House de Aubemarle

A House Call [RP] : The Aubemarles receive some long lost relatives.

A House Call: Epilogue du Oudine [writing] : Oudine has tea with an old friend.

The Grand Hunt [RP] : Dowager Viscountess Philomene has a request.

After the Hunt [writing] : Visitors arrive in Limsa Lominsa.

Yield not to misfortune [writing] : Oudine picks up a new pursuit.

By Way of an Apology [RP] : The Aubemarle siblings and the Losstarot brothers go on a picnic.

Tea Tales [writing] : The Dowager and her sister-in-law discuss some rumours which have surfaced.

After the Debutante Ball [screenshots] : Oudine reflects after the debutante ball (of 2024).

Les Yeux d'Une Mere [writing] : The Dowager has a word with her daughter.

Interlude [writing - NSFW for language] : Remont gets a reminder.

this looks not like a nuptial [writing] : Oudine finds herself in a rather strange place.

be still my foolish heart; don't ruin this on me [writing] : A reunion takes place.

A favour [writing] : Oudine's little cousin has some burning questions.

Cleft [writing] : The twins have a (large) difference of opinion.

Tell [writing] : Mars checks up on Oudine.

Shoot your shot [writing] : Remont and Mars head back to Tailfeather.

Lueur taciturne [writing] : Oudine is trying something new.

Hearsay [writing] : Oudine hears rumours at a party.

The way madame looks up is more serene than the expression on her face. "Ah, Master Courier, a good afternoon to you," she says, despite the tinge of disapproval at all his clomping about. She takes the note, gives it a once over and snorts. "Certainly succinct." She looks up at the Viera and nods towards the chair in front of her. "Please, sit. I would ask for your account of this... professor, if you'd be so kind."

Finnegan is about to open his mouth, then clamps it shut. He tells himself she must not get out much; that's why she wants to know more. Otherwise what else was there to say. When he sits a cup of tea is immediately poured out for him; he's uneasy at being treated so well.

"He's got pink hair. Not much to say apart from taking the gil and saying, 'About damned time'. Looked into the pouch and counted the gil. He was off by five hundred for some reason. You'd think those smart types would know how to count."

Philomene's smirk is tiny amongst the fine lines on her face. "Perhaps more preoccupied with loftier ideas than banal money matters, or so I'm given to understand. Did my additional incentives bear any fruit?" The smirk grows a little wider. "Or am I to wait for information from across the star, just like he has for his tome?"

"Ah, right, that." He reaches into his pouch and pulls out a small sheaf of notes. "Ms Yuyuwa was a fairly well known personage, and since she lived her life very much in the Sharlayan manner, there was a fair amount of information. I was directed to her grandniece, who had a lot to say about her." He slides a small, stitched notebook over.

The notes apparently seem dictated by Yuwawa, perhaps because the transcriber thought it best to bring back the information as-is. As such there is rambling about Yuyuwa's best qualities in between important bits of information about her career in astromancy and perhaps cooperative dealings with Vouloix, though one has to sit and skim through it.

This is clearly a large surprise to the older woman across the table; her eyebrows actually rise, accompanied by widened eyes. She reaches for the notebook, and opens it, flipping slowly through the initial pages. There's a lot of detail, far more than she'd anticipated. One more flip of a page, and she looks up. Her sharp brown eyes, previously full of judgement, actually have some measure of gratification in them. "You'll pardon me for my lapse in memory. What is your name, young man?"

"Finnegan, Madame." He doesn't give his last name because nobody's ever asked for it.

The Dowager nods. "Finnegan..." Based on all she knows from Etoile, no doubt a chosen name of his own. "Is that your given name?"

"It's the name I give myself, madame." He takes a sip of tea and he's floored by how much flavour it has. "Been in the city my whole life."

"What, in Ishgard? Then how singular a moniker to style oneself under, though our traditions for vowels and consonants can be... convoluted." She sips her tea, perfectly used to this level of fragrance. "Was there no other name you desired to have, Mr Finnegan?"

