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Threat Display
Fandom: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones; Final Fantasy VI
Characters: L'Arachel, Rennac, Dozla; Kefka
Word count: ~1600
Warnings: None
Notes: For![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
intoabar: L'Arachel goes into a bar and meets Kefka.
...When I picked L'Arachel to send in, it was with the tacit assumption that the randomly-selected other character she'd meet would not somehow be weirder than she is. I'll be honest, it's hard for me to know what to do with Kefka outside of the context of "tormenting Celes or Terra specifically." But here's an attempt!
The Princess L'Arachel did not frequent such establishments as a matter of policy, and that policy remained in effect even when traveling merely as L'Arachel, without the appurtenant ceremony. Nonetheless: it rained. Nonetheless: roads washed out, and poor dear Dozla would put himself to such tremendous exertions if he were not stopped, felling poor dear trees to lay across the way, that his lady's noble steed might not founder. L'Arachel said, "Peace, gentlemen" - Rennac was also there - "we passed a house of refuge some league or two back. Let us retire thither until the weather improves."
Dozla was convinced of this plan readily enough. Rennac looked furious, and also very damp. "What have I been saying?" he snapped. "What have I been saying all along?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said L'Arachel, bringing her horse about. "Probably complaints about the humidity. Shall we?"
The public house had a stable. The stablemaster seemed to be unacquainted with horses. That was all right; L'Arachel was accustomed to leaving such specific instructions on the care of her steed that the veriest novice could follow them.
"What the hell kind of feather is this," said Rennac, kicking at a long lemon-colored pinion half-buried in the straw.
Dozla said, "I suppose they keep enormous chickens. Imagine the omelets!"
"Imagine the omelets," said L'Arachel, with conviction. Less dreamily: "Rennac, give me your coat."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Lend it, then. Such businesses as these do not turn away even the commonest ruffians, and I wish to obscure my splendid appearance from them."
"That wouldn't be a bad idea, but..." Rennac cleared his throat. "This coat isn't less expensive than your dress."
"And," said L'Arachel, eyeing him critically, "you actually do have some muscle under there. Not as much as some people -"
"Kind of you to notice!" said Dozla.
"- but should a show of force be necessary," L'Arachel went on -
"No! Flatter me as much as you want, I'm not letting you borrow my clothes to start a barfight in."
"Then let me borrow it because I'm cold."
"It's too long for you," Rennac said, hugely put-upon, one shoulder already out of his sleeve. "If you let the hem drag in this mess I'm going to have a heart attack." And the other one.
"I can heal those."
"If it comes to it, let me die. Here. Careful. Fold up the extra material and tuck it behind the belt -"
And a few minutes later, L'Arachel and entourage walked into a bar.
It was not as spacious or as shiny as establishments of its kind in the white cities of Rausten, which, as both a princess and a holy woman, L'Arachel had of course never entered. No gently bred young lady could be familiar with the protocols of such an establishment, but - to be priggish on these points were as good as to tip her hand. If she approached the bar with a confident tread and asked a number of penetrating questions on the theme of white wine, where obtained, how aged, what price the bottle, et cetera, all that signified was her excellent powers of simulation.
Most diverting, was it not? To assume the appearance of a common waif in borrowed clothes, and stop for sustenance at a common roadside inn. Or bar. Or pub, or whatever this particular business was properly called. She did not pretend to understand the taxonomy of Places That Sold You Wine.
"Dozla," Rennac said in a low voice.
Dozla said, "Aye, lad." They were both looking in the same direction.
L'Arachel was in the process of tripping gaily from the bar to a likely-looking table, when she found herself tripping. Actually tripping. The ground came very close to her, before she was arrested by Dozla's firm hand on her elbow. "Thank you, Dozla," she said, regaining her customary vertical orientation, "and that never happened."
"Oh, it didn't?" said an unfamiliar voice at her back.
L'Arachel turned.
He was not a large man. He was garbed like a fool, in both the colloquial and the professional sense. He lounged in his chair as if he believed himself to be a man of some importance, and some threat. L'Arachel chose not to endorse this belief herself, but her retainers, perhaps more cautious people by nature, stood close by her at either hand.
"Nothing happened," she told the stranger, frostily. "You witnessed nothing."
"Who put this scuff on my boot, then?" The man extended one silk-clad leg, terminating in one ridiculous curly-toed boot. He slouched down in his chair so that he could rest his ankle on the back of the chair opposite, presenting his foot at a height conducive to L'Arachel's inspection.
