ashes to ashes

You say that as though you know exactly what sort of person I am.

He smiles at that, and it’s not an unkind sight to behold, but perhaps neither is it a kind one. The irony is not lost on him: he knows exactly what sort of person she is. He may not know Sainte Cadieux, but he knows everything about her worth knowing. He knows she was beloved to Gaspard, which makes her at least half-decent, at least half-good. He knows, too, that she was a pupil of Gaspard’s, which makes her at least half-dangerous, half-vicious. He knows that she was taught everything she knows by an Underworlder, and that she has all the makings of an Underworld virtuoso, gifted in all the ways that Medraut never was as a boy. He begrudges her that, he supposes, but he also feels a strange sort of kinship with her, like the threads of their lives have somehow woven together, inextricable, knotted.

“You know nothing of me, then,” he muses, head canted, expression schooled to reflect naught but a blank state of neutrality. That answers a question he didn’t know how to ask: Gaspard never spoke of Medraut to Sainte. He knows everything about her, and she knows nothing about him. The age-old wound of his family’s rejection opens and seeps, but he pays no it no heed; he’s grown too accustomed to his kin’s indifference to be moved to action by it anymore. He’s sure his uncle had his reasons for not telling Sainte a thing about him—even if he can’t presently make sense of such a thing.

“Lost?” he echoes, incredulous, voice caught halfway between a scoff and laugh. “I reckon I could find my way around this haunt blindfolded, with both hands tied behind my back. On one foot, for good measure.” He waves a hand at the Mane’s arena, eyes boring into hers with the kind of intensity that most find disconcerting. “Half the blood that stains these floors was spilt by me, and the other half was spilt from me. Lost, girl, I am not.” He watches her, considers her; weighs the rewards of revealing his hand against the risks of it. “My name is Medraut,” he says slowly, enunciating each letter. A pause. A beat. Another. “Galant.” He lets the weight of his surname settle beneath her skin, lets her connect the dots. 

Medraut Galant, son of Jeanne Galant. 

Jeanne Galant, née Lenoir, sister of Gaspard Lenoir. 

...

The way he says it, it’s as though she should know what his name means. That she should recognize it. She doesn’t. To Sainte, Gaspard was like her, an orphan - he never talked about any family he had, at least. 

She racks her brain, however, for any mentions of the name. How should she know him? Has she killed someone close to him, someone in his family? It makes her uncomfortable to think, it always makes her uncomfortable to think about things like this. That she has taken away a person who is loved. But isn’t everyone loved? There’s no way to prevent the hurt of death. 

She doesn’t let it show, or tries not to at least. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” She says, doing her best to appear and sound sympathetic. “I’m not sure I recall that name. If I’ve -” She’s not sure how to phrase it. “I’m sorry, if I’ve done something - If there’s something I should be sorry for, I am. Deeply.”

—        

           He studies the mercenary curiously, in search of what specifically he said to have them so agitated; it was information that served no present purpose, but could potentially become useful at a later date. “What about my assumptions is of interest?” he cannot help but ask, overcome by rare, though genuine enthusiasm. “Though, I was never assuming you picked your company based on allegiance. I inquired about the frequency of our meetings despite our potentially conflicting allegiances. It is enough for nobles in much higher standing than you to steer clear of me, and the reason I’ve found your reoccurring presence quite strange.”  Basing one’s associations based on allegiance to the Crown when employed by the Crown seemed the most natural route of all, especially when even the irrevocable scent of treason could be enough to deprive one of their head. “Don’t tell me you thought others avoided me because I’m insufferable,” he blurts half jokingly between chuckles. “That surely plays a large role, but it was by far, never the root of it.” 

...

The truth, of course, was that they had thought that was the reason, or at least, the main, most important reason; but Etienne Marais is also more than just annoying. He’s unnerving as well. If it weren’t for the wine, if it weren’t for the boredom this city has hammered into her bones, she wouldn’t be here. But here she is. 

She’s not good at small talk. He has no interest in it. But moving on from that means talking about real things, things she actually thinks, anything other than small talk feels, frankly, dangerous. 

She takes a sip of wine. Just a small one. 

it’s this a bitter pill to swallow, alongside the chalk and dryness of the rest of the city, somehow staler and worse off than the dust and choking air of the desert. out there, one could pretend that certain things didn’t exist, certain relationships weren’t cut off, certain hurts were never established, certain funerals never happened.

those rose coloured days look like now, filtered through the bottom of a glass, amber and amonia. rose coloured, blood washed thin but never snow clean, scars tucked away and ignored with familiarity.

only his second time back at the mane, welcomes and nods already exchanged with most, but not all, never all. he sees her now, through that lens, amber and rose, wipes his lip as she sits down, next to him. vaska straightens the scarf-mask loose around their neck, before leaving it, and their face, bare, lets the world see the crook to their smile at her opening.

