#faetrix severidenne

[heretic-borne]

Taking a stroll down memory lane with Lady Faetrix, revisiting memories and discussing the future, back in the Shroud where it all began.

@faeorzea

[faeorzea]

Join House Severidenne de Haillenarte on Friday February 10th to celebrate the betrothal of their Lady Faetrix Severidenne to Inquisitor-Lord Alseaux Cogoix.

[ OOC: Engagement party. 2-10-18 @ 9 EST in Goblet ward 5 apartment 67 ]

[dubiousduskwight]

The Suitors: Alrix Trevain

How fortunate I am that my chamber windows face the setting sun! Blessed am I that on this evening the clouds hang low in the sky, that they might caress the spires of Ishgard; and between the Spine of Abalathia and they, a brilliant sun that hangs just so, its light spreading across a canvas of silver to cast it in crimson. And for that moment, the very sky is the hue of her hair, and its likeness leaves me mute!

The land, too, seems to pay obeisance to her image, as the snow is tinted with a red unmatched by the most crimson of roses, and yet it does not fill me with the sublime sense of the majestic as do the clouds. Too much do I yearn for the days before the fall of Dalamud, when the hills of Coerthas were kissed with viridian, in the days when we were but children. Ah, how fondly I recall those years, when our gambols ranged from the streets of the Pillars to the wide and rolling hills of the highlands, our days spent in the mutual joys and fancies of youth, her impish spirit undimmed by the great tragedies which befell her house.

The great tragedy of Ishgard was not the descent of the moon, or the unending winter, but her departure from this land for the forests of Gridania. For her safety, we were told; oh, how bitterly I remember that day! The blunt and empty look in the steward’s eyes as we were turned from the gates of the manor, as if in parting she had stolen away with the very soul of Ishgard! And oh, how great my joy to see her once more, and all the light of the city returned in kind!

And yet, for all that, there are dangers around her still. The city’s spirit is great, but it may well be cruel, for her fate is not her own! Her hand is all but promised to brutish Xaela from abroad, to duskwights surely wizened enough to be her grandsire! And yet the matters of the house differ from the matters of her heart, for surely she, too, will remember the promises of youth, made in earnest and sworn on the greatest oaths, promises which I have kept these many years in sincere and faithful devotion. Ah, Faetrix Severidenne! Soon, very soon, I shall see the color of your hair in more than a fleeting glimpse of the sun!

-Diary of Alrix Trevain

[faeorzea]

A House of Horror

But the horror... the horror was for love. This love burns and maims and twists inside out. It is a monstrous love and it makes monsters of us all.

Inquisitor-Knight Sollandis Severidenne de Haillenarte rounded the corner of the courtyard past the derelict fountain. Snow fell in lazy wisps over the stone, and the Inquisitor’s breath fogged before his lips. His focus was on other things than the way The Fury’s eyes wept with blackened trails; how the stone vipers climbed her legs, as if consuming her in their worship. It had been too long since the fountain worked. The mechanism had frozen shut in the cold snap of the Calamity, and dry it had remained.

Perched on a bench, in raiment of shadow, was his beloved wife Nephaera. The deep layers of indigo and onyx velvet hugged her curves, and wisps of black like smoke roiled about her feet as she crossed them, the umbral fabric peeling back to expose lengths of slender legs, the shadows beckoning him. She was a sight to behold, with her creamy alabaster complexion and those vivid violet eyes. Her red, red lips curled into a sharp, sharp sneer; and his hunger rose with every step taken closer. His every onze ached to feel her warmth, to be embraced in the shadows she commanded, to be swallowed by that deep violet gaze and to hear her cries of passion as he devoured her until she bled for him...

But it wasn’t the time.

He shook the haze of his bloodlust and inhaled deeply. The air was bitingly frigid to breathe in, tasting copper on the back of his tongue as the chill swept into his lungs and threatened to freeze him to the core. Another step closer, and his palms began to itch, craving the touch of a dagger’s pommel or a cooling mound of flesh. Sollandis let slip a feral growl, his lips curling into a sneer to match his wife’s, and he was upon her like some looming, half-scaled beast. His gloved hands creaked, rising to cradle that perfect alabaster face for a searing, steaming kiss. Nephaera yielded to him, as she often did, and drew back to speak in a voice like deep, sultry silk.

