theshroudwolf:

Prompt 23: Soul

Syluss was still a fledgling Dragoon. He was taking to it somewhat naturally, but that alone would not improve him to a skill level he was comfortable staying at. Fortunately, Aramis was skilled in the martial skill and gave the woodsman a few things to work on.

Syluss kept the soul stone on him all the time but never really knew its importance. He saw it as a catalyst to reaching the skills and ability that would classify one as a Dragoon. What he didn’t know was the deeds of those who held the stone were etched into the stones ‘memory’ for a simple way to describe it. The one who held it before he did was hateful, acted on his spite and narrow-minded prejudices. Whoever had it before, he knew not. It was now his turn to etch his legacy into the stone, and while it may not undo the dark deeds from those who held it before, but he would lay a better path for whom he would pass it down to.

Sitting amidst the trees just outside of the Sylphlands, the place he knew the levin aether was rich, he was in a calm reflective trance. Dressed in the armor he inherited, the weapon lay flat across his lap, and his pensive state held strange effects around his person. The air thick with static, hovering around him like a globe. The three wolves wandering around him, fur standing on end.

Aramis told him of something called blood of the dragon, something which a Dragoon can use to bolster their skills. Despite his father’s lineage hailing from Ishgard and no doubt his partaking of dragons blood, he didn’t exactly grasp that aspect. Opening his eyes, he looks about, the wolves occasionally getting static shock from the ambient aether, he smirked and closed his eyes again.

A long slow exhale escaped him and almost immediately the meandering wolves went still. Opening his eyes slowly to see he found the three sitting before him and looking up just above him. Peering upward as well, his concentration broken, the energy surrounding him dissipating, but before fully fading he takes in what he thought he saw.

The wolves focus their attention back to the woodsman and he nods. “You saw it too huh?” He stands and resting the spear across his shoulders he makes a few click noises and starts back towards home. “Blood of dragon, yeeeeah, I don’t think I am tuned to that.” Patches bumps his leg with her head and gets a pet before running off. “Blood of the wolf, I’ll bet on that.”

@maskedknightofishgardmentioned

Prompt 30: Abstracted

Pale blue eyes peered out from the debris of the Brume. A lone Duskwight left to his own devices in the rubble, moving rock and brick around in the shape of some sort of dwelling. It was rather creative to a mortal so thought the broodling.

Inquisitive thought drove him forward out of hiding, his own clothing a tattered mess and he certainly looked the part.

“Need help. For shelter?” The lightness of his eyes starkly contrasting from his skin and hair, and his seemingly innocent inquiry was met with apprehensive guard.

“I uh, think I got it. Thank you. There’s plenty around if you need a sleep hole made. Keeps the wind off you at the least.” Helpful information from one Duskwight to another in a city where equality was still a chore at times. Thing were better, but considering how bad they were and for how long, the road ahead will still long.

“Ahh, yes. The wind.” A gruff voice which did not match the age the flesh portrayed caused more walls to go up from one stranger to the other but he continued to work on in the presence of the bright eyed man before him.

“So… You got a name or something? Otherwise go stare like a creep somewhere else.” Another brick was set down, set sturdy by the formation around it. A small archway, amazingly well made for such crude materials.

“Just admiring the skill shown.” And with those words he makes his way off.

———–

The nights were getting colder and however cold Coerthas was, it proved it could always hey colder. The makeshift shelter was in full use, and it’s crafter lay long within, throat torn open, legs on fire from the candle which burned within to give what little heat it could.

Shoving his body within and using more debris to block the opening, a passerby spots the act.

“Taince? That you? It’s a bit early to turn in yet, I thought we were going to try the Crozier tonight.

Taince? Wh-” The wet gurgle of blood as a curved blade opens his throat and a unnaturally strong grip grabs his mouth.

