Honore very nearly pounced on him as he came in the door. “How did the duel go?”
Silvaineaux tugged off his gloves and shook off his coat before handing it into the footman’s waiting hands. “I wasn’t the one dueling, you know.”
“I think I have been your second often enough to know what a second does. But how did it go? You surely watched.”
“Of course I watched. I would be a pretty poor second if I didn’t, wouldn’t I? It went well. Idristan was in fine form. I imagine the fellow will remember it for some time even if it didn’t teach him anything.” Silvaineaux shrugged.
“You don’t think he’ll have learned better manners, then?” Honore asked, moving to pour him a cup of hot chocolate.
Silvaineaux accepted the steaming cup gratefully and helped himself to a sip before he answered. “I think if he were capable of learning that particular lesson he’d have learned it ere now.” He said. “I think the best we can hope is that it will humble him for a while. Mostly, I hope Talan learned something of his own importance. Since that was the real point.”
“Idristan did win, then?”
“Of course.”
@roses-and-grimoires for Idristan, @reddevil-xiv for Talan
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So Marius would have found a couple wrapped gifts left for him in the kitchen one morning. The largest box is wrapped in sparkly green paper and tied with a red bow. Inside are a bunch of large, extremely fancy cupcakes decorated with Starlight trees and snowmen.
There's also a small book that on closer inspection appears to actually be a leather bound notebook; inside are spell diagrams and instructions that have been copied over in meticulously neat handwriting. Most of them have to do with either containing voidsent or are wards to repel them--ones that have been significantly altered from the usual designs. A small note in the front says "To Marius--with the hope that these are more of an intellectual curiosity than something you ever need".
Finally, there is a small teddy bear wearing a knit red hat--one that looks very suspiciously like the one that is now sitting in the corner of his spare bedroom. Almost as if someone has a sense of humor...
“Hmmm, what’s this?” Marius pondered through a yawn as he tied his robe on, pausing by the fancy boxes. Ghost was still abed, though slowly rousing - he rather liked lazing about amongst the covers. In truth, so did Marius, but this morning, he’d opted to get up and get a drink of water before returning to his lover’s side.
Opening the first box, he blinked owlishly through the dark lenses. Those were, without a doubt, the fanciest cupcakes he’d ever seen. Not that he’d seen many cupcakes, being blind for the majority of his life, but the point remained. “Almost feel bad about eating them...” he mumbled, lifting one out and crunching on the candy tree. The thought did not escape him that he was, in all senses of the thing, having cupcakes for breakfast, but he couldn’t care less. After dying, he’d resolved to just go with the good things in life, because frankly, not even the next moment was promised, let alone tomorrow. Setting another aside to bring back to Ghost in bed (along with a firm reminder to mind the crumbs), he finished off his cupcake and opened the next box.
Tilting his head, he regarded the leather bound notebook with interest, opening it up and paging through it slowly. He smiled at the little note in the front. “I hope so as well, my friend,” he murmured, closing it again and setting it aside for further perusal later.
Finally, his gaze set on the small teddy bear with a knit red hat and he chuckled, considering that it did indeed match the GIANT teddy bear sitting in the guest bedroom. Tucking the bear under his arm and picking up the cupcake for Ghost, he meandered back toward the bedroom...
Thorn might have been briefly gone but he still held sway over his manor and all the things within. Whether through magic or the vice like grip of the Ink over his subjects, the mad Baron’s influence lingered even if his shadow didn’t darken the halls.
They’d found themselves locked from rooms Crane had once found open to him. They skirted servants who watched them with glassy eyes, content to let them search the manor as if they knew the effort was futile. Though it hadn’t borne fruit Lyrin’a had begun with a determination born of desperation- they needed to find Marius. They needed to pry his stone from around his cold dead neck and return it to Ghost. Gods, the thought made his stomach lurch even now.
