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The Grand Hunt - Part 2: The Tracking

Part 1: The Call

Part 3: The Hunt

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv who continuously surprises and delights)

~*~

If there’s anything no one expected Isillud Losstarot to be, it’s a miser.

The grey Elezen shoves his hands into his coat (now wearing a simpler one he was more used to) muttering, "Daylight robbery, who in the Brume can even afford three thousand gil," as he scans the stalls at the back of the Crozier.

The signboard is almost missable, located beside the underpass towards Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral. Not worn, but the building has seen better days. Inside, potions are lined and arranged by colour and effect, what little sunlight peeking through the windows lighting up the beakers like tiny lamps, painting the room with dots of coloured light. The Elezen behind the counter with a black bandana tightly wrapped around his head doesn't give the impression of an apothecary let alone able to concoct a potion; but he's not here for medicine anyway.

He places the gil in a pouch on the counter. "A bottle of Lovers Meeting, please." The merchant tips the coins onto the counter. Satisfied, he opens the counter flap, silently nodding towards the stairwell leading to the bar below.

One would think that such steep entrance fees would mean more sumptuous trappings, even in a literal underground speakeasy.

Evidently the three thousand gil per head is funding other things since the ambiance leans towards “dive bar with slightly better music”. There are minimal tapestries along the stone walls to dampen the sound of doubtlessly underhanded conversations taking place at the tables scattered across the main room. A single bar counter sits towards the right of the room - several patrons are variously sitting by and leaning against it. Two bartenders serve liquids of all kinds of colours, viscosities and sizes, a little too languidly for other superior places, but there’s a distinct air of ‘put up or shut up’ around their service.

Two more barmaids - collars too low for any respectable place, highborn or lowborn - circulate with laden trays. There is the usual grabbing of various body parts and leering comments, which the barmaids take in varying degrees of stoic acceptance or sharp rejection. At the other end of the room, by the warm glow of fire crystals in a hearth, a Hyur bard is strumming a lute. They're playing fairly well to be honest; there’s even an attempt at original arrangements of some Ishgardian classics, which is wasted on the crowd here, but creativity would flow somehow.

Half the patrons are dressed in clothes made of finer stuff than would be seen in the Brume, though a few of them have tried to keep it discreet – a flash of silk here, a gold button there. Yet no ruby earring or even an eyepatch anywhere to be found. Two other doors against the wall, adjacent to the bar counter, are closed tight.

Still sore from the 3000 gil, Isillud takes a seat at the counter. The bartender who serves him cocks an eyebrow when he orders brumeshine but pours him a glass anyway. He turns around, leaning against the counter to scan the patrons - if not for earrings and eyepatches, then for Lady Haellione's grandsons. He does spin around and asks a bartender, "Is it always this busy?"

A careless shrug accompanies the bored reply. “A little more than usual, but not strange. Those who come here don’t typically work regular hours.”

That explains the door charge, Isillud thinks. Small change for nobles.

The second bartender who’s passing behind their colleague to grab a glass snorts. “Certainly ain’t here for Lee’s strummin’.”

The first gives a rough laugh at this in-joke. “You’re a new one here then milord?” he asks Isillud.

His eyes widen slightly at the address, mouth opening slightly as he debates whether to ask.

The bartender raises his eyebrow again at this show of surprise, taking in Isillud’s fairly youthful face and thin frame. He smirks slightly.

“If you prefer ‘sir’, that’s no skin off my back. But most of our elite patrons prefer that we refer to them right an’ proper.” There’s a sardonic edge to the last words.

"N, no it's not that, it's- how do you know?"

The bartender levels a look at him that seems to originate from the Sagolii Desert. “You paid for Lovers Meeting, didn’t you? Good bet that anyone who does makes them a milord.” He looks down, over the counter, then back at Isillud. “Also them knee plates shine too much for the likes of us.”

The man goes on to collect two empty glasses nearby, saying, “So, milord, since we’ve established you have noblesse oblige: another drink?”

These bartenders are certainly different - 5 years frequenting taverns and none had ever noticed. Isillud feels almost ashamed for keeping his armour so well-maintained. "A good polish goes a long way…" he mumbles, then recovers to ask, "Why 'Lovers Meeting'? Is there a story behind it?"