“Taince, I like that name. So few a mortal will name their murder.” As life slipped from him, the last moments he was was those pale blue eyes turn from man to the eyes of a brood. Tearing away in a near instant, the newly named had taken two lives and a name for himself. There were still a devout few of the Horde, and this one was not done.

Prompt 29: Debonair

Hilaremont sat in waiting, book in hand and a rather mundane looking walking cane by his side. Feeling much better than he had been he did a much needed outing for some fresh air and also personal matters. He was mending well and despite still a broken leg, he was exceeding mobile despite doctors orders.

This was a more frivolous sort of business but required in his mind all the same. Plus in needing a walking device, he realized he had taken for granted how actually long it took to move across Ishgard. There were other means indeed, but sometimes you need to simply walk the streets.

“I am near done if you would like to do a final check to see if it is to your liking.” Hilaremont’s book closed quickly as he was somewhat excited for this purchase, and gets to his feet. “Ser, please let us bring it to you. You are in need, I simply make the items.”

Not looking a gift horse in the mouth he nods before glazing back at the door. “I trust discretion is in order.” Statement rather than question. With a nod the craftsman produces a beautiful dark hazel wood walking cane. The wood finely lacquered to protect and enhance the natural beauty of the wood coloration. The head of the cane is what required the discretion. The bust of a dragon made from hardsilver, attached at the top. Green shimmering diaspore in place of the eyes, bearing a resemblance to he and his children.

“Excellent. I assure you none shall know who crafted such a piece for fear of targeting.”

“Thank you Ser. As a shown of thanks, I present this.” A second cane similar to the first one is given, just without the dragons head and bust.

“Wonderful. Your discretion is only outdone by your talents.” Producing payment he sets it down and with a quick bow, he walks out with the dragon head cane still wrapped and using the discreet one. He walked with pride and joy with his new items, taking pleasure in the fact he needed a cane, and now he has one which suits his style and charm. Devout be damned, he cannot wait to take it to church.

Prompt 28: Bow

(Chris WoL AU, just after the liberation of Ala Mhigo)

Chris, Alphinaud, Lyse and Arenvald stood in front of Fordola, questioning her and trying to grasp a batter understanding of why she threw in her hat where she did and made the choices she did.

Arenvald led with his words, trying to garner answers from her that were meaningful and maybe delve into her ‘why’. She chose to remain defiant and continue her plea to be put out of her misery.

Then the visions of the past came to the blue haired Ala Mhigan. Watching her as a child endure ridicule and beratement from her own countrymen. It made sense in a way. If she was not to be accepted by those of her own homeland, she would earn her respect through force and service. Noble means with dark intent.

Coming back to the now, she knew. The Resonant was like and unlike the Echo, and while she was new to it, she knew what was going on. Calling Chris out on his sneak peek she got her own in kind.

Chris got to see her childhood, teen and young adult years and all the pain they held. Now, Fordola got to see his.

Thrown into a ceruleum vat.

Left in the arms of his dead father.

Battling at Cartineau and witnessing Bahamut.

Returning to the loss of his family.

Fighting through the Praetorium.

Betrayal by the Crystal Braves.

Witnessing Haurchefant’s death.

Estinien losing himself to the Eyes of Nidhogg and fighting him.

Warriors from another shard demanding his death and fighting to ensure it.

Multiple defeats at the hands of Zenos.

Fordola’s eye open and she looks at the runt of an Ala Mhigan, blue hair, pale skin a fraction of the size of his countrymen, but here he stood. Taller and prouder than most.

“You… y-you… All that power… all that pain… It’s too much. Too much for anyone. The things they’ve done to you. The lies, the betrayal, the endless fighting.. yet you stand, unbroken. How?

Why?”

Chris stomps towards Fordola and grabs her by her shirt and presses her against the cell wall with such a force to crack the brick, teeth clenched, unnaturally green eyes glaring at her.

“Because I choose to. I’ve lost friends, family, a wife and son to Imperial rule and conquest. I’ve seen pain, felt it. Lived it. It tried to kill me. Time and time again.” He released his grip on her clothes and took a step back.