“The girl?” His wife asked, returning the Inquisitor’s focus to the matter at hand.

“Plucked ripe. No marks. She’s still warm.” His voice was like gravel, hardened from years at war. “Lips like rose petals. Mother will like that.”

“Excellent work, my love.” Nephaera rose, guiding Sollandis by the perfectly manicured claws of black against his jawline. They both straightened, gazing at one another for a lingering moment.

“Come, my love,” She continued, “Hugo will need assistance.”

The pair moved inside the manor, which was only barely warmer than the outside snow. Shades parted to make way for them, their ghostly gazes watching on from behind portraits of their once-living faces. The manor’s vaulted ceiling bore a gaping hole, letting the weather seep in and permeate the family’s living spaces. A wind blew across the chasm between the spires of the home, and the house seemed to let out a deep, pained moan.

Down the manor’s right wing they strode, purpose in their eyes. They came to a stop at a wall boasting a grand mosaic of the house’s sigil: Twin vipers in gold poised to strike surrounding the red rose of Haillenarte upon a field of violet. Sollandis placed his hand upon a carved golden viper’s fang, the serpents in turn glowing with activity. The carved mahogany paneling groaned as it pushed aside just enough to let them through in single file.

The chill didn’t really begin to bite until they were halfway down the spiral staircase, their breaths illuminated by dim candles. Out of the frosty gloom came Hugo’s erudite voice.

“You two are late.” He sneered.

“Did you miss us that much?” Quipped Sollandis impatiently, ready to lunge until Nephaera’s featherlight touch stroked his wrist.

“How’s the condition of our girl?” The Lady asked in a sotto purr. “I trust she is in proper condition, Hugo?”

“Fine enough to suit our needs.” Replied the seneschal, “Your mother is resting well, my Lord. It would be wise to make haste whilst we can.”

Sollandis gazed at Nephaera, who disengaged from his arm and practically glided to the center of the vaulted room. Situated there were two opposing slabs centered in the dimly-lit oubliette. Shadows writhed about the Lady, drawing up her slender arms and baring her hands to the chill before they dove into a dark mane of hair spread out on the left table.

Hugo looked on sternly, crossing from the right. His fingers danced over the silver of a long, slender blade. A skinner’s tool, but much finer for perhaps some delicate work. He wore a smock over his tunic and trousers, its coated surface stained in deep shades of oxidized browns.

“I noticed the Mutt sniffing around Faetrix.” Sollandis said, almost lazily.

“Was that the hyur?” Nephaera replied, combing dark locks with her fingers.

Hugo joined Nephaera, standing at the head of the table. He bent low, pressing his hawkish face close to the motionless beauty laid bare there. His movements were obscured by the shadow of the tables, but the sound was distinct. It was a sound Sollandis knew intimately: the low whisper of steel through soft tissue. The soft sound of skin splitting. His pulse quickened just at that visceral, hushed song.

“Yes.” He grunted, lowering himself to a leather-lined seat and crossing his legs with an ankle rested on his knee. Sollandis steepled his fingers and licked his lips, the coppery scent steaming into the icy air. He shifted. “I think our niece has enticed the mongrel with her beauty.”

“She knows better than to be so brazen as to insult all her suitors like that. To insult us like that.” Hugo interjected, finishing his sentence with a small huff while he bent low and meticulously continued his work. The narrow, keen blade sang softly as it slipped through pale meat, doing no damage beyond the incisions he laid out.

“Does she, Hugo?” Nephaera tilted her head, shadows coalescing around the head she cradled on the table and slowly plucking at the smoothly-cut edges of milky flesh. This part was the most delicate and vital to the procedure. Nephaera was perfectly composed, controlling the motion and size of each shadowy tendril. “If she is any onze like her forebears, she has the streak of rebellion in her.” She crooned, her concentration unbroken, “Besides that, we’ve more important issues at hand than who Faetrix chooses as a toy until she is wed.”