‘ that’s about as good as it’s going to get, to be fair. you’re looking better than i feel, in any case, though that’s not a hard competition. ‘ their head tilts, gaze settling before sliding off sainte and back onto their cup with a sigh. the base of the glass is near empty, foam stuck in half-circles down the sides, dark at the base, a faint grit shining through where it rests on the table. but their gaze cannot help but look back up, drawn back, scanning the younger merc for any wounds, heart clenching at each change they can catalogue. ‘ how have you been, sainte? the city treating you well? ‘

...

It’s strange, the way Vaska seems to be acting as though they are old friends, or at least, like nothing wrong ever happened, or like… Sainte doesn’t know exactly the sort of person he is, thinks she knows at least. Like things are alright. Nothing is alright. They both know it. 

At the same time, though, didn’t she start this? She was the one to say the first word, if only because she knew dancing around it would only make this conversation feel worse, when the time came. If she waited too long, she might not be able to stop herself from saying all the things she feels and thinks, deep down. It would give buried anger time to resurface, and she refuses to allow that. 

“Everything is the same.” She says, although it’s a lie, one that almost stings as it falls from her lips. Nothing is the same. The city has not been treating her poorly, but it hasn’t been treating her well. She wishes, more than anything, that she was free of it. She doesn’t tell Vaska this. “So you can save your questions.” Her mouth pressed into a line, she looks down at her cup. “The things that happened, happened,” She continues, almost carefully. “And it won’t do you any good to pretend otherwise.”

victoire would have imagined her a specter from a long-forgotten story ( perhaps even the infamous monster of the maze, intent to lull him with a gift ), if he had not recognized her. even in his recognition, she looked the part: smile, mask, flower. what a wonderful song she would make. what a wonderful killer too, if she had the mind for it. 

he reached his hand out, almost without thought, almost without care, and plucked the flower from her. it was a pretty thing, sturdier than one might imagine from the gardens. he tucked it behind his ear, letting it settle against his mask. 

some captain of the guards, hm? 

“you wonderful soul — i would love to exist within the workspace you’ve established in your brilliant mind. evenings off… can you imagine?” did she get evenings off? was that something he could ask the empress for? “i just got off duty, so i suppose, in a manner of speaking, it’s habit more than hobby that’s brought me here.” 

he wished he had some sort of token in return, something that stated, hello, i am going this way, will you walk with me a moment, i enjoyed your flower immensely. perhaps that was too much to ask from a token.

“do you often give flowers to strangers, or might i consider it my lucky day?”

…

Sainte can’t help but laugh now - how different her life is from someone like him, someone with, at least in a way, a more normal job. Perhaps a more normal life. It’s something she truly doesn’t want to even consider. Her career may seem unsavory to some, to be sure, but at least she has evenings off. Usually, that is. 

"It seems horribly unfair,” She says, her tone thoughtful. “That a free evening is such a novelty. Although, I suppose you do have one, now, and yet you’re still squandering it with work? They must have trained you quite well.” She is being trained herself, though, isn’t she? Is she really one to talk, when deep down she feels that her own job has tied her to the palace, to this city, like the Empresses guard dog? 

She shakes the thought from her head, focusing on other things - the flower. “Not always strangers, no. But I rarely keep them for myself. What’s the point in their beauty if you don’t share it with others?” 

Patrice stares at her, wondering what it is she could possibly see in him. Maybe she’s just that determined to convert him to believing in whatever hold this false prophet has on her. He cannot imagine a world in which his hope relies upon the ancient image of the first ruler of this land he despises. “I wouldn’t call it anything.” To name whatever this pesky relationship is would be to acknowledge it, and while he cannot understand Sainte, he struggles to find it in him to wish to. There are some mysteries he wishes to uncover while he is here: Gisele’s descent into wretchedness, for one. But Sainte does not present a mystery at all, or if she has, it is one he’s already solved. His conclusion? There are no gods on the sea. Odeline has never helped him once, and if she is to look over this city as Sainte so claims, then she had done nothing but curse Patrice until he could break her hold himself.

“As a man who has not taken ‘no’ for an answer in the past, it is saying something when I tell you that you certainly lack listening skills.” Sometimes, such a quality is respectable. Patrice, selfishly, saw it as a good thing in himself, for it lead him away from this place. Patrice, hypocritically, could not see the positives in Sainte possessing the same gift. “I’ve told you, it’s not worth my time.”

