[ser stephannot of skyfire locks is a simple man. he has never married or sired children — his six younger brothers and sisters were trouble enough to raise — and he has spent all his years of knighthood sworn to house haillenarte. he is a young man no longer, but his blade is still keen and yet sings in his hand, so he enjoys a fairly comfortable position in lord francel's personal guard. his peerless service to the fury will no doubt be one day rewarded in her hall.
he has, in short, few concerns in his life.
and he would endeavor to keep things that way, but for the arrival of the mysterious stranger in skyfire locks.
it was a sudden thing, really — one day, francel simply returned from one of his usual outings to providence point, saying that he had found a man without his memories, lost and confused and in need of help; as was his wont, the boy left his home with a bouquet of lilies, and returned leading an elezen man by the hand. and this much would be of no consequence — if not for the fact that an entire fortnight has passed, and still the mysterious stranger has yet to leave.
so, this is the situation that ser stephannot is in now: he must watch his young lord francel dote on this amnesiac stranger — a man who might be of common or noble or mixed blood or worse. several times now, stephannot suggested sending the mysterious stranger on his way, but each time, his young lord refused. "where would he go, stephannot?" he had asked. "i would have him stay until his memories have recovered!"
all well and good. but why must this strange "zephirin" fellow stay in the young lord's home? (and why does that name sound so familiar? it has been many years since stephannot last stepped foot in ishgard — he cannot recall, no, he cannot recall.) why give him that privilege? why not send him to one of the locks? (besides, zephirin is a common enough name. he could be anyone. a commoner or a carver or a criminal or worse —)
secretly, stephannot knows. this is the way that lord francel has chosen to cope with lord haurchefant's death. he understands that much. still, it strikes him as rather inappropriate.]
Zephirin? I had a mind to make breakfast — how do eggs strike your fancy?
[yes, stephannot thinks, his young lord has taken too much of the enchiridion's exhortations for generosity to heart.]
[ Lord Francel's guest has no desire to impose on his host overlong. The cottage is too small for the burden of sheltering a stranger indefinitely, even a stranger who endeavours to be of some use while he avails himself of Lord Francel's generous hospitality, and the young lord's guardsmen make no secret of their views on the matter. The young lord himself has his daily affairs to attend to.
No, Zephirin intends to leave as soon as another few pages of his memories wiped blank are restored — unfortunately, his name was the only thing thus far to emerge from his mind's persisting fog, days into his stay at Skyfire Locks. A fortnight since Lord Francel took him in like a stray cat, and this remains all he has retrieved of his life.
His body may be a seasoned soldier's, marked here and there with scars — but was he a swordsman who fought with a shield on his arm? Or did he wield an axe? A lance?
Perhaps, he thinks from time to time, he might try his luck in Ishgard with a first name alone, if indeed "Zephirin" is his own name. Perhaps someone there knows his face. Perhaps something besides chance led his feet to Providence Point.
For now, however, the sun has risen on another cold Coerthan morn, and Lord Francel speaks of breakfast, as if they are friends and Zephirin's presence in the young lord's humble home is nothing out of the ordinary. For now, Zephirin smiles, lifting the washbasin in his arms to change the water.
If I were spoiling you I would not ask you to haul the firewood, now would I?
[privately — to himself — francel might admit that the suffuse warmth with which he treats zephirin is absolutely an attempt to distract himself from the grief of having lost haurchefant. and if zephirin were any more demanding, any less grateful of a guest, francel might be more inclined to remove him from the premises. as things stand, however, he needs this — he needs the company of a man closer to his own age than his knights. he needs to be reminded of what it was like to feel needed by someone else.
and it is easier to forget the questionable (unfair; absurd; the fury she hath no mercy, my prayers and exhortations were they all in vain) death of a friend when one makes new friends to forget the pain — so francel happily scrambles heavenseggs upon his stove, one omelette for himself, and another for zephirin. stephannot and sylvaintel have already eaten at their own homes.]
After breakfast, perhaps you might accompany me once more to Providence Point. I thought we could stop by Camp Dragonhead on the way — mayhap you would remember something of your past if we looked at the armory there. A man such as yourself must certainly have held a spear or sword in hand...
And if I were to confess that nothing gives me greater pleasure?