“And here I am. They wanted me to bend, bow, break. I took everything they could dish out at me and through help from those close to me and my own grit, determination, and spite. So much spite. Here I am. I would fight a thousand lifetimes just so others dont endure what I did. You did. So many other had to.

That’s why.”

He turns and brushes by the others and out of the cell.

They all wanted what he had; the power, the status, and the benefits those brought. But there was only room in his father’s tribe for one prince, and T'eirian was determined to hold on to his title.

Of course they were envious. Of course they would take any opportunity to stab him in the back if they thought they could do it and get away with it. But they also went along with whatever he suggested. Thus Eiri had gotten very, very good at pulling the right strings to use his brothers as a weapon, allowing him to do whatever he pleased while they did all the work for him.

Eiri hummed to himself as he leaned back in the cool shade at the edge of the oasis. The water was lovely on such a hot day. The sound of his unplanned melody line wove in along with the nearby noises of splashing and shouting, along with the occasional loud, desperate gasp for air and begging for mercy. T'rada would think, next time, before acting so foolishly.

Well… if there was a next time. Sometimes Eiri’s brothers did get a little carried away.

Oh well. It wasn’t Eiri’s problem. He was above them, after all.

Dance was a skill. It was a talent. But it was also so much more than that.

There were plenty of skilled dancers who looked to draw the eye - and the coin - of passersby in Ul'dah. But just because they were skilled, that didn’t mean they were good.

Over the years, Riski had realized that there was one universal truth about dance: no matter how uncoordinated, not matter how untrained, anyone could dance. As long as they felt it and wanted it, they could do it.

Some of the best dancers he’d seen had been the ones who had claimed to have two left feet. If they were happy and relaxed enough to just move their body, then they were dancing in the purest expression of the word. And that, to Riski, was the most beautiful.

It was good for Kala to get to meet another of her brothers, even if the other miqo'te was, to put it mildly, a little unsettling. Rather than getting in their way, Cam started to make his way out of the cluster of colorful tents and sawdust paths  so he could continue gathering the herbs he’d come all the way to find. But just as he thought all he needed to do was go around a tent and he’d be back out into the La Noscean fields, there would be a fence or another, smaller tent, or some other barrier. He was starting to almost feel trapped.

“Beg your pardon, good ser,” a voice asked behind him, lightly accented in a way Cam didn’t recognize. “Looks t'me like you could use a hand. Y'mind if I offer my services as a guide?”

The voice, Cam saw when he turned, belonged to a pale viera. The man’s wavy purple locks were streaked with red, which matched his smiling eyes as well as the intricate pattern across his cheeks. Tattoos? Or paint? Cam didn’t know. “Oh, um… yes, please. I’m just trying to find an exit,” Cam admitted sheepishly. The man at least seemed friendly.

The viera’s smile brightened. “An exit, is it! Well, I know all about where to find that. Come along, come along. Name’s Oleander. Want me t'read your fortune along the way?” He beckoned Cam to follow, which he did with only a slight hesitation.

“That’s very kind of you,” Cam demurred. “But you don’t have to, I don’t want to bother you. Please.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, no trouble.” As they walked, Oleander pulled out a well-worn deck of cards. “Shall I tell of your love life, then? That’s a popular one among the young folks.” His long ears swiveled to and fro, his step light and cheerful. “Even married, surely there’s always going to be concerned about a relationship beyond just the marriage bed–”

“That’s none of your business!” Cam exclaimed, blushing to the roots of his hair. “Please just point me in the right direction and I’ll be on my way.”

“Alright, alright,” Oleander said, soothing like he would to an anxious horse. “An exit it is. Right this way.”

Cam kept a wary eye on the viera until he was safely out of the marked boundaries and could head back out to where the herbs grew unmolested. At least the man was good to his word, and while he’d continued a stream of inane chatter, noneof it had been further attempts to discern Cam’s love life.

