If there was anything about himself Valentin found true pride in, beyond his own lineage, excluding his skills and knowledge of the sciences and conjury, it was his hands. No matter the suffering he faced for his crimes, the scars that remained permanently and deeply etched into his face, surrounding an eye that was once a sharp shade of blue or the road map that littered his slender frame beneath his robes, his hands stayed ever immaculate. Delicately formed, always manicured and kept clean, they were his pride and joy. And thus almost no one but himself could ever touch them. They could heal, harm, but more than that- create. For Valentin's most subtle joy was art and the act of creating it.
It started simple enough- a young boy, unable to leave his room, given pencil and a blank book by his instructor. Bereft of most entertainments a child would expect at 5 years old, as it would distract from his "future duties as Viscount and to Halone", Valentin was given books, instructors, and his retainer to keep him company and on the path his father was adamant he must follow. But at a loss of how to improve his mood and health, his instructor sought to bring out Valentin's creative side. All children have some imagination and dream freely for a time, and thus it was decided that it was no sin to let the boy follow this one simple activity. And unexpectedly, it did wonders for the lordling.
Where words failed him or betrayed him, Valentin could mark and scribble and observe in his sketch books. Emotions rang clear in his lines and observations where he could not find the ability to do so with others. Where drudgery at the tasks set before him every day reared its ugly head, he could retreat to his desk for a time or the gardens of his family's manse and lose himself to paper and his thoughts. Pencils and sketches became ink and brushes and paints. He learned to manipulate watercolors and oils, techniques that brought life to studies made of muscle, flesh and bone. Of flowers and animals and the secrets they could hide. He was voracious for knowledge and the skill he acquired with time and patience and what love could be spared from the strangers that raised him, allowed Valentin the means to hunt down whatever curiosity came to mind and commit it to any medium.
His mother was deeply moved by a watercolor painting of the Lotus Stand in Gridania- framing it in her parlor. His father gave him one of the very few validations in their time together over an oils piece honoring Halone and Her continued war and conquest against their ancient enemy. For every social sin he could commit or misstep or misunderstanding, there was still a soul that could move people in the arts he created. His hands and mind could never fail him as words and emotions so often did. In a kinder world and time, perhaps Valentin would truly have committed to the simpler dream of being a noble lord and naturalist.
But for all the worldly light Valentin could capture, he was still driven by a darker, more voracious passion for knowledge and scientific curiosity. For all his books on Ishgardian flowers and Coerthan fauna, Valentin had dozens more of every stripe of anatomy he could personally witness and commit to paper. Tomes detailing his drive to understand his limits as a conjurer and the myriad circles, runes, prayers, etchings, formulas that one could make, to heal, to hurt, to bring life back to those that lack it. Alchemical designs and chimera and the whisperings of how to bend life and nature to his will, if only he could step outside of the morality that was forced upon him...
His hands could never fail him, but they could falter. And so they did when faced with drawing the one subject he couldn't truly *know*. Often, at her behest or his own, Valentin painted and sketched Eleonore. And always he couldn't find it in himself to finish a single piece of her. Pages upon pages, canvas began and then left to the side. Even now, he could still see the most complete of his oil paintings of her, the hands still undefined, though he always found some way to capture the strange, sweet and knowing smile she kept. It troubled him as he looked over his sketches, he wrote of it often, this hesitation, this faltering that kept him from ever truly committing her to paper and memory.
"...Her smile, it is killing me. The more she smiles at me, the more I feel my very being become insignificant.
Inside my heart there is this empty existence.
Other than painting, I have no worth to someone like her. Yet, she continues to accept my presence.
I feel like I am becoming smaller and smaller."
"I did not have this feeling in the beginning.
I wanted to paint her one more minute.
One more second longer.
I wanted to keep on painting forever.
But, suddenly I could not.
As the picture neared completion, the empty part of me started to manifest itself in my brush strokes.
It was meant to be painting her as she really is..."