To prove it, Patrice begins to busy himself with the ropes strewn about the deck, coiling one around his hand and bicep. “I did for the first week,” Patrice admitted, unable to resist when someone asks him about the sea, “but when you’re on the sea as often and as long as I have been, you grow used to it.” Now, sometimes land makes him uneasy, or perhaps it is Val Faim that just does that to him.

...

Sainte watches him busy himself, very pleased with herself that he doesn’t seem to be ignoring her. If she really wasn’t worth his time, she considers, he wouldn’t be making conversation. So, while perhaps they aren’t friends, it is at least in her mind, only a matter of yet. 

“Hm.” She says, almost as if she were speaking to herself, rather than him. “So there was a before - what did you do then?” Perhaps it’s the wrong question, perhaps she ought to stick to what has already worked (asking about his boat), but curiosity has gotten the better of her. For he seems adamant about keeping his sea legs, spending all this time on a boat, so she can’t help but wonder, what was he like before all this? “How long have you had it, anyway? The boat, I mean.” 

Hector’s been refused his demand, and at first, he has to focus his eyes to see past the mask his offender wears. They’re small, almost as tall as he is sitting, with a voice about as intimidating to him as the hiss of a cat. But there’s bravery in refusing a man’s drunken request, especially one who’d beaten lesser men to the ground only minutes ago, Hector sees that, and he sees someone he thinks he knows.

He rises with the screech of his chair against the ground and positions himself to tower over the other, the shadows in the dim pub doing their part to feature the rancor in his face. Hector doesn’t speak for a long pause, only imposes, but breaks soon enough with a grin. He’s pleased she’s a familiar face, albeit masked.

“Little dragon!” he calls and announces her in earnest, and a broad hand scoops Sainte into his side by her shoulder with mighty strength. “Drink with me!” He looks to the barkeep who nods to him as they understand. A moment later, two more tankards are brought to Hector and his companion, the head of warm beer spilling over his fingers as he snatches his.

“What brings you to these parts?” he takes a gulp that drains half his cup. 

“Tell me,” Hector ducks down, and speaks in a tone that’s softened and playfully secretive. “Is it to drink your worries away, or to fight?”

–

..

It becomes evident, almost immediately, who has shoved the cup to her. Hector Geraud towers over her, yet she’s not afraid of him. Size doesn’t immediately mean someone will best her in a fight, and anyway, she has no real worry that he will want to fight her. She could always be wrong, of course, but she doubts it.

It doesn’t work, taking his cup, and soon she is practically swept up, a tankard of beer appearing in front of her, almost magically. There’s no point in stopping him, she thinks, especially if she doesn’t want a fight, so she resigns herself to the mug in front of her, slipping her mask off to take a drink. She’s barely started hers, and yet when she glances at her  companion, he’s almost finished. “Does it have to be one or the other?” She asks, brows raised. “Perhaps I don’t have worries.” She adds, though it’s not true - everyone has something to worry about. “And I don’t fight without a good reason.”

He recognizes her, which he finds to be altogether disconcerting, for he’s never met Sainte Cadieux before today. But he recognizes her all the same, for while he might not be known to her, she has been known to him for quite some time by proxy of his uncle’s stories. He recalls Gaspard’s tales of a trying young girl full of grit and scrap, a near-perfect match to the outline of Medraut’s own sharp-cut mettle. His uncle, an odd duck among birds of prey, too prone to piety and compassion, always took to Medraut in a way his mother—Gaspard’s sister—never did, and much of his youth was spent meeting with Gaspard in confidence, listening to him weave together stories threaded with pearls of wisdom. Even after Medraut’s exile, Gaspard never gave him his back, and they continued to convene in the shadows of Hightown, where Gaspard would still spin stories from straw for Medraut, and where Medraut would listen keenly, content. 

After Gaspard’s undue passing, the stories stopped, but Medraut remembers each and all of them, and he remembers Sainte Cadieux, Gaspard’s greatest and most beloved pupil. Gaspard spared no detail of her, and Medraut’s not sure if it’s her eyes that tip him off, or her countenance, or the color of her hair, or the way she stands (feet braced apart, at the ready—an uncanny imitation of Gaspard’s stance)—but he recognizes her, and he’s of two minds about it: one-half awe, one-half apprehension. 