“Fury knows; I’m only here to serve the drinks and answer questions,” says the bartender blankly, the irony bouncing off the reply since Isillud had not in fact followed up with another order.

His colleague, who’s overheard this exchange, chuckles. “Umfrey’s an illiterate urchin so you’ll have to forgive his ignorance.” Over the scoff Umfrey gives as he moves away, the second bartender continues, “You’ve not heard the saying then, milord? ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting’?” He grins. “The one who built this little place of ours had a romantic streak.”

“Romantic? Who?” The lilting voice of a barmaid breaks into the conversation as she appears at the bar, asking for beers. Then she side eyes Isillud; she appears to like what she sees since she smiles in what she thinks is a sultry fashion. “You a romantic, milord?”

Isillud looks at the half-glass of brumeshine; perhaps he chose this drink so he can stretch the drink over the night considering how awful it tastes. Then he looks at the barmaid and nods while beaming, "I do love a good romantic novel. My brother brought home a stack from the Valentione Fair; it's hard to go through them slowly. It's all a lovely fantasy," he says, before turning to the grinning bartender. "Who built this place?"

The bartender who isn’t Umfrey is laughing unabashedly now. “Take your beers an’ get on with ye, Lina! The young lord wishes to discuss literature!”

Confused at first by this answer she’s never encountered in her entire career, Lina duly picks up her tray with an offended sniff. “Goin’ to the dogs, this place is.”

“Already there!” calls out this erudite bartender after her, before he picks up the conversation again. “Couldn’t tell you; I only learned it from one of the other workers. Not paid to question more, we are. We just keep our mouths shut, and do our jobs, like any other regular folk.”

He regards Isillud with a curious eye. “I imagine Umfrey’s right in you bein’ new.” The look becomes a little patronising, mostly paternal. “Begging your pardon, milord, but word of advice: find your friends quick. Nothing good generally comes from a curious gamin walking in here alone. So’s I told the twin lords recently.”

This gets Isillud's attention. He leans in. "Twin lords? Who?" He turns around scanning for anyone who looks remotely identical.

Young and untried, thinks the bartender. And not a little foolish, askin’ so openly in a place like this. Still, the lord paid money to be here, he’s in an indulgent mood, and things are slow despite the crowd.

“The lords Chaunollet, even younger than yourself. Mirrors of each other from head to toe, and one as likely as the other to kick up trouble, saving milord’s presence.” His eyes flick to one of the doors, then back to Isillud and his still rather-full glass. “Different drink for you, milord?”

He looks at his brumeshine, then at the bartender. "Will I get an introduction if I send them your most expensive drink?"

There is a pause. A long one. Then the bartender smirks.

“Milord, we ain’t strangers to things that don’t fit in the daylight, if you catch my meaning. So’s if it’s an introduction you want, that full bottle of 28,000 gil top shelf, Ishgardian brandy,” he says, nodding at the display behind him, “won’t be turned away.”

He crosses his arms. “Only rule is no goings-on directly in this place. Too much trouble for us to clean up. Bar brawls is one thing - getting the Knights involved is another.”

"Twenty th-" Isillud shakes his head to catch himself, which is bound to give the bartender a raised eyebrow. Miserly nobles aren't new but one as young as Isillud Losstarot might be. "They're behind that door then?"

“They could be, depending on what you do next,” is the reply, and the pointed jab of the thumb backwards at the aforementioned overpriced bottle of liquor.

"Sucking any of you off with a discount on the drink isn't an option, then?"

There is yet another silence. An even longer one this time, and it is not as hospitable as before.

Isillud is saved from having to tell Joshua that he had been unceremoniously booted out of an illegal bar, by Umfrey of all people. Evidently the man had been listening despite every look of not doing so.

“Guntmar is an unappreciative cretin, so you’ll have to forgive his ignorance,” he says, sliding into view. “Also, milord, journeys end in lovers meeting, but we ain’t lovers, and our journey ain’t ending.” He grins a little. “Gil speaks louder here.”

With a heavy sigh, Isillud reaches into his pockets and pulls out the unreasonable amount of gil to press into Umfrey's hand. He has a thousand words for exploitative gil-pinching capitalists and how it applies to both high and lowborn but he thankfully keeps it in his head. Then he pauses, and takes out a few more coins. "Consider it a tip."