She declined to inspect it. "I see," she said, meeting his eyes. "So you tripped me on purpose. I see furthermore that you are some manner of fancy pervert. I await your apology."
The man laughed. He had a strange laugh and, L'Arachel noted, he had lipstick on his teeth. And - her eyes narrowed - there was something else about his teeth. He stood up - actually clambered on top of the chair he'd been using as a footrest so he could leer unwholesomely down at her. (Dozla tried to shoulder her aside. Rennac glanced toward the bartender, saw no help coming from that direction, scowled, made subtle movements that would drop a concealed knife into his hand.) "You must think you're pretty smart, little girl. What I am isn't the question. What you are -" He shifted his weight forward, so the chair overbalanced. As it fell he stepped neatly off of it to stand eye to eye with L'Arachel. "I can smell it on you."
L'Arachel tossed her head. "What you are smelling is, no doubt, my delicately floral Springtime in Frelia hair wash. It is exquisite. Now, you'll remove yourself from my presence before I disarrange your face paint by slapping you."
"The magic," he said. "The magic you have, where did you get it?"
"Divine birthright," she snapped. "Did you get yours at" - where did disreputable people get shabby things? - "the wharf? From a warehouse?"
The man, suddenly frowning, took an elaborate sidestep away from her and began talking to himself. "She's not one of the experimental ones, they all died. Too tall for the Branford girl, but she has the same hair -"
"We can hear you," said Dozla.
The stranger shot Dozla a glare of concentrated, acrid impatience - an expression most people would have had the sense to moderate, unless they were very accustomed to getting their own way, or perhaps under the age of nine. "Oh, go away," he said, in a voice with a good deal of that nine-year-old in it. "No one wants you here."
L'Arachel said, "I am a paying customer, and I want him here." She turned toward the bar. "Barkeep, this is my final statement of intent. If you do not intervene, I am about to start an altercation with this man." She turned to the stranger. Thought. Turned back to the bar. "I would also like to know why my wine is taking so long."
Only then did she notice the proprietor was no longer in evidence. Gone into the back, perhaps, for a vintage worthy of her. Else, he may have gone into hiding.
It was true there was magic boiling off of this jester, and magic of no wholesome kind. Nor did his erratic behavior suggest he was a responsible custodian of his gift. Perhaps L'Arachel ought to roll up her sleeves - granted they were Rennac's sleeves - and deal with him.
The stranger had resumed muttering to himself, pacing and making sharp gestures as if trying to persuade someone - as if making exhortations, from a lectern, to himself. Finally he stopped, making an impeccable heel-turn that surrounded him in a whirl of tassels. L'Arachel noted, with some unease, that she had often used this trick herself. The stranger said finally, conclusively, "I don't care what you are. It doesn't matter where you came from. A brat like you belongs in a crown."
L'Arachel drew herself up taller. "You make an astute observation, yes."
"It wasn't a compliment!" His face contorted, purpling under the sheet of white maquillage. The dark magic within him briefly became visible, his shadow peeling off the floor and beginning to writhe. "How dumb are you? You're being threatened! I'm threatening you! This place sucks eggs!" Spittle flew from his mouth. Dozla and Rennac were partially obscuring her view of further theatrics, but it appeared that - he had kicked a table over. With a gesture he reduced a chair to ashes. He stormed out of the building entirely, fountaining flames out of both hands. Steam, that had once been the rain, poured in through the open door.
L'Arachel took a breath, and then, as was customary, several more.
Her retainers spoke at once: "Highness, forgive us." "Is my coat all right?"
"All is well," she said.
That man had needed no tome, no magical focus, no incantation. The magic was in him, in a way it should not be in any living being. In a way she had seen only once.
"We can follow him," said Dozla. "City living hasn't destroyed my tracking skills yet."
Rennac snorted. "Yeah, I don't think he'll be easy to miss. You want him killed, Princess?"
"Let us make up for failing to protect you -"
L'Arachel held up a hand. "Peace, gentlemen. I believe we've lost his interest. And my priority now" - ah yes, and here was that bottle of wine, here was that very sorry-looking bartender skulking about - "is to restore myself before our grand adventure resumes. You may follow my example."
"You're sure?" said Rennac.
L'Arachel accepted a generous pour, sampled the wine, suppressed a very slight tremor in her lips. "The offer does you both credit, and I know you for capable fighters. But when it comes to killing that creature - I doubt you could."