Perhaps I can be of some assistance, she says, and he considers that, head canted, eyes slitted. “Perhaps you can,” he concedes, waving a hand at the chair opposite him—an invitation to have a seat, please. He plainly sizes her up, takes in every detail of her person, and he makes no effort to be discrete about it. He wants to see if she’ll balk, squirm, shy away; he wants to see if Gaspard was wrong about her, or if the pair of them really are made of the same stuff. “Pray tell, how do you imagine someone like you might help someone like me?” He affects his voice with indifference, and he does his level best to school his expression into one of Roth-like neutrality. “What kind of assistance should you have to offer a disagreeable Chevalier with an disagreeable temperament, Cadieux?” he asks, showing her his hand. I know your name, he says in the quiet spaces between his words. I know you.

...

Her name. She’s never met him, but perhaps he has met her. Perhaps she is even more eager to help, to hear whatever troubles the strange man, now that he has said her name. There are a dozen reasons he could know her - she has a reputation, and she’s aware of it. But usually, people don’t say her name. People look past her unless they need to, even when she’s speaking to them. This man, though, he seems to have the intention of unsettling her. And she refuses to give in to it.

Instead, she sits, places her hands on the table, gives him a smile. “You say that as though you know exactly what sort of person I am,” She says, thinking to herself that it is entirely possible he does know, or at least knows the sort of person she has presented herself to be. The person she’s built herself to be. “Yet I’m afraid I don’t even know your name, I’m terribly sorry.” After a moment, though, she shakes her head. “No matter. What’s more important, of course, is what happens to be troubling you. I can’t say I’ve seen you here before.” There are plenty of people, in and out of the Mane who she hasn’t seen, who she will never see again. But this man, he’s said he’s a Chevalier. It means something different, she’s sure of it. That he’s not just the usual traveler, passing through. “Are you lost?” It could mean a dozen different things, of course, there are so many ways to be lost - He can choose to interpret it however he sees fit, and maybe, that will tell her more than even his name.

when: twenty-second of maccius. where: the empressian gardens.  who: open.

it was simple really: victoire did not have time to go for a drink, to parade around the lion’s mane, to rest — he did not have time for such a thing, but the night was quieting. his shift had ended. there was breath in his lungs, and the thick smell of flowers was settling on his skin with an ease he could almost appreciate. ( almost. he so did love to complain about the flowers on occasion. ) maybe he would have time tonight. 

victoire was walking away from the summer palace, but he could not help it; his eyes roamed over the bushes, seeking danger. expecting it. and as if not to disappoint him, he heard the sudden footfalls of another. 

“i’ll bet half my pay it’s another assassin,” he muttered to himself. “alright,” he called with a flourish of his hand. please don’t be heading to the summer palace. “step forward, if you please. let’s get this over with, yes?” 

...

The truth of it, really, was that Sainte didn’t know where she was going, really. She was just going somewhere, too awake to sleep, too restless to sit over a pint in the Mane, so with her sword and her cloak, she goes wandering. Perhaps to someone else, this would seem like a dangerous proposition, with whatever lurks in the city's shadows. Sainte is not afraid, not really, she’s far past cowering away from the shadows in her life. 

The gardens are even more beautiful at night, and she’s let her guard down, just a little, reaching up to pluck a flower from a bush when she hears the voice. 

She knows him in passing - As she does many people under the employ of the Empress. 

Stepping out of the shadow, she smiles beneath her mask, holding out the flower, as a token of sorts. “Surely the Empress doesn’t keep you working this late at night, de Chevin. Or is this just a hobby of yours?”

-

she found me. do you understand?

i do, savatier thinks, i think i do. it’s these moments of tremendous irony that he wishes he can give up his secret, throw away his cover as if it’s a jester’s mask and reveal himself with great flourish. but no one knows of savatier, the prophet odeline’s lover, odeline’s most devout follower; they know only of where her magic has touched, and if it can touch them now. though he’s never minded being forgotten, he only resents it when he wishes to outstretch his hand, and breach a divide. you would not believe how she changed me. 

“perhaps i do. sometimes things might have a tendency to appear before us when we need them most.” he swallows a wince. if only she would make herself known to him, as her droves of followers believe she does to them. it’s how he knows she’s no lingering spirit living as a goddess; if she was, he would know. somehow. he would not have given up searching for her image in mirrors, pond reflections, in her own damn ‘tomb’, if she had made herself known to him at all in all the years since he’s been displaced. “and so i’ve read in my accounts. while the prophet herself is a fascinating figure in our history, i cannot say my prayers have been answered in a way that would illicit unconditional belief.” and, as a reconciliation, he offers, “perhaps when i need her most. perhaps she will find me, as she had you.”