[ He speaks not entirely in jest, genuinely grateful to be assigned such chores and keep busy. These are lands yet foreign whilst he lacks any memories to give meaning to the names of locations inked on a map, but he has regained the strength to move about unaided and make himself useful, and with each day that takes him outdoors, his disorientation lessens. Idle, his mind would wander to niggling fears that perhaps he was exiled for some grave misdeed, that it is but a matter of time until his lost past finds him here. From time to time, too, it becomes tempting not to pursue it at all. If the man he was had living family and friends, he would leave them in peace.
But Lord Francel's kindness is no invitation to consider this his home.
Zephirin lingers in the doorway as Francel extends to him a different invitation — he thinks of the broken shield at the monument overlooking Ishgard. A faint something stirred at the sight, he imagined, but he has yet to speak with the knights of House Fortemps stationed at Camp Dragonhead. ]
...Thank you. [ Zephirin's eyes flick to his hands. ] Mayhap my body remembers enough of wielding a weapon that my mind will follow.
Ha! We would need to find you better pleasures, in that case...
[at the doorway, an expression of surprise crosses ser stephannot's masked features — long has it been since last he heard the young lord laugh, even briefly, and he wonders what strange spell this zephirin has cast over the youngest son of house haillenarte.
francel, for his part, harbors no such concerns. it is good to be able to like someone, to care for someone, not as a knight or a servant, but simply as a friend. and while he and zephirin are not friends in the traditional sense (one cannot truly call a man with no identity of his own a friend), he likes zephirin. he has enjoyed keeping zephirin in his home.
two omelettes for two plates. francel takes both and sets them upon his solitary dining-table, beckoning zephirin to come eat.]
I admit, I am once again puzzled over whence you might have come. Had you been one of our knights, or else a knight from House Durendaire, we would have known you by the colors of your haubergeon. But your ruined armor was quite unlike any uniform I am familiar with... Strange plating, truly, all black and gold. Perhaps you were an adventurer of some kind.
[ Lord Francel's omelettes, delicious though they are, salvage nothing new from whatever abyss swallowed up Zephirin's memories. Zephirin remembers no prayers said before a meal, no companions' faces as they sat around a table. He simply cuts his portion into evenly-sized pieces, eating tidily, at a steady pace.
But soon his expression turns pensive; his knife and fork pause hovering near the edge of his plate. ]
...An adventurer? [ That possibility does not rule out dealings with House Fortemps, and it is far more welcome a notion than fearing himself guilty of a crime. ] I wonder, then, whether I ought take my leave of Coerthas and travel the land. With luck, I shall retrace my steps, and something may come to me on the road.
[ No doubt Ser Stephannot would have him depart immediately. ]
[indeed, no doubt the silent ser stephannot would speak up to voice his approval of this idea — but the look of concern that crosses francel's features stays his hand. the young lord does not want zephirin to leave. in fact, what the young lord wants is for zephirin to stay, and thereby provide a welcome distraction from his empty heart, his even emptier thoughts.]
Well — well, let us see how the armory at Camp Dragonhead fares us first.
[francel seems mildly distressed as he sprinkles a light dusting of sea salt over his eggs. his thoughts stray towards stranger notions.]
...No, you don't seem like the sort of man Haurchefant would have... no.
[ That look of concern does not escape Zephirin's notice. It surprises him — surely Lord Francel himself wishes to have his amnesiac guest out of his hair sooner rather than later, that his days might resume their usual course — and his eyes rest on Francel's troubled features for a time, searching them quizzically. His hands are still, the remainder of his breakfast uneaten.
Haurchefant is a name he has heard uttered but once or twice. It rings not the faintest bell, and Zephirin takes care not to pry, having noted the odd quality to Francel's voice. He knows enough, by now, to piece together his assumptions as to this Haurchefant's identity. ]
I doubt that we knew each other, [ he offers, though Francel leaves his musings unfinished. ] After all, you and I met for the first time when you came upon me a fortnight ago. Nevertheless, I admit to hoping that Camp Dragonhead will prove a lead.
[were zephirin one of the many mercenaries and adventurers that had captured lord haurchefant's roving eye — even temporarily — francel would have surely heard of it. or would he have? with haurchefant now dead, it sometimes seems as though he and francel were never friends at all — that despite all these years, francel never knew him, or else, perhaps, that he never knew francel.
such thoughts strike the young lord with alarming frequency, and have been the cause of many of his ill humors as of late.
in the end, he takes up his fork and continues eating his eggs.]
