#ffxivwrite2019
(This story is about my house knight Charlemont (Julien), who resides at @house-mercaiges. For the ease of organization for @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast, however, I will be posting this here to my main blog and simply reblogging it to Char’s, where it belongs.)
There is nothing to forgive, she whispered, petal-pale lips brushing ghostly and chill over my warm skin. Oh, if only it were true. Such a thing, such a lie, if there were only a sliver of truth inside it I would lose myself, cling to the shard of hope that somehow, some way, perhaps I was not guilty.
Lightning flashed outside, silent and blinding. For half a heartbeat the room went white and frozen. A sulfur and tin still life snapshot. Flowers wilted, dust gathered, and my voice died on my lips.
You could not have known, she insisted, and the world sank back into saturnine darkness. The lift of the light come crumbling into ash. I did know, you see, long had I overheard the secrets of the woods, hummed along to the warning hymn I knew from childhood.
Thunder bubbled up from malms away, low and hungry, and swelled into a devouring, starving thing. Yes, devour me, I thought, me and all around me. This house, its very foundation, the woods themselves. As if I could invoke such power. As if thunder had such strength. It is in silence, rather, the gentle quietude of the star-dark and glowing beams of the sun, that power lies. In the whisper of her voice.
I love you, Julien.
Oh, that voice. Reader, know that even in death, even in phantasm, her voice was honeyed wine, sweet and quickening to my very soul. It haunted and inflamed me; the ache in my bones, the ache in my blood, the ache in my heart and between my legs drew me all at once in a rush back to her face. Diaphanous and pale. Spectral. Beautiful.
No, I would not be forgiven for not saving her. Not in this life. Only in the bittersweet falling asleep.
(This story is about my farm girl Ruthanne, who resides at @ruthanne-winter. For the ease of organization for @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast, however, I will be posting this here to my main blog and simply reblogging it to Ruth’s, where it belongs.)
Ruthanne darted inside the Winter family home just in time, only a handful of huge, inky-dark droplets of water having planted themselves heavy and hard onto her shirt. She shrieked and shoved the door closed behind her, breathless and smiling. “Gods, the sky’s about to rip open!” She’d run from the chocobo stables, knowing she was in a race with the rain.
“Told you to stable the ‘bo’s sooner rather than later,” replied Finneas from somewhere in the living room. A low rumble of thunder punctuated him, and a moment later a sheet of rain crashed into the roof of the house. Ruthanne gasped, wide eyed at the sound. “Land sakes alive!” She was grinning though, high on adrenaline from outrunning the storm. “Where’s dad?”
“Card night, dumbass. He’s at Royda’s”. Ruthie’s brother was sitting on the couch with their newest (and first) niece, Hattie, reading to her from a shiny cardboard picture book.
When Ruthie poked her head into the living room, she gasped. “Finn! Don’t say those words around her!”
“What, card night?” He grinned, knowing of course exactly what she meant.
She groaned and let it go. “Why’s she here, anyway?”, Ruth asked, pointing her head in the direction of the wee one beside Finn. Hattie looked up at her and cooed, lifting her arms up and babbling.
“Date night, dum…” Finneas was cut short by fist meeting his shoulder, Ruthie having crossed the room to slug him. He chuckled and rubbed his arm while his sister scooped up Hattie and bounced around the room with her. “We’re under strict instruction not to call her Hattie, by the way.”
“Huh? Why not?” Ruth pretended to dance an elegant ballroom sequence with a giggling little girl in her arms, humming stanzas here and there and peppering the lines with raspberries against her chubby cheeks.
Finneas cleared his throat and put on his best exaggerated Clara voice. “Her name is Harriet, not Hattie. And certainly not Harry! Don’t even start giving her nicknames. It’s Harriet. Harriet!!” Their older sister, Clara, had always fancied herself a bit above her station; she hated getting dirty, never laughed at the off-color jokes overheard from the farm hands, and certainly had never tasted a drop of ale or wine. Proper and prim, though kind at heart, Clara was bound and determined her daughter grow up to be quite the same.
Already Ruth was groaning and rolling her eyes. “She knows she’s gonna lose that battle, right?” *Harriet* grinned at Ruth. “You’re Hattie, aren’t you? Little Miss Hattie!” Hattie screeched and laughed, clapping her hands clumsily and happily in Ruth’s arms.
Finn had swiftly taken the opportunity to stretch out on the couch and grab some dime store detective novel he’d been reading. “She’s definitely Hattie.”
“Watch her for a minute?” Ruth plopped her down on a blanket beside the coffee table where a few of her toys had been placed. “I’m gonna run get some cookies and milk from the kitchen.”
“Mhmm,” came Finneas’ reply, and he rolled onto his side for a better view. He could just lift his eyes from his book and see right over the top, straight line of sight to Hattie. “Are there any of those cranberry ones left? With the orange and nuts and stuff?”
“No, you shoved all those in your pig mouth the day I made them!” Ruthanne was still disgusted by that. She’d managed to save a few for Mrs. Abernethy and the stable hands, but every single one that was left over was demolished by her trash compactor of a brother.
“Nuh-uh, dad had one too!”
Ruth was already in the kitchen by that point, but made her way back out with a single finger pointed straight up. “One! I know you had at *least* half a dozen! I made thirty six all together, gave a dozen to Mrs. Abernethy, a dozen to the farm hands, *I* ate one, Navigator forfend, and daddy had one. That leaves ten.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed that finger at him. “Did you really eat *ten* of them?” Ruthanne groaned. “Ugh, you are such a pig!!”
Finneas had rolled onto his back again and was craning his neck up to snicker at his irritated sister. He was guilty as charged, but gods be good those cookies were amazing. “I mean, it’s why you made ‘em, right? To be eaten? It’s not like anyone was deprived or anything.”
“Least of all you!!”
The laugh that slipped past Finn’s lips was a little too jovial for Ruth’s liking, pricking a nerve, but at the same time the silliness of the entire argument washed over her and she cracked a grin, chuckling. Soon the bubbling chatter of baby laughter joined in, and the siblings glanced over at Hattie with beaming faces.
There she stood, on her own two feet, one hand holding onto the coffee table Ruthie had sat her beside. The sounds of her aunt and uncle’s laughter had her excited and bouncy, little knees bobbing her up and down. One little foot kicked out and back down, then another.
“Holy shit,” they whispered, both Finneas and Ruthanne staring at Hattie in awe. She was *walking*. Well, sort of. They were undeniably her first steps, though, unsure and wobbly, toddling toward Ruth.
In a flash Finneas sat up, ready to catch her if she tumbled, and Ruthie had rushed to kneel down in front of her, hands out. “Yeah, Hattie!!!” She clapped softly and cheered, glancing back at her brother to see the look on his face and share the joy. Hattie bumbled along as best she could, reaching out for Ruthanne’s hands just as she teetered back and landed on her butt. A second of silence passed before she burst out laughing, a peal of baby giggles as she rolled around on the floor.
