[ 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...
[francel frowns. if it is not the shape of the weapon that is the issue, but rather its size or heft, then zephirin must have preferred a bigger, more fearsome blade — perhaps even a greatsword, like those that dark knights are rumored to use.
francel has heard tell of these dark knights. they serve no houses, no masters; they have been known to slay members of the church, foregoing things like law and due process in pursuit of their own radical ideas of justice. they are not to be trusted, nor housed in the homes of honorable ishgardian men.
but this doesn't mean that zephirin was a dark knight, francel reminds himself. ishgard would not make and market greatswords if all those who preferred them were licentious vigilantes, and even whitebrim front has its share of soldiers who prefer large zweihanders over more traditional methods. zephirin could be a knight of house durendaire.]
...The merchant and mender who passes through Camp Dragonhead from time to time might have... heavier blades for you to try.
[ Zephirin's hand sinks back down to his side; he meets Francel's gaze, his frown carefully smoothed away. In the young lord's remarks, he hears the same strange, concerned reluctance of their conversation over breakfast, and once more it seems that he ought leave his past buried, though Camp Dragonhead has proven a possible lead.
His memories should never have become Lord Francel's responsibility, in any case.
After a moment, Zephirin crosses the armory floor to approach Francel, his right hand outstretched for the young lord's upon reaching him. On his lips, he wears a small, rueful smile. ]
Unless Ser Corentiaux objects, I suppose I am to stay here for a time, then. No matter what comes of it, I hope to repay your kindness.
[visibly relieved, though by all rights the young lord should not be quite so eager to keep an amnesiac within visitable distance, francel smiles and nods. there is more time now — zephirin will not go off in search of his memories, at least not until the merchant's next visit to camp dragonhead.]
I am sure he would not pass up the opportunity to have another skilled swordsman in his service. And there is no shortage of work to be done in Camp Dragonhead. Though you should be careful — he is not so forgiving a taskmaster as I...
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valoirs
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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."]
no subject
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...
no subject
[francel frowns. if it is not the shape of the weapon that is the issue, but rather its size or heft, then zephirin must have preferred a bigger, more fearsome blade — perhaps even a greatsword, like those that dark knights are rumored to use.
francel has heard tell of these dark knights. they serve no houses, no masters; they have been known to slay members of the church, foregoing things like law and due process in pursuit of their own radical ideas of justice. they are not to be trusted, nor housed in the homes of honorable ishgardian men.
but this doesn't mean that zephirin was a dark knight, francel reminds himself. ishgard would not make and market greatswords if all those who preferred them were licentious vigilantes, and even whitebrim front has its share of soldiers who prefer large zweihanders over more traditional methods. zephirin could be a knight of house durendaire.]
...The merchant and mender who passes through Camp Dragonhead from time to time might have... heavier blades for you to try.
no subject
His memories should never have become Lord Francel's responsibility, in any case.
After a moment, Zephirin crosses the armory floor to approach Francel, his right hand outstretched for the young lord's upon reaching him. On his lips, he wears a small, rueful smile. ]
Unless Ser Corentiaux objects, I suppose I am to stay here for a time, then. No matter what comes of it, I hope to repay your kindness.
no subject
I am sure he would not pass up the opportunity to have another skilled swordsman in his service. And there is no shortage of work to be done in Camp Dragonhead. Though you should be careful — he is not so forgiving a taskmaster as I...