i’ll be moving here! + this blog will be archived. cherchez-moi là !
Dandelions and Briars
Against his best intentions and his best judgement, Michel’s last words were of such unexpected nature and so heavy in meaning that Fabien could not help but widen his eyes and blink under his half mask, the very same that he’d worn just as they set forth in their brief journey from the forest to the chateau, and perhaps that same mask was to thank for covering a little of his otherwise obvious astonishment.
The knight wasn’t a simple wanderer indeed! nor was he a son of parents who owned no land, a soldier with no honours to his name, but a chevalier, and which chevalier at that. Fabien placed his drink back on the table and he could call himself somewhat glad that the sound of thick glass hitting wood filled those few seconds of silence, awkward if not strained, that he needed to fully grasp the meaning of his guest’s introduction: as it appeared, the disgraced champion of Empress Celene sat now in his parlour, incapacitated by an injury that Fabien himself, in his tragic attempts at hunting, had caused him, after having been found in a forest that was as distant from the fights in the south as it was from the Heartlands.
« Well », he said, « then I am sorry for not having welcomed you properly, monsieur de Chevin. »
What “proper” meant in the context of this encounter, neither a certain instinct for just good manners, as they were understood by people blessed by a minimal degree of decency and courtesy, nor the more universal rules of the Grand Game, with all its necessary and occasionally merciless scheming, could truly reveal. With a slight stretch of imagination, he could guess on his own what his dear cousin and favourite harlequin would suggest him, or what the dowager, vassal and guest of his, would declare, or what the Baron, or his seneschal, Maker bless that poor frustrated soul, might all advise him to do, and Fabien himself was not so blind to the mechanisms of the game as to not think that, before giving Michel’s leg a chance to heal in full, delivering him to Val Royeaux would garner him a great amount of prestige in the eyes of the court.
The thought opened before him a landscape of advantage and yet, at the same time, appeared to him like a malicious wood-thing, a whisper that rode on the waves of his most recent success in reclaiming the family mask, true symbol of a noble, though perhaps not necessarily of nobility. Divine Justinia had left the Marquisate barely a week before, so was he so drunk on the power that Most Holy’s presence and approval, and indeed, her forgiveness for the crime of his ancestor, that now he would so quickly jump at another’s throat in the hope of gaining a similar amount of favour from Her Majesty as well? He had believed himself a different sort of man.
He placed an elbow on the armrest and left the cognac to the games light played with it, observing the wrinkles on Michel’s face and supposing that, with such premises to the following tale, the frown marking his expression wasn’t at all unwarranted. « I imagine that your name isn’t where this story ends », he added as an encouragement, as gentle and grave as it was possible to combine gentleness and gravity in the same words.
If the Marquis was at a loss to decide what propriety dictated, Michel was in no place to offer suggestions. The Empress might not have had the chance to dictate a sentence to him, but ten years in her service lent him a decent idea of what she would do if he were to boldly show his face at court again. As if in answer to the thought, his neck gave a slight twinge; built-up tension, Michel knew, but he also knew better than to let the discomfort show.
That was petty, perhaps, while he sat here with his leg in bandages, and no mask to cover his concern, or the lines and shadows that decorated his face in absence of it --- lines that he wondered might seem less incriminating than the lack of beard growth, when exile should have left him looking like a Fereldan bandit by now. But if there was one thing he would still cling to, a drowning man’s piece of driftwood at sea, it was the training that had led him to be appointed to Celene’s side in the first place. Even a wounded chevalier was a more formidable opponent than what most of Thedas could offer as its elites, and despite the title being dubiously relevant these days, Michel could at least work to dispel any notion that a simple enemy like stress could worm its way under his skin.
Confidence had always been an ally in situations like these. The reminder would have to do the job to bolster the feeling in this moment. The glass, which had held at best a tepid sort of interest a few minutes ago, now felt cold and unappealing in Michel’s hand, and he paused in order to set it aside.
