#savage crag & pike

[dragons-ire]

#12 Dowdy

It was amazing what a different a change of clothes could make,

The previous evening, Breandan had been inside the big house in the Goblet. Ever the picture of the well-off Ishgardian abroad.  Lace at the cuff obscuring the scars on his hands, wine glass held at the proper angle.

He wasn’t as good at small talk as the rest of the team, but he could certainly mingle and be seen. And being seen often lead to being in the right place to hear all manner of things.

It was a sharp contrast to this morning, as he skulked around the edges of the estate. Hair tied up, in the drab and dowdy attire of a transient or any number of refugees that poured into the city from various places. 

Noone looked at him twice as he rounded around the back of the house.

“....why am I the one digging through the garbage again?” He grumbled into his linkpearl as he sized up the security fence.

“Because you were the one who saw him try and get rid of it. You know what it looks like” Came the soothing voice on the other end. Which was true, but maybe not the only reason,

Severine had always been really good at getting other people to do things for her.

After sifting through the refuse pile in the yard, he probably certainly smelled the part as well as looked it.

“It’s not here, I don’t see it.” He took a moment to swipe his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Then it must still be in the house.”

“Yeah, there’s no way they’re going to let me waltz back in there.” Not like this, that was.

“...well, you knowww. When I was upstairs last night, I did notice they had a pretty nice skylight….”

Breandan looked up, squinting into the sun as if catching sight of something interesting

“Roof access?”

“Roof access.” The grin on her face was one you could hear all the way across the connection.

(feat: @snakemoltsiren )

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

[eorzean-capitalist]

Isrun has a blast at the first annual SC&P hosted pool party.  

@entropytea, @sporebat, @captainswingbeard, @thanidiel, @tea-and-conspiracy, @autochthonousone, @nineprotons, @dyalani, @stuckonstones (plz let me know who else to tag, thanks!)

[fist-and-fury-xiv]

Better with Age: Otolin Stone

Perhaps at the peak of his powers, Otolin finds himself an active participant in the conflicts that ravage Gyr Abania’s far north. He isn’t living life as much as he is just struggling to exist, and this only brings out a cruel, ruthless, and merciless disposition in the young man. Someone with a keen enough gaze though can see the burdens on his shoulders, and how they’ll break him soon enough. What will he do then? What will he do when he realizes there’s surely something better than this?

Without a doubt, this is Otolin as he is today. He lives in Ul’dah and leads the free company Savage, Crag, & Pike, a group of contractors with backing from the Immortal Flames. He’s garnered a reputation for being reliable, professional, and even-keeled, and has begun to expand his work into the various city-states. Good-natured but somewhat awkward in social situations (he’s working on this), he somehow makes friends and allies and has even found love in his relationship with Severine; she understands him better than anyone. His troubled past will always be somewhere in his thoughts, but it’s less troublesome than before.

Whether the result of his training as a Fist, or something else, Otolin ages quite well, maintaining his physical fitness and growing out his hair before fashioning it into a ponytail, even as it turns a touch salt-and-pepper. He’s retired for the most part, running a small bookshop and café out of the Goblet while supporting Severine’s creative endeavors in any way he can. Of course, he still maintains his connections from his days as a contractor and perhaps even has a few students under his wing. Life is good. Better. The dream wasn’t an impossible one. 

Tagged by: @severine-savage​, @kich-rp​, @whitherwanderer, @tea-and-conspiracy​

Tagging: @dragons-ire, @thanidiel, @gyrabanian, @yellowrose-ffxiv, @mazinkhin, @throughthemanorwindow, @dawning-star, @shadowburgers, @lyndztanica, @way-to-the-future, @huntspeak-remade, @avablackstone, @levinblight, @gatheredfates, and anyone else who wishes to tackle this! 

[snakemoltsiren]

Junelezen #3 - Job

“Hey - welcome to the offices of Savage, Crag and Pike. Is there something I can help you with today?”

[thanidiel]

"You can't be nobody. You have to be somebody. They need you. Help them."

Otolin has a way of coming right in the nick of time to disasters, she’s learned.

This is no exception.

And she fucking hates it.

When she saw the signs, the patterns: familiar footsteps, and paths, and postures, and presences, and stalking - she didn’t say shit. Not at first. Not to the Runner. Xiaohu, instead, made a show of running her fingers through her thick tresses as she always did. Murmuring something into her linkpearl as her eyes followed Baju and made a show of a lopsided grin and laugh to a conversation she didn’t rightly care about.

