Free, free at last!
Yuletide is done! And so are finals! And there is freedom! And also ficbits, because I have been itching to do them for awhile. Final Fantasy XII. Pre-series. Spoilers for...uh, the Rozzarians totally workin' it?
The emperor’s son followed the young woman into the parlor. She had not said a word besides a soft 'good afternoon' as he and his escort had arrived. Yet she inclined her head again, to the man seated before them. A dark man, in strange clothing, who wore spectacles of a blacker hue then Larsa had ever seen. He looked up, saw Larsa (presumably), and rolled to his feet, clapping his hands together in a loud, pleased manner. Larsa glanced at his own escort is askance. Perhaps he had been mistaken-but the woman who stood beside him remained just as impassive as the one who took her place besides the man who claimed to be a Rozzarian prince. Larsa was, it seemed, on his own in this. Making the best of a circumstance that confused him, Larsa rested a hand on his chest, and bowed readily.
“I have come,” he said.
The man returned no such formality. “So you have!” he exclaimed, grinning a grin that had many, many white teeth in it. “You must let me say: when I sent my little birds about, never did I expect that they would draw to me such larger quarry!”
“I beg your pardon?”
The man tipped his spectacles down his nose, dark eyes rested on Larsa, sharp and knowing. He did not walk so much as he strutted across the parlor, coming to a halt so far away. “Tell me, Lord Larsa yes? …what manner of bird are you? A Solidor hawk, I wonder?”
This question the Emperor’s son understood all too well. “I am nothing of the like. In no eyrie have I ever lofted, and from no arm have I ever launched myself.”
“Yet you know something of hunting. Perhaps your brother has taken you. But perhaps…” the Rozzarian prince’s manner was very well outlandish, but there was nothing but shrewdness in the way that he watched. His eyes lifted from Larsa, to the woman standing at Larsa’s right, to Larsa again. Then he slid his glasses back up his nose, and his eyes vanished behind those black spectacles. “You are our little dove, then?”
“Neither, my lord Margrace,” said the emperor’s son. “I am but a humble servant of Archadia, who thinks naught but of the best course, and wishes to hear what you might say.”
The Rozzarian’s hand came down upon his shoulder so suddenly it took everything for Larsa not to jump at the sudden weight of it. What’s more Al-Cid Margrace delivered a hearty squeeze. “A good answer,” he crowed. “I have many things that I might say. I shall tell you but some. But first, you must tell me.” He knelt, some. Further surprising Larsa and, now level with his ear, murmured in a voice that held no actual semblance of a whisper. “This woman who has shown up on your arm, who is she? I should very much like to know, I think.”
Larsa blinked a few times, before realizing what he meant. “Oh! She is, ah,” he glanced as his escort, worriedly. She said nothing, merely folding her arms behind her back more stiffly than they had been before, regarding all parties with a sort of wry disinterest. “My nurse,” admitted Larsa, wincing as he said it. “It is not so simple for me to travel alone without remark. I thought it best to insure…”
Al-Cid laughed. “No excuses are necessary! Especially when you have brought something so handsome before me.” He turned attentions to the woman, extending a hand imploringly. “I am envious. Our little prince is quite lucky, to be nursed by a woman such as you. Please, might you tell me your name…”
The escort made a sound that was dangerously similar to the hot rush of air escaping from the vents of an airship, priming for a rise. She stared at the proffered hand in complete, dangerous flatness. “No.”
“If we might…” said Larsa, quickly.
Al-Cid sighed and stood. ‘Stood’ being only the vague approximation of what he did. It was far too spirited for that. “Yes, yes.” He waved his hand. “Business of course. We have plenty of that for an evening. Have a seat.” He smiled again, a glint of his eyes visible again over the rim of his spectacles. “I would be remiss not to offer you one.”
“Thank you,” said Larsa, and hoped his relief was not so visible.
“I am sorry,” he said to his companion. It was the first word spoken, as they stepped out together into the street, making for the port the next block over, where they would catch their transport. “I had not expected him to ask. It was the first thing that came to mind…”
“It is of no matter,” assured the woman, with a slightly sour glance at her hand. The Rozzarian had managed to kiss it, before they had departed. “I had insisted on accompanying you, Lord Larsa.”
“Under a most effective cover,” said Larsa, admiringly. She was nigh unrecognizable for what she truly was, merely an older woman of stately bearings, in a street of many. “Apologies for not making better of it. How do you think it went?”
His companion pressed her lips together in consideration, “The son of House Margrace is ridiculous, but he may offer us a very interesting insight in the doings of Rozzaria in the near future. My Lord has proven himself someone of interest to him, and therefore he shall not be so swift to vanish from our sights. You’ve done well, and I am glad to have borne witness to it. Whether I be named your nurse or not,” she added, not without some fondness.
Larsa flushed. They stopped together, the port was ahead. Their driver was waiting for them, looking very anxious. “Your Honor.”