“Yes,” Sollandis interjected, “There is the matter of our esteemed guests from the Steppe…”

Hugo scoffed, “They’re already packing. Twice defeated, the dragon-scum is backing down. Better for the bloodline if you ask me.”

Nephaera paused and looked sharply at the seneschal. “Did we ask you?”

“… No, my Lady.” He muttered. “Forgive me.”

“Speaking of Fae’s choices, however…” Nephaera addressed Hugo with a much more pleasant tone. “Where shall we set our favors next?”

The seneschal hummed and drew his hand back, a ruby cascade flicking from the tip of his blade. “The Dowager-Baroness favors Lord Trevaine for his… malleability.”

“All men are malleable with the right application of charms, Hugo. Surely, she is aware of this.” Nephaera replied.

“Yes, quite.” Hugo said, “With that in mind, she has mentioned Lord Nouron as a solid choice to maintain stability and influence where we are. Quite smart in the flux of politics as it is.”

Sollandis snorted at that. “If we want the status quo, we might as well sell her to Inquisitor Alseaux. We could control him just as well as Trevaine and maintain our dignity by marrying her at least slightly upwards.” His fist hit his knee sharply, then moved to grip the leather-bound arm of his chair. A moment of silence passed between them, and then Nephaera spoke up.

“We ought pay attention to Lord Deauxbois. He brings with him much influence in places where our reach is lacking.” She offered. “We want more reach…”

Sollandis growled, “The duskwight’s ever-shifting entourage brings ill comfort to me. Have you seen him? Have you read the filth he peddles as his memoirs?”

“He did show a remarkable concern for Faetrix’s well-being.” Nephaera interjected softly.

“Forgive me, my Lady, but that is inconsequential to what the Dowager-Baroness wishes.” Hugo reminded the pair.

They all fell silent while Hugo continued his delicate slicing, working intensely to make proper edges of the flesh he rent. Sollandis watched and shifted again, feeling a heat rising to his ears as he licked his lips hungrily. With that next strip finished, Hugo was at the maid’s breast, gently daubing blood as it oozed from the clean slice.

“Well?” The married couple asked almost simultaneously.

Hugo breathed a moment, glancing to the other table. Upon it lay a shrouded figure atop comfortable cushioning and cloaked in velvet.

“The Dowager-Baroness finds her favor solidly with either Lord Trevaine, Lord Nouron, or Inquisitor-Lord Cogoix.” Hugo said haltingly, as though he channeled the corpse queen herself by some strange stroke of sorcery.

The silence of the room was deafening, and the chill bloomed from beneath the velvet shroud.

[dubiousduskwight]

Waiting In Line At The Airship Platform

The day was unseasonably warm for Ishgard, which meant that the chill was brisk enough to lightly scratch at exposed limbs rather than cut straight to the bone. That and a warm sun ensured that people were waiting out at the airship platform in anticipation of their next trip rather than huddled inside their homes or nearby businesses until their flight’s appointed arrival.

Auroux Doufard had expected colder weather today, and had dressed accordingly. This meant he was forced to undress at least a little to avoid sweating to death, and had removed one of his jackets. He blamed his Gridanian upbringing, and his misunderstanding of the vagaries of the new Coerthan climate, but beyond that he saw the incident as nothing more than a minor nuisance.

His business in Ishgard had long since been completed; a botanist by trade, he had come on behalf of the Guild to negotiate the purchase of some new seeds in the hopes of crossbreeding popotoes more able to resist a sudden frost. All things considered, the results were more than adequate, and he could leave the city in the knowledge that his work had been satisfactory. He was in so fine a mood that he indulged and, with a little of his pocket money, had purchased a bundle of roses to bring to his sister. She had always been fond of the flower, and there were subtle differences in the Ishgardian variants that well-rewarded their gardeners’ efforts to keep them alive through the unending winter.

“My, but those are lovely, are they not?” Auroux turned his head to espy an older gentleman with graying hair and a fine dark beard, a noble from the look of his dress, admiring the bouquet. The deep blue-grey of his skin suggested a duskwight, and Auroux had to hold back his immediate sense of distaste. It was too lovely a day to sour by being rude to a local, especially someone in the upper crust.

