#lebeaux

"If you had simply come to me immediately, we could have avoided all of this. A fresh wound is far easier to treat than one already several moons' healed." Lebeaux continued to chastise as he lowered his eyes back down to his work. "Fixing or removing scars is so much more tedious and time-consuming than preventing them to begin with. I suppose painful as well, if your carrying on is anything to go by." He noted before he slipped another long, slender needle into the damaged skin along the taller elezen's skin and drew another quiet noise of protest from the impatient patient.

"I do not mind the scars. Is it not stranger to be a survivor of the War with only the one? It speaks of cowardice, of fleeing the field rather than risk injury..." Anselme countered carefully, turning to look back at the chirurgeon. As soon as he turned his head it was immediately turned aside again with the force of Lebeaux's backhand. While the strike itself smarted, it was the seething anger he'd seen in icy blue eyes before the strike that hurt far worse. He lifted a hand absent-mindedly to gingerly touch the weal already rising red and angry along a sharp cheekbone. The contact stung fiercely, but it was nearly a pleasant distraction compared to the pain when the chirurgeon resumed treatment.

"Why is it honorable to bear the evidence of your mistakes in your skin for all to see." Lebeaux demanded, directing searing aether into the needles lined up to create a precise point of focus under scar tissue. "Where is the glory in having to be reminded of your failures each time you catch your reflection in the looking glass." He continued as he worked. An argument they had time and time again without ever reaching common ground. The discoloration slowly burned out of the keloid to leave it matching the skin surrounding it, though the raised mark remained. Near-invisible save for close inspection or direct touch.

"Nonetheless, you yourself agreed to assist me however I may need. Are you intending to go back on your word." Lebeaux accused, suspecting the Knight was no longer listening as Anselme had lowered his forehead down to the table and begun banging his other hand slowly against the surface with his fingers clenched into a tight fist. Firmly enough to rattle teacups and silverware. "Stop that. Would you rather I dug the scar tissue out and sealed the skin behind it."

"... no." Came the miserable response, half muffled against the wooden surface. "To both." Slowly he picked up his head, trying to distract himself by changing the subject as he looked to his brother again. "I think you have mastered the technique. The coloring has not come back to any of the scars you have treated. Is it not already perfected? Are you intending to use it on-"

A small knock warned him of a visitor and Anselme turned to face the heavy door. The room was sparse, yet at least his name had afforded him some few luxuries. A table with parchment, ink and quill should he decide to pen a confession as he awaited trial. A simple bed rather than a straw pallet on the floor.

Heavy locks were undone before the door swung open, admitting a stern guard. Rather than manacles he carried Anselme's personal effects bundled into the Knight's cloak. The bundle was set down on the table and the soldier bowed lightly before departing without a word, making way for the second visitor.

Anselme looked with outright confusion between the returned items and the man who came through the door next. Taller than when he'd last spoken directly to him, rather than glimpses in passing, yet not quite fully a man grown just yet. Lennaux stood just within the doorway, folding arms over his chest and staying well away from the frame to keep from smudging his white cloak as he stared at his older brother. The expression on his cherubic face carefully neutral.

"You have been acquitted. Your armor and weapons have already been returned to the manor. You are not to speak to anyone on your way back." He explained flatly, his voice just as carefully even. "Visit Mother before returning to duty. She has cried every day since your arrest..."

"Then there is time still to make it to the Tribunal..." Anselme did not move as he interrupted, rooted to the spot as he tried to process the information his brother passed along. Recalculating his plan for the daring rescue.

Lennaux tilted his head slightly, a small smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Oh, no. Her trial is already over and done with. Did you truly expect to be permitted to testify on her behalf...? Did you believe you would be granted leave to fight for her in trial by combat?" The younger brother wondered, clearly amused. "Such a shame the trial was moved to this morning. Take heart in knowing that she did not implicate you. Not that she had opportunity to..."

The room swam, cold stone spinning as the Knight reached to brace a hand against the rough-hewn bricks of the wall.

"Why, Lennaux?" He demanded, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears as he struggled not to be sick. "Hate me if you must, but why this? Make your grievances known and demand satisfaction, I will not run from your challenge! Enough of dragging others into this petty feud." Anselme pushed away from the wall to take a staggering step towards his brother, large hands curling into fists as he crossed the small room.

Lennaux's hand struck out from under his cloak like a serpent, something small that flashed in the dim candlelight thrown directly into his older brother's face to stop his blind rush cold. A small ring, sized for a slender finger. Pale gold adorned with glittering diamonds bouncing off of Anselme's cheek before hitting the floor with a gentle tinkle of delicate metal. It hadn't been to her tastes, but she had accepted the promise gift nonetheless and laughed off his solemn vow to have something befitting her made before the ceremony.

The Knight knelt slowly to retrieve it, the glitter of precious metal and gems blurring in the grief and anger that gathered stinging hot along lower lashes before sliding down his cheeks.