“You know we can never tell Clara, right?” Finneas’ voice was grave, knowing his oldest sister would pitch a fit if she thought she wasn’t around for her first-born’s first steps. “Never in a million years.”
Ruth looked back at him again, then to Hattie, who was already pulling herself up to stand once more. “Shhhh. Not a word, okay? This’ll be our little secret, Harriet.”
From the doorway of a cabin nestled in the East Shroud, bare feet padded one at a time down well-worn stone steps, then into soft tufts of emerald moss. It was that sublime slice of evening caught between sunlight and stars, unsure if the air still felt warm or was already chilly. Hazy rays of gold hung pregnant and deliberate in the sky, clinging to their last moments of life before pinpoints of glitter and the fat curve of the moon began to flirt with existence. The gloaming, they called it. And Masa knew of nowhere else it was more beautiful.
The hem of his robes skated over the blades of grass with a surreal sort of billow, making it seem as though he were floating over the land rather than walking. Masa wrinkled his nose and faltered as he stepped on an acorn, breaking the illusion of grace, and the red stones dangling from the tip of his horn clinked against each other as if heralding his approach. A short trip through his yard, halfway to his garden from his cabin, and he sank comfortably, easily, to sit on the ground. The weather was too nice to meditate indoors, and the songs of the forest would only serve to lull him into tranquility more easily. Pale aquamarine eyes closed, and Masa exhaled the stresses of the day.
When he opened his eyes again the gold had faded, giving way to a cobalt-black ceiling salted with flickering stars. The moon shone hazy and swollen, nearly full, bathing the forest in the palest of creams. Masa laid back, boneless and blissful, letting the comfortable cradle of the earth support him as his eyes wandered over the constellations. He lifted a hand then, one finger tracing outlines in the air. The Bole, the Ewer, the Spear, he thought, and as he searched for others, The Arrow seemed to appear out of nowhere. His lips parted at the sight, and his heart leapt in his chest, suspended hand falling to press against it.
“Come see me, then,” he whispered into the vaulted sky.
“Nuh-uh, papa, she started it!!” It was a rare day indeed when Alain’s son, Léonide, protested this much over his own innocence. A dead giveaway to guilt, usually, though in his experience as both a barrister and a father, Alain knew that the defence of children was wholly different than that of adults.
“Didnot!!” Philippine screeched and shoved little Leo away from her, as hard as she dared in front of her father. Leo slapped back at her, reigning in his strikes as well, knowing his reprimand would be swift. And oh indeed.
Quickly, Alain leaned forward and grasped both of their hands. “We do not hit in this household. We do not push, we do not slap. Is that understood? I will not have this kind of disorder.” His voice was firm and fatherly, and it left no room for argument. Rather than continue, he paused, waiting and watching his children for their agreement.
Both Pippa and Leo squirmed in their miniature cherry-wood chairs; matching, artisan-crafted pieces of children’s furniture. They would be in the family for decades. The kids relented, though, not wanting to anger Papa any further. Solemnly, grudgingly, they both nodded their heads.
“You will cease and desist this ridiculous back and forth at once. There is no blame in this house, neither the assigning of it nor the attempted shifting of it. We tell the truth about what happened, then work to resolve the conflict. Right?”
Again, with bowed heads, Pippa and Leo nodded. They’d already overloaded both their nanny and their mother with these histrionics, and being sent to Papa’s Office was akin to being tried in the highest court in Coerthas. Father did not put up with episodes like this, particularly not when they’d harried their mother all afternoon.
“Now. One at a time, Léonide first, tell me what happened.” Alain released his children’s hands and leaned back a bit in his own chair. He rested his elbow on its arm, then slid his finger along the underside of his bottom lip as he listened.
Léonide looked up at his father with a frown on his face, wanting very much at this point to simply forget about it, let it all go. He was the lover in the family, not the fighter, and keeping up with his big sister exhausted him sometimes. “Pippa stomped on my foot this morning. Hard, too.”
Nary the space of a breath could fit between Leo’s last word and Pippa’s retort. “Because Leo pulled my hair!!”
Alain’s eyes narrowed and he held up a finger to his daughter. “There is no because. That is irrelevant.”
“But…!”
“No. No butts.” Alain shook his head and leaned forward toward the both of them, resting his elbows on his knees. “Léonide. Did you pull your sister’s hair?” It was a simple question, and for that Leo was thankful.
“Yes Papa,” he replied, and bowed his head.
“Philippine. Did you stomp on your brother’s foot?”
The defiance and protest flashed in her eyes, clamoring to get out. Stopping her lips from parting in dissent must have taken an act of Halone herself, for in the end she admitted it. “Yes, Papa.”
He was satisfied with these answers, true, but there was one more question to be asked, and it was directed to the both of them. “And for the entirety of the day today, did you or did you not both bicker and argue, complain and fight, and summarily antagonize and irritate your mother and nanny?”
Guilty. The avoidance of eye contact, the shifting in their seats, the delay in reply. Neither child wanted to admit their part in that, nor did they wish to acknowledge how angry they’d made the adults in the house.
“Right. Well. In light of the evidence, I suggest an abeyance until the morrow. Both of you shall go to your rooms for the rest of the evening to think about the situation.” Alain’s voice softened a bit, and he reached out to touch both their cheeks. “It’s been a hard day, mm? We’ll talk about things later.”
Once upon a time sunlight shone warm and golden through Coerthas. It flickered and filtered through emerald leaves, played peek-a-boo with billowy, cotton clouds, and kissed everything it touched. Skin darkened and flowers bloomed, deer basked underneath it in the fields every summer. Cicadas droned. Frogs sang. Blades of grass rustled with the wind and soft, springing footfalls of hares, and the lazy ripples of the pond could lull one to sleep in minutes.
Those were the days Manon remembered most of all. Those were the days, when she thought back to her childhood, that she always let paddle through her mind unhurried. Blissful, innocent days, waxing full with the promise of happiness and forever. If she closed her eyes now and exhaled the world, the years began to slip backward. Slowly, at first, then with increasing speed. To before The Calamity, before Ul’dah, before she lost mother and father and Avoie. To before the days she’d trained so hard as a knight. The years slowed to months, then weeks, then wound to a gentle stop during the languid, luminous days of summer in Coerthas.
If she held her breath, she was certain that the memories would never end.
Manon, with a velvet ribbon of dusty rose only barely holding back her hair, rolled onto her side atop the picnic blanket. It was a stiff cotton, the blanket, but so fine and familiar and old that it was a comfort beneath her, and the only blanket she could ever remember lying on outside. The sun-baked scent of it and the tender scratch of the fabric against her cheek roused her from her nap, violet eyes blinking from behind dark lashes.
