dpscheck | stuck meme

[ Is he sure? He entertains the thought of contradicting himself as Francel did, making apologies while merrily chewing bite after bite, of leaning in and claiming one bite of Francel's apple after all. It would come unexpectedly, much like the young lord's offers.

Zephirin keeps to his side of the bench, moving only his head in a brief nod. ]

Where shall we meet?

[ He has time. ]

Oh — my dormitory room, of course! I have a lovely one all to myself on the first floor, you see. I suppose we could also rendezvous at Haillenarte Manor — but I would not want you to climb the balcony...

[the lordling talks about the ease of sneaking into his various bedchambers like a seasoned burglar planning a break-in. what are they teaching in the scholasticate these days? he lowers his voice.]

You needn't worry — none guard the scholasticate at night. And the dormitory prefect, well, he turns a blind eye to most guests...

[ By the sound of it, the scholasticate dormitory regularly sees visitors at unusual hours. By the sound of it, too, Lord Francel the innocently mischievous seminarian expects Zephirin to climb through his bedchamber window rather than take the door. A guest would not sneak in by cover of night and means of an unconventional route. Someone of unsavory intent would.

Perhaps he is mistaken.

At any rate, the truth is easily explained, and Francel need not leave the grounds for some meeting place out of the way and risk punishment for breaking curfew, even to further his studies. ]

... And which room is yours?

Third from the right, if you go 'round the side — like this, you see?

[francel sets his apple in his lap for a moment to use his hands to illustrate the cathedral. his index traces the path that zephirin would have to take from the hoplon: francel's room is but a short walk away from the entrance of the scholasticate.]

I am one of six seminarians blessed with a most excellent bay window — my friends complain that I do not use it enough...

[ Zephirin matches Francel's directions to a mental map of the Pillars, thanking the boy with another nod. ]

Third from the right. Your window will serve as your door, I take it.

[ Do the young lord's friends complain that he ordinarily receives too few guests through his most excellent bay window? ]

[that is precisely what they complain about. the young lord squanders what some others (philanderers, mostly) would gladly kill to have!

but perhaps his temple knight guest will silence those envious few. francel nods, taking another bite from his apple.]

I can leave it open — or you could tap on it, so that I might open it then. Whatever seems more fun for you!

[he reaches into his cassock, removing from it a rather oddly-designed pocketwatch that would have costed a small fortune if not for the fact that stephanivien hand-made it out of spare parts from the manufactory as a last-minute nameday gift. he stows it back in its place.]

So you will come, then? Is that a promise? You seem to me a man of your word...

[ Zephirin's concept of what constitutes "fun" may broaden with this very experience and come to include climbing through windows to visit schoolboys eager for his company as a live subject on which to put newly acquired theory into practice. Lord Francel, in his apparent excitement, sounds almost fearful that his guest-to-be will have second thoughts.

Their plans took shape swiftly, into something like to raise questions despite Francel's confident claims, but Zephirin will give his word to come. Once more, he nods, not entirely without a fresh hint of a smile for the lordling's insistence. ]

Name an exact time, and you need not leave your window open for the cold. I will keep my word.

[ Moments after Francel's pocketwatch disappears between the folds of his cassock, the bells sound. ]

Excellent!

[francel rises from his seat, half-eaten apple in hand; he smiles with a radiance to rival the stained glass in the cathedral, and waves jauntily as he takes his leave.]

Then I shall see you — oh, a quarter past seven, shall we say? I will have everything readied then. Oh... and do come after you've sufficiently limbered up, if you can manage some stretching — but it is not at all required; come however you wish! Ah, and do wear something comfortable, please...!

[francel departs abruptly, but evening falls without incident.

the young lord uses the time after class to freshen up. francel takes a bath so laden with soaps that it leaves his room smelling of flowers; he changes his clothes. he cleans his room only marginally, stowing papers haphazardly into drawers to give the mere illusion of tidiness. he leaves certain bottles on the desk. as soon as the young lord hears any commotion outside of his window at all, he goes to investigate.

if zephirin had any concerns whatsoever about being invited to a schoolboy's bedchambers under cover of night, he may be relieved (or disappointed) to find that francel was entirely serious about his doctoral aspirations: he's actually dressed up for the occasion. in the privacy of his dorm room, the young lord wears not the seminarian's cassock, but a white coat not unlike what the chirurgeons of the hospitalier wear. the coat is somewhat too short for him — it ends some inches above his knee, rather than below it — but, so like the rest of him, his attire imbues him with an odd charm.]

