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Stranger in a Strange Land - Printable Version

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RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 12-21-2015

OOC!
I am working on another story post, but first I took some time to build a table of contents for all of my RP posts and threads!  In some sense I like having most of my writing focused in two threads (this one and my One Late Summer Limsan Afternoon thread), but this thread especially is also filled with some forum RP so I suspect it is more than a little confusing to find anything, or to "follow"!

Anyway, if anyone is ever interested in perusing my RP writings for Aya there's now a handy resource yay!

Its in the first post of this thread or: Click Here.

Thank you to anyone reading!

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 12-22-2015

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[A Curious Delivery - The Curious Curio Part Three]

Ul'dah, mid-winter.  This time of year Thanalan greets traveler and resident alike with its own brand of teasing disdain.  One day the sun shines bright, dispelling the chill of night and blanketing the region with a winter warmth that makes the rest of the continent, locked in frost or mist, jealous of it radiant clime.  Yet, others remind the weary that it is yet the desert's wet season.  When the gray heavens break open in rampant, soaking downpours that fill aqueducts that flow rapidly to refill reservoirs that threaten toward overflowing.  It was one of these later days that greeted Aya on her latest return from Gridania.  

Despite being wrapped in a heavy waterproof over coat, there was no denying the sight of the young women as she disembarked the airship with her steeply heeled boots, and soaked locks of golden blonde hair falling down her shoulders and chest from the front of her hood.  Her red lips stood out like a beacon from the gray and brown background, but her expression was not the cheerful smile most are acquainted with, but the downcast look of the drearily exhausted.  Not that anyone was there to greet her and take note.

With neither sound nor sigh she lifted the single bag of her light luggage and trudged across the dry landing toward the stairs that descended the tall hangar tower.  If any of the porters called to see if she wanted her luggage carried, she did not notice.  The sight of the rain-filled square at the bottom of the tower was just what she had expected; still it seemed daunting nonetheless.  

She know why she continued to make the trips north despite all the trouble they were: it was for more than M. Vann's shows.  More than the pretty clothes, shared smiles, and handsome pay.  It would probably take more than that to find her trudging too and fro in the middle of an Eorzean winter.  But something was afoot - this much she knew.  Between tho Ghosts and the villain who was loose, she had felt compelled to keep her eye on things.

The welcome sight of the Quicksand as she turned the corner drew from her a deep breath of relief.  There it was! That scent of Ul'dah.  Heady spice, ale, spirits, and warm food.  It was home, but more than home still.  As she pushed the door open with her slender shoulder she could not help but smile.  That subtle little upturn of the lips that spoke of the girl's easy but genuine good cheer even under the such dreary circumstances.  It was a little expression; one that she could not resist offering no matter the cloud that hung over her drenched head.

Her thoughts turned to a warm bath, and the taste of chocolate and chamomile.  The door swung quietly closed behind her.  A handful of regular patrons turned toward her, raising their cups in an excited and teasing greeting to the rain-soaked barmaid.  She waved back with her free hand, offering that little smile, and declining a fellow's offer to carry her bag.  

The Lalafel proprietess nodded to her prize employee with a mischievous little smile of her own.  But the blonde had no interest in chit-chat this wet evening, and made her way to the stairs that climbed up to the rooms of the Hourglass.  As she mounted the first few steps, the call of her name brought her to a halt.

"Oi! Miss Foxheart, I've got a package 'ere for you." Exclaimed a Hyur Bellhop.  Otopa Pottopa stood quietly behind his desk and addressed the two of them just slightly turning toward Aya, "Ah, yes, thank you.  I had forgotten.  Yance, if you would do me a favor would you fetch the Miss's mail?"  The Highlander had already started on his way to the back room, and answered the request with a wave of the hand completely out of the view of the Lalafel who had not bothered to turn around.

"Merry Starlight, I presume, miss." Yance said with a doff of his cap, offering the small package to Aya who had waited in quiet, drenched confusion at the bottom of the stair.  "Thank you..." she answered with an unsure tenor in her voice as she accepted the small package.  

She examined the box, turning it over in her hand as she made the long way to her room.  It was not much larger than an envelope, perhaps ten ilm by six, and only half an ilm in thickness.  Fishing her key out of her purse, which itself was under her coat, proved a bit of a struggle, she slipped inside to the comfort of her own little room.  She set the bag and box aside and let out an audible breath, almost a sigh, as she tiredly removed the wet overcoat one arm at a time.  Drops of water splash against the floor with a regular cadence: she'd really gotten into it this time.

With a tired hand she pulled wet strands of her hair out of her eyes and began the slow walk through her little apartment that was her home.  So badly she had wished for a pot of chamomile tea, but she did not care for any further delay in that warm bath she had envisioned for what felt like hours.  She cast a momentary look toward the lonely little bed, and the tiny desk that were the furniture of the room, before turning her attention to her bath.  The one great comfort of the entire space: she sat upon its edge, and turned a valve to start the flow of heated water.  Into the running water she sprinkled bath salts, then a pearl of oil, and a scoop of soap for bubbles.

