#matthieu buison

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 19: Taken

The wind had stopped screaming, cutting across mountains and around and through the great tempest that lay at Ishgard’s center. A faint keening noise remained in its wake. The freezing cold lingered, and snow still fell from the sky in heavy patches, landing on the shoulders of all six men and the body of the dragonet between them. It was too cold for any of them to dwell, and silence couldn’t last long in those circumstances.

Looking up from the body, Matthieu examined the faces of all present. At times, in Parliament, he was able to read the expressions of other speakers, but he was no great detective capable of determining guilt with the subtlest of clues, and the widened eyes and darting glances of everyone around him gave him no further insight. He drew himself up to his full height, which placed him chest-high to the shortest of the five elezen.

“Who did this?”

The question pushed the other five out of a daze, and they all spoke at once.

“I was still pulling the karakul - “

“—Didn’t see anything but I did hear the shot—”

“—My shard fell in the snow and I was hunting for it--”

“—Couldn’t even see the shard, couldn’t make heads nor tails--”

Aubineaux whistled sharply, and halted the speech of the rest. “Only heard that screech,” he said, his sullen expression fixed on the snow. “And the shot. Just the one.”

“So any one of you could have done it, then.” Matthieu fumbled behind his shoulder to grab the shard he’d tied behind his back. It didn’t offer much warmth in this weather, but he clutched it tight in one glove when he had it.

“You could have as well,” said Ophoix while wringing his hands together. Matthieu opened his mouth to protest behind his scarf, but fell silent.

“So any one of us could have. Fine. We should take the body back to Whitebrim, and quickly. We need to let them know this happened.”

Matthieu stepped towards the dragonet’s corpse, kneeling down into the snow and picking up one limp wing in his free hand. The bullet hole was visible in its belly; in the cold, blood had already stopped flowing and was beginning to freeze. Never before had he seen a slain dragon so close, nor one so young.

“Alort, can you help me? We should be gentle with this.” He patted around the corpse’s sides to see if the bullet had punched cleanly through. With their rifles lacking aetherotransformer enhancements, it was unlikely. The round was probably still embedded in its torso.

“Alort?” he repeated himself. “The sooner the better, if you please. Before the wind comes back.”

Neither Alort, nor any of the other Fellows, replied. Matthieu looked up to see them all glancing away, avoiding eye-contact. Even stern-faced Aubineaux seemed pensive.

“Let’s just think about this for a moment,” said Constant, stepping forward. He hadn’t bothered with a scarf for the expedition, and was biting down on a cracked lower lip. “Just a moment to think.”

“We don’t have time to think about this. We have a lull in the weather, and we should take it. We can get back to Whitebrim from here and report this - “Matthieu stopped mid-sentence, grey eyes narrowing in understanding.

“You don’t have to be worried, any of you. Whoever did it, it was an accident. A mishap, and a tragic one. We all felt the wind, and lost sight of where we were going. In this weather, with the shriek we heard, it wouldn’t surprise me if somebody mistook it for a bateleur and fired an unlucky shot. We’ll get this cleared up.” He turned the dragonet over to check its back, and saw there was no exit wound. “It’s light, I can carry it myself.”

“No, no, just - “ Constant’s voice rose to a shout as Matthieu started lifting the dragonet from the ground. “I said hold on, I said just hold on.” When he stopped halfway to standing, Constant held both hands in front of him, palms outstretched. “I just don’t think they’ll see it that way.”

“What Constant means, I think,” said Alort, drawing out his words slowly to come to a conclusion in a shaking, whimpering tone, “Is that peace is good, now. Nobody wants tensions with the dragons again. And, you know, with all the trouble with poaching leather.” He swallowed, and paused to wipe something off of his face. “With all that trouble, they might think it wasn’t an accident. They might come down hard on us, on all of us, s-since we don’t know who did it.” “Yes, thank you,” Constant leapt on the explanation, nodding enthusiastically. “I just think we could...let the cold take care of it, and that would be fine. It’s a heavy snow, wouldn’t you say? We could just walk back to Whitebrim, and then you’d get your horns, and Aubineaux would get his mutton, and the snow would keep falling, and that would be that. It’s simpler.”

“Snow melts, Constant.” Aubineaux’s hard expression suggested he’d regained his bearings. “It’d come out, sooner or later. And there’s a bullet in it.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Matthieu, relief in his voice. “And you heard that shriek, didn’t you? So did its parent, I’m sure. They’ll be looking, and if they find the body when the weather clears, it will be worse than if we reported this to the knights at Whitebrim.”

Finally letting go of the dragonet, Matthieu stood and held his hands wide. “I understand it’s frightening. I’m not asking anybody to admit to anything, but you’re my constituents, and this was an accident. I’ll do what I can to smooth things over with the knights, and while I have no voice in the Horde, they’ll help soothe the parent as well. Nobody wants tensions to rise, so we need to do this in the proper way. Do you understand?”

Aubineaux’s response was to unstrap his carbine and aim it at Matthieu’s chest. “Your rifle, please, Mister Buison.” His speech was flat and without affect, businesslike in his command.

“What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?!” Gaspardieux had remained silent after their first outbursts, but the drawing of a rifle on one of their own made him take a few steps back from the circle.

“Quiet, man. He can’t go back. Your rifle, please. And don’t try to teleport.”

Matthieu had frozen in a way that the cold alone couldn’t have inflicted on him, his hands by his sides and fingers trembling, mouth agape despite the feeling that it was starting to dry and freeze. “You’re serious,” he said.

“I am. If you want this reported, then we’ll report it. You shot a dragonet, panicked, and fled into the blizzard. We’ll say it was an accident. A new hunter took fright in the snow. Tragic, but it happens.” “You can’t - “ His mouth flapped open and closed behind his scarf. Many of his colleagues in the House of Commons would have been shocked and amused to see Matthieu at a loss for words. “You’re all fine with this?!” Again he looked around the other Fellows. None of them would meet his gaze directly, focused on the snow.

“It’s not that I dislike you, or anything,” said Ophoix, still wringing his hands. “It’s just – if we teleported away, I know the others wouldn’t report it. But you would. And they would come down on us quite hard.” “Not if one of you admits to an accident!”

“Mister Buison.” Aubineaux hadn’t yet pulled the trigger. “The rifle. Now.”

With shaking hands, Matthieu unstrapped his carbine from his back and threw it on the ground in front of the dragonet. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he caught a flash of Constant creeping forward into the snow to pick it up off the ground. A sudden wind brushed through his hair, as the blizzard seemed ready to pick up again.

“Good.” Aubineaux nodded in approval, though at whom was unclear. “Next, your clothes.” “That’s cruel,” said Gaspardieux. “You can’t – that’s sick.”

“It’ll be like the old days, just after the Calamity. People would go mad in the cold, and strip off their clothes and run out.” Constant mused on the notion as he stepped back, tucking Matthieu’s rifle under his arm. His tone seemed appreciative. “It’s faster than you’d think, Gaspar. You fall asleep quickly. I’ve heard it feels warm.”

“I won’t be party to that. We could just take him back, under guard, and say he did it. We could still say it’s an accident! Maybe he’s right, and the Temple Knights would only punish him lightly.”

“Too much risk. He has adventurer friends, and they might get curious. And I wouldn’t expect him to play along.” While not taking his eyes off of Matthieu, it felt as if he was looking directly at Gaspardieux. “But you would, right, Gaspar? There are other ways we could do this, if you wouldn’t”

Looking between Matthieu and Aubineaux, Gaspar’s expression was a wince of apology as the wind pucked up to a howl again. “I’m really sorry, Matthi - “

As the wind drowned him out, Matthieu dove to his left, where Alort was watching the proceedings with a dumbfounded expression. He landed hard in soft snow, and felt it caking his face and getting caught beneath his scarf. Scrambling to his feet, he bolted out into the snow, with no sense of direction and only panic to move him.

He heard shouts and curses, as he expected he would. What he didn’t hear behind him was the crack of a rifle.

[faeorzea]

♥ Do they wait to be intimate until after marriage or break all the social rules? ♥ Do they make an effort to find someone with similar views, be they political or moral? ♥ Do they seek to find a partner purely to further the bloodline and name, is it for true love, or is it for pleasure alone? ♥ Do they have at least one bonding activity they devote to doing with their partner exclusively? ♥ Do they have a ‘type’? ♥ What was their first impression about their partner/person they are courting?

♥ Do they wait to be intimate until after marriage or break all the social rules?

Fae’s public preference is to wait for marriage, because of course a lady of piety and good standing within Ishgard does that. That said, Faetrix is impatient.

♥ Do they make an effort to find someone with similar views, be they political or moral?

If she had the option to seek someone for herself, she would hope they share many views together, both moral and political. These are fundamentals to her, and she does not compromise on them.

♥ Do they seek to find a partner purely to further the bloodline and name, is it for true love, or is it for pleasure alone?

Why can’t it be all three? That’s her opinion. Sadly, her family has other opinions, and she is currently struggling to tow the line along what their demands are.

♥ Do they have at least one bonding activity they devote to doing with their partner exclusively?

Music. For sure music and art. She is very guarded about her talents with pencil and with strings or keys, and does not often share these with anyone but only the closest to her, which would include a romantic partner.

♥ Do they have a ‘type’?

A man with a strong jaw, lithe frame and handsome features. A man with striking eyes and a clever mind will keep her attention for certain. Faetrix likes older men (she’s 19), and seems to have an inexplicable attraction to men with darker skin as well. 

♥ What was their first impression about their partner/person they are courting?

“Lord Alrix Travaine is a simple boy who has put me on a pedestal since we were children together. Lord Erimmont is unremarkable, though I have not seen him since the debut, which strikes me as odd. Ogul Dataq was terrifying at first glance, and his moniker ‘The Red King’ is very fitting if one uses it with respect (they don’t). Lord Deauxbois plays the fool, far too often, but has a depth to him none yet have touched. Lord Bastien Nouron is another in a line of swaggering peacocks who think their lordship affords them respect. Lord Matthieu Buison is a boor of a man whom I’d rather see choke than smile. Inquisitor-Lord Alseaux Cogoix is clever, and his tongue silvered indeed. He speaks in ways to make a woman blush, and I think that is the point...”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 10: Stable

10. Stable

“All right.” Matthieu rubbed his cheeks, both red from the cold, and shook his head, trying to remember what he’d been taught. Two Skysteel rifles had been laid out on a heavy cloth in the snow in front of him. There were small differences in their ornamentation and the size of their barrels, but to his eyes they looked othererwise identical. “Let me see if I have this.” He pointed to the one on the left. “Musketoon,” he said, then pointed to the other. “Carbine.”

