STRONGBLADE

Guerrique leans into Janlenoux’s hand, and he doesn’t feel the same sort of shame about it as he had a moment ago – he’s too relieved. Things feel like they might be okay? He can talk, he has his voice, still. He can…he can communicate with his brothers, they can understand him. There’s no barriers that keep them from continuing to be brothers.

He manages a weak chuckle at that, though it sounds a bit echoing in his throat. “I was both for a while,” he says slowly. “And I’m still sober. It isn’t very fun.” But he’s sure Janlenoux knows that – he isn’t one to drink, the boy, but he’s seen Guerrique sober and drunk both enough times to know the difference. 

He wants to apologize, but…Jan’s right. He did save them, so there isn’t really something to apologize for. “I…wanted to apologize for doin’ this. For…making you worry.” For turning himself into a dragon, for…he doesn’t regret it, but he knows it must have hurt them. He shifts to nuzzle closer to the boy absently, something deep within him he’s only now noticing whispering that brother means something a lot more now than it ever did. 

He’s so glad they’re here for him. He’s still guilty he couldn’t save them all, but realistically he probably couldn’t have. The thing the Archbishop became…it was a real miracle he’d been able to save as many of them as he had. And he’s glad they’re here. He’s glad they won’t leave him – he’s glad they still want him. It’s not something he can put into words, but the rumbling in his throat takes on an almost musical quality, and it’s…rather joyous, whatever it is.

He blinks, though, and his eyeroll is quite a bit more impressive now that he’s a dragon. “Those two,” he mutters, amused. “Can’t they be satisfied with wrestling me?” He doesn’t want either of them to do it – they don’t understand how different it makes you even when you’re the same, and they can’t understand the gravity of the choice until they make it. He’ll…probably have to talk to them.

“I suppose we’ll just have to adjust to you being sober,” the younger knight says, quietly pleased that Guerrique is still talking to him - that he hasn’t decided it’s no longer worth his time to try. “I’m not certain you can get drunk any longer, nor do we have the resources to give you enough alcohol to try.” It’s an almost sad thought, but really, there’s nothing wrong with Guerrique ending his drinking habit, even if the method is more than a little unconventional. “...Have you felt any desire to, apart from any emotional need?” It’s an odd question, but Janlenoux thinks it might be important to ask anyway - it’s enough for Guerrique to have to adjust to being a dragon; to have to adjust to that while dealing with the effects of alcohol withdrawal would just be cruel.

He can just barely make out some of the pitches the now-wyvern is making, but Janlenoux doesn’t really need a translation: he can understand that his brother is happy - or happier than he had been, at least, and that’s more than enough to make him happy too. He doesn’t need more than this.

He tries very hard not to stick his whole snout into the tray, instead staring at Janlenoux. His expression, being draconic, is unreadable, but his eyes are certainly still expressive. He’s…afraid. He has no regrets for any of the choices he made, but all the same he’s terrified that he’s not himself anymore, half convinced that he isn’t, and wallowing in that pain with all the masochism that he’d developed out of years of drinking.

But here Janlenoux is, talking to him like it’s any other day and he’s being teased for being a drunken mess, the blue-haired boy offering him some home-cooked food like he’s a fussy mother…

He’s absolutely not crying. He’s not. He doesn’t cry. But by the Fury, he’s sober and he hates it and– there’s just something in his eye, that’s all. His big stupid dragon eye.

He is hungry, but…but right now, he ignores the tray to almost headbutt Janlenoux in the chest until he sits down and then puts his head in the younger man’s lap like a very persistent cat that wants to be cuddled. This is, in a way, ridiculously embarrassing, but so long as no one tells…his throat rumbles with something that’s halfway between a cat’s purr and a rather more draconic noise of sadness, and when he speaks – and he does speak, something that startles even him (he thought he’d lost the ability to) – his voice is rougher and has a strange, echoing quality to it, but still the same. “Blue,” he murmurs, as quiet as a dragon can be (which isn’t quite as quiet as a mortal). “’M sorry.”

