the thrusting limbs of deer or beasts
Feb. 18th, 2026 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: the thrusting limbs of deer or beasts
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: gen
Word Count: 1571
Notes: Written for the MyDearTerence collection. I chose and combined two prompts, "i found a nice place i want to take you' and 'here's a silly object i was given for something virtuous i did.' Much longer than usual. Blaming my Kay Boyle reading.
Vouivre's common French translation is as 'wyvern,' but I liked that... "The word “vouivre” is derived from the Latin vipera, or “viper”. Vouivres themselves are the spiritual descendants of Mélusine, stripped of her human features. They have been described as dragons, serpents, and fairies in the form of great reptiles; they are always the guardians of priceless treasures..." and "...among other places, “vouivre” has become a byword for an unpleasant, nasty woman." Somethingsomething patriarchy, imperialism, decay, self-possession -- and I hit things with hammers.
-
871
My Prince,
An ambivalent departure — you, to your father, and me, exile. Well. I felt the invisible bridle come down and the bit before dawn; I have decided I do blame the captain for my chafed mouth, and the report which will reach you before mine, I am sorry — I was emboldened. It appears that only great men can speak equally with those beneath them if they are of them, but he has no imagination. I understand in increments, which I detest beyond everything else, that he is what I may become with time — and there is some necessity.
That should distract you sufficiently.
A surprise to me, Vouivre was in our accompaniment. I have not seen her since her near fatal wounding by a pike men at the coast. She’s scarred over, tarry, and immovable with the steady gaze of the ill and undefeated, but obeys our captain with no quarrel. I felt kin to her, this mottled dragon who scurries in the underbrush with masters that near killed her with forward orders. I mulled all day as I rocked in the saddle, her scales skittering over loose stone and dislodging old grasses, what our speechless companions know of faith. They only possess the assurance of habit, trust that we will not betray them, and eventual rest. Sacrifice is foreign, though they will still die with our instruction; they will never recite a liturgy, but like any animal, know the value of a handout. That is where we differ.
Our steeds were sure footed, considerate, and untiring. The riding was hard. Northeast, a pale dawn broke over the road we traversed and the stars gave way to flat clouds carrying rain. We split from the main road caravans take and elevation grew until it was everything and we disappeared into fog and sparse, tortured trees, where lightning or Ramuh once struck; a great swathe was burned to leave limbless, skeletal spears. That air that sprung up was cold, welcoming and fragrant, the kind of freshness that signals grasses will soon begin to sprout. Song birds sang unperturbed and water fell from branches they disturbed. We only saw traces of the thrusting limbs of deer or beasts as they fled. The dragonets, balanced in age, were distinguished allies. They alternated between resting, anchored with claw, on packs slung across our steeds or darting among the fields, blowing smoke from their bared teeth as they tumbled, apart from our trained stoicism. I thought them no better than the village children who hurl themselves at our feet like chickens, spare gil in our pockets like grain. The captain whistled them to obedience, for they distracted us with joy. When the first Fallen ships began to appear, we set them to track with Waloeder steel. I made my second mistake then, for the first it appears was being civil.
My suggestion to the captain was taken as disobedience and insult after our day of travel. “You’re not a servant here, so what is your oath worth?” Our unity is measured by mummery. He cannot find fault with me, despite his dislike, and I think loathes that I spoke reason first. Nothing concrete that may allow for illegitimacy. I am long practiced. These old commanders pucker at my house’s name like vinegar. Despite the enormity of wanting found with me (should they consider whom they disrespect at length beyond my shoulders) our stay yielded nothing but routine, calm (save our fantasies, wretched) and earthly quiet. It was a respite, and perhaps the captain despised actually my ties that would grant me none of that, and myself, endless scrutiny — if I can be generous.
The old guard were gone at our arrival, having skirted south, splitting through the valley, below the range of mountains and high plains that spread east toward the coast. I envy them now, for we were only relief for the rotation. A few coals still emitted a glow on the ground floor when we entered. I had thought, absurdly, that I was home. Our deference was to be meaningful rest.