Padilloux chuckled in a low sound, the kind of guttural noise brought about by years of too much fatty meat and wine. “Completely backwards.” Matthieu’s shoulders fell just as Padilloux patted one of them with a thick hand. “But it’s hard to tell from the outside, all about the loading mechanism. Doesn’t matter as much if you’ve got an aetherotransformer on your hip, but if you don’t know your muzzle-loader from your breech-loader you’ll never get that shooting club to listen.”

“I know.” Matthieu grimaced. He had nothing but respect for the Manufactory and supported their movement to arm the commoners and revitalize Ishgardian military tactics in general. But an adolescence spent learning the finances of a family haberdashery meant he wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to be part of that same movement. “Which one is easier for me to use?” “To load? The carbine, I’d say. You don’t have to know how to shoot well now, though, you just show an interest, maybe go along with a hunt for them, I’m sure they’d give you their support come the next election.” Padilloux knelt down with a grunt and plucked the carbine from the snow, handing it to Matthieu with care. “It’s not loaded, but you never know.”

He gave a wan smile as he took the carbine from his fellow representative’s hands. “It’s not about a specific election,” he corrected, looking over the ornamentation carved into the rifle’s stock. “I know the lower tradesfolk in the parish well enough, but I need to expand my range. Easier to work with the Brume speakers that way, you know?” Padilloux gave a quick look of distaste. “I suppose if you have to, just don’t forget that there’s the Commons and there’s, well, commoners. The city’s changing, and we don’t need to go upsetting any apple carts by changing it too much, you know.”

Matthieu returned the look, his sharp grey eyes the only thing of note in an otherwise-plain face. Both men represented different parishes in the Crozier, so there wasn’t that much difference between the two of them in the estimation of some. But Padilloux loved his hunts and he loved tasting expensive wine, and he often found himself invited along to do both by members of the Lords, while Matthieu still kept his office above his aunt’s haberdashery in leftover storage space, so there was every difference between them.

Edda had offered, in the gentle way that Matthieu loved, to correct this. But it hadn’t yet felt right.

“No, I suppose we can’t,” he agreed. “But a little bit is fine. Now show me how to use this without a tragedy.”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 20: Duel

Direction meant nothing amid whirling snow, and he had no sense of how much time had passed. He couldn’t hear the crunch of it beneath his feet as boots lifted through piling drifts and stepped downwards, couldn’t feel anything beyond the cold and the faint, constant warm of the fire shard now pressed tight against his body, and didn’t register his breath puffing out and turning to steam.

He hoped he was traveling south, or west. Far enough south, and he would reach the side of the Nail. Far enough west, and the canyons leading to the great ice wall of Snowcloak would surround him. If he was fortunate, either result would provide some cover from the wind, and give him a moment to think. North was a risk, and perhaps he might see the beacon fires of Whitebrim Front, a guidepost to safety. Or perhaps he would walk too far to the east and stumble past them, to fall into the Sea of Clouds, never to be seen again.

What Matthieu had at this point was thought, and it was the only thing keeping him alive. First, he’d taken stock of his circumstances.. He was dressed warmly enough to not fall on the spot, and when he’d stopped to think of it, he’d adjusted his scarf from within his jacket to cover his head and ears. The less that fell to frostbite, the better. His boots were sturdy, and no snow had gotten into them, nor did he feel damp in his legs. It seemed a poor end to spend his last bells struggling to make a fire in a panic, his fingers shaking, the cold shutting him down because he’d stepped in water somewhere or soaked his clothing and hadn’t noticed. And that bought him time.

The next matter was that of escape. He could teleport away, he knew, if he had the opportunity. But the chill and the wind kept breaking his concentration; in each moment he tried, a sharp gust knifed past the side of his coat and through every layer beneath to catch his side, drawing his will away from thoughts of his own aether and a picture of Foundation. The sight of bonfires that circled the aetheryte plaza faded away too soon, and he was left back in the snow, fists clenching and cursing to himself, running the sleeve of his arm over his eyes to prevent the tears from freezing on his skin.

Hence the hope of south, and hence the hope of west: if he could break the wind against his back, and had a few moments, then he could concentrate, and he’d collapse on the paved stones of Ishgard and crawl towards a bonfire, warming up as best he could. From there, he didn’t know if he would march straight to the Knights, to an apothecary, or to his home in the Firmament.

Wistful thinking was a distraction, and he chased it away. Another act of taking stock was a matter of threats beyond the cold. When he ran, there had been no report of a rifle behind him. It was possible the Fellows couldn’t shoot him, that they couldn’t afford to shoot him. Everything hinged on Matthieu “going mad” in the cold and passing of exposure. If the worst came to pass, and his body was found in the snow, a frozen bullet hole might reveal the story for a sham. Those “adventurer friends” the Fellows feared might indeed get curious, though they flattered him by thinking he had so many after the events of the election. Edda wouldn’t let it go, and of that he was certain they had cause to fear.

Still, that might have stayed their hand. The question – the concern, the fear – was whether or not they had beaten him to the Pillars. Some of them could no doubt teleport, he was sure, but not all, though he cared not to consider which was which. Whatever the case, they had arranged themselves in conspiracy, and therefore in mutual suspicion. It was unlikely they trusted each other enough to split apart as a group. Worrying that any one of them being left behind to travel on foot would mean joining Matthieu in his new role as scapegoat, they would all retreat to the Pillars, or they would all remain. And if even one of them was incapable of the act, then all of them would remain.

So you suppose, he thought to himself. But you supposed they would all agree that reporting the shooting was the proper thing to do, and now here you -

His foot caught as he was lifting it from the snow. A dead root, perhaps, or a solid piece of stone. His foot hurt like the seven hells all the same, and he stumbled forward a few fulms more. His body collided with something solid and heavy, and he felt it crack against his forehead. The pain stung at the point of impact, and the cold made it feel as if it had passed through every nerve in his body. The curses he uttered were many, and would require significant apology to the Fury at a later date.

With enough time to catch his breath, he felt against what he’d hit with his hands. Stone, from the feel of it, rough and unsculpted. He couldn’t feel any grooves that might be signs masonry, only snow that fell free when he brushed it aside, or packed ice. Whatever direction he’d traveled, he’d found one of the natural barriers of the Coerthan mountains. Keeping his eyes forward gave him something to look at that wasn’t fog and snow as he shuffled his feet to his right, cutting through the snow a bit at a time and minding that he didn’t catch a boot on another stone, or tear it on something sharp.

A little closer, he told himself. A little closer, and he’d find something, anything, where he could concentrate and leave. And then -

And then, he interjected, if what you said is true and they can’t all teleport, they’ll turn on one of their own, make him the scapegoat, and all join you back in Ishgard. They’ll insist it was that fellow, instead, and that they had been trying to save you after he had gone mad, shot the dragonet, and chased you into the blizzard alone. Somebody else will be lost in the ice, and they’ll be so grateful you were able to get away and get home.

Beneath the covering of his mouth, Matthieu frowned. His tendency to practice debates against himself in preparation for sessions in the Commons was getting the better of him, but at least he wasn’t hallucinating another version of himself in so doing.

Very well, he rejoined, but they’re all thinking that too. None of them trust each other enough not to turn on the others if they aren’t all in unity. Bearing that in mind, let’s presume they’re staying out in the wilderness, weather be damned, and trying to make sure I don’t come back out of it. And they could: They’re better equipped and armed, and with that karakul they could make a go at finding shelter and a meal through the blizzard.

But could that group, he countered, really be unified? There’s nothing tying them together beyond living in the same parish and wanting to get away with a killing. Given the chance, one of them would break.

His concession to himself was begrudging. Perhaps that would be so, but for two things: First, that Aubineaux was driving the plot, and the tailor clearly scared the hells out of all of them as the best shot and the most driven to make it work. None of them would want to cross him, and -

He realized his left foot was at a higher elevation than the right, and he was moving up a slope. There was a quick pause to adjust his weight.

-And living in the same parish was a weakness as much of a tie. They’d see each other every day. Was Constant really going to tutor Aubineaux’s children, would Gaspardieux mend Ophoix’s gemcrafting table, like nothing happened? The long-term fear that one of them would break would demand unity, and that they all stay in the wild until this is resolved.

Of course, Matthieu conceded to himself on both fronts, I have no evidence for any possible position. They could have been eaten by a goobbue shortly after I ran away. In this weather, I could hear their screams as easily as I could hear a rifle. The ground vanished beneath his left foot and he lurched forward. Eyes wide, he scrabbled for purchase on the side of the mountain wall, finding some kind of handhold and dangling his leg over air before he yanked it back. Both opponents in the debate were united in cursing. Once he was on solid ground, he craned his neck left and down. The rock cut away by some distance, but he could see a small pile of snow just beneath the wall of grey stone.

Years ago, when Coerthas was still green and Matthieu had lived as a shut-in child in an otherwise pastorally blissful village, he’d been taught how to be careful in the snow in the rarer, less severe Ishgardian winters. Drifts could be soft, but they could be deep, and if he wasn’t careful to gauge how deep, he could fall too far in the snow and be lost, or break a leg if it was too shallow. The secret, he had been told, was now completely lost on him as he’d forgotten it after a decade of living in the city itself.

Glancing down at his chest, he considered the fire shard he’d tucked there, the one small piece of warmth that was keeping him stable. Perhaps if he dropped it, he thought, it would melt through the snow and gauge the distance. He could retrieve it later. Or perhaps he would never retrieve it at all, and lose his last advantage.

To the hells with it. He turned towards the outcropping, knelt down against the snow, and dropped down. He hit the ground with a puff rather than a thud, and found snow up to his knees but no further. The drop offered four fulms of relief from the wind. He set about kicking snow aside as best he could to clear a space before he huddled down out of sight.

With the high keening sound of the wind dropping to something duller now that it was no longer assailing his ears directly, and his back feeling some of the warmth of the fire shard now that gusts weren’t battering against his spine, Matthieu could, for a moment, breathe easy, and that was the moment he needed. Taking a few slow, steady breaths, he thanked the Fury for giving him stone for a shield, and gathered his will. Shutting his grey eyes tight, he pictured the Pillars and all their bonfires, the great circling crystal serving as a beacon. Just a moment more, and it was done.