---
His hands remained ever his pride and joy, even now that he was dedicated to his position as a doctor, teacher, and some times advisor. His art once again flourishing, but for a different purpose. Pages littered with hands and arms, delicate and quietly deadly, patterned in flowers and ritual runes, shapes of power and nature. And a languid figure that some times rested upon the chair or bed of his private quarters hidden in the offices.
The bells would pass and he lingered in shadowed places to watch as dozens of golden-eyed strangers herded their children along, cousins of a family too big by his measure. Though those days were longed past him, there was moments where he sat and thought or imagined another by his side, small and insignificant, but wishing to learn how to draw as he did. Only to be replaced by some figure fleeing from his too cold gaze.
It had continued to weigh on him, in a way that he suspected was purposeful on the part of the specter known as the Master. But Mazin still refused to abide by it. If only he knew, the old man. 'My father's sport and shame, the Harbinger of some heretical cult. As if he wasn't mad enough already. Though he could certainly be madder.' But prophecies have funny ways of working out, when man learns his destiny or the swineherd hears the utterings of some sibyl. Inevitability may be a rule of the star and the universe, but ineffability was no slouch either. And thus, Mazin was more than content to keep playing ignorant of his role, as 'one who walks between man and dragon'. No need to play the hand when the Twelve played in the dark, with no rules stated, and smiling all the time in their cosmic Triad games.
But it made him no less exasperated. But what good would it have done to hear of it from the start? He was already given to understated theatrics and quiet to explosive displays of magical prowess, sleight of hand, second rate pickpocketing. Secret judo holds and sword skills that literally danced between and around his foes. Add a title to it, one so grandiose and overwrought as the Harbinger, it's already too gaudy. A joke in Elezen form. As he stated to the Master in that sanctuary to Halone, in the halls of his friends, "Look at me!" Summing himself up in so much a tired sweep of his hands- a man who could barely get up before the noon bell some days and who, while impeccably dressed, stood on no ceremony and even less for his "people".
"Heretics are no friends of mine," he had stated, openly and without shame, "But neither do I seek to be friends with every citizen of Ishgard." He didn't care if they died by his sword or their own hubris or waiting forever for a savior that did or didn't exist. And to accept the full burdens that came with this knowledge would mean sealing himself to a fate, a promise. The old man had many lessons in cruelty to impart, but there was one that stayed close to Mazin even after all was said and done- words have power. You need only speak it into the universe and that idea gains a fraction of its power. Apply the forces of faith and belief and one could move entire planes, cities, people, hearts, minds. ...and how terrible it would be to know that he, so simple a magician, could do so, if he just applied himself to the notion. Surrendered to fate and faith.
"I have my power, but the world is still too heavy to move," he said quietly, hands working to repair and polish a delicate but well-crafted sword. Crystalline blade, like amethyst polished to a fine mirror shine. A playful chuckle escaped him, as he swung the crystal blade in hand, "And I rather like continuing to let the coin stand on edge. The world can keep holding its breath."
"Besides, things must happen when it is time for them to happen."
From the diary of a Hearer of the Conjurer's Guild.
"An exhausting series of events of the last eight suns. What I thought would be an interesting lesson in learning to mind the cycle of life and the Elementals turned into an exercise of patience, concern, and horror.
I am uncertain of what to make of a young conjurer who looks at a sad corpse of a dog and thinks that it is something to 'repair' or 'fix'. It is simply the time for it to pass, unfortunate as it was that happened at all. The poor girl was sobbing over the wretched thing and the young lad, barely eight turns, simply took it!
Arguments were had and we, as the Hearers, had the animal's body returned to the girl and her family. We thought the matter closed, especially after we reprimanded young Lemarquis for his behavior. He was sullen, but reasonable, at the time.
Then this sun passes and the same dog was found again- but alive. Alive, for a given value of it. The owner, the young girl, refused to have anything to do with it. Now we are stuck with a...I cannot even begin to truly call it a real living animal. It has the substance of life, but it is a sluggish and tired thing. It is strange that Lemarquis has picked up such skill so fast at spellcraft, but he is failing to understand the deeper nuances of the power he wields.
I believe E-Sumi-Yan should have a more personal talk with the student. I have already sent a missive back to Ishgard and the House he hails from, but I hope nothing more comes of these incidents.