...Will you be warm enough in your attire? I have a cloak I might lend you, should the elements require it.
I would be grateful to accept your cloak, provided you have another to wear yourself.
[ The garments that Zephirin was given to replace mangled plate and tattered cloth beneath keep out the worst of the chill indoors, but he has learned how quickly the weather turns stormy, the winds biting. Both he and Francel ought set out prepared — which Zephirin trusts the young lord knows quite well.
They are fortunate this day, for the skies are clear when they leave Francel's hilltop home, and still cloudless upon their arrival at Camp Dragonhead. The garrison's knights greet Lord Francel, but know not what to make of his companion, it seems. Some place him as the stranger led past the garrison like a lost child, a fortnight prior, if not in those words.
A fair-haired knight, introducing himself to Zephirin as Ser Corentiaux, appears to be Camp Dragonhead's acting commander, though his introduction includes no such explanation. Perhaps Zephirin only imagines that a flicker of recognition crosses the man's features. ]
[if ser corentiaux does know zephirin — and indeed he is the sort of man who would know, for corentiaux knows everything there is to know, at least so long as it concerns himself — francel knows better than to ask. the colder likes his secrets; he will not reveal them unless he is hard-pressed. any attempt to convince the man to divulge his thoughts will be futile.
in lieu of interrogation, francel proceeds with his plans. "would we be able to make use of the camp dragonhead armory, ser corentiaux?" the young lord asks, politely. "you see, zephirin would learn of his past life, and i would help him, so long as it is within my power to do so. given his age and physique, 'tis like that he served ishgard in some capacity, as mercenary or knight... i thought, perhaps, he might find his memories restored were he to hold a blade in hand. "
corentiaux's emerald eyes flicker over zephirin's — spring green. though he pauses a moment before answering, he seems to come to the conclusion that it is safe to allow zephirin a weapon, in the end. "'tis not within my power to refuse you anything, lord francel," he answers generously, with a warm smile that — francel knows quite well — must be forced. "you know where the armory is."]
[ Camp Dragonhead's armory presents Zephirin with a sizeable selection of swords and axes, lances and halberds. One after the other, he tests their fit, but his forgotten life remains out of reach. Each weapon's haft ill suits his hands — or is it the weight of each blade? The shield he soon discards?
When he has no options left to turn to, Zephirin steps back, quiet. A slight crease upon his brow, he presses his fingertips to his forehead, giving chase as another distant something flits past the outskirts of his mind. ]
I—
[ His frown deepens. His body's apparent complaint strikes him as ridiculous. ]
Mayhap these blades are lighter than I once preferred...
Felih is still new to Ishgard, he's still learning the culture, the power dynamics, the names and faces to know. Most of the city has been wary, or even hostile of him and his companions, all outsiders and strangers, with rumors of danger and wrongdoings on their tails.
All lies and slander, of course, but how would an isolated city know better? Few had even heard that there were new Warriors of Light risen to slay the primal threats. No, Ishgard had its own troubles to worry about. Still, he knew the Heavens' Ward were an interesting bunch, especially after the fiasco with Ser Grinnaux and his false accusations. He should poke around a bit- get to see what kind of men they all were.
"Excuse me- you're Ser Zephirin, am I right?" Felih asks, remembering his face from when he had been sent to meet with the Archbishop. He had heard... interesting things, about the man, but it would be better to see his personality firsthand. His tail sways behind him, not quite at ease, but certainly intrigued.
For a man oft likened to an automaton, Zephirin is astonishingly popular a topic of conversation for Ishgard's wagging tongues. His admirers sigh with longing over his elusive heart, painting him so virtuous and noble a knight that he is as flawless marble, an unfailing champion of the faith, beyond earthly wants. Others speculate that Ser Zephirin but wears a carefully constructed mask — his chosen blade points to his true face beneath. No doubt the young archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward has ambitions of his own.
As he stops at the foot of the steps leading to the Vault, half turned toward Felih, Zephirin does nothing to disprove any rumour that he truly is an automaton, his expression politely neutral, his thoughts concealed. He notes the Warrior of Light's wariness, and suspects that the man has returned to the Hoplon not by chance. After a moment, he turns to face Felih fully, inclining his head in lieu of a deeper bow.
