faderift | Ceci n'est pas un Chevalier

WHO: Lucien Amour Lyon du Lyon (The Lionheart) and YOU!
WHAT: The arrival of a famed Chevalier (and catch-all)
WHEN: mid to late Drakonis
WHERE: Kirkwall & The Gallows etc
NOTES: Feel free to make up stories you've heard about this legendary knight, he casts a looooong shadow.

i. reporting for duty [closed to div heads]

ia. flint
[ Diligence is due when Lucien returns with Marcoulf and Ellis, and because diligence is a virtue of chivalry, its due must be paid. ]

Commander James Flint? [ His announcement is preceded by a rapping of knuckles on the door jamb and he stands in the doorway until admitted. ]

ib. yseult
[ It's well after Lucien has had the chance to bathe and dress himself as a member of society when he pays a visit to the Scoutmaster in her office. He knocks, waits to be admitted, and kisses the back of her hand at the crux of his courtly bow. ]

Chevalier du Lyon, à votre service.

ic. byerly
[ Once again, the polite knock-knock and waiting at the door to be admitted, very proper and polite and very much unlike a Chevalier, all-told. ]

Ambassador Rutyer, I presume?

id. thranduil and gwen
[ Lucien knocks on the door jamb to the Research Division Head office, folding his hands behind his back. ]

Provost Baudin?

ii. some things to clear up [closed to salvio]

[ The Seneschal's office is the last stop on Lucien's unofficial tour of the Gallows, but perhaps one of the most important, overall. Yes, it's important to introduce himself to the leadership here, but getting himself declared alive again is also rather important. ]

Seneschal Salvio Pizzicagnolo? I wonder if I might beg your assistance in an administrative matter.

iii. il n'y a pas de feu

[ Wildcard, come one, come all! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lucien chuckles, a rich and warm sound that is unreasonably charming and charmed.

"I am," He says, and after the briefest brush of his hand against hers when the basket is returned, he offers a courtly bow. "Chevalier du Lyon, à votre service."

Ashey's body makes a good effort at going hot and cold all at once. At the very least feeling the blood rushing from her face should help with not blushing too terribly.

"Cheva- Oh! But I thought you were-?!" Well, he was clearly not either dead or in a Teveinter dungeon. But he did just have the laundress use him as a wall to catch herself and a sheet, oh no. "Oh dear." She returns his bow with a elegant curtsy for someone still holding a basket. "I'm very glad to see you're hale and hearty, sir. There were quite a lot of stories about. Ah. Well."

Is it inappropriate to talk about a man's POW status, no one ever covered this in etiquette classes!

"Yes, I am happy to say that reports of my death were rather premature."

He gestures that they should begin walking back to wherever Ashey started before the wind brought her to him. "I had the good fortune to be rescued by Riftwatch agents, it seemed only right to offer my services."

"You did seem rather solid for someone who's rumored to be a ghost," she says, gathering her scattered composure the best she can. And now that she's been reminded that she does still have duties to fulfill, she heads back down the path toward her washing line.

She still glances up at him as they go. He's a grand figure, despite the gauntness of his face and how poorly his clothes hang on his frame (she makes a note to adjust those), but his words make her frown slightly, "That's very noble and I'm sure Riftwatch can use the assistance of someone with your experience, but what of your family?"

And then it occurs to her that she is still speaking to a legendary Chevalier and she adds belatedly, "Sir."

"My family?" He echoes, almost surprised that anyone would ask. "I've sent a missive informing them that I'm alive. With the current situation in Orlais the best way I can ensure that I see my family again is to work with Riftwatch to secure liberation for my people."

He folds his hands behind his back, strolling beside her without making her work to keep up with his long strides. In a different world, they're a gentleman and lady taking a walk through a garden.

She nods, considering what he says. In another life, in a different world, she might have been able to offer more cutting insights into the state of the war.

Instead she says, "I hope you hear from them soon. I worked for an Orlesian merchant during the early parts of the war. It was a very nerve wracking time, being so close to the front and not knowing which way things would turn."

Particularly what would happen to her if her nationality was found out.

"It is fortunate that you distanced yourself when you did," he says. "Things are not much improved, as you can imagine."

After a moment of thought, he looks down at her, pleasant and curious. "If I may, where do you call home, mademoiselle? I have no ear for accents, sadly, and I don't wish to offend by guessing."

Oh dear... That's the question that always sends the bottom dropping out from her stomach as she quickly reviews their conversation to see if there was a moment where she accidentally slipped back into the familiar cadences of Teven accented Trade. It never helps that she's never entierly sure.

Fortunately she's been faced with the question and others like it enough time that her step does not stutter and her mild expression doesn't change when she says, "Oh, I don't have anywhere I call home exactly. My father had quite the wanderlust and fancied himself a great traveler-" Not a total lie, which makes the telling of it much easier. "I developed a rather strange way of speaking as a result."

The fact that she's nudged her accent more towards a pronounced Rivani one is obviously proof of that.

He nods as if he knows what she means, but really it's in admiration of her father's situation.

"There is a certain romance to that lifestyle," he muses, a far off look as he remembers the travels of his youth. The double-edged sword that is nostalgia gilds the memory, while also cutting deep with the knowledge that it will never be as it was. "The simplicity of following your feet wherever they might take you. The freedom of knowing your home is on your back and cannot be taken away."

"For a grown man, perhaps so," she says, with a soft amusement that she had certainly not felt, "For a young girl? Well, I'm afraid I didn't take after my father in that respect."

Her terrifying sprint from Tevinter hadn't felt like freedom, not with the bone deep certainty of what she would lose if her husband caught her.

Of course he realizes his mistake too late, when he's already spoken from a position of entitlement. Of course the situation is different for a woman, moreso for a young girl. Lucien bows his head in precisely one, two, three seconds of shame.

"Forgive me, I spoke without thinking. Memories can blind with biases--no matter. The sentiment I was attempting to express, before, was simply that I hope wherever you call home, you're able to see again, and that the war has not taken too much of a toll."

He certainly hopes that his own home will not become a stranger to him, when all is done.

It's a moving gesture and she can't help pausing a moment, reaching out to rest a work roughed hand lightly on his sleeve for a brief moment.

"It's in the past," she says gently. For the both of them, for good and ill. She begins to walk again, looking up at the, for the moment, clear sky as they reach her line of laundry hung to dry. "And I have found that while I much prefer a more stable lifestyle than my father, in one respect I do agree with his philosophy. Home is where I am and what I make of it."

"How fortunate, then, that your home shall always be as lovely as you."

As soon as she has a hand free, he takes it in his own and bows low over it, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. He straightens and releases her to her duties, just as he must attend to his own.

"À bientôt, cherie."

"Oh!"

There are things she's lost resistance to and things she suspects she's never had any resistance toward to begin with. The compliment and the brief kiss manage to scatter her thoughts and bring a blush to her cheeks, but she still remembers to drop a neat little curtsy as he turns to go.

"Have a good evening, sir."

Ceci n'est pas un Chevalier

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