The four would get there fast. They’re fucking good at what they do. And moreso when it involves their friends.

In the meantime, she had brushed along all of the others like a cat for Es’mena’s side. Roped her arm around the other’s as she indicated to some pretty jewels: joking that the other ought to provide a holiday bonus with one of those. Maybe let loose a tiny murmur alerting their Captain to the crew being followed through the winding streets of Ul’dah.

And like that, an invisible wave went through them all. Little key words, or touches, or an unusual gesture on someone’s behalf, all funneled down into communication of the message.

She made sure to keep herself at the front, to the side.

Don’t get pinched off, don’t get flanked on more than one side.

And when shit hits the fucking fan, and the Doman sees Rose, and Gaeb, and Shale’to drop at the back instantaneously… she books it.

She’d been routing her path, scanning everything around them ‘casually.’

Xiaohu locked it down pretty swift, and pat: that stall was of a sturdy wood and reinforced metal. She knows she’s lithe and small enough to swing her body from the pole to the apartment balcony above.

Then it was up the roof, slide down to the other side, hit the ground rolling, and she knew the street grid from there to get where she needed to.

A plan that she executed flawlessly and within seconds, until it hit the freestyle stage.

Because she turns the corner right into the Savage, Crag, and Pike.

There’s only a split second where everyone arches back, them pausing, and her movement being shifted from forward to a sliding diagonal in an instinctive make of distance between them.

Severine, Breandan, and Valka are rushing past to the objective within a beat.

He knew.

What she was doing.

This isn’t her going for further assistance or a helpful plan.

The hulking Ala Mhigan does not offer his usual soft smile to her.

The natural dour of his face dips into a genuine frown; disappointment. Which, weirdly, fucking hurts. Way more than the grip and lift of her, tugging her to flip her orientation back in the direction of the fight.

“You… can’t just be no one.” She sees the ‘Neither of us can anymore’ in him.

“You have to be someone. Our friends need you. Help them.”

There is a suspension of Fate in the moments of him charging past her after that, and she wants to fucking scream and stamp her feet.

Instead, Xiaohu finally slides her pistol out of its holster, starts moving as her hands grip it and angle it downward. Sliding down the safety bar, cocking down the hammer, lacing her thumbs together as she rests in preparation over the trigger.

Motherfucker.

@atomicdeke

[dragons-ire]

There are other good men at arms who should be held to be worthy. That is those who have gone in search of military undertakings in many places, in distant lands and foreign parts, and have found them where another is in command, so that they have no responsibilities of leadership, and they have not involved themselves much in leading or in giving advice, but have undertaken whatever fighting has presented itself to them in an honorable way and without reproach.

-The Book of Chivalry, Geoffroi de Charny

[dragons-ire]

26. Divine Intervention

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝒹𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓈

(...𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒸𝒶𝓃'𝓉)

[dragons-ire]

Unsung Prompt #4 - Untoward

Hey. Come in. Boss wants to have a drink with you.

The tough-handed Hellsguard reached for Breandan's sleeve when he paused in the doorway. Not grabbing him as much as getting his attention. Suggesting how he could be grabbed if he decided to keep walking.

Breandan paused, perfectly still except for the angle of one elbow. Arced backwards, as if inviting the larger man to try it.

A pair of gold eyes met a pair of vibrant orange ones.

He pulled his arm back and ducked his head to step through the door.

The light was low inside. Dim lanterns on the walls flickering in orange and yellow. A cool stone corridor that opened into a room with a low ceiling.

Card tables and pool tables with men crowded around them.

A man in a hooded robe (purple? red? in the light it was hard to say) holding up one dark corner.

Another man seated at a card table with no card game going.

Breandan approached the table and took his seat uninvited.

"Wasn't expecting to see you here." The man at the table gestured, and that big Hellsguard was there again. Over Breandan's chair, in his space. Putting a glass on the table. Pouring a drink.

He felt the line of tension in his jaw wind just a little tighter. Somewhere in the core of him, the ever-burning coal fire of his spirit smoldered a little hotter. The dragon that lived in the marrow of his bones coiling and wary until the bodyguard stepped back again.

"Wasn't expecting to be here." Breandan reached to pull the glass close. "What do you want."

"Oh don't be so uncouth. It's downright untoward." Came the reply. A folder got shoved across the table, full of papers. "I just wanted your opinion on something."

