"If you do not stop squirming and whining I will give you something proper to whimper about." The chirurgeon threatened, fingers curling tightly around the wrist that he had pinned to the table. A small dining table where the remains of afternoon tea sat a short ways away growing cold in its neglect. Medical tools and tinctures scattered between plates and saucers. He gripped firmly enough that the points of nails manicured to wicked points began to bite into skin. "It is unseemly for a Knight." The title was spat as though it was a four-letter word.
The Knight forced himself to still, his gaze turned aside to avoid watching the other work. It was never pleasant and sometimes it was better not to know when treatment would resume. How many bells had this been dragging on for now? Barely even one, if the nearby chronometer was to be believed yet it had felt like an eternity.
"If you had simply come to me immediately, we could have avoided all of this. A fresh wound is far easier to treat than one already several moons' healed." Lebeaux continued to chastise as he lowered his eyes back down to his work. "Fixing or removing scars is so much more tedious and time-consuming than preventing them to begin with. I suppose painful as well, if your carrying on is anything to go by." He noted before he slipped another long, slender needle into the damaged skin along the taller elezen's skin and drew another quiet noise of protest from the impatient patient.
"I do not mind the scars. Is it not stranger to be a survivor of the War with only the one? It speaks of cowardice, of fleeing the field rather than risk injury..." Anselme countered carefully, turning to look back at the chirurgeon. As soon as he turned his head it was immediately turned aside again with the force of Lebeaux's backhand. While the strike itself smarted, it was the seething anger he'd seen in icy blue eyes before the strike that hurt far worse. He lifted a hand absent-mindedly to gingerly touch the weal already rising red and angry along a sharp cheekbone. The contact stung fiercely, but it was nearly a pleasant distraction compared to the pain when the chirurgeon resumed treatment.
"Why is it honorable to bear the evidence of your mistakes in your skin for all to see." Lebeaux demanded, directing searing aether into the needles lined up to create a precise point of focus under scar tissue. "Where is the glory in having to be reminded of your failures each time you catch your reflection in the looking glass." He continued as he worked. An argument they had time and time again without ever reaching common ground. The discoloration slowly burned out of the keloid to leave it matching the skin surrounding it, though the raised mark remained. Near-invisible save for close inspection or direct touch.
"Nonetheless, you yourself agreed to assist me however I may need. Are you intending to go back on your word." Lebeaux accused, suspecting the Knight was no longer listening as Anselme had lowered his forehead down to the table and begun banging his other hand slowly against the surface with his fingers clenched into a tight fist. Firmly enough to rattle teacups and silverware. "Stop that. Would you rather I dug the scar tissue out and sealed the skin behind it."
"... no." Came the miserable response, half muffled against the wooden surface. "To both." Slowly he picked up his head, trying to distract himself by changing the subject as he looked to his brother again. "I think you have mastered the technique. The coloring has not come back to any of the scars you have treated. Is it not already perfected? Are you intending to use it on-"
The question was left unfinished and more certainly unanswered, silenced by a firm strike to the other side of his face to balance the reddened skin. Indicating that Lebeaux would not be fielding any more questions. Anselme sank lower in his chair to rest his chin in the palm of the hand not currently pinned to the table. His palm digging firmly into a freshly-stinging cheek until it near made his eyes water. The familiar pain a welcome distraction from the burning in his shoulder as well as the ache in his chest.
It wasn't easy walking the straight and narrow. Playing by the rules and keeping it all on the up-and-up. Real proper-like. Up before dawn and out to put out the day's figurative fires for an alchemical venture that was slowly sinking and taking him down with it. Back well after dusk to scrape together a meal and pore over the ledgers he had brought home. What made it even harder was how this fully-diurnal schedule was at perfect odds with the other Keeper. They were two ships in the night in the truest sense, just missing each other constantly, sometimes for a sennight or more before the stars aligned to allow their paths to cross. Something one would /think/ would happen more often when it came to a fate-witch and the luckiest catte ever to prowl the jewel of the desert. Yet still the fates and stars and the ruthless god of commerce conspired against them.
Nonetheless Eight found evidence near constantly of Rashk's presence. Leftovers of meals he prepared gone from the icebox. Long, dark strands clinging to pillows he could almost imagine were still warm when he returned home at night. Fresh fish wrapped in parchment in the kitchen or shiny little trinkets left around the house. Scattered paperwork neatened while he was out. The last place he had expected to find such evidence was in the laundry room.