Ah, you are come! Do you need a hand up?

[his most excellent bay window sits only a few fulms off the ground, but he asks to be polite. past him, his dormitory-room glows with warm light: it seems to be a room for two, but only francel is present. he smoothes his robe over as he smiles at zephirin through the window.]

Edited 2017-05-15 16:39 (UTC)

[ Zephirin's afternoon passes largely without incident.

The bells before the appointed time of his meeting with Francel are spent putting reports in order and apprising himself of his diminished unit's status, and refusing Ser Guerrique's suggestion to celebrate his release from the infirmary, taking to the training grounds instead, where he tests his limits. The strain leaves him lightheaded. Limbering up as per Francel's request rouses dormant aches.

But they ease with a second bath's heated water, taken quickly to cleanse himself of sweat ere he dutifully changes into a plain tunic and trousers. He emerges smelling not of flowers, but of subtler soap.

En route to his destination, he purchases two apples on a whim at last, only to part with one when a young girl's longing gaze follows the fruit. The other, pocketed, remains untouched.

Punctually, Zephirin arrives at Francel's window, which frames the lordling now clad in white and bathed in the soft light behind him. The evening air is pleasant, a reasonable excuse to leave the window open regardless, but Francel gives the impression that he waited poised to greet his guest. Zephirin scans his surroundings, nearby windows and paths. He shakes his head, and hoists himself up onto the window sill.

Though there are whispers of illicit trysts that began not unlike this, any possibility of seduction at the hands of a schoolboy does not cross Zephirin's thoughts once. ]

[francel steps back a few paces to let zephirin inside; he closes the window as soon as it is safe to do so, and pulls a heavy woolen curtain over the windows to shelter them from prying eyes.

his dormitory room is surprisingly large. excepting the bathroom, which is rather more like a cupboard with a washtub in it, the space is separated into two halves: two desks and two beds, presumably for two students. the side that is francel's is easy enough to identify: francel does not seem to make his bed after rising in the morning, and his sheets rest on his mattress in an odd crescent shape that vageuly suggests that francel sleeps in a ball. his pillow is similarly mussed.

the bed on the other side of the room is pristine.]

I had a roommate earlier in the year — but he took a leave of absence just last moon. Some tragedy in the family, I think. He gave me leave to push the beds together to make a larger one, but the prefects wouldn't have it... though, I might just do it regardless...

[nothing in the room seems to explain what therapeutic treatment francel has planned for the evening. he flounces to his desk, the very picture of some cheerful nurse with the hospitaliers; his desk, now expertly cleared of books and papers and study materials (except for his odd vials of liquid and the leather-bound tome that must be the treatise from mocianne's pupil), gives the impression that he is either very fastidious or does not study at all.]

Would you like anything to drink? I have water and wine — as does Haldrath, glory to his name.

[ Even scaling the few fulms between the ground and the window tears at Zephirin's healing wounds enough to force him to steady himself against the wall on the other side. He leans into it, shoulder to stone, as he lets his gaze roam the breadth of the room from corner to corner, taking in its contribution to characterizing its occupant. It has a flower garden's scent. Perhaps Francel studies elsewhere, using his room only to bathe and sleep — when Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral is unavailable for his naps. ]

Water would suffice...

[ Zephirin straightens his posture, and produces his apple from within his tunic, crossing the room to Francel's desk to hold the fruit out to the boy, who plays host and chirurgeon-in-the-making at once. ]

Thank you.

[the seminarians make games of sneaking visitors to their rooms, and of smuggling in illegal contraband; francel is a master of the latter, and apparently has a sort of secret compartment in the side of his desk that allows him to store drinks. he slams it shut, however, before anyone might deduce the secret to opening it — when he turns around to offer zephirin the flask of spring water, he finds an apple held out to him instead.]

Hm? For me? [he laughs.] Thank you!

