[so ser estinien himself appears, his drachen mail clinking, the curves of his helm gleaming, the spikes and lines of his spear strangely menacing in the firelight. for a moment, francel is so flabbergasted that he forgets to be offended — though, even as he realizes he is being mistaken for an errand-boy, he isn't too offended. ser estinien's reputation precedes him. francel knows full well that the azure dragoon is a man who does not bother with pleasantries.]
...Svara flies in the rearguard of her formation, as has ever been her wont. Dragonflies and aevis make up the majority of her forces, but Naul and a number of other wyverns fly with them.
[francel adjusts his position in his chocobo's saddle, ready to ride back to the locks again.]
The evacuation of Skyfire Locks is already underway, so you need not be concerned with civilians in the crossfire. But I had no intention of leaving my knights to fight among themselves, Ser Estinien.
[ He repeats. There's a note of question to it, and he looks Francel up and down before giving a quiet snort, the corners of his mouth turning up - briefly - in approval. If he regrets the mistake, it's not evident in his tone - a tone that barely changes at all after realizing who the messenger boy is. But as he takes the reins of a borrowed chocobo from an attendant and climbs up onto it, he seems a little impressed.
He doesn't care much for the high houses and their children, but Francel has surpassed his low expectations. ]
The rear. She expects canononfire, then. [ That, at least, is good news. If she means to send her minions before her to overwhelm the cannons with their numbers, he will have time to thin their ranks before Svara's presence forces him to choose between driving her away and attending to the lesser dragons while the cannons drive her back. Naul's presence complicates matters, but not overmuch. ] What of your ceruleum supply? I should hope you won't be forced to disappoint her.
[for a moment francel considers riding off and forcing estinien to catch up to him in a total Power Move, but — well, the azure dragoon must be briefed about the battle situation, and now is really not the time to nurse a wounded ego. he will wait for estinien to set their pace, and follow at a reasonable distance.]
I believe we've enough to break through her defenses — but I admit the southernmost cannons are at risk of failure. I sent word to my lord brother for more. Fury only knows whether he can provide...
[francel hesitates. he hates to ask a question, and thereby open himself to being needled for his ignorance, but he does have to know:]
Are — are any other knights dragoon coming? Or is it just...?
[ No needling, not because he recognizes his place after that mistake (he still speaks to Francel as he would to anyone else, lord or servant) but because there are some things he does not take lightly. Ishgard's ongoing failure to protect places outside of the city proper is one of them. In truth, even his own presence here is a lucky coincidence - it had been a need for supplies that brought him back to Ishgard proper at the right time. ]
The bell draws too close, from the sound of it. Even were they called to aid now, they would not arrive 'til all was done. My lance is yours to command, unless you would have me do as I will, but it must suffice.
[francel's next breath is sharply exhaled; for a moment his eyes are eclipsed by white mist on the cold air. it will suffice, he tells himself. it must.
they ride east, then south. getting to skyfire locks from the gates of judgment necessitates cutting through camp dragonhead; at the western gates, however, a house haillenarte knight stops to hail francel. "lord francel!" the young woman cries. "svara has changed her formation — she has sent the dragonflies ahead, they mean to cross the skies above camp dragonhead and head straight for the locks. the cannons are primed and await your orders."
she is baiting us, francel decides. if svara had any intention of seeing her subordinates survive, she would have them fly over the mountains — not above an ishgardian stronghold, within reach of artillery and ballistae.]
No. Hold your fire. The wyrm would have us waste ceruleum and ammunitions on her thralls. Have the archers retaliate with their greatbows if need be.
[the knight rushes off to relay her orders. francel watches her run for a moment, then redirects his attentions toward estinien.]
You are wiser and more versed in the arts of war than I, Ser Estinien, and so I shall not presume to command you — I would have you battle as you see fit. My one request is that, once Svara lands, I would have you turn your lance towards her, and forsake the rest. If she can be put to rout, the rest will follow. My knights will hold off the aevis — and Fury willing, Naul as well.
Want to skip ahead to the end of the battle or close the thread here?
[ He repeats, looking to the sky. Bright, for the moment, though dotted with specks - dragonflies. Something within him, great and dark and so much older, calls them children. He silences it, and does not concern himself with it further. Svara has not yet darkened the horizon, and that is all that matters. ]
We separate here, then. [ He dismounts. Someone rushes past and he stops them, shoving the chocobo's reins into their hand without too much thought for who they are or what they might actually have been doing. ] Do sell your life dearly, should that be how this ends. Ishgard can ill afford to lose a lordling willing to dirty his hands, as few as it has.
[ Yes, that's as close as he gets to giving a compliment. And possibly also needling. Definitely also needling. ]
[bewildered, francel looks at the palms of his pristine white gloves as estinien dismounts and makes his way toward the battlefield. he is utterly perplexed by the dragoon's comment; commanding his knights on the frontlines is not what francel considers dirtying his hands, even if some have criticized his father for being unwilling to do precisely the same thing.
no matter. there are other things to worry about. and as francel looks up at the blue sky of ishgard, it seems almost unreal to think that the dragons are coming, that the skies will soon be ablaze with fire and blood...]
[they pay as they always do — they stave off destruction in exchange for death. the forts, and the families that reside there, are undamaged, but there have been significant casualties. their garrison numbered small to begin with, but still, francel counts some fifteen wounded. seven badly injured are currently receiving treatment from the chirurgeons, but if the fury intervenes — and francel must believe that she will — they may yet live.
five are confirmed dead.
it is a mercy that not a one fell to dragonfire — since the men were not roasted in their armor, francel can identify their corpses without conducting a head count to see who is missing. the dead have been lined up to one side for their families to bury later; he is standing near them now.
lord francel is not an ordained priest, and he has not the wherewithal or the authority to conduct their last rites, but he considered joining the clergy once, and he knows something about laying men to rest. he is kneeling over a dead squire, a common young man he liked well — something about the squire's wild temperament and deep blue eyes had always reminded him of haurchefant. but now the squire's eyes are closed, and it is with some regret that francel brushes the dead man's hair out of his face, murmuring a prayer to himself.]