As the warmth of the bath water filled the room with fresh steam, made fragrant by the oils and salts, she slipped the wet clothing from her drenched figure.  She'd been looking forward to this for how long?  She returned to her main room as the bath continued to fill - laughing as she took a moment to examine the middle of the mostly bare space of the room.  She thought back to the dance of the First Snowfall that she had performed a few weeks prior and she swayed her body to and fro in several of the motions of that dance bringing back such recent fond memories.  

Almost an afterthought, she grabbed the box and took it with her as she entered the bath. She lowered in first one foot and then the other as she sucked in a breath between grit teeth, her body slowly acclimating to the heat of the water.  She allowed herself to slide in up to her chin, her whole form vanishing beneath the silky bubbly, fragrant warmth of the bath.

There she lay for whole minutes.  Barely a thought in her mind.  The troubles and pains of the day slip, slipping away amid a sea of comfort and warmth.  

Letting out a deep, relieved sigh she finally reached out of the bath to lift up the unexpected package and slipped out the packing label for examination.

To: Aya Foxheart, Quicksand, Ul'dah
From: Escrow and Sons, Limsa Lominsa

She shot up in the bath, the quick motion causing a back and forth wave that sent water pouring over the edge and down onto the tiled floor.  She leaned over the edge of the bath, holding the package away from the edge so that it could not fall into the water.  She tore at it with her fingers, eyes fixed upon it like an excited child with a Starlight Gift.  

"They mailed it?"  She thought to herself, "They risked mailing it?"  

In a flurried moment she had it open: there it was.  A delicate piece of rock-like crystal.  It seemed to shift almost imperceptible from blue to pink - dull hues that refused to shimmer, but were unmistakable to the eyes nonetheless.  She gasped, and her body lurched.  She extended both arms straight out ahead of her, upper arms resting on the edge of the bath as her head fell lower and lower into the water until just her eyes remained above water: staring intently upon the crystal that seemed to hum silently with an innate power.

How long had it been?  How many months?  Had she given up hope or just forgotten?  Escrow was just the sort of man that  Limsa was famous for.  A sailor, in his youth it was rumored that he had been a pirate.  The stories went that he had been marooned for sleeping with the captain's woman, but that he was picked up by a passing ship and charmed the crew into making him their own captain.  

Regardless of his origins, his specialty now was acquiring whatever it was you wanted.  The rare, exotic and esoteric.  From the goods of the East, to rare forms of art, and any variety of specialized commodity: if it could be found, he would find it—For the right price.  And what had the price been?  She couldn't even remember, all she could remember was that sly smile and the shake of hands.  Who had charmed whom?  Regardless: here it was.  Here it was!  

She scrambled out of the bath, spilling buckets worth of water over the edge as she shot out in an excited hurry.  She was even more drenched now than earlier, and the floor of her floor became akin to a shallow pool.  She grabbed a cigar box from the shelf over her work desk, and set it down with a forced gentleness that resisted the energetic rush of her excitement.  Opening the lid she was greeted by the myriad parts of the watch-locket she had disassembled almost a year ago.  She restrained her hand which wanted to lash out and seize the object of her attention.  Instead, she reached in with a very controlled, and cautious care.  Delicately she withdrew the main body of the watch from amidst the labeled and bagged components.  It had been left open and bare all this time.  She blew away the very thin layer of dust that had accumulated on its exposed surfaces and pressed the crystal into the slot she had opened beneath all of the clockwork.  It fit exactly.  The dimensions were just right.  

For a moment she stared in wide-eyed disbelief.  A quiet had fallen over her excitement, punctuated only by the steady dripping of water.  A silence, broken at last, when she jumped into the air, letting out a squeal of excitement.

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 12-28-2015

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[A Curious Night at Work - The Curious Curio Part Four]

Long run the nights of an Ul'dah winter.  Where could anyone find time?  Some days had passed in the quiet activity of the season: work, play, and perhaps a bit of pleasure mixed together to occupy the time.  At last she closed the door of her dark room one evening, knowing that the hours ahead were her own.  The early shift had begun in the markets that morning, one of her favorite errands, and ended just after the supper rush.  It was near nine bells before she slipped away into the quiet dark, but none now would bother her.

Approaching the small, worn table that served in the stead of a workbench, she struck a match and lit a small oil lantern on the nearby shelf.  She took in a soft, deep breath as its gentle illumination settled over the area.  A pleased, anxious little smile crossed her lips as she took in her workshop, Lalafellan stool and all.  The expression slipped away as she began her preparation: she tied her hair back, covering it with a scarf, unrolled her small set of heavily used tools, set her miniature crystal work-light above her ear, and donned the wire framed lens holders and lenses that would expose the smallest details of the miniature parts which she would be working.

She covered the work surface with a cloth, and at last brought the cigar box whose contents resembled a veritable pile of miniature gears, cranks, and fasteners down to the work surface.  Each was individually bagged and labeled, and she set about sorting them placing them in the order they would be added back to the reassembled mechanism.  She had noted many of the part when it had first been disassembled, and now thanked goodness for the detailed nature of her notes and drawings.

She settled in upon her stool, having to carefully manage her balance so that she could never quite relax.  Gear work came as naturally to her as the graceful lightness of her step, still the miniature nature of such watchworks pressed her finesse to its very limits.  Slender tools worked beneath the intense but shadowy light of the work light, every otherwise indiscernible little motion of her fingers wildly exaggerated by the tiny scale of the parts as viewed through a magnifying lens.  