Janlenoux is surprised that Guerrique’s approaching him - enough so that he sits almost immediately when asked, and goes so far as to gently place a hand along the side of the now-wyvern’s face. “There you are,” he says, surprising himself by how relieved he is to hear understandable words coming from his brother. “I’d feared you’d never even attempt to speak again. You being silent is nearly as bad as seeing you sober,” he teases, but only lightly, and he’s quick to drop it to instead regard him with a serious expression.

“I can’t claim to understand why you chose this path,” he says, good eye focused firmly on the familiar gaze looking out from an alien face. “But I’ve never understood why you do anything, so it’s enough to know that you had reason - and you saved us through this act, so please stop apologizing unless you mean you’re sorry for not leaving us to lose our wills and become abominations working toward a madman’s goal.”

Guerrique may be older than he is, and slightly more experienced, but Janlenoux is an older brother to multiple siblings, so he knows how to deal with someone getting too wrapped up in his own troubles to function properly. “Did you think we’d abandoned you?” He asks, voice softer as he gives the head in his lap another fond pat. “Because I am sorry we could not help you sooner, if so. And if you think we will do so now, simply because you have changed forms, you’re wrong.” He pauses then, rolling his eyes as a thought crosses his mind. “And before you trouble yourself about your change of shape, I think you should know that two of our brothers appear to have been contemplating drinking dragons’ blood themselves, likely to open up more opportunities for brawling.”

…Janlenoux?

Huh. The boy hasn’t…he’s never really  been the one to visit before. Maybe once? He can’t really recall…he knows Zephirin comes to talk to him a lot, and Grinnaux, the daft sod, has tried to get him to wrestle a few times to ‘cheer him up’, but…not this one.

He shifts slightly, lifting his head to peer with one orange-gold eye at the blue-haired boy and the food he brought. Food? He tries to ignore the rumble of his stomach – he hasn’t eaten in…not since he was human, he thinks, maybe. He’s afraid to. One of many, many things he doesn’t want to do, doesn’t want to acknowledge, doesn’t want to do it and lose himself. 

He almost wants to be angry, actually, that Janlenoux dares to pretend things are normal when he’s here a scaly beast that can’t ever be and won’t ever be and isn’t– he wants to smack that damned tray out of the man’s hands, but even he can’t bear to hurt the child’s feelings like that. 

He wonders what they see when they look in his eyes. Is he still in there? Is he just deluding himself, pretending Guerrique still exists when he’s only a dragon with the same memories? Do they care, still, is he one of their brothers still? Is this just pity?

His head goes in a thousand places at once and he wants to scream, but nothing but a quiet rumble escapes him. He’s too weak to really throw a tantrum and he knows it – mostly healed he may be but he’s refused to move from this spot in who knew how long, and that’s not good even for a dragon. He knows that, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s almost…wallowing in this bleak depression and almost masochistically enjoying it, isn’t he? Thinking he deserves the pain, no matter how little he regrets doing this.

All the same, the food smells absolutely fucking delicious, and he reluctantly heaves himself up, fifteen-fulm long body unfolding itself to creep over to the man like a scolded child – he’s quite a sight, a wyvern white as snow, with streaks of steel grey shooting across him and an underbelly a soft yellowy cream. His body is as smooth and streamlined as it is large, and his spines are short and needle-thin. And his eyes, orange-gold as they are, still hold some semblance of intelligence, of humanity in them, even if he fears differently.

“There you are,” Janlenoux says, softspoken as he usually tends to be, and sets the tray down. “I’ve been... experimenting,” he adds, indicating the tray. “I found that most dragons have very different palates from what I’m used to, but I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t wish to accustom yourself to their table manners just yet.” And now he pauses. the tiniest grin on his face as he adds, “Such manners as you have, I should say - and have been trying to create something that appeals to both.”

It isn’t just for Guerrique’s sake, really - if they’re to repair a bond their own people shattered, they need to find or create common ground where possible. And food has always been an excellent area to begin, given how nothing sentient save for some seedkin can survive without a good meal of some kind.

