Dufresne Estate
Midafternoon
Now
Olivie lazed off to the side of the tillyard, munching on an apple as she watched Martiallais put some of his knights through their motions. They drilled in sword and shield, the Dufresne sigil resplendent on the fronts of those shields, as proud as the people it represented. Olivie thought they might be new, but there was also a possibility that they were well-maintained. The rest of their armor kits looked to be cared for with diligence, so she wasn’t entirely sure which was the case. She’d ask later.
Mar barked a rebuke at one of his knights, and Olivie had to grin. It reminded her of better days, spending time in their own tillyard, polishing Mar’s form. As far as his sister was concerned, Mar was without peer, and he deserved more laurels than were currently about his brow.
It had been strange, taking her real name back up, but Mar’s determined insistence could not be denied. He believed in her. And he would speak to the Baron about her predicament. With the Holy See folding as it was, and the Dragonsong War coming to an end, there were many changes in Ishgard, and Mar was hoping to capitalize on that.
Olivie was content just being confident in her own skin, not dreading imminent recapture and finalization of her fate. For years, she’d kept an eye out for the Holy See’s Inquisition, afraid to step out of the shadows. She had taken any job that kept her in the background, and working at the smithy in Limsa Lominsa had been her best idea. She had blossomed there, but always felt a little stifled, like a flower in a too-small pot.
Why had she ever been worried? She had forgotten who Olivie was, in keeping up the mask that was Mikalaos. The win at the Tournament of the Lance had bolstered her confidence moreso, reminding her of the girl she once was, and the dreams she used to have. They were not beyond her reach now. Free of the dread of Witchdrop, she could see those dreams a reality.
The session ended, the dispersion of the knights brought Olivie out of her reverie, and she looked to her little brother and smiled. She was so proud of him. Though he often jested about his failure with the lance, she couldn’t see any fault with his form now. With sword and shield in hand, Martiallais was a force to be reckoned with.
That didn’t make him any less her younger brother.
“Hey, Knight-Captain!†she shouted, finishing off her apple to toss into a nearby rubbish bin. “You’re great at telling, how about some showing?â€
Amusement crossed Mar’s face as he turned to favor his sister with a look. “Is that a challenge?â€
“Mayhaps,†she laughed. “Come, these men need to see what a real warrior looks like.â€
“But they see me every day.†He fired back, taking up a discarded shield.
“Halone praise, is that sass? Are you sassing me, Mar-Mar?â€
“I might be.â€
Olivie drew her massive blade from her back; it was not so different from the axe she’d been using for moons now, but this sword felt better in her hands. She felt a greater connection to it, one that never developed with the axe. A brisk wind whipped the stray strands of black hair about her face, but her attention was fixed on Martiallais.
He drew his blade and settled into a ready stance, and she did the same. With a grin, she rushed forward, and their dance began.
Sword met sword, skittered off shield, cut through empty air. He had the maneuverability advantage, but she had strength on her side. Years of working the forge had other tangible benefits.
Block, parry, touch. “First blood,†he laughed.
“Lucky hit!†she countered.
“Keep your elbows up.†He advised, gesturing with his sword tip. “You’re limiting your range of motion.â€
Olivie nodded and corrected her positioning, then came at him again.
They were attracting an audience, but she kept her focus. How many hours had they spent together sparring? Once they were both old enough to fight unattended, they overtook the tillyard of their modest family estate. Weather permitting, they were there every morning, drilling first with lances, then eventually lance versus sword and shield.
Alfonse had been dismissive of Mar after his failed dragoon training. Perfect Alfonse, who never made mistakes, the peerless older brother. He had been a miserable sibling, always lording his triumphs over the younger two. He saved a particular scorn for Olivie, which only seemed to grow as they got older. He expected her to fulfill a certain role, and she always bypassed him.
“Touch,†he smiled, giving her a nod of appreciation. She smiled back at him, and they resumed.
She would never forget Alfonse’s face that last day, that smug and silent ‘I told you so’ as the guards took her away. In the early years of her exile, she had nightmares of creatures with that face and voice, constant torment from things she couldn’t defeat. It had been Alfonse’s voice behind every failure, every moment of self-doubt.
“Touch!†She laughed, pushing his sword blade away playfully.
Limsa had hardened her. It had been a challenge at first, coming from Ishgard’s manners and demeanor, but the longer she spent around the not-pirates, the more that polish came off. Losing her accent had been the hardest, but soon she could cuss just as well as the other salty dogs. Papataru’s friendship had kept her from become an ale-swilling loudmouth, but she was still a far cry from the poised women of the (now frigid) northlands.
The Heuloix siblings found a rhythm, ducking, dodging, weaving around one another. One particular avoidance by Mar drew a reaction from the little crowd of knights and servants, and not too-few cheers. They were fairly matched, even after all those years apart. They knew one another’s fighting styles well, knew what to anticipate, could read their next moves in each other’s faces.
They could have carried on for hours, had Olivie not over-extended her reach. Mar took the opportunity to rush in and shield-bash her greatsword, sending it from her hand to clatter into the grass underfoot. The Dufresne contingent cheered and Olivie made a big show of her defeat, throwing her hands up in the air and shaking her head.
“You’ve gotten good, Mar-Mar,†she complimented, moving to retrieve her weapon. He sheathed his sword and passed the shield off to a smiling servant.
“I had a good teacher,†he replied easily, crossing his arms over his chest.
She made an audible scoffing noise, affixing her greatsword to her back with practiced ease. The siblings shared a chuckle, then turned to leave the yard together.