"Can you afford my opinion anymore?"

"I'll pay for it. I know value when I see it"

As the savviest of businessmen do.

Breandan looked at the table and reached out to flip the folder open. He looked at the sketches of faces and paged carefully through the dossier while his whiskey sat untouched. Then, after he'd taken too long and seen too much of it for safety, he snapped the folder shut and shoved it back.

"No."

"....No?!"

"No. Find someone else to keep their hands bloody for you."

"Here I thought Ishgardians assassinated each other at parties for fun. You've never snubbed my coin before. You going soft?"

"I walked from this." Breandan answered sharply, shaking his head. "I don't do this anymore."

"Didn't recall you having so many godsdamned rules, Ducaille. Last I talked to you, you didn't have so many at all."

"Yeah? Well, They're my employer's rules. I'm not going to break them to come and work for you again."

"Yeah, but....have you considered that - your employer ain't here?"

Breandan took a final look around the room at the figures gathered around. Thought he counted one fewer than before, but in the low light, it was hard to tell. All eyes on him. Hands on weapons or curling at the fingers.

With a quick pass of his gaze, he counted.

Then, looking at the table, he tried counting backwards from ten.

He could almost hear Otolin's halting and patient voice in the back of his mind.

Please...please attempt to de-escalate all situations before resorting to violence.

No...explosions, please.

And no kicking.

"You know what? You're right." A beat.

"I'm not him."

"He's not here."

And he brought his leg up to the underside of the table to knock it over.

No kicking.

(mention: @stone-xiv with his blessing)

[dragons-ire]

#6 - Avatar

Mister Pike.

The coy appellation had come out of that first meeting all that time ago. Sitting on the couches in Severine's apartment, while Otolin laid out his ideas. All three of them in a flux of some kind. Moving between one place and another. Crawling out of the dirt. Tearing aside rotten leaves so new ones could grow.

A man who'd been called Crag in a forgotten-past and a woman the urchins in Pearl Lane already called Saint Savage spitballing words for Breandan's favored weapon until he spat out the word they used to describe the units and kinds of polearms they fashioned in Otolin's ostensible homeland.

As if that was the sole reason. Here he was, just the Ala Mhigan's Pike.

It seemed to be one of the Ala Mhigan in questions' favorite party tricks. Savage. Crag. Pike.  As he made the brief introductions and pointed out each of them with a light gesture of his powerful hand.

And they settled in, and he hung and placed things in the office space he lived in as much as worked in that he liked looking at. That reminded him of places he'd been and people he'd been there with.

And on the wall behind his desk went a framed sketch of a lonely statue, half buried in the frost of the Western Highlands. A caped figure in a helmet bearing a lance. A monument people just called The Pike.

Children in Ishgard learned this story young: Haldrath the Dragons-Eye. Ishgard’s first Azure Dragoon. A king's son who tore a treasure from the skull of their great enemy. Who eschewed title and prestige in favor of vengeance, in going to the field and staying there to keep his people safe. 

How many times had he yammered about it to his sister on the estate when they were small? Regaled Silvestre over campfires in the snow while they rubbed their hands and watched the skies?

Noone seemed to tell it anymore.

(Mentions: @stone-xiv, @severine-savage, @loadedmemory, @witchespromise)

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

[dragons-ire]

#17 - Destruct

CW: Violence

Emelyn Stone's little shit-heeled crony was a person when it started and an obliterated waste of flesh when it was over The fiery explosion that ignited the air around him. It spread to the scrubby grass and plants on either side of the trail

It was because of that kid The one that looked fit to piss himself When Breandan's lance struck true Right through his buddy's ribcage His hands went up, and she made her move: No surrender. Surrender is death After that, the choice was simple:

He'd always had a soft spot for kids who were in over their heads

The Thanalan sun was beating down overhead The air was stiflingly hot Still, it was a nice view from fifteen fulms up Like for a moment He was doing nothing but sightseeing Soaking up the sunlight Until his lance turned and he turned with it And down he went

She prayed to a meteor, didn't she? Guess it's time to meet your god

When it was over When he was certain that he had made his extreme displeasure adequately clear He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the party

Otolin was standing there as still as the Stone of his namesake Non-eyebrows drawn together Like he didn't know what he was seeing Or that he did know And just didn't know what to say

And Severine Looked like she was going to be sick The way she always had At the sight of blood At the sight of him spilling it

Understandable This isn't what you were when she last knew you

Not too bad for a plain old lancer With his plain old lance Now was it?