We parted in the morning, six to trot, and a wyrm a pair. Vouivre lounged in dead grasses with her eyes open, counting us. She disappeared from our sight between thick, low limbed drooping pine, as did the captain, and my companion and I skirted indignity, bemoaned the necessary ceremonies of prayer, parade, salute, and began our perimeter march — then we were alone. I took the lead; we had an understanding that martyrs not yet forgiven still triumph. Our route was a high loop past Fallen ships on ridge lines that looked down on our post, where it lay in a basin, and the valley floor, deep and wide beyond. Waloed once stormed as far inland here — their marks remain in abandoned markers now colored by our own. We had no qualms with one another and climbed steadily with the sun. The roar began some distance from what he had believed were the small, chain lakes, but the dragonet had ferried itself the distance and beyond multiple times without alarm. A Fallen ship, I promise near the length of the Penitent’s Gate, spilled water like crystal fragments from a wide-mouthed pitcher that cascaded down into deeper, clearer meres. We took great care not to slip on the slicked earth and lichen pinched between uneven stone; the drop was sheer. Many a knight’s chase could end here (is that why I felt so close to Greagor, as I feel far removed from even in her grandest halls?). It reminded me some of those pools surrounding Whitewyrm, and the grounds in a recess of the courtyard that you hounded me to after the first brutal months of my new trade. Those were happy times that we may revisit here.
Evenings dropped their cloud curtains, one after the other. I knew the captain and he knew me now, and we were tempered by the conversation of other men. From the tower’s high walls that stonemasons a century before hauled, they shielded us still from battering, wrathful storms. The air was sharp and clean. I sat half my nights dozing, then would be thrust awake by passing torrents and the shrill cry of the dragonets in the yard. A cacophony of shifting, waking men resounded, and we laid in quiet, all equally disturbed and despising the other, and awaiting the spy that might burst past the door and slit your invisible throat without our notice, as if they could not find good quarry with our lot. Three of us spent our remaining hours in the pens, pressing weariness back against our eyes. The dragonets settled; they’d wanted nothing of Vouivre, not even her companionship, like her presence was that belonging to a faithless past. Eventually, the dragonets entertained themselves with stripping the eyelets and cords from Sir Gaetan’s bottoms with their teeth. He laughed in his fury. I admire their chagrin for us ecclesiastical men who they must share their lives with, and when these long times afield reward me with more than the promise of upward mobility — humility — I can relax and not feel like I will be taught to betray you. I would like to bring you here — not to the tower, but beyond. We can play at stray pilgrims convincingly and freshen our charades.
Our travels were destined for turmoil after the absence of it. Deserted hunting lodges dotted our return trail, edging out of the tree lines like weary faces before sepulchral fields drowned and sopping with spring run off. The floods were torrential. Farmers cowered from us and our captain pivoted bodily in the saddle, sensing fear, and demanded who permitted them to hunt His Radiance’s lands. Blank faced, father and son were redolent with panic. They had served in Greagor’s wars and spilled their blood to water the dormant crop we cut through with taloned feet. It did not, our captain expressed, remove them from the statutes that we all must abide by — proof of law’s rightful channels, that grim faced, the farmer, our old comrade who we condemned — could not magic from plain poverty. I abhorred the sermonizing, I empathized with his shame that he bore with calm, embarrassed at his plight and disregard. I don’t tell you to proclaim my own grandstanding, but to convey how glutted men want always for poor-faced company that may assure them of their blood. A holy knight of Greagor, who is not to be seen without bowed heads, can no longer stoop to bear them upward — but I only know what it is to serve. I had looked down at him, and the shallow, wide lakes, and at Vouivre, reviled, belly dragging in the mud, and lost nothing.
We parted at the barracks, each man to his hole, and I made my report and filed with it an inquiry. Today, two nights later, I’ve a carved trinket in my hand and written thanks on eaten paper I feel uneasy to receive; there is the nationalist’s title resurrected at my discretion and absolution for the indignity. I cast this bauble to you to avoid further pastoral sentiments (and because you will be in need of kindness, clemency, amusement, and warm regards). Tell me of the bludgeoning your faith has received this half moon — I’ll moan appropriately.