Characters: L'Arachel, Rennac, Dozla; Kefka
Word count: ~1600
Warnings: None
Notes: For
intoabar: L'Arachel goes into a bar and meets Kefka....When I picked L'Arachel to send in, it was with the tacit assumption that the randomly-selected other character she'd meet would not somehow be weirder than she is. I'll be honest, it's hard for me to know what to do with Kefka outside of the context of "tormenting Celes or Terra specifically." But here's an attempt!
The Princess L'Arachel did not frequent such establishments as a matter of policy, and that policy remained in effect even when traveling merely as L'Arachel, without the appurtenant ceremony. Nonetheless: it rained. Nonetheless: roads washed out, and poor dear Dozla would put himself to such tremendous exertions if he were not stopped, felling poor dear trees to lay across the way, that his lady's noble steed might not founder. L'Arachel said, "Peace, gentlemen" - Rennac was also there - "we passed a house of refuge some league or two back. Let us retire thither until the weather improves."
Dozla was convinced of this plan readily enough. Rennac looked furious, and also very damp. "What have I been saying?" he snapped. "What have I been saying all along?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said L'Arachel, bringing her horse about. "Probably complaints about the humidity. Shall we?"
The public house had a stable. The stablemaster seemed to be unacquainted with horses. That was all right; L'Arachel was accustomed to leaving such specific instructions on the care of her steed that the veriest novice could follow them.
"What the hell kind of feather is this," said Rennac, kicking at a long lemon-colored pinion half-buried in the straw.
Dozla said, "I suppose they keep enormous chickens. Imagine the omelets!"
"Imagine the omelets," said L'Arachel, with conviction. Less dreamily: "Rennac, give me your coat."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Lend it, then. Such businesses as these do not turn away even the commonest ruffians, and I wish to obscure my splendid appearance from them."
"That wouldn't be a bad idea, but..." Rennac cleared his throat. "This coat isn't less expensive than your dress."
"And," said L'Arachel, eyeing him critically, "you actually do have some muscle under there. Not as much as some people -"
"Kind of you to notice!" said Dozla.
"- but should a show of force be necessary," L'Arachel went on -
"No! Flatter me as much as you want, I'm not letting you borrow my clothes to start a barfight in."
"Then let me borrow it because I'm cold."
"It's too long for you," Rennac said, hugely put-upon, one shoulder already out of his sleeve. "If you let the hem drag in this mess I'm going to have a heart attack." And the other one.
"I can heal those."
"If it comes to it, let me die. Here. Careful. Fold up the extra material and tuck it behind the belt -"
And a few minutes later, L'Arachel and entourage walked into a bar.
It was not as spacious or as shiny as establishments of its kind in the white cities of Rausten, which, as both a princess and a holy woman, L'Arachel had of course never entered. No gently bred young lady could be familiar with the protocols of such an establishment, but - to be priggish on these points were as good as to tip her hand. If she approached the bar with a confident tread and asked a number of penetrating questions on the theme of white wine, where obtained, how aged, what price the bottle, et cetera, all that signified was her excellent powers of simulation.
Most diverting, was it not? To assume the appearance of a common waif in borrowed clothes, and stop for sustenance at a common roadside inn. Or bar. Or pub, or whatever this particular business was properly called. She did not pretend to understand the taxonomy of Places That Sold You Wine.
"Dozla," Rennac said in a low voice.
Dozla said, "Aye, lad." They were both looking in the same direction.
L'Arachel was in the process of tripping gaily from the bar to a likely-looking table, when she found herself tripping. Actually tripping. The ground came very close to her, before she was arrested by Dozla's firm hand on her elbow. "Thank you, Dozla," she said, regaining her customary vertical orientation, "and that never happened."
"Oh, it didn't?" said an unfamiliar voice at her back.
L'Arachel turned.
He was not a large man. He was garbed like a fool, in both the colloquial and the professional sense. He lounged in his chair as if he believed himself to be a man of some importance, and some threat. L'Arachel chose not to endorse this belief herself, but her retainers, perhaps more cautious people by nature, stood close by her at either hand.
"Nothing happened," she told the stranger, frostily. "You witnessed nothing."
"Who put this scuff on my boot, then?" The man extended one silk-clad leg, terminating in one ridiculous curly-toed boot. He slouched down in his chair so that he could rest his ankle on the back of the chair opposite, presenting his foot at a height conducive to L'Arachel's inspection.
