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The commander of Camp Dragonhead suffers from an affliction most grave.
Boredom is its name, a vexatious, inevitable side effect of paperwork. He is a sworn knight of Ishgard, meant to wield his blade in service of her people, not languish in a moldy chair filing reports.
But he is also a proud son of House Fortemps, and the Count has charged him with a duty of no trifling import. Haurchefant has always striven to prove deserving of his trust, though admittedly the signing of documents is not half as thrilling as standing toe to toe with a ferocious wyrm.
Haurchefant rubs a hand across his forehead. Fury, he has been reading the same sentence for the past three minutes. The letters on the missive laid out on his desk shift out of focus as if straining to break free of their paper confines, much like he is. A brief intermission would be in order, else he will abandon this vain endeavor quicker than he intended.
He shuffles his notes, an ingenious ploy to trick Yaelle, ever the watchful hawk, but his mind is already wandering. To the gathering of soldiers going about their drills, their fine figures a sight to take the breath away. Proof of their strenuous labor is glistening on their sculpted bodies, trickling down their bare chests. How he itches to join them in their exercises!
Then, the small crew of sellswords he hired to take care of the goobbue problem. The flame-haired Miqo’te maiden is a treat for the eyes indeed, as is her strapping Highlander colleague, stern of brow and broad of shoulder.
Such fine company graces his halls, yet he is condemned to waste his day doing sums and budgets. Truly, there is no end to injustice.
Many moons later, while reflecting on the events soon to transpire, Haurchefant Greystone would come to one simple realization: it oft takes but a single moment for the entire world to change.
A sudden draft alerts him to the opened door; curious, desperate for a distraction, he looks up.
Large eyes peer at him from beneath a sleek fringe, diamonds clear and brilliant. They widen upon meeting his, flitting to the floor to avoid further contact. Dustings of snow fleck locks of dusky violet and the dark sweep of her lashes, the tiniest of jewels. A pair of great curved horns adorns her wind-combed head, a perfect complement to the obsidian scales lining her flushed face, thus marking the stranger as one of the Xaela.
The Holy See does not look kindly upon the Auri people, scarce as they are in Eorzea. He is reminded of a particular tragedy many years ago, when he was yet a boy: how one of the Steppe clans sought to begin anew in Ishgard, away from Garlemald’s covetous grasp, only to be massacred by the Temple Knights, and the circulation of hateful propaganda that incident spurred. He had not believed any of it. His countrymen have no tolerance for anything that deviates from the proper and the conventional. He became well-acquainted with this reality very early in life.
A muffled huff breaks him from his musings. His visitor is glaring up at him, her rosy mouth quirked in distaste. For good reason—he was caught staring, and has not spoken a word of greeting. ‘Tis only the latter he regrets.
Haurchefant rises from his seat (by the gods, his legs do need the stretching); the woman flinches, taking a step back.
Something tugs sharp at his chest, something familiar and painful. Mayhap she already had a taste of Ishgardian hospitality. He will not gainsay her wariness.
Nevertheless, he shall gladly listen to what she has to say, and provide any assistance he can.
“Well met, traveler. Permit me to welcome you to Camp Dragonhead.” A warm reception may assuage her concerns, or so he hopes. "Pray rest awhile by our hearth. The blizzards have been exceptionally harsh of late.”
She should be freezing to the bone, if her attire is any indication. Her cropped, tight-fitting top leaves her arms and tantalizingly toned stomach exposed, nor does the thin fabric of her loose trousers offer adequate protection from the elements, yet she shows no signs of physical discomfort.
To endure in the face of adversity, weathering the forces of nature itself... he had suspected it from the first, but this impressive display of resilience confirms it: she is an adventurer. Though slight in stature, her supple, wiry build bespeaks many a year of vigorous training, and the folk of the Azim Steppe are rumored to be warriors without peer. How glorious she must be to watch in action…
His guest blinks. Once, twice; until, in a series of hurried motions, she produces a folder from her satchel. The waxen rose on its seal catches his notice immediately.
And then, miracle of miracles, she speaks. “I come at the recommendation of Francel de Haillenarte, to seek help from Haurchefant of House Fortemps. My companions and I are in search of the Enterprise, an airship last seen in Coerthas before the Calamity, to slay Garuda, primal deity of the Ixal.”