"Yes. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The Warrior of Light is the talk of all Ishgard, of late, but hearsay merely supplements one's own observations.
Felih cocks his head curiously, ears perking forward at the way Zephirin's movements are the picture of neutrality, even-tempered and stable. He admires it, though he keeps it to himself for now: he's sure the man already deals with enough praise from his admirers, and Felih doesn't want to come off as fickle and shallow as the nobles of Ishgard.
"Curiosity, of course," he finally replies, letting himself crack a playful smile. Because he's a cat, is the unsaid joke, but Felih won't ruin it by explaining it.
Felih is short even for a Miqo'te, so he feels quite small in Ishgard, the nation filled with Elezen and Hyur. But he tries not to let it daunt him.
"I merely wished to ask if you've time to spare. I am intrigued to get to know the Heavens' Ward, in light of recent events- hopefully, to prevent more misunderstandings between us..." he admits with a laugh.
A cat's curiosity could prove a dangerous thing, but this cat is the vaunted Warrior of Light, and Zephirin offers no such remark aloud. Almost imperceptibly, the faintest hint of a smile curves the corners of his lips upward, as if Felih's sense of humour has broken the ice.
He is newly returned from the Congregation; following his meeting there with the lord commander, his next task is to report to the archbishop, ahead of a summons for the Ward to attend conclave. He has little time to spare, in truth.
However, as a flesh and blood man, even Zephirin must take meals and rest each day, and that time is entirely his own, barring some emergency. To spend it observing the Warrior of Light would be in alignment with the archbishop's instructions.
"I see." Approaching the knights of the Heavens' Ward presumably one by one is no small undertaking. "What is it that you wish to know?"
If Felih must be one of the only Miqo'te in all of Ishgard after the cold of the Calamity drove them out, then he may as well have fun with it and make all the subtle cat jokes he can. At the very least, it seems to help disarm the oft-suspicious Ishgardians, and Felih is ever the sort to try and extend a hand first.
His ears perk up at that barest hint of a smile, though, and he relaxes a little more. "Ah, 'tis nothing so obtrusive, I should hope," he says with a laugh. "I merely wish to know of the men under the armor, so to speak." He's learned by now that the Heavens' Ward were a wary and suspicious lot- or at least, judging by Grinnaux and Paulecrain. "And in doing so, hopefully convince you that my companions and I aren't heretics?" he laughs.
"At least if you've the time for a chat. You all seem to be quite a busy lot."
It seems the Warrior of Light indeed has plans to strategically extend his friendly overtures to each and every one of Zephirin's chosen brothers. Despite the archbishop's formal apology — no less strategically offered — Felih Tia and his companions yet face most of Ishgard to thaw, a busy lot themselves.
"I fear I must needs request that our chat be postponed until later this evening at the earliest," Zephirin answers. He does not laugh, but his subtle amusement lingers as Felih gradually appears to lower his guard. The Warrior of Light's catlike features lend him a somewhat surprising expressiveness.
"Assuming that speaking with me shall suffice, have you the time then? Regardless, you and yours may rest assured that Ser Grinnaux will not leap to hasty conclusions a second time."
At least, not the same conclusions, planted in Grinnaux's mind to serve specific ends.
Felih hums, perking up considerably. That is not a complete rejection! And hells, if he can make more friends in this place (cold in many ways, after all), then he'll go for it. His fluffy tail sways and coils in his optimistic behind him as he chirps, "I'd be glad to have some time with you in the evening, if that is when you're free."
Though Felih tries his best to control his body language and look more neutral, he's actually quite terrible at it in most situations, with his feline features oft giving away the subtle bits of his thoughts.
"To hear Grinnaux will stay his accusations is a relief. My brother in arms was quite upset, to say the least, to find his wife's honor in need of defending," he laughs. Poor Tataru, the sweet woman hadn't deserved such terror. "That aside- if later is better, when and where would I best find you~?" he purrs.
No matter where they meet, their conversation is like to stir up fresh gossip. Zephirin looks beyond the Hoplon and towards the walkway where the statues of King Thordan's knights twelve ever stand watch. Lifting one hand, he indicates the top of the steps just past the two lampposts ahead. "Shall we meet here in four bells?"