The somber envoys were a familiar sight for those attending classes within the Scholasticate's hallowed halls. While the lesser-born nobility may receive a single courier, those even less important often received only a letter, the solemn approach of a dark-clad entourage was the sign that someone of some import had died. No sooner did they enter the grand entryway did the rumors begin to fly. This time their somber march took them to the courtyard where Lennaux was, appropriately enough, holding court over the small group of fellow future-clergy he had bullied into serving as his associates. Never 'friends'. A pleasantly warm late spring drizzle had forced them to take refuge under an alcove as idle chatter of summer holidays whiled away time between classes. Talk of the warm moons spent out at the country estate or some relative's hunting lodge in the mountains. The chatter faded away as the envoy of three entered the courtyard under heavy cloaks against the light rain. One stopped to wait in the arching doorway as the other two made their way towards the small group. A few quick calculations of which of their merry little band could have warranted such a visit resulted in the realization that they were there for him.

"My father or my brother. Place your wagers quickly." Lennaux muttered under his breath.

"Brother." The others answered in near-unison, having already heard tales of their 'ringleader's' foolhardy elder sibling.

"Well, that certainly takes the fun out of it if no one will bet against me. Very well." He complained quietly, falling silent as the knights approached and immediately knelt respectfully. "A mourning period is certainly going to put a damper on my summer plans..."

"Young Master Lennaux de Haillenarte, we have been sent to bring you home on an urgent matter." The first knight explained as she rose back to her feet. The second knight offered a sympathetic smile from under the hood of his cloak. Neither would be so crass as to simply state that there had been a death. Nor to announce outright who it may have been. It could yet have been a cousin or uncle for all he knew.

Lennaux nodded solemnly, adjusting the lay of his hat before he stepped out from under the alcove into the rain. The third knight did not move as they approached, allowing the first two to pass before he stepped out to block Lennaux's departure. The student looked up slowly, icy pale eyes rimmed with dark lashes settling on a face he did not recognize at first. His father's strong chin and thick brows paired with his mother's summer sky blue eyes. A man grown now, though he had been only the very same age Lennaux was now when he had last seen him this close. Those bright blue eyes were not red from grief and his jaw was set in a grim line. That answered the question neatly. Terrible news for a terrible boy who would now even more quickly have to grow up into a terrible man. His father was finally dead.

"Lennaux, I-" Anselme began, yet he was never allowed to finish the sentence. The younger brother threw his shoulder forwards into the knight's chest as he pushed past him. Long strides carrying him to catch up with the other two messengers without a word. Anselme stepped aside with the blow, allowing Lennaux to pass unimpeded. He watched him stalk away rather than following immediately. The shoulder-check had not hurt in the least. Truly it would not have even moved him out of the way. It had been the pure, glacial hatred in his younger brother's eyes for the brief moment their gazes met that pained him far more deeply.

@iron-roots

A few steps away that eldritch summon shivered and quaked in an unsettling wobbling motion as it stood sentinel between Lebeaux and a miqo'te clutching his hand to his chest as he pressed flat against a bookshelf. The arcanist's richly furred colorpoint ears were pinned flat against unkempt hair similarly two-toned in black and white. Large, round glasses sat askew on his nose and the look on his face was exasperation rather than fear. Bright green eyes wide with confused annoyance. The string of insults were nothing new, it was practically how the Ishgardian greeted the Keeper at this point. But the cause of it was irksome, to say the least.

Rinha'li lowered his uninjured hand from the one he was coddling, thrusting it forwards to display the crescent of bloodied tears in his skin along the edge of his hand.

"I am the b-b-beast?!" He demanded. "For d-d-defending myself with a c-construct?!" As Rinha'li spoke, Lebeaux mocked him under his breath. Tittering along after the stuttering that had grown more pronounced in the voidmath's agitation.

"You b-bit me."

"What is this, then." The medic asked as he reached for the slip and turned it over. "I suppose the serving girl was simply so enamored that she is inviting me over later." He decided as his eyes drifted over the note's contents. Rashk scoffed, stuffing a few more tartlets into his pockets. Knowing full well what was going on there. It was not an address, nor an invitation but rather a list of everything they had eaten and drank that afternoon. Alongside of which was a series of numbers. Underneath that was a similar number listed from previous dates, all in all totaling a rather impressive sum.

"It's a check, Lebeaux." Rashk drawled sweetly, anything else that hadn't been eaten already on the table secreted away into various pockets. "It tells you how much you have to pay for what you've eaten." He explained as though dealing with a particularly slow student. The miqo'te settled his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his palm, fluttering his lashes. "And since you've picked this one up, you're paying it. Thanks for lunch." He added on, painted lips curled in a delighted smile.

"That is impossible. I have a tab. It should be sent directly to the Order and taken care of by the Sister's assistant." Lebeaux explained, incredulous. The nerve. The audacity. Expecting him to pay for his own meals?!

"Seems like your tab's been closed. The dear Sister must be mad at you. If you can't pay it maybe they'll let you work it off washing dishes instead of calling in the Brass Blades~" Rashk continued to tease, absolutely delighted with this twist.

"Hardly. There must be some mistake." The Ishgardian insisted, turning in his seat to snap his fingers for the waitress's attention. Instead it was a portly lalafel that waddled over, a falsely-apologetic look on his face. "Now see, there is a mistake here. My bill should be sent directly to the Order of Nald, specifically to Sister Irara…" When Lebeaux turned to ensure Rashk was going to back him up he found the seat across from him empty. The miqo'te had already silently fled the scene, leaving only crumbs behind.