She declined to inspect it. "I see," she said, meeting his eyes. "So you tripped me on purpose. I see furthermore that you are some manner of fancy pervert. I await your apology."
The man laughed. He had a strange laugh and, L'Arachel noted, he had lipstick on his teeth. And - her eyes narrowed - there was something else about his teeth. He stood up - actually clambered on top of the chair he'd been using as a footrest so he could leer unwholesomely down at her. (Dozla tried to shoulder her aside. Rennac glanced toward the bartender, saw no help coming from that direction, scowled, made subtle movements that would drop a concealed knife into his hand.) "You must think you're pretty smart, little girl. What I am isn't the question. What you are -" He shifted his weight forward, so the chair overbalanced. As it fell he stepped neatly off of it to stand eye to eye with L'Arachel. "I can smell it on you."
L'Arachel tossed her head. "What you are smelling is, no doubt, my delicately floral Springtime in Frelia hair wash. It is exquisite. Now, you'll remove yourself from my presence before I disarrange your face paint by slapping you."
"The magic," he said. "The magic you have, where did you get it?"
"Divine birthright," she snapped. "Did you get yours at" - where did disreputable people get shabby things? - "the wharf? From a warehouse?"
The man, suddenly frowning, took an elaborate sidestep away from her and began talking to himself. "She's not one of the experimental ones, they all died. Too tall for the Branford girl, but she has the same hair -"
"We can hear you," said Dozla.
The stranger shot Dozla a glare of concentrated, acrid impatience - an expression most people would have had the sense to moderate, unless they were very accustomed to getting their own way, or perhaps under the age of nine. "Oh, go away," he said, in a voice with a good deal of that nine-year-old in it. "No one wants you here."
L'Arachel said, "I am a paying customer, and I want him here." She turned toward the bar. "Barkeep, this is my final statement of intent. If you do not intervene, I am about to start an altercation with this man." She turned to the stranger. Thought. Turned back to the bar. "I would also like to know why my wine is taking so long."
Only then did she notice the proprietor was no longer in evidence. Gone into the back, perhaps, for a vintage worthy of her. Else, he may have gone into hiding.
It was true there was magic boiling off of this jester, and magic of no wholesome kind. Nor did his erratic behavior suggest he was a responsible custodian of his gift. Perhaps L'Arachel ought to roll up her sleeves - granted they were Rennac's sleeves - and deal with him.
The stranger had resumed muttering to himself, pacing and making sharp gestures as if trying to persuade someone - as if making exhortations, from a lectern, to himself. Finally he stopped, making an impeccable heel-turn that surrounded him in a whirl of tassels. L'Arachel noted, with some unease, that she had often used this trick herself. The stranger said finally, conclusively, "I don't care what you are. It doesn't matter where you came from. A brat like you belongs in a crown."
L'Arachel drew herself up taller. "You make an astute observation, yes."
"It wasn't a compliment!" His face contorted, purpling under the sheet of white maquillage. The dark magic within him briefly became visible, his shadow peeling off the floor and beginning to writhe. "How dumb are you? You're being threatened! I'm threatening you! This place sucks eggs!" Spittle flew from his mouth. Dozla and Rennac were partially obscuring her view of further theatrics, but it appeared that - he had kicked a table over. With a gesture he reduced a chair to ashes. He stormed out of the building entirely, fountaining flames out of both hands. Steam, that had once been the rain, poured in through the open door.
L'Arachel took a breath, and then, as was customary, several more.
Her retainers spoke at once: "Highness, forgive us." "Is my coat all right?"
"All is well," she said.
That man had needed no tome, no magical focus, no incantation. The magic was in him, in a way it should not be in any living being. In a way she had seen only once.
"We can follow him," said Dozla. "City living hasn't destroyed my tracking skills yet."
Rennac snorted. "Yeah, I don't think he'll be easy to miss. You want him killed, Princess?"
"Let us make up for failing to protect you -"
L'Arachel held up a hand. "Peace, gentlemen. I believe we've lost his interest. And my priority now" - ah yes, and here was that bottle of wine, here was that very sorry-looking bartender skulking about - "is to restore myself before our grand adventure resumes. You may follow my example."
"You're sure?" said Rennac.
L'Arachel accepted a generous pour, sampled the wine, suppressed a very slight tremor in her lips. "The offer does you both credit, and I know you for capable fighters. But when it comes to killing that creature - I doubt you could."
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