Blue eyes strained and focused.  It had been months since each part had been carefully disassembled, but the memories were still sharp.  Still, she was thankful for her notes as no fullness of detail could stand the test of so much time.  Though, even that did not prevent mishaps: the ordinary mistakes that mark every tradesman's day.  The slightest error in assembly would not be uncovered until several later steps, necessitating backtracking through a half-hours' tedious work.  The spring that found its way free of her grasp, located again only after a quarter hours relentless, maddening search on the floor.  

She set the most important tool aside.  A crystal oscillator; it appeared little more than a fancy tuning fork, but the crystals embedded within its design could either set a crystal in motion, or if properly used, bring it to a stop.  It would be the only way to restart the watch once reassembled, or, with luck, to stop it if something were not working correctly and more work were required.

The hours stretched from evening into night.  The lantern burned low, the flame dimming as the supply of fuel was supped away.  Still, she was consumed in her purpose and engrossed by the task at hand.  As the inner workings of the piece began to take shape, she was reminded of past work.  Most of what she had done had been larger in scale, excepting some control systems that had sought to rival this watch's complexity.  Some of those had seemed complex beyond need, as if designed as a tribute to the craftsman's ingenuity and cleverness.  Making them even more challenging, many of those could only be worked on in place. Often in cramped, awkward space that made the work all the more difficult even with her lithe frame and dexterous fingers.  Still, in this case she found herself far from her old suppliers and their supply of replacement parts.  If, indeed, replacements could even be made for this piece.  

Every project presents its own challenges.

And that was the way of it: challenge after challenge as the night grew late and passed into the early hours.  The lamp wick flickered out, hastening the darkness of the shadows that plagued the overworked little crystal-lamp that was now her only illumination.  Still, there was no thought of pausing, stopping, or halting.  She worked on, enshrouded by darkness as the pile of parts began to take the form of a watch.  

This piece was different from those control mechanisms and their overly-convoluted arrays of inputs and calculations.  This was no practical equipment, but instead a work of art in its own merit.  In that sense the craftsman's cleverness and artfulness became a thing of beauty.  The intricate gear-work, the perfect notching and threading.  The careful weaving throughout the mechanism that left one to wonder how any portion could have been conceived outside the whole.  

But what was the purpose of it all?  The appreciation she held for the inner workings were never meant to grace the owner of the locket itself.  It must be there for some more meaningful purpose, rather than to impress a future tinker utterly unworthy of the locket's intricacy. Whatever it was, she hoped she would know soon enough as each additional piece left precious few and fewer remaining for the reassembly.

She would know soon, very soon, despite the lateness of the hour that seemed to stretch and stretch. Her eyes strained for focus.  Her fingers were long ago sore, but now her whole body ached in the clutches of a tiredness that was resisted by every nerve of her frenetic energy.  

Almost there... almost there.

So cold... so very, very cold.  The young girl shivered against the rush of a gale that forced its muscular way deep within the tunnels and wide-open caverns that cut their way through the stone foundation beneath the city.  She was a young woman, barely more than a girl, and that frigid Coerthan wind cut right through the meager cloth of her cloak.

Where was she again?  She turned around in her spot trying to take in the surroundings.  Oh, right, right... she knew. It was her loft.  In reality no more than a hollow between the roof of the smithy and the ceiling of the office below her.  It was almost completely unprotected from the outside winds.  Why is it still so cold?  She wondered for a moment.  It seemed like the Spring was now months behind schedule.  

She let out a huffy sigh and flopped her head back against the wooden planks that made for a bed in the loft.  There must have been a party last night; she'd have told her friends she was headed home, that was always the way.  Late nights galavanting, drinking cheap wine, and often worse.  It was all there was for exciting life on these streets.  Sometimes it was different: an arranged evening with a gentleman.  Fan, potential patron, or admirer the suitors were themselves of every stripe and suit.  Sometimes it was for fun, other times because she simply thought it best.  She always teased, sometimes they had their way, more often she left them dancing at the tip of her fingers. But always, always, came the moment to return home.  And the wrath of the parents.  Especially father.  

Here she had found an alternative to, at least, delay the inevitable: her brother's shop.  Not his, really, he was just an apprentice.  But it was safety, shelter, and a warm bed without father's thundering.  The parent's had found out at some point, of course, and she'd brought the weight of the seven hells down upon Osvald's head.  What now after that little falling out?  Why not the loft: he need not even know.

She pulled herself up to peek outside, only to be greeted with the the dull red glow of these inner halls, and the near perfect quiet of night.  Down here the sun was not around to offer its evidence, the time of day had to be discerned from more subtle clues.  With a quick arm-hanging dismount she found herself silently on the floor of the smithy.  

Suddenly everything seemed familiar, her eyes were caught by a rusted and worn-looking piece of equipment that occupied a large space nearby the forge.  It was as if she could still hear the angry word's of her shouting father echoing in her ears: "and you are helping her!"  What exactly with she knew well enough without having caught it in time, "Its bad enough that you have abandoned your duty, but I will not allow you to aid you sister in betraying hers!"

The next time she set eyes upon her brother, his were not friendly.  They bore the anger and frustration of father: the sentiment having been transmitted from father to son.   What more could she do?  

And what did father say?

"Trollop!"

"Harlot!"