Or perhaps that was the blood. To save the rest of them from the constant reminder he’d taken to doggedly scrubbing the tiles where Marius bled out in front of them. A new kind of desperation then. It only half worked. He seemed to be spreading it more than cleaning it, water turning a murky red brown that stained his hands and ran along the grout lines like tributaries searching for the sea. It stank of copper and death and all the things he’d learned to endure as a healer but this had been so very different. He was never a warrior, he’d never been to battle or seen the true horrors men could unleash. He’d never seen someone enjoy killing another the way Thorn had.
He paused on his hands and knees, tilting his head back to blink away useless tears and finding himself looking across the great hall to Vaelanys. He felt his heart drop further. The other healer had barely moved since everything had happened, seemingly lost in himself or whatever memories he’d unearthed here. A stab of anger drained away as quickly as it came. Thorn was beyond hate and giving himself to blind anger would not serve them later. It was less choice than simple weariness, and the knowledge that others far more capable had claimed that honor. He had the choice now to remain steadfast, and to spare his friends unnecessary grief. It was some measure of comfort.
There had been no good choice then. Not for any of them.
Idristan Agache moved with purpose down the path towards the beach. He had first been to the Tradehouse, but after failing to find the other Ishgardian, he had been forced to resort to less obvious methods of finding him. Fortunately, tall elezen dressed in black tended to stand out, even here. "Lebeaux!" he calls out sharply as he approaches. He's armed clearly, but his staff is still on his back. For now. The anger in his voice suggests that perhaps that might not remain the case forever, if things went badly. "We need to talk," he declares. Clearly pleasantries were not on the agenda for today.
Lebeaux Desrosiers stood calmly on the quiet beach. The Tradehouse was in an uproar about some special or another and he couldn’t even find peace in his own offices. The place that was generally avoided by anyone with any sense of self-preservation was currently occupied by a very chatty Duskwight who didn’t seem to understand that ‘go away I’m working’ meant shut up, even if he was only sitting around smoking somnus. The brief respite was broken by a sharp shout, a familiar voice calling his name with a very familiar anger. A shame. Here he was without his staff. Very well, there were always backups. He slipped his hand into his pocket as he turned, smiling serenely at the whitehaired man as he lifted a petite pistol that fit neatly into his large palm and leveled the snub-nosed barrel at the other medic. “Idristan. What a pleasant surprise. You can talk from there.”
Idristan does stop at that, his eyes narrowing as he studies the gunbarrel. His eyes occasionally flick from it to the other medic's face, before he finally seems to decide that yes, Lebeaux was probably a decent enough shot to make pressing the matter too much a risky proposition. Though then again, that had never truly stopped him before. His usual scowl seems to have deepened however. "Resorting to guns now Lebeaux?" he inquires. "Don't tell me your aether took that much of a hit." From the sound of his voice, he wouldn't be terribly upset if that was indeed the case. "Not that it matters. I'm only here because I want to tell you to leave her alone."
“Oh, that.” Lebeaux lowered the gun for the moment, but didn’t yet put it away. “You came all this way to threaten me to stay away from your little girlfriend.” He exhaled a laugh that could only be described as deeply sarcastic. “Have you already forgotten our ceasefire. If you attack me, even for her sake, that would be the end of it.”
Idristan's eyes flick briefly towards the gun once more as it moves, before resuming glaring at Lebeaux's face. At his sides his fingers curl into fists, and for perhaps a brief instant he seems deeply tempted to knock the laughter right out of Lebeaux. But then he draws in a deep breath. "Yes," he says through gritted teeth. "She would be worth it. And because," he continues quickly. "I'm sure you'd be quite happy to get rid of Lady Winter, if you thought you could manage it--and she wasn't included in our 'ceasefire'," he points out. Apparently he was fairly convinced that Lebeaux had already realized that as well.
