A blog for the appreciation of content created by people in the RP communities of WoW and FFXIV, and maybe some other games.
Follows from @thedarknesssings.
"you're the writer, you control how the story goes" no not really. i wrote the first sentence and then my characters said "WE WILL TAKE IT FROM HERE" and promptly swerved into an electrical fence.
It was hard for Fleurant to put his finger exactly on what, but something had. At breakfast the mood is more subdued; usually the table would be filled with the sound of conversation and laughter as the three shared their plans for the day, or else groused about the weather and how their old bones did not appreciate the rain and snow.
Today, however, the other two seemed oddly quiet, and while he wasn't sure, he could have sworn that he saw Vaast and Kasmimir exchanging looks with each other when he returned from going to fetch the orange juice.
No, something was definitely amiss, but he had no idea what, let alone how to go about bringing it up. Fleurant prided himself on being a researcher and a scholar, and it wasn't exactly very scientific to go accusing one's partners of.... something, based upon just an odd feeling that had settled into the pit of his stomach.
Maybe it was just that the storm last night had been extra bad, he rationalizes. He knew that they had started to bother the other two more than more over the past few moons. It was not a particularly pleasant thought, but it made a certain amount of sense to him -- and proved that he needed to double his efforts.
Maybe he should even take a sabbatical, so that he could focus his efforts entirely upon his research. His colleagues would not be happy about it, of course, since it would mean that they would have cover his lectures, but they would have to forgive him eventually. Unlike how he would never forgive himself if something happened to one of the pair sitting across the table because he dithered.
He nods once to himself. Between spending extra hours in the workshop and the blood that his hunter was hopefully already starting to track down, he had to come up with something. He had to.
Prompt: Tempest - FFXIV Write 2024
Characters: Kasimir, Vedastus (@thedarknesssings), Fleurant (@roses-and-grimoires)
Content Warning: None
Please read This Story for Fleur’s side, and This Story for Vaast's side.
Outside the windows of the manor that Kasimir shared with his partners, a storm raged. It made his body ache in places that warmer weather didn’t. Age was catching up to him at a steady pace, like an endurance predator. It simply followed him leisurely, and waited for him to get tired before it crept more steadily into his bones. Now, in the middle of this storm, the idea of moving was like a fine agony, one that threatened a back that was usually strong.
When Vaast moved, he tightened his arm around his waist to try and keep him there. For his own benefit as much Vaast’s. But the bed felt empty. Lighter on one side than it should. A hand smoothed down his side and his eyelids fluttered. “Need a drink. Back in a moment.” He started to protest. To voice his objection to this cruel abandonment. But instead he nodded, and watched Vaast slide from their bed and head for the door that led out into the hallways.
Kas remained where he lay, brows furrowed as he smoothed a hand across the empty space of the bed. Where Vaast had lain was warm, recently occupied. But the side of the bed where Fleur was meant to be was far too cool, as though untouched for hours. It was one of the risks of having an alchemist boyfriend, he had learned over the years. Passion projects struck and kept him away just as frequently as his own wanderlust tore him from Sharlayan and their arms.
Even if these days, his trips were shorter and shorter. In the hallway, he could hear the strain of Vaast’s voice, rising and falling at a volume he no doubt would let him sleep. Not he need have bothered, not with Kas wide awake and listening to the rattle of windows, and the bluster of wind. He lifted a hand and turned it, examining the back and the lines that age had brought to him. Veins more pronounced, skin that was no longer as taut as it once was.
And an ache where he’d broken his right hand some twenty years ago on a particularly bad capture. Fingers smoothed across the skin where faint darkening spots marked the bite that had once been there. One of the myriad scars that dotted his body, most small. And then he rubbed at that spot, thumb pressed in to get to the weary tendons and bones beneath to provide some relief.
As much as he might have wanted sleep, between Vaast’s distantly fading voice, and the aches that waking had brought him, it would be a bit before he managed to get back to sleep. He shoved himself slowly upwards in the bed, an elbow used to help him make himself comfortable while his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting that only the bare flashes of lightning beyond the curtains served to illuminate.