@janlenoux

He isn’t exactly sure how long it’s been. The days and nights have all blurred together into one long…existence, and he isn’t sure if it’s because of how shaken and confused he is or because of– because of what he is now. He doesn’t regret this choice. He can’t regret it, because he can’t take it back. He knew what he was doing the moment the heretic in his hooded robe handed him the vial of blood. At least he saved some of his brothers.

But…he isn’t human anymore. Every time he moves his new body shifts, and he remembers anew that he has a tail, that his arms have become wings with vestigial claws, that he has fangs and teeth and that he is everything he used to hate. It doesn’t scare him as much as he thought it would. But he’s sober, he’s bone-achingly sober, and being unable to hide in the blessed haze of inebriation is…

He hasn’t spoken to anyone, in either tongue he now knows, since he and the brothers he’d saved arrived here, and he’s slept more than he’s been awake – in part because that’s how dragons heal, but in part because he doesn’t have to deal with the ramifications of his actions if he’s asleep.

But…he can’t pretend to be asleep right now, not when he’s being visited – for the eightieth time – by one of his brothers. They come to see him often, trying to see if he’s still the man they know, trying to get him to say anything, to look at them, to see if Guerrique de Montrohain still lives behind these eyes…it hurts. Normally he ignores it but this time…this time he wasn’t able to keep from moving when he heard footsteps, so whichever one it is knows he’s awake. 

His exhale is audible, but he doesn’t turn or look up. Just…acknowledges the other is there. Gods, he hopes it isn’t Zephirin again.

It’s hard to be out here, surrounded by dragons who, however kind and relatively patient they are toward their unusual guests, simply do not understand the need for high-quality, cooked food. Alright, so that’s hardly the main issue with the strange mess that their lives have become, but it is certainly the one thing Janlenoux finds the most vexing about their new situation. Even when stressed, he’s used to being able to help morale by feeding his comrades and brothers, but...

Their options out here are extremely limited, and though he does his best, the results just aren’t up to his standards. And then there’s Guerrique - if he truly still is their brother in mind. Janlenoux doesn’t know, as he’s not been among those frequently visiting the warrior-turned-wyvern. In fact, he’s only been the one to check in on him once, but he’d volunteered to do so this time.

The reason is simply because he’s been trying - and trying desperately hard - to find something he can prepare that will please both man and dragon, and he thinks he may finally have found something. Maybe. But though there are no few dragons willing to taste-test for him (including one overly-enthusiastic youth who seems determined to try every kind of cuisine in the world), they have no frame of reference. Guerrique might.

And perhaps, because he hasn’t been hovering or otherwise bothering his brother, maybe Guerrique will tolerate his company for a time.

“Aaaaaah. Sounds like good memories behind it, then?” He seemed nice enough so far. “I hope I get a chance t’ taste your stuff later. I’m a decent enough culinarian, but there’s a good reason I don’ cook ‘less we’re really pressed.” Khaida gave him a friendly grin. “You’ll still be seein’ a lot of my face, though, since I serve.”

Khaida watched him as he spoke, rather glad for her keen hearing. Though it likely pained him to do so, he didn’t include the ‘Ser’, so that was…a promising sign.

“Good t’ meet you, Janlenoux. And no, you aren’t. Jus’ wanted to see the newcomer. This place is somethin’ of a second home, so…I like knowing the faces in it.” She tilted her head to one side. “Been a fan of cookin’ for a while?”

“I have a large family,” Janlenoux admitted, grateful that she asked about the cooking instead of the crutch. That was... something to lean on, at least. And he did love to cook, so it was easy to talk about. “It takes more than one culinarian to feed everyone, and it simply grew from there.” But a culinarian’s pay wouldn’t have fed his family as well as a knighthood of his own, with Father gone, and - well. He had done what he could, and it worked. For a while.

That he could do so no longer was merely a fact, and one he’d best get used to sooner rather than later. 

@janlenoux

The miqo’te raised a brow at the blue-haired man that had been hired while she was out of the city. He had the look of a former knight about him, but he obviously wasn’t one anymore. “An’ what’s your name?” Former knight be damned, the Forgotten Knight was one of the few places she wasn’t looked down on, and she was protective of it! “I’m Khaida de Flourine, and I’ve been workin’ here a few years now.”