Lebeaux moved closer, stalking slowly across the sand towards the shorter man. “I would like nothing more than to get rid of Lady Winter. And perhaps I shall have my chance.” He explained as he smiiiled at the other medic. “Someday. Strolling into Ishgard with the corpse of a dead heretic and known sympathizer would do nothing for me right now. Other than make me feel better about the situation. Hm, perhaps that would actually be good enough.” He mused as he turned to circle slightly around the other. “What luck there’s already someone who will take care of that for me. It doesn’t need to be by my hand for me to be satisfied.”
Though it is subtle, Idristan's stance shifts as Lebeaux draws closer, and he seems to instinctively tense. Perhaps the smile had something to do with it. That one always seemed to bode ill. "I would certainly consider you petty enough," he agrees. He doesn't quite turn to follow Lebeaux as he stalks around him, but instead tracks him with his eyes. He did have some pride, after all. At least, until Lebeaux's final words. At that his eyes widen, teeth clenching as he turns on his heel to look at the other medic head on. "And what," he begins slowly. "Exactly, you do mean by that?" he demands.
Lebeaux lifted his chin, smiling too-sweetly down his nose at the smaller man as he circled him before stopping with his back to the water again. “Is it truly so surprising that I would be the only one with the desire to see Lady Winter laid low?” He prodded. “The both of you are fools, to stroll along Kugane as though you haven’t a care in the world.”
Idristan moved to keep his eyes on Lebeaux. It likely looked a bit ridiculous, but at this very moment he didn't care. This topic, perhaps more than anything else, seemed to be a sensitive spot for him. "Of course not," he snaps. "But the fact that you're being vague makes me rather suspect you might be bluffing." That, in and of itself, was a bluff--one that he was hoping that Lebeaux would not call him on. "And as if you have not done the very same." As a number of unfortunate ambushes could attest to. "It's not like there are many of us here."
Lebeaux giggled at that. “That is the best part of the entire thing. This one doesn’t seem to be Ishgardian at all. She seems to make enemies wherever she goes. How fortunate for me.” He declared cheerfully. “Have you figured out who it is yet?” He teased.
Idristan actually takes a step towards Lebeaux at that. Apparently hearing the other giggle, of all things, was enough to temporarily break whatever hold on his temper he had. "As long as they're people like you," he growls. "Then I can hardly see that as a fault." Not that he likely would, even if they weren't. Poor thing seemed hopelessly smitten. However, something Lebeaux said seemed to make him pause. There was only one not-Ishgardian that immediately sprang to mind. He stares in disbelief at Lebeaux for a moment, then his eyes narrow once more in suspicion. "Surely you don't mean the duskwight," he demands, though internally his heart was sinking. That would be very, very bad.
Lebeaux didn’t flinch away from the small step forwards, but he did grip the pistol in his hand a little more tightly. “Oh, I don’t know. It can be so hard to tell them apart, can’t it.” He purred as he smirked at Idristan. “And there are ever so many around Kugane these days, aren’t there?” His head tilted thoughtfully, tapping the finger of his free hand against his own chin. “Shouldn’t you already know all of this? Don’t tell me… she hasn’t been telling you what she gets up to when you’re~ not~ looking~.”
Idristan seemed not at all impressed by this answer. "I suspect you know exactly which one I am referring to. And I would rather suspect not." Unless a certain other duskwight had done something truly stupid... He then stiffens, fingers curling as his mouth twists into a petulant scowl. "Don't be ridiculous," he snaps, lifting his nose slightly as he says it. "Of course she tells me. She wouldn't keep secrets from me." But he doesn't sound entirely convinced of his own words, even as he is saying them.