The Last Vigil is but a short distance away, after all.
"I imagine you devote your spare time to learning more of Ishgard. Today, I would accompany you."
Felih perks up immediately, even more delighted. Yes, this is certainly progress! From what he's heard, Zephirin seems especially adored and trusted by Ishgard as a whole- well, at least the many noblewomen smitten with him, but hopefully being seen in his company could only earn him further points of trust with the city.
"That sounds lovely. I'll be here, then- I'll head back to the manor and tend to some other tasks in the meantime, but I won't be late," he chirps contentedly. He's sure his mate will be glad to hear he's being friendly with the Heavens' Ward, or so he hopes. "I would be glad for the chance to learn from you on a walk- there is truly so much history, so much culture I've yet to learn or adjust to."
Four bells pass swiftly, and when the day's official duties are done, Zephirin quits the Vault to keep his word. Punctual, he stands waiting beside one of the knightly statues overlooking the walkway connecting the Hoplon and the Last Vigil. He, of course, had the shorter distance to cross to arrive at the meeting place agreed upon.
The Temple Knights at their posts do not turn their heads to watch him, but Zephirin knows their boredom — they will eavesdrop while they can, undoubtedly curious. By all appearances, the archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward is engaged in highly unusual idleness, standing about to enjoy the crisp night air.
Felih is not long behind him, soon trotting up to the other man in more relaxed attire. Lovely dress robes, built warm for the Ishgardian cold, now adorn his body, heavy but with a weight that seems to match much of the Ishgardian fashion within the city, trimmed and lined with soft, warm furs. Robes are the attire of choice for mages, after all, and if nothing else, Felih is proud of his skill. He has the large hood up to protect his ears, the thin folds of skin not prepared for such biting cold, but proper attire has done wonders.
"Ah- there you are. Glad am I that the weather did not take another turn towards snow, at least for now," he laughs, perking up. He adjusts his hood with gloves that cover his claws, and even his fluffy tail is tucking close to the fabric. He considered putting it in a warm sweater-sleeve to keep warm, but it looks so undignified... so he chose against it.
"I hope I've not kept you waiting long, ser knight."
As he did earlier, Zephirin acknowledges Felih's arrival with a dip of his head, stirring just enough that he no longer makes another watchful statue. "Not at all." Once again, he smiles only slightly, politely reserved. His eyes flick toward the darkened heavens above ere his gaze returns to Felih. "I do not fault you for taking your precautions — our fair skies are oft fleetingly so."
Zephirin himself remains clad in his pristine armour, having chosen punctuality over comfort, but then, this evening's walk is an extension of his duties, no genuinely idle stroll through the city.
Once Felih falls into step with him, Zephirin selects a route that leads them away from the heart of the Pillars, and avoids nearing the Tribunal. "You had questions to ask me?" he prompts as they walk, glancing back down at the Warrior of Light.
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valoirs
Zephirin de Valhourdin
3.0 spoilers
he has, in short, few concerns in his life.
and he would endeavor to keep things that way, but for the arrival of the mysterious stranger in skyfire locks.
it was a sudden thing, really — one day, francel simply returned from one of his usual outings to providence point, saying that he had found a man without his memories, lost and confused and in need of help; as was his wont, the boy left his home with a bouquet of lilies, and returned leading an elezen man by the hand. and this much would be of no consequence — if not for the fact that an entire fortnight has passed, and still the mysterious stranger has yet to leave.
so, this is the situation that ser stephannot is in now: he must watch his young lord francel dote on this amnesiac stranger — a man who might be of common or noble or mixed blood or worse. several times now, stephannot suggested sending the mysterious stranger on his way, but each time, his young lord refused. "where would he go, stephannot?" he had asked. "i would have him stay until his memories have recovered!"
all well and good. but why must this strange "zephirin" fellow stay in the young lord's home? (and why does that name sound so familiar? it has been many years since stephannot last stepped foot in ishgard — he cannot recall, no, he cannot recall.) why give him that privilege? why not send him to one of the locks? (besides, zephirin is a common enough name. he could be anyone. a commoner or a carver or a criminal or worse —)
secretly, stephannot knows. this is the way that lord francel has chosen to cope with lord haurchefant's death. he understands that much. still, it strikes him as rather inappropriate.]