"No, just not where I'm supposed to be." He takes a bigger less genteel sip. This tea is good. "Viera only know two places: the city, and the wood. If I'm not in the wood then I'm in the city." He shrugs, looking hungrily at the pastry laid out on the table. "Finnegan sounded nice, I guess, madame."

"Hm." She looks back at the notebook in her hands thoughtfully, opening it up again to look at the pages. "Well, I suppose I may understand that - if I'm not in Ishgard then I'm no longer on this plane of existence." She brushes her fingers across the page, not noticing the hungry eye he's giving the treats. "Was it your hand that wrote out this... grandniece's recounting?"

Finnegan's hands start to twitch and fiddle. It appears he must contend with eating with his eyes, though her maid might notice his ears twitching. "It was - knowing one's letters is important to sell things on the market boards."

The Dowager's lady's maid, Nisette, smiles a little to herself at the telltale quiver of his long dark ears. She pushes the plate of various pastries - eclairs, danishes, and other baked goods - just a wee bit over: a silent invitation to partake. The Dowager doesn't appear to notice, asking, "I shall risk vulgar assumption and guess you learned them after your arrival to the city. For my meagre knowledge of your traditions indicate that the men of the Viera are made warriors, not scribes."

Finnegan's eyes are drawn immediately to the pastries that has been nudged closer to him. His hand hovers over the pastries before lifting a danish to his mouth. "Mmh." He does not seem to care what her assumptions are. "Depends on the tribe. Most Rava train their kits in combat; mine weren't so strict." He speaks with a full mouth.

An eyebrow lifts slightly, the previous shine Finnegan had earned dulling just a touch at the faux pas. "No indeed." She tilts her head slightly. "A steady hand, given the circumstances. This person you spoke to had quite a lot to say about Ms Yuyuwa; it must have been a gallop to keep up."

"She was pretty excited to talk about her grand aunt." To Finnegan, manners just meant no elbows nor crumbs at the table. Nobody mentioned chewing when one's mouth is overly full, which is why he continues. "The pink prof warned me about Ms Yuwawa beforehand, said that she'd a reputation for talking peoples' ears off."

The raised eyebrow twitches. Nisette, recognising the tell, reaches over to refill the Dowager's teacup. In the meantime, the lady continues: "I note the address on the front page. Sharlayans are famed for their love of knowledge; I'd no idea they ought to be commended for being so open." She had to smile slightly despite the less than stellar table manners. "Whatever did you tell her about this stranger from Ishgard?"

To his credit, Finnegan had left no crumbs on the table from his devouring of the danish. He picks up an eclair as dessert for dessert. "She asked who was asking, and I said the wife of the man who worked with her grand aunt. Can't say she knew anything about him, though, in fact she sounded like she probably didn't know about him. Maybe too old."

"...yes. Perhaps." This older noble woman seems to only subsist on liquids judging by how she hasn't touched a single biscuit or brioche. "Indulge me, Mr Finnegan - since it was through the retainer vocate that we made our acquaintance, are you in the employ of anyone else in particular? Or are you a free agent?"

Finnegan begins to wonder what's up with this old lady - surely a woman of her stature with a maid has no shortage of friends? "I currently work for two people - a retainer can work for any number of people provided they can handle it. One of them's an Ishgardian, the other's starting to come to Ishgard more often, which is how I know my way around."

Her tone is one of polite curiosity when she asks, more directly: "And how do you find working for that Ishgardian?"

Finnegan stops mid-sip. "Uh, that would be a private matter, I'm afraid, madame. Talking about one's employers is a breach of privacy." He keeps it as formal as possible. He wasn't paid to be her gossip-mate, after all.

There's a slight pause as she looks at him carefully, then glances at her lady's maid. Some kind of silent exchange follows before her ladyship sets down her cup with a lighter expression, and a small smile. "And I would hope you would apply such integrity if you agreed to work for myself on a longer term basis." And a smile also slips onto Nisette's face, though she hides it away quickly.

The viera finally puts his cup on the table. "Wait, was this an interview?"

The smile on her ladyship's face widens slightly. "If we find ourselves agreeing on terms, then yes, it was. If we do not, then it was merely a little conversation over tea."

