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The Grand Hunt - Part 4: The Trophy

Part 1: The Call Part 2: The Tracking Part 3: The Hunt

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cillien, I found them!”

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

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

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

~*~

“Isillud…? Izzy.”

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

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

“It’s been a while, cousin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, milady.”

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

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

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

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

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

“How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks. “You're set on it then.”

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

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

She nods. “I have some ideas.”

~*~

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

Remont jumps down to go knock on the front door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

"You do not wish to meet him?"

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

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

~*~

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

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

“Lord Isillud?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, he’s alright. He’s fine.”

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

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

Rewelle smiles, then drifts back to sleep.

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

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

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

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

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

“...am I going to lose my job?”

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How are you holding up?"

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

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

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

You're welcome.

It was nothing.

'Tis your courage that saved you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this is what Joshua wants. For noble House Losstarot to be where it was. Where we were. If it means knocking House Gaussain off its pedestal, it is the path we choose to walk. We will rise, we will rise. And when we return then the reckoning begins.

[May the Rood ever flourish.]

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

"Thank you for your concern, cousin."

The End (for now).

#ffxiv rp #ffxiv character #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot #escher strange #ser lucille #ser drouhont #izzy my beloved #IT'S OVER OH MY GOD #and it only took us 2 weeks #thank you ros for lending her OCs at competitive rates

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escherstrange-ffxiv · 11 days

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The Grand Hunt - Part 3: The Hunt

Part 1: The Call

Part 2: The Tracking

(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 tilt 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 character #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot #escher strange #izzy my beloved #look at him go

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escherstrange-ffxiv · 11 days

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The Grand Hunt - Part 2: The Tracking

Part 1: The Call

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv who continuously surprises and delights)

~*~

If there’s anything no one expected Isillud Losstarot to be, it’s a miser.

The grey Elezen shoves his hands into his coat (now wearing a simpler one he was more used to) muttering, "Daylight robbery, who in the Brume can even afford three thousand gil," as he scans the stalls at the back of the Crozier.

The signboard is almost missable, located beside the underpass towards Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral. Not worn, but the building has seen better days. Inside, potions are lined and arranged by colour and effect, what little sunlight peeking through the windows lighting up the beakers like tiny lamps, painting the room with dots of coloured light. The Elezen behind the counter with a black bandana tightly wrapped around his head doesn't give the impression of an apothecary let alone able to concoct a potion; but he's not here for medicine anyway.

He places the gil in a pouch on the counter. "A bottle of Lovers Meeting, please." The merchant tips the coins onto the counter. Satisfied, he opens the counter flap, silently nodding towards the stairwell leading to the bar below.

One would think that such steep entrance fees would mean more sumptuous trappings, even in a literal underground speakeasy.

Evidently the three thousand gil per head is funding other things since the ambiance leans towards “dive bar with slightly better music”. There are minimal tapestries along the stone walls to dampen the sound of doubtlessly underhanded conversations taking place at the tables scattered across the main room. A single bar counter sits towards the right of the room - several patrons are variously sitting by and leaning against it. Two bartenders serve liquids of all kinds of colours, viscosities and sizes, a little too languidly for other superior places, but there’s a distinct air of ‘put up or shut up’ around their service.

Two more barmaids - collars too low for any respectable place, highborn or lowborn - circulate with laden trays. There is the usual grabbing of various body parts and leering comments, which the barmaids take in varying degrees of stoic acceptance or sharp rejection. At the other end of the room, by the warm glow of fire crystals in a hearth, a Hyur bard is strumming a lute. They're playing fairly well to be honest; there’s even an attempt at original arrangements of some Ishgardian classics, which is wasted on the crowd here, but creativity would flow somehow.

Half the patrons are dressed in clothes made of finer stuff than would be seen in the Brume, though a few of them have tried to keep it discreet – a flash of silk here, a gold button there. Yet no ruby earring or even an eyepatch anywhere to be found. Two other doors against the wall, adjacent to the bar counter, are closed tight.

Still sore from the 3000 gil, Isillud takes a seat at the counter. The bartender who serves him cocks an eyebrow when he orders brumeshine but pours him a glass anyway. He turns around, leaning against the counter to scan the patrons - if not for earrings and eyepatches, then for Lady Haellione's grandsons. He does spin around and asks a bartender, "Is it always this busy?"

A careless shrug accompanies the bored reply. “A little more than usual, but not strange. Those who come here don’t typically work regular hours.”

That explains the door charge, Isillud thinks. Small change for nobles.

The second bartender who’s passing behind their colleague to grab a glass snorts. “Certainly ain’t here for Lee’s strummin’.”

The first gives a rough laugh at this in-joke. “You’re a new one here then milord?” he asks Isillud.

