revolutionne | ❧ open post

[ If looks could kill, Emmanellain would surely drop dead where he stands — Dibionne's withering glare stays fixed upon him while Aymeric bows. She can do no more than that, forced to accept her defeat, if only for the night. Even so, she musters a final smile for Aymeric alone, gracious.

"I have ever believed that patience is indeed a desirable virtue."

Here, Emmanellain takes the liberty to interject, eager to prove himself Ser Aymeric's timely savior: ]

Quite right, so it is! Still, let's keep no one waiting a single moment longer, shall we?

[ He dips into another bow, this one hurried, and makes to lead Aymeric back to the festivities. Not a second later, Dibionne slides her hand into the crook of the lord commander's arm.

The message is clear: she expects her courteous companion to escort her to the banquet hall, not to leave her standing beside a vase. There he might excuse himself to go about his business. ]

[ Freedom is within grasp, merely an ilm away--only to be momentarily stalled when Aymeric feels her hand on his arm.

Well...he cannot do without offering this final courtesy. (No, that is a lie, he absolutely could but all parties involved know that he will not.) Despite how Dibionne seems to be getting in the final word of sorts, Aymeric offers a congenial smile, trading only a short glance towards Emmanellain.

This I can do.

After all he has entertained thus far, this is nothing.

So he follows Emmannellain and Honoroit into the banquet hall, Dibionne on his arm as she makes one last bemoaning plea disguised in "good humor", of which Aymeric laughs off pretending as if he can only take it as such.

As soon as it is acceptable to do so, Aymeric disentangles himself from Dibionne's hand and gives one final bow. It is a practice in control in decorum that he keeps his walk calm as follows Emmanellain yet further away, even though the urge to just run is overwhelming. Fury be praised for this young man, he would honestly follow Emmanellain right off the balcony at this point.

Once they are enough out of earshot...Aymeric sighs. ]

...I am in your debt. Truly.

[ Naturally, Aymeric's return doesn't go unnoticed: glances and whispers follow on its heels, most making him their subject, though some remarks ponder Lady Dibionne's intentions. The crowd itself becomes a boon, however, shielding the lord commander from view as he takes his leave of Dibionne at last and Emmanellain guides him through the room, away towards an alcove to afford him a moment's respite from his popularity. Breathing a sigh of relief himself, the young lord accepts two glasses of wine from a passing manor servant, and holds one out to Aymeric (Honoroit's expression turns mildly concerned).

Their tracks seem well covered; every excuse sounded perfectly convincing. Who is to say, after all, that the Count de Durendaire wouldn't have approached Ser Aymeric, had Lady Dibionne not accosted him? That there aren't scores of pining women hopeful for a few moments of the lord commander's time?

And yet, Emmanellain must admit, it's surprising to hear the man's sheer gratitude, all of it sincerely directed at him. He's rarely done anything to earn that, he knows. ]

Think nothing of it, Ser Aymeric! I couldn't very well abandon you, could I, least of all now that we know of Lady Dibionne's three cats! But I can't imagine that she'll find another easy opening to corner you — you've barely any time to yourself, they say, let alone to entertain anyone.

[ At that, Emmanellain raises his glass, as if to toast Aymeric. ]

To your relentlessly busy days?

[ Aymeric has rarely given credit or credence to whispers and rumors--such a thing would have held him back long ago. Necessary to be aware of, yes, but never to be behold to. Even so, he still finds himself silently praying to the Fury that any interested parties do not take the sight as for anything other than what it is--a simple escort of a noble lady back to the party. (And even more so, anyone who is brave enough to try and garner Dibionne's interest not be dissuaded from doing so. He can dreams...)

To some extent, despite his growing popularity over the years, Aymeric still finds himself unaccustomed and ill-prepared in dealing with such overt interest. Most Ishgardian customs allow for multiple avenues to politely decline, yet Lady Dibionne's persistence is...admirable. In a way.