Their bedchamber wasn’t exactly a modest thing, with ample space and room for their possessions and his lovers sprawling wardrobes alike. What bothered him was the lack of certain tells of an evening abed. Had Fleur not been at all yet? Not simply drawn back up, but never even joined them?
He’d just reached for a bedside lamp to finally turn it on so he could view the room more properly when the door opened on a soft creak, and Vaast rejoined him. But the man looked bothered. And Kas wasn’t sure that he liked the fact that Vaast’s face was as much a storm as the tempest that roared outside.
He reached a hand out, beckoning Vaast back into the bed with him. “Tell me what’s creased your brow so deeply.” He seemed relieved when, after only a few moments of hesitation, Vaast crossed the distance to rejoin him, sliding back beneath the blankets. And by the time he relayed the broken part of what he’d heard, Kas’ expression was nearly as troubled.
“We’ll talk to him,” he reassured Vaast, a hand smoothing down his shoulder and arm, while the other squeezed the hand he’d still yet to surrender. “And he’ll give us answers.” Even if they had to work to pry whatever the hells he was up to out of him.
“You promised!” Fane’s foot, currently ensconced in fine heeled boots, gave the ground a little stamp for emphasis.
The dark miqo’te’s voice lilted upward with some restrained emotion breaking loose, though his volume didn’t raise. Rather, the accusation came at a fierce near-whisper though there was absolutely no reason to be whispering. He held Ice in a stare that didn’t match the surprisingly fine theatre attire he was wearing. He didn’t break it even when the taller elezen began shuffling things around on his desk rather than look at the upset catte.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I haveta look into this, I’ll make it up to you.” When he looked up, it was with a charming smile, albeit one with a tinge of guilt at the corners.
“I assume you’re taking your new bodyguard…” came the sullen reply, and Fane crossed his arms over his chest, purposefully turning his back on the other.
No response meant yes, and the keeper heaved a loud sigh.
Ice, meanwhile, had turned to rifle through one of the nearby drawers.
“You know you’re my favorite, but we’ve got some loose ends that need tying up.” Their little… territorial dispute issue hadnt been wrapped up in a nice little bow yet.
“I promise next time I’ll go and we can-“ he paused when he turned back, finding his office empty save for himself and the door left ajar.
Characters: Fleurant, mention of Kasimir, Ghyslain ( @zoetic-tome ), and Vaast ( @thedarknesssings )
The storm raged outside, harsh wind and driving rain battering the thick glass of the workshop's windows.
Yet the person just behind the glass seems heedless of the boom of thunder and crackle of lightning; no, all of his attention is on the beaker and it's boiling, bubbling contents sitting before him. Sharp sea green eyes are fixed upon the potion as he stirs it, his lips moving as he counts out seconds.
As his count reaches thirty, he exhales a breath shaky with nerves and anticipation alike. One hand showing the wrinkles of age reaches out, picking up the vial of reddlish liquid that had cost far more than it's weight in gold, once one factored in the knowledge traded and blood spilled in it's acquisition.
The acrid scent of copper fills his noise as he opens the vial and carefully--so carefully--measures out a dropper. Without daring to breathe, he brings it over to bubbling beaker, and then gently squeezes out a drop of undead blood into the mix.
For a moment all seems well. For a moment, his heart swells with hope as the mixture starts to take on a reddish hue. It wasn't definitive, of course, he would still have to test it, but maybe, maybe, he had finally taken a step closer--
Boom.
The beaker shatters in an explosion of glass and liquid that sizzles where it splatters. Most of it, fortunately, is caught by his coat and other equipment. Most of it. For protective gloves could only do so much against shards of glass.
Fleurant lets out a gasp of pain, one that he immediately tries to muffle with his other hand as his eyes fly towards the workshop door. It was late, and the storm was loud, loud enough that he hoped that the two men sleeping in the comfortable bedroom nearby would not stir.