His eyes widen slightly at the address, mouth opening slightly as he debates whether to ask.

The bartender raises his eyebrow again at this show of surprise, taking in Isillud’s fairly youthful face and thin frame. He smirks slightly.

“If you prefer ‘sir’, that’s no skin off my back. But most of our elite patrons prefer that we refer to them right an’ proper.” There’s a sardonic edge to the last words.

"N, no it's not that, it's- how do you know?"

The bartender levels a look at him that seems to originate from the Sagolil Desert. “You paid for Lovers Meeting, didn’t you? Good bet that anyone who does makes them a milord.” He looks down, over the counter, then back at Isillud. “Also them knee plates shine too much for the likes of us.”

The man goes on to collect two empty glasses nearby, saying, “So, milord, since we’ve established you have noblesse oblige: another drink?”

These bartenders are certainly different - 5 years frequenting taverns and none had ever noticed. Isillud feels almost ashamed for keeping his armour so well-maintained. "A good polish goes a long way…" he mumbles, then recovers to ask, "Why 'Lovers Meeting'? Is there a story behind it?"

“Fury knows; I’m only here to serve the drinks and answer questions,” says the bartender blankly, the irony bouncing off the reply since Isillud had not in fact followed up with another order.

His colleague, who’s overheard this exchange, chuckles. “Umfrey’s an illiterate urchin so you’ll have to forgive his ignorance.” Over the scoff Umfrey gives as he moves away, the second bartender continues, “You’ve not heard the saying then, milord? ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting’?” He grins. “The one who built this little place of ours had a romantic streak.”

“Romantic? Who?” The lilting voice of a barmaid breaks into the conversation as she appears at the bar, asking for beers. Then she side eyes Isillud; she appears to like what she sees since she smiles in what she thinks is a sultry fashion. “You a romantic, milord?”

Isillud looks at the half-glass of brumeshine; perhaps he chose this drink so he can stretch the drink over the night considering how awful it tastes. Then he looks at the barmaid and nods while beaming, "I do love a good romantic novel. My brother brought home a stack from the Valentione Fair; it's hard to go through them slowly. It's all a lovely fantasy," he says, before turning to the grinning bartender. "Who built this place?"

The bartender who isn’t Umfrey is laughing unabashedly now. “Take your beers an’ get on with ye, Lina! The young lord wishes to discuss literature!”

Confused at first by this answer she’s never encountered in her entire career, Lina duly picks up her tray with an offended sniff. “Goin’ to the dogs, this place is.”

“Already there!” calls out this erudite bartender after her, before he picks up the conversation again. “Couldn’t tell you; I only learned it from one of the other workers. Not paid to question more, we are. We just keep our mouths shut, and do our jobs, like any other regular folk.”

He regards Isillud with a curious eye. “I imagine Umfrey’s right in you bein’ new.” The look becomes a little patronising, mostly paternal. “Begging your pardon, milord, but word of advice: find your friends quick. Nothing good generally comes from a curious gamin walking in here alone. So’s I told the twin lords recently.”

This gets Isillud's attention. He leans in. "Twin lords? Who?" He turns around scanning for anyone who looks remotely identical.

Young and untried, thinks the bartender. And not a little foolish, askin’ so openly in a place like this. Still, the lord paid money to be here, he’s in an indulgent mood, and things are slow despite the crowd.

“The lords Chaunollet, even younger than yourself. Mirrors of each other from head to toe, and one as likely as the other to kick up trouble, saving milord’s presence.” His eyes flick to one of the doors, then back to Isillud and his still rather-full glass. “Different drink for you, milord?”

He looks at his brumeshine, then at the bartender. "Will I get an introduction if I send them your most expensive drink?"

There is a pause. A long one. Then the bartender smirks.

“Milord, we ain’t strangers to things that don’t fit in the daylight, if you catch my meaning. So’s if it’s an introduction you want, that full bottle of 28,000 gil top shelf, Ishgardian brandy,” he says, nodding at the display behind him, “won’t be turned away.”

He crosses his arms. “Only rule is no goings-on directly in this place. Too much trouble for us to clean up. Bar brawls is one thing - getting the Knights involved is another.”

"Twenty th-" Isillud shakes his head to catch himself, which is bound to give the bartender a raised eyebrow. Miserly nobles aren't new but one as young as Isillud Losstarot might be. "They're behind that door then?"

“They could be, depending on what you do next,” is the reply, and the pointed jab of the thumb backwards at the aforementioned overpriced bottle of liquor.

"Sucking any of you off with a discount on the drink isn't an option, then?"

There is yet another silence. An even longer one this time, and it is not as hospitable as before.