“Much obliged, milord, and most generous indeed,” says Umfrey, hand gliding over the money in a practised move. It disappears instantly into a drawer below the counter, to be redistributed later. For his part, Guntmar has stepped over his shock creditably enough. He turns to pull the bottle carefully from the shelf, sets it on a tray and adds a few more glasses - four to be precise.

Isillud looks initially confused, but then the thought hits: They're with Ajax.

He puts his own glass of brumeshine on the tray (he'll drink it to the last drop even if it kills him) and picks it up, nudging his nose at the door. "Through there?"

Guntmar plucks the glass of brumeshine out of the ensemble and firmly takes the tray into his hands. He shakes his head at Isillud as he returns the glass to him.

“Not so fast, milord - there are procedures,” says Umfrey with the kind of sneer one can only make after serving entitled highborns night after night. “We’ll see if the gentlemen are open to making new friends.”

Guntmar waves Lina over to pick up the tray, and instructs her to tell their guests within that the drinks are courtesy of a “young lord” outside.

Minutes tick by as the barmaid does as instructed, disappearing into the side room; the bartenders go back to their tasks, as more men - it’s always men - have walked in, demanding service. They let Isillud sit with his regrettable brumeshine, and watch, and wait.

Even the most homosexual male establishment has female patrons, which makes Isillud curious at the overwhelmingly male clientele. He takes a sip of brumeshine while scanning for faces he recognizes - a noble son, a bastard, a middle son, an uncle, a father.

If they all come to escape the trappings of high society, then why the need for friends?

His thoughts are interrupted by Lina's sudden return. She stands in front of him without the tray. “If you please, milord, the gentlemen would like to offer thanks to the generous man who bought them such quality drinks, and invite him for a friendly game of cards.”

Umfrey leans over to say in a mock-helpful voice: “That’s you.”

Isillud gets up, adjusts his jacket, then takes his glass with him.

This better be worth every gil.

The room is necessarily smaller, but far more satisfyingly decorated. Velvet cloth and illuminating lamps hang along the walls. In a side hearth, a beautiful, mid-sized fire crystal keeps the temperature comfortably warm. Even a chaise lounge is pushed further inside.

In the middle of the room, a red tablecloth covers the lone table on which the tray and its accoutrements are found. Scattered playing cards signal that their appearance had interrupted a round.

The three Elezens around the table are less comforting. Two of them look up at the same time as Isillud enters. They look remarkably similar - one might even say twin-like - save for two things: the placing of what look like scratches and bruising on their faces, and their eyes. One has dark blue eyes - the same as in the vision Isillud had seen - while the other wears a bandage over their right. Their clothes - particularly the sheathed daggers at their belts, and another shorter sheath strapped to their calves - and their bearings do not appear highborn.

‘They could be’, that bastard of a bartender had said. He hadn't said that they were.

That son of a–

Their third friend stands, and as he does, the clasp in his left ear winks red against the warm light of the room. There are scratches and lines across his face as well.

“Milord,” the voice is rough, but made polite by 28,000 gil brandy, as he gives a small bow. “You honour us with your generosity. Please join us.” He gestures to the table, where an empty chair - its back to the door Isillud has just entered through - waits.

Oh Izzy, you spent 28,000 gil on dregs.

The grey Elezen drags the chair on its back legs to the table, sinking into the backrest before crossing his legs. "You honour me with your hospitality, milords. Who does Isillud Losstarot have the honour of addressing?"

Dark Blue Eyes and his brother exchange a glance while the apparent spokesman of their group doesn't refrain from laughing aloud. “No lord nor count here, Lord Isillud - we are mere honest lowborn men in humble service to an illustrious house. But I must say, even our respected masters have never shared their bounty as you have.” (That gets a snort out of his friends.)

"Is that so?" Isillud tuts. "Wealth is to be shared. Such is noblesse oblige."

The ensuing grin is rather too sharp to be friendly even as the Elezen pours out an appropriate amount of brandy into an empty glass. For all of Guntmar's damnable duplicity, he had at least thought to offer some consolation - the fourth glass had evidently been in expectation of Isillud's acceptance into the room.

“I am called Hourlinet. My companions, Padiloux the elder,” (Dark Blue Eyes nods) “and Padiloux the younger.” (Bandaged One does the same).