When there is no rush of concerned footsteps, Fleurant allows his shoulders to sag. The two needed their rest. And he did not wish them to fret. And they would fret, in their own fashions. He could easily imagine Kas' remarks about how smart he is supposed to be and yet apparently not smart enough to not drive glass into his palms, sharp words designed to hide his own worry.
Shaking his head ruefully, he reaches for his small kit he kept for such occasions; there would be questions tomorrow when he showed up with a bandage, of course, but that was easier to handle.
Once there was little risk of his own blood staining his notes more than they already were, he pulls out his notebook, and finds the latest entry.
There, in stark letters, sat the words: Batch #374.
Next to them, he adds one simple word: Failure.
For a few moments he glares at it, his hand hovering over the page as he suppresses the desire to rip the bloody thing out and throw it and it's endless litany of failures into the fire. He was close, he knew he was close, and yet.. None of it worked.
And he knew, with every day that passed, that he--and more importantly, they--were running out of time.
A trembling hand reaches upwards, clicking on the pearl in his ear.
"I need more, Ghyslain," he announces in lieu of a greeting, in a tone that is far harsher than his usual. "Something stronger. More potent. And I don't care what you have to do to get it."
This is a common misconception because they’re such similar environments, but you should be aware that dads are native to Home Depot, while lesbians are actually native to Lowe’s. At this point, however, both dads and lesbians have made themselves at home in both Home Depot and Lowe’s to the point that trying to separate them back into their original ranges would probably do more harm than good to the delicate ecosystem of large chain hardware stores.
A properly raised and socialized Dad will be perfectly comfortable cohabiting with Lesbians. Its not really “encroaching on another’s territory”. You wouldn’t say that about foxes in a forest that also homes bobcats, would you? No. It’s just two different species that have both evolved to live in similar/the same environment. As long as they recognize each other as equals, Dads and Lesbians are more than capable of cohabitation.
Now, if you were to release a pack of Lumberjacks into a Lowes or Home Depot, that’s where chaos will reign. Being adapted to a far harsher and more demanding environment, the Lumberjacks would simply push Dads and Lesbians both out and also consume far more than a sustainable amount of resources. It would be like releasing bears at a country club.
As a former timber-harvester… I feel this is potentially accurate in theory. But highly improbable in actuality.
Lumberjacks, like most megafauna species generally require more space than the average hardware store, even a big box store could provide. The misconception is that Lumberjacks are a social species because of how they often work and live together.
This is a matter of necessity, not preference, and a survival technique for thriving under the LogBoss.
A “pack” of Lumberjacks, if not under the environmental pressure of a LogBoss will naturally disperse until they each have a wide territory.
Lumberjacks rarely fight for territory.
One on one, a Lumberjack could drive out a Dad or Lesbian, however the latter tend to travel in social packs.
Lumberjacks will passively retreat on the presence of large numbers of people. Kind of like Sasquatch.
Getting a “pack” of Lumberjacks assembled would be hard enough unless they were forced into a Hardware Store by a LogBoss. In that case, they would already be in a heightened and potentially agitated state far above their natural behavior. This artificial scenario can be likened to a circus animal running amok. If it had been in the wild, the incident would not have occurred.
Free-roaming Lumberjacks are the cryptids of the Hardware ecosystem. They are surprisingly quiet and unobtrusive.
Please stop labeling Lumberjacks as dangerous roving social predators. They are intermediate level omnivores and remarkably peaceful unless threatened.
question where does the “art student” or “DIYer” “crafter” or “soap maker” or “miniaturist“ etc. who has ventured into the store for supplies fall into the ecosystem/what is their impact of said ecosystem?
Most of the above are native to craft and hobby stores (art students, historically, are native to museums, but having been introduced to hobby stores, have found a niche for themselves and thrived), but all can be seen in hardware stores on occasion due to territorial overlap. They are generally low-impact, as they tend to stick to specific small areas and primarily utilize different resources. While a large group of any of them can be disruptive (art students, in particular, are known to travel in packs), in general, they are more likely to have territorial disputes with one another than with the local fauna.