The anger rose from father's eyes like fire.  The words crashed viscerally against her flesh as she stood, she felt, bare and exposed against the lashings of the storm.  "We had but one expectation of you: how can you disobey us!"

She was never one to cow.  Obeisance was not in her blood: she always did what she would.  But she was one to cry.  How many tears had been shed in that shrouded space between the rafters and the metal shingles?

She turned her face into the gale.  She let the words wash over her, joining with tears of defiance.

"No daughter of mine would behave such as this!  No daughter of mine would so defile her name!  No daughter of mine would engage in such scandal!"

No daughter of mine!  No daughter of mine!  No daughter of mine!

No Daughter Of Mine!

Eyes shot open above tear-stained cheeks.  They gazed upon that worn out, broken down piece of junk.  The auto-bellows that decades afore had served to fire the metal-working forge.  A task that now fell to the Master's apprentice, and his day's endless toil.  

Perhaps...  it was as standard model, I've seen the type before haven't I?  I'm in good with Belincourt.  He'd be willing to spare a few parts... my performances are paying now, well enough to scrape enough coin together I think.

Then he could focus on learning the trade instead.  He never liked to complain, but I've seen the disappointment wrote on his eyes.  They would both be so much more productive if they didn't have to pump the forge by hand!

And maybe... maybe Oswald... maybe he will forgive me.  Maybe... he will...

KNOCK KNOCK

What is that yelling?  Father again?

KNOCK KNOCK

"Oi now, lass, you'd better be a'right in there!  Now speak up right this instant! I don't really wannae bash this door downae, ye 'ear?"

Her head was filled with the thick miasma of interrupted dream.  The heavy grogginess of an unexpected awakening.  She lifted her eyes, glancing in confusion about at the soft daylight intruding upon the curtains of her room. The voice seemed disembodied, muffled by the door as her friend called to her from just the other side.

"Jeh... Jericho?" she barely managed.

"Aye, 'course lass.  The Madame, that is Momodo, is sent me tae look in on ye.  Says yer shift started half-a-bell ago.  Yer alright in there?"

With another shake of her head she suddenly caught sight of her desk.  The locket was open, the watch face exposed, the hands reading half-past-eleven.  A second hand hummed quietly along its way.  

It was what surrounded the watch face that truly astounded her.  There in the intricate filigree that seemed to flow in its ever-changing character around the watch, was the image of Althyk, in whose month the calendar hand was set, illuminated by the pink-blue glow of the crystal buried within.  The figure seemed to leap from the mithril-work: A stern countenance, great axe in one hand, and hourglass in the other.  He scanned from side to side, while the sand of the hourglass steadily emptied in an endless cycle.

"By the Twelve..." she gasped in delight.

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 12-29-2015

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[Research - Crimes Against Nature Part Ten]

Just who is Batholomew Quisby?  What sort of name is Quisby?  Just the sort to attach to an eccentric.  His forbears were not Ul'dahn originally, and just how they made their fortune is not well known.  But, a fortune they made, and after several generations enough remained to support a middle aged bachelor and his habits.

And eccentric he is: his love for the curious sent him abroad in the pursuit of arcane knowledge.  Rumors are what they are, but in his case they speak of a talented magician who turned his pursuits toward the esoteric and unusual.  He eventually opened small storefront, moving into the apartments above.  The store itself serves primarily as a repository for his collection--his pieces priced just outside the reach of reason.

Regular customers know the man's trade is conversation, and at times knowledge.  And it was just such a purpose that drew Aya Foxheart once more into his establishment.

"Oh I see," said the rather rotund fellow draped in finery too extravagant to be fashionable.  Fat fingers shook the crumbs from his graying beard, as he smiled in appreciation of one of the offered treats.  "How could I refuse Momodi's own Aya? Hmmm? Especially when she comes bearing a plate of such famously delicious cookies!"  He grinned amiably before reaching for another of the morsels.

Aya smiled brightly; her blue eyes twinkling with that almost irresistible curiosity of which she was capable.  

"Such a man would be a danger, my dear.  And no run-of-the-mill villain."  He stopped and peered back to her with the proud look of a man sharing his immense knowledge, "You do understand, I hope, that succor is not intrinsically benevolent.  Though the Magicians who mastered the art are known to us as 'White Mages'; there are no moral restrictions upon its use.  It is a primal force!" He raised his hands in a flourish, before quickly drawing his hand back down to finish the cookie it grasped.  

"Someone versed in its power, as well as that of the void, would truly be a destructive force of untold potential!"  He let out a laugh, fingers stroking his long beard.  "It is a well thing, indeed, that we have no such dangers today.  Now dear, why would you even have such ideas?"

Aya's expression had darkened considerably, but her soft smile returned at the question; her eyes demurred as a sheepish bashfulness came over her for having posed such an inquiry.  "I have just overheard some people discussing it.  Are you sure there aren't any  examples that you know of?"

He let out another guffaw, "Of course not!  I very well doubt that the city would be standing still if there were! "  He turned an excited smile her way, "But how about magical earrings.  They positively gleam with radiance, the perfect accompaniment to a young woman's smile.  Don't you think?"

Aya struggled to feign an interest that at any another time would have been genuine...

