Offices of the Genealogical Investigation and Restitution Committee, House of Commons, Ishgard:
Chaitivelle was used to the smell of brandy, liberally applied in great quantities, emanating from the region of Launval's desk in the committee offices. He had always been known as a tippler among the Crozier's gossipmongers, and though she had never seen it herself, naught but a moon was required for her to see the engraver-turned-assayer of Ishgardian futures lived up to his reputation.Â
What was unusual, she thought as she settled into a desk arranged just so, blotter perfectly aligned and quill resting in its inkpot at just the right angle to appear jaunty without being thought impertinent by a member of the Lords come by to browbeat his supposed inferiors, was for the smell to be so obvious so early in the day. That, and for it to be accompanied by groans of despair and anguish not unlike several of the more sanguine mummeries she had witnessed in the Brume, all while Launval lay draped in his chair as if his suicide was a truly forgone conclusion, despite his body had found a way to trap his soul and keep it out of Halone's halls. Yet there he was, and there was his bottle, already half-full, and there was his glass, half-full as well.
She ignored the obvious existential crisis for as long as she could manage. Chaitivelle checked her post, politely responded to a letter from a member of her district asking about rising tax rates, warmly replied to a crude scrawl from a Brume urchin asking if he too could be a Commons someday that of course he could, and reviewed a proposal from a Convictory knight asking if a severed dragon's head was not proof enough of nobility to be considered for application (not when any such head had yet to be produced, she decided, after two moons of requests for the trophy in question) before pausing for morning tea. Then, and only then, while the yak milk was not yet boiling in its pot, did she ask, in the gentle manner of someone inquiring about the man's family for idle conversation, "Why, representative Launval, whatever is the matter?"
A set of parchments was not so much tossed as sprayed at her, as if Launval sought to obfuscate his exit in the manner of a frightened wavekin. Yet through the brief flurry of paper, he remained, waiting for Chaitivelle to snatch some of the papers out of the air lest they land too close to the stove. "That, good madam. That right there. Such an application as we have received this morning shall be the end of us, and yet I cannot ignore it." His position in his chair shifted from supine to crouched, curling up into as much of a ball as his desk would allow.
"Surely it cannot be as bad as all that," remarked Chaitivelle, her words interspersed with the crackle of paper caught from the air before it caught flame. It was another Brume bastard, no doubt, taking the opportunity of the war's end to reclaim his due from the father, mother, or whomever who denied him. Common enough, and often enough a claim with such merit as bore serious consideration. Yet every such request that had crossed their desks had led Launval to fits of apoplexy before they were even sure if it was worthy of placing it before the Houses. And yet he had come highly recommended by Lords who had helped create the committee. There were several thoughts Chaitivelle had about that, and she had yet to determine which of them were true.
Setting the matter aside, she found the application's first page and settled in to read. At least a skim before the milk developed skin would be no imposition.
Time passed. The milk congealed, and only a mournful blorp of a sound as it boiled reminded her it existed. One of her hands curled up into a ball around the papers. "An Ul'dahn?!"Â Â
"Aye, madam representative."
"Do - Is there even such a thing as an elezen in Ul'dah? I had thought it all those small popoto-shaped people and Hyur."
"Apparently it is so, madam representative."
Casting a glance at the spoiled tea, Chaitivelle's eyes, already prone to squint, narrowed further. She cast out the milk from its pot with a frustrated huff and stepped aside from the stove, kneeling down to pick up the papers that had reached the floor. "Surely this is some mummer's farce. Surely, Launval." Hair fell into her face as she bent low, and she had to pause to shake it out of her head. "Why not simply deny it? The man is foreign, if he even exists. Were he Gridanian I might see fit to give it consideration, but this!"
When Launval spoke, it was a mumble. He had contrived to place his head between his knees while keeping the former at the level of his desk. Chaitivelle grimaced and swatted him at the side with her papers. "Do compose yourself!"
"Madam, would that I could cast this aside, yet if you will read, his research is quite thorough." He spoke after unbending himself and twisting his face to rest on his desk. "He traces his line back to a dead house, cast out after that . . . whatever it was." He waved his hand. "Where the forest decided to stop eating its inhabitants."
