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

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... ]

[the house is drafty, and the gusts are strong enough to send francel's papers spiraling through the air. his mug of wine shakes upon the desk, making its way toward the table's edge; he holds it down before it can upend its contents onto the floor, grumbling loudly.]

Oh, close the door, you thrice-damned fool!

[that is ser sylvaintel's cue to step in. he moves into the adjoining room, ushering emmanellain back inside. "i believe my lord francel means to say that it would be wiser to stay in this cabin for the nonce," the knight translates, with an ambassador's dignity.]

Edited 2017-05-14 00:42 (UTC)

[ Emmanellain breathes a relieved sigh, only too glad to follow Sylvaintel back into the main room, away from the door and the blizzard beyond. Along the way, he succeeds in smoothing his hair down, and adjusting his cloak around himself, though he decides in the end to remove it altogether. ]

Much... much wiser, I couldn't agree more... As they say, great minds think alike!

[ Dropping himself onto his vacated chair again, draping his cloak across its back, Emmanellain surveys the newly messy floor, where papers now lie strewn about. Unprompted, he leaves his seat once more, stooping to gather them up and place them on Francel's desk. ]

Hmph.

[francel's temper settles once the wind is stymied. he allows emmanellain to gather his papers, but continues to resolutely pretend that the older lord is not there. but when he takes up his quill and parchment, he cannot at all remember what he was supposed to write. what was it, now? a missive to the temple knights? a report for his father?

a letter to laniaitte?]

...Do you still have your heart set on my sister, Lord Emmanellain?

[ They are effectively trapped together in close quarters until the storm abates, which bothers Emmanellain far less than it clearly does Francel. But then, Francel still has his sheet of parchment in front of him, and not one line written. Emmanellain helpfully pats imaginary grit and dust from Francel's papers, and searches for something else to occupy himself with while Francel sees to his duties.

Standing there in absolute silence will grow tiresome very quickly.

Perhaps he could cook... Granted, he has never cooked a meal in his life, but there is a first time for everything!

To Emmanellain's surprise, Francel speaks before he does — and Francel's question surprises even more. So much so, that Emmanellain hasn't the faintest idea what to make of it. ]

... Surely you know my answer by now! My heart beats for my lady, undaunted, as it will forevermore.

[ Again he places his hand to his chest in something akin to a solemn oath. ]

But why do you ask? Has she said something...?

[francel's response is a mere two words:]

Give up.

[ Slowly, Emmanellain's hand returns to his side. He averts his gaze, letting it rest on Francel's blank parchment. ]

... A little abrupt, this. What brought it on? Is there some suitor asking for her hand?

[ Laniaitte has never told him outright to leave her alone, or get out of her sight, or anything along such lines — not since they were children — but he is aware that what he chooses to explain as fetching prickliness is not a lady's playing coy. Like her brother, she has no patience for him.

Still — a glimmer of hope is hope enough. ]

No.

[francel takes up some of the papers that emmanellain gathered; he pulls them into a slightly neater pile, corners all crisply lined, as francel prefers them. as he is still bent over his desk under the pretense of doing work, his gaze, too, does not fall upon emmanellain.

sylvaintel taps his foot against the stone floors for a few moments, and then stops.]

I tell you this as a friend, Emmanellain. Give up.

[he turns his bottle of ink this way and that, as if to ascertain that it has not frozen in ishgard's wintry climes; then he unscrews it slowly and sets it on his desk.]

It would hurt less if...

[if i had just convinced myself i didn't care.

francel's hands go still on the desk.]

...What do you see in her, anyway? Really, she... well, she's a bit of a bore, if you ask me...

[ A friend's warning, issued to spare him the ache of a broken heart, is not what Emmanellain expects. It renders him speechless, doubly so when Francel calls his own sister a bore. It lasts several moments, during which Emmanellain gapes at Francel as though he struggles to comprehend the words. ]

What do I— Well, of course a brother's eye would fail to see what her most ardent admirer knows to be crystal clear! Imagine if I were to look at Artoirel and see what Ishgard's ladies see... [ Artoirel's face? His hair? His... everything, likely.

He hasn't answered Francel's question, his footing lost as he finds himself suddenly asked to examine his reasons for pursuing Laniaitte, a given for so long. The realization that he knows her as many things, from childhood playmate to unattainable dream, a reassuring constant always just beyond his reach (as yet, for now, until one day), but not as Laniaitte...

It's unsettling. ]

... I could bare the depths of my soul, but you'll only have yourself to blame if you come to regret your curiosity.

[it is difficult to ascertain, precisely, when francel's coughing fit begins (in his heart of hearts he knows that he can blame it on a bit of inhaled saliva at the words to look at artoirel and see what ishgard's ladies see) — but it happens, leaving him bent over in his seat and gasping for air.

sylvaintel very calmly moves toward the sink, and fills for francel a glass of water.]