Zephirin? I had a mind to make breakfast — how do eggs strike your fancy?
[yes, stephannot thinks, his young lord has taken too much of the enchiridion's exhortations for generosity to heart.]
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No, Zephirin intends to leave as soon as another few pages of his memories wiped blank are restored — unfortunately, his name was the only thing thus far to emerge from his mind's persisting fog, days into his stay at Skyfire Locks. A fortnight since Lord Francel took him in like a stray cat, and this remains all he has retrieved of his life.
His body may be a seasoned soldier's, marked here and there with scars — but was he a swordsman who fought with a shield on his arm? Or did he wield an axe? A lance?
Perhaps, he thinks from time to time, he might try his luck in Ishgard with a first name alone, if indeed "Zephirin" is his own name. Perhaps someone there knows his face. Perhaps something besides chance led his feet to Providence Point.
For now, however, the sun has risen on another cold Coerthan morn, and Lord Francel speaks of breakfast, as if they are friends and Zephirin's presence in the young lord's humble home is nothing out of the ordinary. For now, Zephirin smiles, lifting the washbasin in his arms to change the water.
He is aware of Ser Stephannot's eyes on them. ]
You spoil me, my lord. Have you any tasks for me?
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[privately — to himself — francel might admit that the suffuse warmth with which he treats zephirin is absolutely an attempt to distract himself from the grief of having lost haurchefant. and if zephirin were any more demanding, any less grateful of a guest, francel might be more inclined to remove him from the premises. as things stand, however, he needs this — he needs the company of a man closer to his own age than his knights. he needs to be reminded of what it was like to feel needed by someone else.
and it is easier to forget the questionable (unfair; absurd; the fury she hath no mercy, my prayers and exhortations were they all in vain) death of a friend when one makes new friends to forget the pain — so francel happily scrambles heavenseggs upon his stove, one omelette for himself, and another for zephirin. stephannot and sylvaintel have already eaten at their own homes.]
After breakfast, perhaps you might accompany me once more to Providence Point. I thought we could stop by Camp Dragonhead on the way — mayhap you would remember something of your past if we looked at the armory there. A man such as yourself must certainly have held a spear or sword in hand...
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[ He speaks not entirely in jest, genuinely grateful to be assigned such chores and keep busy. These are lands yet foreign whilst he lacks any memories to give meaning to the names of locations inked on a map, but he has regained the strength to move about unaided and make himself useful, and with each day that takes him outdoors, his disorientation lessens. Idle, his mind would wander to niggling fears that perhaps he was exiled for some grave misdeed, that it is but a matter of time until his lost past finds him here. From time to time, too, it becomes tempting not to pursue it at all. If the man he was had living family and friends, he would leave them in peace.
But Lord Francel's kindness is no invitation to consider this his home.
Zephirin lingers in the doorway as Francel extends to him a different invitation — he thinks of the broken shield at the monument overlooking Ishgard. A faint something stirred at the sight, he imagined, but he has yet to speak with the knights of House Fortemps stationed at Camp Dragonhead. ]
...Thank you. [ Zephirin's eyes flick to his hands. ] Mayhap my body remembers enough of wielding a weapon that my mind will follow.
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[at the doorway, an expression of surprise crosses ser stephannot's masked features — long has it been since last he heard the young lord laugh, even briefly, and he wonders what strange spell this zephirin has cast over the youngest son of house haillenarte.
francel, for his part, harbors no such concerns. it is good to be able to like someone, to care for someone, not as a knight or a servant, but simply as a friend. and while he and zephirin are not friends in the traditional sense (one cannot truly call a man with no identity of his own a friend), he likes zephirin. he has enjoyed keeping zephirin in his home.
two omelettes for two plates. francel takes both and sets them upon his solitary dining-table, beckoning zephirin to come eat.]
I admit, I am once again puzzled over whence you might have come. Had you been one of our knights, or else a knight from House Durendaire, we would have known you by the colors of your haubergeon. But your ruined armor was quite unlike any uniform I am familiar with... Strange plating, truly, all black and gold. Perhaps you were an adventurer of some kind.
