dpscheck | stuck meme

stuck meme

esuna off that paralysis

Post toplevels, reply as usual. Hope you enjoy your quality time with your thread partner, now that you're stuck...

01. IN A CROWD — for bonus points: in a crowd, after an argument.
02. DEFENDING THE BASE — while you wait for reinforcements to arrive. Good luck!
03. ON A RAFT — or a manacutter or an airship or something, drifting towards a deserted island.
04. IN A RELATIONSHIP — that your thread partner is trying to break you out of. The relationship can be with someone else... or just your bed/pet/hobby/gambling habit.
05. IN A WAITING ROOM — while you're waiting to hear a healer/conjurer/physician/chirurgeon's assessment, and you really didn't want to run into anyone... or maybe you'd like some emotional support?
06. TRYING TO NAVIGATE — through the Ul'dahn marketplace, maybe, or Hawker's Alley, or any number of confusing Lominsan/Gridanian/Sharlayan alleyways.
07. STANDING GUARD — wherever might be applicable: outside the Rising Stones? Rowena's House of Splendors? Or maybe awkwardly in front of a bedroom with a near-stranger so that the person who hired you to keep watch can get it on inside...
08. WITH YOUR HAIR — caught in someone else's belt or leather sheath or inexplicable shoulder spike... oh, adventurers and their impractical clothing.
09. DELIVERING TERRIBLE NEWS — exactly what's on the tin. Sucks to be you.
10. DOING THE DISHES — at a restaurant where you forgot your wallet and couldn't pay the bill.
11. IN A LAKE — because this person caught you skinny-dipping and won't... go... away...
12. WAITING TO BE RANSOMED — in the actually-quite-loving care of some especially incompetent criminals.

Enjoy being stuck! This meme was gently lifted off bakerstreet.

TEMPLATE CODED BY

valoirs

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Haurchefant's smile greets Emmanellain upon his arrival at Camp Dragonhead. His late half-brother's portrait hangs on the wall behind the garrison commander's desk, giving the impression that Haurchefant still sits there, gazing out at the room and welcoming every visitor. It's touching — and a trifle discomfiting. The steadfast men and women of Camp Dragonhead only mean to honour their leader's memory, but it's almost as if it's a subtle reminder that their garrison commander was and will always be Haurchefant Greystone.

Truth be told, never mind that he hasn't come here to replace Haurchefant, Emmanellain finds it no easier than anyone who knows him to see himself seated at that desk at all. But sit at it he must, and make weighty decisions, and comport himself as he vowed he would. In fact, he is expected to pen a formal letter each to the Observatorium, Skyfire Locks, and Whitebrim Front, for which he'll obviously need a writing surface.

Corentiaux watches him take a seat and put quill to parchment, Haurchefant smiling above their heads.

When the last letter is written and sealed, Emmanellain entrusts their delivery to two knights — the delivery of all but one. The letter addressed to Lord Francel de Haillenarte remains in Emmanellain's own hands, and assuring Honoroit that he has no intention of succumbing to former bad habits or becoming a meal for any wild beastkin about, Camp Dragonhead's new commander sets out for Skyfire Locks. It's the right thing to do, and not just to maintain the close ties between their houses.

He knows better than to think that Francel will be pleased to see him, but they're to be as good as neighbours here, as they were growing up, not mention that they're like to see rather a lot more of each other from now on. Surely bygones are bygones?

Emmanellain's mount crosses Haldrath's March as the sky darkens, reaching the slopes leading to Francel's humble home in time for the chocobo's rider to feel the first bite of the rising wind and whirling snowflakes, and anticipate his escape. That is, as soon as they let him all the way in. ]

[francel hasn't stopped mourning.

stephannot tells everyone that it's a work in progress. that he's getting better. he's learned to laugh again — to smile and do his work and carry on — but that's a very different thing from getting better. the truth is that francel doesn't even know anymore how he feels about haurchefant being dead. it's become part of a new reality. he carries an ache with him wherever he goes.

so he feels weary when sylvaintel steps outside to investigate the sounds of the chocobo at their doorstep. a visitor, he thinks. i want no visitors this day. he is seated at his desk with a quill held loosely in his hand and a fresh sheet of parchment laid out in front of him. he has too much to do to be entertaining visitors.

sylvaintel's voice interrupts his thoughts.