Well

At least now they all know

[dragons-ire]

He'd fucked it up.

He thought about it like that as he stood in the office shower with half a bottle of wine still in his hand, dangling loosely

Being absolutely shitfaced felt like the best and most appropriate thing to do. He wanted to drown out the events of that entire mission. Actually, he wanted to drown out the entire week. It was like the universe had reached out to him on all levels to kick him in the face or the balls or wherever the hell the Forbidden Chakra Otolin kept goin on about actually was.

He assumed that actually meant being punched straight in the heart.

His week had started with what had probably been the hardest conversation of his life about the Dragonsong War and what his part had been in it. It had gone on to some strange and weird and mystical places on a black operations job up into the Churning Mists. The night before had been like a bitter reminder, like the ghost of a heartbreak from his youth come waltzing past and breezing right past him. The night before the job went great, but ended with just a little stab at things he'd sworn to himself he'd never let himself feel again.

That he's sworn he'd never let anyone make him feel again.

And at the end of it, he'd gone off on that job. And he watched a job go wrong in a way that he couldn't describe. Everything about it was wrong.

The wind that hurled him into the air should not have done that. By the time he was up on the cliff face he was gone. Frozen behind a numb mask of horror as he stared down at the Thanalan desert littered with the blown apart bone and flesh and fabric that had once been a person. His grip on his lance taut to keep his hand from trembling as he turned himself into the stone cold mask of rage that he'd been trained to in Ishgard to watch it unfold.

He tried not to think of fire spreading as Otolin had described it. Driven in by the point of a lance, rippling out in the the darkness of the underground. It flashed in his memory with awful clarity and it hit something hard in his soul on the way down. Some of the things that had started to shake loose inside him firmly back shut.

He watched it with a cold precision as it unfurled beneath him from on high. Watched things escape across the rear lines that he could have (should have) stopped and didn't. Watch Severine go done like nothing with a blink that betrayed nothing of what happened to him inside when he did.Watch Valka go bravely forth into battle without hesitation the way she would. Watched Otolin fall like he'd been stabbed, like the wind was out of him.

He hadn't known Otolin well at all when he'd been asked to partner in the firm they'd founded, the three of them. Something in the Ala Mhigan had chosen him out of any of the numerous people he knew better just because of his lack of connections to that circle. His connections with Severine. And he'd appreciated the chance to make something out of the ruins of his life after the war that could be meaningful, that could have purpose.

And he watched himself make a decision to try and break up an active melee rather than what he should have done which was stop them from taking him away.

He let Otolin Stone down. And he'd never wanted to feel that kind of failure

And he stared down the hard and remote face of Emelyn Stone, Otolin's mother when he landed on the ground to try and force a parlay. What happened next he was the only witness too, and even thinking about it brought a cold chill to his soul. As she looked back at him with an expression that was only cruel and mocking as she said some mean words pointed just at him and for his ears alone.

And just as quickly, he found himself staring back across the clear view of the carnage of the operation. The destroyed cart. The devastation beyond that he had to force himself not to think about again. Took it and swallowed it and didn't think what happened on the way down.

You fucked up.

You did it again.

When he finally let it go, he was tired, more than anything else. He was tired, and sad, and fucked up in a way that he had to drag through for the moment while he had to decide between Severine and Valka of who he'd rather see to. The choice was natural, of course, and they carried Valka back to the office and handed her to Dr. Haragin. And he sat with Severine and passed wine between them in the cool confines of her office and let her talk about what she needed. And when she finaly passed out, he took the remnants of the wine and crawled into the shower to wash off the events of the day. The events of the best and worst week of his life.

All the dirt and grime and blood. The guilt and shame. And he poured wine on it and washed it down the drain and then he asked it.

Okay, so you fucked it up:

What's the next move?

[dragons-ire]

Rhys.

He didn't know shit about the kid. Hingan, Doman, whatever, and he kind of didn't care. After he stormed off, Breandan took a moment to put into practice some kind of meditation. Cleaning up whiskey glasses and wine glasses and a stoneware mug full of the remnants of a cocktail that was sweet but not cloying and tasted faintly of coffee on the tongue.