A point of clarity -“crafter” is a bit misleading; while it conjures a specific image, much like ‘fish’ or ‘reptile’ it actually covers a broad array of wildly disparate species, and in general, more descriptive nomenclature is preferred. Fiber artists in particular are a genus to watch out for, particularly in groups. Beware a roving pack of domesticated quilters. They fear nothing, will go anywhere, and due to their social nature, will often seek interaction from other species that thrive best in solitude. They are quite friendly, and will happily adopt members of other species; the concern is that their adoptees do not always wish to be adopted.
I can say as a former craft store worker that if you wish to see true fear, look into the eyes of a Dad who must venture into a craft store. Despite the overlap of familiar beings known to him from his native hardware store habitat, Dads are instinctively aware that craft stores are not for them; they contain unfamiliar perils and even the seemingly familiar may have strange variances and unnerving secrets. (”Why is this airbrush so small? What do you mean nails, why would you… WUT!!”)
Only experienced silverbacks or the boldest young Dads dare venture into a craft store for long without his mate or offspring to keep roving Craft Ladies at bay and guide him in this strange ecosystem. If a Dad enters with his mate and is separated from her, he will often scuttle for the seeming familiarity of Woodcrafts, Models, or Paints (the latter not to be confused with Fine Arts, unquestioned territory of art students), but he eyes Scrapbooking and Jewelry with trepidation and will usually venture into those exotic areas only in the company of females of his pack.
Lumberjacks are rarely spotted entering craft stores of their own volition, for while they do not fear it as Dads do, they know it is an environment unsuited for megafauna such as themselves.
Hardware store Lesbians generally adapt more easily to craft stores, although they may enlist another Lesbian of a subspecies more adapted to that environment to guide them until they find their niche. Lesbians have even been known to seek the aid of a Craft Lady, a native fauna that share similarities with Lesbians but are usually smaller and nimbler to suit their chosen habitat. Dads who witness this are often awed by the Lesbians’ temerity, for although larger, Dads are generally wary of the cunning and dexterous Craft Ladies and may mistake their enthusiastic pack greetings as predatory swarming.
Craft Ladies, secure in their ecological niche, have no fear of interlopers and take the presence of non-native beings in stride, although they may become territorial about scarcer resources.
The only truly invasive species that threaten craft stores are Brides-to-Be, who are mere annoyances individually, but like locusts may descend in hordes and lay waste, leaving swathes of destruction in their wake. Fortunately for the Craft Ladies, Brides-to-Be are seasonal and usually only a threat in the spring and early summer.
Is anybody going to address the newly invasive species of BuJo enthusiasts into the craft store/art supply store environment? Why aren’t we talking about the dangerous proliferation of Leuchtturm 1917s and the growing threat of Dotted Moleskins? I had to liberate a Dad from a tangle of washi tape in the art supply store the other day and it wasn’t pretty.
The natural habitat of journalers was stationary stores, which have been replaced by office supplies stores, not the same. Journalers invade the craft stores and art supplies stores to get the markers and washi tape and Sakura pens they require for survival.
Another thing to note is all of those habitats must adapt to the seasonal migration of goths. As soon as the faintest hint of spooky can be detected at those stores, goths will arrive in packs. A small pack of goths determined to forage can strip the shelves of a seasonal section bare in 30 minutes.
Welcome to the Countdown to Dawntrail, at time of posting, we have 9 Weeks to go!
So here's the deal. You select one (or more if you want) prompts. And either write or screenshot to correspond with it. And then just do it within the week. No need for daily submission, just...whenever you have time for it. Stress free. Don't feel rushed. Just do it when you got the chance and inclination. Stretch those creative muscles when possible. And I hope my lack of good looking *gestures* encourages those with lesser experience in writing, gposing, what have you...to join in.