He was thankful for obtaining a job so soon after his forced retirement, and one doing something that he loved no less. And yet.... to be forced into a civilian role so soon after earning his own knighthood burned away at him, leaving the barely nineteen-summers-old elezen more exhausted (and frustrated!) than moons of dreary training ever had. Despite that, it was easy enough to lose himself in the kitchen work he had been hired to do. Cooking was his favorite hobby, and it was lovely to see people enjoying his creations. When he thought about that, he wasn’t thinking about the crutch he had to lean upon lest his mangled leg give way. 

At first, he didn’t register the person speaking to him, his focus entirely on achieving the perfect balance of desperately-needed spices in the soup he was cooking. Only once it was done did he finally take notice, turning awkwardly in place to look - down, very down, at the woman who had spoken.

Oh. This was the miqo’te woman he’d been told of. It was good to have a name to a face, at least. He only wished she had returned at a time when he was in a better mood, less pained by his injury and retirement both. 

He’s half to his feet when the door opens, and the girl comes in. After that the first person he sees is Guerrique, who waves – and gods, is he glad to see that asshole looks…sober? Well, sober’s better than drunk, and he doesn’t seem miserable, so hey, it looks like dying did something good. He’s moving out of the way of the door pretty fast, though, which is weird. Why is–

He’s tackled to the floor, then, and there’s a heap of dark limbs and pale hair and he doesn’t even need to see who it is – he can feel it in his bones and the dragon’s blood in his veins, in the song purring out of the other man and the one escaping him.

“Paulecrain!” He manages, his voice breaking with relief and pure joy, the happiest he’s been since he came back to life changed like this. “Brother!”

He’s laughing, barely even caring that his friend isn’t even talking, more overexcited pup than Elezen – he’s too happy to care. Gods above and seven hells below, it’s Paule. His best friend, the brother more important to him than any of the other Ward members. The only man he considers true family besides Idrault. He’s alright. He’s here.

There’s precious little time to react before both of their brothers are inside, and he can see the heap of limbs on the floor that’s Grinnaux-and-Paulecrain, and the white-haired form that is Guerrique. He’s tankful to see them both, and glad they’re both alive - glad to see them, to know they’re well and... more or less whole.

But the smile he turns on Guerrique is a little tremulous, and he’s quick to proffer the pastry fish in lieu of anything else. If he can focus on feeding people, on doing what he can to help everyone around him, then maybe he can ignore the stabbing pain in his heart that has grown anew at Adelphel’s continued absence.

The girl – Aimielle, right, he needs to remember that – had said she knew about other Ward members, knew about some of their brothers. That there were more alive, and she’d sneak them in. Whether to stay, or whether to get him and Jan out, he didn’t know. But either way, it’s….there’s a feeling that surprises him in its intensity. Relief, pain, gratitude…

He’d never expected it. He’d never liked some of the other Ward members. Paule, yes. Jan and Adel, sure. Guerrique, maybe, and Zephirin had his grudging respect. But the others? Not so much. Now, though? Now he thinks he’d cry if the girl brought him Charibert or Vellguine.

He hears the key in the lock and stands, motioning to Janlenoux. “She’s here,” he says. He knows Jan’s awake; both of them hadn’t been able to sleep since they knew the others were coming.

Jalenoux doesn’t want to hope - no, that is an improper way to word it. He wants to hope, but he doesn’t dare to do so. If the brothers of the Ward Aimielle is bringing do not include Adelphel among their number, he doesn’t want to shatter.

...Though honestly, he suspects that he might regardless, and hopes Grinnaux and whoever will arrive won’t hold it against him. He loves all of his brothers, certainly, moreso with the strange effects of their restoration, but Adelphel... Adelphel is more than that, and he wants him back, and back now. He’d been passing the time until this point by cooking, and their little room is filled with the smells of cooling pastry fish. Whoever their guests are, they’ll at least be eating well. He’s going to make certain of that.