Shirh pulled off his reading glasses and tossed them onto the desk in front of him. Groaning in frustration, he ran his hands through his hair and leaned forward on his elbows so he could continue to stare down at the scattered papers. He’d never had to try to look for someone before, let alone multiple someones. Here he was trying to fix Kayah’s mistake and get everyone back together. He missed his tribe - not the one he’d grown up in, but the one that had been finally starting to feel like family.

Before Kayah had ruined it, of course.

There was nobody to blame but him. Shirh didn’t know the whole story because Kayahhadn’t told him, so he had nobody else to pin it on even if he wanted to. So he sat over his books and his papers and his attempts to find his scattered family, and fumed at his former nunh’s idiocy.

Kugane was special. Ul'dah had been interesting, but it couldn’t begin to hold a candle to the city where Daisuke had grown up.

There was something about the way the lights reflected in puddles as they formed in the late summer drizzle, how umbrellas were all starting to pop up around him like strange flowers, how not even the rain could stop people from going about their business, that was a specific sort of magic. Daisuke took a deep breath of the city and let it out with a smile. Though he had no umbrella of his own, he didn’t mind getting soaked. He knew he had a warm, dry place to return to.

Daisuke sauntered through the streets with his prize tucked under his jacket. He wasn’t in a hurry. Once he did reach the Yamagarasu offices, affectionately nicknamed The Aviary, he took a little extra time by going to change into dry clothes. Then he made his way to the Kumichou’s office, and let himself near-silently into it.

Oka was busy, but it was never easy to pull a fast one on him. He looked up as Daisuke entered, causing the hyur to smile bashfully. “Ah, too bad. I was going to surprise you.” That didn’t stop him from walking over to the desk and setting down what he’d gone out to get. Inside the miraculously dry bag were sticks of dango. “I thought with how hard you’ve been working, you deserved a treat.”

((@grumpy-limsan-customs-cat​ ))

Dealing with Rhai'li could be difficult even at the best of times. Trying to convince him to try something out of his comfort zone was no the best of times.

“I promise you, it’s better than you think,” Toshiya tried.

Rhai'li looked up at him with big, sad eyes. “But it’s green.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make it bad. It’s been blanched and seasoned and it really isn’t as bad as you keep saying it will be.”

“Or maybe he’ll keel over and die on the spot,” Kuroji said from the doorway to the kitchen and dining area.

Toshiya rubbed a hand over his eyes. “You’re not helping.”

“Well, either he doesn’t eat it and therefore doesn’t get dessert - in that case, more for me,” the big Xaela explained. “Or he does eat it and dies on the spot - in that case, more for me.” Kuroji smirked. “It’s a win-win.”

Toshiya full-on facepalmed while Rhai'li whined and dramatically fell backward onto the tatami. When one thought of there being a toddler in the house, they didn’t think it would be an easily-antagonized teenage miqo'te.

((@eorzean-wayfinder​ ))

Rhai'li hummed along with the music being played. He’d heard Kaoru practicing enough times now to be able to recognize the tune, and even if he wasn’t so good at carrying the same tune himself, at least he had enthusiasm. He’d been told that a lot: he might not have much of one thing, but he made up for it with enthusiasm.

“Are there words to this song?” Rhai'li asked, walking over and crouching down to where Kaoru knelt behind his funny instrument. It didn’t look like any other instrument Rhai'li had ever seen, with what seemed like way too many strings and like it should be too big to be played by one person. And the long, floor-sweeping sleeves Kaoru favored! How did he manage it without getting those all tangled up?

Clearly, it must be easier to play than it seemed.

“Not that I am aware,” Kaoru replied softly, not looking up from his practice.