For those whose phone won't load the picture or whatever:
COUNT DOWN TO DAWNTRAIL
WEEK 1: A REALM REBORN
PROMPTS:
Beginning City
Starting Job
Scion
Race
Primal
XIVth Legion
A Realm Reborn Raid
The Crystal Braves
Beast Tribe
Discipline of Hand or Land Guild
A Realm Reborn Dungeon
A Realm Reborn Region
You can just @ me if you want to show off and I'll reblog. But its just something fun and relaxing to do.
Throughout June, we invite you to participate in a prompt event celebrating all those beautiful Elezen OCs!
How you participate is completely up to you - use the prompts for screenshots or writing or art; use all prompts or just one that tickles your fancy - just make sure to use the tag #junelezen 2024 so we can see and reblog your post!
Our current mod team would like to thank the previous mod team for running this event for several years, and we hope to do you proud! The mod team will monitor the tag throughout the month and reblog every entry we find - please be patient, it might be that our queue runs full or we miss an entry, but if your post doesn't get reblogged within three days, feel free to tag us!
Get ready, get hype, and /blowkiss at every Elezen in your Light and Full Parties!
(because i think too much about these things)(as evidenced by the size of this post)(absolute unit)
getting the obvious out of the way. fangies and eyeshines and hypersensitive ears let’s go.
their language is a lot closer to old gelmorran than modern wildwood to the point they’re basically different language families
(personally i use breton because, breton is neat)(and works as a celtic language vs Generally Assumed Elezen French)
neventi vad d'ar ghaelmorred, ha mallozh ruz d'ar gredonied
i imagine them living in not entirely sub-terranean but still largely underground dwellings, with their own workshops and bazaars and gardens and large communal spaces that’re all connected with tunnels
not all of them though, some took up residence in the ruins of the giant trees for instance. very cosy
over time and for various reasons (destruction of their homes being the main one) some other duskwight took to a nomadic lifestyle, travelling the shroud and surrounding areas in caravans. can’t raid what doesn’t have a fixed address
the ones who still live underground guard their cave settlements with their LIVES and a lot of magic.
(the adders can try and destroy the ruins of gelmorra all they want but good luck getting past 7 glamours and very angry grandpas with shovels)
to an outsider it can be intensely claustrophobic (esp. because there’s an unspoken Rule that if you don’t speak dusqische you’re not entirely welcome)
don’t mention tam-tara or toto-rak. you will be glared at.
(the fact that their ancestral grounds got turned into prisons and masoleums is a sore point)
they use a lot of spellwork and magicks to keep the caves lit and ventilated (because lighting a fire underground is a bad idea)
Name: Silvaineaux Elouan Valère de Rosaire
Nicknames: Silvain
Age: 29 Summers
Nameday: 17th Sun of the Fourth Astral Moon
Race: Ishgardian Elezen
Gender: Cis Male.
Orientation: Homosexual
Profession: Baron, Knight-Captain, Captain at Priarch Enterprises.
—𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔
Hair: Jet black, hip length.
Eyes: The right is golden, the left sapphire blue.
Skin: Golden brown
Tattoos/scars: The most visible ones are the one on his right cheek and the small day to day scars on his hands. Under armor and clothing he wears the numerous heavy marks of a life spent in combat. Armor and clothing also hide a tattoo in black ink in the shape of a striking hawk on his right shoulder and in blue and white on the left side of his chest the design of a droplet breaking free of a wave.
—𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚
Parents: Baron Severin and Baroness Athenais de Rosaire (both deceased)
Siblings: Older brother Seraphin de Rosaire (deceased*), Older sister Felicienne de Beauchene, and adopted brother Honore.
Grandparents: Paternal: Baron Ghyslain and Baroness Mailys de Rosaire (both deceased) Maternal: Baron Évrard de Solepine and Baroness Geneviève de Solepine (both deceased)
In-laws and Other: Numerous cousins and cousins by marriage as are typical of large old noble houses. Notable still living close relations include: A great Uncle: Ser Judicael de Rosaire, A Paternal Aunt: Dowager Viscountess Kasmae Sanguemont. Cousin once removed: Ser Gaheriet de Rosaire. Maternal first cousin: Baron Vaelanys de Solepine. Brother-in-law: Baron Gratien de Beauchene.