“Just as she told you when she left you all but standing at the altar?” Lebeaux mused as he took a small step backwards. He caught a small sniff of weakness there. Of Idristan not being entirely sure of himself. He had recalled the other Ishgardian’s low points and when he later ran into Idristan trying to get her back, it all sort of clicked into place. She had left him and now returned. “You have no idea, do you. You are a pathetic creature, Idristan.” He crowed brightly, waving the pistol lightly in the direction of the other man. “It would perhaps be a mercy to put you down once and for all. But then I do so enjoy seeing you miserable. I wonder, will you ask her. Would she tell you the truth? Or will you go skulk around and try to find what she’s been hiding from you all this time…”
Sure enough, that seemed to cause a crack in Idristan's attempt at trying to appear calm. Idristan snarls, fangs bared, and it appears as though he's seriously debating lunging at the other Ishgardian. Only the occasional gleam of light off the gun barrel is enough to cause him pause--and that only slightly. "It wasn't like that!" he snaps, but the pain in his voice suggests that no, it very much was. "And you're hardly one to talk! I doubt there's anyone who would even head up to the altar with you in the first place!" It was perhaps for the best he was unaware of where certain duskwights were at that particular moment. "And of course she would tell me," he adds, but his voice has grown softer--and for just a moment, he actually looks away from Lebeaux.
Lebeaux casually slipped the safety back on to the gun. If Idristan was going to attack him at this point it was unlikely that it would be anything calculated. Perhaps a slap or a punch at the rate he was going. The bastard seemed to be busier being angry with himself. Busier doubting himself and his newly rediscovered couples’ bliss. The moment Idristan looked away, Lebeaux struck. The pistol was turned in his hand and brought around to crack the bottom of it against the shorter man’s jaw with the intention of knocking him to the sand. The handle was inlaid with carved white wood and inlaid pearl, plainly made especially for the elezen’s personal tastes. “You are a fool, Idristan. You’ve always been one but now you’ve become reckless as well.”
Sure enough, Idristan was too distracted with his own thoughts to notice the gun coming towards him until it was too late to do anything about it. Wood and metal collide with flesh and bone with a loud crack. The shorter elezen half-stumbled, half-fell backwards, though it seems to take him a few moments to realize that he's sitting in the sand at all. One of his hands has gone to his chin, though whether he feared breaks or was simply in pain was an open question. Perhaps both. "Bastard," he growls, though the word is rather muffled.
Lebeaux stepped closer and gave the fallen elezen a kick for good measure to flatten him back onto the sand properly. “Pathetic.” He declared as he grinned down at the other Isghardian. “How strong must your relationship be if I can shake you so thoroughly with only a few idle musings. Is that why you felt the need to ambush me today. Playing the role of the loving partner soothes your worries and misgivings. Threatening me made you feel better, hm.”
Idristan lets out a yelp of pain and protest as a booted foot slams into him without warning (or at least, one he noticed. He was somewhat distracted at present). He looks up to cast a glare at Lebeaux, hate gleaming in his green eyes. "No," he spits. "I care about her. I wouldn't let someone like you hurt her," he insists, though there still seems to be the slightest hint of doubt. Not that he would acknowledge it. "I know what you're like," he adds, face twisting in pain and anger at the mere thought of what he could do to her, if given half the chance. "This isn't about me."
“Ohhh, I think it’s very much about you.” The medic reasoned as he walked slowly around the fallen man, looking like a professor preparing to give lecture. Yet if Idristan made the mistake of trying to get up or roll for his staff, he would earn another swift kick from Lebeaux’s perfectly polished boots. “You are angry at me for what I’ve done to you, understandable. Now here comes this relationship you so desperately want to work, this time. Because you just weren’t good enough last time. You couldn’t keep her. That will always be at the back of your mind, so you seek to be rid of any imagined threats by overreacting. Let me tell you, alpha posturing ill-suits you.” He teased, tapping the handle of the gun against his own hand to make his point. “You thought that threatening me and trying to scare me will give you some sense of security. Is it working, Idristan.”
Idristan actually flinches, though it's not quite clear whether it's at the memories that Lebeaux's words conjured, or else being told that he had failed. "No," he insists, despite the pain in his jaw. "It's very real. Inquisitor," he hisses, as if the word were a foul curse. "And she didn't leave because of me," he adds. Or at least, that's what she had said. He then falls silent, fingers curling in anger in the sand as he fumes. The teasing, however, does seem to finally do it. Greenish aether sparks around his fingers as he goes for the staff, apparently intent on showing Lebeaux exactly how well it was working. Violently.