“His Excellency will be pleased.”
“Your Honor, thank you.”
The emperor’s son followed the young woman into the parlor. She had not said a word besides a soft 'good afternoon' as he and his escort had arrived. Yet she inclined her head again, to the man seated before them. A dark man, in strange clothing, who wore spectacles of a blacker hue then Larsa had ever seen. He looked up, saw Larsa (presumably), and rolled to his feet, clapping his hands together in a loud, pleased manner. Larsa glanced at his own escort is askance. Perhaps he had been mistaken-but the woman who stood beside him remained just as impassive as the one who took her place besides the man who claimed to be a Rozzarian prince. Larsa was, it seemed, on his own in this. Making the best of a circumstance that confused him, Larsa rested a hand on his chest, and bowed readily.
“I have come,” he said.
The man returned no such formality. “So you have!” he exclaimed, grinning a grin that had many, many white teeth in it. “You must let me say: when I sent my little birds about, never did I expect that they would draw to me such larger quarry!”
“I beg your pardon?”
The man tipped his spectacles down his nose, dark eyes rested on Larsa, sharp and knowing. He did not walk so much as he strutted across the parlor, coming to a halt so far away. “Tell me, Lord Larsa yes? …what manner of bird are you? A Solidor hawk, I wonder?”
This question the Emperor’s son understood all too well. “I am nothing of the like. In no eyrie have I ever lofted, and from no arm have I ever launched myself.”
“Yet you know something of hunting. Perhaps your brother has taken you. But perhaps…” the Rozzarian prince’s manner was very well outlandish, but there was nothing but shrewdness in the way that he watched. His eyes lifted from Larsa, to the woman standing at Larsa’s right, to Larsa again. Then he slid his glasses back up his nose, and his eyes vanished behind those black spectacles. “You are our little dove, then?”
“Neither, my lord Margrace,” said the emperor’s son. “I am but a humble servant of Archadia, who thinks naught but of the best course, and wishes to hear what you might say.”
The Rozzarian’s hand came down upon his shoulder so suddenly it took everything for Larsa not to jump at the sudden weight of it. What’s more Al-Cid Margrace delivered a hearty squeeze. “A good answer,” he crowed. “I have many things that I might say. I shall tell you but some. But first, you must tell me.” He knelt, some. Further surprising Larsa and, now level with his ear, murmured in a voice that held no actual semblance of a whisper. “This woman who has shown up on your arm, who is she? I should very much like to know, I think.”
Larsa blinked a few times, before realizing what he meant. “Oh! She is, ah,” he glanced as his escort, worriedly. She said nothing, merely folding her arms behind her back more stiffly than they had been before, regarding all parties with a sort of wry disinterest. “My nurse,” admitted Larsa, wincing as he said it. “It is not so simple for me to travel alone without remark. I thought it best to insure…”
Al-Cid laughed. “No excuses are necessary! Especially when you have brought something so handsome before me.” He turned attentions to the woman, extending a hand imploringly. “I am envious. Our little prince is quite lucky, to be nursed by a woman such as you. Please, might you tell me your name…”
The escort made a sound that was dangerously similar to the hot rush of air escaping from the vents of an airship, priming for a rise. She stared at the proffered hand in complete, dangerous flatness. “No.”
“If we might…” said Larsa, quickly.
Al-Cid sighed and stood. ‘Stood’ being only the vague approximation of what he did. It was far too spirited for that. “Yes, yes.” He waved his hand. “Business of course. We have plenty of that for an evening. Have a seat.” He smiled again, a glint of his eyes visible again over the rim of his spectacles. “I would be remiss not to offer you one.”
“Thank you,” said Larsa, and hoped his relief was not so visible.
“I am sorry,” he said to his companion. It was the first word spoken, as they stepped out together into the street, making for the port the next block over, where they would catch their transport. “I had not expected him to ask. It was the first thing that came to mind…”
“It is of no matter,” assured the woman, with a slightly sour glance at her hand. The Rozzarian had managed to kiss it, before they had departed. “I had insisted on accompanying you, Lord Larsa.”
“Under a most effective cover,” said Larsa, admiringly. She was nigh unrecognizable for what she truly was, merely an older woman of stately bearings, in a street of many. “Apologies for not making better of it. How do you think it went?”
His companion pressed her lips together in consideration, “The son of House Margrace is ridiculous, but he may offer us a very interesting insight in the doings of Rozzaria in the near future. My Lord has proven himself someone of interest to him, and therefore he shall not be so swift to vanish from our sights. You’ve done well, and I am glad to have borne witness to it. Whether I be named your nurse or not,” she added, not without some fondness.
Larsa flushed. They stopped together, the port was ahead. Their driver was waiting for them, looking very anxious. “Your Honor.”
“His Excellency will be pleased.”
“Your Honor, thank you.”