How long…?
Peony petals had taken flight on the breeze and littered themselves all around her, dotting the grass and the blanket with shocks of pink and gentle threads of fragrance. Still cradled in a caul of sleep, Manon slowly reached out to a petal close by, fingers touching it with a near reverence.
“Peonies,” she whispered to no one in particular. “I wonder where they’re planted. I didn’t see any earlier,” she thought. Earlier. What had she been doing earlier? The sun shone terribly warm this day, and she wasn’t all together certain when she’d arrived. When… they… had arrived?
“Avoie…” Manon whispered the name to herself with a sharp urgency. Surely she had to be here as well. Did mother and father take her?
Just as she sat up, hair tumbling free of its ribbon, her eyes regained their focus to find her little sister sleeping soundly just behind her. “Avoie.” Her voice was again a whisper, and her lips curled into a smile as she sat there and watch her breathe. The trees above caused the sunlight to dapple over her face, cheeks still rosy and plush with a baby-like glow even as a toddler, and from far-away Manon could hear her mother’s laughter.
She turned then, lying back down on her other side, and watched the scene before her with staggered vision. Avoie, all golden hair and luminous skin, pink lips parted in sleep, painted the foreground. The subject of the art, if you will. Beyond lay the summer paradise of Coerthas before The Calamity, mysterious peony petals and all, and dotting Manon’s horizon floated a boat, just out of focus. A peach-colored parasol twirled above it, then slid downward to hide a slow, shared kiss between her parents.
Manon’s movement, perhaps, or maybe even the soft whispers of Avoie’s name stirred the little girl as well, and she rubbed her eyes with plump little fists. Waking a little girl from a warm, peaceful slumber could have dire consequences, so before the threatening scowl had a chance to take hold, Manon had an idea.
“Listen, Avoie,” she said quietly. “Manon will tell you a story.” She picked up her hair ribbon and brushed it lightly over Avoie’s face, then down along her bare arm, teasing and tickling as she began.
“Once upon a time there lived a little green frog.” She paused at that, creating the story as she went. “Landry was his name, this frog, and he lived underneath a beautiful toadstool. It’s funny, isn’t it? Landry wasn’t really a toad, he was a frog, green as you please. He made his home under a toadstool, though. Quite queer, really. Although perhaps he called it a frogstool instead? I suppose once one moves into a place they can call it whatever they like, can’t they?
“Landry made his living by weaving tiny little baskets from the blades of grass nearby his toadstool. Frogstool. They grew long and strong there, just like the leaves on the trees waaaaaay above.” Manon rolled just slightly to her back and looked toward the sky. “Up in the trees, the leaves have to be strong to withstand the weather and the wind.” She smiled and looked back at Avoie.
“Every morning Landry would have a spot of breakfast and set out to work cutting the best, most perfect, sturdiest blades of grass. Well, I say cutting, but when was the last time you heard of a frog using a pair of scissors? I mean, I suppose it’s possible, with their sticky little fingers, but where on earth would they find such a thing? Scissors small enough to use, that is.” Manon shook her head as if the whole idea was altogether inefficient.
Avoie was smiling now, turned fully toward her sister and holding back her giggles lest she miss a vital part of the story. She’d claimed the velvet ribbon Manon had been tickling her with, and she slid her fingers over the soft flocks of fibers while she listened.
“No, Landry would chew the blades down. Just like a beaver! And when he had enough to make a basket, he sat right down and set to work. Basket weaving one can do anywhere, of course. At a table, on the floor, sitting on a couch or a pillow, even right there in the field. And that’s where he chose to work….”
***
“Ma’am… ma’am…? Is everything all right?” The Serpent officer gently touched Manon’s elbow to help ease her out of whatever trance she appeared to be in. She blinked and gasped, free hand immediately pressing against her chest. “What? Oh… oh!” Manon narrowly avoided watering the officer, as that was apparently what she’d been doing before a beautiful beam of Lavender Beds sunlight glinted into her vision in just the right way.
“I… I’m sorry, I…” Shaking the cobwebs from her mind, she looked around. It was her yard, her simple garden before her, watering can in her hand. A blush rose to her cheeks, and she lifted her hand from her chest to her forehead. “…I was miles away.”
Everything had fallen apart so quickly. One moment, L'shirh had had a stable position in the tribe and a job he enjoyed. The next moment, or so it seemed, L'kayah had destroyed it all. There was much more to it than that, but that was still how it felt in the middle of the night and in the middle of a strange city. Shirh had prospects and skills: he would never be completely destitute. But Kayah’s betrayal still radiated an ache through Shirh’s chest.
Shirh smiled at the innkeeper, having carefully threaded his way through the bar known as the Quicksand. “I’d like to book a room, if you please.”
“Fill this out,” the innkeeper replied, tapping the sign-in book. “And once you can prove you have the gil, I’ll get you your key.”
Shirh presented the coins, and while the man turned to retrieve one of the keys to an open room he filled out the paperwork. The last thing he filled out was his name. He chewed his lower lip for a moment, only writing down the neat, unadorned letters when he saw the innkeeper coming back.
“Alright, here’s your key Mister–” the innkeeper glanced down at the book. “Vanih.” His eyebrows lifted as he looked back to Shirh, clearly taking in his slit-pupiled eyes and other unmistakably Seeker characteristics. But to his credit, the man didn’t ask. “Third room on the left, second floor. I hope you have a pleasant stay in Ul'dah.”
“Thank you,” Shirh replied. “I appreciate your kindness.” He left the innkeeper and the book behind, trying not to think too hard about the Shirh Vanih he’d signed. It hurt.
The first time he stepped on the sand, he was tense. It was more beige than white, the consistency different even from a glance, but a nervous part of his brain expected the same sound when he put his foot down. The same compacting crunch his sabatons had made when he had half-walked, half-dragged himself across frozen Coerthas.
But the sand was gentle, as was the hand holding his own. Kelaire knew that she could pick up on his anxiety, especially when he balanced for a long moment on his bad leg before his first foot came down. Rather than the expected, hated sound, all he heard was the susurrant wind grazing over the grains and already beginning to fill in behind them as he continued forward.
“Shirogane is different than I had pictured in my mind,” he admitted, looking up at the clear skies.
Ylaine walked beside him, still holding his hand. It was only to steady him, of course. Thinking otherwise would be silly. He shoved such thoughts away before they could bring heat and color to his cheeks. “–for me too,” she was saying. “But it’s actually very nice. Are you alright walking here?”
Kelaire gave her hand a little squeeze of gratitude. “I’m quite alright, thanks to you.”