“These?” He lifted the roses. “Yes. I saw them in the Crozier and I had to have them for the trip home. Couldn’t do without them.”

“Yes, they certainly look to be of a fine quality.” Auroux was sure he mistook the sound of disdain in the man’s voice for something else. After all, who could possibly mock the concept of quality? “Do they stand the cold well?”

Ah, now this was Auroux’s bailiwick. “Very well, sir. Fascinating properties in Ishgardian roses.”

“They don’t just wither and die all of a sudden?”

Auroux pursed his lips. “I beg your pardon?”

“The roses. They’re very hardy, yes? They don’t just, I don’t know, suddenly wither and die when exposed to a sudden blast of chill.” The duskwight seemed keenly interested in an answer to this question. Hopeful, almost, by the expression on his face, the lift of his eyebrows and the widening of jade-green eyes.

“No, they’ll wither in a frost, all right. A sudden freeze without precautions and their bloom will fade. But much less so than with, say, a Gridanian rose.”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course, but I mean, right away, they won’t wither and die? As if one moment the rose looked perfectly healthy, and then the next.” He snapped his fingers. “The next it’s nothing more than a dried-out husk?”

“...No, sir, I don’t think Coerthan varietals do that. Or Gridanian ones, for that matter.”

“Hm. Mmhm.” The duskwight folded his hands into the pockets of his coat - a very fine one, very well furred, and yet Auroux could swear it was lined with the fur of something less than fine. Marmot, perhaps. “So if, say, one were to see a rose do that - “

“Roses don’t do that, sir.”

“But if they did that,” the duskwight pressed. “If they did that, then that would not be a typical behavior of a rose, and instead the product of some other phenomena?”

“Surely, sir. I’m no mage, but I would imagine it must have been quite a blast of ice aether. Mayhaps a frost sprite.” Unconsciously, Auroux had started to edge back from the platform.

“I see. I see.” The duskwight folded his arms and seemed to mutter to himself. Auroux briefly picked up “didn’t look like a spirte, though.” Perhaps that was the end of the conversation, he thought with some relief. The nobility here could be quite odd.

“Supposing you were about to be wed.” The hypothetical, and the vehemence with which the duskwight posed it, snuck up on Auroux and metaphorically clubbed him so hard that he nearly dropped his bouquet off the edge of the Pillars. “And your betrothed, well, her family - she didn’t talk much about her family, but then you met her family, and they were capable of such phenomena as I described?”

“I - what - “ Auroux struggled to keep his grip on his flowers. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a simple question!”

“You have me at an advantage, sir, for I don’t understand the question. What about those circumstances?”

“Well, do you think - I mean, surely there must be some reasonable explanation for suddenly dying roses. A sudden swarm of vilekin, mayhaps, or an unexpected quintuple eclipse. Surely the family of your beloved wouldn’t be responsible for such phenomena?”

“That seems a rather dubious proposition, sir.”

For whatever reason, the duskwight took severe umbrage at Auroux’s statement. His beard bristled up in a way that he supposed must have been natural of all cave-clan dwellers. “Dubious? No! No, this isn’t dubious at all! I wouldn’t dare sully the term with such a circumstance as this! Nefarious, surely, or mysterious! But dubious?! I take offense on behalf of the vocabulary!”

There was silence between the two of them for the moment. Several other passengers were now staring at the exchange.

“Ah,” said Auroux. “My flight has arrived. If you will excuse me.” He turned on his heel and marched away from the airship platform, towards the Crozier. He would wait there until the man went away or was arrested.

He damned his hearing in his final steps off of the platform, for it was better than most Wildwoods, and he was treated to one last confused rumble from the duskwight.

“Surely she must know her grandmother can do that...”

[dubiousduskwight]

A small description of scenery and a plan.

There were three collections of books in the Dubious Distributions estate. The first and most obvious of these was directly to the right of the front entrance, and contained anything in Verad’s inventory that he considered acceptable for purchase. Misprinted books with the wrong cover, journals that had trace amounts of pornographic woodcuts on the page after a bit of confusion and strong drink at the printing press, and tomes of sufficiently useless material (e.g. The Mating Habits of Golems) comprised these rows, and they sold as well as anything in his stock. He had considered converting the books into a lending library, provided they were returned in worse-but-nevertheless-legible condition, but was still sorting out the general plan for measuring what constituted “worse.”