‘ Isn’t it? ’ Something challenging seeped into the question. ‘ I am no longer welcome in Her Majesty’s company, but the reasons for that I will not divulge out of respect for her privacy. I hope you understand. ’ No matter which side of the conflict a lord’s loyalties fell on, Michel would expect them to honour the request. Rumour would fill in what he would not tell himself; let anyone pick the version they liked best. It made no difference.
The question now was only to guess what sentiment he should appeal to in order to buy the most favour. To a chevalier it would be honour above all else; to a shrewd noble, some promise of money, however hollow; to the vain, the promise of enough scandal to make them relevant in society. A snap judgement would suggest the latter to be the most enticing to a Seraultin, but like a feint to gauge a parry, the theory would need to be tested.
‘ While my service to Her Majesty may have ended … I swore to protect Orlais with my life, and that duty binds me still. ’ Bound, rather like his leg at the moment. Less exhaustion, lower stakes, and he might have been able to play some sympathy from such a joke to greater effect. ‘ My lord, I see no reason to hide my intentions from you --- I am tracking a demon, who I have reason to suspect --- no, forgive me. I know that it puts the empire and her people at risk. I want to see it destroyed before it causes further harm. ’
no more vagues or subtweets
engage directly in swordplay and duel for your honour
Dandelions and Briars
The healers told Fabien that, though his wounded knight and impromptu guest was, by all accounts, recovering quickly and with the sturdiness of a warrior in the prime of his life, he also grew intractable and restless by the hour, as if offended by the fuss that his wound had and was causing. Perhaps a matter of pride kept Michel from being tended to and pampered, despite the advantages that continuous attentions would, most certainly, bring to the willing patient, but Fabien meant not to question a man who didn’t intend to abuse of the chateau’s hospitality. A generous definition might even induce him to believe that Michel was, instead of proud or stubborn as a chantry sister insisted to call him, rather humble after all.
Fabien wasn’t entirely certain of that, not with how they sat in the parlour of the western tower, having now the occasion to take a look at this warrior in a setting which did not require a respectful wariness as the forest did, shrouded in its shadows and viscous light. Michel may have looked like a wild dandelion wrapped in armour, there under the canopy of the Greenwoods, tricking him, for a few frantic moments, into believing that the treets themselves had spawned him, another child of magics that were older than the Shame’s influence upon Serault. Here, however, he talked with politeness and care, appearing as if he belonged to palaces and salons as much as, if not more than, Fabien himself did, despite the disadvantage in which his impaired leg had put him — the sight of which yet roused a sting of guilt in the Marquis’ breast.
This parlour had been his mother’s favourite, its windows, of the clearest glass that the guild of glassblowers could offer, opened the view on the bridge that they had crossed to reach the island, and on the line of trees that extended themselves until the eye met the far mountains, natural borders of the Empire in the west. The wooden virtuosities of the furniture were engraved with something of a rather more earthy nature, symbols of the city and the Marquisate, emblems of vassal families whose names Fabien had learnt in his youth, dutifully memorising their lineages, accompanied the ever-present stag head of the de Serault.
His own glass of cognac was only half full, and was always kept that way even when refilled, not to imply that he intended to overindulge, and the afternoon’s light, still shining through the windows and the silky curtains, splintered the drink’s warm colour on the table where it rested, passing through the crystal decorations of the glass itself. Fabien picked it up and smiled inside it, just before taking a sip, a quite sure way to hide the true nature of an expression, the hint of discourteous amusement that, though a result of his own lack of competence with a bow, could have been misinterpreted as something else etirely.
« It’s at least longer than the one I owed you », he joked, light-hearted albeit serious. He was no longer certain that this Michel was a mere wanderer, and certainly he hadn’t believed for a moment that he could be a poacher, like the Baron had helpfully suggested in an excess of distrust; this did leave his guest in an uncertain position which, however, didn’t preclude him from receiving a civil treatment.
« The civil war isn’t fought anywhere close enough to the Marquisate to cause us any concrete problem yet », he confirmed. « And it would be in everybody’s interest, here in Serault, if things didn’t change in that sense. Our pride and abudance is due to craft of glass, art, and commerce, a war would do us no good. Certainly, the sooner the Empress deals with this, the better it will be for the south too. I can’t imagine infighting benefitting anyone there either. »
He paused and waited, for whatever that had anything to do with Michel’s presence in the woods, he would have to reveal it soon enough — and it would have been rather unnecessary, if not vulgar, to rush an explanation that would come nonetheless.