Hourlinet sits back in his chair, picking up his glass to toast Isillud. “To your sustained health and beneficence, milord.” The younger Padiloux brother looks amused even if his older brother shoots Hourlinet a withering glance. But they raise their glasses anyway and take swigs.

Isillud duly follows. "And to you and yours, gentlemen." Just like that, his brumeshine is left to languish on the table. "How goes your game?"

“Quite well,” says Hourlinet, eyes gleaming at Isillud's smooth reply, “and better now that we are well-supplied with good liquor.”

Padiloux the Elder begins silently collecting the cards, and shuffling them together.

“Would milord care to join a round? For chicken stakes, I'm afraid, for we are unfortunately…” Hourlinet spins a hand carelessly. “Bereft of our usual coffers.”

Padiloux the Younger growls. “Wouldn't be if someone had warned us about damn cats.”

His brother glares at him for that. Hourlinet doesn't acknowledge it, though the smile he's directing at Isillud seems to get a bit rigid.

"Stakes are stakes no matter what's wagered, and I enjoy a good gamble." Isillud reaches out for the bottle to refill Padiloux the Younger's glass. "Consider your fortune changed, if only for tonight." Then he follows with the others.

Padiloux the Elder's eyebrow raises at this show of courtesy from a highborn. He does however begin dealing pairs of cards - blackjack, it seems, is the name of the game.

His younger brother is far less dubious, grinning at this generous lord. “Many thanks,” he says, taking a noisy gulp. “Beggin’ milord's pardon but you're actually a damn sight better than yer friends.”

Hourlinet throws him a disapproving glare. “Lord Isillud does not need commentary on his noble peers from the likes of us.”

“I don't think Lord Isillud minds,” retorts Padiloux the Younger, “when Lord Ajax has been goin’ round--”

“Andreau,” says his brother in a deeply voiced warning. “Enough.”

Andreau grumbles but falls silent. Hourlinet has picked up his cards consideringly. Then he asks, “Is my friend right, milord? Are you here to further acquaintance with simple men as us?”

Everything about Isillud is absurdly pretty - even when he laughs in his mid-deep voice, it's pretty (if not a bit surprising for his face). "Five summers in exile teaches a man many things," he sips, "The first of which is that you're no different from the common adventurer when stripped of title and gil."

He slides his cards towards him, peeking at his cards before laying it face down again. "When you're rock-bottom - heretic or not - even the kindest noble shares traits with the worst."

He looks them in the eye, those unclouded bright green eyes clear as his words. "My intentions are twofold: curiosity at who can command a private room in this bar, and the need for acquaintances following the barkeeps' advice."

Isillud runs a gloved finger around the rim of the glass, absolutely innocently without any connotations whatsoever.

"If you find it disagreeable, I shall quit this room anon, though the brandy is yours to keep along with what's in my glass."

The direct reference to heresy, and the downfall of the Losstarots that their master had always used as an excuse to ridicule the debauchery of Isillud Losstarot and his whelp of a brother, is clearly not what Hourlinet had ever anticipated. It certainly catches Andreau’s attention, even as his eyes cannot help but follow the movement of Isillud’s slender digit on the glass.

Such is the surprise caused that it is Padiloux the elder who, curiosity piqued by this show of openness (and admittedly, with some respect at that comment about not being different from the common adventurer), speaks instead in his low voice.

“We command nothing, milord. It is by our master’s will that we may use this room for our private affairs.” He eyes Isillud thoughtfully. “The need for acquaintances is a common one: you and the Aubemarles, for instance.” Hourlinet slides a glance at him, but says nothing as Padiloux says, “We’ve heard old lady Aubemarle views you with favour despite your previous fall from grace. Quite the feat, considering that shrew’s crotchety nature.”

The marble-grey Elezen rests his chin on his hand, swirling the glass in languid circles, watching light sink into it. "I think you know too well with favour comes fatigue. 'Yes milady, I shall attend your student's recital', 'Yes milady I shall escort you to Lord Baurendouin's social'. And on it goes."

He sighs, the other hand tapping the table to hit him with a card.

"If only I could simply quit and walk away like her servant girl."

Every single muscle in Padiloux’s body tenses, whether Isillud can see it or not. He flicks a card over to the lord, but doesn’t move or say anything else. The spell on Andreau is broken by those last three words – he frowns but waits for someone else to take the lead.