People liked to interrupt Breandan's meditation by chiding him for brooding. By coming over and trying to cheer him up. Tell him to be happy. Lavish him with things like they were sensing a void in him, something that needed to be filled so he could be a complete and whole person.

He didn't want to be complete. He liked the idea of himself as a work in progress. 

He didn’t think about the particularly of how that whole exchange went down.  That he could unspin later with time.

Nobles have to learn the same as everyone else, sure. But he couldn't help but sense something else in the young man, a furious struggle that he couldn't help but feel a kind of connection and kinship to the young man. Trying hard to sell it in a world that didn't let him. Maybe trying to relate to a world that was strange to relate to.

Just like so many, many people he knew in the surprising vastness of people he knew. Just another lost and angry soul, so much like him. Lost. Angry. The scowl on his face reminded Breandan of how he felt when he was up in Ishgard; trapped by things he was obligated to play at for awhile longer. Frustrated because he had to be slow and patient, but a good exercise in patience. And skills

He thought about some of those people, scattered as they were all over the world. He thought about the office that he worked out of and the people who inhabited it. Old friends and new; people with whom he worked. Who he trusted, even if he didn't always act like that.

He thought about the Dufresne Bellworks, and what it would mean when the finest military force in Eorzea pressed with the rest of the Alliance across the Ghimlyt Dark and into burning Garlemald. The weapons the Ishgardian forces carried would have to be sourced with care. He'd have to walk on that one.

He thought about the Runner. About that boisterous air crew finally back in the air at last. Who invited him for drinks and on excursions and called him a friend. A precious kind of experience to him, that rare and unique airship with capabilities he didn’t even know. He only ever got to see the lounge.

And he thought about the mysterious White Lotus Inn, his destination after whatever last business meeting he had to be at. He'd been working very hard in Ishgard and Ul'dah, and maybe he actually deserved a vacation. Even if it wound up not being quite a vacation and just gentler work in a place he’d not seen much of. He wanted to see all of it. Including the professional Felore seemed to have specifically brought into Ishgard just so he could get a look.

He wanted different things. He wanted a peaceful soul.

The glasses cleaned up, he returned to his office and opened the weapons locker behind the archway. He pulled out an object that had been commissioned for him by Isrun Whitewood, Horizon Contractors' head of security. He wasn't even sure why. Maybe he'd been too interested in the rare history behind her weaponskill that he'd never heard of.

Maybe Isrun felt he'd just disrespected her weapon by playing with it like a shiny new toy. Either way, it felt appropriate, like a sinner’s penance.

He loaded one, plain, unimbued bullet into the gunblade's revolving chamber.

He...thought he understood why he couldn't ever bring Rhys into Ishgard the same way he'd brought Felore or anyone else. He knew that what he might need to do next would need to be executed with a kind of care, the way a difficult thing needed to be. Not a warning sign as much as a request for more insight before he decided what he wanted to do

Hopefully it wouldn’t go too badly.

He checked in, then wandered outside into the sun and up the ramp into Otolin's vegetable garden. Tipped his dark glasses down over his eyes to keep the glare of the sun that was worse than normal after that fucked up job and took a deep breath of peaceful air. Thought about what he wanted, and what he needed. He held the weapon in his hands with the kind of love and care that Isrun would. Like an artifact, a treasure. Something to be wielded with respect of its power and capability.

Then he fired a single bullet into the grass of Otolin Stone's yard. He was a terrible shot, but precision didn't matter when you were pointing the weapon in the dirt. Once it was done, he dug it out of the ground with his fingers and packaged it for Otolin’s front door.

Then he wandered back to the office to shuffle papers around.

He left the gunblade sitting on his desk with the door unlocked.

[dragons-ire]

Build a house

Build a house in your head

Erembourc's firm voice came drifting back as he lay on the carpet in front of the fire in the pit, just staring at the flame as it slowly died down. Things his old teacher said for when shit got bad. Find a center, build a house there. Make it look like a place you'd want to live in.

The memory of all the conversations and occasions and good things that had happened in the downstairs were things he tried to hold in his mind.

Build a house in your head.

The notebook of sketches and strategy, questions he'd brought to the debriefing that had fallen by the wayside still lay in his hand where he could see it. He'd prepared, since the job. He'd analyzed the situation, researched what he could, pulled in Brighid's astromancy to research further. Brought things he knew were valuable for a strategic situation. At least, he tried.