(thank you @eorzean-wayfinder for the use of Ylaine)
Again they clashed, blade meeting blade with neither giving way. Valoq grinned broadly over the crossed steel, meeting Gan’s narrowed eyes. “You fight like my grandmother,” Valoq taunted in Xaelic, trying to goad his best friend into making a mistake.
Gan grunted and shoved, breaking the contact between them and feinting another strike even as he backed up a step. “Your grandmother was fierce,” he pointed out with a short bark of a laugh. “And a better fighter than you. She didn’t make stupid mistakes.” He lunged forward, catching Valoq’s blade once more.
Valoq expected the move and braced himself for it, the contact pulling a grunt of exertion from him. But Gan wasn’t done. He pivoted and pulled his sword free only to follow up with a sheltering shield bash that occupied Valoq’s blade and gave Gan the opportunity to graze the point of his weapon across Valoq’s belly.
There was the unmistakable muted clang and scrape of metal hitting and sliding over sand - twice. Only the second was the hilt of Valoq’s sword falling free of his hand as he moved to cover the thin line of blood that welled quickly to the surface of his midnight-hued skin. The first noise was the top half of his blade falling to the ground separately.
As Gan drew back, triumphant, Valoq looked down to his bisected and now-useless weapon. He spat into the sand and kicked the hilt toward the incoming tide. “You win,” he admitted grudgingly. “I yield.”
“A good fight,” Gan replied cheerfully, sheathing his own sword before slinging an arm around Valoq’s shoulders. He pressed his hand to Valoq’s stomach, the green of healing magic illuminating both of them with its pale glow even under the light of the full moon. “Tomorrow we’ll have to get you a new sword. Tonight, though… well, I won. That means you owe me.”
Valoq groaned and batted his friend’s hand away, but there was a grudging playfulness in the gesture. “Fine, fine. Just know I’ll get you back for it next time.”
Sachagal really was the luckiest man in Eorzea.
Even if there were trials still to come - meeting up with Lynea’s family, not to mention visiting the site where his own had perished - he still believed choosing to take a trip to the Steppe had been a good idea. It would be the closure that both of them needed, especially if they were going to do things right with their new little one.
It was starting to really sink in for Sacha that he was going to be a father. Just remembering that fact made a smile creep across his face, growing until he beamed from ear to ear. He glanced up from the pot he was stirring over the campfire and found Lynea setting up their bedrolls. Watching her wasn’t a new thing for him, but there was a new aspect to it now. There was something magical happening, something he understood but would never truly understand.
She was beautiful. Despite how often she remarked upon feeling fat or out of shape or other grousing about her body’s changes, he still thought she was the most sublime creature he’d ever met. Especially now. She might not see it, but she was radiant: she shone with an inner light that was even more captivating than he’d ever seen her before.
“What is it?” Lynea asked, breaking his introspection with an uneasy little laugh. “Do you want the bed somewhere else?”
“Huh? Oh! No, it’s nothing,” Sacha returned to stirring. Sheepishly, he flicked his gaze back to meet her confused one. “I was just thinking about how lucky I am to be married to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
(@eorzean-wayfinder thanks for letting me borrow Lyn)
Ul'dah was a terrible place for someone who loved the water. Demei dragged himself through the city while the sun beat down atop his head, feeling the sweat bead up beneath his hair to drip down the back of his neck. He felt dehydrated, wilting in the desert heat.
There was much to be had in Eorzea; all kinds of opportunities for someone like him. He just didn’t think he’d spend much time in Ul'dah if he had the choice.
At least, he realized with dawning glee, the city had some good sense. He could hear the splashing before he saw the fountain, and the slap of his sandals made a counterpoint to its music as he dashed headlong to jump right into it. That was exactly what he needed. He could breathe again, sitting directly in the basin and ignoring the mortified looks from the ordinary citizens as they passed by.
“Hey! What are you doing there?”
Demei had learned quickly who the Brass Blades were. He jumped to his feet and hightailed it again, leaving wet footprints and a shouting guard in his wake. Clearly he needed to find a different city. There had to be somewhere more friendly to someone like him.
Keep your eyes down.
Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.
Thinking is unnecessary. Wait to be told what they want you to do.
The lessons had been learned through repetition and harsh punishment. Kaoru’s obeisance had been bought with blood. His own blood.
He hesitated now, paralyzed with indecision as his hands hovered over the rainbow of gorgeous kimono that hung in his wardrobe. Even something as simple as what to wear was a struggle every single day. Still he waited for the demand to be made, for instruction to come for what he should do. Thinking for himself was the hardest thing he had to re-learn as his broken spirit slowly began to heal.
“Seriously, Aili. Calm down,” Rhai'a hissed, grabbing a handful of his little brother’s shirt and hauling him back into the seat. “You can’t go acting like that around here.”
“But I want–” Rhai'li began.
“Listen to me. These people have been through a lot recently and they’re understandably on edge now. Don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong when all the guards around you are on high alert.” Rhai'a had known it would be a mistake to take Rhai'li to Ishgard, but it was better that he was there with him the first time rather than Rhai'li suddenly deciding to go on his own one day. But Rhai'li’s natural excitability was enough to make Rhai'a nearly as jittery as the knights that patrolled the city.
“I’m just gonna go over there and look around,” Rhai'li wheedled, climbing back to his feet and dusting himself off. “I’ll stay in sight and I’ll come back before he even gets here. Promise.” He winked and darted off out of Rhai'a’s reach. “Don’t be such an old lady, Aya!”
(read more cut for explicit sexual content)
The crisp silk of his robe caressed his skin with every slow, measured step he took. It trailed behind him with a whisper across the floor, the ultimate subtle nod to wealth and privilege - to be able to let the shimmering fabric gather dirt from the floor. Kaoru knew the garment cost more than he was worth, but did not dwell on how the gold lining would be filled with dust and grime by the end of the night. His place was not to worry about the state of the clothing his client desired he wear; his place was to be the decorative model for it, to be the jewel wrapped within the layers of beautiful trappings.
The midnight blue kimono could nearly stand on its own, so thick was it with heavy gold embroidery. It was covered with a sunburst motif, from the spangles of star-like dots spread thin around his shoulders all the way down to where the rays intermingled in a riot of different golden hues. The blue set off the pink of Kaoru’s hair, while the gold brought out the shimmer of answering color in his scales. Gold was also the favored color of his patron for the night, and Kaoru was nothing if not accommodating to the whims of his clients.
He walked with grace and serenity, his eyes appropriately downcast and his hands folded in front of the wide bow of the inverted-color obi that held the robe together at his waist. Kaoru might not look up, but he could certainly hear the things that were said around him. There were some appreciative comments; some lewd insinuations; some requests to know who he was and how to hire him; some scoffs and quiet sneers about his kind. Kaoru ignored them. They were not his patron.