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She worked the pipe stem over in her mouth with an unusually ferocious energy.  A warm winter breeze made for a more comfortable evening than usual out-of-doors, but her mind was anything if at ease.  "Just what are we dealing with?" She wondered.  "There must be more to it!  But if Quisby doesn't know, who would?"

She turned the quandary over in her mind with for some time until the solution presented itself with the clarity of the mid-day sun: Zaheela.  Rhea Zaheela.  The circumspect merchant who had let slip her obsession with rare books and esoteric knowledge on more than one occasion.  

She proved easier to engage on the problem than Aya could have ever guessed: like a hound bored without quarry she was ready to leap upon the quest almost before their interview were over.  

It was just a week later when Aya found herself once more in the woman's Ul'dah based business.  

Rhea lead her downstairs into the cool, dry basement chambers.  To say that she was book obsessed would seem to place it mildly.  The walls were lined floor to ceiling with case after case of shelves stuffed thick with books of every discernible age and nature.  Just what method of organization lent order to the collection escaped the girl, whose exposure to such sights was rare indeed.  But she harbored no doubt that her reserved hostess could recall and place each and every volume.  

The private chamber took the theme a level beyond: in addition to the reams upon reams of book-lined shelves, was a series of head-high stacked piles upon the floor.  "Recent acquisitions?", she wondered silently.  Not yet sorted, or perhaps of special character, or simply an unanticipated overstock.  Whatever their purpose the piles added to the overall impact: the woman must possess near every tome ever authored, or so it would appear to someone who had never set foot within the grand libraries of Sharlayan or Ishgard.  

"I have found exactly what you asked for."  Stated the Miqo'te with an even and unexcited tone.  Her tail did not swish freely as so many others did, nor did an unearned smile grace her lips.  "I have found record of such cases in the past.  Magicians who mastered both the power of Succor, and the corruption of the Void"

There was a business-as-usual sense to the woman as she moved to the back wall of her chamber and knelt down.  She slipped a ring free from her finger and pressed it against a hidden recess in the wall, a keyplate.  There was a muffled sound of turning gears, while Aya watched with wide-eyed wonder.  Within the safe was the plain sight of gems, bars of bullion, and an aged wooden box.  Rhea slipped on a pair of silk gloves before carefully removing the box.

"Its even worse that you feared.  Much worse." She added as she set the box down upon a small table. "I located an Ampadoran Tome that mentions several examples of the danger these magicians pose.  The account is unfortunately vague on many details, but a few of interest are made plainly clear through careful analysis."

Aya stood astonished. Her lips parted, eyes unblinking for a moment.  She grasped for some hint of good news, "They must speak of some ways to stop them?" She asked, in a clearly plaintive tone.

The book was carefully retrieved from the box, the cover ancient and marred by signs of deep wear and tear.  "Yes.  The suggested method seems to be to stab the Magician until they stop twitching."  She had opened the book, but paused as if trying to recall something important.  "And then stab even more to make sure." With her suggested method finished she looked back to the book with an intent interest, "Though I am to understand that method is familiar to most."

The blonde stood dumbfounded a few feet away.  So great was her concern about the danger of the magician that even this heartened her spirit, "At least that means they are vulnerable to arms..."

Rhea nodded, her attention still consumed by the book.  "It is the most common method for dealing with such problems.  Even if some people won't admit that such a simple method is best." She looked intently upon a page, "I also fear that I was unable to uncover what you asked for regarding a method for tracking such an individual.  Normally, of course, tracking such a powerful magician, especially one corrupted by the void, would be a rather trivial matter.  So I was curious why you had asked about means for tracking such an individual."

Rhea cupped her chin for a moment, Aya a captive audience.  

"But I was able to uncover the reason for that.  There is a method that these magicians, in the past, have used to hide their true power and thus avoid detection."

Rhea lifted the page so that Aya could regard it, as if she were able to make any sense of the Ampadoran record.  Blonde eyebrows rose in anticipation.  Unconsciously Aya leaned toward Rhea, anxious for every morsel of information.

"It is a method most sane and humane souls would never considered.  But one untethered by morality, and so empowered, may offer another as his vessel for corruption.  The darkness is thereby channeled into the vessel's body, thus sparing the master of its taint.  The vessel is treated as little more than a living, breathing ward of power."

Aya gasped - Rhea's intonation was even and unemotional, but it was still obvious just how deeply the thought of so profane an act moved her.  

'What sort... of darkness...' asked Aya as if the breath had been sucked right from her body.  The implications for the Ghosts already plainly obvious.

"Though we may not assume to know it from experience, our enlightened scholars concluded that, if an acceptable sacrifice were provided, the magician would be able to summon power from the vessel.  Thus retaining full destructive abilities with nary a sign of corruption.  The corruption would, instead, effect the vessels who are sacrificed to bear the burden for him."

"I see..." replied Aya in an near-whisper.  She clutched her cloak more tightly around her collar, as if she could ward off such evil with the gesture.  "So the vessel carries some of the power reserved by the magician, who then appears incorrupted?"

Rhea nodded, carefully closing the tome.  "That is correct.  It is the enslavement of a person, against their will, to hold onto the magician's void power in the manner of a battery.  Given the unwilling and unwarded nature of the sacrifice, it is likely that the void corruption would run free and obvious upon him or her.  But the magician would be beyond notice."