The roar overhead would have cut through the wind even if he had still been directly in the middle of the storm. He didn’t know the notes of the Dragonsong, and while he had spoken to dragons in the past, they had deigned to speak in the common Eorzean tongue. But everybody in Ishgard knew that sound, and learned to fear it. Though it was smaller, less deep and forceful than that of Nidhogg’s, it contained the same rage and grief, and a declaration that someone would answer for what had been done.

The Pillars faded away as he opened his eyes. It knows. It heard the shriek, or worse, it found the body. It’s hunting, now, and it won’t be satisfied until it has its prey.

All the more reason to teleport away, he supposed. But if his suppositions were right, then the Fellows were still out in the wilderness as well.

And what would that change? One of them brought it upon themselves, and instead of sorting it out they’ve left you to die. Teleport away and let them deal with it, if they can.

But only one of them, and I’m still sure it was an accident. If they are all here, and all five are slain, there will be an escalation.

He pounded his fist against the rock behind him. Free of snow, it was pleasant and solid. How could he be so sure of that? There were many guarantees ensuring the peace between Ishgard and the Dravanians. Not every little slight would lead to accords being torn apart by dragon fire and skies full of wyrms. It wouldn’t do to think everything would lead to the worst possible outcome.

He paused at his own thoughts, and looked around his environs. He could see three fulms ahead of him in any direction, and that after he took the time to clear out more snow and see the ground beneath.

Well, he thought, perhaps you can think some things will lead to the worst. But in that case, isn’t the situation bad enough? No rifle, limited supplies, a dragon and the Fellows both on the hunt. Better to leave well enough alone and retreat to the Pillars.

He found he had no argument in reply, and thunked his head against the back of the outcropping. Matthieu closed his eyes, but he couldn’t picture the Pillars. The shoulders of his coat lifted and fell in a great sigh. His eyes widened, and he patted the front of his chest as if remembering something, before reaching down underneath what was left of the scarf tucked into his shirt. He felt the chain of a necklace still in place, and pulled the small miniature out from under his shirt to examine it.

He hadn’t asked who the artist was when Edda presented it to him; somebody from Limsa Lominsa, he assumed, or perhaps Gridanian. It was by necessity a small portrait, ringed in a simple bronze frame, but it captured her well: soft green eyes looking back at the viewer, accentuated by the mole just under her right lashes, which stood out against her pale skin, and a small smile that could be read as patient or affectionate depending on who it regarded.

Finding himself unable to look at it directly without glancing away, he tucked the necklace back under his shirt and fastened his scarf in place. “I am sorry,” he mumbled. “I have to do something stupid to stop other people from doing something stupid.”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 16: Third-Rate

The rest of the morning was pleasant; once everyone’s nerves had calmed, the Fellows seemed to enjoy nothing more than traipsing about the snow under the overcast sky, admiring the scenery and keeping a close eye out among sparse and scattered trees for signs of a nesting cloudkin. They told bawdy jokes among themselves, received a little chiding from Constant to remember their Enchiridion, and told bawdier jokes about that in reply. Aubineaux remained in the front as befit his nature, stifling the crowd when they made too much noise with a glare over his shoulder, and occasionally stopped them to check a tree for signs of a nest or the ground for any tracks of interest.

Matthieu blended in with the rest of the pack, save when one of the Fellows asked him a question about the politics of the Commons. There, he tried to keep his words light; while he had strong opinions about subjects like the acceptability of priests running for Parliament, he had no interest in ruining everyone’s better mood by delving into them too deep.

Around midday, the group paused to dine. Alort suggested a fire as the weather was growing colder despite the bell, and he found the suggestion denied by Aubineaux, who didn’t want to risk smoke scaring off any prey. The group made a valiant effort to enjoy hard cheeses and knight’s cross buns that weren’t yet stale.

“How you are finding things?” asked Gaspardieux as Matthieu was partway through trying to bite through a large hunk of cheese. He struggled with not choking to death as he tried to articulate an answer.

“Well enough,” he said after a few hacking coughs. “I don’t expect to catch anything, but it’s been interesting enough, and the others have some good questions.” “Aye, not like something you’d get in your aunt’s tea circles, I’d suppose.” Gaspardieux’s face was at odds with the light tone of his voice: Sagging cheeks from age and better food than most, thick and beetling brows, and short-for-an-elezen ears that stuck close to his face. “You needn’t worry about catching anything, mind you: If you did, the others might suspect you of putting on airs.”

“Here?” Matthieu looked around the environs, in a small copse of trees south of the main road to Whitebrim. On sight alone, the scene was picturesque, marred only by the sound of Constant fretting about not having packed enough for his meal and Ophoix’s tittering, nervous laugh at the former’s frustration. “It seems the place to do such a thing, doesn’t it?” “Perhaps, if you were just out with Aubineaux. None of the rest of us try all that hard. Just a good chance to get out from under the city and catch some fresh air. To be sure, there’s the odd catch for the others, but I can’t recall as I’ve caught anything since we started.” He patted Matthieu on the back. “If you bagged something, that’d be worse than if you didn’t.” “As I said, I had no expectations.” Matthieu dusted off a few crumbs of cheese from his gloves, and adjusted the strap keeping his carbine in place over his shoulder. “It’s a strange perspective, isn’t it?” Gaspardieux tipped his head, brows raised in confusion. “Forgive me, I’ve seen too many Temple Knights and their supplicants,” Matthieu explained. “Not catching something would have been shameful, a lack of martial virtue.”

“Well that’s knights for you, isn’t it? And that’s not a one of us, I think.” Gaspardieux picked apart pieces of bread as he looked over the assembled Fellows. “Oh, I’ve no doubt that some of us had dreams as children, of slaying a dragon and joining that august body. But there were houses needed mending, and we can’t all be like the Champion, naturals with spear or blade or spell or bow or whatever we choose. You had that feeling as well, didn’t you? When you were young?”

“...Briefly.” The admission was short and sharp, and Matthieu looked away. “I had a condition. I would have made a poor knight.”

Gaspardieux’s smile was wan. “Not even the chance to see if you had talent, hm. My sympathies. And now we have these, eh?” He patted his shoulder, where his own carbine was slung. “But there’s no more war, not against dragons nor Garleans nor any besides, and the houses still need mending.”

“With Fury’s grace it will stay that way, so I suppose we’ll have to content ourselves with not catching anything.” A sharp whistle from where Aubineaux kept watch caught their attention, and the other Fellows turned their necks sharply in kind. A few hastily wrapped and tucked their meals into their satchels and hurried to his post. Gaspardieux’s pace was more leisurely as he ambled through the snow, Matthieu following besides.

The hunter had laid out a blanket for himself at the edge of copse to settle in the snow and observe without getting his clothes too wet. At the sound of crunching footsteps behind him, he held up his hand. “Beauty of a karakul,” he muttered, tipping his head out towards the open snow. “Must have wandered from a flock.”

Matthieu knelt down closer to the snow, squinting out into the clearing. The black-fleeced sheep was easy to spot amid the snow. It remained a miracle to him that the species had survived the change in Coerthan weather following the Calamity, with their coloration making them easy targets for prey animals. Pack behavior, sticking closer to mountains and their value to Ishgard had managed to keep them alive all the same.

It looked much like any other karakul to him, though its horns did seem impressive, even at this distance. Otherwise, it seemed much like any other puff of dark fleece in the snows.

“Well, go on,” urged Aubineaux. “Take your shot.”

Glancing to his sides, Matthieu saw the other fellows were all looking at him expectantly. Some smirked, some furrowed their brows or offered smiles he supposed were encouraging.

“Yes, of course.” He unshouldered his carbine, and checked the small pouch on his left side to find shot. Padilloux had been very careful in his instructions to not load the gun until he needed to do so, and Matthieu was now thankful for that as he placed a single cartridge in the carbine’s breech. Bracing its butt against his shoulder (“Don’t try firing one-handed unless you’ve got a transformer to offset the kick,” he’d been told), he looked down his sights until it seemed to line up with the karakul’s side. There was silence among the Fellows. Somehow, he expected someone to cough, or make a comment, but there was nothing.

He pulled the trigger, and the loud, cracking report of the carbine shocked him enough to make him stumble backwards, falling onto his rump in the snow. The silence ended then, with a raucous chorus of laughter from the Fellows around him. Alort helped Matthieu to his feet. He was so red in the face it seemed deafening; the sounds of remarks were distant, a vague impression of you’ll-get-the-hang-of-its and you-have-to-watch-the-kick-there.

“Not bad,” Aubineaux remarked. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of the karakul, and the crowd now followed suit. Blood dotted the snow as the karakul limped off into the distance. “Not clean,” he amended, “But we can run it down.” “Just a bit of fool’s good fortune,” murmured Matthieu, lowering his head to hide a sheepish smile. Above them, a light snow started to fall.

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 14: Telling

The hunting party as a group stopped in their tracks not half a bell after they’d crossed the Gates of Judgment. The game here was less dangerous thanks to the increased military presence, and if somebody was badly hurt or lost in a snowstorm then Camp Dragonhead and Whitebrim were both close enough that aid could be sought and a rescue party summoned. Matthieu had planned to insist on this when his parish’s shooting club had invited him along, but to his relief he needn’t have concerned himself, as this was part of their usual route.

The club was a small one, the product of a few citizens in the parish coming into money thanks to Ishgard’s increased trade volume and deciding to put that coin to use acquiring some of Skysteel’s newest products. None of them were able to afford the aetherotransformer unit that turned the average rifle into a multi-faceted man-portable weapon of mass destruction, but having access to rifle and shot still made them feel like they were part of the new Coerthas and afforded them the chance to go out on hunts without years of training in spear or bow.

They’d insisted on Matthieu coming along at least once, and while he was generally well-liked by most of his constituents, he had to admit that he was most popular with the kind of people who got along with his aunt: older ladies who enjoyed their tea and gossip, found his willingness to help around the store to be charming, and lightly teased him about his relationship with Edda. That was enough of the parish to have gotten him elected, but he had to admit that getting others to like him more would help in the next election. In this case, that meant agreeing to attend one of the Crozier 4th’s Official Club of Jolly Fellows once-a-moon hunts.