Eight dumped out the hamper of clothes, sorting them out as he hummed a tune he'd heard long ago. A poorly remembered shanty filled in with bits of other melodies to make an off-key jumble of sound. Work clothes, home clothes, crime clothes sorted into piles rather than any sensible method of sorting laundry. He didn't dare wash Rashk's things, frothy bits of silk and convoluted straps made for a disaster when the rogue attempted and those things were /expensive/. Yet something caught his eye when he pulled a shirt out. A strange smudge of black right across the front of it. The humming stopped and the rogue picked it up, bringing it closer as he rubbed at the mark with his thumb.
It smeared easily, made immediately worse by the rubbing. But from this close he could see more strange marks on the crimson fabric. Powdery grey and shimmering silver. Flecks of gold. How in the hells? After some mulling it finally it dawned on him and a grin slowly spread across his face until it split to reveal small fangs. He held the shirt up and surely enough, the marks aligned near perfectly with his mouth and his eyes. From this close he could also smell faint traces of alcohol.
The scene played out clearly enough from there… Rashk had come home after a night of drinking and when he hadn't found the rogue at home he'd settled for nuzzling into the next best thing; the clothes that still carried his scent. Eight held the fabric close, pressing his own lips to the dark smudge before he balled up the shirt and tossed it into pile of laundry. Mayhaps it was about time he took a vacation from working so hard being proper-like. Mayhaps there was something more important he was losing sight of. Mayhaps he should just let it burn…
"Ohh, er, yes… An ill-omen, indeed. Something…. terrible… surely will follow…" Came the solemn promise drifting up from somewhere between the lowered brim of an overly large hat and the hem of a tall collar. Long fingers ending in dark nails moved over the table performing a strange ritual. "Portentous… of a dire fate…" Jyhun continued to intone as the items he was moving around clattered and clanked.
The Xaela that wasn't covered head-to-toe in heavy black fabric sat across the table with arms folded simply stared flatly, entirely unimpressed with what was going on in front of him. The 'altar' was just an Ul'dahn cafe's street-side table and the 'ritual' tools were simply the dishes and cups that had been involved in the midday meal they had eaten while waiting for Jyhun's alleged contact to arrive. Nayan had knocked over a small dish of salt when he had slammed his fist against the table in irritation at the other's lack of urgency throughout the meal moments prior… and now the thaumaturge insisted they were going to have a terrible tragedy visited on them if he didn't perform his convoluted ritual. Which seemed to be stacking up every item on the table into a precarious tower.
"You are stalling." The Hingan hit-man warned, the words growled low on his breath. "There is no contact. You were hungry. What have I told you about wasting my time…"
Jyhun was silent, lifting his eyes only when the tower was tall enough that he had no other choice. It was missing one vital piece. One key ingredient. It arrived in the form of a pair of cups of coffee. Richly dark and enticingly aromatic served in small cups. The mage lifted his cup up and placed it at the very top of the tower. There. The final piece. "I'm… almost done…" He promised the impatient au ra, heavy fabric rustling as he gave a small nod. He took his hands away, waiting to see if it would fall. The tower stood, swaying dangerously yet upright.
That was the moment Nayan's patience ran out. He started to stand but the moment he rested his hands on the table to push his seat back, Jyhun's own hand darted out. He yanked on a fork that served as a lynchpin and with that small item removed the entire tower came toppling down towards the fist-fighter. Leading with a cup of very hot coffee that splashed onto him from the chest down. The enforcer leapt to his feat with a hiss, looking down as the burning-hot liquid soaked into his shirt and trousers.
Amidst the shattering of plates and the growling of one very annoyed xaela, there was jingling of charms and a clatter of bootheels. Jyhun had bolted to his feet as well and taken off down the street, clutching his hat to his head as he tried to flee the Enforcer with the fork still clutched in the other hand. Wheezing quietly with the effort of making his escape after fulfilling his own prophecy.
Nayan's fingers curled angrily into the fabric of his shirt as he held it away from his skin, ensuring it wouldn't burn him as it cooled. Yet still the beginnings of what may have been a smirking smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The game was on. He counted out the seconds. Knowing precisely by now how much of a head-start he could give the Thaumaturge without allowing him enough time to slip away into a convenient flow of aether and escape. Three. Two. One. Time to re-introduce Jyhun's face to the cobblestones and remind him just what he had told him about wasting his time.