It is already troubling enough that he has the Sight. We need no more rebellious behavior in our lessons to go with it."
From desk of the Lady Lemarquis, a letter addressed to another lady from House Durendaire.
"...it is a truly sorrowful turn. Valentin's twelfth nameday has come and gone and still no one showed for the event I had planned. Invitations were delivered as per our usual arrangements, but no one save the servants and a few relatives appeared. He did not seem troubled by this, which in turn concerned me more.
His father has such high expectations for him and I am always trying to find a proper way to get him to socialize with others of his own age. 'I am content to be alone, mother' is all he ever says when we have our talks. But how sad a fate that is, to be alone among so many children his own age. Even more difficult to prove him a worthy match for someone...anyone...among our families.
I wonder, often, what it is that sets him apart from everyone? I know he has difficulties being too honest, too...brutally honest. But he is very intelligent, insightful, talented with pen, pencil, sword and scholarly matters. I am so very proud of his early graduation from the Guild. The instructors at the Scholasticate find him to be a pleasure to teach, since he is so very quiet and observant.
Perhaps it goes back to his eyes? Oh I know how horrifying it was for him, back then. But his father and I tried to raise his understanding...he was only five turns then. He suffered such terrible headaches, bedridden for suns.
Though I often wonder if we were too hard on him from the start."
Excerpts from the records at the outpost of Whitebrim Front.
"As of the current sun, the chirurgeon Lemarquis (18) has been discharged from his duties and to be returned to Viscount Lemarquis.
Reason cited: Insubordination in regards to the care and return of injured or mortally wounded soldiers to the war front."
A note is hastily scribbled in the margins:
"Dead is better than whatever he had done to them."
From the files of the Viscount Lemarquis.
"It is truly stifling how much we hold ourselves back in the eyes of the Twelve and the Fury. For what reason do we fear the gods' scorn as they do nothing for us? This loathsome desperation in the face of an enemy that feels nothing for us or our suffering. How tiring, how crushing.
If only they knew, the soldiers, the citizens, the Holy See, the Archbishop himself, that the potential to winning this war lies in turning the Dravanian's weapons against them. The way forward lies in the blood in our veins, but only if we seize the opportunity! I will seize that opportunity.
Oh how blind I was, only to be made to see. Eleonore, how I loathe and love you for what you left behind."
An abandoned tomestone's recording in the depths of a lab under Hemlock.
"I have achieved something that was once only a passing dream. A dragon, from a single specimen! A dragon, something that will live forever. So many lives lost...but now, all that remains is to use that Allagan device and we can begin the process of refining our methods.
An army of manufactured dragons...such a wonder to behold."
"I do hope you realize the gravity of your declaration, my lord."
"You have, single handedly, alienated every possible ally of our House in one evening. A feat, I must say."
"I can only imagine your father's reaction to such temerity on your part. Do you believe yourself entirely above our social mores?"
So the reprimands went, each one a lash against an already fragile pride. An old retainer, in burnished silver armor, stood at the fireplace. A glass of wine in hand, barely touched, as the older gentleman went on and on. And on and on. And Valentin was hearing every word. But every word simply fueled a stubborn refusal to let go of his decision. He was going to marry Eleonore and wouldn't brook further insubordination.
"I ask for silence now. You make many accusations, sling many insults, and it is starting to bore me- while a lord is never above criticism, ser, I am still your lord. Not your ward. I am well-aware of what my choice in brides has done, but I am set in my path," spoken with the quiet resentment of a young man still, but slowly coming into the voice of a highborn lord. Then the slow and bitterly confused tone of a young man bereft of most choices, "It is not enough that I do as my father set down for myself, my path in life? I feel that I have done what I am able, within the boundaries laid down by my position, ser. I believe I am allowed some choice of my own, especially where I will be saddled with the responsibility of future heirs."