— Ugh, I already regret it...

[ Francel's coughing commences explosively and finishes with his gasps, and it's really quite alarming to observe. Emmanellain jerks back, casting about for help in some form.

Thank the Fury for Sylvaintel. ]

Are you ill?

[hoarsely:] Always and forever, my lord — always and forever.

[francel solemnly gulps down the water, and then chases it with a sip of wine from the mug on his desk. sylvaintel returns to his post. the blond lordling rubs his throat in a vain effort to soothe its discomfort, and then looks again at the parchment he has yet to write on.]

Never mind. Forget I asked. Perhaps, in some distant dream, Laniaitte will turn around and settle for you.

[ Despite his wheezing, Francel does not expire then and there. Nevertheless, Emmanellain eyes him with some lingering concern, yet to take a seat again. He laughs, but it is halfhearted at best, a touch uneasy. ]

If she is somehow a bore, as you say, though I seriously doubt it to be true, that simply makes us all the more perfect a match. Not as a pair of bores, mind, but think of how well we would complement each other... I would soon rub off on her, never you fear!

[ Perhaps he can take comfort in the knowledge that Lady Laniaitte — Ser Laniaitte — has pledged her heart to her knightly duty above all else. ]

... Where do you keep your popotoes?

[francel doesn't even ask. he answers without hesitation, apparently unruffled by whatever prompted emmanellain to ask his own ridiculous question.]

Kitchen cabinet.

[at last he remembers what he meant to write: a missive to the house haillenarte knights at monument tower, requesting a report on garlean activity in southwestern coerthas. francel prints his first letter — "s" for "ser ignace" — with an impeccable flourish.]

...I suppose you have a point. [he serenely wets his quill again, dipping it once more in ink.] You know, in my youth — when I was about thirteen, I mean — I thought Laniaitte and Artoirel were rather well-suited to each other. But now...

Well, they would be an exquisite couple — very beautiful, very powerful — but they would not... enjoy themselves, would they? They would be so... dull together.

[...in harsher terms, they haven't an onze of fun-loving spirit between them.]

And your...

[ Pots? Skillets? Something with which to prepare popotoes in some manner. Bake them, boil them, roast them... Emmanellain delves into the kitchen cabinet until he finds the popotoes stored there, and proceeds to pile a number into his arms, but he stops to glance over his shoulder when Francel's musings paint a picture of Artoirel and Laniaitte together before his mind's eye.

It's all too easy to imagine the pair of them, with their accomplishments, their sense of duty and propriety. Suppose it came to pass? ]

— Just so! How fortunate we all are that my brother has no designs on your sister! No, Artoirel's match to cure his life of dullness would be... let us say someone like your brother Stephanivien. If he were your sister, or Artoirel were mine.

Quite right, quite right... though, honestly, I imagine Stephanivien will take a commoner for a bride at this rate. One of those girls, you know, that sling ammunition just as well as clothes for the wash... only I hope it does not come to that. I wish him all the best, of course — he is entitles to his happiness — but House Haillenarte would not outlive the scandal...

[herein lies the secret to francel and emmanellain's father improbable friendship: francel can be a terrible gossip once sufficiently prompted (he blames his days in the scholasticate — it is called the viper's den for a reason)... and no ishgardian rumormonger will ever rival emmanellain de fortemps. francel pauses at the end of his first sentence, frowning at his lordly companion.]

What are you — are you trying to cook, Emm?

Edited 2017-05-15 13:45 (UTC)

Ah, but now House Haillenarte would be hailed for your foresight, and for counting among the daring first to bridge the divide between highborn and low! Times are changing. And why not, really? Do you suppose it might be... what was her name... The Hyuran girl, the one who left for a time?

[ Excepting these soil-caked popotoes, Emmanellain feels in his element once more, put at ease by the latest turn in their conversation. Noticing Francel's frown, he counters with a self-assured smile. ]

Hm? Oh, I'm no Medguistl, but since you don't have a cook in your employ, and I happen to have some time on my hands, it is the least I could do, old boy.

[ And so Emmanellain dumps the popotoes in the sink, having decided that they need peeling, to rummage for a knife and attack them one by one. ]

It is not hardly time for a midday meal!

[francel turns, exasperated, to his loyal (?) knight standing by the fireplace.]

Can you not stop him?

[sylvaintel — who appears to be enjoying the situation, judging by the slight curve of his eyes past his masked visage — simply shrugs. emmanellain's status as the new knight-captain of camp dragonhead supposedly stays his hand. "what would you have me do, my lord? throw him out into the snows?"]

He will ruin perfectly good popotoes.

["have more faith, lord francel," sylvaintel says, generously.]

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