“We could add some,” Rhai'li offered, bouncing back up to his feet. “Some kind of tragic romance - two lovers, torn apart by fate, only to find themselves reunited when– whoa!” He’d been pacing the area, enraptured by his own silly ideas, but caught himselfon Kaoru’s carefully draped sleeves.

Rhai'li pinwheeled his arms like a demented piece of magitek, but there was nothing to save him from faceplanting directly into the bizarre-but-pretty instrument.

Dizzy and a little numb, Rhai'li sat up in a pile of splintered wood, snapped strings, and streaks of his own blood. He looked up at Kaoru, taking in his horrified and upset face, and smiled. “You’ve got really pretty eyes. You should make more eye contact with people, you know?”

It wasn’t unusual for the workers of the Jeweled Sparrow to receive gifts from their clients. Some were small trinkets or food, some were far more lavish like expensive jewelry or scents or fabrics. Kaoru had received his fair share of such things, and always made sure a proper thank you card was returned to the gift giver.

But this… this was something else altogether.

He knew immediately upon opening the large, flat box who had sent it. There was no mistaking that particular taste in the finer things. Nestled amidst protective layers of tissue paper was a stunning kimono of thick, royal purple silk. The lining was shimmering gold, as was the embroidery - there was so much embroidery that when taken out of the box, the garment practically could have stood on its own.

Sweeping golden cranes, each feather a waterfall of fine embroidery, formed a pleasant, peaceful scene against the glossy background of vibrant color. The heavy sleeves nearly grazed the floor, open and showing flashes of that golden lining. There was even an obi to go with the robe; a backdrop of rich gold with silver embroidered water lilies, ready to be tied and artfully draped.

The fabric alone was worth a small fortune. The artful stitching represented an even larger one. Every stitch was done by hand, by someone who had been trained in such fiber arts. It must have taken those who worked on it a significant amount of time. And time, of course, meant more and more money.

The cost of the kimono alone was likely more than had been paid for Kaoru when he was a teenager. At least double.

Once the incredible piece of art was properly displayed on a hanging rack, Kaoru tucked himself in at his little writing desk and reached for paper and a calligraphy brush. ‘Dear Miyamoto-oujisama…’

((@eorzean-wayfinder​ ))

The Nemuri-hime had endured many a storm. Her crew knew what they were doing. Yet still, as lightning split the sky and was followed almost immediately by a bone-shattering peal of thunder, Khoram'ir’s heart pounded just as loudly with stress and worry.

Even the Captain was awake, barking commands and getting his own hands dirty wherever the need arose. Amir saw him every once in awhile, proving that when the situation called for it, even Tou could be just as awake and alert and quick as anyone else. But the miqo'te’s attention was more on his own task; hauling on the sails beside several other crewmates until the heavy, thick, utterly sodden sheets were rolled and no longer catching the winds to toss the ship like a giant’s plaything.

A strangled, startled cry cut through between one roll of thunder and the next. Amir spun around just in time to see, burnt into his eyes in the searing flash of lightning, Natto go over the side of the ship. The big, goofy miqo'te was not Amir’s favorite person, and quite frankly he wouldn’t mind if he decided to stay on shore one of the times when they weighed anchor. But Amir wasn’t about to let him go down like this.

“Haul me back!” he shouted to the three beside him, grabbing one of the ropes at the side of the ship and throwing himself over after Natto. He was still throwing a knot around his waist as he hit the water.

Luckily, the bigger miqo'te was a strong swimmer, and Amir had been fast. He was able to grab hold of Natto quickly, bobbing like a pair of corks in the deep troughs between waves and sputtering their way back to the surface after the waves crashed. Regardless of swimming ability, they would have both been done for if the others hadn’t followed direction and began hauling the rope back up.

Just another day on the sea. Never a dull moment.

((@grumpy-limsan-customs-cat​ ))

FFXIVWrite2021 - Prompt 14 - Commend

“…And today we honor the sacrifice of our fine men and women who were lost to this great Calamity,” the Commander was saying. Helmets were held in hands or set beside feet, their owners openly weeping or staring blindly, shell-shocked.