Isillud is saved from having to tell Joshua that he had been unceremoniously booted out of an illegal bar, by Umfrey of all people. Evidently the man had been listening despite every look of not doing so.

“Guntmar is an unappreciative cretin, so you’ll have to forgive his ignorance,” he says, sliding into view. “Also, milord, journeys end in lovers meeting, but we ain’t lovers, and our journey ain’t ending.” He grins a little. “Gil speaks louder here.”

With a heavy sigh, Isillud reaches into his pockets and pulls out the unreasonable amount of gil to press into Umfrey's hand. He has a thousand words for exploitative gil-pinching capitalists and how it applies to both high and lowborn but he thankfully keeps it in his head. Then he pauses, and takes out a few more coins. "Consider it a tip."

“Much obliged, milord, and most generous indeed,” says Umfrey, hand gliding over the money in a practised move. It disappears instantly into a drawer below the counter, to be redistributed later. For his part, Guntmar has stepped over his shock creditably enough. He turns to pull the bottle carefully from the shelf, sets it on a tray and adds a few more glasses - four to be precise.

Isillud looks initially confused, but then the thought hits: They're with Ajax.

He puts his own glass of brumeshine on the tray (he'll drink it to the last drop even if it kills him) and picks it up, nudging his nose at the door. "Through there?"

Guntmar plucks the glass of brumeshine out of the ensemble and firmly takes the tray into his hands. He shakes his head at Isillud as he returns the glass to him.

“Not so fast, milord - there are procedures,” says Umfrey with the kind of sneer one can only make after serving entitled highborns night after night. “We’ll see if the gentlemen are open to making new friends.”

Guntmar waves Lina over to pick up the tray, and instructs her to tell their guests within that the drinks are courtesy of a “young lord” outside.

Minutes tick by as the barmaid does as instructed, disappearing into the side room; the bartenders go back to their tasks, as more men - it’s always men - have walked in, demanding service. They let Isillud sit with his regrettable brumeshine, and watch, and wait.

Even the most homosexual male establishment has female patrons, which makes Isillud curious at the overwhelmingly male clientele. He takes a sip of brumeshine while scanning for faces he recognizes - a noble son, a bastard, a middle son, an uncle, a father.

If they all come to escape the trappings of high society, then why the need for friends?

His thoughts are interrupted by Lina's sudden return. She stands in front of him without the tray. “If you please, milord, the gentlemen would like to offer thanks to the generous man who bought them such quality drinks, and invite him for a friendly game of cards.”

Umfrey leans over to say in a mock-helpful voice: “That’s you.”

Isillud gets up, adjusts his jacket, then takes his glass with him.

This better be worth every gil.

The room is necessarily smaller, but far more satisfyingly decorated. Velvet cloth and illuminating lamps hang along the walls. In a side hearth, a beautiful, mid-sized fire crystal keeps the temperature comfortably warm. Even a chaise lounge is pushed further inside.

In the middle of the room, a red tablecloth covers the lone table on which the tray and its accoutrements are found. Scattered playing cards signal that their appearance had interrupted a round.

The three Elezens around the table are less comforting. Two of them look up at the same time as Isillud enters. They look remarkably similar - one might even say twin-like - save for two things: the placing of what look like scratches and bruising on their faces, and their eyes. One has dark blue eyes - the same as in the vision Isillud had seen - while the other wears a bandage over their right. Their clothes - particularly the sheathed daggers at their belts, and another shorter sheath strapped to their calves - and their bearings do not appear highborn.

‘They could be’, that bastard of a bartender had said. He hadn't said that they were.

That son of a–

Their third friend stands, and as he does, the clasp in his left ear winks red against the warm light of the room. There are scratches and lines across his face as well.

“Milord,” the voice is rough, but made polite by 28,000 gil brandy, as he gives a small bow. “You honour us with your generosity. Please join us.” He gestures to the table, where an empty chair - its back to the door Isillud has just entered through - waits.

Oh Izzy, you spent 28,000 gil on dregs.

The grey Elezen drags the chair on its back legs to the table, sinking into the backrest before crossing his legs. "You honour me with your hospitality, milords. Who does Isillud Losstarot have the honour of addressing?"

Dark Blue Eyes and his brother exchange a glance while the apparent spokesman of their group doesn't refrain from laughing aloud. “No lord nor count here, Lord Isillud - we are mere honest lowborn men in humble service to an illustrious house. But I must say, even our respected masters have never shared their bounty as you have.” (That gets a snort out of his friends.)

"Is that so?" Isillud tuts. "Wealth is to be shared. Such is noblesse oblige."