There was something dangerous about the way the Marquis made his jokes, Michel decided. He’d known men to use such techniques to try and put opponents at ease, though it had never done much for him; chevaliers were notorious for their bouts of stiff humourlessness, and far from being an exception, he’d always been one to uphold the image. Still, he’d approached duels with less of an apprehensive demeanour than the one that gradually settled over him as the Marquis spoke --- unfortunately for him, there was only so long he could evade and parry the inevitable.
‘ Forgive me if I repeat anything you already know, ’ Michel began. The frown that accompanied it was customary, in fact; Celene would have recognised it. Under the Valmont half-mask, it would have shown only in the downward curve of his mouth, but here, exposed, it was in the furrow of his brow as well. It had been long enough now that the information he carried would be out-of-date, but that did not mean that there were not details that would be risky to share. Risky for Celene and the Grand Duke, and risky for himself, whether for the inherent betrayal of sharing information that was not his to share, or for announcing himself as someone with that knowledge to begin with.
‘ Neither the Grand Duke nor Her Majesty have reason to move their armies at this point, ’ he continued. ‘ By now they will have fortified their defences; to leave now would be akin to a retreat. Neither side can afford such a show of weakness. ’ If Celene were to flee, Gaspard would call it a victory, and too many Orlesians would feel inclined to agree --- Michel knew all too well how quick they were to accuse her of weakness on a military front. A false claim, to be sure; it had been in part his job to ensure that for her. By the same hand, however, Gaspard could not retreat without the chevaliers he relied on for his support whispering about his honour. Double would be the sharpness of it for the disabling wound in the Grand Duke’s shoulder, which would likely be preventing him from doing much of the fighting for himself.
‘ For your part ... that should mean that the north is safe. At least on that front. There are still the mages to consider. ’ Rebelling mages, and demons; a rotten combination, if Michel privately held that the former was inherently as bad as the latter --- the one did, of course, beget the other.
But to speak of demons ... the war was a detail, not Michel’s purpose. The war did not even quite explain the blazoned armour, and the discussion was no doubt a means of pointing out that very fact.
‘ ... my lord, I did not give you my full name before. I beg your pardon for that. ’ The liquor had done its part to loosen his throat and his tongue, ever so incrementally, but that did not stop both from seizing up at what he would need to offer next. Ser Michel de Chevin; that had been a pretty name, worth repeating to himself until he could believe he’d earned it. ‘ As it is ... I cannot explain myself until I tell you. I am Michel de Chevin, and until recently, I was Her Majesty’s champion. ’
Dandelions and Briars
Michel. Just Michel? Perhaps he had no surname, son of parents who owned no land; but his armour was well-crafted and his speech refined. Fabien supposed that he was a soldier, if not a knight, and soldiers now fought in the south of Orlais. This Michel was still not the oddest thing the Applewoods had ever spewed out during his rule.
He cast a sidelong glance towards the man who sat upon his horse, a glance that the mask he now wore perhaps mercifully covered. There was time for further enquiries in the comfort of a warm room, with that wound properly treated.
Michel’s question had all the politeness that would be required in a court but how could Fabien miss its cutting edge? He nearly deserved it. A little less luck and today Serault’s graveyard might have had to welcome a new nameless visitor. Keeping his eyes on the ground, so to lead his horse where undergrowth and roots wouldn’t impede her walk, Fabien chuckled and shook his head.
« Very kindly put, monsieur. I prefer types of hunting other than boar and deer, I must admit, though it seems that even when I do frequent this type of hunt… I still eventually catch the wrong type of game. » The sigh that followed had something apologetic about it. « Walking alone in the Tirashan forest is never a brilliant idea, independently of accidents. I will not ask you what you were doing here now, but I will ask it— when you are in better conditions and I will have provided for your medications. »
The men who’d come with them opened the way. Fabien had walked in the woods (and hunted in them, for all his disasters) many times over and was confident enough that he could find the way out by looking at the sun or stars; but having others who could secure the path for him was not an advantage he despised.