Pets: Tempête, a hunting hawk as well as several other birds of prey.
—𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔
Abilities: Silvaineaux is extremely skilled in sword and shield combat, both mounted and unmounted. He is proficient with the jousting lance and passably versed in spear fighting. He is competent with a bow. He is also extensively schooled in military tactics and the commanding of men, since he was raised to serve as an officer. His family has raised and trained chocobos for some five centuries and he is very good at understanding and handling birds. From his mother's family he inherited the peculiar aethersight that comes with his odd hued eyes, as a side effect of this he can see ghosts, though he does not have any particular skills with the dead beyond this ability to perceive them.
—𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔
Most Positive Trait: A strong sense of justice and a very fixed moral compass.
Most Negative Trait: Stubborn and self-sacrificing.
Smokes: Never. Smoke aggravates his lungs and makes him cough.
Drinks: Excessively. Mostly whiskey.
Drugs: Never.
Mount Issuance: Silvaineaux's beloved Joyeux was bred out of his family's own stables. He chose the birds for the cross and sat with the egg while it hatched. He trained Joyeux for combat himself and counts him as one of his most loyal and dependable friends and comrades. (Joyeux is short for his full pedigreed name which means Joyous in Battle.)
Been Arrested: No.
Tagged by: @shroudkeeper Thank you so very much!
Tagging: @bookbornexiv @dawning-star @thedarknesssings @blisteringstar @roses-and-grimoires @iron-roots @reddevil-xiv @liminal-storage @gorgagne-viperidae @tea-and-conspiracy @punches-and-cream-puffs @hiraethwyl @mimble-sparklepudding @avampyone and whoever else would like to do it and blame me. (please do tag, I would love to see)
Thank you for the tag @shroudkeeper and @houserosaire ! <3
Tagging: @ffxivtribehydrae , @ilbers, @amalthea-felsblood, @drowxiv, @corsair-kovacs, @viiioca, @midnightmagicks or anyone who would like to do so!
—𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒔
Name: Hemlocke Reines (Birth name: Seraphine Desmarais)
Nicknames: Hemi or Hems
Age: 23-24 (He's lost track in the bustle of life.)
Nameday: 13th Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon
Race: Vampiric Duskwight Elezen
Gender: Cis male
Orientation: Pansexual (male lean)
Profession: Aide to the Arrzaneth Ossuary, bartender, former scion.
—𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔
Hair: Midnight black hair that began to fade at the ends into a dark red ombre after he was fully turned into a vampire.
Eyes: Blood red
Skin: Very pale, perfect to an almost unsettling degree.
Tattoos/scars: Hemlocke doesn't scar or else he would have many, including a deep one across his right cheek. Tattoo ink would only bleed out of his skin if he attempted to get one.
—𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚
Parents: Ange B'londe - Father (paramour to Olivia, alive but undead), Olivia Desmarais - Mother (deceased)
Siblings: Jezebel B'londe - Half sister (Not known to Hemlocke, status unknown)
Grandparents: Via Ange: Unnamed Gelmorran maiden (deceased), Father unknown (A certain voidsent. Status unknown).
Via Olivia: The Le Malheur family, Hemlocke was estranged from them and not allowed to meet under Gloucent's rules.
In-laws and Other: Pierre Beaufort (tutor, father figure to Hemlocke, alive), Gloucent Desmarais (Olivia's husband in an arranged marriage, Hemlocke's guardian father, deceased),
Eve B'londe (Ange's wife, deceased)
Pets: Bruce, his pet bat and Cookie, the ghost of a great dane.
—𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔
Abilities: Natural affinity for black magic, particularly attuned to fire. The wild magic doesn't always work out in his favor as sometimes he ends up casting an entirely different spell than what he intended. Hemlocke can use magic without a staff or soul crystal with no fear of his aether burning away, but it can become easily out of control the more he uses without a focus. He can successfully use the teleportation spell 'Flow', but it takes a lot out of him to do.