The ensuing grin is rather too sharp to be friendly even as the Elezen pours out an appropriate amount of brandy into an empty glass. For all of Guntmar's damnable duplicity, he had at least thought to offer some consolation - the fourth glass had evidently been in expectation of Isillud's acceptance into the room.

“I am called Hourlinet. My companions, Padiloux the elder,” (Dark Blue Eyes nods) “and Padiloux the younger.” (Bandaged One does the same).

Hourlinet sits back in his chair, picking up his glass to toast Isillud. “To your sustained health and beneficence, milord.” The younger Padiloux brother looks amused even if his older brother shoots Hourlinet a withering glance. But they raise their glasses anyway and take swigs.

Isillud duly follows. "And to you and yours, gentlemen." Just like that, his brumeshine is left to languish on the table. "How goes your game?"

“Quite well,” says Hourlinet, eyes gleaming at Isillud's smooth reply, “and better now that we are well-supplied with good liquor.”

Padiloux the Elder begins silently collecting the cards, and shuffling them together.

“Would milord care to join a round? For chicken stakes, I'm afraid, for we are unfortunately…” Hourlinet spins a hand carelessly. “Bereft of our usual coffers.”

Padiloux the Younger growls. “Wouldn't be if someone had warned us about damn cats.”

His brother glares at him for that. Hourlinet doesn't acknowledge it, though the smile he's directing at Isillud seems to get a bit rigid.

"Stakes are stakes no matter what's wagered, and I enjoy a good gamble." Isillud reaches out for the bottle to refill Padiloux the Younger's glass. "Consider your fortune changed, if only for tonight." Then he follows with the others.

Padiloux the Elder's eyebrow raises at this show of courtesy from a highborn. He does however begin dealing pairs of cards - blackjack, it seems, is the name of the game.

His younger brother is far less dubious, grinning at this generous lord. “Many thanks,” he says, taking a noisy gulp. “Beggin’ milord's pardon but you're actually a damn sight better than yer friends.”

Hourlinet throws him a disapproving glare. “Lord Isillud does not need commentary on his noble peers from the likes of us.”

“I don't think Lord Isillud minds,” retorts Padiloux the Younger, “when Lord Ajax has been goin’ round--”

“Andreau,” says his brother in a deeply voiced warning. “Enough.”

Andreau grumbles but falls silent. Hourlinet has picked up his cards consideringly. Then he asks, “Is my friend right, milord? Are you here to further acquaintance with simple men as us?”

Everything about Isillud is absurdly pretty - even when he laughs in his mid-deep voice, it's pretty (if not a bit surprising for his face). "Five summers in exile teaches a man many things," he sips, "The first of which is that you're no different from the common adventurer when stripped of title and gil."

He slides his cards towards him, peeking at his cards before laying it face down again. "When you're rock-bottom - heretic or not - even the kindest noble shares traits with the worst."

He looks them in the eye, those unclouded bright green eyes clear as his words. "My intentions are twofold: curiosity at who can command a private room in this bar, and the need for acquaintances following the barkeeps' advice."

Isillud runs a gloved finger around the rim of the glass, absolutely innocently without any connotations whatsoever.

"If you find it disagreeable, I shall quit this room anon, though the brandy is yours to keep along with what's in my glass."

The direct reference to heresy, and the downfall of the Losstarots that their master had always used as an excuse to ridicule the debauchery of Isillud Losstarot and his whelp of a brother, is clearly not what Hourlinet had ever anticipated. It certainly catches Andreau’s attention, even as his eyes cannot help but follow the movement of Isillud’s slender digit on the glass.

Such is the surprise caused that it is Padiloux the elder who, curiosity piqued by this show of openness (and admittedly, with some respect at that comment about not being different from the common adventurer), speaks instead in his low voice.

“We command nothing, milord. It is by our master’s will that we may use this room for our private affairs.” He eyes Isillud thoughtfully. “The need for acquaintances is a common one: you and the Aubemarles, for instance.” Hourlinet slides a glance at him, but says nothing as Padiloux says, “We’ve heard old lady Aubemarle views you with favour despite your previous fall from grace. Quite the feat, considering that shrew’s crotchety nature.”

The marble-grey Elezen rests his chin on his hand, swirling the glass in languid circles, watching light sink into it. "I think you know too well with favour comes fatigue. 'Yes milady, I shall attend your student's recital', 'Yes milady I shall escort you to Lord Baurendouin's social'. And on it goes."

He sighs, the other hand tapping the table to hit him with a card.

"If only I could simply quit and walk away like her servant girl."

Every single muscle in Padiloux’s body tenses, whether Isillud can see it or not. He flicks a card over to the lord, but doesn’t move or say anything else. The spell on Andreau is broken by those last three words – he frowns but waits for someone else to take the lead.