It took no longer than expected to reach the Green Bridge, held in the clutch of ivy and bramble. Beyond the river was the Thousand-Windowed castle and its many high towers, built with the sand-coloured stone that was characteristic of the whole town. The sun shone on something refulgent atop the highest and more central of the towers, and Fabien knew it to be a mirror. He cast a look at the soldier’s injured leg, which had still bled and stained Michel’s trousers despite the binding, just as Fée’s hooves hit the stones of the bridge. « We are almost there. Our Abbess will bring our best healers. »
A team of skilled healers indeed; the treatment, Michel reflected, was likely the best he had received since the last minor incident in Celene’s palace in Val Royeaux. That had been nothing more than a scratch, not an ugly bleeding thing like the puncture wound in his leg, but it had been enough to warrant a fluttering of healers around him and a good deal of snapping irritation on his part. Insult and injury, by their nature, went hand in hand.
Sitting now in the Marquis’s parlour, Michel could feel the now-familiar press of exhaustion settling in his joints and around the edges of his mind. Deceptively, with the wound tended to and whatever dangers lurked out in the woods left behind, the inside of a lord’s stately home could feel like safety—how much easier it would be to give in here than fifty leagues from any sort of help, when there was no choice but to press onwards. But Michel could say with some feeling of authority that dealing with reanimated corpses and darkspawn offered distinct advantages over the smiles and secret daggers of court. Twenty years of wariness had taught him better than to relax at a perceived drop in the stakes.
A crystal glass filled with a liquid of warm amber hue currently balanced in Michel’s hand, while the freshly bandaged leg stretched out stiffly in front of him. He had already refused the strongest kinds of potions in the hope of keeping his mind clear, so his sips were few and careful. Enough to comment on his host’s hospitality and to avoid offence, yet not enough to imply that he’d take advantage of it.
‘ I am afraid, ’ Michel eventually began, ‘ that the explanation I owe to you is not a brief one. ’ There it was; monsieur, I am following rumours; I need news of demons. If there was a way to suggest it without causing fear and offence, Michel had yet to discover it. Still—prior even to establishing that, would it not be to his benefit to learn which side of the war the Marquis aligned himself on?
‘ There is fighting in the south, as you will be aware. I suppose it has not affected you this far from Val Royeaux? ’
Tagged by: @aureasadrisit Tagging: some jerk called @kuinkuki ?
Your Personality Preferences:
INTROVERT
While you may not be anti-social, you do need (and deserve) your private time and space to retreat from the world. Unlike extroverts, you need to develop a concept of the world or some aspect of it before experiencing it. Too much socializing may sap your energies. Your energies are derived from exploring the inner world of ideas, impressions and pure thought.
SENSORY
You usually gather information with your senses: what you can see, hear, taste, touch and smell in the physical world. The facts gathered from the sensory data you process are the building blocks of your model of our world. You concentrate your energies on what actually exists and do not ponder what might exist too much. You are usually practical and rely on your common sense to guide you through the world. You see things as they are and have little or no need to search for underlying meanings.
JUDGING
You like decisions to be made as soon as possible. You are not comfortable with loose ends and like to see conflicts resolved as soon as possible. You have a preference for a well-structured, orderly lifestyle with few surprises. It may not be all that important who makes the decisions that gets things done as long things do get done. You take commitments very seriously. While you are not inflexible, you do like to stick to a plan once it is set into motion.
FEELING You make decisions subjectively based upon your values and what is important to you. How people will be affected by your decisions is important to you. You are likely to make decisions based upon what you feel is acceptable and agreeable rather than what is logical. Your truths are founded in your values and those of the society you live in. It is important to remember that we are discussing how you evaluate data and make decisions, and that you rely on your feelings to do so in no way implies you are overly emotional.