[deftly, francel swaps their held items, giving zephirin the flask so that he can take the apple for himself. briefly, his eyes flick over zephirin's frame in concern; he wonders, by the man's apparent fatigue, if this will not have to wait for some other night.]

...So, would you like to know what we shall be doing?

[ Interesting. By now, Zephirin supposes, he should find it unsurprising that Francel livens up the routine of his days by flouting rules that cause no harm if broken, and no benefit if obeyed. From one moment to the next, the boy's desk shifts in its function.

Without comment, Zephirin accepts the flask of water, but he does not drink from it, setting it down near the tome and vials left on Francel's desk. ]

I assume we will not read the chapter page by page.

[ Thus, he waits to hear Francel's explanation. ]

[francel laughs airily, waving his hand.]

No, of course not. But I can provide for you a brief summary...

[the young seminarian passes the apple from hand to hand as he speaks, tossing it mostly, sometimes half-juggling it in grand arcs through the air; he watches zephirin's every reaction and non-reaction with the smugness of a cat that has yet to be disciplined.]

To start from the beginning... as you well know, our Ishgardian chirurgeons are highly skilled in the art of aetheric healing, but there is only so much aether one man can accept ere he begins to run the risk of contracting aether sickness. This, coupled with the fact that manipulating aether taxes the chirurgeon, of course means that there is a limit to how much one can heal in one sitting. Potions can supplement conjury, but the Holy See's alchemists must also contend with requests from the Inquisitors and the general populace, for sleeping-draughts and other such concoctions... and so we have not enough curative potions to go around.

So there is no replacement for the body's own regenerative abilities! And the end result is that we have a great many injured knights that must lie idle until the time comes that they can grace the battlefield once more. But the real tragedy — Mocianne's pupil laments — is that we do not provide our knights with proper advice for recovery. So it was true in her time, and so it is true today. We discharge our knights from our infirmaries with little more than crutches and bandages and exhortations to avoid exerting oneself. So on and so forth...

In the end, Mocianne's pupil dedicated a good deal of her time towards trying to help those in need — and she found the answer in massage.

[this is the point at which francel reaches out and makes as if to lightly bop zephirin on the nose, though he stops short of actual contact. he grins.]

Now, I know what you are thinking! It is a popular misconception in Ishgard that massages are the salacious invention of Ul'dahn merchant-princes — but I assure you, they are not only sultry in nature. ...Well, it is true that there are massage-houses in Ul'dah that offer pleasure and... pleasure of the other kind, but it was Mocianne's belief — and her pupil's — that the relief brought on by massage might be put to better use relieving the sore and tired muscles of the wounded. Consider the gladiators of the Ul'dahn bloodsands, who are known to enjoy massages after their matches — not for the beauty of their handmaidens, but because of the benefit it brings their bodies.

At any rate, the teachings of Mocianne's pupil failed to catch on in Ishgard, not least because we Ishgardians value such things as hard work and perseverance and suffering for the glory of Halone, and so would sooner die than submit ourselves to the pleasurable hands of a masseuse... but I think there may be some merit to the idea.

I am, naturally, not a scantily clad Ul'dahn woman, but I did learn some massage techniques from this book, and I do have some scented oils you might choose from. I will, of course, avoid handling your open wounds, but if you have any aches and pains, I can certainly try to work them out...

Edited 2017-05-16 03:56 (UTC)

[ Their notions of a brief summary may differ, but Zephirin listens attentively from start to finish, his reactions flickering across his features in a twitch of the mouth, a raised brow, a widening of his eyes. Nary a one is dramatic.

They mask the true extent of Zephirin's mounting surprise, of his thoughts, which run the gamut from questioning a schoolboy's seeming familiarity with Ul'dahn massage-houses, to noting anew that Francel's manner is somehow endearing, to conceding that Ishgardian values are at times detrimental to the people who must abide by them. The war they fight is holy, so it is written, but Zephirin did not take his father's path to sacrifice his countrymen. The blade he favours is a symbol, his private reminder.

At the very end of Francel's summary, Zephirin turns to eye the vials, their contents now revealed. ]

... You raise fair points, Lord Joacin, like though they are to meet with resistance. Shall I swear an oath of silence?