Her breathless declaration delivered, she inhales long and deep, the hard set of her jaw relaxing somewhat. A stretch of stunned silence follows, hardly enough for him to process exactly what it was she said. Perhaps he was too entranced by the shape of his name on her lips to pay due heed, but did she mention a primal? If she did not have his full interest before, she certainly does now.
To better illustrate the urgency of her mission, or out of frustration at his lack of response, she all but thrusts the letter at his face. “This is for you.” There is a quiver to her voice, its softness a poignant offset to her brusque gesture.
The unease apparent in her nervous bearing fills him with keenest sorrow. By good fortune, she is among friends now. He will do his utmost to aid her in her noble quest.
He reaches for the proffered letter, seized by a powerful compulsion to touch her, twine their fingers together, run his thumb over the strip of scales along her knuckles. But such an act would be unseemly, so he has to settle for a fleeting brush. Her hand is shaking, small, delicate; he wishes to hold longer onto it, to hold her, warm her up in ways no flame can, for the rest of the eve and well unto the morn—
Haurchefant clears his throat, feeling heat rush to the back of his neck. Excitement is getting the best of him again. “That is quite the undertaking you are describing. But I fear I am at a disadvantage.” She snaps to attention, intent and alert, her mesmerizing moon-bright gaze fixed on him. “May I have your name?”
A more mundane question he could not have asked, yet she starts nonetheless, a flash of confusion dancing across her lovely features. She composes herself just as fast, back to the hardened countenance of the seasoned adventurer. Reluctant, almost shy, she mutters, “Enkhtuya.”
He cannot help a delighted grin. “Enkhtuya,” he repeats, nodding. “A beautiful name.” Like a forgotten melody of eld, a marvelous secret whispered under a starlit sky. It suits her.
Evidently, Enkhtuya does not agree. Although she maintains her stiff posture, her sinuous black tail has not stopped wagging to and fro in a dizzying tempo. Ah, ‘tis to be expected; she is here on pressing business and doubtless weary from her journey. He, too, ought to return to the task at hand. Francel’s letter might even enlighten him on some of her exploits.
The message is penned in hasty, erratic strokes, a striking contrast to his friend’s usual neat handwriting. His eyebrows draw together in a frown, deepening with every line he reads.
His fingers crease the parchment, his grip so fierce it threatens to tear it. “Preposterous! Francel is as devout as any, a true son of Ishgard!” If allowed to spread, this slander will have disastrous consequences for House Haillenarte, as well as their associates and allies. “Any inquisitor worth their salt will see these accusations for the vile lies they are.”
Not that he will sit idly by awaiting their judgement. He must collect information, conduct his own investigation, but he will get to the bottom of this. Justice will be served, one way or another.
First things first, however. He turns to Enkhtuya, who has not moved an ilm, snowmelt dripping from the ends of her hair onto the toes of her leather shoes. A newcomer to Coerthas, she is not like to know she has risked more than most in warning Francel of this plot. She is an adventurer, one of Auri descent at that. In other words, an undesirable. An outsider in every respect.
“Do forgive me my outburst. Francel is a dear friend, and loyal to his homeland.” He shakes his head, the tightness around his mouth loosening a little. “On the topic of the Enterprise, I fear eyewitnesses will be difficult to find, should there be any.” Ishgard sent no troops to Carteneau; Haurchefant has wondered if they had not the men to spare or they deemed it a petty conflict beneath their notice.
Disbelief cracks her stoic facade, pure and unfiltered. Haurchefant thinks it adorable. “You will help us?”
How many have turned her away, deaf to reason, blind to the ramifications a primal summoning will have, to the destruction it will wreak? All out of shortsighted prejudice. He would see this folly put to rights.
“You will have your airship ere long, Halone be my witness.”
No matter how solemn his oath, how earnest his desire to assist her, his deeds shall determine whether his word is any better than empty prattle. His own fort would be a good place to start his questioning; traders from the city arrive weekly with plenty of intriguing tales to share. Should this first step yield no results, he will call upon the rest of the High Houses and their officers in the nearby settlements. The influence of the crimson unicorn is not to be underestimated.
"I can hunt.” Enkhtuya speaks up after a spell of quiet deliberation. "Track missing persons, beasts or objects. Scout the area for bandits and other outlaws and dispose of them, if you want me to."