Kaoru came to a halt, his tabi-covered feet meeting in an open fourth position. Without needing to lift his head, he knew precisely where he was and where his client stood. “Good evening, Miyamoto-sama,” he murmured as he bowed. “It is an honor and a pleasure to serve you once again after so long.”
————————
Crumpled in a pile on the floor, the kimono had served its purpose and now lay forgotten. Its unwrapped treasure lay facedown on the bed, arms bound behind his back in an intricate lacing of ropes from shoulder to wrist. His legs were bound as well, but only insofar as to hold the metal bar that kept his knees a set distance apart. He knelt that way, with nothing to keep his face from being buried in the soft mattress. That was just as well; it muffled his cries and dried his tears.
Hiroaki was anything but gentle. If anything he was rougher than Kaoru remembered, his big hands as quick with a slap as they were with a caress. The cheeks of Kaoru’s ass were still stinging from the smacking he’d been given - the swats he had begged for through clenched teeth and tears. He had thanked Hiroaki for every one of them and asked for more, pleaded to prove his penance and his overwhelming joy at having his Ouji-sama back in Kugane.
Eventually Hiroaki had relented, allowing Kaoru a reprieve from the ringing slaps and letting the smaller Raen please him with his mouth instead. Bound and unable to use his hands, Kaoru was severely limited. He had become more of a living sleeve for Hiroaki’s use, moved up and down by a hand in his hair or gripping his horns. He choked and coughed the first few times he was urged all the way down, gagging on the length of Hiroaki’s dick, but repetition finally engaged his ingrained training and Kaoru managed to take him down all the way without complaint. It had earned him praise. It had earned him a reward.
His ass in the air and his face buried in blankets, Kaoru moaned around the gag in his mouth as Hiroaki pulled all the way out only to bury himself in fully again in the next fluid motion. Hiroaki knew all the ways to make Kaoru see stars, to make his toes curl and his cries turn to sobs of frustrated denial. His own cock throbbed and pulsed, sending little shocks through him every time a thrust made it bob up to touch his stomach.
“Come for me, Kaoru,” Hiroaki commanded, his low growl an indicator for just how close he was as well.
The command was a gift. Kaoru let go of his careful hold on himself and shattered, howling his gratitude into the mattress while his body trembled and clenched and finally found the relief it begged for. Through the wild haze of orgasm he felt Hiroaki join him, gushing hot and slick and fulfilling.
After an amount of time that Kaoru couldn’t identify, the bar was removed from between his knees and he was allowed to fully collapse into the mess he’d made. The gag was loosened and taken away, and his arms were freed from their rope prison. Hiroaki settled himself comfortably on the dry side of the bed and patted the space beside him. Kaoru achingly dragging himself back to his knees and crawled over to him, fitting into the space along his side.
Hiroaki was rough, yes, but that sort of handling was what Kaoru understood. It was what Kaoru was goodat. Being roughed up and manhandled made him feel all the more treasured afterward. Hiroaki was the only one who stayed long enough to stroke Kaoru’s hair and tell him what a good boy he was.
(read more cut for mature (non-explicit) subject matter)
The kitchen lookedclean, but Toshiya knew better. He’d been a little too intoxicated the night before to take care of it properly - drunk on heady kisses and the thingsthat Kuroji did to him.
As he scoured the countertops with the strongest cleansers he could find, he knew he owed it to the rest of the house to see that the kitchen was absolutely and without a doubt clean. He also knew, with a twinge of shame, that although it was the first time he’d allowed - no, begged for - himself to be bent over the counter, it would not be the last. There was a need now, a deep and desperate desire to have Kuroji buried to the hilt within him, filling him up and taking him again and again.
Maybe Toshiya would ask next time to postpone until they could get to a bedroom? He laughed under his breath at his own silly thought. No, he wouldn’t. He would just have to keep a supply of cleaner on hand and purchase a real scouring pad rather than just an old towel.
(@eorzean-wayfinder for mention)
There were letters, and then there were letters. Minh'to had delivered hundreds of thousands of them over the years, from missives scrawled on scraps of paper to heavy packets of the finest vellum. He’d learned in that time how to tell with reasonable accuracy what letters were something important and which were slightly less so - and it didn’t always show in their trappings.
Rain danced and scattered off the waxed fabric of his cloak, his mail bag tucked safely at his side beneath it as he hurried through the soaking downpour. This one, he could feel somewhere deep in his gut, was important. Too important to sit idly in a city and wait for the rains to lighten. That was why his boots splashed in puddles three ilms deep along the path, coating his footwear in water and mud. At least beneath the cloak he was warm and dry and his precious cargo was protected.
Minh'to was starting to doubt if he’d find anyone out here in the middle of the Twelveswood in such a squall, but his compass was unerring. As he stepped up to the mouth of a cave, partially hidden by vines and moss, he was greeted by the sharp point of an arrow nocked and pulled in his direction.
Minh'to cleared his throat and tipped his cap, moving the hood of his rain cape out of the way so that the postman’s symbol showed clearly in the gloomy afternoon. “Are you, ah…” He glanced down to the addressee on the letter at the top of his bag, still shielding it from the wet. “Are you Basteaux Renaulier? I have a letter for you.”
The arrow stayed primed for a moment longer before it withdrew, and a gloved hand pushed aside the curtain that covered the cave’s entrance and its owner stepped out into the elements. “I am,” he said, sounding uncertain. “A letter for me?”
“Yes,” Minh'to replied, moving closer in order to pass the letter carefully into the Elezen’s unresisting hand. “Thank you for choosing the moogle post, ser. Should you need anything else, please place your addressed mail in a letterbox and we’ll be certain to get it to its proper recipient.” He stepped back and bowed, the rain bouncing off of him again. “Lovely day to you, ser.”
Minh'to smiled, paused to make sure the reclusive Duskwight had nothing more to say, then hurried back into the forest the way he’d come. Rain or shine or snow or sleet, there was nothing he would rather be doing with his life than this.
There’s a saying in Ishgard that all roads lead to Halone and, perhaps, there was some truth in that adage. For, on this late evening in particular, one of her flock stumbled from the tavern, into the streets of the city, and eventually found himself in Her house.
He entered the Cathedral and slumped onto one of the massive oak benches that sat sentinel on either side of another door. Beyond stood row upon row of empty pews, like soldiers in a wooden army. The sleep he so desperately needed eluded him, however, and he found himself lost in the river of his own thoughts.
Then stay and burn with the rest.
Raven pressed the heels of his palms against the sockets of his stinging eyes. "Stop,“ he said to himself. Against the tears that threatened to breech the tired lids of his eyes? Or the memory of his own words that echoed in the cavern of his mind. Words spoken on this night, some years ago. The last words his father would ever hear from his son.