Anselme shifted impatiently from foot to foot, lowering his hand after knocking firmly on the door. His breath visible in the chilly Coerthan air, hands clasping together to rub gloved fingers for additional warmth as he waited. After what felt like a short eternity the door finally swung open and immediately the Knight's already sunny countenance warmed to supernovic levels of cheerfulness.
"There you are, if we do not hurry we are going to be late." The chirurgeon grumbled, looping a scarf around his neck to cover primly pressed lapels and a cravat tied with the precision befitting his profession. His hair combed to a perfect sheen and not a single hair of the whiskers that crept along his chin out of place. Ishgardian propriety at its finest. After looping the scarf into a neat knot he finally glanced up and stopped short. "Oh, Anselme…" He sighed, brows knitting together. "We cannot go with you looking like /that/. Come in." Lionnet ordered, reaching out to grab the front of the Knight's jacket to drag him into the room.
"How did you even manage that? You appear as though you were harried by a pack of wild dogs the whole way over. Did you not look in the mirror before leaving?" The medic continued to complain gruffly without any real ire behind it. More complaining just for the sake of it as he hurried to fetch a comb and pomade. "It is a /wedding/. The guests must still appear presentable." He continued, beckoning for the much taller man to lean down so he could fix his unruly hair.
"Ah, well, I did not want us to be late so I hurried…" Anselme offered his excuses, his smile not diminished in the least by the other's admonishments. In fact he seemed amused by them as he tilted into a polite bow so the chirurgeon could reach. Lionnet's assessment was fair. The Knight's hair looked as though he had just woken up and not in the artfully tousled bed-head manner though it was quickly tamed with a few quick swipes by a practiced hand.
"The state of your cravat! Did you even tie it or have you simply balled it up and let it lay where it may?" Lionnet continued as he carefully undid the tangled mess to straighten it out properly. His hand moving deftly to cross the long ends of the neck cloth into a knot of appropriate complexity. His movements had slowed somewhat as his masterpiece neared completion, eyes on his task even as his hands shifted slightly. Taking perhaps a few moments longer than strictly necessary to adjust the lay of the Knight's collar once the knot was finished. Fingers trailing gently just next to bare skin without touching.
Anselme was still as the other worked, tilted forwards as he was he had a perfect view of the serious expression on Lionnet's face. Close enough that when he inhaled it brought in the clean scents of the other man's soap mixed with the warm notes of his preferred cologne. The combination nearly drowning out the smell of medical tools and alcohol that had always put him on edge around any other chirurgeon. He was silent. Perhaps if he didn't speak the moment may last just a little longer. The silence stretched out between them until finally Lionnet lowered his hands and lifted his eyes. Sapphire blue meeting summer sky for the briefest of moments before both of the Ishgardians looked aside in opposite directions as though caught peeping at something unseemly.
"My thanks, Lionnet. You have an eye for such matters." The Knight said quickly as he straightened up, resisting the urge to stick his fingers in the hair that had just been painstakingly tamed in his embarrassment.
"Of course. Now we are most certainly going to be late, let us be on our way." The chirurgeon responded with a light shooing motion.
Anselme followed the shorter man out onto the street, pulling the door closed behind them as he smiled warmly. It had been a fleeting moment but it was precious seconds he would treasure. It had been entirely worth standing outside the other man's door in the cold before knocking; one hand in his hair to ruffle it to a wild bird's nest as the other jerked ruthlessly at his poor cravat to turn it the perfectly passable knot into a tangled mess. Would Lionnet notice if he were to start doing it every time before visiting? And if he did… would he say anything…
Fifteen turns was a terrible age. The age were the comfort of private lessons taken in the solitude of one's own home were being exchanged for 'real world' experiences. Squiring to an accomplished knight, apprenticing to a master craftsman or, in the case of Lennaux, enrolling in seminary. A terrible age to be cooped up with equally terrible children learning how to behave as adults in a terrible place. Studying theologies and the history of a war that had spanned for generations. Every student at the Scholasticate's fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers and so on had served that war effort in some way or another. When death and destruction were constant companions at birth, it was never a matter of 'if' bad news would happen but rather 'when'.
The somber envoys were a familiar sight for those attending classes within the Scholasticate's hallowed halls. While the lesser-born nobility may receive a single courier, those even less important often received only a letter, the solemn approach of a dark-clad entourage was the sign that someone of some import had died. No sooner did they enter the grand entryway did the rumors begin to fly. This time their somber march took them to the courtyard where Lennaux was, appropriately enough, holding court over the small group of fellow future-clergy he had bullied into serving as his associates. Never 'friends'. A pleasantly warm late spring drizzle had forced them to take refuge under an alcove as idle chatter of summer holidays whiled away time between classes. Talk of the warm moons spent out at the country estate or some relative's hunting lodge in the mountains. The chatter faded away as the envoy of three entered the courtyard under heavy cloaks against the light rain. One stopped to wait in the arching doorway as the other two made their way towards the small group. A few quick calculations of which of their merry little band could have warranted such a visit resulted in the realization that they were there for him.