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But soon his expression turns pensive; his knife and fork pause hovering near the edge of his plate. ]
...An adventurer? [ That possibility does not rule out dealings with House Fortemps, and it is far more welcome a notion than fearing himself guilty of a crime. ] I wonder, then, whether I ought take my leave of Coerthas and travel the land. With luck, I shall retrace my steps, and something may come to me on the road.
[ No doubt Ser Stephannot would have him depart immediately. ]
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Well — well, let us see how the armory at Camp Dragonhead fares us first.
[francel seems mildly distressed as he sprinkles a light dusting of sea salt over his eggs. his thoughts stray towards stranger notions.]
...No, you don't seem like the sort of man Haurchefant would have... no.
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Haurchefant is a name he has heard uttered but once or twice. It rings not the faintest bell, and Zephirin takes care not to pry, having noted the odd quality to Francel's voice. He knows enough, by now, to piece together his assumptions as to this Haurchefant's identity. ]
I doubt that we knew each other, [ he offers, though Francel leaves his musings unfinished. ] After all, you and I met for the first time when you came upon me a fortnight ago. Nevertheless, I admit to hoping that Camp Dragonhead will prove a lead.
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[were zephirin one of the many mercenaries and adventurers that had captured lord haurchefant's roving eye — even temporarily — francel would have surely heard of it. or would he have? with haurchefant now dead, it sometimes seems as though he and francel were never friends at all — that despite all these years, francel never knew him, or else, perhaps, that he never knew francel.
such thoughts strike the young lord with alarming frequency, and have been the cause of many of his ill humors as of late.
in the end, he takes up his fork and continues eating his eggs.]
...Will you be warm enough in your attire? I have a cloak I might lend you, should the elements require it.
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[ The garments that Zephirin was given to replace mangled plate and tattered cloth beneath keep out the worst of the chill indoors, but he has learned how quickly the weather turns stormy, the winds biting. Both he and Francel ought set out prepared — which Zephirin trusts the young lord knows quite well.
They are fortunate this day, for the skies are clear when they leave Francel's hilltop home, and still cloudless upon their arrival at Camp Dragonhead. The garrison's knights greet Lord Francel, but know not what to make of his companion, it seems. Some place him as the stranger led past the garrison like a lost child, a fortnight prior, if not in those words.
A fair-haired knight, introducing himself to Zephirin as Ser Corentiaux, appears to be Camp Dragonhead's acting commander, though his introduction includes no such explanation. Perhaps Zephirin only imagines that a flicker of recognition crosses the man's features. ]
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in lieu of interrogation, francel proceeds with his plans. "would we be able to make use of the camp dragonhead armory, ser corentiaux?" the young lord asks, politely. "you see, zephirin would learn of his past life, and i would help him, so long as it is within my power to do so. given his age and physique, 'tis like that he served ishgard in some capacity, as mercenary or knight... i thought, perhaps, he might find his memories restored were he to hold a blade in hand. "
corentiaux's emerald eyes flicker over zephirin's — spring green. though he pauses a moment before answering, he seems to come to the conclusion that it is safe to allow zephirin a weapon, in the end. "'tis not within my power to refuse you anything, lord francel," he answers generously, with a warm smile that — francel knows quite well — must be forced. "you know where the armory is."]
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When he has no options left to turn to, Zephirin steps back, quiet. A slight crease upon his brow, he presses his fingertips to his forehead, giving chase as another distant something flits past the outskirts of his mind. ]
I—
[ His frown deepens. His body's apparent complaint strikes him as ridiculous. ]
Mayhap these blades are lighter than I once preferred...
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All lies and slander, of course, but how would an isolated city know better? Few had even heard that there were new Warriors of Light risen to slay the primal threats. No, Ishgard had its own troubles to worry about. Still, he knew the Heavens' Ward were an interesting bunch, especially after the fiasco with Ser Grinnaux and his false accusations. He should poke around a bit- get to see what kind of men they all were.
"Excuse me- you're Ser Zephirin, am I right?" Felih asks, remembering his face from when he had been sent to meet with the Archbishop. He had heard... interesting things, about the man, but it would be better to see his personality firsthand. His tail sways behind him, not quite at ease, but certainly intrigued.