Hourlinet, affecting nonchalance, glances at his cards, and stays his hand.

“Good help is so hard to find, though one must have some pity for the servants of Aubemarle.” He takes a sip of his brandy. “Which girl would this be?”

Isillud peeks at his card then slides it into hand, smoothing out the cards into a single stack. "The one who would be a catch were she a noble. Her name, her name…" He frowns, tapping the side of his head. "-Rewelle, that's it! My brother wouldn't stop talking about her. The final straw came this morning, she should have packed up by now."

Andreau lets out a low whistle. “Her highness herself leaving Aubemarle? Now there's a turn up. Wonder what made her go.”

“Quite so. She could’ve been queen of Ishgard with her looks, and no mistake. Now the Pillars will lose their best quality - for shame,” says Hourlinet, schooling his face into a rueful expression. ��Suppose she'll have to go off and get married now that she's finished with the Aubemarles. No other highborn lady would let her into their house - only the Viscount de Aubemarle could have such lack of foresight.”

Padiloux has no additional comment to make. He's staring at his cards as if they were a tome from Old Sharlayan.

"Her highness? It sounds like she has a reputation." Isillud taps the table for another card. "My brother said she intends to look up a cousin at Falcon's Nest before deciding on her next step. If she has any suitors, now's the best time to find out, no?" He teases them, eyes resting on each of them around the table. "Perhaps one of you could stand a chance with her?"

“Reputation for bein’ more frigid than the Fury herself,” is the comment muttered just loud enough to be heard.

Hourlinet smiles indulgently. “Can't blame her for being choosy, Andreau; she could have her pick of the lot, noblemen included.” He turns back to Isillud with the same smile. “Milord is too complimentary to imagine any of us the happy husband of so… lively a lass. Methinks she may just be waiting for some lord to sweep her off her feet, be it never so humble a place as the Nest. Perhaps your smitten brother might attempt the quest?”

Padiloux slides a card over, now watching Isillud carefully.

"Ha!" Isillud barks, sliding the card to his growing stack. "My brother cares too much about his standing to think of attempting, and I'm certain all of Ishgard and beyond knows she is not my type." The last three words he speaks deliberately as he peeks at the card, "No, her hand must go to one brave enough to seize the chance before she is lost forever. I know when I am defeated."

He flips his cards and casually flings it to the table: he has exceeded 21. The chair drags backwards as he stands up to leave. "A life lived with regret and without love isn't worth living, don't you think?"

Hourlinet's eyes travel from the cards, up to Isillud's face. He grins easily.

“Wise words to live by, milord. We’ll commit them to memory for the benefit of our children, shall we not, gentlemen?”

Padiloux nods curtly while Andreau snorts.

Hourlinet is unfazed by such unappreciative responses. “Care to try another round with us? No? I understand, milord; busy man such as yourself must have a thousand things to attend to.” He lifts a hand when he sees Isillud reach into his coat. “Let me stand your bet, Lord Isillud - a small price to pay for the company you've given us so graciously. We look forward to a future game in full with you.”

They wait carefully for the lord to leave, and the door to close completely before Padiloux hisses, “You fool, can't you see it’s a trap?”

Andreau looks at his brother in genuine surprise. “Trap? How?”

“No highborn splashes this much,” retorts Padiloux, nodding at the gleaming bottle of brandy, “without wanting something in return. He's been with the Aubemarles. He knows.”

Hourlinet laughs shortly. “That fop knows nothing. Even if he had an idea of half our plans, what could he do? Not a single weapon, no strength to wield any - that coat drowns him. And the name of Losstarot can't reach Durendaire and company’s ears. Even Aubemarle ain't that high.

“No, my good Padiloux, seems more likely that his lordship's seen which way the wind's blowin’ and decided to sail accordin’ly.”

“Godsdamn you, speak plain,” says Andreau scowlingly.

Hourlinet shakes his head at the obtuseness of his compatriots. “Simple: this is revenge. Queen Rewelle's clearly spurned this Losstarot, and this is his way of makin' sure she gets what's comin’ to her.”

The brothers stare at him for an entire sixty seconds in dumbfounded silence. Then Padiloux reaches out to down his entire glass while his brother explodes in hilarity.

“Him! Isillud Losstarot! Makin’ moves on a servant girl!” Andreau slaps his brother's shoulder. “You've cracked, Hourlinet!”

Hourlinet maintains a dignified silence, merely pouring himself another glass while he waits for the roaring laughter to die down.

It only does when Andreau realises it is no joke. “By the gods, did that cat knock your brains loose? Isillud Losstarot has been taking buggery to new heights and you sit there thinking he's handing us clues to grab Rewelle out of revenge?”