At that, the older elezen paused and set aside his glass upon the mantle. Turning to face the young lord he had raised since infancy, he regarded him with a gentle but stern gaze, "A failure on my part, then. But a lesson we covered once- a lord's wishes, choices, needs and desires, must be weighed against his responsibilities to his House and his people. Your choices can, indeed, be your own, but if you lack foresight and the ability to read your actions before you make them, then...you risk collapsing everything on a single impulse."
"...it was not a choice made easily," Valentin cut in, trying to put a defense to the old retainer's 'lesson', "I am not given to impulse easily. I cannot see myself content with the likes of anyone from the Houses, High or otherwise. Eleonore, while an outsider, sets myself at ease. She..."
She is the only one that looks at me. Looks at me and does not see...
He shook his head suddenly, shadowed and cornered for a moment in the eyes of his retainer. The old man could see the boy still hiding under the lord's mask. "Understand, ser. Understand that I only wished to save my House and my future, with someone I can...see eye to eye with," he spoke in haste, unable to continue looking the older man in the eyes. But he knew that it was no lie in the man's words. Valentin was a painfully sincere person in every word spoken and every action taken.
"And you could not be content with a lowborn mistress? It is not uncommon, my lord. You need not have brought her to so public an event as the Durendaire's manor or the dance. Charming she may be- but the girl is not above her lowborn bearing," said with the same quiet severity as the reprimands before. A heavy pause between both men and Valentin could only frown sharply, his distaste clear at the very notion.
"No. I could not be content with her as my mistress, ser. And I will not hear another word, if you value your continued employ with my House," and this time, Valentin could match him eye for eye, his voice once more a lord's proper tone. "...you are right to make your reprimands and criticisms, but I will not tolerate the blatant disrespect against Eleonore."
"...as my lord wills it, so shall I still my tongue on the subject. Though I, as your retainer, implore you to make what amends you may for this action! Your words, my lord, have weight now, as I am very sure you are aware of...as does your presence in the world of our society," and that seemed to strike Valentin between the eyes, as he blinked and then...with a sensation he had thought forgotten since his youth- shame. Sharp and bitter and metallic. He frowned sharply again, but it wasn't bitter words that came this time. It was laughter, sudden and raw.
"You. You say this now, to me? I have spent my entire life in seclusion among "our society", for...for any number of reasons and sins! And now, when I make a choice that does not favor any of them, that is where you and them suddenly take notice of...of myself?" he spoke now, with the desperation of a young man frustrated with the cage that had been built so finely around him. Fists clenched, for all the good it could do. "...hated and scorned and made the outsider and I find my solace with another outsider- lowborn she may be, but Fury take me, she is the only...ONLY one who...sees me! I can look in her eyes and I see myself!"
He had not quite realized it, the way he gripped the side of his face, clawing lightly around his eyes. But slowly, as the words died in the air between them, Valentin gradually loosened his hold and the shame, this time cold and isolating, filled in the space where anger and sudden impulse left empty.
"...my lord, you will ever be my ward, like a son. And this life, perhaps, has been less than kind. But know that even as a child, you were recognized even when you were feared or wounded. There was always weight in your shadow," the old man offered quietly, "...be still now."
"I would have silence now. I will not hear anymore," he turned away, as the heat of embarrassment rushed in. "Leave me- if there is need to address this, we will speak on the morrow."
"As my lord wills it," and with that the old retainer left him to his thoughts at last.
The ‘Landlords’ of the Sixth Astral Era lived in harmony with the dragons of Dravania until the advent of the Dragonsong War. This styling of a scholar from a time long forgotten includes the book from the Aery - named for a real-world collection of sagas and military strategy.
Despite an estimated age of over a thousand summers, the sprig of mistletoe espoused to this rod of unknown origin remains unwithered. Several theories have been put forward in an attempt to explain this remarkable phenomenon; some scholars claiming the leaves are expertly preserved by embalming techniques long forgotten, while others argue the plant’s roots were placed into a formula of dragon’s blood before applications. -
Yeets one more commission into the world - the bard Haati, a character from @antelopes-and-omens. An absolute delight to draw, a stretch into new poses and some terribly fun colours. Thank you so much for commissioning me, my friendo!
baratheonpilled
blakekathryn
jacobvanloon
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romaincrisis