The title was not of his choosing.

And so he’d agreed, gotten some assistance from his fellows in the Commons in selecting an easy-to-use carbine and how to load, point, and fire it without embarrassing himself, allowing for the knowledge that this was his first time out, and met up with a dozen of the Fellows at the Gates. The plan had been to traipse about the snows between the Gates and Whitebrim, take a few cloudkin or a wild karakul if the opportunity presented itself, then head back to help themselves to some beet stew and sort out who was the best and worst shot while their catches were prepared.

It was a cloudy morning, and while the cloudwatchers had suggested a mild chance of snow, visibility was still clear. The group had a clear view of the Nail interrupting the highlands in one large series of jagged peaks, and of what had stopped them: a single dragon, perched on one of the larger outcroppings, observing the comings and goings of the wildlife on the ground below.

“Fury, would you look at that.” Alort, the parish cobbler, made a quick sign of prayer to Halone, his tone of voice breathless. It wasn’t clear to Matthieu if he spoke in awe or fear.

“Never thought I’d see one of those without taking to my heels,” said Gaspardieux, the carpenter. “Still feels like I ought to.”

“That makes sense.” Matthieu kept his composure while he replied, simply raising a hand to the dragon in greeting. Events surrounding his election had given him more benign exposure to the Dravanian Horde than the average commoner, and he kept abreast of efforts to repatriate those who had turned into aevis and wished to return to the city. “I’m sure it’s just as wary.”

If the dragon had even seen Matthieu’s raised hand, it didn’t show it, simply lowering its head to rest it on its forelegs. “Mayhaps if we were knights or dragoons it’d be wary,” said Gaspardieux. “But I left my chainmail at home and haven’t perched on any high places of late.” The other Fellows chuckled, the tension easing.

“It’s a lovely color, isn’t it?” said Ophoix, the local gemcutter. “Like sapphires, but a little deeper.” He stepped forward, shielding his eyes from the clouds to get a better look. “I’d love to see it up close.”

“I don’t think you’ll be turning that into a stone fit for a brooch anytime soon, Ophie,” said Gaspardieux.

“I wouldn’t!” Ophoix stepped back, holding up his other hand in protest. “But surely, just a scale. Mayhaps we could ask.”

“No.” The statement was short, sharp, and firm, and came from Aubineaux, the parish tailor. The others took notice; while the Fellows had no official leader, it was Aubineaux who took the hunts most seriously, did most of the organizing, and led the other members in drills to improve their marksmanship. “Let it come to us if it likes, but otherwise we keep our distance.”

There was some grumbling from the Fellows, but Aubineaux stood firm, turning to face them from the head of the group. “No.” Grim-faced, with heavy eyebrows and a stocky build for an elezen, the tailor didn’t match up to the “Jolly” part of the club’s name. Matthieu suspected the title wasn’t of his choosing, either.

“Well, what’s it doing here, anyway?” The question came from Constant, one of the local tutors. Matthieu frowned; to his recollection, Constant had been one of the more reactionary voices in the community in Ishgard’s recent upheavals. Some had thought he was one of the True Brethren, in their brief existence, but he’d denied this ever since their disbandment. “It’s quite far from Dravania.” “I’m sure the knights are aware of it,” Matthieu replied. “If we’re going to be at peace, we have to have some free movement, and simply live with a little suspicion. Perhaps it’s simply enjoying time where it wouldn’t be otherwise.”

“I don’t know,” said Alort. “You wouldn’t catch me going past Falcon’s Nest, let alone Tailfeather, and certainly not out in their own lands simply because I could. It doesn’t mean I ought.”

“We don’t even catch you leaving even the parish, Alort,” said Gaspardieux. The cobbler puffed out his cheeks in annoyance.

“And we already have their dragonets in the Firmament,” said Matthieu. “And the returning aevis and so forth. I simply mean there’s a good reason for it, no doubt.”

“Good or ill, we’re wasting time.” Aubineaux gestured down the trail towards the Whitebrim Front. “And losing good bells when we could be catching karakul with no snow to cover their tracks.”

“What a catch it would be though, eh?” Constant mused on this, watching the dragon with a speculative expression. “In worse times, of course.” “Of course,” said Matthieu. “But only in worse times. Remember what happened to Flaurienne Mollet?”

The Fellows all collectively winced. Mollet, who had stood for another parish in the Crozier, was scandalized to have been involved in the poaching of dragon leather after the conclusion of the Dragonsong War, and had been forced to resign in disgrace.

Before any further debate could be had, Gaspardieux pointed upwards at the dragon. Following his arm, the group saw a pair of smaller figures flitting about the dragon. “Have a look, it’s just brought its children on a little outing, you see? Nothing wrong with that.” There was a long silence among the group as they watched the wyrmlings flit about the outcropping. The dragon briefly snapped its maw in the air, as if to chide them, and then settled down again. After a minute, Matthieu found he misliked it.

“We certainly shouldn’t get close if that’s the case. Aubineaux, could you lead us to some tracks, if you please?”

“Yes.” Despite his refusal, at this point even Aubineaux was watching the dragon. “Come along now.”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 17: Sally

Within a bell the weather had turned, and when the blizzard descended the Fellows had scattered.

After the excitement of Matthieu’s shot, a few had balked at the prospect of chasing down a wounded karakul, lest they find themselves someplace unexpected like a wolf’s den. Those who could teleport back to the city had done so, offering their goodbyes. A few others, those without the ability to turn themselves into aether as a casual matter, averred and said they would see the others back at the Gates of Judgment, and keep a few spaces open at the coal hearth for them.

The remaining half-dozen, Matthieu among them, had set out to follow the blood in the snow. Aubineaux had seemed driven, and the rest seemed curious. In a typical hunt, they either caught their prey in the first shot, or they missed and it escaped. Matthieu had been curious in turn, and asked how many, exactly, they had caught in the past. Gaspardieux was cheerful in admitting to nothing, and Alort far less so. Ophoix insisted that he’d caught at least three bateleur, and the largest was stuffed over the mantle of his home; some teasing resulted, as others were sure the third of those had managed to fly away. Constant refused to elaborate, saying it didn’t matter.

None of them bothered to ask Aubineaux. They knew the number was high, though he kept few trophies at home. But even Matthieu had received dishes of spiced mutton from the tailor’s spouse in the past when she’d had “too much to serve at home.” All agreed she was an excellent chef, and all had wondered at what quantity was too much.

“You’ll want to keep the horns, of course,” he had said, walking a yalm or two ahead of the group at a brisk pace. “A catch with horns like that, that’s worth keeping on the mantel. Damned fine first catch.” Stopping at once in the snow, he glanced down at the bloody tracks. “Do you have a butcher? If not, my Fleurelle can do her best.” “I’d like that,” Matthieu raised his voice in reply to Aubineaux. “He’s animated,” he muttered to Constant beside him in passing. “Compared to before. I never see him speak this much in the shop.” “Only once there’s a catch,” Constant replied. “Then he’s all cheer.”

Perhaps he could serve the dish to Edda, Matthieu thought.. Whether she’d frown in disapproval at his taking up arms and catching his own food, or clasp her hands in delight at the accomplishment, he couldn’t yet say, but he certainly hoped for the former. “But perhaps we should gather it quickly? The snow’s picking up.”

All save Aubineaux glanced to the sky. It wasn’t often that the cloudwatchers were wrong, but sometimes the aetherial currents would have their way and there was no accounting for it. The wind had picked up around them, causing all to hug their arms to their coats as it tried to cut through thick wool and leather and chill them, and the snow was falling with increasing intensity. Matthieu could still see his boots pressing into the snow.

“It won’t be long, promise you that,” said Aubineaux. He alone kept his eyes forward, snow piling on his shoulders and falling into his hair without being brushed away. “A shot like that, it should have tired or bled out. Truss it up, carry it back to Whitebrim, and warm up while the weather clears.” His spirits kept up those of the others, and they chatted amiably among themselves, never noticing that they had to raise their voices more and more above the wind. When a quarter-bell had passed, Aubineaux stopped them in their tracks. “There we have it.“ He gestured to a tipped-over ball of black fleece in the snow, where the trail of blood, now only a faint set of light markings hidden among falling snow, ended. “Alort, Ophoix, help me trust this. We’ll have to work fast. You just stay back, Mr. Buison. We need to be quick about this.”

Keeping his arms close to his chest, Matthieu stood still in the snow, shifting weight from one leg to another to keep his blood moving while the three hunters procured rope from their supplies and prepped the karakul to be carried. “I should have thought to bring a fire shard.”

“I’ve a spare.” Gaspardieux offered a small, softly glowing reddish-amber rock to Matthieu, who accepted it with a grateful nod. The warmth in his gloves was a small thing, but a relief. “This doesn’t happen often, to be sure, but it’s good to be prepared.” “Better still to head back now, I think,” he said, waving his hand to Aubineaux, who rose with the trussed karakul slung over his shoulder. Their view was shrinking by the moment as clouds descended further and the wind whipped snow in greater and greater speeds. Gaspardieux held up another shard in his hand, where the glow cut through some of the fog. “Follow along, if you please,” he called out, and turned northwards. “We’ve done this before, don’t worry.” His brow beetled together as he looked out the sky. “Although this is a bit worse weather than the last times.”

“How much worse?” asked Matthieu, holding up his own shard for added visibility.

“A fair bit.” Gaspardieux looked between Matthieu and Aubineaux’s group. “I’ll hang back a step to create a line. You stick with Constant. Once we get to the main road we should be fine, just keep heading north.”

Taking a few steps back, Matthieu was surprised by how quickly the carpenter fell out of sight, save for the glow of the shard in his hand. Rather than keep it upright for the entire journey, he chose to hang the shard on the back of his coat, where they could see it easily, checked for Constant at his side, and headed north.

Without easily estimating time, the trek was drudgery, one foot lifting heavily in front of the other to make a deep impression in the snow as he marched forward. Wind buffeted Matthieu’s face and left his cheeks and nose chattering and red until he pulled his scarf up over his mouth. Surely he would see the copse of trees where they’d waited by now, he thought, or the road up to Whitebrim Front.

“How do we know it won’t be snowed over?” he asked of Constant. “The road, I mean.”

He had no reply. Looking to his right, he could see Constant was no longer there. When had he lost sight of the man? Stopping in his tracks, he looked around in the haze of wind. Behind him, he couldn’t see Gaspardieux’s shard, though the warmth on his back confirmed his own was still present. Otherwise, around him there was nothing, only snow and wind.