Aya clenched her jaw.  Liadan had been attempting to cleanse the Ghosts, the vessels, of their void taint.  The potential for danger suddenly seemed to close in with increasing urgency.  "This means that we could be dealing with an individual with dozens, if not more, vessels walking aro..."

"Is there any way to reverse the process?" interrupted Aya.

Rhea's ears lay back flat against her head and her tail tucked at the interruption, while she seemed to ponder.   "It seemed that the same approach as in the case of the Magician were preferred."  She paused,   "But, there is a problem."

As if problem enough were not already apparent, "A problem?" Aya asked with a ready hint of exasperation.

Rhea looked around the room for a moment before retrieving from her safe a relatively flimsy looking bag, stretched taught with black and white pearls.  She carefully sorted out the black pearls, setting them aside on the table.

"Say that these," she gestured toward the black pearls, "represent his vessels.  This bag of pearls is our mage.  Say someone locates one of his vessels, who is showing signs of void corruption, and exterminates him, like most would.  The problem is, what happens when the vessel dies?  Normally the void magic would disperse or, in the worst cases, run wild.  But, in this case, what happens in the record, is:" she pinched the bag of pearls where it iwas tied, opened it and poured in the black pearls that were the vessels.  She shook the bag, mixing the pearls together, and then attempted to retie it where she had pinched it.  So hard she pulled against the tie that the bag burst, scattering the pearls dramatically across the chamber.

"Like a bomb.  A walking, living bomb of corruption.  The record indicates that the corruption released by his vessels' death rebounded unto him, suddenly killing him instantly, even though he were malms away."

"A bomb...?" asked Aya, looking half petrified, and half excited.

"The release of so much void energy at once could have any number of unpredictable consequences for those around the magician.  An explosion, or corruption. The summoning of a void beast, or even ripping a tear right into the void."

Rhea returned the tome to its velvet wrapping, and placing it back into the box.

"It is just my personal opinion, but if this man were smart he would be using this danger to his advantage.  Perhaps hiding himself in a position where he could do the most damage if this weakness were exposed.  Though, it is possible that he is too foolish to realize his own predicament. That said, I have found that such people are both reckless and bold, but rarely fools."

Aya nodded slightly, her grip upon her cloak slowly relaxing.

Rhea stopped at her safe, turning narrowed eyes back toward Aya with the look of either accusation or amusement upon her nearly expressionless face.  "By the way: This tome cost me half a million gil."

((Thanks to the fantastic Rhea for the RP scene this was based on! ^^))

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 02-29-2016

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A Tonberry's Love
A light-hearted song written and performed by Aya for A Show of Hearts

I will never forget, that shuffle of feet
Those two yellow eyes - that peered in the dark
Just gazing, and gazing, with the aid of his light
Through that long and dark tunnel - to his greatest delight!

[Chorus]
With those cute little hands -
And those cute little eyes -
Those cute little boots!
And that cute little knife!

Dark though it was, I know that he smiled
And gave me that look, that longed for my touch.
How he followed, and followed, no break in his stride.
Through that long and dark tunnel - he chased his new bride.

[Chorus]

I knew it right then! A love like no other
For that little green man, who never gives up!
Just chasing, and chasing, the one he holds dear,
Through that long and dark tunnel - with feelings sincere.

[Chorus]

Some girls want their jewels, and some want their gold.
I'll pass on it all!  I know what I like:
My little green man, with his little green face.
You know what they say: The fun's in the chase!

[Chorus]

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 03-10-2016

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A Spring Bird's Song
A poem written and recited by Aya for Wayfarer's Rest: Poetry Competition


O, dear little bird!  Sit and sing now for me?
Tell me what it is like? What it is you have seen?
Just how high can you fly? Just how far can you see?
Of where you have come? And what lies between.
Of fresh breaking Spring, the fall of warm rain,
Of lifting grey fog stirred over the dale,
Of rising sun's light 'cross broad open plain,
Of winter thaw's sound in deep river vale.
Of oceans wide calm and rivers loud roar,
Of frost's nipping cold, which drove your long flight
From where you were born, learned to sing, and to soar.
Now homeward you're bound, after winter's long night
And here just to stay, to rest tired wing.
So lucky we are, to hear the bird sing.


Performance Emotes
Show Content


RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 04-10-2016

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[In the Den - Das Loot Part One]

The wood-handled knife rose into the air, cutting through the thick, visceral smoke that clung in the air of the basement room.  It turned, and turned as it slowed and then fell back into the hand that had tossed it.  It was hot.  Very hot.  The Spring sun blasted and baked the clay walls around the basement room - but the cool of the earth below left the air tolerable.

"So that's what happened, boss?" came the voice, little more than a croak from the diminutive Hyur hunched suspiciously in his chair.  

"Yeah tha's right." Came the evasive reply of the energetic, red-shocked Highlaner.  "They was 'em... you know... scaley types."

"And a Duskie." Added a female voice that was more accusatory than helpful.

"Yeah, yeah.  'Er too.  Thal's balls, you know I won't forget 'er!  I told ye wha' she did already, yeah?"  It was difficult to discern features in the smokey den, but no doubt Bohanon's brow furrowed at the reminder.

"Tha wee girl one, I sure found out who she is!" He beamed with a self-satisfied grin.