Otolin had been through hell and of course there were things that needed to be said and nurtured in the room before they planned. He brought a physical assessment of the situation and some questions about aetheric capabilities that he wasn't an expert on and tried to wait patiently for a time that he might ask some things and offer suggestions.

The time never came.

Build a house in your head

He thought about Silvestre, utterly confused and lost in this situation with no time to explain. No briefing, no debriefing. Silvestre, just looking at him to help deescalate a situation that spiraled further and further out of control  until there was no saving it. Maybe he should walk it back, try and think from the more soft civilian perspective., but that wasn't what made him good at what he did.

Sometimes his military training and background felt like more of a detriment than anything else for all he used it.

Build a house in your head

He thought about where Valka was off to. Lost to her own trauma, unable to be reasoned with for reasons he couldn't blame her for. He'd never been to Dalmasca, but he'd lived through the hell of the Dragonsong War. He got plenty touchy about plenty of things himself, sure. He understood as much as he was able to understand.

He'd tried so hard to help her find her place here, find a niche, and he had failed. Maybe he could have tried harder. Maybe the fault of that was actually on him. 

Valka's only suggestion to him was to go away and rest and let the adults handle everything. Valka, a fellow soldier, a leader of soldiers, looked at him and called him an indolent child, and his rage had been so raw he couldn't do anything. It brought back every memory of every instructor and highborn shithead who'd given him hell in the Dragoons. Leaders he followed into hell because he had no other choice, not because he wanted to.

He liked plenty of things about Valka, but he didn't like being treated like he didn't know anything.

Build a house in your head

He thought about the words that fell from Otolin's mother's lips and he found himself flinching because he knew what they meant. Watched the demeanor of a man shift to something awful that stoked the fires of fury in his heart to a raw kind of anguish.

Little shit.

Emelyn Stone said little shit and Enguerrand Dzemael said dear boy and they hit the same raw nerve. Because he didn't need to see the look on Otolin's face to know what it could do to someone to hear those words as a grown adult. He heard it every time he sat in his dying father's room reading from outdated holy texts and trying not to die himself.

He hated Emelyn in a way that he hadn't hated any enemy since he'd been conditioned to hate Dravanians. Red and angry and squeezing his heart so hard he thought he might choke. Looking at her was like wearing the drachen armor in a dive, the helmet picking up the roar of dragonsong when it caught the wind like an echo chamber.

How dare you make him feel so small.

Build a house in your head.

He thought about Severine curled up behind the bar trying to drink herself into unconsciousness. Severine, who watched everyone she called a friend turn on each other while the unit cohesion came down. Who couldn't let herself stay in a place that only became hatred and murder and killing. And Breandan, unashamed of his expertise in hatred and murder and killing, knew that there was a time that even he needed to walk himself back from it. 

He couldn’t solve everything.

He was the only person here who knew what Severine meant when she said I can't stay here and the awfulness of it was like a knife in the heart.

The problem was, he wasn't any good at building houses. He could hammer shingles and sand bar counters, but he couldn't build from scratch, from the foundation. Sometimes, he could imagine what a room might look like. Furniture, people. Never a complete sanctuary. He could plot out the idea of what a house might look like, but he couldn't

If he tried to think about it, he was done in about ten minutes. Nothing else but to lay there and think about nothing instead.

His true father had been a carpenter, but Ancelin Ducaille spent his life building houses for other people to live in.

But what if you cant?

He didn't answer the question he posed to himself as he watched the embers. Didn't think about anywhere he might go if he couldn't live here anymore either. If the cohesion of the unit of this office broke apart and left separate people who couldn't communicate or coordinate. The idea of it made him angry too, and that anger coiling in his bones kept him warm in the way the dying fire couldn't.

That's what SHE WANTS.

How convenient of Emelyn Stone to arrive on the scene like a portent, at the right moment where some chaos would have turned the tide.

Don't let her fucking win.

[dragons-ire]

Warmdown

During the war, they celebrated victories

It wasn't always big and obvious, but it was there. It was field rations and card games around campsites in the snow, a flask or a bar of chocolate someone had managed to smuggle out. It was drinking in the Knight, with Archie Lothaire trying not to be too nice to him, and him just trying to kick the highborn prig in the shins under the table in return. It was Sil grabbing him by the collar if he looked in the wrong direction for too long, as a reminder. Simmer down. Save it for the next one.

