The Elezen lay perched upon a pyre of corpses. The occasional errant limb twitched amidst the charred remains of the heretics, their ragged chainmail scorched by the dragon's fire. Surrounding him was miles of snow and stone, and endless, blasted battlefield pockmarked with corpses and weapons.
It was a good scene.
...ourt...
The roar resounded in his ears again. It was closer now. His lip curled. It was time.
My l...lancourt...
He stood upon the cadavers, violet armour streaked with blood and spikes. The wings of the Gae Bolg unfolded with a clank. There it was, in the sky, beating wings and a maw filled with a thousand razors.
The Elezen pulled the visor over his eyes, and jumped.
"My lord Valencourt!"
He was shaken out of his reverie. Maximilien blinked several times, spots fluttering in front of his eyes as his vision adjusted to the light of the ballroom. Ah, that's right. He was, unfortunately, not on a war-torn landscape about to engage a hated foe with equal parts vigor and might. The dragoon shook his head, clearing the spots from his vision, and was greeted with the beautiful yet cold gaze of a platinum-haired Wildwood female staring at him sternly. She was dressed in an immaculate azure gown, trimmed with gold. Maximilien, in turn, wore a form-fitting doublet with buttons of silver and a cravat that was entirely too puffy.
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Have you returned to us, my lord?"
Ah, yes, the soirée. That was where he was. An utterly dull and boring affair filled with posturing nobles, simpering clergymen and other inconsequential elements of politics. House Durendaire was quite proud in its sizable expansion of the western front in Coerthas, and in what was both an honest gesture and a rather insipid act of sycophancy, the lesser House Rienois saw fit to honour the efforts of their knights and dragoons by conveniently creating an excuse for them to become intoxicated on wine. Maximilien's father had insisted that a dragoon attend, and unfortunately, Maximilien himself lacked a creative enough excuse to refuse beyond "fighting a tornado".
He was certain that one would work, though his father knew better.
Maximilien responded by lightly slapping the Elezen woman's insistent hand away like a fly. "I have, unfortunately. I was having a wonderful day dream, too. Now, Lady Auzenne, was there something in particular you wished to argue about, or would you prefer that we begin squealing at one another and make it up as we go along?"
"Squealing?"
"How about yowling?"
Lady Auzenne's frown deepened into a scowl. "Yowling!?""
"Screeching? Caterwauling? The Fury forbid, even ululating?"
"My lord, you are an accomplished knight and a most skilled wielder of the lance, but once again I recognise that you are utterly devoid of anything resembling a comprehensible thought." She turned away from him in a huff.
"Believe me, my dear Audrielle, I am not unpleased to leave the comprehensible thoughts to those who care for these distractions," Maximilien said lightly. He brushed a hand through his own champagne-coloured hair, wincing as the shoulders of the doublet tightened with the motion.
"And your...manservant. Is there a reason why he is acting like that?" Lady Auzenne tugged at the dragoon's sleeve, gesturing to a flustered Hyur repeatedly bowing like a flag in the wind. An amused Duskwight lady held a hand over her pursed lips, and Maximilien could not tell if the gesture was indicative of genuine amusement or polite refusal.
He waved an idle hand. "Does Baldred require a reason to act a certain way?"
"Do you mean to imply that your squire is always like that?" Lady Auzenne sniffed derisively. The Hyur in question had begun attempting to juggle a handful of fruit, and by his performance appeared to be about as coordinated as a drunk chocobo in an avalanche.
Maximilien folded his arms, one hand resting against his chin. "Baldred is...very enthusiastic about his duties and the people with which he is enamoured with."
"He is a Hyur. I know of Hyur. And your squire is the most Hyurish Hyur I have ever had the misfortune of meeting."
The dragoon glanced at his date with feigned shock. "Come now, Baldred is not that bad.
"Are you quite certain? He is choosing to flirt with Lady Braicaird, of all people. She is a respected chirurgeon, but I have seen more intellectual thought come out of...well, out of you."
Maximilien shrugged, ignoring the pointed barbs of Audrielle's words. "I am not one to stand in the way of love. If Baldred and Lady Braicaird are meant to be, then it is the will of Menphina that it be so."
His partner looked at him in equal parts disgust and suspicion. "What has Menphina to do with this?"
He waved his hand again, even less interested than before. "You know, Menphina's will. Love. Tends to knock holes in one's judgment and such. Supposedly is responsible for making life worth all of its trials and tribulations, though the scholars have yet to confirm or deny that particular aspect."
Audrielle's gaze and tone both became what could only be described as venomous. "That is a fascinating viewpoint, my lord Valencourt. Do go on."
He either ignored or failed to notice the sarcasm. "Well, my dear, as you may know, when one falls in love, the wits and rational thinking both evacuate the head by way of a...I believe the correct term is a dribble."
Her scowl deepened. "Your talent for eloquence does not go wasted."
Maximilien smiled at her cheerfully. "Yes, dribbles, like a diseased pustule."