Aymeric readily accepts the glass despite the number he has all ready imbibed, feeling that the conversations he has been entertaining were painfully sobering. Instead he lets Emmanellain's good nature work as a balm and returns with a smile of his own, mirror the toast. ]

May they keep me appropriately preoccupied in the weeks to come.

[ He absolutely will drink to that. ]

I do hope my plight has not been too much of a distraction to your own affairs.

[ After an enthusiastic sip of his wine to complete the toast, Emmanellain lowers his glass, quick to shake his head and wave off Aymeric's contrite politeness. As Camp Dragonhead's new garrison commander, and relied upon now to attend functions both within Ishgard and on distant shores, his own days have in fact become busier than they once were, but these galas are one thing on which he can pride himself. He's in his element, mingling with the guests, all ears for their stories — he can juggle the lot alongside Ser Aymeric's plight!

His smile widens, meant to reassure. ]

A distraction? Not at all! I was making my rounds, as one does — nothing terribly pressing. And Honoroit must be just as glad as I am that you confided in us!

[ Honoroit speaks up then, with a nod, while Emmanellain lifts his glass to his lips a second time. "My lord's evening was unusually uneventful, in some respects."

Something in the boy's tone suggests that in others, the evening has unfolded as expected. It leads Emmanellain to cock his head, quizzical. ]

...Well, now that you mention it, I daresay an uneventful evening makes me the envy of men like Ser Aymeric. [ He looks back up at the lord commander. ] Do they ever let you rest?

[ Aymeric raises his brows and makes a vague attempt to hide some of his amusement at Honoroit's commentary. Though he is fairly confident that the sort Emmanellain would prefer to busy himself with is likely out of Aymeric's own realm of enjoyment. How much has Honoroit born witness to? The boy can likely weave quite the tale...

He chuckles lightly with a shake of his head. ]

If it be your wish, I would gladly give you the honor of entertaining, Lord Emmanellain.

[ Of which he would surely excel at. ]

'Twould be remiss of me to say that I do not find enjoyment in socializing, taxing though it can be in the presence of certain companies. A part of me does yet long for the nights of wine and dancing rather than...well, wine and politics.

[ Wine is really just a standard in Ishgard interactions. But making sure he has had a proper introduction to all the right people has become quite time-consuming in recent years, and especially of late. So much effort is spent putting on appearances that sometimes it is easy to forget to simply enjoy a party. ]

That is to be expected, I'm afraid.

[ As remorseful as his words may seem, he keeps a light tone as he takes another sip from his glass. ]

I imagine you yourself have been approached a few times this eve about the comings and goings in Camp Dragonhead?

[ All the wine in Ishgard's every cellar couldn't hope to make a remedy for the dryness of long bells of politics, Emmanellain thinks, half in earnest. Precisely that is on the tip of his tongue, a show of sympathy to offer, but he swallows it with another mouthful of his drink as Aymeric redirects the conversation slightly. There's no helping it: the ensuing pause must speak volumes.

Camp Dragonhead's comings and goings are his responsibility, and he delivers his reports and the like, but he isn't Haurchefant. He has a steep uphill climb ahead, still, before he can honestly call himself worthy of his brother's post. He knows that. He can guess at the sorts of comparisons drawn between them.

In the eyes of the men and women loyal to their valorous late commander, he can't be an ideal replacement. ]

I... [ Suddenly somewhat subdued, Emmanellain clears his throat, tapping his thumb against the side of his glass. ] A few times, yes — enough to keep a man from the dance floor, if not the refreshments. My brothers ever faced the brunt of it, I suppose, much like you do.

[ His gaze drifts beyond the alcove, across the room, seeking at least Artoirel's austere figure in the crowd. ]

[ There is really no way around the comparison--intended or otherwise. A successor will always be compared to their predecessor, but the circumstances leading to Emmanellain assuming his post are not the ones he would likely have chosen.

Still, Aymeric is at least someone who does not expect Emmanellain to be anyone other than himself. He has grown much as a person and in responsibility over a short amount of time. ]

Truly?

[ A heavier subject than Aymeric intended, it seems, and he raises a brow at the younger man. ]

I had thought that there was naught to keep you from either.

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