...

“Oh.” Sainte says, ever so softly, reaching out to touch his arm gently. It makes her sad, to see this, breaks her heart. What she has, she wishes for everyone - everyone deserves to know their divine path, though she cannot fault the prophet for not revealing herself, for not speaking to everyone as she does to Sainte. It is not her place to question Odeline’s decisions, no matter how devout she is, she will never know everything. The curse of humanity, she supposes, or perhaps simply the curse of being alive.

“I’m very sorry.” She adds, trying not to frown, not to seem too sad. “I’m sure she is with you, though. Even if it doesn’t seem like it. Even when you feel all alone. She’s with all of us.” Even with me, she thinks, but she doesn’t say it - even with me, me and my bloody sword, me and death, me and my honor, whatever that really means anymore. “I could pray for you, I.. I will pray for you.” There are so many people in her prayers, people who have been gone so long she’s forgotten their faces, even, but she thinks of every night , and this man, this sad man who seems to think that Odeline is not there for him.. He seems to need it more than so many do. 

date: the fourteenth of maccius location: the lion’s mane open to: all

Impatience, thy name is Medraut Galant.

Espionage is so mundane, all work and no play, and Medraut hasn’t the faintest idea why Roth would send him to gather intel and sniff out Amelie’s whereabouts when the veteran Chevalier’s well of patience runs thrice deeper than his own. If he thinks too long on it, he’ll no doubt connect the dots of Roth’s design, and will see with clarity the blueprints of his intentions: mercy culminated in a sly attempt to keep Medraut occupied while also keeping him far, far away from the eye of the storm that nearly swallowed him whole all those years ago. For this reason, he doesn’t think too long on it.

Cloaks and daggers have never become him, and though he sits at a lone table in a dark corner of the Mane, and though shadows limn his person, and though he’s dressed in shades of black and gray, there’s a kind of restlessness that rolls from him in waves, one that conspicuously marks him as unbelonging to this place, these people, this city. He’s ill at ease, too unfocused to convincingly break bread with the Mane’s patrons and ply their tongues loose. With a quiet huff of frustration, he surveys the room for what must be the thousandth time, searching for clues hidden in plain sight. He knows he’ll find none, not here, not anywhere in Val Faim. In the marrow of his bones pulses a truth that he’s loath to swallow: there’s only one place in Celestine where secrets grow like weeds, and his stomach turns at the thought of returning to his motherland. 

Impatiently, he drums his fingers against the tabletop, eyes tracking the sea of faces before him, trying in vain to find the devil in the details. His gaze drifts to the right and snags on the two bruisers circling each other in the Mane’s makeshift ring, knuckles bloody, teeth bared. Longing colors Medraut’s eyes a brighter shade of blue, and without meaning to, he leans closer to the ring. An itch that he can’t scratch pulls the skin of his arms and hands taut, and he clenches his fists to ward off the restlessness of them, the draw to violence, the hunger for it. 

“Amelie!” he hears a girl shout, and his head snaps to the left, eyes scanning the crowd. The Amelie in question embraces her summoner, and when she turns to greet her other companions, Medraut can see that she bears no resemblance to his Amelie, not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s a dead end, as he knew it would be: another fruitless lead. This is useless, he thinks. There’s nothing to be found here. Only in the Underworld will he find fruit ripe for harvest. 

He teeters on the tightrope of his emotions, legs wobbling, one misstep away from falling right into the waiting maw of his anger. Only in the Underworld. Only in the Underworld. Only in the Underworld. Prone to intense emotion, and cursed to always be moved by it, his frustration reaches its boiling point, and he finds himself caught too deep in the quicksand of his anger to tread it. With an angry swipe of his arm, he swears colorfully and hurls his tankard of ale at the wall to his left. The wood of the tankard splinters, clattering to the floor in pieces, and a spray of ale rains on the table adjacent to the wall. The patrons nearest to him huff and puff in equal parts surprise and outrage, and he earns some sidelong glances from others across the room, but none are brave enough (or stupid enough) to approach Calandre’s wardog, who everyone knows is keen to bite any hand, even those that try to feed him. Only one person, it seems, has the gall to step forward: a looming figure that he can sense more than see, for his eyes remain shut tight, the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he tries to recollect the reins of his temper. “If it’s the mess that troubles you,” he bites out, voice scathing, “thank Odeline it’s only spilt ale, and not spilt blood.” And not your spilt blood, he doesn’t say.