Lebeaux inhaled sharply as Idristan lunged. The first thing he did was step forwards and bring his foot down hard, intending to catch the conjurer’s hand under his bootheel. The second thing he did was raise one hand to his ear, plugging it with a finger to protect his hearing as he pointed the pistol down and fired. The thing boomed like a cannon, the sound echoing off of the rock walls around them. He had aimed wide intentionally, to blow a hole in the sand a little ways away from Idristan’s head.
Idristan barely has time to react as Lebeaux's boot slams down onto his hand. He starts to move the other hand, intending to attack with that, only to freeze as a loud bang goes off far, far too close to his head. He instinctively closes his eyes as sand sprays, and when he opens them he can't help but stare at the new hole in he sand. It seems to have drained some of the fight out of him as he looks back at Lebeaux, back towards the gun that he seemingly had temporarily forgotten in his anger. Well, he certainly wouldn't be forgetting it for awhile now; not with the way his ears were ringing.
Lebeaux knew firsthand that Idristan would be unable to hear him for a time after that, and his ears would be ringing for even longer after that. The weapon was deceptively powerful for its size. And there were two barrels. He still had another shot before he would need to reload. The medic didn’t bother talking but rather smiled down at the dazed medic. He leaned more weight onto his bootheel, grinding it against the back of Idristan’s hand. Making his point before he removed it and took a few short steps away. Perhaps allowing him up. Perhaps waiting for him to try so he could kick him again.
Idristan bites his lip, trying to stiffle the hiss of pain that was brewing as Lebeaux ground his foot into his hand. Yes, he seemed to get the message indeed. He eyes Lebeaux (or perhaps more accurately, the gun) warily, clearly suspicious of this. Then he slowly starts to get to his feet--or tries anyway.
Lebeaux was very seriously considering kicking him back down. Yet he simply smiled and allowed Idristan to climb back to his feet. “Very good.” He said loudly. “Now tuck your tail between your legs and slink back home to sulk and brood and feel sorry for yourself.” Fingers of his free hand flicked in a shooing gesture.
He had long ago given up on seeing Priarch fuse itself into a singular, coherent, functioning unit. They were mercenaries, a diverse crowd with an equally varied skillset and moral code. Most of them had never been soldiers. He was used to the arguments, at the meeting table and away from it. Was used to having to raise his voice into the middle of it, and to being astounded that a point that seemed obvious and concrete to him generated such a myriad of opinions he could scarce keep track of them all.
If they had been soldiers he would have disciplined them. Tried his best to hammer them into a shape sharp and precise as a sword. But they were not, so instead he simply watched them, tried to learn the shape of them, the things they did best and the things that they needed.
He might have written it all down in notes easily enough:
Edarien:
-Strong magic. Strange magic if the way the others react means anything.
-Lonely. Needs a friend and sometimes a voice of reason.
Inwa:
-Healer. Trustworthy. Kind and merciful.
-Too merciful sometimes. Needs someone to make sure his own kindness doesn’t kill him.
Louvel:
-Strong fighter. Cares deeply for those he loves.
-Uncontrolled temper. Does not like or trust me. What he needs must come from someone else.
Lyrin’a:
-Steady. Good healer, and calm and reliable in crisis.
-Dislikes conflict. Needs someone to hear him and help him be heard.
Okuni:
-Clever. Quick. Determined. Variety of skills. Magic? Knives.
-Needs to be reminded not to rush into things alone or tackle more than she can manage.
Talia:
-Sniper. Very good. Several other magical talents I probably don’t even know.
-Needs reminders of morality sometimes. Friends. Doesn’t need most of it from me.
Idristan:
-Magic. Very strong.
-Soft heart he doesn’t want anybody to know about. Fragile pride. What he needs isn’t for me to provide.
