauntered off.

Philomene breathed in quietly, determined not to watch him go. Beside her, Francquet had no such compunctions, making a scoffing sound as he made sure Vouloix wouldn’t turn back. “Finally - thought he’d never leave. What cheek to bother us whilst we are on a pleasant walk. And to practically press a promise from you, my lady; such nerve. 'Tis a marvel how well you turn off unwanted attentions.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Philomene took a moment to arrange a smile on her lips before directing it at him. The colour in her cheeks had also receded. “Do you truly think so, Lord Francquet?” When he affirmed it enthusiastically, she nodded. “Then I shall practice it more often. Perhaps today. Let’s continue our walk, shall we?”

end.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite #vouloix de aubemarle #philomene de aubemarle #(how the fsck do you write someone who has elegant Regency-era rizz)#(Georgette Heyer help me)

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housedeaubemarle · 2 months ago

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FFXIV Write 2024 #3: Tempest

Five turns ago:

“I am very sorry, my lady. Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“On behalf of the church, I extend our sincerest condolences as well. I pray you and your house find solace in the knowledge that good Viscount Aubemarle is surely in the embrace of the Fury's heaven.”

“...yes. Thank you.”

“Alas, none may oppose the Fury’s will.”

“...hm. Ha. Her will?”

“Yes, my lady. Your husband was a righteous man, worthy of Her calling despite carrying no sword or spear. He will be sorely missed indeed.”

“...Mamma, let us take care of this. You need to rest. Let us call Nisette to help you-”

“No.”

“Please Mamma, Rem is right. We can handle the arrangements.”

“No.”

“Mamma, wait-”

“Holy father. Good ser knight. You have just confirmed that my husband is dead. I bid him goodnight, not knowing it would be farewell. I slept beside him as he died, his body cooling under those sheets. It grows colder still whilst you stand here, right before me-”

“Mamma-”

“In your bright robes and your gleaming armour, and you tell me this was the Fury’s will?”

“...my lady, your children speak truly; you are distraught and aggrieved. Rest.”

“You will answer me.”

“Dear Viscountess… every one of our lives is appointed by the divine hands of the gods. All we may do is surrender and obey.”

“So now you accuse all the gods of wanting my husband dead.”

“Please my lady, try to understand. The good father's words were kindly meant.”

“Were they? Did you think it kind to reassure a grieving woman that the Goddess she has trusted and worshipped her whole life saw fit to rip her husband from her side without warning nor sign? No dragon to kill, no enemy to curse, no illness to blame? Is it by Her whim that I am bereft of explanation or revenge for the rest of my own miserable existence?”

“Th, that… that is the way of things. It cannot be undone, but only endured-”

“I swear by the Spear Itself, one more word- one more deplorable word from your mouths and I shall run myself into his sword. Then you, father, may explain to all of Ishgard how an illustrious Temple Knight allowed an unarmed woman to kill herself with their own weapon.”

“Viscountess Aubemarle…!”

“Fury take your comforts and condolences. Leave my house. Leave my family. Leave me to my ruin and GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!!”

“...”

“...Mamma…”

“...what have I done. Fury have mercy, what have I done. Vouloix, help me, what have I done…!”

“Sshhh, Mamma… sshhh… it will be alright…”

end.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv oc #ffxiv oc lore #philomene de aubemarle #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #...I'm still not very happy with this one since I'm still wondering if she would have really done this #but I rather think she was also way out of her mind when Vouloix passed away #I can only suppose after this Oudine and Remont had *a lot* of official grovelling and apologising to do #idek what format this is - dialogue only? RP-style? Audio drama but written? (wth)#cw: death #cw: suicide

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housedeaubemarle · 7 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 losstarot #joshua 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 · 7 months ago

Text

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 losstarot #joshua 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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