…

Sometimes, Sainte thinks herself a protector of sorts, of what, she isn’t entirely sure. There are so many angry people in the city, though, wandering restlessly like stray cats. Or perhaps they have somewhere to be, perhaps she only sees it as wandering, and they see it with more purpose than that. Either way, she’s happy to be a guiding hand. Even when one isn’t being asked for, even if the guiding is unwanted. It’s almost a flaw. More than almost to others, but to her, not quite. 

The man who shoves his cup to the ground seems in need of something, although Sainte is doubtful that it’s her help. Still, she can try, can’t she? Or perhaps guide him to the door, if he’s prone to cause more trouble. She approaches with caution, hyper aware of every weapon on her body. Again, it’s as though she’s approaching a stray cat, though he seems larger, more fearsome. She’s not afraid, though, there’s little Sainte Cadieux is afraid of. Or at least, the things she fears are long dead by now. 

“They clean up rather the same, in my experience.” She replies, folding her arms across her chest. “And anyway, I won’t be the one doing the cleaning, so the trouble doesn’t really lie with me.” She does feel a bit bad, for whoever will have to pick up the pieces. Though, the stranger is right. Blood would be worse. She doesn’t say it out loud, though. “But something does seem to be troubling you. Perhaps I can be some kind of assistance?” 

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 20th of Maccias 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: The Lion’s Mane 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇: Open

Dismissed for the evening, Hector finds himself on the steps outside the palace and in the company of small group of unarmored chevaliers he shares a brief, however fond, history with. He’d trained with these men for a brief stint, slept in their barracks, crawled through mud, hunted and rode with them. He’d also rang their heads like bells in spars with them, and they’d tried to ring his too. Now, they’re dragging him to the Lion’s Mane in the familiar way old friends do and forcing a thick bottomless cup into his hands. It’s been years since he’s seen the few of them, years since they’d heard his stories of the stories of dragons that burrowed and flew and breathed fire, and how Hector slew them all. He’s goaded into entertaining his stories and humoring his brothers, and before long, the man who drinks least and talks less so at banquets and galas, has now put a dent in the barkeep’s barrels and attracted a crowd.

Hector sings his stories to the songs of praise and he’s heralded after each one. Dragon’s bane, beast-man, dragon knight, stone-man, he collects his fair share of titles from jeers and cheers that end with raised mugs punctuated by the hollow slams of them on tabletops. It’s after the fifth story Hector’s finds that he’s allowed himself to become drunk, or has at the very least guzzled enough of the Mane’s finest to step into the fighting ring for a demonstration of a dragon slayer’s strength…

When it’s done, his count’s up to seven men flattened. He’s lost his jacket and the strings of his sweat wrinkled shirt hang untied and open, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The ridge leading down his chiseled chest is flushed and heaving, the chorded musculature of forearms littered with scars of curious shapes and glorified origins. He’s led back to the tables smothered by a pack of men he’s inspired who praise him with shouts in his ears, pats to his back and elbows to his ribs. Hector’s more drunk on their attention than he is on ale at this point, he’s got to admit, and he can’t for the life of him remember why that’s a bad thing.

With his head in a swirl and his body in the highs of adrenaline he throws himself onto his chair, his knuckles reddened when he wraps his hand back around his cup only to find it empty. 

“Another!” Hector shouts to command, shoving his cup against someone, anyone, within his arm’s reach as he plucks the mug from his nearest comrade’s lips to finish off himself. It’s only after he wipes the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand that he turns to look to who he’s bestowed the honor of being his cupbearer. 

...

Sainte has grown accustomed to the rowdiness the Mane offers. She’s never found herself drawn into it herself, even when she is drunk, she’s not inclined to fight, shout, all manner of things, but it’s become a sort of background noise. And if she needs to, as she does now, she can shove well enough to make her way to the bar through a crowd. It’s also the sort of situation where being small can come in handy, as she weaves her way through the rowdy group of men. It’s then, when a cup is shoved at her, a demand is made for another. She stands there, almost blank faced, until the man turns to look at her. 

“I think,” She says, her tone as dead panned as her expression. “That perhaps you’ve had enough.” She doesn’t work here, it’s not her place to tell people how much they should drink really, but she feels as though the responsibility has been given to her, along with the cup. “Though I’d be happy to return this to the bar for you.” She says, holding up the cup. 

who : @vaskaofcalais​

Seeing Vaska again, Sainte thinks, is like seeing a ghost - she’s not sure how much she even believes in ghosts, really, but there they are, plain as day, a shred of her past resurfaced in the city. Not the most pleasant one, either, though there are pleasant memories. Mostly, though, those are overshadowed by unpleasant ones, by the way that Gaspard spoke of Vaska until he died, telling Sainte that they are the exact sort of mercenary you should not become. Telling her to have morals, to keep her dignity. Her honor. 