Midafternoon
Now
Olivie lazed off to the side of the tillyard, munching on an apple as she watched Martiallais put some of his knights through their motions. They drilled in sword and shield, the Dufresne sigil resplendent on the fronts of those shields, as proud as the people it represented. Olivie thought they might be new, but there was also a possibility that they were well-maintained. The rest of their armor kits looked to be cared for with diligence, so she wasn’t entirely sure which was the case. She’d ask later.
Mar barked a rebuke at one of his knights, and Olivie had to grin. It reminded her of better days, spending time in their own tillyard, polishing Mar’s form. As far as his sister was concerned, Mar was without peer, and he deserved more laurels than were currently about his brow.
It had been strange, taking her real name back up, but Mar’s determined insistence could not be denied. He believed in her. And he would speak to the Baron about her predicament. With the Holy See folding as it was, and the Dragonsong War coming to an end, there were many changes in Ishgard, and Mar was hoping to capitalize on that.
Olivie was content just being confident in her own skin, not dreading imminent recapture and finalization of her fate. For years, she’d kept an eye out for the Holy See’s Inquisition, afraid to step out of the shadows. She had taken any job that kept her in the background, and working at the smithy in Limsa Lominsa had been her best idea. She had blossomed there, but always felt a little stifled, like a flower in a too-small pot.
Why had she ever been worried? She had forgotten who Olivie was, in keeping up the mask that was Mikalaos. The win at the Tournament of the Lance had bolstered her confidence moreso, reminding her of the girl she once was, and the dreams she used to have. They were not beyond her reach now. Free of the dread of Witchdrop, she could see those dreams a reality.
The session ended, the dispersion of the knights brought Olivie out of her reverie, and she looked to her little brother and smiled. She was so proud of him. Though he often jested about his failure with the lance, she couldn’t see any fault with his form now. With sword and shield in hand, Martiallais was a force to be reckoned with.
That didn’t make him any less her younger brother.
“Hey, Knight-Captain!†she shouted, finishing off her apple to toss into a nearby rubbish bin. “You’re great at telling, how about some showing?â€
Amusement crossed Mar’s face as he turned to favor his sister with a look. “Is that a challenge?â€
“Mayhaps,†she laughed. “Come, these men need to see what a real warrior looks like.â€
“But they see me every day.†He fired back, taking up a discarded shield.
“Halone praise, is that sass? Are you sassing me, Mar-Mar?â€
“I might be.â€
Olivie drew her massive blade from her back; it was not so different from the axe she’d been using for moons now, but this sword felt better in her hands. She felt a greater connection to it, one that never developed with the axe. A brisk wind whipped the stray strands of black hair about her face, but her attention was fixed on Martiallais.
He drew his blade and settled into a ready stance, and she did the same. With a grin, she rushed forward, and their dance began.
Sword met sword, skittered off shield, cut through empty air. He had the maneuverability advantage, but she had strength on her side. Years of working the forge had other tangible benefits.
Block, parry, touch. “First blood,†he laughed.
“Lucky hit!†she countered.
“Keep your elbows up.†He advised, gesturing with his sword tip. “You’re limiting your range of motion.â€
Olivie nodded and corrected her positioning, then came at him again.
They were attracting an audience, but she kept her focus. How many hours had they spent together sparring? Once they were both old enough to fight unattended, they overtook the tillyard of their modest family estate. Weather permitting, they were there every morning, drilling first with lances, then eventually lance versus sword and shield.
Alfonse had been dismissive of Mar after his failed dragoon training. Perfect Alfonse, who never made mistakes, the peerless older brother. He had been a miserable sibling, always lording his triumphs over the younger two. He saved a particular scorn for Olivie, which only seemed to grow as they got older. He expected her to fulfill a certain role, and she always bypassed him.
“Touch,†he smiled, giving her a nod of appreciation. She smiled back at him, and they resumed.
She would never forget Alfonse’s face that last day, that smug and silent ‘I told you so’ as the guards took her away. In the early years of her exile, she had nightmares of creatures with that face and voice, constant torment from things she couldn’t defeat. It had been Alfonse’s voice behind every failure, every moment of self-doubt.
“Touch!†She laughed, pushing his sword blade away playfully.
Limsa had hardened her. It had been a challenge at first, coming from Ishgard’s manners and demeanor, but the longer she spent around the not-pirates, the more that polish came off. Losing her accent had been the hardest, but soon she could cuss just as well as the other salty dogs. Papataru’s friendship had kept her from become an ale-swilling loudmouth, but she was still a far cry from the poised women of the (now frigid) northlands.
The Heuloix siblings found a rhythm, ducking, dodging, weaving around one another. One particular avoidance by Mar drew a reaction from the little crowd of knights and servants, and not too-few cheers. They were fairly matched, even after all those years apart. They knew one another’s fighting styles well, knew what to anticipate, could read their next moves in each other’s faces.
They could have carried on for hours, had Olivie not over-extended her reach. Mar took the opportunity to rush in and shield-bash her greatsword, sending it from her hand to clatter into the grass underfoot. The Dufresne contingent cheered and Olivie made a big show of her defeat, throwing her hands up in the air and shaking her head.
“You’ve gotten good, Mar-Mar,†she complimented, moving to retrieve her weapon. He sheathed his sword and passed the shield off to a smiling servant.
“I had a good teacher,†he replied easily, crossing his arms over his chest.
She made an audible scoffing noise, affixing her greatsword to her back with practiced ease. The siblings shared a chuckle, then turned to leave the yard together.
Olivie Heuloix - The Rusted Blade
Julianya Devon - The Hospitaller KnightÂ
Balmung