His companion breathes out a despairing sigh. “Don't tell me you believe everything Ajax whines about. The man can't talk about Isillud without spitting bile everywhere - can't expect that to be the whole truth, can you? Giving and taking that many up the arse is impossible.” He swirls his brandy consideringly. “As you said, he's been with the Aubemarles. Must have tried his luck and gotten kicked like everyone else - not his type, see - found out what happened and who's been chasin’ her, came here to do us a favour.”

“How very convenient,” interjects Padiloux, half sarcasm, half contempt. “How the hell would he have known it was us what tried to grab them yesterday?”

Hourlinet rolls his eyes. “Same reason we've been holed up here overnight, you idiot. That cat probably sawus clear as day with those damned eyes while scratching us all to hell. Ain't hard to make inquiries in the Brume, even if he's a fop who can’t count.”

He takes a slow swig, letting the smooth liquor trickle down his throat. It's a nice change from the piss-poor, weak beer Ajax always gives them. “‘Sides, if it's favour the Losstarots are clawin’ for, better to have the Gaussains in their debt than Aubemarle.”

Andreau has been diligently doing the arithmetic of the social politics at play in his head. So he manages to conclude, “You think he's tryin’ to butter up Ajax? After everythin’ Ajax has been spewin’ ‘bout him?”

Hourlinet shrugs. “Highborn men play long games. That's how they stay highborn.”

Padiloux has also been pondering all this from where he sits, albeit faster than his brother. He has to admit Hourlinet makes strange sense. Yet the suspicion that something doesn't sit right still makes him say, “How would he know we would tell Ajax who tipped us off? Why would we?”

“Answer the first,” says Hourlinet, reaching up to tap his ruby clasp. Then he points at the bottle. “Answer the second.”

The silence which follows this is profound. Then Andreau smirks. “Should've been highborn, Hourlinet - you'd be in charge of the city by now.”

Hourlinet bows in his seat. Padiloux is less convinced, but can find no more objection. Besides, the vicious lambasting Ajax had flung them when they'd reported back about their failure still rings strongly in his mind. There is a spiteful eagerness to prove that they weren't ‘useless lowborn worms with no intelligence nor finesse’.

“What’s our next move?” he rumbles finally.

Hourlinet smiles. “Sit and enjoy the brandy. I doubt she'll set off at this hour after yesterday; we'll take up shifts at the usual spot near the house in the small hours. Likely as not, the girl will leave at dawn, just as it gets light.”

“Sounds grand,” says Andreau, leaning back in his chair. His good eye happens to fall on the abandoned glasses of brandy and brumeshine. Strangely, the image of Isillud caressing the brandy glass arises in his mind's eye as he does so. Must be the brandy getting to his head.

Outside, Isillud has two ears pressed to the door, his body pressed to the wall and his lips pressed against Lord de Courcelle's eighth nephew's own.

Bony fingers run through the man's flaxen curls, sighing softly between kisses as hips grind against straining fabric.

"Oi–" Isillud flicks 500 gil at Umfrey before he can continue, motioning to be patient for just a little longer. Once Hourlinet's genius deductions end, he reluctantly pulls away with a wet smacking sound between his lips, fingers running around the man's waistband. "See you at the Forgotten Knight in five, love," Isillud whispers into the man's ear, sealing the appointment with a kiss before sashaying off, picking up Lina's jaw along the way.

"Lovely establishment, my good men. I might come again," he says to the barkeeps before skipping upstairs. He's heard enough to know they've fallen hook, line and sinker for his plan.

What Hourlinet lacks in brains, he makes up with convincing speech. Shame, he could've been a Count in another life.

When he's far enough, he presses his linkpearl. There are plans to see through, but first:

"Professor, I've found you a suitable testing ground. How soon can you go to Falcon's Nest?"

To be continued

#ffxiv rp #isillud losstarot #ffxiv character #Izzy my beloved

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escherstrange-ffxiv · 11 days

Text

The Grand Hunt - Part 1: The Call

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

Part 2: The Tracking

(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. If in future, the House of Losstarot wishes to reimagine its motto, perhaps ‘en toutes choses, brièveté’ would be 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 rp #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot #ffxiv character

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escherstrange-ffxiv · 11 days

Text

A House Call: Epilogue du Oudine

Follows after the events of 'A House Call'.

~*~

On the same day that two servants of House Aubemarle delivered their employer’s messages in the morning, two highborn Ishgardians sit down to afternoon tea in the Viscount’s personal study. The Dowager is having her afternoon repose, so there is no danger of being interrupted.

Which is why there is no hesitancy in one of them speaking in a rather disbelieving tone, “Let me see if I have this right. As penance for this social transgression, you dropped right into their laps: invitations to events where you undoubtedly will introduce them personally to your inner circles, access to two extremely popular entertainment venues to increase their chances of being noticed and spoken to, new custom designs by one of our foremost fashion houses and free, efficient transportation. And you even included treats.”