And so she has. And she has filed Vaska away in a compartment of her mind that she chooses not to touch most of the time. She remembers seeing him at the funeral, but even that she’s shoved to the back. Now, in the Lion’s Mane, the place where she feels at least a little safe, it’s a strange jolt. She knew, of course, that they were here. Had seen them with the artist. But still, it puts her on edge. 

She approaches him anyway, though. Sits down at the barstool beside them, orders a drink, doesn’t even look. She’s unmasked, with just her cloak, with the large hood. The Mane has, surprisingly, become somewhere where she feels almost safe. Comfortable. Now though, she wishes more than ever that she had her mask. “You’re looking..” She pauses, but the right word doesn’t come to her. “Well.”

“Or, perhaps it is because I did not wish for company at this moment,” Patrice answers pointedly. He’d sent them away while he gathered records, not needing the interruptions of crew with questions they could easily answer themselves. Patrice was a man of independence, who often did not need others. But even he could admit a ship this big was too demanding of one man, and his crew made the job easier. He gave them work and a home and pay, and they repaid him in loyalty. Sometimes company. But today, he wanted none of it, simply the sound of his own thoughts and the waves crashing against the hull of his ship. If he’d closed his eyes in the confines of his quarters and pretended hard enough, he could imagine he were back out at sea. Sainte was among the many things that shattered this illusion.

“Is that what you’re calling this?” He asks judgmentally. Friendship, Patrice had assumed, was reserved for two people who regarded each other highly. It was a reciprocal relationship, and he had yet to feel the same for Sainte, rejecting their preaching, which, were he honest, was more like pestering. There were no deities at sea. Only the tide and one’s grit to conquer it. Men who prayed upon their boats for a higher power to rescue them were men who had already surrendered to the depths.

Patrice shakes his head. “No, I’m saying if I considered you a threat, you wouldn’t be standing here.” They are quite resilient, he admits to himself, but that is all they will get out of him. Nothing more. “Trying is not worth my time.”

...

Folding her arms across her chest, Sainte gives a look of faux disappointment. “Well,” She says. “What would you call it?” He’d probably call her a nuisance, but she asks anyway. They will be friends, eventually, if she has anything to say about it. Maybe Patrice just doesn’t have that figured out yet. 

“Alright.” She keeps her feet planted firmly on the deck. “I will take that as ‘yes, Sainte, your company is very welcome’. Unless, of course, you want to try and get rid of me.”  If she’s being honest, she’s not entirely sure how much of a fight she would actually put up, if he was really trying. But for now, she wants to see if he will try at all. 

She looks around the boat, and then back at him. “So you live here? You don’t get seasick? Not even a little?”

@saintecadieux

Where he sat, the stillness was visceral. Lining the air with a tangible weight as it glided through his nose; coating his tongue with an unnamable taste alongside the sting of sea salt; draping his shoulders in the hunch of its ungraspable ease. It was almost ritualistic in nature, the manner in which the tranquility of this hidden haven always inched him into its grasp; shard by shard and sense by sense, with elusive patience and otherworldly care.

Such was a wonderment that was ever-recurring in his visits to the location, and the realization sent his gaze smoothing over his surroundings in relaxed appraisal. The stretch of sand across his buried feet and far beyond; the rolling waves and the vast expanse of sea from which they arose; the dark, featureless silhouette of the abandoned building that loomed at his back. All were details highlighting a small, secluded beach, banished into the shadow of a long-forgone armory on the outskirts of Val Faim. Amidst his exploration of the countryside upon his initial arrival at the city, Zhenya had gotten lost around the area, and glimpsing the broad shack from afar on his aimless walk, he had sought it out under the assumption that it was inhabited. Yet despite the discovery of its abandonment, he couldn’t find it in himself to leave; not after catching a glimpse of the soothing scenery it concealed.

He had moved on eventually, as he must, yet he never quite left it behind; returning to the location later on and repeating his visits enough times that it soon became his favorite haunt in Val Faim. One that he had grown to share with a stranger who must have stumbled upon it the same way he had – or perhaps had scouted for it deliberately. She had never told him how she had found it, and such was simply one of many things that remained unknown between them; for despite the anonymous amiability they shared, they remained strangers to one another. It had come to be the location’s greatest appeal.