More respectable texts could be found in the numerous shelves in Verad’s employee lounge, set within the estate’s basement. There, the curious visitor could find more standard texts including general encyclopedias, listings of Ul’dahn tax code with layers of dust on their bindings thick enough to withstand a swordpoint, and tales of adventure and salacious exploits not attributable to the Duskwight himself. However, these were scattered among texts that were, upon closer inspection, anything but, revealing themselves to be cunningly painted blocks of wood with titles in fanciful Eorzean script, gilded and embossed to the point of being unreadable. Finding actual books was half the challenge of the downstairs shelves, and he took a certain pleasure in watching people distinguish the respectable-looking from the genuine article. Mayhaps there was a moral in this, but it was far more likely that he was being a shit, not that the two were contradictory positions.

 The third set wasn’t exactly private, but as it was to be found within Verad’s office and living space, it may as well have been for narrative purposes. If pressed, Verad would admit these to be one of, if not the, sources of his persuasive powers. These were not a defining element, to be sure - he had his own persistence, winning smile, command of the language, and above all a sense of humility to thank for that - but they were crucial nevertheless.

These were what Verad found himself perusing in the dead of night, unable to sleep and possessed of the restless energy that often presaged a terminally bad idea on his part. He mumbled silently in the dark, lips moving as he mouthed out the titles, taking care to ensure that his words died before he left his throat. There was naught but a screen between the shelf and his bed, and he preferred not to wake its occupant.

He lit upon one string of sideways script with his index finger, and his eyes brightened in the dark. There was a slight shuffling as he pulled the text free of its space on the shelf to get a better look at the title. There, in a simple embossed gilding, were these words: The Mummer’s Guide to Ishgardian Heraldry

Just beneath the title on the front cover, a small, similarly gilded portrait of a cartoonish Lalafell, winking at the viewer, hand on his (her?) hip, the other holding up a single finger as if to indicate something.

Verad exhaled in relief at finding the title. The Mummer’s Guides were some of his best-kept secrets. A key part of his trade was always knowing at least enough about a subject to pass himself off as an expert at best and a talented amateur at worst. For these, the guides were indispensible. Chocobo farming, swordfighting, poetry, armorsmithing, and metallurgy were common, amongst other, more esoteric topics, including but not limited to the book he held in his hand.

With a very light step, Verad crossed the few fulms to his desk, and carefully pulled his chair aside to avoid letting it scrape on the office’s tiled floor, his fingers tight around its arms, his gaze over his shoulder to check for the slightest shift in his guest’s frame. Once he had enough space to seat himself, he took a piece of parchment and a small stick of charcoal out of his desk.

Opening the guide and turning it to its index, he was about to begin reading when he paused. What he planned - what was going through his mind - was well beyond the usual range of his activities. It was dubious, to be certain, but he could hardly tell himself it wasn’t illicit, a common refrain in his own pitches. Far from it. This could very well have been fraud of the highest order.

Was the goal worth going so far?

With his chair so far back, he was able to crane his neck enough to peer into the section of the office that served as his living space, to see beyond it and to the edge of his bed. Even from this angle, there wasn’t much he could see; the curve of an arm, pale enough it seemed to stand out against white linens, and the ends of a few strands of deep, bloody red hair.

After a moment’s contemplation, he turned back to his book and fell silent, save for the turning of a page and the scratch of charcoal across parchment.

[martyrized]

Zagi’zi’s Letter

::@sinmal​::

Lady Severidenne had her heart in her throat when she returned to the Carline Canopy from her meeting in Bentbranch. She sent her attendant, the ever-devoted Lho’a, away as kindly as she could without seeming rushed, but there was an urgency to this task she had not felt before. She hoped he would forgive her brusque dismissal, though it was not something that would have given pause to any of her peers.

Through the threshold she stepped, shutting the carved oak door behind her and peering into the candlelit chamber, her peridot gaze catching on places of import within for the task she was to perform. First things first, she thought, her gaze landing on the standing cedar armoire across from her grand canopied bed, Wardrobe.