Kelaire balanced precariously on his crutches, trying to ignore the pain coming from his leg. At least… what was left of it. There had been no saving it, no healers capable of reversing the effects of the intense sudden cold as well as the damage to the bone and tissue. So now his left leg ended just below the knee.

What good was a one-legged knight? It was a question that Kelaire didn’t know how to answer. He and the pitiful remnants of his fellows were not fit for combat. Even those who were whole of body were scarred on the inside from what they’d managed to survive. Coerthas was frozen. With it, the majority of their comrades.

“–Are truly indebted to your bravery and your sacrifice. Please accept this as a small token of appreciation from our Lord of Durendaire.”

Kelaire had missed part of what had been said, but tried to pull himself back to the present. Squires were handing out scrolls to each of the knights standing at attention. Kelaire accepted his and rolled it open.

Upon the parchment, which bore the stamped wax seal of Durendaire, was spidery writing favored by the noble class. He skimmed most of it.

‘Hereby declare… upon commendation from the Count de Durendaire… as long as he or she is fit for service, shall continue to serve in training…’

Apparently, what one did with a one-legged knight was stick him on a training ground to teach a bunch of youngsters to fight. To send them off to their deaths either by dragon, by heretic, or by the hands of the elements themselves.

Kelaire saluted, murmured his thanks, and carefully hobbled off the parade grounds as soon as they were dismissed. Hitting an ice patch on the frozen stone, the crutches went right out from under him and landed him flat on his back. Now it wasn’t just his leg that screamed with the fires of all seven hells, but his back as well.

Staring up at the leaden sky, Kelaire thought longingly of a comfortable chair, a warm fire, and a bottle of something very strong to numb the pain… physical and mental.

Dietrich didn’t even ask anymore when Troy brought him something new and unfamiliar, except to clarify how one was supposed to take it. It wouldn’t do to snort something you were supposed to smoke, or vice versa. Some were supposed to be taken as a tablet or, rarely, even needed to be mixed into water. So there were certain things that needed to be asked. What effects those drugs would have on their user, however, were not among those things.

But he was starting to think that this one might be a dud.

Perhaps it was because Dietrich’s tolerance for various substances was higher than average, but whatever the pressed powder tablet was supposed to do still hadn’t affected him after half a bell. Dietrich laid back against his pillows and gazed up at the ceiling of his room, watching the slow creep of the shadows like a puppet theatre.

They even began to tell him a story, after a time. A wild, adventurous tale about privateers on the high seas, traveling to exotic ports of call and meeting all sorts of interesting people. Pirates and gladiators, beastmen and monsters. It made Dietrich smile.

“I’m an idiot.”

Marron groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. He’d said the words aloud a dozen times already, but saying them tosomeone was a different matter entirely. It was hard to take the weight of the gaze that hadn’t left his face.

“I was just trying to be one of the guys, you know? Nobody likes an arranged marriage, it’s outdated bullshit, and the idea of getting married young because one or both of you is going off to war and probably going to die–” he broke off and scrubbed his hand through his red and blond striped hair instead.

Isobel’s younger brother, Donovan, stood up from the bench he’d been reading quietly on alone before Marron showed up. He closed his book and turned solemn, dark blue eyes up to Marron. “It is outdated,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you had to say what you said.”

“I know. Like I said, I’m an idiot.” Marron paused, taking a breath and letting it out. “But– do you think she’d take me back?”

Donovan’s dark eyebrows disappeared under his hair. “Maaaybe,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “But it’s going to take a lotof groveling.”

Marron nodded. “Yeah, I figured that much. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me out with it?”

The younger hyur’s eyes gave Marron a slow once-over, taking in his posture and his body language. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll help you get in touch with her. But if she isn’t interested after that, I’m not going to do it again.”