Then stay and burn with the rest
"STOP, DAMMIT!” he hissed, shoving himself to his feet a little too quickly. He stumbled into a candle stand, knocking it to the marble floor with a violent clatter, sending half-spent candles rolling until stopped by their own melting wax. Like a ship at sea, he listed back and forth and watched their flames flicker and carve through the white wax, gathering it into pools against the cold floor. Raven sagged and finally sank to his knees before the mess of bent iron and untended flames.
Then stay
“Please…”
and burn with the rest
Unbidden, the tears finally came in great sobs. He sagged backwards against the unyielding wood of the bench and spread his arms along it’s seat and peered upward through hazy eyes at the visage of the Fury that adorned the stained glass window above the door. A glow, warm at first, and then all consuming and furious, lit her from behind and shone down, lending a divine aura to the crumbled form of the knight.
He squinted in defiance against the light. “No,” he growled. “It’s not your sin to forgive.” As if in answer, the sun moved upon its natural course and left the window dim with overcast, morning light. Raven closed his eyes against the sparks that dazzled his vision and fell into an uneasy sleep.
(The story this refers to can be read here.)
“Gods, Brynn,” Gerart said with a bemused, doubtful laugh, “to hear you tell it, the boy’s useless! If that’s the case, pack ‘em up, send 'em off to the Astrologicum!”
The two men, father and son, marched down the lane toward one of the Cathedral’s many training squares. The chill of the early spring morning was just beginning to warm up and the pace that the older man was setting raised beads of sweat on his son’s forehead. He dragged his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “He’s not smart enough,” Brynn said.
They reached the gates of the training grounds and the air was suddenly filled with the music of practice. Calls and cries and the percussion of wooden swords against shields. Gerart gave a stern look to his son. “I was joking. The boy is what? Ten?? If I'da given up on you as easily as you’re set to give up on Raven, I warrant you’d be rollin’ out maps and fetching tea for your betters.”
“Dad…” Brynn began to protest again and reached for the latch on the gate.
Gerart’s hand seized upon the gate and held it closed, straightening to his full height. “Yes, *Captain*?” His tone and posture left no room for further nonsense.
Brynn’s mouth snapped shut and he stiffened to attention. It was one thing to have a discussion within the walls of the family manor but here, in uniform and within the shadow of the Cathedral beneath the appraising eye of Halone herself, there was no questioning his father.
“Nothing, General,” Brynn said.
“Good,” said Gerart. “I believe I will assess Raven on my own. You may go.”
Brynn snapped a salute and headed off, waiting until he was well clear of his father before he began to grumble under his breath.
Within the fenced-in grounds, practice continued unabated until one of the instructors noted the approaching General and called for attention. As a unit, all in attendance stopped what they were doing to turn and snap a chorus of salutes.
“Go on,” Gerart called. “Continue.”
It wasn’t difficult to pick Raven out from the trainees. He was shorter than even the most diminutive of students by almost a foot. Gerart couldn’t help but snort. Fury’s tits, he thought. That sheild is wearing *him*.
He watched the drills and noted that Raven’s movements were smooth and natural. Moreso than any of the others. He moved from position to position by instinct, rather than by clumsy, stiff rote. He also seemed bored out of his skull. "Pair up!“ called Gerart.
The instructors flinched but recovered easily. "You heard the General! Move into pairs, it’s time to spar! Move!”
The students sprinted to the equipment bins and hastily buckled into full protective leather and strapped oversized helms to their heads.
Gerart watched as Raven squared up against another boy and all of the ease and confidence with which he had performed his solo forms crumbled to the dirt. He stoically observed, his stern eyes all but hidden beneath his heavy brow, thick arms crossed over his broad chest. But in his mind he sighed and groaned each time Raven was knocked to the ground.
What had Brynn done to my grandchild, he thought. Raven’s footwork was solid, he noticed, and decidedly not in the textbook, clearly improvised. He moved with as much grace as he could muster while he attempted to hoist the shield in the way of oncoming attacks. More often than not, he would miss the block entirely and take a strike against his helmet, which would shift to cover his eyes and prevent any defense against the next attacks.
“Alderscorn, front and center!” The General called. Everyone stopped as a group and turned toward him. Raven peeled off and shuffled dejectedly to his grandsire. “Did I tell the rest of you to stop?!” The students snapped back into action and began anew.
Gerart knelt down as Raven approached, still having to look downward to meet his eyes.
“I know,” Raven said.
“What do you *think* you know, boy?”
“I’m horrid.”
“Yep.”
Raven, perhaps not expecting to hear the truth, though he should have known better coming from his grandsire, sulked. “May I return to my arse-kicking or have you more wisdom to impart? General.”
Gerart had to summon a great deal of will not to laugh. If there was ever a doubt under Halone’s blue sky that this boy was his grandson, it had just vanished. “In a hurry, are you?”
Raven thought to continue his sardonic tantrum but he was too dejected and sore to do so. “Not especially,” he said.
“Your problem…well, ONE of your problems is that you’re trying to fight like everyone else. *Are* you everyone else?”
Raven merely starred at him. “I rather thought that was the point of all this. They teach us as one. The drills, the instruction…”
“And how’s that working for you?” Asked Geralt.
“…about as you’d expect,” admitted Raven. He was beginning to see around the corner of his grandfather’s thoughts. His grandsire was a smart man, he knew this, but he was prone to circumlocution. It could be frustrating but he also appreciated being allowed to come to his own conclusions rather than being barked at, which was his father’s primary tool for instruction. “So then…how do I fight like me?”
Gerart grinned, causing the wrinkles around his eyes to carve deep paths. Atta boy, he thought. “Drop that, for one,” he said pointing his chin at the shield. Raven dropped it without question as if he was just waiting for permission. “Good. Now. How you like that helmet?”
Raven blinked. “It’s not the most comfortable piece of headwear I own but I do appreciate that it keeps my brain intact.”
“Nah, I seen you move, boy. You won’t need it.” When Raven hesitated, Gerart put his hand out.
“Right…well, if you’re wrong I don’t suppose I’ll have the wherewithal to say I told you so,” he said, slipping the strap from his chin and dropping the helmet to the dirt next to the shield.
“Right. Now give it a go,” Gerart said.
Raven didn’t move at first. He raised his finger, “ah, question?”
“Mmhm.”
“What do I do with my other hand now? I can’t exactly block a sword with it lest I wish to have Carlisle tie my shoes for me from now on.” Raven presented his sword hand alongside his empty one.
Gerart seized the boy’s empty hand and slapped it to the handle of the sword. “Add power to your swing,” he said. He then grabbed Raven roughly by the sleeve, “grab hold…” He released his arm with soft punch, “…shove. Do what feels natural to YOU. Not your father. Understand?”