Haurchefant listens with rapt fascination as she lists her services. He would very much like to see her take on a band of miscreants, yes. There is little doubt in his mind she would make quick work of them, of any enemy who crossed her path, this woman who aspires to fell the Lady of the Vortex. She appears to be carrying no weapons, which further piques his curiosity. Daggers kept hidden in her person is a likely guess. Or is she a master of the arcane arts, summoning forth an aetheric familiar to join her in combat? A rather persistent hunch tells him he will have his answers soon enough.
“Please, my friend. Your success will be my reward.” He follows the strong line of her shoulders, the defined swell of muscle along her arms. “Though I confess, I would welcome an opportunity to admire your martial talents.”
Her lips move, but no sound passes through; were the circumstances appropriate, he’d quip his numerous charms have rendered her speechless. Much as it saddens him, her bewilderment is no surprise, a sobering reminder of man’s avarice. A favor demands a favor in return. Hearts of stone devoid of compassion, seeking only to profit from the plight of the less fortunate.
“All right,” she concedes in a tiny, defeated voice. What a strange creature has chance led to his doorstep.
“Might you reconsider my suggestion for a breath of respite by the fire?" He will wrap her in a blanket by force if she refuses. "I will have rooms prepared for you in the meantime."
Again, she balks. "Rooms? Here?"
"Hmm, yes, I thought not to ask. You have accommodations elsewhere?"
"I—no, we don't."
“I would change that, if you will allow. I invite you and your companions to stay here as guests of House Fortemps, for as long as you require.”
In the end, the decision is hers to make, and she will have his support regardless. Yet his heart clenches in protest. He wants her to accept. In a bout of petulance, counter to all good sense, he wants her near. They’ve been acquainted for less than a bell, he knows naught of her save her name, but when has that deterred him in the past?
Perhaps Cymbeline has the right of it. He does deserve the odd ear pulling once in a while.
“‘Twould be easier to apprise you of any developments on the Enterprise as well, were you to remain,” he adds. Some incentive to dispel her hesitance.
Enkhtuya looks at him. For the first time, she truly looks at him, the pall of apprehension lifted at last. Haurchefant, too, sees her: the weight of purpose bearing down on her, an unspoken plea at the tip of her tongue, and behind it all, a glimmer of hope. He wishes to nurture that spark, stoke it to an unquenchable blaze, that it may guide her in the days to come.
“You are right.” Her head is hanging low, a wilting flower. “Thank you,” she whispers. It sounds like an apology.
“We all must do our part, each and every one of us.” His mother’s creed, one he took for his own, determined to carve a place for himself in a world that would deny him. “Not least when the stakes are so high.” The people of Coerthas and the Shroud both, slain or fallen thrall to the primal’s will. Her very life, this most precious of gifts.
A beacon of light to banish the encroaching dark, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the promise of a brighter dawn. Not unlike a knight.
“I must speak with the others.” Enkhtuya is glancing about the room, from one corner to the next. So engrossed he was in his contemplation of her, he forgot they are not alone. “They should be here by now.”
“Of course, of course. I have kept you long enough.” He would be thrilled to meet her allies, but introductions will have to wait; there are arrangements to be made, and she seems eager to quit the place, her expression akin to a trapped rabbit’s. A hearty serving of stew and a good night’s sleep can do wonders for a dwindling spirit, he has found.
True to form, she wheels around, heading for the door at a brisk pace. He is resigned to watching her retreating figure, the sway of her bound hair, when suddenly she stops.
Her stare is a tangible thing, probing, searching in unconcealed puzzlement. For what, he cannot say, but he savors the attention without a shred of shame, standing a little taller, straightening his back just so. Preening, to call it by its proper name.
Vanity is a fatal flaw, and his comeuppance is swift. She walks away, mumbling something as she does—he cannot hear it over the din and the distance between them. Maybe he was not supposed to.
Silent, fleet-footed, she steals outside, like she was never there. An apparition conjured by a restless dreamer. Her image, the mystery of her presence, linger. Whence she came, what fate set her upon this path. Who she is. If she tastes as sweet as he imagines.
Lost in his reveries, Haurchefant smiles. To think he had almost surrendered to the idea of muddling through administrative drudgery till sundown.
Somewhere behind him, Yaelle sighs.