Oudine breathes in the sweet fragrance of her mulled tea, tinged with spices she couldn’t name. Ishgardian tea was all well and good, but the stronger taste of Ul’dah’s beverage is a better comfort in times of consternation.

“Yes. Though Etoile is already acquainted with them by happenstance, and I'm not entirely sure what such experienced traders and travellers who’ve seen the ravages of a Garlean occupation would need with mere Chocobos, so perhaps those don't count.”

“Oudine de Aubemarle, you’ve basically handed them the key to the city.”

“Don't exaggerate, Vliaisse; House Losstarot is still related to all four High Houses of Ishgard. This is just-”

“Just? What is ‘just’ about these favours they have received? This isn't even counting how often and how much you've mentioned ‘my lords Joshua and Isillud Losstarot’ in such glowing terms as to directly contradict the rumours of their false claims to the title. I was right there when you told Lord Hugenot himself you had had the pleasure of their visit, hoping to further their acquaintance, a fresh addition to the usual faces in Ishgard etcetera etcetera!”

Oudine has to smile. “Your memory is truly a marvel, my dear.”

“For Fury’s sake, debutantes would have sold a kidney for a box at the theatre, their soul for the invitation to the Maintigny ball - I hear that Valentione and Lanencourt are already answered for. There're rumours speculating which of the Fortemps themselves will be there - not just if they'll go, look you. Then there's your mother's concert. Your aunt de Hellyes always attends with Lord Domin himself, and let me guess: your aunt Vaillant and her progeny have said they will come.” When Oudine nods, Vliaisse throws up one hand in exasperation. “That puts everything in place then, from Aubemarle to Vaillant to Durendaire if they know what they're about. And from what you've told me, at least one of them knows how to do this little highborn cotillion of ours. They'll go from heretical outcasts to belles of the ball in a month!”

“I doubt a month will be enough.”

“Three months then, after the child lord attains majority,” says Vliaisse dismissively. “Are they cognisant of the honours given them? Have you considered what will happen if your efforts are for nothing? If they squander all the apologies you thought necessary?”

Oudine sighs. “I have. It still ought to have been done, even if they give me the cut direct in future.”

Vliaisse raises an eyebrow. “Good gods, darling, you didn't murder the man in your home. Was it really so bad as that? Your mother, respectfully, is famous for her uncongeniality. If they are as highborn as they claim, and have intention to make headway in your circles, they ought to have been more prepared. You just said the Losstarots are kin to all the High Houses - why then begin with Aubemarle?”

Oudine doesn’t answer, merely looking coolly at her friend. A pair of sharp eyes, blue as the waters of the Rhotano Sea, return a steady gaze.

She breathes out, setting her cup down. “I can only suppose they heard of the Viscount de Aubemarle’s naivete.”

Vliaisse tsks disapprovingly. “Come now, self-pity is not the thing. You are a grown woman of thirty two, not a child.”

“If you persist in cutting up my good offices and casting shadows over the pieces, then I shall indulge in as much sulking as I like.”

The other Elezen frowns a little more at her before relenting. “Very well. Still, let us have the full account. I’ll not make a peep till you are done.” Her hand reaches across to pat Oudine’s soothingly.

Mollified, the Viscount narrates the short but eventful morning call that day, her mother’s testing of the new head of House Losstarot, the mystifying perspicaciousness of Lord Isillud and the unintentioned offence which had been committed.

Vliaisse does as she promised, listening patiently and keenly. For Oudine’s sake, she holds back a laugh at the part about the eclair, then frowns towards the ending.

“So, Vliaisse? Did the error merit such apologies?”

The darker skinned woman shakes her head slowly. “Well… if I were in your shoes, an invitation to the concert and Mr Ofanleitasyn's pastries would honestly have answered. But,” she says quickly when Oudine looks distressed. “We all know of your usual generosity in normal circumstances. Now that you are the one who has erred, I understand better.”

There is a short pause before Vliaisse continues, carefully. “You must realise that in the grand, crude, scheme of things, they have won. If they don’t act accordingly…” it will be the fault of House Aubemarle for pushing their reintroduction.

Oudine twists her lips in a grimace. “Yes, if one must put it that way. But I would rather be a gracious loser.” The memory of Joshua's eager curiosity and Isillud's soothing reassurance cannot but surface.

“I want to believe in them, Vliaisse. When men return from the dead, I would rather not bury them back in the earth. Besides, sins of the father should not be inherited by the sons.”