Raven was beginning to get the picture and he nodded. With a slap against his shoulder, he was sent back to his sparring partner.
Gerart stood once again and nodded to the instructor who turned toward him for confirmation. It was highly unorthodox to allow students as young as these spar without a shield, let alone a helmet. But he sure as hells wasn’t going to say so. As the two began, Gerart had to keep himself from grinning. The change was immediate and left little doubt in his mind. The boy was a natural and from now on he himself would assume the role of Raven’s instructor.
(This story picks up from where Prompt #3, Bargain, left off)
Raven and Artoirel left the Proving Grounds and walked uphill along the gilded path. The main throughways of The Pillars wound among the spired buildings and passed vast manors, sanctums, and academies. Both beautiful and formidable, the Holy See intimidates just as much as it inspires, though only outsiders would allow themselves to seem impressed. The denizens of the neighborhoods through which they passed glide along with noses in the air and eyes cast downward.
“Those were four of my finest that you trounced,” Artoirel said with a grin. Raven had bested the knights after being coerced into an impromptu sparring match. Lord Fortemps knew of Raven’s reputation and had learned much from his conversation with Ser Aymeric regarding his skill, though it was quite a thing to see it with his own eyes. “Younger by a decade, warmed up, and fresh. While you…”
“…are old, rusty, and hungover,” finished Raven.
Artoirel smiled. “Well, I wasn’t going to word it precisely that way.” He turned to Raven as they continued to walk. “Impressive, Ser Raven. Truly.”
“The one has potential. Provided he can get his head out of his arse,” Raven said, pointedly ignoring the complement.
Artoirel nodded, “Robert. Father says much the same.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed a frustrated puff of air that instantly crystalized in the cold. “I don’t know what to about him.”
The men had reached the top of the stairway and stopped just short of the massive double-doors that serve as the entrance to Ishgard’s primary and most astounding structure. Out of habit, Raven took off his sunglasses and his gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket. The guards on either side of the doors lowered their halberds in unison, blocking entry. Artoirel flinched and fell back a step while Raven seemed to not even notice.
“He’s just looking for a chance to prove himself to you,” said Raven. He noted that Artoirel looked at him askance, and he snorted. “Perhaps you’ve spent so much time being Artoirel de Fortemps that it slips your mind from time to time? He looks up to you, my Lord. Give him more responsibility. Put him in charge of some men, perhaps, or assign him a task beyond what you think him capable.”
Artoirel couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head. “I’d have said the opposite but, hearing it now, it seems obvious. I believe The Lord Commander to be right,” he said with admiration, “you’ll make a superb instructor.”
Raven sighed inwardly and turned toward the guards, pulling the lapel of his coat inside-out to present the ornate pin that signified his position within the Temple Knights. Wordlessly, the guards retracted their polearms and cleared the way for Raven to push the heavy door open. The air within was warm and fragrant with the scent of wood oil and incense. “Welcome to the Vault, my lord. The perfect setting for the story you’re about to impart.”
Lucien stood at the center of the Master bedroom as Raven paced hither and thither, preparing for an evening out. He was halfway into a three-piece suit, hastily applied one article at a time, looking instead like a man who was drunkenly undressing. The cuffs of his untucked shirt were protruding loose from the arm of his jacket like ruffles on a lace blouse. His collar was unfolded against his neck, scratching against his freshly shaven cheek. He paced and swore and sighed with each unsuccessful lap. The valet was unwavering and resolute like a lighthouse bashed upon by the unrelenting crashing of waves. A beacon in the darkness without whom all would be lost.
His lord was a formidable man, there is no doubt. Cunning, intelligent, and resourceful. A captain of men and successful in business. And yet…
“Fury’s tits, the time…” Raven said as he fished through another drawer, shoving articles of clothing to one side and the next. “Lucien, where in hells are-”
Lucien’s hand raised to produce a pair of mythrite cufflinks which Raven plucked on his way by, fixing them to his cuffs.
He crossed and opened the double doors of his armoire, and stared at a sea of black cloth. “Where are all my-”
“On the inside of the left door on the hook,” Lucien said evenly.
“No…”
“Your *other* left.”
“Ah,” Raven said, pulling a black tie from the hook and looping it around his neck. He tied a hasty half-windsor as he continued to wear a beaten path in the rug toward his dressing cabinet. He opened and closed the tiny drawers, one after another, his search becoming frantic as the various pins, chains, and tie tacks clinked about. He growled and turned away from the drawers, leaving them in disarray. “Lucien, do you know wh-”
A fine, silver pocket watch, scratched and patinaed from age and use, dangled from a chain at the end of Lucien’s fingers.
Raven took it from him and, for once, was still as he stood before his valet and attached the chain to his waistcoat and deposited the watch into a pocket. Lucien wordlessly adjusted Raven’s tie and collar so that the knot was perfectly dimpled and sat straight. He tugged and shifted the fine cloth at Raven’s shoulders and cuffs and, satisfied with the presentation, tucked his hands behind his back.
Raven nodded with a smirk at the man who’d been in his service all of his adult life. He began to leave the room when he stopped and turned, a question barely formed on his lips. “W-”
Lucien pointed to the sideboard in the hall at the invitation Raven was about to ask for. He snorted and shook his head in amusement, picking it up and tucking it into his breast pocket. “Where would I be without you, Lucien?” Raven called from the steps as he descended, leaving Lucien grinning in the bedroom.
“Where, indeed, my lord,” Lucien said to himself.
The runner had found Raven, just as the Lord Commander promised, and he’d taken to the chilly streets of the city before the sun had gotten high enough to melt the frost from the cobbles. Raven had gone to Ser Aymeric for information regarding a missing child and, while he hadn’t been able to help him directly, was good enough to set up a meeting with someone who could - Lord Fortemps.
He’d expected to wind his way to Fortemps Manor for his meeting but, somewhat mysteriously, the missive had said to meet at Lightfeather Provingrounds. So, donning his long, wool coat and dark glasses, Raven pulled up his lapels and found the place with nary a look upward.
The guard snapped his heels at his approach and Raven waved him at ease. A sense of pride and reverence swelled within him as he laid his hand on the massive ironwood door he’d not passed through in many years. It was much warmer within, thanks to the braziers, so he stowed his leather gloves in his pockets and released the buttons of his coat.
The heels of his fine shoes clacked on the stone as he passed through the Hall of Accolades, the walls lined with names of past tournament champions etched into platinum. His eyes found his own name without truly looking for it and he rubbed his thumb across the shining plate and smiled. So many names appeared between his and the most recent. Gods, has it been so long?
He was still smiling when he’d rounded a corner and started to hear the familiar sounds of early morning sparring within the training square. Commands being barked, the cadence of steel ringing against steel, leather boots dancing on rough dirt; music to Raven’s ears.
