Aye, there's the rub. If only it were so simple to judge a man's cause... or the value of one's own honor.
[she seems content to let the conversation die on that note, herself. with a commanding officer's practiced steps — though she herself is only a recruit — she paces the wall of the watchtower in the western highlands where they are waiting for the outriders to return with news of the horde. the astrologians have predicted a battle, and ilienne is part of the cohort sent to provide reinforcements to the order of the knights dragoon.
some within the temple knights would count themselves lucky to be posted at a watchtower with ishgard's azure dragoon, but ilienne isn't so sure that she is. she has the sneaking suspicion that solellaux posted her here intentionally, with ser estinien; her original assignment was to a different watchtower towards the southeast, and she only received word that her posting was changed as she was saddling up her chocobo for the march. there are several officers who could have authorized this decision, but — she thinks — only one who would care.
perhaps her husband is trying to protect her, in his usual misguided way. or perhaps solellaux is only trying to keep her away from the skirmish, under the wing of someone who is known to leave wholesale destruction of the horde in his wake, and therefore away from any battlefield glory. it's difficult to say. solellaux's first mistake has always been that he refuses to talk to her about aught more than the weather and acquisition of properties by the house.
oh well, she thinks. it hardly matters to her where she is posted.
she will continue to do her best until her best is not enough.
they will likely have bells more to spend in this frigid coerthan air, unless something goes horribly awry, and the biasts arrive sooner than expected. sighing, she produces a small flask of warmwine from beneath her cloak — the bottle is wrought with alchemical properties to keep its contents warm, small perks when one has a fortune to spend and no particular interest in silks or jewels. she holds it out to estinien, something vaguely mannish in the casual flick of her wrist.]
makes up a setting tho!!
[she seems content to let the conversation die on that note, herself. with a commanding officer's practiced steps — though she herself is only a recruit — she paces the wall of the watchtower in the western highlands where they are waiting for the outriders to return with news of the horde. the astrologians have predicted a battle, and ilienne is part of the cohort sent to provide reinforcements to the order of the knights dragoon.
some within the temple knights would count themselves lucky to be posted at a watchtower with ishgard's azure dragoon, but ilienne isn't so sure that she is. she has the sneaking suspicion that solellaux posted her here intentionally, with ser estinien; her original assignment was to a different watchtower towards the southeast, and she only received word that her posting was changed as she was saddling up her chocobo for the march. there are several officers who could have authorized this decision, but — she thinks — only one who would care.
perhaps her husband is trying to protect her, in his usual misguided way. or perhaps solellaux is only trying to keep her away from the skirmish, under the wing of someone who is known to leave wholesale destruction of the horde in his wake, and therefore away from any battlefield glory. it's difficult to say. solellaux's first mistake has always been that he refuses to talk to her about aught more than the weather and acquisition of properties by the house.
oh well, she thinks. it hardly matters to her where she is posted.
she will continue to do her best until her best is not enough.
they will likely have bells more to spend in this frigid coerthan air, unless something goes horribly awry, and the biasts arrive sooner than expected. sighing, she produces a small flask of warmwine from beneath her cloak — the bottle is wrought with alchemical properties to keep its contents warm, small perks when one has a fortune to spend and no particular interest in silks or jewels. she holds it out to estinien, something vaguely mannish in the casual flick of her wrist.]
First sip is yours, if you'd like.