Is one necessary? You seem to swear one over all topics, at every hour of the day!

[once more, francel reaches out to bop zephirin on the nose, but the movement is slower, allowing zephirin time to move out of reach if he so wishes. this time he does make actual contact.]

But, yes, I thought some secrecy implied. Does that inconvenience you?

[ Zephirin chooses not to move, as if daring Francel to finish the gesture. The touch connects, one more strange act, and a new experience, yet Zephirin's response is but a shrug and a shake of the head, patient, if in the company of a faintly quizzical look. As he spoke half in jest, he continues in that vein. ]

If you think it unnecessary, rest assured nonetheless that I will speak of this to no one, lest every wounded knight demand access to your bedchamber.

[ Or rumours and censure come knocking.

Zephirin lifts his hand, bringing his finger near Francel's nose in turn. Done solemnly, this seems a reciprocal part of an oath sworn. ]

[a brief moment's hesitation, and francel bends daintily, tapping the tip of his nose against zephirin's finger, thus completing their contact. if francel takes it as an oath sworn, he makes no ceremony of it; instead, he says simply:]

Then let this be our secret.

[with that settled, francel pulls back. he sets the apple on his desk, in line with the four vials, and though he keeps his face turned to the apple, his eyes flick again toward zephirin as he speaks.]

So, first of all, I would know the extent of your injuries.

Edited 2017-05-16 13:01 (UTC)

[ An effective remedy should become widespread knowledge, and doubtless more would be amenable to the teachings contained within Francel's discovered tome than an Ishgardian upbringing might suggest — in secret. The remedy's efficacy remains to be proven, however, and to preserve his reputation, Francel must keep his adventurous studying to himself.

Zephirin's hand lowers. Privately, he expects no marked change in the speed of his recovery. ]

A report? [ A brief summary. ] Or do you require that I undress?

[francel merely blinks in response.] Well, I will not ask you to do aught you might find uncomfortable...

Which would you rather?

[ In answer, Zephirin sheds his tunic. It is odd to treat a schoolboy as a full-fledged chirurgeon, but he sees no reason to find it uncomfortable, baring his torso to allow Francel to examine him if it will provide him with the information he seeks. There are no open wounds, no bandages; Zephirin's time in the infirmary saw the worst knit back together to leave mere tender spots and torn flesh sealed to foretell some scarring, the sporadic flare of discomfort. Where bruises still mottle his skin in places, these are fading. ]

[francel, thankfully, does not poke and prod at bruises, as some do, to gauge "if it hurts." his eyes flick up and down zephirin's torso several times; he reaches out, briefly, to test the tightness of the skin stretched across a visible scar on zephirin's shoulder, but his touch provokes no pain, and his expression betrays nothing.

(inwardly, he praises halone for her blessings upon him this day.)]

...I see. Now, do you have any other injuries I should know about? Leg wounds? I would like to know even of mild discomfort — have you any headaches, fainting spells, sore ankles, aching knees...?

[ Again amusement touches the corners of Zephirin's mouth. Music calls to Francel, but as he declared, he suits a healer-priest's mantle. His playfulness has given way to a focused efficiency. ]

As yet, I have naught else to report.

[ So Zephirin replies, deeming it unnecessary to strip down to nothing for Francel's inspection unless asked. From the waist down, his body's lower half is in no significantly different a state than its upper. ]

[francel hums in thoughtful contemplation — the rousing refrain of a familiar hymn. zephirin's imperceptible smiles continue to tempt him; francel fantasizes vaguely about poking the ever-so-slightly curved corners of his mouth. what fun that would be! but no, but no, he can't do such silly things in the middle of a serious conversation...]

Well, then... I see no reason we cannot attempt a full-body treatment, if you have no objections. Would you prefer to lie down or be seated? And would you prefer that I start with your lower or upper half?

[ If Zephirin but knew Francel's thoughts...

But he does not. He perceives only the contrast between the chirurgeon's demeanour that Francel takes on, and the boy's melodious humming to himself.

Presented with options, Zephirin takes a moment to consider. ]

Has Saint Mocianne's pupil any advice to guide us? To a layman, it seems reasonable to work downward, and to avoid overtaxing the chirurgeon.

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