"Still a rather absurd claim, is it not? Naught of any house gone that long remains, taken up by those who carried on." Returning to her seat, Chaitivelle set about sorting the papers, arranging them and carefully smoothing out any unnecessary wrinkles. "What house, pray?"
"Deauxbois, madam representative."
Her hand paused on at the corner of one sheet. "Mayhaps I do not quite recall. Were they not cast out for putting their own servants to the sword to the last man?"
"Nay, madam. That was how they earned the title. Heretics, every one of their kitchen staff, or so the records claimed. The casting out is on the tenth page."
Finding the indicated page, she read further. "Oh." There was silence. "Oh." She continued reading. Launval pressed his brandy bottle to the edge of his desk, within reach of her hand. She accepted it without complaint. Her teacup sufficed.
"It is thorough," she said once she had poured herself a pair of fingers. "Not impossible for a bastard to have survived all that."
"Aye, it is." Launval finished the last of his glass. "And yet."
And yet. And yet allowing it would mean allowing foreigners to claim titles. It meant little that this applicant wanted nothing more than acknowledgement and the title for himself, forswearing even the chance of a seat in the houses. There would be others, all vying for wealth and land in a realm now so cold there was little of both to spare. And yet it would mean risking swelling the ranks of the Lords and filling their coffers with foreign coin rather than the honest folks of the Foundation and the Brume. And yet, it would mean one day, some waddling little popoto requiring a stool as he stood before the two houses and declared their shared lineage. The thought of it made her teacup shake in her hand.
And yet for all that, it was thorough.
"A test," she said, the thought not so much unbidden as desperately sought within the less-organized corners of her mind. "Hm? A test." She held up the one paper. "It could all be naught but mummery and fabrication. A test is the thing, surely."
Launval groped in feeble fashion for his brandy until it was returned to him. "What could be tested?" he asked after foregoing the decency of his glass and tippling from the bottle. "His claims are paper, not blood."
"Mayhaps...in most cases." Chaitivelle tried to smile. "But this merchant claims to be Deauxbois, and their claims are steeped in blood. Do you suppose he can handle overmuch?"
Chaitivelle was used to the smell of brandy, liberally applied in great quantities, emanating from the region of Launval's desk in the committee offices. He had always been known as a tippler among the Crozier's gossipmongers, and though she had never seen it herself, naught but a moon was required for her to see the engraver-turned-assayer of Ishgardian futures lived up to his reputation.Â
What was unusual, she thought as she settled into a desk arranged just so, blotter perfectly aligned and quill resting in its inkpot at just the right angle to appear jaunty without being thought impertinent by a member of the Lords come by to browbeat his supposed inferiors, was for the smell to be so obvious so early in the day. That, and for it to be accompanied by groans of despair and anguish not unlike several of the more sanguine mummeries she had witnessed in the Brume, all while Launval lay draped in his chair as if his suicide was a truly forgone conclusion, despite his body had found a way to trap his soul and keep it out of Halone's halls. Yet there he was, and there was his bottle, already half-full, and there was his glass, half-full as well.
She ignored the obvious existential crisis for as long as she could manage. Chaitivelle checked her post, politely responded to a letter from a member of her district asking about rising tax rates, warmly replied to a crude scrawl from a Brume urchin asking if he too could be a Commons someday that of course he could, and reviewed a proposal from a Convictory knight asking if a severed dragon's head was not proof enough of nobility to be considered for application (not when any such head had yet to be produced, she decided, after two moons of requests for the trophy in question) before pausing for morning tea. Then, and only then, while the yak milk was not yet boiling in its pot, did she ask, in the gentle manner of someone inquiring about the man's family for idle conversation, "Why, representative Launval, whatever is the matter?"
A set of parchments was not so much tossed as sprayed at her, as if Launval sought to obfuscate his exit in the manner of a frightened wavekin. Yet through the brief flurry of paper, he remained, waiting for Chaitivelle to snatch some of the papers out of the air lest they land too close to the stove. "That, good madam. That right there. Such an application as we have received this morning shall be the end of us, and yet I cannot ignore it." His position in his chair shifted from supine to crouched, curling up into as much of a ball as his desk would allow.
