#there is nothing i love plaguing nolanel feran with

[furymint]

send  🏠  for  a  domestic  starter . Nol n eli nol n eli nol n eli

starter prompts | wc: 553

The dinner table was thronged by confusion and family. Mathieu Cadieux, at the head of the table, was flanked by his two daughter-in laws. Their husbands sat beside them, then two of Elliot’s cousins, Elliot himself across from Nolanel, two aunts, Josseloux and a cousin, and Prenie at the foot.

During a pause in the conversation, Nolanel absently scratched open a scab under his nose. He didn't notice. A bright spot of blood shone on his face, unlocking a vampiric look to his gloom, and no one knew quite how to tell him.

Madeline said something about favoring blackberries in season, and that wine made of them was preferred at the altar of a certain Northern Highland chapel. A polite but disengaged acknowledgment rippled through the table.

Blood dribbled down to Nolanel’s lip. His tongue flashed out, and a heretofore impossible pallor struck his wan face. Something like recognition followed--but he did not raise his napkin to clear the blood away.

Elliot stared at Josseloux with wide, threatening eyes, thinking that the look conveyed that he would steal his fathers valet and never allow Nolanel to shave himself again.

Josseloux, who understood the look, also knew that loyal Antoine would never betray his master of over twenty years. Nevertheless for a man who was once the boy that he'd shaved a single time--when Elliot woke one morning, nineteen summers old, and was convinced that a negligible amount of peach fuzz was disrupting the line of his smile.

By this time, it would be truly rude if Nolanel discovered his shame and had not been imformed of it by one of the thirteen onlookers. Alvise cleared his throat. Possibly he meant only to encourage his wife, but he never spoke. A servant interrupted by bowing at Nolanel’s side.

"Ser Feran," he whispered, although Nolanel stiffened as if he'd yelled. The servant extended an arm and twisted his hand discretely to deposit a folded handkerchief.

Nolanel stared at it dumbly.

Ives had his second greatest idea. "I propose a toast," he declared, swiping up his goblet and raising it eyelevel. "To the construction of the Firmament, and the promise of safety, prosperity, and eternal growth of our Holy City." His first great idea was monopolizing a large portion of the shingle industry.

Mathieu enjoyed rewarding fortunes and avoiding emotional responsibility, so he assented with a loud, "Hear!"

Each person at the table released the utensils they'd held for deniability, then took up their glasses.

"To Ishgard's next age," said Ives.

The party echoed him, clinked their glasses, and drank.

Blood remained on Nolanel’s face.

Alvise looked dumbfounded; Ives was trying not to look; Mathieu was turning red; every woman hid their face but Prenie, whose squint was becoming intolerable. Josseloux understood. Elliot despaired.

If the alcohol did not sting Nolanel’s cut, he must not have drank it at all.

Nolanel lowered his sleepy eyes to his plate.

Elliot took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled with a tiny hum. "Ser," he said, although no one else seemed to notice.

With eager alacrity, Nolanel woke to serve him.

Elliot demonstratively rubbed a fingertip across part of his upper lip.

It seemed hopeless. Seconds passed.

Nolanel touched his lip with his gloved hand and gasped.

Josseloux grinned like a fox. "Well, thank the Fury for that!"