Hourlinet, affecting nonchalance, glances at his cards, and stays his hand.

“Good help is so hard to find, though one must have some pity for the servants of Aubemarle.” He takes a sip of his brandy. “Which girl would this be?”

Isillud peeks at his card then slides it into hand, smoothing out the cards into a single stack. "The one who would be a catch were she a noble. Her name, her name…" He frowns, tapping the side of his head. "-Rewelle, that's it! My brother wouldn't stop talking about her. The final straw came this morning, she should have packed up by now."

Andreau lets out a low whistle. “Her highness herself leaving Aubemarle? Now there's a turn up. Wonder what made her go.”

“Quite so. She could’ve been queen of Ishgard with her looks, and no mistake. Now the Pillars will lose their best quality - for shame,” says Hourlinet, schooling his face into a rueful expression. “Suppose she'll have to go off and get married now that she's finished with the Aubemarles. No other highborn lady would let her into their house - only the Viscount de Aubemarle could have such lack of foresight.”

Padiloux has no additional comment to make. He's staring at his cards as if they were a tome from Old Sharlayan.

"Her highness? It sounds like she has a reputation." Isillud taps the table for another card. "My brother said she intends to look up a cousin at Falcon's Nest before deciding on her next step. If she has any suitors, now's the best time to find out, no?" He teases them, eyes resting on each of them around the table. "Perhaps one of you could stand a chance with her?"

“Reputation for bein’ more frigid than the Fury herself,” is the comment muttered just loud enough to be heard.

Hourlinet smiles indulgently. “Can't blame her for being choosy, Andreau; she could have her pick of the lot, noblemen included.” He turns back to Isillud with the same smile. “Milord is too complimentary to imagine any of us the happy husband of so… lively a lass. Methinks she may just be waiting for some lord to sweep her off her feet, be it never so humble a place as the Nest. Perhaps your smitten brother might attempt the quest?”

Padiloux slides a card over, now watching Isillud carefully.

"Ha!" Isillud barks, sliding the card to his growing stack. "My brother cares too much about his standing to think of attempting, and I'm certain all of Ishgard and beyond knows she is not my type." The last three words he speaks deliberately as he peeks at the card, "No, her hand must go to one brave enough to seize the chance before she is lost forever. I know when I am defeated."

He flips his cards and casually flings it to the table: he has exceeded 21. The chair drags backwards as he stands up to leave. "A life lived with regret and without love isn't worth living, don't you think?"

Hourlinet's eyes travel from the cards, up to Isillud's face. He grins easily.

“Wise words to live by, milord. We’ll commit them to memory for the benefit of our children, shall we not, gentlemen?”

Padiloux nods curtly while Andreau snorts.

Hourlinet is unfazed by such unappreciative responses. “Care to try another round with us? No? I understand, milord; busy man such as yourself must have a thousand things to attend to.” He lifts a hand when he sees Isillud reach into his coat. “Let me stand your bet, Lord Isillud - a small price to pay for the company you've given us so graciously. We look forward to a future game in full with you.”

They wait carefully for the lord to leave, and the door to close completely before Padiloux hisses, “You fool, can't you see it’s a trap?”

Andreau looks at his brother in genuine surprise. “Trap? How?”

“No highborn splashes this much,” retorts Padiloux, nodding at the gleaming bottle of brandy, “without wanting something in return. He's been with the Aubemarles. He knows.”

Hourlinet laughs shortly. “That fop knows nothing. Even if he had an idea of half our plans, what could he do? Not a single weapon, no strength to wield any - that coat drowns him. And the name of Losstarot can't reach Durendaire and company’s ears. Even Aubemarle ain't that high.

“No, my good Padiloux, seems more likely that his lordship's seen which way the wind's blowin’ and decided to sail accordin’ly.”

“Godsdamn you, speak plain,” says Andreau scowlingly.

Hourlinet shakes his head at the obtuseness of his compatriots. “Simple: this is revenge. Queen Rewelle's clearly spurned this Losstarot, and this is his way of makin' sure she gets what's comin’ to her.”

The brothers stare at him for an entire sixty seconds in dumbfounded silence. Then Padiloux reaches out to down his entire glass while his brother explodes in hilarity.