Travel unburdened, swiftly, and in light spirits. Let us grimace and laugh at once.
Your Terence
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: gen
Word Count: 1571
Notes: Written for the MyDearTerence collection. I chose and combined two prompts, "i found a nice place i want to take you' and 'here's a silly object i was given for something virtuous i did.' Much longer than usual. Blaming my Kay Boyle reading.
Vouivre's common French translation is as 'wyvern,' but I liked that... "The word “vouivre” is derived from the Latin vipera, or “viper”. Vouivres themselves are the spiritual descendants of Mélusine, stripped of her human features. They have been described as dragons, serpents, and fairies in the form of great reptiles; they are always the guardians of priceless treasures..." and "...among other places, “vouivre” has become a byword for an unpleasant, nasty woman." Somethingsomething patriarchy, imperialism, decay, self-possession -- and I hit things with hammers.
-
871
My Prince,
An ambivalent departure — you, to your father, and me, exile. Well. I felt the invisible bridle come down and the bit before dawn; I have decided I do blame the captain for my chafed mouth, and the report which will reach you before mine, I am sorry — I was emboldened. It appears that only great men can speak equally with those beneath them if they are of them, but he has no imagination. I understand in increments, which I detest beyond everything else, that he is what I may become with time — and there is some necessity.
That should distract you sufficiently.
A surprise to me, Vouivre was in our accompaniment. I have not seen her since her near fatal wounding by a pike men at the coast. She’s scarred over, tarry, and immovable with the steady gaze of the ill and undefeated, but obeys our captain with no quarrel. I felt kin to her, this mottled dragon who scurries in the underbrush with masters that near killed her with forward orders. I mulled all day as I rocked in the saddle, her scales skittering over loose stone and dislodging old grasses, what our speechless companions know of faith. They only possess the assurance of habit, trust that we will not betray them, and eventual rest. Sacrifice is foreign, though they will still die with our instruction; they will never recite a liturgy, but like any animal, know the value of a handout. That is where we differ.
Our steeds were sure footed, considerate, and untiring. The riding was hard. Northeast, a pale dawn broke over the road we traversed and the stars gave way to flat clouds carrying rain. We split from the main road caravans take and elevation grew until it was everything and we disappeared into fog and sparse, tortured trees, where lightning or Ramuh once struck; a great swathe was burned to leave limbless, skeletal spears. That air that sprung up was cold, welcoming and fragrant, the kind of freshness that signals grasses will soon begin to sprout. Song birds sang unperturbed and water fell from branches they disturbed. We only saw traces of the thrusting limbs of deer or beasts as they fled. The dragonets, balanced in age, were distinguished allies. They alternated between resting, anchored with claw, on packs slung across our steeds or darting among the fields, blowing smoke from their bared teeth as they tumbled, apart from our trained stoicism. I thought them no better than the village children who hurl themselves at our feet like chickens, spare gil in our pockets like grain. The captain whistled them to obedience, for they distracted us with joy. When the first Fallen ships began to appear, we set them to track with Waloeder steel. I made my second mistake then, for the first it appears was being civil.
My suggestion to the captain was taken as disobedience and insult after our day of travel. “You’re not a servant here, so what is your oath worth?” Our unity is measured by mummery. He cannot find fault with me, despite his dislike, and I think loathes that I spoke reason first. Nothing concrete that may allow for illegitimacy. I am long practiced. These old commanders pucker at my house’s name like vinegar. Despite the enormity of wanting found with me (should they consider whom they disrespect at length beyond my shoulders) our stay yielded nothing but routine, calm (save our fantasies, wretched) and earthly quiet. It was a respite, and perhaps the captain despised actually my ties that would grant me none of that, and myself, endless scrutiny — if I can be generous.
The old guard were gone at our arrival, having skirted south, splitting through the valley, below the range of mountains and high plains that spread east toward the coast. I envy them now, for we were only relief for the rotation. A few coals still emitted a glow on the ground floor when we entered. I had thought, absurdly, that I was home. Our deference was to be meaningful rest.