"Yeah boss? Nicely done!" Added the deep voice of the last member.

"Yeah, yeah.  I know right?  Better 'an that, I know jest who she's workin' for.  Some dealer in artifac's, name's 'Savage Kelley'"

"And does he have the thing?" Asked the woman.

"I told you, I dunnae that!" Came the quick reply of the under-boss nearly leaping out of his seat.  "They vanished, ye see?  One minute they was there, next they was gone!"

"You sure you weren't drinkin?" She asked, only half playfully.

"'Ey now!  I says sure!  So I was sure!  Right?" The other men around the table nodded.  The woman rolled her eyes.

"Now, 'bout that Duskie woman.  Whatever her reasons, she really wanted tha thing."  He pointed the knife at no one in particular, "And I wannae know why she wanted it so bad.  And who the blasted hells she is..."

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Jericho wiped his brow with a damp cloth.  As if the Thanalan sun weren't bad enough he had to spend the days in front of the open fires, and the ovens of the Quick Sand.  He stood over the rack of buffalo ribs, offering it the attentiveness of an artisan.  With careful strokes he brushed them with his home made blend of Thanalan spices that gave them their characteristic kick.  

The attentive spell was broken by the sudden swinging open of the door that divided the kitchen and the bar out front.  Those same attentive blue eyes swept up and around to fall upon the familiar but welcome sight of Momodi's star barmaid.

She burst her way in like usual, a broad grin upon carmined-red lips, and the bountiful energy that made her seem like she might just bounce away any moment.  He offered a subtle smile of his own as he watched her swing to the counter where she usually prepared mixed drinks.

"Another Champion Chachan, Aya?" He asked.

She was focused on the preparation of the drink.  She swung out a pair of metal mixers, scooping a selection of fruit into each.

"They're so popular!" she laughed in reply.

Next she poured in a measure of different juice varieties, mostly orange and a hint of tangy tropical fruits.

"I think its because you make them."

She answered with a look that denied any chance of that possibility. "What would make you say that?"

She added a large dose of bubbly, sweetened water from a metal keg to each.  A pull on the tap handle released it like a stream of fizz.

"Oh... I don't know.  You know you're just about the most popular thing here."

She laughed, "Oh, I wouldn't say that!  You know the food is what people really need out there."

She lifted one of the mixers, and then the other, shaking them vigorously while Jerico watched from his station.

"Oh... I wouldn't say that..." he answered quietly.

"Huh?" She shook the two a little longer, before carefully opening the mixers to keep the bubbling drinks from overflowing.

"Oh... nothing..." said the Highlander cook, suddenly turning his attention back to the ribs under preparation.

"By the way, you wouldn't happen to know any Duskwight ladies would you?"  He offered the careful, detailed description that his brother had passed onto him the day before.  Sometimes Bohanon seemed to possess a perfect memory for features and appearances--at least of ladies.

Aya finished pouring the drinks and dropped in the little parosols that garnished them.  "Don't tell me that brother of yours is up to something?  She's dangerous, Jericho, you'd better tell him to stay away..."

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Bohanon nearly boiled over in protest.  Every inch of his sinewy figure quivered with a rebellious energy.  "Your little princess said what?!"

"Hey... hey..." protested the elder brother.  "She knows what she's talking about, she's just trying to help."  He paused, as if that were it, before protesting, "She's not my princess!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...  right..." came Bohanon's reply, not being quite interested enough to make an argument out of it. "Did'je at least get a name outta Blondie?"

"Desert Rose..."

"Ai, perfect.  A bloomin' desert Duskie."

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 06-03-2016

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[Heirloom - Part One]

"You honestly expect me to remember somethin' from that long ago?"

The words were those of a deep, gravely voice.  The owner a scarred Seawolf whose best days were decades passed.  

The voice that whispered back, carried hints of lipstick and the exotic tones of the north.  "I do."

He didn't so much see her, as feel her as she pressed against his side.  Soft, rather than threatening - but with a menace about her that lead to hesitation.  In his youth things would have been different.  He would have mastered her; age had left him more careful.

"You can't be for real.  Comin' out here askin', hells, demandin', to know who I sold a ruttin' blade ta over a decade ago?  I've no way.  I couldn't tell ya if I wanted ta!"

"And you don't want to, do you?"  The red of her lips was caught momentarily in the ray of a street lamp.  Its shadowy illumination filtered into the thick air of the alley, catching the way she grinned behind his forearm.

"I don't know..." said the Roegadyn, his demeanor suddenly shifting with a playful smile tugging at his expression.  "You seem right delectable enough.  Maybe we could make some sort of..."

The steel point suddenly digging into the rugged flesh behind his kidney changed it right back.  

"Hey!" he cried in protest, "What's your trouble, lady, I ain't done nothin' wrong!"

"No... but I just might." Came the whispered reply from those feminine lips.  The press of blade point emphasizing her threat.

"You must have records.  Receipts.  I know your sort.  Nothing really escapes your notice when merchandise is concerned."

"Thall's balls..." He muttered under his breath - a voice of defeat.

"That's what this is about?  You wanna see my bleedin' receipts?"

He swung his head her way.  "Fine lady.  Have it your way."

While one slender hand slipped the stiletto away, the other proffered a small purse of gil.  