((@eorzean-wayfinder​ ))

The salt air caught in his hair and made it dance, caught the ropes and tried to make them spin away from his hands. But T'iolo just grinned and hauled himself up, one hand on the sturdy mast pole as his only concession to the fact that he hadn’t made the climb in several years. Down below he was certain that Gabriel and Kala were fretting about safety, but they didn’t understand. They didn’t know the world that belonged to a lifelong lookout and rigging rat.

It was a sense of freedom unlike any other. Tio knew full well why he’d given up the sailor’s life and turned to the land like a coward. He knew that no other crew could be hiscrew, no other captain a replacement for the ones he’d lost. But for just a little while, on the short - two to three moons, depending on the tides - voyage to Othard, Tio could pretend. He’d gotten permission and nobody paid one more surefooted high-flyer a second glance.

With the salt on his skin and the wind in his hair, the waves slapping a beat against the hull and not a hint of a shoreline in sight, Tio was truly happy and alive.

FFXIVWrite2021 - Prompt 09 - Friable

His fingers were trembling as he took the little bag of dried, clumped flower buds from its hiding place in his bookcase. A small sheet of thin, fine paper was grabbed along with them and set down on the little dining table.

Dietrich knew how to do it properly. He knew how to break the sticky flora down into a relatively fine powder, one that would burn evenly and produce a very nice end result. But that took time, and he needed it now. So he plucked and ground with his fingertips, crumbling and smashing until there was just enough of the rough green powder.

Even as needy as he was, he had been through the motions of rolling the plant matter up more times than he could count. He packed it down and sealed it with a little twist, only to immediately spark it off with the tip of one finger and a tiny bit of aether.

It had been a long, long day. Dietrich took a long drag and released the smoke, blowing it toward the open window purely out of habit. He needed to relax. He needed to stop thinking and feeling quite so keenly. A little bit of fogweed was the best, quickest way he knew how to do it.

Sachagal had learned quickly that it was difficult to corral a one year old; especially one that could walk and was even starting to run. Most of the time he simply followed where Malqan led, letting the slapping of tiny bare feet be his guide.

But sometimes there were places the little peanut needed to go.

“This way,” Sacha called gently, opening and closing his hands and reaching for Malqan’s. “It’s time to lie down for a bit. Mama will be home soon and you’ll want to be all rested up for her, right?”

“Mama!” Malqan shouted, looking around excitedly. And then pouted when he couldn’t see any sign of Lynea.

“Mama will be home soon.” Sacha kept his voice soothing and reached for his child.

“Mama!” Malqan shouted again, before sprinting as fast as his stubby legs could go in the opposite direction.

Sacha sighed and rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t expected fatherhood to be easy, but he’d hoped certain things would be more instinctive than they were proving to actually be. At least he was learning as he went. “Mal!” he called, taking his trump card out of his pocket and crouching down more at the little boy’s level. “Look what I’ve got!”

The little toy was just a few pieces of wood glued together, with a bit of fleece then glued to them. But the little face was delicately carved, as was the thin, curled tail.

Malqan’s orange-ringed eyes lit up and he came dashing back to reach for the toy. “Sheep!” he exclaimed. “Sheep!!”

Yes, there were some things Sacha was learning. One had to be surprisingly clever when dealing with a tiny child.

Something was going on with the scion of House Desjardoux. And it was about time, too. The young man, despite his eccentricities and bookishness, was quite a catch; handsome, from a good family, and in line to inherit a decent fortune. Yet every match that had been arranged for him, he had turned down.

But rumor had it, he would be attending House Montpelier’s soiree with a plus one.

Who could the lucky girl be? And how many of Symonnet’s turned-down, would-be brides were sharpening letter openers and seam rippers to stab her in the back as soon as they had an opportunity?

Imagine their surprise when he arrived with, of all things, a malemiqo'te on his arm. There were at least three ladies on fainting couches and another two who got quiteembarrassingly drunk that night.