It happened with other people, too. Erembourc and their crew of disparate and sometimes changing figures. Bhalnbhar telling off-color sailor's stories, Severine sitting somewhere next to him, leaning on his shoulder while he leaned back. Sometimes she didn't want to be around him after it got too heavy, but sometimes she was okay with it.

It didn't feel like it happened so much here. Severine slipped away to wherever it was she went when she didn't want to be found, and he presumed Otolin went home to meditate or garden or whatever it was he did. And sometimes, Breandan just wanted to grab a shower and lock his office door and be alone, too. He didn't begrudge anyone their ways. People needed different things to get right afterwards.

But sometimes it was nice. Pouring drinks and sitting down with a fellow warrior among their bruises and their road dust and shooting the shit. A couple of people who didn't have the ambitions and desires that their family and friends and society told them they should want.

Just wanted to work.

When they packed it up, he went upstairs to grab a shower. Unwound the rosary from his wrist to set down on a ledge and tried not to think too deep about anything in particular.

He'd originally envisioned the back part of his office as a discrete place to talk to clients, but now it was a rough living quarters of sorts. All the glasswork he'd had commissioned just there for his own private viewing. He put himself to bed and he reminded himself of something. That one day he'd planned to break into her quarters and figure out how she slept. And if it was aught but the height of comfort and craftsmanship, then. Well.

Then he was going to put his Firmanent-honed skill to work and just escalate it like a conflict.

Yep.

Valka was okay.

(Mentions: @witchesandlotuses, @severine-savage, @otolin-xiv, @loadedmemory )

[dragons-ire]

Oh, the sands, my lovely creature

And the mad, moaning winds

At night the deserts writhed with diabolical things

[dragons-ire]

The Jeweled Crozier was a bustle of activity, as it had been since the Restoration had started. Trade and industry pouring into Ishgard now that the gates were open again, merchants struggling up to keep up with supply for the demand. It was easy to weave through the stalls and shops, picking at things here and there.

It was easy to be seen doing so. Breandan browsed books at a bookseller's stall. Picked up and turned pages with his gloved hands until he found a collection of local legends and history that was written in simple enough Common. Simple without being insultingly basic. He handed it to the clerk and gave instructions for its delivery. An shill address on Ul'dah's Sapphire Avenue. Paid directly in gil rather than billed to an account. Valka seemed like she might enjoy stories of a time when Coerthas was forest and not just an endless winter. As she learned to read Eorzea's common written language.

A tea-seller handed him tin after tin of blends for him to smell and advised him of the notes of each. Strong, subtle, smoky, a touch of fruit notes in one that reminded him prominently of the potted orange tree in the downstairs lounge. He selected an assortment of things that brought to mind the recipient when he examined them. The same exchange of coin. An address in Ul'dah for delivery. Otolin Stone didn't drink alcohol, but the Ala Mhigan was a great consumer of tea. Severine did, though. The pair of them politely nursed a bottle of wine together in front of company and opened several on many a long desert evening in the office.  She loved fine things and especially expensive things. So his path took him away from the Crozier's stalls and further into the Pillars, until (once more), the knights stood guard with golden bells on their shields. The bit of palaver in the market - selecting gifts for acquaintances in foreign places - lead him down towards a truer destination.

Lord Vingeaux received him in a study that was decorated austerely, but tastefully. A clear representation of the lord's simple piety and work ethic. Breandan glanced at a small icon of Saint Reinette, bearing her lance, displayed on the lord's desk while he inquired about vintages and started picking a sampling of them: a modest bit of business to be delivered to the Goblet in Ul'dah. "You do realize that an order of this size could have easily been done with our representatives in the Jeweled Crozier." Lord Vingeaux tapped a pen on his desk as he frowned. "There you have me, my lord." Breandan offered a small smile. "I'll confess. I also came by to inquire after Ser Silvestre, if he is here. I doubt you remember me, but I served in the dragoons with your son during the war." "And what is your business with my son today, if I may ask." "...I thought I might gain his counsel. In helping me select an updated addition of the Enchiridion." Breandan bowed his head. "My own copy is the one I left in Ishgard after the war, and I fear the majority of it is horrifically out of date. I'm not even which revision I should begin to choose." Lord Vigneaux gave him a look; as though the genuinely pious man might have sensed some slickness behind Breandan's renewed interest in Ishgardian Orthodoxy. "The Fury's spears pierce deeply into the hearts of men, young man. The words one speaks matter not as much as the conviction of one's spirit." Lord Vigneaux let the homily go with marked sincerity. "But if you're looking for Silvestre, you could begin your search at the Congregation. He has returned to duty." "Has he?" Breandan lifted his chin with interest. "Full glad I am to hear it. That he has recovered from his injuries so quickly." The Lord made a gruff sound in the back of his throat and dropped his gaze to the paperwork for a moment. In the concerned lines of the older man's face, Breandan read something that resonated in him, low in the pit of his stomach. A bloom of blood in a dark pool of water, the anger coiling into his chest and his limbs and tingling in his face. He caught it between his teeth, the line of his jaw tensing in a tell that his friends and close acquaintances could easily read.