Elias:
-Good-hearted. Means best for everybody. Hard to read.
-Clumsy, but usually manages. Not always sure what he needs. Perhaps nothing from me.
Teagan:
-Fights with her fists. Surprisingly capable. Battle rages.
-May need someone to help her out of rages sometime. May not need it from me.
Latika’a:
-Hiding several capabilities under several acts. Good when he settles down to heal.
-Needs? Inwa will sort it out.
Sui:
-Healer. Sound insights. Voice of mercy.
-Needs someone to guard his back and temper his mercy. That is me.
But he did not. He kept his private assessments in his thoughts, and tried his best to remember them when they were needed. He might have liked to pretend they would all come together when the moment demanded like the pieces of a puzzle or the many links that together made a shirt of mail. They did not usually. They scattered, they argued, they raged. He wasn’t certain what held them together at all sometimes. But something did.
That same something carried them to victory as often as not. He frequently thought that their enemies would truly find something to fear if they ever managed to put themselves together. Sometimes, though, he wondered if they were not more fearsome just as they were.
@thedarknesssings for Edarien, @blisteringstar for Inwa, @louvel-roche for Louvel, @hiraethwyl for Lyrin’a, @liminal-storage for Okuni, @reddevil-xiv for Talia, @roses-and-grimoires for Idristan, @gorgagne-viperidae for Elias, @punches-and-cream-puffs for Teagan, @latikaa-renaz for Latika’a, and @bookbornexiv for Sui, @priarch-enterprises-ffxiv
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Frigid wind blew in over the railings, sharp and chill enough to bite at his cheeks and sting his eyes. A gust buffeted him where he stood, lifting the heavy braid from his back and whipping it behind him. Silvaineaux narrowed his eyes against the incoming storm and peered out into the darkness. There were no stars tonight, and even the moon was the frailest of gleams behind her veil of clouds. The wind that battered he and Ishgard's stones alike carried with it the icy tang of snow. It was a hell of a night to be out in and it perfectly suited his mood.
He had left the manor in some haste, pacing out into night and darkness as if something dreadful were hot on his heels. But Silvaineaux could not outpace his own heavy thoughts. His fingers curled around the railing he had stopped at, gripping until he could feel the cold bite of the stone even through the fine leather of his gloves. It was the right thing to do, he told himself again. It was the only possible thing to do. And so he would do it, even if he hated it.
Things could not continue as they were. Perhaps loyalty to Edarien's friendship and to Seraphin's memory had already made him delay it longer than he should. Had he put those things before the safety of the company? He could tell himself that he had been giving trust a chance, but the more he looked at it the more he wondered if it had been a peculiar sort of cowardice not to act directly. If he had done more and sooner perhaps Idristan would not have suffered what he had.
Was he foolhardy even now to want to delay just a little longer? To give speaking one more try before he did what he had to do? Perhaps he was, it meant more time. It meant allowing that creeping danger to linger among Priarch a moment longer. Yet loyalty allowed for no other course. He had to give Edarien the chance to correct the mistake himself, if only he would listen. And if he did not?
Silvaineaux sighed and turned from the rail, giving the sturdy stone a solid thump with the side of his fist as he went. It hurt his hand far more than it could Ishgard's ancient stone, and it was a reminder, that history endured, that duty endured. Obligation. If one's lord did not do as he must it was a knight's duty to rebel for the sake of his people. Even if that lord had been a friend.
He straightened his shoulders against the wind and turned back the way he had come, along mostly empty streets and over the arches of bridges. Behind him something skittered across the stone, like a pebble dislodged by an incautious foot. It was surely the wind. Silvaineaux did not look back, but his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. If things more dangerous than wind lurked in Ishgard these days, perhaps that too was because he had delayed too long.
@thedarknesssings @roses-and-grimoires @priarch-enterprises-ffxiv for mentions.
(Some mostly self-indulgent nonsense about Priarch’s last RP night.)