...deliver him now from suffering, O Fury, and guide him to eternal rest.
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valoirs
no subject
...Svara flies in the rearguard of her formation, as has ever been her wont. Dragonflies and aevis make up the majority of her forces, but Naul and a number of other wyverns fly with them.
[francel adjusts his position in his chocobo's saddle, ready to ride back to the locks again.]
The evacuation of Skyfire Locks is already underway, so you need not be concerned with civilians in the crossfire. But I had no intention of leaving my knights to fight among themselves, Ser Estinien.
no subject
[ He repeats. There's a note of question to it, and he looks Francel up and down before giving a quiet snort, the corners of his mouth turning up - briefly - in approval. If he regrets the mistake, it's not evident in his tone - a tone that barely changes at all after realizing who the messenger boy is. But as he takes the reins of a borrowed chocobo from an attendant and climbs up onto it, he seems a little impressed.
He doesn't care much for the high houses and their children, but Francel has surpassed his low expectations. ]
The rear. She expects canononfire, then. [ That, at least, is good news. If she means to send her minions before her to overwhelm the cannons with their numbers, he will have time to thin their ranks before Svara's presence forces him to choose between driving her away and attending to the lesser dragons while the cannons drive her back. Naul's presence complicates matters, but not overmuch. ] What of your ceruleum supply? I should hope you won't be forced to disappoint her.
no subject
I believe we've enough to break through her defenses — but I admit the southernmost cannons are at risk of failure. I sent word to my lord brother for more. Fury only knows whether he can provide...
[francel hesitates. he hates to ask a question, and thereby open himself to being needled for his ignorance, but he does have to know:]
Are — are any other knights dragoon coming? Or is it just...?
no subject
[ No needling, not because he recognizes his place after that mistake (he still speaks to Francel as he would to anyone else, lord or servant) but because there are some things he does not take lightly. Ishgard's ongoing failure to protect places outside of the city proper is one of them. In truth, even his own presence here is a lucky coincidence - it had been a need for supplies that brought him back to Ishgard proper at the right time. ]
The bell draws too close, from the sound of it. Even were they called to aid now, they would not arrive 'til all was done. My lance is yours to command, unless you would have me do as I will, but it must suffice.
no subject
[francel's next breath is sharply exhaled; for a moment his eyes are eclipsed by white mist on the cold air. it will suffice, he tells himself. it must.
they ride east, then south. getting to skyfire locks from the gates of judgment necessitates cutting through camp dragonhead; at the western gates, however, a house haillenarte knight stops to hail francel. "lord francel!" the young woman cries. "svara has changed her formation — she has sent the dragonflies ahead, they mean to cross the skies above camp dragonhead and head straight for the locks. the cannons are primed and await your orders."
she is baiting us, francel decides. if svara had any intention of seeing her subordinates survive, she would have them fly over the mountains — not above an ishgardian stronghold, within reach of artillery and ballistae.]
No. Hold your fire. The wyrm would have us waste ceruleum and ammunitions on her thralls. Have the archers retaliate with their greatbows if need be.
[the knight rushes off to relay her orders. francel watches her run for a moment, then redirects his attentions toward estinien.]
You are wiser and more versed in the arts of war than I, Ser Estinien, and so I shall not presume to command you — I would have you battle as you see fit. My one request is that, once Svara lands, I would have you turn your lance towards her, and forsake the rest. If she can be put to rout, the rest will follow. My knights will hold off the aevis — and Fury willing, Naul as well.
Want to skip ahead to the end of the battle or close the thread here?
[ He repeats, looking to the sky. Bright, for the moment, though dotted with specks - dragonflies. Something within him, great and dark and so much older, calls them children. He silences it, and does not concern himself with it further. Svara has not yet darkened the horizon, and that is all that matters. ]
We separate here, then. [ He dismounts. Someone rushes past and he stops them, shoving the chocobo's reins into their hand without too much thought for who they are or what they might actually have been doing. ] Do sell your life dearly, should that be how this ends. Ishgard can ill afford to lose a lordling willing to dirty his hands, as few as it has.
[ Yes, that's as close as he gets to giving a compliment. And possibly also needling. Definitely also needling. ]
ah we can skip, hope this is ok
no matter. there are other things to worry about. and as francel looks up at the blue sky of ishgard, it seems almost unreal to think that the dragons are coming, that the skies will soon be ablaze with fire and blood...]
[they pay as they always do — they stave off destruction in exchange for death. the forts, and the families that reside there, are undamaged, but there have been significant casualties. their garrison numbered small to begin with, but still, francel counts some fifteen wounded. seven badly injured are currently receiving treatment from the chirurgeons, but if the fury intervenes — and francel must believe that she will — they may yet live.
five are confirmed dead.
it is a mercy that not a one fell to dragonfire — since the men were not roasted in their armor, francel can identify their corpses without conducting a head count to see who is missing. the dead have been lined up to one side for their families to bury later; he is standing near them now.
lord francel is not an ordained priest, and he has not the wherewithal or the authority to conduct their last rites, but he considered joining the clergy once, and he knows something about laying men to rest. he is kneeling over a dead squire, a common young man he liked well — something about the squire's wild temperament and deep blue eyes had always reminded him of haurchefant. but now the squire's eyes are closed, and it is with some regret that francel brushes the dead man's hair out of his face, murmuring a prayer to himself.]
...deliver him now from suffering, O Fury, and guide him to eternal rest.