"lord emmanellain is come, my lord," the knight calls, from the other room — and by the sound of it, he has let emmanellain inside.]

Not a bad time, is it?

[ Stepping inside the cabin proper, Emmanellain immediately glimpses Francel — which isn't particularly remarkable, considering the room's size and layout. He reaches into his cloak, retrieving his letter to place it down near Francel's untouched sheet of parchment. ]

This place hasn't changed in the slightest, old boy...

[ Glancing about at the walls, the few pieces of furniture, Emmanellain utters his remark for the most part to strike up conversation and fill the silence. A handful of times, his father bid him accompany Artoirel and Haurchefant beyond Ishgard's gates so that he might learn from their conduct as they carried out their duties, but he didn't pass bells committing every ilm of every location to memory. ]

...I am... unoccupied, at present.

[this is what francel says in place of something more enthusiastic — like perhaps no, not a bad time at all!

the young lord sighs and leans back in his chair, taking up the envelope that emmanellain has just set down. he flips it over in his hands to see who it is addressed to — but it's for him, obviously, with his name and title too. he doesn't open it.]

Well met, Lord Emmanellain.

[...he says, as if this is their first meeting.]

[ Emmanellain, claiming a chair across from Francel uninvited, can't for the life of him imagine why his letter meets with so frosty a reception that it rivals the snowstorm outside. What could it possibly contain but a perfectly ordinary piece of parchment?

He shrugs it off and humours Francel's excessively formal greeting with a laugh. ]

Well met, Lord Francel! Have you heard the news? If not, you're in luck — that is precisely why I thought to stop by, you see.

[ But he can't bring himself to blurt it out so callously. It isn't House Fortemps that they have to thank for Haurchefant's memorial, and Francel's trips to Providence Point are no secret. Emmanellain's expression sobers. His gaze drops to the letter between them, and shaking his head, he sighs. ]

... Go ahead and burn that. You've years of experience on me, you don't need some written call to work together and defend our borders.

...I burn nothing related to my duties here. My replacement would find all this very difficult if I fed all my secrets to the fire.

[francel speaks as if it has already been decided that he should be replaced. he still does not open the envelope, holding it in between them as if maintaining some sort of wall. he regards emmanellain coolly over the paper's edge.

to ser sylvaintel's eyes, francel must look cold-hearted, and emmanellain an innocent man. but sylvaintel says nothing. he is, among the skyfire knights, known for his own cold heart; he wears it on the hilt of his blade.]

I heard the news.

[no four words could ever be uttered with so much bitter judgment, except perhaps you ruined my sister, or maybe even you killed my father.]

[ Francel's tone stings, but Emmanellain is no stranger to its meaning. Truly strange are these recent developments.

In times past, he would have laughed it off and thrown about boasts — and accomplished none of his claims. Now, with the topic at hand, and knowing full well that Francel has more cause than anyone to resent the news, it most definitely is not the time and place for bluster.

He wishes suddenly that they were friends. ]

... What? Your replacement?

[ That would be news which Francel has kept quiet. ]

...If I died, I mean.

[forced to explain some of his vague mystery, francel carelessly tosses emmanellain's letter on his desk, sighing deeply. he folds his arms. in the corner of the room, sylvaintel gently tosses another log on the fire.]

Why are you here, Emm?

[mixed signals. it is hard to tell if francel is closing himself off, or opening himself up.]

[ Their conversation has taken a turn that stirs unease in Emmanellain. Death comes in all forms, and it strikes down young and old, rich and poor, and eventually every man and woman, every living creature — but Francel seems in reasonably good health, and they've survived to see an ancient war end, and these parts are well guarded. Why give thought to an if that isn't waiting just around the corner? ]

Come now, old boy, you'll sit here for a long while yet!