Your Personality Type:
PAGE OF PENTACLES
Introvert/Sensory/Feeling/Judging - ISFJ
While quiet and reserved by nature, you are very warm-hearted, considerate, gentle, and trustworthy. You have a very well developed work ethic, which ensures you will complete the task before you in a timely manner. You like to help others and are very comfortable working behind the scenes to do so. Getting the job done is far more important to you than accolades for a job well done. You are detail oriented and meticulous in your work habits. Even small mistakes haunt you. While you are not one to give orders, you are very supportive of those around you.
In relationships you are kind, considerate, and show your affection by fulfilling the needs of those you love. You want a comfortable life for yourself and your loved ones and will do what you can to make your lives so. You like a structured lifestyle with well defined goals. You avoid hurting others. Your need to feel needed can keep you in unhealthy relationships with overly needy people.
laptop is back !!! files restored !!! here’s one of the 800 icons i was worried would be gone forever ( that i’ll still probably never use) — story under the cut abt the Open File situation i told some of u about over skype
last four days involved my computer refusing to turn on, and me having to take it into the apple store knowing that the last open file was nsfw anime fic
headcanon.
‘ he was as much confidante as guard, privy to a thousand secrets and expected to be her eyes and ears when she was not present. in any fight, in any public setting, he was the living embodiment of the empress herself, in just the same way that grand duke gaspard … would be a living embodiment of the might of orlais. ’ ( tme ch2. )
Michel’s business in Val Royeaux is not limited to guarding Celene; he is entitled and expected to negotiate on her behalf when she is busy with other matters. He often liaises with the chevaliers and the Imperial Army officers for her, meaning the he and Gaspard have actually been well acquainted for some time prior to the war. He’s also coordinated with the templars when the discussions took a more strategic than diplomatic angle.
your fave is problematic: academie des chevaliers
- only accepts nobility; fraud penalised by execution
- whips their students for not fighting well enough
- teaches students to use violence as a coping mechanism
- glorifies and idealises death in battle
- takes field trips to fight corpses and darkspawn
- masters not held accountable for student fatalities
- non-optional graduation ritual of getting drunk and killing elves
- did some digging: gaspard graduated the academie des chevaliers at age 19
- assuming they haven’t changed the length of time of their training for Tradition™, graduates are probably 19 or 20 years old depending on how late in the year their birthday falls
- let’s say then: michel was 19 when he graduated, his birthday’s later in the year
- since he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go after that ( unless back to montfort, but he’s not really part of comte brevin’s family ) i’m sticking to my headcanon that he immediately went to serve as celene’s champion
- which could put him at the youngest 28 during m/asked empire
- basically he’s a little bit young and stupid and also i bet he thinks back to the time of the blight with fondness and pride at his achievement that year
I had another read through this part of WoT and it does make it sound as if Gaspard’s training was exceptional, not the norm --- but on the other hand, training nearly every day for 6 years seems completely reasonable for training “ Thedas’ most skilled warriors. ” 6 years, no obligations besides learning how to fight. An 18 year old would probably be considered more than ready for ongoing military service, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the regular Orlesian Army recruited younger than that from the non - nobility. So ... training begins at age 13, ends at 19 / 20. Puts them at an uncomfortably not - quite - adult, not - quite - teenager - anymore age for certain initiation ceremonies as well.
i can’t believe cullen copied michel’s Look ™
Plus tu es lourd, plus tu es difficile à kidnapper . Protège toi. Mange du gâteau .
‘ Vous vous protégez, et arrêtez, lapin. Je ne veux pas vous écouter. ’
I’ve had this sketch of Michel living in my notebook for the last few months. He looks tired.
“don’t be a bitter bitch be a better bitch” haha that’s where you’re mistaken fool I can multitask and will excel at both
Dandelions and Briars
« The pleasure is ours », Fabien answered, almost with a sigh, in awareness of the irony that the statement carried in itself.
He ought to mark it on the calendar, for in this day he had suceeded in injuring a man with an arrow; he doubted that, had that been his intention, he would have managed to do it quite as easily. A concerned gaze moved from the soldier’s face, marked by a paleness made sallow by the forest’s light, to the arrow that protruded from his leg; blood never looked quite so red when staining an animal’s fur.