"It's policy for retainers to only be employed by a retainer vocate. If you agree to the terms you can request for my services and they'll reach out to me about it." He leans forward slightly, "We didn't really discuss terms though, only that you wanted me on a long-term basis. There's rates to consider - by job or the bell - and the scope of duties and preferred duration." He ticks his fingers off as he lists it down.

"Your scruples do you credit, Mr Finnegan," she says in dry amusement. "My requests of you are straightforward I believe: I wish to hire you as a courier between myself and my correspondents out of Ishgard. I would rather my letters be carried by someone as attentive to details as you have been. The other is on behalf of my son, Lord Remont de Aubemarle. He has developed a standing arrangement to transport caelumtree wine from their concern in Tailfeather to a certain tavern here in the city. However, owing to his added duties, I took it upon myself to find someone trustworthy to oversee delivery; about once a moon, as far as I understand." She smirks wider. "Though in this, I would ask you to indulge in some very minor subterfuge."

"Courier work is fairly easy. You don't seem like someone who has things to transport to Ilsabard or Meracydia." He shudders a little at the thought. "Subterfuge. What do you need me to look out for?"

Amazingly Philomene lets out a chuckle. "Fury save us, nowhere so far flung, and nothing so dire. Merely that I ask you to present yourself to Lord Remont as a recommendation from a business associate, rather than his mother who should have thoroughly no knowledge nor concern in his affairs." Her lips tug upwards at the corners. "At least not obvious concern."

"You're asking me to keep our conversation from your son."

Philomene just picks up her cup again and sips. "I don't expect you to divulge information if it isn't asked, nor lie if it isn't needed. Besides, 'Talking about one's employers is a breach of privacy' - is it not?"

Her comment makes him smirk - it is indeed rare for him to smile. "Talking about them is a breach of privacy indeed; revealing who sent me isn't. But if the request is to keep your involvement secret, it can be done." He might as well take a sausage roll for what it's worth. "The vocate will lay out the rates for jobs like these. Pay it and I'll see it done."

"I shall speak with the vocate. And if I pay double, can I expect to see it done first, ahead of other duties?" She raises her eyebrows inquiringly. "Or does this old lady ask too much?"

Finnegan's eyes grow wide. This is more than he's paid from his other employers. "It can be made a priority, yes."

The smile on her face is one of satisfaction. Philomene enjoys getting what she wants. "Then we can consider this interview a success." She looks at the table and shakes her head. There are at least two other full, untouched plates of pastries and finger sandwiches. "I really must speak with the proprietor - she is far too generous to me." The dowager looks up with a calm sort of air. "I wonder, Mr Finnegan, if you have any acquaintances with which you can share these. It wouldn't do to return these uneaten and offend the chefs here."

The way Finnegan is almost drooling implies he has a very exact idea of what to do with the pastries. "I have an inkling - you're sure it's alright to take these?"

"Mais oui, I would be most obliged. Please do stay and enjoy them at your leisure; you may take the rest with you to share with your friends when you're done. I'm afraid I have another appointment to keep, and so must take my leave." Just as she stands, Nisette hands her a walking stick. One hand curls around the carved Hornbill head of a handle. "Thank you, Mr Finnegan. I look forward to your good work."

Finnegan wastes no time in pouring himself another cup of tea and half-stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. "Thank YOU madame, I look forward to working with you."

She nods her head, making a mental note to send him a booklet on table manners with the next job, and takes a step away. Then she pauses and looks back. "Do you know, I picked you out of the list of retainers first due to your name?" Her brown eyes gleam. "Guillam was a very Ishgardian name. I thank the Fury She pointed me to it." And with that, she leaves, quicker than the walking stick would indicate. Nisette gives a polite bob of a curtsey and follows closely behind her employer.

Finnegan looks up sharply at the dowager's back, a tuna sandwich half-dangling out of his mouth. He seems surprised to hear the reason of his selection - most just look at his track record. When he's finally alone with some good food that will last him for days, he gives himself the allowance to be amused at fate's strange ways.

"Heh."

-

End.