“Oh,” she says softly, looking disappointed, but then she starts. “Oh, no! It’s– it’s not a problem! I don’t mind! I-I used to make food for my sister’s unit of the Temple Knights sometime, s-so it’s not a big deal, I mean– I know what you did, but that’s–” Still up for debate on how good or bad it was. “It’s fine, Ser Janlenoux, it doesn’t bother me. Someone has to, right? I mean it must be lonely here…and if no one talks to you, that’s even worse!”

She hesitates and then approaches so she can read the words on the paper better, tucking her book under her arm. “I…” She begins, but loses her train of thought. “You can’t talk? Did something happen, are you hurt?” She worries at him. “Is there anything I can do? I’m studying healing magic.” She pauses again and then sighs, smiling a little sadly. “I don’t mind,” she repeats. “I…I think they picked me because of, um…I know Guer– Ser Guerrique, I mean. He was engaged to my sister. So…so I really don’t mind. You were his friends, so…”

The former-knight winces, tail lashing behind him more rapidly as he shrugs and writes down another answer. “Whatever gave me the tail took my voice.” It’s not strictly the truth, but it might as well be - being able to speak and understand the dravanian tongue is difficult enough to swallow on its own; lacking the ability to make himself understood by anyone? That’s simply too much to explain. He takes in her next words, then blinks in surprise, hastily scribbling down his next answer as a half-smile breaks over his features.

He stiffens when Janlenoux starts to cry – fuck, oh fuck, he’s not good with tears to begin with and this is just awkward on so many levels – but something makes him get up and move to sit next to the blue-haired man, pulling him into his arms in a hug. 

It’s awkward and strange, because Grinnaux has never been one for physical affection (he’s more the ‘fond insults, shoulder punches, and noogies’ kind of guy) but…this feels different. Instinctual. Is it the dragon in them?

He decides to just…fuck it, then, and let whatever it is take over. He can’t do anything for him, he’s not Adelphel, so if the dragon whatever can help, then as much as he hates it, he’ll let it try. That instinct is telling him to, at least, because kin and sorrow and the noises he’s making beg him to comfort.

He puts a hand on Janlenoux’s hair and though he doesn’t make any noise a mortal could hear, he speaks anyway. Or rather, sings. It’s a dragon’s comfort to a dragon’s sorrow, something only they can hear, a heartwrenching noise that’s also somehow soothing – and Grinnaux, the still-mortal part of him somewhere, feels an odd sort of bewildering guilt. Is this the sound the dragons made when Ishgardians killed one? It makes him kind of sick, but he can’t stop now that he started. (He doesn’t realize that he’s started crying, too.)

The eerie silent-not silent song continues to escape Janlenoux, the song that is not a song blending in a strange harmony with Grinnaux’s, and he leans into the comfort, no matter how odd it is to be accepting it from Grinnaux of all people. (Never mind how much more strange it is that Grinnaux is the one offering comfort in the first place!)

She blinks, startled – oh, she recognizes him! Ser Janlenoux, that’s right. A lot of the girls were in love with him and his partner, the cute young blond. “Hi,” she says again nervously, fumbling with her book. “I, um, I’m Aimielle de Laiticard, um– I don’t really know why they brought me here to visit, um. They told me that you were here and all, but, um…didn’t tell me why I was here. Okay, so they did, a little. I think I’m, um…going to be your, uh–” Oh, what’s the word she wants? “I’m going to visit and tell you stuff about what’s going on outside and things like that. Because, um, I don’t think the guards want to do that, they’re just guards.”

So she’s the…caretaker, for a lack of better words and oh my gosh is that a tail. He has a tail. A scaly tale. And she can sort of see the other man in the room – de Dzemael, he’s recognizable – has black scales on his visible shoulder. Wow. She goes red and sputters a little more. “Is– is this everyone?” She asks. “There’s…they haven’t found others yet?” Oh… “Do you think the others are back too?” Pause. “Oh, I’m talking too much, I’m so sorry.” 

He doesn’t scare her, really, but she’s still nervous.

Janlenoux sighs, expression calm - but the twitching tail behind him gives away his anxiety at this conversation. Biting his lip, he gently sets Peanut on his own cot, and grabs pen and quill so that he might more easily converse with the visitor.