"My father or my brother. Place your wagers quickly." Lennaux muttered under his breath.
"Brother." The others answered in near-unison, having already heard tales of their 'ringleader's' foolhardy elder sibling.
"Well, that certainly takes the fun out of it if no one will bet against me. Very well." He complained quietly, falling silent as the knights approached and immediately knelt respectfully. "A mourning period is certainly going to put a damper on my summer plans..."
"Young Master Lennaux de Haillenarte, we have been sent to bring you home on an urgent matter." The first knight explained as she rose back to her feet. The second knight offered a sympathetic smile from under the hood of his cloak. Neither would be so crass as to simply state that there had been a death. Nor to announce outright who it may have been. It could yet have been a cousin or uncle for all he knew.
Lennaux nodded solemnly, adjusting the lay of his hat before he stepped out from under the alcove into the rain. The third knight did not move as they approached, allowing the first two to pass before he stepped out to block Lennaux's departure. The student looked up slowly, icy pale eyes rimmed with dark lashes settling on a face he did not recognize at first. His father's strong chin and thick brows paired with his mother's summer sky blue eyes. A man grown now, though he had been only the very same age Lennaux was now when he had last seen him this close. Those bright blue eyes were not red from grief and his jaw was set in a grim line. That answered the question neatly. Terrible news for a terrible boy who would now even more quickly have to grow up into a terrible man. His father was finally dead.
"Lennaux, I-" Anselme began, yet he was never allowed to finish the sentence. The younger brother threw his shoulder forwards into the knight's chest as he pushed past him. Long strides carrying him to catch up with the other two messengers without a word. Anselme stepped aside with the blow, allowing Lennaux to pass unimpeded. He watched him stalk away rather than following immediately. The shoulder-check had not hurt in the least. Truly it would not have even moved him out of the way. It had been the pure, glacial hatred in his younger brother's eyes for the brief moment their gazes met that pained him far more deeply.
"Dinner always tastes better when you catch it yourself!" Eight had boldly boasted as he sat cross-legged on a pier with an assortment of makeshift fishing gear strewn about him. His grin bright and a sparkle in mismatched eyes, though the off-kilter tilt of dark ears paired with a vicious flicking of his tail hinted that he was growing frustrated with the attempts.
A hook abandoned in a tree branch where it had been lost. A length of wire generally used for more dubious purposes. A stick. A stolen earring for a sparkling lure and a bit of spiced mole jerky for tastier bait. All of it came together to make a sad looking attempt at a fishing pole and the starry-haired Keeper did not seem impressed by his dusty companion's masterpiece.
"It's gonna work!" Eight insisted, settling himself down on the dock's edge to dangle his feet in the water and cast his line to secure the two miqo'te a fine fish supper. Rashk was not convinced, yet managed to keep his complaining to a minimum of whining... and none of it very serious at all. There were worse ways to while away an afternoon than lounging by the water.
The line did not twitch at all for the entire afternoon as they chatted, drank and ate up the rest of the myriad snacks they had brought to use as 'bait'. Not that Rashk suspected fish really cared for rice balls and jerky, but Eight had insisted. Conversation had calmed to a comfortable silence and during those quiet moments the miqo'te forgot the fish all together.
By the time the sun threatened to slip below the horizon, Eight had sprawled out on his side, a cheek propped up on his palm while Rashk leaned back onto him. His head resting on the rogue's side and the generous fluff of his tail draped over the taller Keeper's legs as his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm of light sleep. Eight's fingers stroked idly through raven curls, blinking a losing battle again a nap of his own.
It was then that the pole bent, wire pulling tight with the surely-impressive size of the long-awaited catch. Ears perked immediately but Eight did not move. Rashk shifted slightly against him and the decision was made. The rogue curled around the smaller keeper, twining his tail around the other's as the line went limp again.
Eight could always tell him later he'd caught a mermaid while he slept and kindly let her off the hook in exchange for wishes...