It occurred to him that the Fellows who had taken their leave and teleported away early were the sensible ones, and that he had been very foolish to rush out into the snow with the others for the sake of a mutton dinner and a pair of horns. All of this was unnecessary; he could close his eyes, gather his aether, and in a flash be back in the Firmament, sheltered and safe. The others would have done the same by now, if their prize weren’t keeping them in place. And they would have abandoned the karakul as well with the weather this bad. It was a shame about the loss, but there would be other hunts.

He was certain of this. And he was certain that all of them were able to teleport themselves, and that the shard on his back was unnecessary.

Without pulling down his scarf, he cupped his hands to his mouth and started calling out the names of the Fellows into the storm, hoping to hear a cry or see the glow of Gaspardieux’s shard. He shouted until he could feel himself going hoarse, and his eyes stung from the wind and ice.

For a moment, there was a lull in the wind, and his voice carried cleanly. He heard someone, but he couldn’t place who. Then there was the crack of someone’s rifle, and a shriek. It was the only sound he could focus on, and he ran towards it, half-stumbling through the snow in broad, leaping steps until he felt nearly out of breath.

When it seemed he might faint, he willed himself to continue, until at last he came upon the group, standing in a scattered semi-circle. There, the body of a wyrmling had freshly fallen into the snow. Both the azure of its scales and the blood from a bullet hole helped it stand out.

[dubiousduskwight]

Matthieu first met Edda at the Greatloam Growery. It was ostensibly a business meeting for the two of them and Verad to strategize regarding the Severidenne engagement, with Matthieu as a potential ally.

Later meetings there tended to be just the two of them.

Screenshot by @lodsamonene

[dubiousduskwight]

Matthieu Buison and the Second Way

“All I can tell you is this: I believe that there is always a better way. There has to be. Ishgard found a better way, and so too can your tribe.”

Ogul scowled at the mistake, but said nothing more. Matthieu was glad of it; to be alone with the “Red King” in his palace was an intimidating prospect. It didn’t matter that the palace was a slightly larger ger than those cobbled together by the rest of his tribe (and there was the mistake again, for it was no true tribe, not the way that Ogul seemed to describe it). The interior was roughly appointed, but perhaps Matthieu only saw it that way from a life of looking up at the bloody Pillars. That much architecture would make anything look plain, especially scattered furs and a cooking pot over slow-burning charcoal.

The delicate matter of the discussions had required that Matthieu not inform Miss Eglantine when he arrived on her estate at the fringes where Ogul’s tribe cadre had been allowed to stay. It was not that he distrusted her in the matter, but what he planned to do was quite radical, and likely not even to work. His initial impression of the Red King at the beginning of this engagement debacle was that he was doubtless a power of his own at home, but ill-equipped to survive the terrible delicacies of Ishgardian etiquette. More familiar, wealthy suitors like the Inquisitor Cogoix or the deceased Lord Bastien Nouron had seemed more likely candidates. In this he’d been entirely correct, and the King had seen himself humiliated twice over and driven from the land.

He hadn’t expected Ogul to stay, however, lingering at the fringes of the Lady Severidenne’s life. And that would have mattered little if Matthieu had thought of the engagement as nothing more than a political formality, as had been the case at the start. Now that there were young women disappearing from a shelter for the fallen and new courtesans appearing at a house of ill-repute with a startling bureaucratic regularity, however, it behooved Matthieu, for the sake of decency and the new Ishgard besides, to find other avenues to extract Lady Severidenne from a potentially unseemly fate.

Mr. Bellveil had his plans, but speaking plainly to himself, Matthieu had observed the man’s plans were consistently disastrous. Mr. Bellveil had insisted he could sell Ogul and Lady Severidenne to each other, or that he already had. And yet she was still in the confines of the family estate. That, in Matthieu’s opinion, was not a particularly good sales pitch. It was time to take his own approach and smooth out whatever it was that was keeping the pair from doing something rash.

So he had taken his leave of Ishgard and flown to Limsa, enjoying the warmer weather for the first time in many moons indeed, and made himself acquainted with the tribal lifestyle. There was much to recommend it; the bowl of what Ogul called “warrior’s stew” in Matthieu’s hands was warm and rich, the heat of the cooking fire made the ger pleasant without being stifling, and the furs upon which they sat were comfortable despite coming from beasts never seen in Eorzean climes. Matthieu supposed he could enjoy this for a moon before he went half-mad and demanded proper Ishgardian tea, thick with cream. Even the least of the Brume could hardly go without for long.

Ogul had insisted they eat while he explained the situation, and so he did. Matthieu heard most, if not all, of the sad tale - the tribe of outcasts too forsaken or too proud to go with the tribe where such outcasts usually go, the will of their leader, driving them forward with raids to survive, and their determination for recognition at the next grand contest of champions, to be united and recognized under one name. And so they had come to Eorzea, seeking allies in exchange for the price of their herd, finding shelter in the care of the Severidenne family.

“And why yourself, if may ask?” interjected Matthieu at this point. “With the exception of Mr. Bellveil - sorry, the peddler - the other suitors were all Ishgardian, and would have an easier time playing the game. Did they suggest why they favored you at first?”

Ogul frowned, trying to recall. “The Lady Severidenne’s aunt,” he said at last. “She insisted it would show they value strength, in any form, to have us represented.” Ah, thought Matthieu, his opinion of the family dropping that much further. A diversity marriage. “Thank you,” he said. “Pray, continue.”

The Red King’s tale concluded with the now-impossible dilemma: He had found a true and honest yearning for the Lady Severidenne, but he could not so easily take her and flee, not when the hopes of his cadre rested upon his ability to gain knights for the Xaela’s next grand contest of champions to determine rulership. While the peddler insisted he could bring about the downfall of the house and get the knights Ogul required, he remained at the Eglantine estate, a beneficiary of the lady’s hospitality. Already there had been tension in the ranks over his dallying, and he had defeated one challenger to his authority. There were unlikely to be others, but he could not remain overlong and leave those who had stayed in Othard to suffer without them.

It was, Matthieu thought at last, a dilemma that truly didn’t need to be. He stirred his stew with the heavy wooden spoon he had been given - meant for a lady’s hand, by the difference between his and Ogul’s, though no slight seemed to have been intended - considered the matter accordingly, and spoke of another way.

“You seem to be placing rather a lot of faith,” he said, musing aloud as he continued, “That the Hero of Ishgard won’t participate in this contest of yours a second time.” Matthieu had paid only passing attention to the Othardian rebellion of a few moons past, having a drive to support and send aid to the Ishgardian troops in Gyr Abania instead. But what tales he had heard upon the rebellion’s completion had heavily leaned upon the Hero’s participation in the contest of which Ogul spoke.

The Red King frowned. “No,” he replied. “I am not. We are strong, and with the knights - “

“Strong enough to beat Eorzea’s strongest warrior? Someone who regularly battles gods and worse? Dataq, I know you are no fool. You do not command the respect of the people outside this ger through brute force alone. Mayhaps you believe you will be fortunate and the Hero will not take up the banner for a tribe in this contest, and if so, then I believe your plan may well succeed. I know little of the strength of the tribes that have ruled prior to this … Mol, was it? Perhaps you can best them.

“But know that the Hero of Ishgard is a bloody busybody. Praise be to them for it, because it saved my country. Part of what makes them heroic, you see. But if they feel a need, they’ll sign up again and again, and then where will you be? Your herds lost, the resentment of the knights who followed you, and perhaps your people’s dreams shattered. If so, what then? Are there other ways? Would you bow to the Mol, demanding recognition? Swallow your pride and join these Kahkol of whom you spoke? Or simply do what seems right and just become a tribe through sheer persistence and failing to die?”

Ogul’s frown deepened. His scowl seemed to make his face creak. There were threats upon threats in those features, heightened by the bloody red of his skin and the dark color of his horns. It was no wonder, thought Matthieu, that his people had mistaken the Xaela for dragons.

“You do not understand,” he began. Matthieu held his hand upright to interrupt, kept it upright and fixed at his knee to minimize the trembling.

“I do understand. You are keen on the how. I have seen many a man, merchant and parliamentarian, throw themselves upon needing to have a bill passed a certain way, or do something just so. For gods’ sake, the peddler lost the Lady’s heart to you because he insisted on doing things in his peculiar way, and failed for it, when he could have been far more effective and far less - “ Matthieu’s voice soured. Something about using the next word seemed vaguely infectious. “Dubious.”

“I’m not saying you need to cast aside all of your principles, Dataq. But I know pride. I live surrounded by it. A thousand years of pride that my people are fighting to reshape into something new. I know how it blinds men to wiser courses of action. And there are wiser courses. You do not need these knights. You need a tribe, and you think the knights are the only way. I have my own opinions about knights, and they are fine soldiers, but they are not necessarily the finest Eorzea has to offer. You have other means, and you ought consider them.”

Ogul seemed to ruminate, his chin on his fist and his bowl perched on his other knee. Matthieu took the opportunity to take a spoonful of the stew, taking some pleasure in the relative chewiness of the mutton the tribe was using. Gave more time to think while eating.

“And you have nothing like that?” Ogul said at last, giving Matthieu an even look. “Nothing for which there is a certain way something must be done?”

“Gardening,” said Matthieu. “There are seeds from Gridania I cultivate in my office, with a slight little hothouse at my windowsill. I was intent on using fire shards, but I think I was being too clever by half. A more natural method of heat would be best.  And then . . . “ He smiled. “Well, I think I’ve entangled myself in such a dilemma as well. So I shall make a bargain with you.”

“I have an invitation to Lady Severidenne’s engagement party. I am allowed a guest. There is someone I would invite, but I believe she will have been invited personally by the Lady herself. Accompany me, but tell no one of it. See her at the party, and see if fifty knights are worth playing by the family’s rules, or the peddler’s rules, or even your own. See if you do not immediately believe that there is always another way.”

He offered his hand across the fire, far enough away from the coals that it was warm rather than scalding. “Do so, and I shall seek the same with the two matters that entangle me. Are we agreed?”

The Xaela was not a hesitant bargainer. Matthieu was not sure if the man was impulsive or had simply been thinking the entire time. Or perhaps the prospect of an invitation to see the Lady enticed him. He his hand clasped around Matthieu’s without crushing it.