[ Reaching across the desk, Emmanellain makes to swat Francel's arm lightly with the back of his hand. ]

Which is why we should get along. Don't you think? I know you doubt me, and not without reason, but believe me, Artoirel would never have named me commander if it meant worrying himself silver-haired, expecting the place to fall apart.

Lord Artoirel...

[the sudden look of embarrassment on francel's face reads, rather plainly, come now, that's a low blow and you know it. don't drag artoirel into this! ah, too late. the question has slipped out of francel's mouth before he can help himself.]

Is it true that he is the Count now?

[ It takes every onze of willpower not to tease Francel. Emmanellain sits back, folding his arms atop his side of Francel's desk. ]

Sooner than he imagined, but you wouldn't suspect a thing. Had I not spent my entire life under the same roof, I might even be led to think that he was Count Artoirel de Fortemps from the moment of his birth...

[ He shakes his head again, this time with a shrug. ]

Small wonder, really — this is Artoirel we're talking about, after all.

Of... of course. Of course...

[caught between wondering if artoirel has started dressing differently and if the new count fortemps is going to take a wife soon (thus forever putting an end to francel's implausible romantic fantasies), francel stares wistfully into the distance for a moment before he reminds himself that he was going to make emmanellain sweat.

he clears his throat.]

At any rate — you did not need to come here.

[ That wistful look is disturbingly reminiscent of the sort that a sizeable number of women take on upon mere mention of Artoirel... What thoughts fill Francel's head?

But Francel's return to business wipes the expression from his face, and at any rate, Artoirel isn't the point of this meeting. Emmanellain waves his hand before placing it over his heart. ]

'Twas a long and arduous journey, I know, across hill and plain, a veritable race against the gathering clouds — and all the while wolves howled and karakuls bleated in the distance... But I braved it all to see my task done, and here I am. For you, old boy, I would make the journey twice in one day. Thrice, even.

[ It sounds theatrical, but obscured behind Emmanellain's embellishment is a sincere belief that Francel deserves better than some cold official letter, standing firm even in the face of Francel's unwelcoming manner. True, he didn't need to do this; nothing dictates it.

It was his decision. ]

[emmanellain's sappiness is overwhelming; it is cloying as the scent of rose oil on poorly-written love letters. francel musters his best, most disgusted look. he vaguely considers saying get out of my house.]

Lord Emmanellain, you would have had my cooperation regardless of whether or not you presented this missive in person.

[ And that look is one that never targets Artoirel, House Fortemps' perfectly molded son in every way likely beginning at conception. Aimed at Emmanellain, it's baffling only because he is certain that he hasn't done anything so offensive, or in fact offensive at all.

He stares, taken aback. ]

Your— I'm not here for your cooperation... No, of course I am, but your cooperation and my missive have nothing to do with my delivering it in person.

[ This isn't Francel harbouring a grudge over incidents that should have been long forgotten, is it? ]

It's... [ Doesn't Francel find it lonely out here? ] Well, I for one would call you a friend not only to House Fortemps.

[suddenly — and francel had actually forgotten that the man was even there — sylvaintel laughs, full-bodied and deep-voiced.

the knight stifles himself as quickly as he can, but the damage is done. francel's head turns sharply toward his knight-captain; the man shakes his head. he has realized what the lordlings have yet to understand.

"carry on," he says, to which francel rolls his eyes in irritation, and continues his tirade against emmanellain.]

And what does that have to do with anything?

[ Emmanellain's head turns with Francel's; his bewildered stare now finds Sylvaintel. He can't determine whether the man is laughing at him, at Francel, at them both, or perhaps simply at some private joke remembered just then.

Asking him to explain his mirth is tempting, but first Francel's confusion demands his attention. ]

Oh, I see! You're doing this deliberately. A trial, or some such...

What do you mean, "a trial or some such"?

[growling in exasperation — something the youngest son of haillenarte never does — francel throws himself into the back of his chair again, crossing his legs and arms both to express his sheer... crossness.]

Emm, I am offended that you think I would treat you as aught less than a friend!