Vliaisse notes the faraway look in Oudine's eyes. She and Remont had always been close, and closer still after their father's death; to have her brother necessarily faraway created a space within Oudine that no one else really filled. And for one who exerted herself so much in public, those she could be at ease with behind closed doors were fewer than Vliaisse thought was healthy.

She sighs. “I suppose the hammer that accidentally strikes fingers instead of the nail still produces bruises, in spite of its intentions. And for someone as composed as Lord Isillud, it must have been a particularly large one.”

“Yes. And if I think of someone bruising me in relation to my own mother…” Oudine makes a low dissatisfied grunt.

“...the Dowager does not deserve you.”

Oudine has to smile at that familiar phrase. “Don’t be too hard on her. More than half of those apologies were through her sole arrangements.”

“What, even Cant and Candour?”

“Even that. She promised her patronage for one future production in exchange. Not,” she lifts her hand to forestall Vliaisse's next comment. “Aubemarle money. Her own.”

Vliaisse closes her mouth. “Hmm.” There’s a moment’s pause, then she leans in, whispering theatrically, “I don’t suppose she’s lost a marble or two?”

“Vliaisse!” but Oudine is laughing now, and at least the air is some degrees lighter. They resume sipping their teas in a comfortable quiet.

Vliaisse stirs her cup contemplatively. “Still, at the end of the day, one has to wonder why such a story set him off. I see no harm in learning what one’s mother was like before one’s birth.”

Oudine shakes her head. “I meant what I said in my letter: sacred ground. ‘Tis not for you nor I nor Mamma to touch.” She takes a swig of her warm tea, pauses and says, “Mamma said Lord Isillud needs more armour if he is to stay here. I wonder if he has not already too much armour in some other way - the kind that makes his eyes glow so… preternaturally green.”

“...Oudine, you’re related.”

The Viscount instantly swats her friend’s hand. “I was not going in that direction, and you know it. Ridiculous to even suggest it.”

“Yes, since you don’t specialise in eclairs-”

“Vliaisse Vilauclaire!”

Vliaisse giggles. “Whatever Lord Isillud de Losstarot is or is not, he had best be ready. Even without your involvement, his appearance alone has stirred up the hornet's nest, as has Lord Joshua’s youth, to say nothing of the unspeakable reason they vanished from Ishgard five years ago. The gossips will have much material to work with in the coming months. To think I only anticipated explosions from the Fiouront affair. What, have you not heard the latest? Seems the heir has…”

Oudine props her cheek up with one hand, letting her friend draw her into the familiar but ever-roiling rhythm of other highborn scandals. Her own brush with it has taught her she has more stomach for being a spectator.

I have done my part, Losstarots, and so has Mamma. It shall not be the fault of Aubemarle if you do not regain your footing.

End.

#ffxiv rp #ffxiv character #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot

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escherstrange-ffxiv · 11 days

Text

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.”

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═════╝

#isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot #ffxiv RP #ffxiv character

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escherstrange-ffxiv · 16 days

Note

🔬 — scientific pursuits

Escher: "Exceptional- look, discovering how many flares can my nouliths cast IS science!"

Ireul: Absolutely none.

Isillud: He is well versed in male reproductive biology. No, we will not elaborate on this christian site.

Rossignol: Only if cooking counts. He's more of a "how can I summon this better" person.

#ffxiv #escher strange #ireul aberystwyth #isillud losstarot #rossignol martinez #ffxiv character ask

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escherstrange-ffxiv · 16 days

Text

A House Call

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv, without whom none of this would have existed in the first place)

~*~

"Sydney should be here," Joshua grumbled, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve.

"Probably for the best." Isillud thought it best 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.

“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."

Marceaux wordlessly and gingerly receives the tiny rectangle. He peers at it, absorbing that indeed, this is 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.”

“Please make yourself at home, milords.”

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 have 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?"

"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.”

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." His 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.

Well, that’s something I’ve not heard for a few years.

Oudine 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 Rem 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 dwarf even the likes of Count 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 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 Halone,” 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.

“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 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."

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. Oudine glances again at Isillud, looking for some kind of solidarity between older siblings.

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.

The Dowager on the other hand, sips calmly as Joshua recites the undoubtedly summarised adventures of five years.

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.

(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.

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-

"What?"

“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.”

“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?"

The dark brown eyes of the old 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 shereturned 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, seems to say 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 it 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.

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.”

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?”

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.”

“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.

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?”

“...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.

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, thin black ponytail waving behind him, 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."

"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…"

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.

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.

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.

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?!"

"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 third and last layer is filled with nothing but eclairs, covered in chocolate icing.

"Wake up, Izzy. You have a society to impress."

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end

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#ffxiv rp #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot #they're now in PLOT #am happy

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