"You are a vile, feral little backwater heathen." Lebeaux spat the accusations through bloodied lips. "A barbarous beast playing at being spoken." Despite the crimson streaked along his teeth and mouth, he seemed less concerned with that and far more concerned with scrubbing green-black bile spattered across his expensive white coat jacket. At least he assumed it was bile, considering it had been expelled from the maw of a carbuncle that was far less 'construct' and far more free-form aether experiment gone horrifically wrong. "Unfit for society, polite or otherwise. Drag yourself and your abomination back to your swamp, Rinha'li."
A few steps away that eldritch summon shivered and quaked in an unsettling wobbling motion as it stood sentinel between Lebeaux and a miqo'te clutching his hand to his chest as he pressed flat against a bookshelf. The arcanist's richly furred colorpoint ears were pinned flat against unkempt hair similarly two-toned in black and white. Large, round glasses sat askew on his nose and the look on his face was exasperation rather than fear. Bright green eyes wide with confused annoyance. The string of insults were nothing new, it was practically how the Ishgardian greeted the Keeper at this point. But the cause of it was irksome, to say the least.
Rinha'li lowered his uninjured hand from the one he was coddling, thrusting it forwards to display the crescent of bloodied tears in his skin along the edge of his hand.
"I am the b-b-beast?!" He demanded. "For d-d-defending myself with a c-construct?!" As Rinha'li spoke, Lebeaux mocked him under his breath. Tittering along after the stuttering that had grown more pronounced in the voidmath's agitation.
Smoke hung heavy in the small bar tucked away at the back of a used bookshop. The sort of place you could only get into with a knowing nod and a magic word to make the shelves swing open to reveal a haven for sinners and their sins. In a few bells' time the place would be full of laughter, the clinking of glasses and half-hushed chatter about the next job. Yet for the moment there was only this card game. Two miqo'te sat at either ends of the round table littered with the debris accumulated throughout the length of their game. Masks set aside so they could both drink from glasses of dark liquor already near-drained with accompanying bottles. An ashtray where the remains of a fragrant cigar burned idly. Maps and notes for the upcoming job. Then on top of it all was the bets...
Mismatched rings, unmarked vials of reagents, bits of string, a packet of aldgoat jerky, one harlequin-patterned sock that had been missing for a sennight, an Ishgardian teacup, candies one would find at the bottom of an old woman's purse and the crowning glory was slightly dog-eared triple triad card. That final bet was flicked onto the pile with a graceful turn of Charlatan's wrist. "Call." They declared smugly.
Knave flashed a dagger-toothed grin over the top edge of his hand. "Real shame 'bout that." He apologized sarcastically as he laid out his hand onto the table. "Full house." He declared proudly as he displayed a hand with a few too many cards that matched suits.
"You're right. It's a real damned shame, indeed." Charlatan agreed as they laid out their own hand with a flourish. "Royal flush." They declared, proudly displaying an impressive array of mismatched cards that even included a Lady and a Lord amongst the usual Kings, Queens and Jacks.
"You dirty cheat, you stole that Queen that from me!" Knave exclaimed with a cackle as he rose to his feet, slamming his hands down on the table hard enough to rattle the bet pile.
"You stole it from me first, so I stole it back! All is fair~" Charlatan yowled smugly in return. "I'm just the better thief. Pay up!"
"I'll bet you pilfered my pocket aces too! Lemme check!" Knave laughed as he dove across the table towards the smaller miqo'te in a flash of black and red. Scattering the bet pile and the remaining cards in a flutter of paper.
Charlatan screeched in mock-horror though the sound quickly dissolved into laughter as the miqo'te tussled, rolling off of well-padded bench seats onto the floor. "I played them two hands ago and you didn't even notice!!" They howled. The play-fighting and pocket-checking dragged on for some time until the contents of both of their waistcoats, sleeves and so on were littered across the hardwood floors with the two panting miqo'te in a tangle at the epicenter of the mess.
Knave flopped over onto Charlatan with a sigh, signaling the end of the post-game brawl and the other miqo'te responded by swatting the taller thief in the face with their tail. Leaving a smudge of white dust on one cheek. "Alright, you win this time." The red-and-black cad allowed with a noise akin to a chainsaw attempting to start, and failing miserably. "Someday we're gonna write the rules down proper-like then your days are numbered-" He threatened.
"I always win." The Charlatan countered, curling lazily around the other. "Can't write the rules down if we change 'em every game. Where's the fun in that?" They teased, ears perking at the sound of footsteps in the bookstore beyond. They groaned and started to disentangle themselves from the pile. "Alright, mask up. Now for the real games..."