His next sight was of Audrielle Auzenne haughtily walking away from him, handily repulsed by the description. The dragoon shrugged.
I wonder if it was something I said.
It was a good scene.
...ourt...
The roar resounded in his ears again. It was closer now. His lip curled. It was time.
My l...lancourt...
He stood upon the cadavers, violet armour streaked with blood and spikes. The wings of the Gae Bolg unfolded with a clank. There it was, in the sky, beating wings and a maw filled with a thousand razors.
The Elezen pulled the visor over his eyes, and jumped.
"My lord Valencourt!"
He was shaken out of his reverie. Maximilien blinked several times, spots fluttering in front of his eyes as his vision adjusted to the light of the ballroom. Ah, that's right. He was, unfortunately, not on a war-torn landscape about to engage a hated foe with equal parts vigor and might. The dragoon shook his head, clearing the spots from his vision, and was greeted with the beautiful yet cold gaze of a platinum-haired Wildwood female staring at him sternly. She was dressed in an immaculate azure gown, trimmed with gold. Maximilien, in turn, wore a form-fitting doublet with buttons of silver and a cravat that was entirely too puffy.
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Have you returned to us, my lord?"
Ah, yes, the soirée. That was where he was. An utterly dull and boring affair filled with posturing nobles, simpering clergymen and other inconsequential elements of politics. House Durendaire was quite proud in its sizable expansion of the western front in Coerthas, and in what was both an honest gesture and a rather insipid act of sycophancy, the lesser House Rienois saw fit to honour the efforts of their knights and dragoons by conveniently creating an excuse for them to become intoxicated on wine. Maximilien's father had insisted that a dragoon attend, and unfortunately, Maximilien himself lacked a creative enough excuse to refuse beyond "fighting a tornado".
He was certain that one would work, though his father knew better.
Maximilien responded by lightly slapping the Elezen woman's insistent hand away like a fly. "I have, unfortunately. I was having a wonderful day dream, too. Now, Lady Auzenne, was there something in particular you wished to argue about, or would you prefer that we begin squealing at one another and make it up as we go along?"
"Squealing?"
"How about yowling?"
Lady Auzenne's frown deepened into a scowl. "Yowling!?""
"Screeching? Caterwauling? The Fury forbid, even ululating?"
"My lord, you are an accomplished knight and a most skilled wielder of the lance, but once again I recognise that you are utterly devoid of anything resembling a comprehensible thought." She turned away from him in a huff.
"Believe me, my dear Audrielle, I am not unpleased to leave the comprehensible thoughts to those who care for these distractions," Maximilien said lightly. He brushed a hand through his own champagne-coloured hair, wincing as the shoulders of the doublet tightened with the motion.
"And your...manservant. Is there a reason why he is acting like that?" Lady Auzenne tugged at the dragoon's sleeve, gesturing to a flustered Hyur repeatedly bowing like a flag in the wind. An amused Duskwight lady held a hand over her pursed lips, and Maximilien could not tell if the gesture was indicative of genuine amusement or polite refusal.
He waved an idle hand. "Does Baldred require a reason to act a certain way?"
"Do you mean to imply that your squire is always like that?" Lady Auzenne sniffed derisively. The Hyur in question had begun attempting to juggle a handful of fruit, and by his performance appeared to be about as coordinated as a drunk chocobo in an avalanche.
Maximilien folded his arms, one hand resting against his chin. "Baldred is...very enthusiastic about his duties and the people with which he is enamoured with."
"He is a Hyur. I know of Hyur. And your squire is the most Hyurish Hyur I have ever had the misfortune of meeting."
The dragoon glanced at his date with feigned shock. "Come now, Baldred is not that bad.
"Are you quite certain? He is choosing to flirt with Lady Braicaird, of all people. She is a respected chirurgeon, but I have seen more intellectual thought come out of...well, out of you."
Maximilien shrugged, ignoring the pointed barbs of Audrielle's words. "I am not one to stand in the way of love. If Baldred and Lady Braicaird are meant to be, then it is the will of Menphina that it be so."
His partner looked at him in equal parts disgust and suspicion. "What has Menphina to do with this?"
He waved his hand again, even less interested than before. "You know, Menphina's will. Love. Tends to knock holes in one's judgment and such. Supposedly is responsible for making life worth all of its trials and tribulations, though the scholars have yet to confirm or deny that particular aspect."
Audrielle's gaze and tone both became what could only be described as venomous. "That is a fascinating viewpoint, my lord Valencourt. Do go on."
He either ignored or failed to notice the sarcasm. "Well, my dear, as you may know, when one falls in love, the wits and rational thinking both evacuate the head by way of a...I believe the correct term is a dribble."
Her scowl deepened. "Your talent for eloquence does not go wasted."
Maximilien smiled at her cheerfully. "Yes, dribbles, like a diseased pustule."
His next sight was of Audrielle Auzenne haughtily walking away from him, handily repulsed by the description. The dragoon shrugged.
I wonder if it was something I said.