In perilous moments, Hemlocke's 'shadow' might emerge to assist and amplify his magic. In physical combat, he's best with knives and throwing them at a distance.
Hobbies: Hemlocke enjoys reading, dancing, traveling, going out to drink, and gardening. He might sing if he's by himself. He plays piano proficiently, but he's still hesitate to pick it up in being tied back to bitter memories.
—𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔
Most Positive Trait: Kind and protective.
Most Negative Trait: Reckless and conflicted with guilt.
Textures: Velvet, hearth, layers, midnight, feathers.
Drinks: Chamomile or Doman tea, red wine, gin and tonic.
—𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔
Smokes: No.
Drinks: Often. Hemlocke likes gin the best, but he isn't really too picky.
Drugs: In the past in Ishgard, Hemlocke would take a crystalline substance brought in secret equivalent to amphetamine, but he doesn't take it anymore.
Mount Issuance: Nightingale, Hemlocke's easily spooked chocobo and occasionally Rose, a bird mount that assists him at the behest of the Vath.
Been Arrested: No, but he's had a few close calls.
Care for something a little bit different? La Vipère offers a luxurious den for those who wish to indulge in a little escapism. You will not find courtesans or private bookings here but you will find engaging company and indulgent intoxications in an upscale atmosphere.
La Vipère is an upscale hookah lounge and host club located in Ishgard. A place to unwind and immerse oneself in the luxurious atmosphere and engaging company.
Though we are a 21+ venue both IC and OOC, we do not have bookings or courtesans. However, we do have hosts who will share conversation and a drink with you.
What: La Vipère Grand Opening
Where: Crystal Data Center | Malboro | Empyreum | Ward 25 | Plot 60
When: Thursday, April 11th 9PM - 1AM EST
LGBT+ friendly | 21+ IC and OOC
(A background story relating to some Priarch RP things that are coming up. Silvaineaux is Ser Not Appearing in This Story, but Honore gets a mention because it's related to his history.)
Achille wondered who the snuffbox had belonged to. It was a pretty little thing, gold and bright enamel with the design of a unicorn fighting a serpent in a field of flowers. The blood on the beast’s horn and wounded shoulder shone as brilliantly crimson as real blood did when it was fresh. That thought gave him a morbid little chill and he set the box down abruptly. He still had no idea who it had belonged to.
Like most of the things in this room, it had become familiar over the last week. By that same token he supposed it didn’t matter who it had belonged to originally since it was his now, just like everything else in the maze of rooms and indeed like the rather hideous castle itself. He picked up the snuffbox again, eyeing it a second time, this time wondering if he liked it enough to take it home with him when his mother finally consented to leave again. He didn’t like the blood on the unicorn; he decided and set it down again.
This time as his eyes slid past the tall mirror he caught his valet’s reflection in it. Thibault was frowning at him as he smoothed out the velvet of a coat, and something in the grim set of the man’s lips put the matter of the snuffbox entirely out of his mind.
“You look like something is troubling you.” he said turning away from the small table and the tall mirror.
Thibault set the jacket carefully on the coverlet and folded his arms. “We’ve got problems.” He said. “Below stairs.”
Achille drew himself up to his full height and took a deep breath. “Tell me.”
“The maids say it’s a bad place, this house.” Thibault said, his grim face making him look more like a thug than ever. “And the footmen and such don’t like it much either. They’ve been talking about it ever since we got here last week. The maids say the place gives them the chills and the men say there’s something happening down in the low levels when they’ve been down there. The wine cellar and such. They hate being down there.”
“And of course my mother’s had them down doing a full inventory of that and looking for the lost Fleursanglante gold or something.”
Thibault nodded, and the light of the candles made deep shadows in the vicious scars around one of his golden eyes. “She has.” He said. “And I don’t mind telling you they’ve hated it. There’s been rumblings. But now it’s worse.”
Achille swallowed. “How much worse?”
“We’ve lost one of the footmen.”