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As he stops at the foot of the steps leading to the Vault, half turned toward Felih, Zephirin does nothing to disprove any rumour that he truly is an automaton, his expression politely neutral, his thoughts concealed. He notes the Warrior of Light's wariness, and suspects that the man has returned to the Hoplon not by chance. After a moment, he turns to face Felih fully, inclining his head in lieu of a deeper bow.
"Yes. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The Warrior of Light is the talk of all Ishgard, of late, but hearsay merely supplements one's own observations.
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"Curiosity, of course," he finally replies, letting himself crack a playful smile. Because he's a cat, is the unsaid joke, but Felih won't ruin it by explaining it.
Felih is short even for a Miqo'te, so he feels quite small in Ishgard, the nation filled with Elezen and Hyur. But he tries not to let it daunt him.
"I merely wished to ask if you've time to spare. I am intrigued to get to know the Heavens' Ward, in light of recent events- hopefully, to prevent more misunderstandings between us..." he admits with a laugh.
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He is newly returned from the Congregation; following his meeting there with the lord commander, his next task is to report to the archbishop, ahead of a summons for the Ward to attend conclave. He has little time to spare, in truth.
However, as a flesh and blood man, even Zephirin must take meals and rest each day, and that time is entirely his own, barring some emergency. To spend it observing the Warrior of Light would be in alignment with the archbishop's instructions.
"I see." Approaching the knights of the Heavens' Ward presumably one by one is no small undertaking. "What is it that you wish to know?"
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His ears perk up at that barest hint of a smile, though, and he relaxes a little more. "Ah, 'tis nothing so obtrusive, I should hope," he says with a laugh. "I merely wish to know of the men under the armor, so to speak." He's learned by now that the Heavens' Ward were a wary and suspicious lot- or at least, judging by Grinnaux and Paulecrain. "And in doing so, hopefully convince you that my companions and I aren't heretics?" he laughs.
"At least if you've the time for a chat. You all seem to be quite a busy lot."
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"I fear I must needs request that our chat be postponed until later this evening at the earliest," Zephirin answers. He does not laugh, but his subtle amusement lingers as Felih gradually appears to lower his guard. The Warrior of Light's catlike features lend him a somewhat surprising expressiveness.
"Assuming that speaking with me shall suffice, have you the time then? Regardless, you and yours may rest assured that Ser Grinnaux will not leap to hasty conclusions a second time."
At least, not the same conclusions, planted in Grinnaux's mind to serve specific ends.
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Though Felih tries his best to control his body language and look more neutral, he's actually quite terrible at it in most situations, with his feline features oft giving away the subtle bits of his thoughts.
"To hear Grinnaux will stay his accusations is a relief. My brother in arms was quite upset, to say the least, to find his wife's honor in need of defending," he laughs. Poor Tataru, the sweet woman hadn't deserved such terror. "That aside- if later is better, when and where would I best find you~?" he purrs.
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The Last Vigil is but a short distance away, after all.
"I imagine you devote your spare time to learning more of Ishgard. Today, I would accompany you."
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"That sounds lovely. I'll be here, then- I'll head back to the manor and tend to some other tasks in the meantime, but I won't be late," he chirps contentedly. He's sure his mate will be glad to hear he's being friendly with the Heavens' Ward, or so he hopes. "I would be glad for the chance to learn from you on a walk- there is truly so much history, so much culture I've yet to learn or adjust to."
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The Temple Knights at their posts do not turn their heads to watch him, but Zephirin knows their boredom — they will eavesdrop while they can, undoubtedly curious. By all appearances, the archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward is engaged in highly unusual idleness, standing about to enjoy the crisp night air.
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"Ah- there you are. Glad am I that the weather did not take another turn towards snow, at least for now," he laughs, perking up. He adjusts his hood with gloves that cover his claws, and even his fluffy tail is tucking close to the fabric. He considered putting it in a warm sweater-sleeve to keep warm, but it looks so undignified... so he chose against it.
"I hope I've not kept you waiting long, ser knight."
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Zephirin himself remains clad in his pristine armour, having chosen punctuality over comfort, but then, this evening's walk is an extension of his duties, no genuinely idle stroll through the city.
Once Felih falls into step with him, Zephirin selects a route that leads them away from the heart of the Pillars, and avoids nearing the Tribunal. "You had questions to ask me?" he prompts as they walk, glancing back down at the Warrior of Light.
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