Just as he was beginning to idly wonder if he was due for a lonesome night, they arrived. Surveying them from the corner of his eye, he took note of the bruises and scrapes mottling what was visible of her skin. He looked away as she settled down next to him, merely raising the bottle of liquor he had developed the habit of bringing and depositing it on the wooden box stationed between them in a makeshift table. He glanced at them, then remarked, “First time you’ve arrived looking this haggard.”

...

The stranger isn’t wrong, and she’s well aware of this. She doesn’t feel so bad, not physically, though she isn’t surprised that she looks it. Emotionally, however, it feels as though someone took her brain and shook it up, as if it were a snow globe. And now, as everything settles, it feels all wrong, confusing, strange. Everything happening in Val Faim seems so delicately balanced, like all it would take to come toppling down is one small push. A push that she is praying won’t come, but at the same time, is her prayer enough?

This beach, a place that she shares only with the stranger, who’s name she has never thought to ask, or perhaps that she hasn’t asked on purpose, is one of the few safe havens she has found in the city, outside, of course, the Prophet’s Tomb. Of course, she doesn’t come unarmed, and her guard isn’t let down entirely, but.. Something about it feels different.

She sits, wordlessly picks up the bottle and takes a drink. How much he knows, to what extent he knows, about all that is going on is something she can’t help but wonder, but can’t quite bring herself to ask. 

Cecile feels a twinge of guilt as the mercenary before her tries to steady herself. If her words have expelled the notion of her as a threat, they certainly haven’t softened the intrusion. She averts her eyes as Sainte reaches for her mask, suddenly realizing that this is the first time she’s seen her without it. She looks younger than Cecile had imagined. Perhaps softer, too, if that isn’t her own imagination or simply a trick of the light. Cecile knows Sainte by reputation (quiet, effective, favoured by Calandre) more than any actual interactions. Sainte has simply been one of many masked faces in the halls of the Summer Palace, set to whatever task Calandre has assigned her last. Cecile is likely the same in Sainte’s eyes, another figure in the palace of intentions unknown. 

“Thank you.” she says, glancing back down at the flowers in her arms. “I’ll be sure to pass your compliments to my gardener.” She probably sounds utterly frivolous, paying someone else to water the flowers at a home she barely uses. It seems too late now, to make an exit, despite the awkwardness her presence has caused. She knows the tomb is a public place, that all are free to enter here, but something about Sainte makes her seem connected to the place in a way that Cecile simply isn’t - or maybe that too is projection, for Cecile’s visits are so brief and infrequent. 

She moves deeper into the tomb and closer to Sainte, until she’s next to her at the statues feet. Carefully, she drops to her knees to place the flower’s at the statues feet.  What would a prophet want of such things, that wither away so quickly once cut, Cecile doesn’t know. “I hope she likes them,” she says. Whether or not Odeline really did look down on them, Val Faim could certainly use a few more blessings.

...

Her gardener. Of course. Sainte tries not to think of Cecile as frivolous, tries not to cast judgement, as she knows that it isn’t what Odeline would do, that she must only forgive and love all of humanity, if she wishes to emulate the Prophet. But there are times where she can’t help it, times where she finds herself sinking below the high road she so often tries to take. No matter what, she will always be human, she reminds herself. This is simply the human thing to do, making judgements, even if it isn’t pretty. She gives a small smile, momentarily forgetting her mask. Perhaps your gardener deserves a raise, she thinks, but doesn’t say it.

          “𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐋𝐔𝐗𝐔𝐑𝐘,” 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒 with a contemplative smile, as they began their own preparations for the event. “And a rarity when it comes to noble affairs. That’s why you have to decide how much you’ll be taking the rules into consideration on a case by case basis.” A weapon is not a weapon if undetected by those who would deem it such. It was known to herself and a select few others, and Violaine liked to think of it more as a last ditch effort. An influx of peculiar occurrences kept her more on guard than usual, and that same strangeness was lingering in air of Val Faim.  

          They were sympathetic of Sainte’s predicament— being in a new space, and playing by different rules was no easy feat. “You have to think of it as a requirement of your position, and even the less bearable tasks need completion.” They shift their gaze to Sainte, and the dress that suited them so well. “Besides, it could never hurt your cause to use this dress to your advantage. Using the vanity of the nobility in order to better secure what you want with even less effort.”

...

Sainte isn’t really sure what they could want from the nobles of Val Faim. Of course, Calandre lines their pockets with plenty of dor, but they don’t need it. They aren’t really sure they even want it, it just happens to be part of the transaction. What they want - that’s a question they’ve never asked themselves, not really. What Odeline wants has always been the most important thing to them. Now, they weren’t sure what the answer to either of those questions were.