“Then,” said Matthieu, “We are agreed.”

“Oh, gods,” groaned Matthieu, his forehead pressed flat against the top of his desk. “Why did I agree to that?!”

A week had passed since the engagement party. The broadsheets had not stopped reporting on it. It was the farce of the season, almost eclipsing the tragedy of the murder of Lord Nouron at the Severidenne’s Starlight Ball. The family was rapidly developing a reputation for interesting events, where very little dancing and a great deal of scandal occurred, and Matthieu Buison was now implicated in this infamy.

Aunt Agatha, having stolen a part of the wall that served as his legislative bulletin for the sake of comparing hatpin designs, leaned to her left and patted Matthieu on the head. “Nothing for it, Mattie,” she said. “It sounds like it was quite a lark.”

“Mayhaps for somebody else at the party, you know. But he just left with her! I certainly didn’t expect him to leave with her!” Alas, Matthieu had been too Ishgardian. He had expected a proper and sorrowful giving of congratulations to each other which would spur them on to do something drastic, but ideally later in the night. Not right bloody there in the middle of the bloody ball in front of the Lady’s bloody fiance and her bloody family, who would surely render Matthieu very bloody indeed for his role in such a stunt.

This assumed that the Commons didn’t eat him alive, with all his legislative agenda for garnish. The Fallen Women Act was still safe because it was now too sensitive for the Lords to touch without making it seem to be an act of retaliation for humiliating one of their own. But the bills for Brume infrastructure and financial oversight of minor house expenditures were now in very serious danger indeed.

And all of that paled, paled in comparison to, to - ! The thought made him groan again. “Aunt, I touched her. Patted her on the shoulder like a chummy older brother, at the middle of a formal ball, in the middle of a damned scandal. How does one walk back from that?” He lifted his head enough to give Agatha an imploring look, his sharp grey eyes having a piercing effect that gave the moaning at least a little more gravitas.

“Sakes, Mattie, write her a proper letter apologizing for the mess and offer to see her. Might as well come clean of it.” tutted his aunt as she thrust a hatpin into the wall to test its penetrative strength. A bit of plaster fell out, and she smiled in satisfaction. “You’ll come back from it, always do. Our little charmer.” A bit of sunlight glinted on a hatpin, caught her eye, and she winced, glancing away. “Could you get the shutters, dear? Make myself blind without it.”

“Yes, Aunt,” he murmured, half-rolling away from his chair to right himself and approaching the office window with a pronounced slouch. Reaching his makeshift flowerpot hothouse, he reached to either side to close the shutters. 

So defeated was he, so low in this state, that he almost missed it. Once it was there, though, his melancholy left in an instant. He was alert, attentive, and dropped down to his knees to confirm that he wasn’t merely hallucinating. There, small but defiant against the Ishgardian cold, nestled in ash taken from the Dataq’s coals of hardened horse dung and Ishgardian earth, were two small green buds. “Always a way after all,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.   

[dubiousduskwight]

Bound By Law

He was able to strike before supper had been served, to the great displeasure of his compatriots. They could smell the roast hanging in the kitchen and freshly-baked bread. Some wet their lips at the thought of an evening’s ales and wines soothing throats nearly hoarse from a day’s work of arguing at length and getting very little accomplished. But nothing had been served, and before they had been inclined or even able to discuss matters of far little import, Matthieu had begun his speech.

He timed it very carefully, and did so the same with his phrasing. It was not meant to inspire, but annoy. They were members of the Commons, not the smallfolk they served. They rarely needed explanation and inspiration. Aggravation, on the other hand, did wonders. At five minutes, they had begun to squirm, especially as other tables of their fellows were now being served. At ten, he was sure he saw Mr. Shiedelle of the Brume committee drop his head to the table, and was quite certain he heard a muffled groan. And by a quarter of a bell, the deed was done. 

“Yes, Mr. Buison, yes, we understand! The bill has our support! Now leave off that we may dine!” Ms. Grinoix, one of the Temple Knight advisory committees, rose and struck the table with her empty mug. There was not enough of a din in the tavern to stifle all notice, but the clatter was nevertheless afforded only a few puzzled glances before tired speakers returned to their repast. Matthieu smiled, and seated himself. “Of course, I do apologize. Mr. Bardeaux and I take the matter very seriously, nothing more. The discussion shall be swift, then?”

“Swift enough to endorse it and pass it to the Lords, yes, yes,” said Shiedelle, waving his hand. One of their number had signalled for their meal, to the general relief and mild cheering of the rest, and the conversation was interrupted with the rattling of plates and the filling of mugs. “Anything for fewer speeches. Twelve knows what a butchery they’ll inflict upon it. Treading on their practices with this one, you two.”

“If we trespass on the rights of the lords, said Matthieu in the midst of breaking his bread, “Then it is only because they have trespassed upon ours for so many years.” He popped a morsel of bread in his mouth to stifle it. The sentence had been too practiced, and some of his dining companions were giving him worried looks.

“Don’t see the sense in nattering about fallen women, mind,” said Mr. Faudoix of the Stables neighborhoods, grumbling as he jabbed a fork into a tough piece of roast. “If some noble strumpet wants to bandy herself about without regard for a proper bonding, seems like it would do them a bit of good. Let them get back into the grace of the Fury. Problem for the Houses, I say.”

The remainder of the ensemble hissed through their teeth at once, all of them inhaling sharply and turning their heads to Matthieu. He smiled, took another piece of bread, and reminded himself that Mr. Faudoix had done wonders for animal welfare in a bill of some moons past.

“It matters because it’s yet another abuse of the smallfolk, is it not? Half the time it’s to hush up a scandal about a noble lady taking up with a commoner. Whether they are in or out of Halone’s grace for it is beside the point. Take what happened with Mr. Faultine - “

“The murderer?!” Faudoix sputtered, a bit of roast escaping his mouth at speed. “You’re not staking it on his story, are you?” “True or not, it’s a common story, and a damned pity it would drive a man to kill, don’t you think? An act of desperation from a man and woman used and abused by the whims of the Houses. Something that happens a hundred times a year, I’m sure. It is that on which I stake the bill. And, if I may add, Mr. Faudoix, you are relying on my second for your bill to support ending abuse in the Stables, are you not?”

Faudoix’s response was a begrudging yet conciliatory grumble full of import and intent. Matthieu smiled. “Then it doesn’t swiving matter if you think they’re strumpets or not, does it? Now pass the roast.”

The air was crisp, the sky was clear, the moon waxed to full, and the night was still. The tempest that roiled below Ishgard brought none of its howling winds this evening; the tall buildings and narrow streets heightened nothing save the sounds of an evening’s carouse reaching its apex, a point at which Matthieu sought to excuse himself, to the groans of some and the relieved sighs of others.

“A last bit of business at the office, gentlefolk, my apologies,” he said, adjusting his hat upon his head and bundling up his coat of last year’s fashions. “I shall see you in the chambers on the morrow.” He repeated this in various forms and phrases several times over, responding to each exhortation to head to the Knight until his patience outlasted theirs and he was left to his own devices.

His pace was unhurried as he crossed Saint Reinette’s Forum, enjoying the sounds of a silent night: the click of his boots on stone, the hushed murmurs of conversation from those with business late in the evening, and the odd, distant call of a chocobo in the stables. Only moons ago, he would have feared a quiet evening, thinking the calm presaged a Dravanian storm. Now there was something perfect about the night, something pleasurable, and greater pleasure still in knowing he was among the fortunate minority, after a thousand years of lives lost, to know that it would last.

“Good,” he said to himself, looking up at the sky and the light of the moon. “Very good.”

Buison Bonnets was closed; his aunt was in the habit of closing early to browse the Crozier and note changes in the latest styles, the better to refashion in a facsimile for those with too little coin to shop in the Pillars. No matter; his key led to a side doorway, and the stairs that led to the office directly above. He rattled the lock, which always stuck unless the key was placed just so, and ascended the stairs, closing the door behind him. They were old, and while in good condition, they had a tendency to creak with every third step or so.

He paused halfway, furrowing his brow, when one creak lasted a little too long. “Someone there?” Glancing behind him, he saw only the shadow of the steps, and the faint light of the moon spilling in at the base of the door. He shrugged, and continued forward.

Matthieu’s office was in the same state of barely-functioning organization in which he had left. It was not so dark in here as it was in the stairs, in large part because of the soft glow made by charged fireshards underneath his windowsill flowerbed. It was a complicated, homemade contraption, something at which any serious engineer would turn up their nose. But damned if he wasn’t going to get Gridanian flowers to bloom in Ishgard. Miss Eglantine’s gift had been too kind for him not to try.

He hung up his hat and coat on their rack by the door, then opened his window shutters wide. The chill of the night air helped dissipate the heat of the fire shards, and the light of the moon illuminated a narrow gap of the office from one wall to the other. He glanced at the building opposite his, far in the distance, and smiled, scratching his chin in a moment’s contemplation. Still a beautiful night.

Turning from his reverie, he fiddled with the placements of the shards. Too hot and the soil would dry up, and the seeds no doubt needed humidity to survive outside of their native climate. Too cold and he would have frozen sprouts in a week and little else. “Let’s see,” he muttered to himself as he plucked at the device while scanning the soil, searching for any sign of life. “Perhaps one less shard-”

Again, he marvelled at how much he enjoyed a quiet evening. Despite being able to hear the slight whinge of his office door opening and shutting behind him, he was still perfectly at peace. “I was wondering when you’d arrive,” he said, as if he had been expecting an old friend.

The figure at the door made no response, nor did Matthieu expect one. He finished removing one shard from the flowerbed’s underside. It quickly lost its warmth away from the small device that fueled it with miniscule amounts of aether, though it still glowed like an ember in his hand. He turned to face the stranger. “If it’s the papers you’re looking for,” he said, “They’re long gone. For ten days and more. They’re in safer hands than mine now.” His head bobbed as he allowed, “Give or take a day for the post, of course.”

In the dark, the figure canted its head. Matthieu could not tell if it was thinking or trying to express something, but could not. “Not that?” he asked. “ What’s it to be, then? If you’ve business with me this late in the evening - “

A knife slid into the stranger’s hand. From a belt? A sleeve, perhaps? Matthieu could not be sure. But it was there. In the faint light of the moon, it glinted in the polished blues and grays of mythrite. “Ah.” Matthieu stepped back a space, putting the length of the open window between them, placing his back against the edge of his office desk. “Like the death in the Crozier, then, at Erimmont’s. That poor woman. That’s how it’s to be?” Perhaps, he thought, if he threw the shard in his hand, it might seem a threat - but no, it could not even be hot, could it? It glowed, but Matthieu held it barehanded.