“Him! Isillud Losstarot! Makin’ moves on a servant girl!” Andreau slaps his brother's shoulder. “You've cracked, Hourlinet!”

Hourlinet maintains a dignified silence, merely pouring himself another glass while he waits for the roaring laughter to die down.

It only does when Andreau realises it is no joke. “By the gods, did that cat knock your brains loose? Isillud Losstarot has been taking buggery to new heights and you sit there thinking he's handing us clues to grab Rewelle out of revenge?”

His companion breathes out a despairing sigh. “Don't tell me you believe everything Ajax whines about. The man can't talk about Isillud without spitting bile everywhere - can't expect that to be the whole truth, can you? Giving and taking that many up the arse is impossible.” He swirls his brandy consideringly. “As you said, he's been with the Aubemarles. Must have tried his luck and gotten kicked like everyone else - not his type, see - found out what happened and who's been chasin’ her, came here to do us a favour.”

“How very convenient,” interjects Padiloux, half sarcasm, half contempt. “How the hell would he have known it was us what tried to grab them yesterday?”

Hourlinet rolls his eyes. “Same reason we've been holed up here overnight, you idiot. That cat probably saw us clear as day with those damned eyes while scratching us all to hell. Ain't hard to make inquiries in the Brume, even if he's a fop who can’t count.”

He takes a slow swig, letting the smooth liquor trickle down his throat. It's a nice change from the piss-poor, weak beer Ajax always gives them. “‘Sides, if it's favour the Losstarots are clawin’ for, better to have the Gaussains in their debt than Aubemarle.”

Andreau has been diligently doing the arithmetic of the social politics at play in his head. So he manages to conclude, “You think he's tryin’ to butter up Ajax? After everythin’ Ajax has been spewin’ ‘bout him?”

Hourlinet shrugs. “Highborn men play long games. That's how they stay highborn.”

Padiloux has also been pondering all this from where he sits, albeit faster than his brother. He has to admit Hourlinet makes strange sense. Yet the suspicion that something doesn't sit right still makes him say, “How would he know we would tell Ajax who tipped us off? Why would we?”

“Answer the first,” says Hourlinet, reaching up to tap his ruby clasp. Then he points at the bottle. “Answer the second.”

The silence which follows this is profound. Then Andreau smirks. “Should've been highborn, Hourlinet - you'd be in charge of the city by now.”

Hourlinet bows in his seat. Padiloux is less convinced, but can find no more objection. Besides, the vicious lambasting Ajax had flung them when they'd reported back about their failure still rings strongly in his mind. There is a spiteful eagerness to prove that they weren't ‘useless lowborn worms with no intelligence nor finesse’.

“What’s our next move?” he rumbles finally.

Hourlinet smiles. “Sit and enjoy the brandy. I doubt she'll set off at this hour after yesterday; we'll take up shifts at the usual spot near the house in the small hours. Likely as not, the girl will leave at dawn, just as it gets light.”

“Sounds grand,” says Andreau, leaning back in his chair. His good eye happens to fall on the abandoned glasses of brandy and brumeshine. Strangely, the image of Isillud caressing the brandy glass arises in his mind's eye as he does so. Must be the brandy getting to his head.

Outside, Isillud has two ears pressed to the door, his body pressed to the wall and his lips pressed against Lord de Courcelle's eighth nephew's own.

Bony fingers run through the man's flaxen curls, sighing softly between kisses as hips grind against straining fabric.

"Oi–" Isillud flicks 500 gil at Umfrey before he can continue, motioning to be patient for just a little longer. Once Hourlinet's genius deductions end, he reluctantly pulls away with a wet smacking sound between his lips, fingers running around the man's waistband. "See you at the Forgotten Knight in five, love," Isillud whispers into the man's ear, sealing the appointment with a kiss before sashaying off, picking up Lina's jaw along the way.

"Lovely establishment, my good men. I might come again," he says to the barkeeps before skipping upstairs. He's heard enough to know they've fallen hook, line and sinker for his plan.

What Hourlinet lacks in brains, he makes up with convincing speech. Shame, he could've been a Count in another life.

When he's far enough, he presses his linkpearl. There are plans to see through, but first:

"Professor, I've found you a suitable testing ground. How soon can you go to Falcon's Nest?"

To be continued