He wasn’t even quite sure what or whom he was angry at at the moment. "To whom shall I send this invoice?" Lord Vingeaux asked, clearing his throat as he looked up "Oh, of course." Breandan sat up a little straighter, as if realizing for the first time that gentlemen didn't always just trade coin with each other. "To , ah, the account of my father, Enguerrand de Dzemael. I will have the steward settle it." "Acceptable. Thank you for your custom today, young man. And let me know if there is anything else" Lord Vigneaux concluded, as Breandan was standing up. With the courtesy a vassal lord to House Durendaire might say to a ward of House Dzemael. The two families as close as allies as could be among the four High Houses. Oh. He doesn't know. It occurred to Breandan as he was exiting the study. ---- "...blessed Saint Cuthbert of the Knife. A word." Cuthbert Watling looked up from where he'd been half-leaning against the bar in the downstairs of the Forgotten Knight. The slightly more discrete part of the establishment, where people still gossiped, but it didn't travel as far up the stairs always. He was finishing his ale and ordering another when a shadow crossed his vision. A shadow with long hair the pale color of bone. To the hells with nobility and men of power - Culinarians and chirurgeons were the two people in the world in which one wanted always to remain in favor. The man who prepared meals in the Congregations kitchens kept his eyes on the roasted meat and vegetables and hearty breads that kept soldiers nourished and in fighting form, but kept his ears sharp elsewhere. He was a likely candidate to know the gossip of the chain of command. "By the Fury's frozen tits. The infamous Audthildr's Bane." The Hyur exclaimed, as his fat-fingered hand tightened around his tankard  "To what do I owe the pleasure, ser" He waved his hand in an exaggerated gesture of courtesy. "You know who put the Ox back on active duty after he got stabbed?" Breandan asked as he folded his arms and leaned on the counter. "tell me which of those whoresons I've got to go kick the teeth in." "Oh what the hells do you care. Heard  you took off with that big Highlander Count Edmont hired to survey out in west Coerthas. Heard you kill for gil, now. No loyalty at all, you dragonslayers. You. Your bloody commander. Who knows who else." "Not Ser Silvestre." Breandan retorted. "Not Archie Lothaire's little brother. And who knows who else. I haven't been back that long." His gloved hand came up, holding a small velvet pouch tightly. He shook it, so Cuthbert could hear the weight of the coins in it, the appealing sound of metal rolling against metal. After a squinty-eyed moment of hesitation, Cuthbert accepted it, canny enough to look inside, but not crass enough to count it out in front of anyone. He tucked in his coat and mirrored the Elezen's lean and folded arms stance. What was the harm in it, after all. It wasn't like anything sinister was going on, and he had a lot of mouths to feed at home. "Here's the word." He went on, his voice a discrete gravel. "Some pious lady from up in the Pillars wrote a letter and asked, so it happened. Said with all the people moving in and out with the Restoration, needed every able hand they could get to help keep the peace." "So they pulled in a man who was stabbed in a bar fight in case he's got to break up another." Breandan grumbled. "Does this lady have a name?" "Hells if I can keep that shite straight. Lord Francel's aunt or cousin or some rubbish." "Lord Francel." Breandan repeated, thoughtfully. House Haillenarte. It didn't quite make sense, but he tucked the information away "Thank you, Cuthbert. You truly are a holy man. May the city one day acknowledge this and erect a statue in your honor." "Piss off." Cuthbert laughed, full-throated, and moved down the bar to slump in front of his refilled ale.  " And get out of here before people think we're courting."

Somehow, the jest wasn’t as funny as it might have been not a day before. (Mentions: @otolin-xiv, @severine-savage, @ocarina-of-what, @loadedmemory)