All the same, he tensed his grip around it as the stranger stepped away from the door and the dark, and into the moonlight. His pace quickened in the span of two steps; by the time he had reached the open window, he was lunging towards Matthieu, the blade held to the side. Matthieu rushed to meet him, raising the shard in the desperate hope he could club the man about the head, and, perhaps foolishly, closed his eyes.

The quiet of the evening was shattered with a pair of short, sharp cracks, one immediately after the other. Matthieu felt something sharp slide against his left arm, parting cloth and flesh alike, but raggedly so, and for but an instant before the stranger jumped back. He opened his eyes.

The stranger had pulled away from the window, leaving its distance as a gap between them. He still held his blade, or at least the remains thereof; most of it lay shattered on the floor between them. The wall opposite the window held a pair of holes, one in the middle of a set of papers tacked there for later deliberation.

Matthieu exhaled in relief, trying to ignore the pain in his arm and the dripping of blood. “You miscalculated,” he said, forcing a sharp smile. “That poor woman in the Crozier didn’t die so quickly as you hoped. She said she gave me up to you in association with Erimmont before she passed.” In truth, the woman hadn’t died at all, but Twelve be damned if Matthieu was going to tell that to the assassin. “Once I learned that from Erimmont’s staff, I had time to prepare.”

He waved the glowing shard in the middle of the illuminated gap. “Fine thing about the Commons; quite a few enthusiasts of Skysteel weapons. There’s hunting in Western Coerthas once every few moons or so. Some very fine shots. Once I knew, it was little trouble to call in favors from friends willing to try their hand. Ms. Griesand in the building opposite had been most eager to try her new extended sights”

Matthieu couldn’t gauge the figure’s reaction just yet; indeed, there seemed to be none at all. Perhaps he was reassessing? He pressed on lest he hesitate further. “I just had to find the right time and place. And the trigger. A gamble, I admit, that you would strike the day I introduce the bill, but it seemed a sure one.” There were far more gambles involved than that, Matthieu admitted to himself, but he had at least been allowed to wager. It was no exaggeration to say that whoever saved the life of this man’s victim in the Crozier had saved Matthieu’s life as well.

He clutched one arm with the other to staunch the flow of blood, as excitement started to pale in comparison to pain. “A Severidenne catspaw, that’s what you are. It was to be suicide, wasn’t it? I received the rejection letter, same as the rest - and my congratulations to the winner of Lady Faetrix’s hand. Was I to be overcome with grief, and slash my wrists? An odd end, but enough would believe it. Anything to stop people prodding at the Nest.” He tried not to lean forward, into the light, lest Griesand mistake him as the wrong target and take a shot. “What is there? What do you want hidden so badly?”

At last, the figure spoke - a man’s voice, but odd, dried and smooth like oiled sandpaper, calm and commanding. “Step over to my side, Mr. Buison.”

Matthieu couldn’t help but laugh, a short and soft sound. “Step over? Should you not flee? The Knights have surely heard the shots. I suppose if there’s another knife, you can try again, but - ”

“Step over to my side,” the man repeated. He drew close enough to the window that Matthieu could see his features clearly. Rather, he could see the lack of them clearly. His face had the appearance of dark paints running together and swirling, as if someone had tried to rub who he was out of the world. Never a religious man, Matthieu uttered a swift prayer to the Fury and clutched his arm all the more tightly.

“Step over, or it will be your aunt,” the man said. “Your brother. Your father. All of them.” For a moment, Matthieu thought the darkness seemed to melt into a flickering, faint smile. “The girl, too. Her, last. Then it will be you.”

“The Lady Faetrix means nothing to me, and you would not - “

“No.” The stranger clicked his tongue, or smacked his lips. Matthieu could not be sure. “The other one.”

Calm, he told himself, calm. Do not widen your eyes, do not stiffen at the threat. Do not raise yourself to your full height, Matthieu Buison. A hundred debates in the Commons have taught you well, he thought, and to rise to such a warning is to admit its power over you.

“It would be unwise,” he said, lifting sharp grey eyes to stare, without expression, into the abyss of the stranger’s face, “To give me nothing to lose. This is not my only plan. Who knows what might befall the Severidennes, should you make good on your threat?”

The stranger met Matthieu’s gaze - or so he supposed, if there was truly any gaze that could meet him at all - for too long a time. Surely, Matthieu thought, surely the Temple Knights would arrive in but a moment. And surely, he thought, less than a moment was all this thing needed to end him.

And yet, without another word, it stepped back into the darkness, and through the door. He did not see it open this time, nor did he see it close. Tightening his grip on his arm, he let a minute pass before he was willing to exhale, sure he was alone.

He closed the window shutter closest to him, the signal he had arranged that all was clear, and slumped back against his desk. His left arm was soaked in blood - even though it was a glancing blow, the cut had been a ragged one, and all the gorier for it. He snatched a few drafts of bills from around him and pressed them to the wound. Binding the law with the blood of Ishgard. Or was it binding the blood of Ishgard with the law? Something to sort when his head was clear.

A buzzing near his ear indicated his linkpearl going off. There were other members of the Commons in the shell, but swive all if he cared at the moment. Once the blood had been somewhat staunched, he tapped it with his good arm. “Good shot, Griesand.”

“To hell with that, missed his head by an ilm on the second,” came the immediate reply. “You all right?”

“I’m not sure it would have mattered if you had. And I’m well,” he said. “Alive. That’s enough.”

[dubiousduskwight]

The Suitors: Matthieu Buison

“Morality, I say to you sir, shall be the cause of the era!” Trismegistus’ eyes flared with the light of the truly convinced, and his mouth with the froth of the passionate and barely articulate. “Not the Seventh Astral, but the era of a new Ishgard, which shall stand through astral and umbral alike! We need not the church to determine what is right, I say again, right for commoner and noble alike, and - “

A thump from beneath them caught both the attention of Trismegistus, who paused in his tirade, and Matthieu, who took it with some relief. “Tell him to keep it down!” came the muffled, irritated voice from below.

Matthieu sighed. “Apologies, Agatha,” he called to the floor. To himself, he made a note: To push along the committee for appropriate offices for the members of the Commons post-haste. The sooner he could move his meeting chambers away from above his aunt’s haberdashery, the better.

“You were saying?” he went on, turning his attention back to his visitor. Trismegistus Bardeaux was a good and forthright member of the parliament, but he did have a tendency to leap upon his particular hobby horse of uncoupling Ishgardian morals from Halonic principles at any opportunity in order to take it for a lengthy gallop to the spectacle of all nearby. It was a small mercy Matthieu had decided to decline an invitation to the Forgotten Knight, claiming other meetings were still on his calendar.

“I was saying - “ began the elezen, his voice rising in volume, then dropping once he remembered the venue. “I was saying that we’ve been on the business of procedure for too long in this assembly. It’s all well and good to agree on sending soldiers to Ala Mhigo and dickering over how many votes pass which law, but we need something substantive if we’re to truly break from church rule.” He wiped his mouth, practically squirming in his chair to stop himself from leaping up and pacing. “If it’s to be naught but laws guided by the will of Halone, then how much of their grip have they lost? Truly?”

Matthieu raised his eyebrows and nodded. The moral character of the state may have been a hobby horse for Trismegistus, but he couldn’t deny the reasoning. “A moment, if you please. Need a bit of sun in here.” Rising from his chair, he picked his way through a makeshift hall made of books and parchment to reach his windowed shutters. Taking care not to upset the flowerpot beneath, he flung them open for a sharp burst of noonday light.

Trismegistus squinted and turned away. “Fury take you, man, are you still trying? It’s too cold for Gridanian flowers here, you well know that.”

“Perhaps so,” said Matthieu, regarding a flowerpot that, while not empty, was quite stubborn about blooming. “They’re lovelier than anything, though. Well worth the trouble. Now, do you have a bill you’re putting forth? You want something banned?” He frowned as he shifted the pot this way and that, trying to find its perfect place. “This isn’t about banned plays again, is it?”

“The Lament of Leofric is a fine story and had no right to - “

“Not after that business in Ul’dah.” Matthieu’s voice had the firm tone of finality. “Give it another year. And no sneaking it in with riders and the like. I’ll keep an eye out for it, I will. Any other matters?”

“Oh, very much so. Pay standards for servants and staff of the noble houses.” Trismegistus leaned back in his chair, smirking. “You know how some of the houses thrived on giving their help less than a pittance with the scriptures at their back. And the conditions!”

Matthieu scanned the street in front of his window, as if even a little more light might be found in some forgotten corner of Ishgard, before shutting it in apparent defeat. “Perhaps if I can get the right kind of crystal to light it up indoors,” he said, shaking his head while returning to his desk. “And all right, that’s something, I agree. Put it to paper and I’ll sponsor it. Have you aught for the nobles within it? They won’t like giving something up without getting something back.”

Tapping his chair, Trismegistus mused. “Fallen women,” he said at last. “You know the sort? Second daughters dallying in the Brume and the little shames that result, and where they send the poor girls when the trouble is sorted out.”

“That seems but a social ill.” Matthieu pressed his hand against his cheek as he took his seat. “Terrible, I agree, but we can’t make people feel rightly ashamed of what they are wrongly ashamed of.”

“Not the sentiment, I agree, but the shelters. Terrible places, do you know? The things they do there - worse than poorhouses for some of these. Oh, some are alright, train the women up properly, some are just…” Trismegistus gritted his teeth. “Simply immoral. A scandal. Committing a greater crime to cover up a lesser sin. If we could but see these regulated, overseen, as we might the manufactories and the stables, the good we could do!”

He was pressed for time, but the idea gave Matthieu pause. “It’s a conflict, is it not? You know of my situation with the Severidennes, and the Nest. Put my name on the bill and you’ll have people crying favoritism if even a hint of trouble goes overlooked there.”

“Ah, but that’s just the thing, you see? Talk of the town after you stood up to the Dowager when the poor Lord Nouron was found murdered.” Trismegistus paused. “Well, yourself and the ravings of the Xaela filthmonger.”

