Chapter Text
Whenever she visits the Rook, Diana is usually swept up by Violaine for an afternoon of gossip and secret-sharing that has taken up the better part of Violaine's public life since reaching social maturity. It's not malicious quite yet, so no one has put a cork on the girl's ambition to covet all the secrets of her peers too soon. But, Violaine is not present today, for she is across town in the Crozier for her weekly perusal of gemstones and repairs for her mittens.
So, Diana offered to keep Yvette company, because despite what her family might say, Yvette quite likes having someone to mirror off of when she is deep in academia — the only prerequisite being that the imposing company can keep up with her methods.
And.
Diana's doing a passable job.
She is a very intelligent woman. She brings perspectives Yvette has not considered, and tells her about her studies in Limsa Lominsa within the arcanist guild pushed underneath their customs hall, a place Yvette has always considered out of place when compared to the coin-driven, cutthroat methods found elsewhere in the city-state. But a beacon of tactics and double-triple planning excelling in a city of turncoats and land-locked pirates is logical. A peaceful cage does not prepare you for the reality of challenge. Her experience in arcana match well with Yvette's passion towards alchemy; many beginner synthesis lessons are aimed towards aspiring arcanists who want to produce their own inks and take care of their tomes.
Diana's skillset lays in healing magicks, which isn't something that the few books Yvette has had brought from Limsa go over. Limited healing spells are found in beignner arcana, even when you begin to look towards fae connections. Still: it is excellent insight. The spells are vocal formula. The carbuncle that Diana summons and welcomes into her lap is made of solid aether, a blue light that warms the room.
The little creature sits on Yvette's open tome. She gently brushes it away and says, "He seems restless. Does he need walks?"
"No," Diana replies. "Is he bothering you?"
Yvette closes the tome and reopens at the back, looking at the glossary, picking a number on silver extraction, and flips to page one-sixty-one. "He's making a nest on my readings."
Diana makes a sound as if she just noticed something, and gasps, soft and affront. "Oh— I'm very sorry," and she reaches to the table to lift the plump little thing.
Yvette hums. The carbuncle has been trodding its paws across the table for about two minutes before she spoke up. "It happens," she says. She looks up from the page. "It's as if you are—"
Diana is looking out the great window they sit beside, a massive ceiling-to-floor wall that takes up approximately seventy percent of the view into the courtyard. Yvette follows Diana's gaze with her own. Steel meets buckler in a distant echo.
Oh. The guests.
Ser Paulecrain de Fanouilley is in service to the family, despite his habits of poor table manners and late evenings out disrupting the regular routine. However, Ser Adelphel de Chevraudan and Ser Hermenost de la Treaumille are indeed guests of the house for the day, combatting her brother and the sworn lancer in a central courtyard made for training in the spring weather. It is still quite cold, but physical exertion naturally encourages blood flow through the body, thus increasing bodily temperature, thus preventing a sparring soldier from freezing in the sub-zero winds.
And preventing academics from focussing on their work, it would seem.
Glance into the courtyard once, and perhaps you can excuse that the sound of fighting caught you off guard and you needed to check if all was well. Glance twice, and maybe you are just easily distracted by outside stimuli.
Glance a third time.
"Lady Diana," Yvette utters, and the girl's eyes snap away from the rise of Ser Paulecrain's body as he bears his strength down upon Ser Adelphel to stare wild at Yvette.
"I'm terrible sorry," Diana excuses herself, with blown-wide pupils and red on her cheeks. "Could you repeat the formula again—?"
"I've not said any formula," Yvette replies.
The red of Diana's cheeks glow even brighter. From tomato to a polished ruby.
Within the courtyard, Yvette can hear the four men's conversations distantly, if she strains her ears to eavsedrop over the clang of weapons and alarmed cries of being thrown around. She turns to look; Ser Paulecrain and Ser Adelphel now stand to the side, watching as her brother and Ser Hermenost lock axes. They do not wield Stampede and Greycloud, but instead much more blunted, safer weapons; while she knows her brother does not mind nursing scars from the occasional deadly clip of blade to skin, their family pushes for more sane training methods.
That is all it seems to be, after all. The four men have gathered at the Dzemael manor for training, likely brought on by being in this section of the Pillars during patrol or errand, and will leave for the Vault for an evening meal and church service with their brothers in approximately two bells time from now. Grinnaux will take whatever opportunity to be at home as he can, even if duty calls for him elsewhere. And where Grinnaux goes, that viper of a copatriot follows, the one with a golden eye and a sinister lilt to his tone.
Ser Adelphel wraps himself in a linen blanket and leans towards the brazier next to the bench, glowing red from the crushed fire crystals in the bowl. Ser Paulecrain, born before slush filled the Brume but still raised in its murky cold, leans back with his shirt off, arms up behind his head as he stretches his posture. His torso extends as tight muscles coil, pectorals lifting and falling when his toned shape finally comes to rest.
Yvette does not consider herself, well, not like other girls, because she can recognize the attractive facets of men, certainly ones who are honed by battle. Knighthood is a very romantic status, after all: one who protects the weak, who uplifts their brothers to accomplish more as one, who serves their lord or king with diligence and honour. Were she more maidenhearted like Diana or Violaine, she'd almost certainly have let herself indulge in such nobility, swept off her feet at a ball or two, fawned over by boys seeking her hand.
That is to say: she has eyes. The body laid before her is attractive. But she sees him laid in formalin. Diana sees him laid bedside. Yvette avoids gossip, but it finds her anyway, and that has her privy to where Diana's eyes are looking, raking up and down that exposed skin like hands through an open bag of grain. How she's caught between shame and need, spoiling their study but entirely indulging in how Ser Paulecrain exhausts himself with the bare bodies of other men.
The carbuncle chitters and slips between the space separating Yvette from the table to curl up into her lap. It is warm like a well-fed cat, but Yvette momentarily considers the aetherial creature is now flushed with shyness, ducking its face into her lap much like its creator is hiding most of her face behind her hand. Yvette offers her companion a moment of clemency by stroking the poor carbuncle across its soft ears.
Even if Yvette were perverse in her indulgences — her brother is down there. And she can hear him laughing as he pins a knee over Ser Hermenost's neck, asking if he likes it 'like that'. No, she cannot participate in this kind of voyeurism. She simply refuses. Instead, she keeps one hand on the carbuncle and another over her tome, flipping the page to a new chapter and upon the formula Diana pleaded for.
"Vitality incantations," Yvette says to break the silence, "To better invigorate a companion for lasting efficiency."
Diana, despite her humility, cracks a grin under her hands. Laughter does not betray her just yet, and she insists, "Are you mocking me?"
"You would know if I was," Yvette says with a shake of her head, and allows Diana all of the indulgent thoughts she wants as she takes her notes.