“What do you mean you have lost him? Did he give notice?”
Thibault shook his head. “No. I mean he’s gone. If he’d given notice his being gone wouldn’t hardly be surprising now would it, my Lord?”
“What do you mean he’s gone?! Where can he have gone? This bloody place is in the middle of nowhere. It took ages to get here and it was cold and that was when the weather was clear. It’s been blizzards for days. No one would try to make their way down that hideous mountain road and back to Ishgard in this.” Achille glanced at the window as he spoke. But the weather had not mysteriously seen fit to clear and he could see nothing outside it save a hideous bounty of snow swirling down and a chunk of nearby wall so nearly obscured by it that he wasn’t certain where the top was.
“I mean that he is gone.” Thibault said. “As near as anybody remembers he went down for something or another yesterday and no one has seen him since. He missed supper and he also didn’t turn up for breakfast this morning.”
Achille took this in for a moment in silence, then ran a hand viciously through his hair and swore in a way he wouldn’t have if there had been anyone but Thibault to see him. “Halone’s frigid fucking knees!”
“Aye, my lord.” Thibault agreed. “It’s a right fucking mess.”
“You sincerely mean to tell me that someone went down into the basement of this bloody place and got lost?”
“As far as anybody can tell, aye.”
“I suppose… they’ve looked for him?”
“Aye. And not a damn trace. His lantern is missing too. P’raps he stole it and went to hock it for the money to start a new life in Ul’dah as a merchant prince.” Thibault said.
“She did not actually suggest that…” Achille said, a horrible sinking feeling in his chest.
“If the maid who overheard it is to be believed she said something of the like, yes.”
“I see.” Achille wondered yet again how his mother could be so very good at making people of their own class like her and so horrible with everyone else. “So how bad is it? How many are looking to give notice as soon as we can get out of the storm.”
“At least half.” Thibault said. “They really don’t like this house. It’s nothing but eerie stories of a night. They say the place is haunted or cursed or both.”
Achille frowned. “And what do you think?”
Thibault lifted a hand to his chin, running his thumb thoughtfully over a small scar there. It was a big hand, calloused and scarred, for Thibault had been a soldier before ever he was a valet. Achille sometimes thought one of his parents must have been a giant. “I think there’s something wrong with this place.” Thibault said at last in his calm matter of fact way.
Ice settled into the pit of Achille’s stomach. He had not thought anything could really unsettle Thibault, but the look in the valet’s eyes as they met his own was decidedly uneasy. “What do you mean?” He whispered.
“I mean I think there is something wrong here.” Thibault said. “I don’t know as I believe in ghosts or spirits or curses, but I do know when I’ve come into a place where something wants to kill me. And this place feels like it is hungry. Way down in the low levels there’s something that shivers in your bones… and I don’t mind telling you my nights are bad. Bad like in the war. I keep hearing dragonsong in my dreams, like when they were massing for battle.”
“I haven’t noticed anything like that.” Achille said, and then at the look in Thibault’s eyes hastily added. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t believe you. A footman doesn’t just vanish into nothing, and no one would steal a damned lantern and flee out into that.” He gestured toward the window.
“No. They wouldn’t.” Thibault agreed.
Achille glanced at the snuffbox, frowning just a little. “Perhaps we can learn something about the place.” He said. “The storm should blow over soon. I’ll send a letter then. The last lord that held this place is gone with all his family. But the one before that… There’s one person left who lived here from the family before that. I’ll write a letter to him, see if he’ll speak to me about it. And I’ll go talk to them downstairs myself and have a look… if you think that would help.”
“I do think it would help.” Thibault said. “People like being taken seriously when they’re afraid.”
“Well before I go down you can let them know I am taking it seriously.” He said. “I suppose you’d better get me into that coat for dinner. And then I’ll write a letter.”
Thibault raised an eyebrow.
“To Lord Honore of House Rosaire that was Aurelien Fleursanglante. As far as I am aware he is the only still living person who can claim to have lived here for any amount of time.”
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