[ Emmanellain blinks. He sits up straight. ]

Is that what you think this is?

[ To be fair, Francel didn't exactly leap from his chair to welcome him with open arms, jumping for joy. But—

Emmanellain is the one to leap from his seat, both hands laid flat against the surface of Francel's desk as he leans over it. ]

A-ha! You admit it, then! All this... indoor frost was an act!

[alarmed by the sudden proximity of emmanellain's face, francel pulls back even further than he has already pulled back. (it is a good thing sylvaintel's iron mask obscures his expression; from the way his shoulders are subtly quaking, he is undoubtedly laughing at this entire turn of events.)]

An act — no! No, this was not an act! Lest you have forgotten, I do not like you! You are — you are frivolous, and — and a stupid fool, and an absolute sack of popotoes, and undoubtedly you have only come here to central Coerthas because you have your heart set on something foolish, or you want to impress Laniaitte, or something, you absolute cumberground —

[francel pauses for breath.]

...But, nevertheless, I would treat you as a friend.

[ Drawing back, enough to let Francel cease his recoiling before he topples backward, Emmanellain waggles his forefinger with a tut. ]

You forget, Artoirel, Count de Fortemps, agreed to send this so-called frivolous fool of an absolute sack of popotoes to central Coerthas. What does that make him?

[ In some strange way, there's comfort to be found in this. It's only a familiar game — Francel's opinion of him can't be that low. ]

Anyway, we at Camp Dragonhead are at your disposal, now and always, Lord Francel. And at my lady's, too, of course, if ever she needs supplies, reinforcements, a friend's ear...

Edited 2017-05-13 05:34 (UTC)

[francel snorts dismissively, both at the prospect of laniaitte's needing anyone's ear, and at the thought that artoirel's approval implies any sort of reliability on emmanellain's part.]

If I were the good Count of House Fortemps, I would simply want you out of my hair.

[his beautiful, silky, ink-black hair...]

Now, did you come here just to waste my time, or is there aught else you have to say to me?

Edited 2017-05-13 21:02 (UTC)

Such harsh words, heaped upon a stalwart ally merely come to pledge his eternal friendship... [ A deep sigh, a sorrowful shake of the head. ] A stalwart ally who, by the by, in no way resembles a sack of popotoes, unless you mean their versatile nature and taste.

[ But he supposes that Francel has important matters to attend to, a missive of his own to pen, and Honoroit will begin to fear his master lost if he takes too long to return. Quietly thoughtful for the moment, Emmanellain regards Francel. ]

Well... They say you pass through often. Look in when you do?

[ The whispers are a tad more concerning than that. ]

[francel snorts in disdain, casting his hand about for his quill and his inkwell. he takes up emmanellain's missive again, and stows it in a box whose lid, briefly opened, seems to be concealing some deeply cherished letters.] Go pledge your eternal friendship to a popoto, Lord Emmanellain.

I will make a half-hearted effort.

[...at least he's honest.]

I say, you have a troubling interest in popotoes, old boy... I shall be sure to ask Medguistl to prepare plenty when you visit. Then you may pledge your eternal friendship to a popoto!

[ Gone is the thoughtful look as Emmanellain gives Francel the grin of a man tremendously pleased with himself, carrying on as if to make up for Francel's lack of enthusiasm with an overabundance on his part. He barely pauses for breath. ]

Her mulled wine is excellent. But I suppose that is hardly news — you must have had the chance to try it when...

[ When. Emmanellain makes a hasty dam of his lips, searching Francel's expression. He means to choose his words with greater care, truly he does. ]

I'll... I'll leave you to it.

[ And to keep his word, he bows and turns to see himself out. Upon Emmanellain's opening the door, however, the cabin's occupants are treated to a startled squawk, for the storm raging on outside launches its ambush with a relentless ferocity. A powerful gust of icy air whips Emmanellain's hair into his eyes, and forces him to wrestle with his own cloak.

Camp Dragonhead is practically a stone's throw away. He won't freeze to death. Hungry beasts won't gnaw on his chilled corpse... Surely... ]

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