“Hold!” the instructor called to his men, who lowered their weapons and relaxed. “Well, well,” said Artoirel Fortemps to the new arrival, “look what the cat dragged in.” He grinned widely, as did the four house knights who turned to regard Raven who, despite his fine (if out of place) clothing, was clearly worse for wear from the previous evening’s libations.
The grin on Raven’s face diminished as he realized the trap he’d just walked into. Ser Aymeric had kept to his word, arranging a meeting with ‘Lord Fortemps’, just not the particular one he had in mind. “Lord Artoirel,” Raven managed and bowed a bit informally, “and his ladies in waiting.”
Artoirel laughed and walked forward to clasp arms with Raven while his men glowered. “It’s good to see you, Ser Raven, very good indeed,” he said, his face alight with joy that Raven didn’t fully trust.
Raven narrowed his eyes somewhat. “Oh?”
By way of answer, Artoirel put his arm around Raven and turned them both around to face his house knights. “Men, do you know who this is?”
The house knights glanced at each other before turning back to their lord. One of them, a smirking, cocksure elezen who was clearly the de facto leader of their little group, spoke up. “Well, my lord, he rather looks like yourself…after being trodden upon by Vishap.” The group laughed heartily at that. It was a fact that, especially side-by-side, Artoirel and Raven appeared very much alike…apart from their drastic height difference.
Raven smirked. He had to admit, that was clever. Artoirel, however, was not as amused and continued undaunted.
“This is Captain Alderscorn, Temple Knight and veteran of the Dragonsong War,” said Artoirel, whose tone acquired a bit of sharpness to lace his joviality. The house knight didn’t apologize, though his smirk was wiped from his face for the moment. “Quite,” Artoirel said to the men now that they were silent. His smile immediately reappeared as he continued. “Captain Alderscorn here requires information,” he explained. “In an exciting twist of happenstance, our Lord Commander, Ser Aymeric, requires a swordmaster to oversee the training of recruits.” Raven’s stomach lurched and he fought the instinct to flee.
“If you’ve studied your history, like I know you lot have not, you would know the name Alderscorn from it. This man’s Grandsire was General Gerart Alderscorn; war hero and legendary swordsman - Fury’s Blade, they called him. It is purported that he taught Ser Raven here everything he knew - a claim, if I’m honest, I rather doubt.” Artoirel grinned slyly, reclaiming his arm from around Raven’s neck, and rejoined his knights. He crossed his arms and regarded Raven who began to feel like the fox on a royal hunt. “Have you anything to say for yourself, Ser Raven?”
It was obvious where this was going. Artoirel’s pantomime and grandstanding was meant to spur Raven into defending those claims with a display of swordsmanship. Raven had nothing to prove, he knew. He’d begun training from the time he could hold a wooden sword and did so to this day. Besides, why should he interview for a job he wasn’t sure he wanted?
“Do you honestly believe I can be baited?” Raven asked coolly.
“Mmhm,” Artoirel replied and met Raven’s icy stare with a smirk.
Raven held Artoirel’s gaze for a time before sighing and holding his hand out. Godsdammit.
Artoirel tossed Raven a blunted practice blade and stepped to the side, grinning proudly. The house knights retrieved swords of their own and looked to their lord for instruction.
Raven took off his long coat, trading his sword from hand to hand as he did so, and handed it to Artoirel. Giving the blade a few long practice swings, he attempted to adjust for its weight as well as the incredible hangover he was experiencing.
“Ser Raven?” Said Artoirel. He pointed to the bridge of his own nose and then extended out his palm.
It took Raven a moment to realize he was still wearing his sunglasses and he took them off, handing them to Artoirel. With a final glare at Lord Fortemps, he exhaled a sharp breath and squared himself up to his opponent - the mouthy knight had nominated himself to face Raven.
“You ready, old man?” sneered the knight.
No, Raven thought, but he nodded.
No sooner did Raven nod than the knight was on the move. He snapped a sharp thrust that Raven parried by pure instinct, swiping the blade away from his face and stumbling sideways to avoid being struck. The other knights laughed and jeered, gaining confidence at the clumsy display. Artoirel remained silent, a soft grin playing on his lips as he watched the events unfold.
Raven laughed along with them and even nodded his agreement to the insults. “Impressed?” he chuckled. He took a moment to refocus and pulled his suit jacket off, tossing it carelessly to the dirt floor.
“Oh, indeed my Lord!” jeered the knight. “Perhaps I should fetch my Mother? You know, to make this a fair fight?” He turned to the other knights who clapped and laughed.
Raven stepped back to the line and relaxed into a comfortable stance. He grinned at his opponent. “No, no. Let her sleep,” Raven said. “We had a long night and she needs the rest.”
The smile died from the man’s lips and he scowled. Likewise, the others had caught the insult and their laughter fizzled out. “How dare-” he began to say but Raven cut him off.
“Care to join?” Raven said to the remaining three knights, drawing a circle in the air around them with the tip of his sword. “Defend the honor of this man’s hard working mother?”
They all looked at each other and, as one, turned toward Ser Artoirel who nodded. They plucked their swords from the dirt and joined their friend in a semi circle around Raven.
Adrenalin surged through Raven’s veins and began to sweep away the cobwebs of his hangover. He breathed in deeply, relishing the moment. He lived for it. The stretched second before the fight when all was silent and still. When action was pulled back taut like a bowstring, held by sore, shaking fingers that threatened to loosen their grip and let fly. The younger knights narrowed their eyes and set their jaws, nostrils flaring with each breath - young pups trying to look bigger than they are by raising their hackles.
Raven winked.
After a moment of surprise, the knight launched his attack and the other three followed.
The dance lasted only a few moments. The first two went down almost immediately, their approaches clumsy and half-hearted. Raven feigned a spin and reversed direction causing the smirking knight to catch his own man in the head with a heavy backswing. His mistake sent him into a fury of heavy, sweeping swings that Raven merely dodged, infuriating him even further. Finally, their swords made contact as Raven stepped into range. The volley was short lived, however, as Raven whirled, locking the man’s blade against his own and flinging it out of the knight’s hand.
Raven swung hard and swatted the man on his ass with the flat of the training blade causing him to yelp.
“Bad house knight,” Raven admonished and swatted him again.
“I YIELD!” he called, rubbing his stinging backside with one hand and raising the open palm of the other. “Fury above, I yield!”
Raven offered a half-hearted salute with his sword before tossing it to the dirt. Ser Artoirel joined Raven and handed him his coat and jacket. “Shall we talk?”
Raven accepted his clothes and walked out of the ring with Artoirel, leaving the house knights to rub their wounds. With a sigh, Raven turned to him. “This had better be worth the price.”