“It was nothing, Bardeaux,” said Matthieu, turning his head to feign modestly and pointedly avoid eye contact. Even as warm as he kept it in the offices, the image looming, wizened figure of the Dowager, hissing her displeasure at his defiance behind thick veils and a chill that seemed to rule her ballroom, left him shivering. “She pointed to the first outsider of dubious character she could find as a scapegoat. Can’t let them get away with their titles dictating our behavior.”

“Exactly so. Exactly so. Which is precisely why you ought sponsor this. Matthieu Buison won’t let even his relatives get away with abusing the commoners. A fine image, wouldn’t you say?” Beneath them, there was a sound of chatter as somebody entered the shop, indistinctly speaking to Agatha.

“Perhaps, and I’ll look into it,” said Buison, rising abruptly and offering his hand to Trismegistus. “I may well be withdrawing myself from consideration shortly. Other matters, you see. No sense in drawing it out. But I’m sure we can make that work, eh?”

“I’m sure we can, absolutely!” The elezen’s eyes gleamed. Matthieu hurried him to his office door before he could begin another tirade. Opening it to see him out, the elezen nearly bumped into a miqo’te, short for his height, and easily overlooked by the taller elezen. Both figures mumbled a brusque apologies to each other as they changed places between office to hallway, and Matthieu closed the door before they could give each other a better look.

The miqo’te gave Matthieu a wary look, speaking only after they had heard the thumping of stairs to indicate Trismegistus’ departure. “You said you would be alone.”

He was an older sort, by Matthieu’s estimation. He knew few members of their kind himself, there being none at all in the district he represented, and very few in the houses of parliament. One of the sun-worshippers, by the look of the man’s eyes, and with a kind of weathered roughness that suggested time spent engaging in it rather than spent bundled up to avoid the winters of Ishgard. “I apologize,” he said at last. “That man’s another member of the Commons, had some pressing business to impress upon me. When he gets to talking, well.” Falling silent, he gestured for the man to take his seat. “You are Mr.…Tia, then?”

Something about the name made the miqo’te scowl as he took his seat, his black tail twitching and puffing slightly. “Y’turoh, please,” he corrected. “Tia is...sensitive for me.”

Right. Y’turoh, that was the name Erimmont had used. “Well then, Mr. Y’turoh,” said Matthieu, returning to his seat. “Perhaps you can explain why I am carrying papers stolen by a confessed murderer?”

[dubiousduskwight]

Verad Bellveil vs the World: Strategy Session

“Good folks, the situation is dire, as you can see. There are sayings about love and war as if they are similar but separate concepts, but the truth is that love is war, and we’ve a real battle ahead of us.”

His audience remained silent, but Verad expected as much, anticipating that they were reading the notes on the wall behind him. He had removed the map of Eorzea which hung on one corner of his office wall, marked with potential trade routes and sources of appropriately dubious materials. In its place, he had posted several dozen small scraps of paper and sketches by his own hand, mostly compiled from memory at the Severidenne ball, and loosely connected together by bits of string and accompanying nails. They had been grouped together in larger sections that seemed to indicate levels of potential threat, but there was no clear system organizing them - some images overlapped between groups indicated as “Most Concern” and “Possible Client,” and the section marked “Not Even That Good Looking Anyway” just seemed petty. “What we have here,” said Verad, pacing in front of the notes, “Are the main competitors. The six evil suitors - perhaps perfectly nice in other circumstances, but who we may as well call ‘evil’ for the sake of this operation - also in pursuit of the hand of the Lady Severidenne. In order for this marriage to proceed, we must not only discredit them in the eyes of the heiress, but in the eyes of House Severidenne at large.” 

“Oh, do not stare at me so,” he said, interjecting before one of the audience could speak. “I am quite sure of where Faetrix’s affections stand, but in the matter of Ishgardian politics, those hardly rate. We’ve discussed this, you know! An elopement is nothing but a route to an unending flight from a vengeful minor house, and I won’t have her spend the rest of her days watching me pull weeds in Idyllshire for a pittance. We do this the proper way, and we do it successfully.” Shifting to one side of the wall, he tapped a sketch of a plain-looking Hyur with striking eyes. “At least one member of the suitors we have already neutralized, that being Matthieu Buison of the House of Commons. He has proven more than agreeable in choosing to work with us, and so we may set him aside until all future competition is eliminated. So that one is settled.” “The others, however . . . “ Verad gestured to the sketches in turn, feeling his beard bristling in umbrage as he proceeded. “Erimmont Faultine, wealthy and well-connected in Ishgard. Rather a dark mirror of myself in his situation. Alseaux Cogoix, inquisitorial connections, ties to the Severidennes, very dangerous if crossed. Bastien Nouron, minor noble sworn to Dzemael, a natural match. And Alrix Trevain, an idealistic second son and childhood friend of Faetrix.” He said this last phrase with special loathing in his voice and a shuddering of his shoulders, as if the picture of the young and idealistic face sketched out on paper was somehow made a unique and unusual threat by that relationship. “But the worst of them, the lowest and greatest of them,” he continued, jabbing at an image that was, for some reason, of a lesser quality than the other sketches, looking like no more than a cartoonish scrawl of a generic Au Ra, albeit with a demonic-looking face, overlarge teeth, and a dialogue bubble saying “RAWR” attached to one side. “Is this one. Ogul Dataq, or the ‘Red King’ as they seem to call him among the Severidennes. Possibly it’s khagan or whatever, I couldn’t presume to know.” He waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. “So I’ll thank you not to correct me until after. He’s powerful - some sort of rogue tribal leader - wealthy for his kind, and for reasons I cannot begin to fathom the House seems to adore him as their primary match. “It is therefore imperative, I tell you, that we discredit him above all others. He is meant to offer a display of horsemanship for those strange . . . animals that they prefer in the Steppe, as a gift to the House and the Temple Knights. I already have my best people on this, of course, and when we see the success of their efforts, we will proceed further.” He stopped, and placed his hands on his hips. “Now, are there any questions?” There was silence from the audience - not that this was a problem, and indeed it would have been a problem if there had been a noise. This would have required Verad to rethink several things about his inventory.  The collection of stuffed animals he had placed on a table in front of him were never more than a practice group, after all. Always best to prepare a good speech before giving it, after all. As with his sales-pitches, so too with his plans to ruin the romantic chances of six other people. “Very good,” he said with a smile as he stepped forward to gather up the plush creatures, starting with the ahriman to his right. “We should, I think, be hearing from Bartu Bolir shortly, and I expect nothing but good results.”

[dubiousduskwight]

The Suitors: Matthieu Buison

“-And I say to you, there is no title, no amount of restitution to the unrecognized, no placation from the Lords-”

“Leave off!”

“What do you think of this moon’s Saucer circuit?”

“Fury’s grace, even at supper-”

“-No placation from the Lords which will suffice. Nothing but the removal of the Church from the affairs of the Parliament!”

“Too few from our own stables, I fear. Bentbranch breeds are much favored.”

“Leave off! Leave off!”

“That is quite enough, Buison.”

 Matthieu stabbed his side of steinbock with perhaps more force than was necessary as he fell silent, then carved himself another piece of flesh. Supper with a few representatives of the Commons was fast-becoming a new tradition among the just-as-new speakers for Foundation and the Brume after the day’s affairs, and while they would gladly talk of the affairs of the state, it was best done in a manner lackadaisical. The employment of rhetoric, or worse, speeches, was fast becoming seen as an embarrassment. Harmed the digestion and turned the sherry sour, they said. Mollified by the reprieve, most of the table returned to debating the finer points of the next up-and-comers in the circuit. Lefevre, Matthieu’s interlocutor, continued on their original topic with the care of a man on the one spot in a frozen lake that has a single crack running through the center. “Of course we’re not without our sympathies to that,” he conceded, taking too long to enjoy a few spoonfuls of gratin before continuing. “But you can’t deny the interests of the smallfolk. The offices of the Peerage are deluged, you know.”

“Yes,” muttered Matthieu, stifling his irritation by directing it into the mutilation of his meal. “Every lowborn’s a bastard now, every commoner a lost house’s last scion.” “Not everyone; there’s only so many titles one can grant.”

“And they’re eager to take them - what will they do for the Lords to have that? What will they do for the Church? It’ll be two nations if we aren’t more restrictive - one for the smallfolk and one for the Lords.”

Lefevre gave Matthieu a puzzled expression, the elezen’s eyebrows furrowing, before turning to his gratin. “Queer thing to say for someone chasing a lady, isn’t it? And you a hyur, at that.” As appearances went, Matthieu was a generally unremarkable man. Bland features, short brown hair of no particular lustre or interesting style, and there was no sense in remarking on his height in a city where the ruling race all out-stripped him. Not a soul would notice him next to the other worthies of Ishgardian politics were it not for two traits - a penchant for rhetoric that would be better served in the Church, and a gaze that would be more appropriate for a particularly bloody-minded inquisitor. It was the latter that settled on Lefevre, and the latter that made the man shift in his seat and turn his ears towards the rest of the talk around the table.

“How are matters with the Tidechaser?”

Matthieu’s question caught Lefevre off-guard, and after a momentarily wary look, he replied, no small amount of gratitude at the change of subject in his tone. “Ah, yes, that. It’s been a difficult business, I have to say. If I could get word in to that breakaway pirate haven or . . . whatever it is directly, that would be fine, but they only work through a Gridanian family as a go-between. You know them, perhaps? The Eglantines?”

“In fact, I do; did you perhaps need some assistance?” Lefevre chuckled. Matthieu’s tone was mild, but assistance freely given was a rarity in the Commons. “Of course, if you can speed matters along. The families will be glad of it, and they’re lowborn the lot, so you can be at ease, no risk of helping the Lords. You need support in denying a few titles, then?” Matthieu shook his head before taking a bite of his steinbock, taking a few moments of thoughtful chewing before he spoke. “No, nothing so grand. Two things - a book of flowers, for one. I think you have the title, and it’s been a devil to find. Second, if you could say a few things about that pet Xaela of the Severidennes, well. So much the better.”

[faeorzea]

“Master Buison, did you even want to succeed at courting me?” She spat plainly. Her time in the wilds with her Xaela ‘King’ had roughened the edges she made every effort to keep smooth previously.

“I did not expect it, but I would have welcomed it.” Matthieu said, diplomatic as ever.