This had always been his fate. He had known it when they named him a knight. He had known it every day with his men in the field. He had always known it. When the war ended and he still lived, he had been more baffled by it than overjoyed. What was he meant to do when he’d managed to outlive his only purpose? For a long time it had felt like some sort of cosmic oversight that he still breathed.
Days flowed one into the next and he found ways to fill them, but always it lurked in the back of his thoughts. There had been a mistake. It was worse when Seraphin died. If one of them had to die, why wasn’t it him? Seraphin had plans for life. He did not.This had always been his fate.
Lately he had begun to imagine that maybe he was wrong. That perhaps there was some purpose to survival beyond finding the right cause to die for. He had finally found it in himself to be grateful he had escaped. He’d begun to think that perhaps he wanted to live, even if to do so still felt like a betrayal of those who had not.
But this had always been his fate.
Silvaineaux stared down into his brother’s face. It was just like the day they had buried him, except that this was not a body empty of everything that had made Seraphin what he was. This was a specter, a silver pale reflection of his body. Not really there to touch even if he could feel the stone of the coffin it lay in solid under the fierce grip of his gauntleted hands.
The rest of them were speaking to him, but Silvaineaux answered them automatically, only half a mind on what they said. Bells rang somewhere, counting the time. It made his heart ache for his own wasted hours, far too short. It was not enough time. Not enough time now until the bell reached its number and stopped ringing.
And it had not been enough time before this. There were far too many things he had meant to say, things he hadn’t even managed to put on paper. He looked over his shoulder once, toward Sui, and toward whatever it was that held Idristan captive. Something was coming out of the air, and he thought that if the bell stopped ringing whatever it was would fully settle into the world. And there wasn’t time to say goodbye. This had always been his fate.
It didn’t surprise him when he turned back to find Seraphin was looking at him, opening his ghostly mouth to speak. Silvaineaux already knew what he would say. Perhaps he had known the moment he saw that stone coffin looming at the top of the stairs. This had always been his fate and once he’d thought it was all he wanted. A glorious death and a place in memory. But he rebelled against it now. He wanted to shout his refusal, to tell Seraphin that duty had taken too much and it was never satisfied.
But something was coming out of the air near Louvel now too. He could look at them all and count the odds, just as that bell counted down his final moments. So instead of refusing he shoved his pouch at Inwa, gave him his instructions and climbed into that stone coffin to face his fate.
Stone closed over him, settling him into darkness, and he waited for it to end. For the cries of alarm outside to stop. For his life to end. But his breaths persisted, shallow in the closed space, within the twin shells of armor and stone. His awareness lingered and the ghost’s words in his ear taunted him. Was it really his brother after all? Seraphin had never been cruel. Could death change a person so? Or had it all been a trick?
The bell stopped but the shouts outside his stone prison continued. The weight of darkness and stone settled unbearably around him, suffocating, trapping him when all he wanted was to answer those cries. This had always been his fate. But not like this! Not for nothing! He shoved at the stone but it wouldn’t move. His hands slammed into it repeatedly, gauntlets ringing, shocks juddering up his arms with every blow. He could not seem to make it move, but he beat at it regardless, shouting his defiance at fate just a little too late.
When the shouting stopped he didn’t even know if that meant his sacrifice had finally been accepted or if they were all lost. All that was left was his own heart echoing in the small space and the most terrible silence he had ever heard.
@bookbornexiv @roses-and-grimoires @louvel-roche @daylightrays for mentions. And @thedarknesssings for continuously ripping our hearts out. @priarch-enterprises-ffxiv in general for all being so much fun to RP with.
The Forgotten Knight
Some non-gpose screenshots from open RP at the Forgotten Knight last night, that looked rather like paintings.
Featuring: @geimhleag @roses-and-grimoires @phantom-xiv (hiding behind Idristan) Silvaineaux, @bookbornexiv and @daylightrays And a few in the background I don’t know.