We parted in the morning, six to trot, and a wyrm a pair. Vouivre lounged in dead grasses with her eyes open, counting us. She disappeared from our sight between thick, low limbed drooping pine, as did the captain, and my companion and I skirted indignity, bemoaned the necessary ceremonies of prayer, parade, salute, and began our perimeter march — then we were alone. I took the lead; we had an understanding that martyrs not yet forgiven still triumph. Our route was a high loop past Fallen ships on ridge lines that looked down on our post, where it lay in a basin, and the valley floor, deep and wide beyond. Waloed once stormed as far inland here — their marks remain in abandoned markers now colored by our own. We had no qualms with one another and climbed steadily with the sun. The roar began some distance from what he had believed were the small, chain lakes, but the dragonet had ferried itself the distance and beyond multiple times without alarm. A Fallen ship, I promise near the length of the Penitent’s Gate, spilled water like crystal fragments from a wide-mouthed pitcher that cascaded down into deeper, clearer meres. We took great care not to slip on the slicked earth and lichen pinched between uneven stone; the drop was sheer. Many a knight’s chase could end here (is that why I felt so close to Greagor, as I feel far removed from even in her grandest halls?). It reminded me some of those pools surrounding Whitewyrm, and the grounds in a recess of the courtyard that you hounded me to after the first brutal months of my new trade. Those were happy times that we may revisit here.
Evenings dropped their cloud curtains, one after the other. I knew the captain and he knew me now, and we were tempered by the conversation of other men. From the tower’s high walls that stonemasons a century before hauled, they shielded us still from battering, wrathful storms. The air was sharp and clean. I sat half my nights dozing, then would be thrust awake by passing torrents and the shrill cry of the dragonets in the yard. A cacophony of shifting, waking men resounded, and we laid in quiet, all equally disturbed and despising the other, and awaiting the spy that might burst past the door and slit your invisible throat without our notice, as if they could not find good quarry with our lot. Three of us spent our remaining hours in the pens, pressing weariness back against our eyes. The dragonets settled; they’d wanted nothing of Vouivre, not even her companionship, like her presence was that belonging to a faithless past. Eventually, the dragonets entertained themselves with stripping the eyelets and cords from Sir Gaetan’s bottoms with their teeth. He laughed in his fury. I admire their chagrin for us ecclesiastical men who they must share their lives with, and when these long times afield reward me with more than the promise of upward mobility — humility — I can relax and not feel like I will be taught to betray you. I would like to bring you here — not to the tower, but beyond. We can play at stray pilgrims convincingly and freshen our charades.
Our travels were destined for turmoil after the absence of it. Deserted hunting lodges dotted our return trail, edging out of the tree lines like weary faces before sepulchral fields drowned and sopping with spring run off. The floods were torrential. Farmers cowered from us and our captain pivoted bodily in the saddle, sensing fear, and demanded who permitted them to hunt His Radiance’s lands. Blank faced, father and son were redolent with panic. They had served in Greagor’s wars and spilled their blood to water the dormant crop we cut through with taloned feet. It did not, our captain expressed, remove them from the statutes that we all must abide by — proof of law’s rightful channels, that grim faced, the farmer, our old comrade who we condemned — could not magic from plain poverty. I abhorred the sermonizing, I empathized with his shame that he bore with calm, embarrassed at his plight and disregard. I don’t tell you to proclaim my own grandstanding, but to convey how glutted men want always for poor-faced company that may assure them of their blood. A holy knight of Greagor, who is not to be seen without bowed heads, can no longer stoop to bear them upward — but I only know what it is to serve. I had looked down at him, and the shallow, wide lakes, and at Vouivre, reviled, belly dragging in the mud, and lost nothing.
We parted at the barracks, each man to his hole, and I made my report and filed with it an inquiry. Today, two nights later, I’ve a carved trinket in my hand and written thanks on eaten paper I feel uneasy to receive; there is the nationalist’s title resurrected at my discretion and absolution for the indignity. I cast this bauble to you to avoid further pastoral sentiments (and because you will be in need of kindness, clemency, amusement, and warm regards). Tell me of the bludgeoning your faith has received this half moon — I’ll moan appropriately.
Travel unburdened, swiftly, and in light spirits. Let us grimace and laugh at once.
Your Terence