"Surely it cannot be as bad as all that," remarked Chaitivelle, her words interspersed with the crackle of paper caught from the air before it caught flame. It was another Brume bastard, no doubt, taking the opportunity of the war's end to reclaim his due from the father, mother, or whomever who denied him. Common enough, and often enough a claim with such merit as bore serious consideration. Yet every such request that had crossed their desks had led Launval to fits of apoplexy before they were even sure if it was worthy of placing it before the Houses. And yet he had come highly recommended by Lords who had helped create the committee. There were several thoughts Chaitivelle had about that, and she had yet to determine which of them were true.
Setting the matter aside, she found the application's first page and settled in to read. At least a skim before the milk developed skin would be no imposition.
Time passed. The milk congealed, and only a mournful blorp of a sound as it boiled reminded her it existed. One of her hands curled up into a ball around the papers. "An Ul'dahn?!"Â Â
"Aye, madam representative."
"Do - Is there even such a thing as an elezen in Ul'dah? I had thought it all those small popoto-shaped people and Hyur."
"Apparently it is so, madam representative."
Casting a glance at the spoiled tea, Chaitivelle's eyes, already prone to squint, narrowed further. She cast out the milk from its pot with a frustrated huff and stepped aside from the stove, kneeling down to pick up the papers that had reached the floor. "Surely this is some mummer's farce. Surely, Launval." Hair fell into her face as she bent low, and she had to pause to shake it out of her head. "Why not simply deny it? The man is foreign, if he even exists. Were he Gridanian I might see fit to give it consideration, but this!"
When Launval spoke, it was a mumble. He had contrived to place his head between his knees while keeping the former at the level of his desk. Chaitivelle grimaced and swatted him at the side with her papers. "Do compose yourself!"
"Madam, would that I could cast this aside, yet if you will read, his research is quite thorough." He spoke after unbending himself and twisting his face to rest on his desk. "He traces his line back to a dead house, cast out after that . . . whatever it was." He waved his hand. "Where the forest decided to stop eating its inhabitants."
"Still a rather absurd claim, is it not? Naught of any house gone that long remains, taken up by those who carried on." Returning to her seat, Chaitivelle set about sorting the papers, arranging them and carefully smoothing out any unnecessary wrinkles. "What house, pray?"
"Deauxbois, madam representative."
Her hand paused on at the corner of one sheet. "Mayhaps I do not quite recall. Were they not cast out for putting their own servants to the sword to the last man?"
"Nay, madam. That was how they earned the title. Heretics, every one of their kitchen staff, or so the records claimed. The casting out is on the tenth page."
Finding the indicated page, she read further. "Oh." There was silence. "Oh." She continued reading. Launval pressed his brandy bottle to the edge of his desk, within reach of her hand. She accepted it without complaint. Her teacup sufficed.
"It is thorough," she said once she had poured herself a pair of fingers. "Not impossible for a bastard to have survived all that."
"Aye, it is." Launval finished the last of his glass. "And yet."
And yet. And yet allowing it would mean allowing foreigners to claim titles. It meant little that this applicant wanted nothing more than acknowledgement and the title for himself, forswearing even the chance of a seat in the houses. There would be others, all vying for wealth and land in a realm now so cold there was little of both to spare. And yet it would mean risking swelling the ranks of the Lords and filling their coffers with foreign coin rather than the honest folks of the Foundation and the Brume. And yet, it would mean one day, some waddling little popoto requiring a stool as he stood before the two houses and declared their shared lineage. The thought of it made her teacup shake in her hand.
And yet for all that, it was thorough.
"A test," she said, the thought not so much unbidden as desperately sought within the less-organized corners of her mind. "Hm? A test." She held up the one paper. "It could all be naught but mummery and fabrication. A test is the thing, surely."
Launval groped in feeble fashion for his brandy until it was returned to him. "What could be tested?" he asked after foregoing the decency of his glass and tippling from the bottle. "His claims are paper, not blood."
"Mayhaps...in most cases." Chaitivelle tried to smile. "But this merchant claims to be Deauxbois, and their claims are steeped in blood. Do you suppose he can handle overmuch?"
Verad Bellveil's Profile | The Case of the Ransacked Rug | Verad's Fate Sheet
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
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