Sliding from her gemmed slippers, she pressed her elegant feet on the warm, smooth wood. She carried her slippers to the armoire, setting them down before she unlaced the side of her bodice, loosening it from around her sleek curves. Shimmying free of the top, folding the garment, and setting it on the bench at the foot of her bed. Then she untied the sash of her voluminous silk skirt, letting it drop down her long, pale legs and pool in a scarlet heap at her feet. She stared at herself a moment in the mirror, naked but for a frilly set of ivory pantalettes. Fae spun in the mirror, examining herself before she unlatched and opened the double-sided doors and pulled out one of the two drawers within. 

The heiress selected something she’d picked up in her time away from her family’s stern eyes in Ishgard. It was a delicate, lacy thing of rolanberry scarlet, with a scalloped sweetheart neckline and a light, slinky skirt that reached just beneath the curve of her buttocks. Leaving naught to the imagination, this negligee was what she would wear and describe in this most important letter she needed to pen.

She slipped into the delicate garment and paused to admire how mature she appeared in the mirror. Then, Fae moved to her writing desk, lifting the cover to expose the surface. Each step she took was like a war drum on the floor, her heart hammering with the excitement and undeniable desire welling up in her chest. 

The desk was a polished walnut, and along a small shelf across the top was a collection of inks in all manner of colors. She ran her fingers over each glass bottle’s label, some of them so worn from use that she only knew the ink by that wear. Several shades of blue, of red, and of many hues between.

At last, she selected a pigment that was a deep, vibrant green. It would dry on her parchment to a dark shade like peridot gems. Not pure like the shade of her eyes-- the shade maids of Ishgard preferred in their pendants hanging at their breasts to draw the gaze-- but something darker. It seemed fitting, this color, and when Faetrix seated herself and drew her quill to dip for those first, galvanizing words to be writ, she bit her lip almost wryly.

----

“Dear Master Zagi’zi --

As I write this letter to you, I am shrouded in but a modest pair of white lace pantalettes over my backside, and a silken nightgown most unfit for public display. This nightgown is red, short, and has thin straps and a curved neckline that dips almost below my breasts entirely. The fabric itself is an undulating, floral lace, like vines of scarlet ivy to just barely cover what pale curves I have, and when I am seated the hem rides up, so my bare thighs touch the chair.

In composing this correspondence, I find myself considering your queries most gravely, and I can speak with complete honesty in this ink for you now.

I am ashamed of my desires. I am young yet, and they often steal my thoughts from me. I have a temper that is frightful for a lady at court to possess, and though I am unashamed of that, perhaps my outspoken nature is something to be shameful about. I am more ashamed that my senses are inspired by unfamiliarity, and that I cannot focus my ambition beyond the visceral, wanton cravings I feel; in both lust and fury.

I have a special fondness for my hair, for my looks, and for my talents in the arts. I love the music I can compose with ink and quill, with lute and lyre. With my own voice. I am proud of my skill with a brush. My ability to capture one’s essence in paint is one for which I have received much praise, and I am quite proud of it as a result.

I would like to have a thicker skin, I think. My family has done much to prepare me for the slings and arrows of courtly life, but I still have yet to form the callouses over mine heart. I worry sometimes I will never develop them, and as such will be broken as so many who crossed my family had become. 

I should like to stop feeling such heartache, and be able to say for certain that I felt I belonged. That I had purpose beyond being a pawn in the endless game at court. I wish to become like steel. Honed, forged, perfectly designed for my higher purpose.

I pray this has answered your questions, Master Zagi’zi, and I pray this letter finds you in time, as well.

Yours,

Faetrix Avrellia Severidenne de Haillenarte”

The letter was ended with a kiss pressed to the parchment, a hint of her scent remaining in the slight stain beneath her signature. She looked it over, her handwriting neat but spidery and overly flourished, clearly an effort in appearances. Regardless, the parchment was powdered to set, and then she rolled it, tying it with a pale green ribbon.

She summoned the moogle messenger and paid the white ball of winged fluff to deliver the letter immediately. She also might have threatened the poor thing with wing removal, as well, should the letter fail to arrive on time.