With the help of the Baron, they reached his mare, led towards them in the meantime to minimise the length of the walk. Getting the wounded knight astride of it was going to be a troublesome endeavour, Fabien greatly feared.
He turned towards his liegeman and pouted, surveying the situation. « Breaking the shaft might help. »
« Ah, certainly. Are you ready, monsieur? Do not bite off your tongue. »
Fabien knew that the Baron de Fleuve was not a man without some dexterity, despite his weight, and certainly not a squeamish one; he would have a firm hand where Fabien might flinch. So, as another huntsman offered support to the soldier, the Baron got a hold of the arrow and snapped it without fretting. « There. Aren’t we good at nursing strangers in the woods! »
« You are an exemplar nurse, monsieur de Fleuve », Fabien replied, as he rummaged around in the leather bag that his horse carried; there were knives inside, some bait, traps, rope — and a golden half-mask. It hadn’t been a week since Divine Justinia had granted him permission to wear the mark of his nobility and donning it in public at all times was a habit he hadn’t picked up yet. Couldn’t he be excused for deciding to do without as he hunted in his own land, in woods whose deepest grounds were barely fit for human presence? This mask, of course, wasn’t his family’s ancestral one. This one’s antlers were metallic just like the rest of it, rather than made of masterfully blown glass; it was a new thing, a replacement for the fragile and precious thing that was the de Serault heirloom. He pulled it from the bag and wore it with a deep breath.
It was with some additional effort that they helped the knight with climbing on the horse and sit comfortably on it. Fabien, once secured the bow on his back and the quiver at his belt, picked five of the hunters and took a hold of the rein.
« Fée isn’t easily startled, and we are barely half an hour from the chateau. », he reassured the knight. « It’s a regrettable situation, but our Abbess has some good healers who can take care of it. You’ll be as new, my word. Now, forgive me, monsieur, but I do not believe I have heard your name? »
Michel might not have bitten off his tongue, but he clenched his jaw against the inevitable jolt of pain the movement would inspire. To his credit, however, the Baron had steady hands --- the arrow snapped under his grip as if it were little more than a dry winter branch. A quiet word of thanks to the Baron, the Marquis, and the hunters that had offered their support once some steadiness had returned to him; the task of mounting at least would not be as cumbersome now.
It had been a long time since he had ridden; pity that he had to return to it under these circumstances. True to the Marquis’ assurances, however, the horse showed no signs of being startled by the new weight on her back or the scent of blood that must have already reached her nostrils. Good; he would need her stability.
He was confident that there was no danger of bleeding out within the next half hour, but all the same, it would be prudent to bind the wound and keep the arrowhead from embedding itself deeper, tearing further. While the hunting party reorganised, Michel raised a hand to his mouth, biting his glove and tugging it off his hand before going to unbuckle the clasps on the opposite vambrace. Beneath the armour, there was a long strip of red cloth wrapped around his forearm, which he set about unwinding --- that was followed a gesture to the Marquis to hold momentarily while he eased the fabric around his leg, securing the broken arrow shaft in place.
‘ My name is Michel, ’ he answered as he finished tying off the cloth. Later, he might give his full name, but that should be after he assessed where Serault aligned itself on the war. A zealous supporter of Her Majesty, he reasoned, might not think it prudent to harbour a traitor. Knowing Val Royeaux, there would be a hundred different stories about why the Empress no longer kept a champion. Knowing Orlais, any permutation might have taken up in the other cities of the empire. A better mood and he might even be amused by the thought.
The Marquis’ question was a simple one, and yet it felt like an inadequate answer. Michel tore his gaze away from where he had been speculatively eyeing the other man’s mask, looking ahead with a slight frown. He could apologise for trespassing --- but withholding it kept the Marquis as the indebted one, given the injury. There was still a remaining haze of pain clouding Michel’s thoughts, but his eyes narrowed briefly before he continued.
‘ You do not frequent the hunt, do you, my lord? ’
On 20/01/2017, at 18:13, ʙɪsᴄᴜɪᴛᴛʏ! ♚ wrote: > it's very orlesian
On 20/01/2017, at 18:13, @archontem wrote: > I freely admit I have that aesthetic
- i have receipts on the archon