"You know this'd have done for starts?" He stated plainly as the welcome coin fell into his massive palm.

"You, old man, own quite the reputation for wandering hands.  Now you know just how close to keep them."

He let out a low groan.  In the dim of the lamp light, she smirked.

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 10-27-2016

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[A Long Summer]



The orange rays of the setting sun settled gently upon the sandy shores of Vylbrand's eastern coast.  

The day had been spent in such simple pleasure stretched out beneath the day's warmth, strolling, reading, and relaxing with the sound of surf and the gentle relief of the sea breeze ever in the background.

She felt so far from the frigid cold of the Tower-City and its prison-like grip.  The shadows of the Shroud retreated from view.  Even the bustling energy of the Desert Jewel, with the Quicksand at its heart, seemed distant and silent.

There lay Aya, bikini clad, mistress of little more than a towel and a small day bag.  

"What more could a girl want?" she asked herself in a playful hushed tone.  The rhetorical note belied the thoughtful nature that hovered just beneath the bubbly-blonde exterior.

What more indeed...



Poetess? That was one of the stranger titles among the many she had worn in her young life; but it was hard to deny when she was living off the proceeds of one of her poems.  The Alliance, too, had chipped in their own contribution.  The success of her poster series had been undeniable, and when there came a request for another recruitment poster (this to celebrate the admission of its newest member) she came away a woman of some means.

Besideds the gil it had made for a strange if gratifying time.  It was her first time truly feeling welcomed in Coerthas, since the flight to freedom several years before.  The cold was ever worse than she remembered, and colder yet in the scant lingerie she was asked to wear for the piece.  There was something about it, though, posing for her home country.  At least, the closest thing she had ever really felt was home.  She smiled with a genuine pride, at last: a poster girl for the home team.

Then, from atop the hill she spied the spires of the city in the distance: the air clear with the crystal sharpness of a cold winter day, while freshly lit lanterns heralded looming night.  It was all so close, but still so far away...



The gil couldn't last, and besides it just wasn't enough.  Would it ever be enough?  Her debts in Gridania had been handsomely paid back (a story for another time), but it seemed the more coin she possessed the more everything she liked decided to cost.  Her tiny room in the Quicksand, once a simple domicile, swelled with new belongings all carefully packed and cared for.  Dresses, outfits, shoes, boots, jewelry, and a growing collection of fragrances, many of the last had been offered to her free if only she would wear them in public.  

She loved the Quicksand.  Momodi is the one who had given her a chance when she really needed it.  It was just the opportunity she had needed, at a time when she had scarcely been so needy.  Debts had chased her from Gridania, and she arrived in the desert with little more than the clothes on her back: friendless, gil-less.  The wily proprietress had taken a deep look at the girl's smile, which strove against the forlorn and nearly desperate expression of her features, and offered her the barmaid position that had come to mean food and shelter: life itself, and the opportunity to thrive.  It might be too much to say that Momodi had believed in her then, but she had at least seen reason for hope.  

The hours were few now, far fewer than her old regulars would have liked, but those that she worked remained delightful.  The tell-tale swish of a little skirt, the sound of hollow heels upon the tiled floor, and an energetic laughter that filled the dome of the tavern during its most quiet hours, all told of the presence of a woman who loved the place ever, even as she saw less of it...



The sun filtered through a high leafy canopy to spread its gentle illumination upon the manicured clearing below.  A lattice arch, a deep mahogany crafted in a seamless, flowing fashion by the unequaled artisans of this leafy abode, provided the firmament for the growth of an ivy vine whose path wound it as if following a preconceived design.  Beneath this stood Aya Foxheart at her elegant best: adorned in high-fashion with the finest dress, jewelry and accoutrements available to the costumiers of Otto Vann's Fine Fashion's Gridania line.  Her long tresses were braided in an intricate fashion to accent the ivy latticework of the garden.  No strand dare stray upon her feminine shoulders, left bare by the dress that otherwise snugged to her figure.  The fabric was a mesh of gentle earthy tones, and natural fibers of plant and leather that defied ready description.  Deeply colored wooden heels put the finishing touch upon a look that sought to emulate the very best of the city it represented: the beauty of nature subtly harnessed and shaped by master craftsmen fully in tune with the primal woodland in which they made their home.

A handsomely dressed Lalafel, possessed of an outrageous mustache that accented his out-sized manner, stood beside her as they greeted the gathering guests.  This was the so-called Yoyomundi, the hand-picked designer who had done much to master and move the market for Gridanian fashion in the year since he arrived, and a regular client for Aya's modelling talents.

At last, with a smile that spoke of his genuine gratification, he turned to his premier model.  "My dear," he said with a twirl of his mustache, "I must say, that the dress compliments the lady.  But, not, I dare say, as much as the lady compliments the dress." He offered a brief and exaggerated bow to accentuate the compliment.

From a man as taciturn to his employees as he was dedicated to his craft, the words came as something between a shock and a surprise to her.  She could not hide a grin, nor the flushing of cheeks as she turned back toward the small crowd that had taken their seats in anticipation of the show.

It was a wonderful day...



As the wind picked up it struck her mostly exposed skin with an abrasive blast.  She let out a shout, as a fresh wound upon her upper arm caught the worst of this arid menace.  

"You can cry, missy, I won't tell anyone!  Promise!"  The man laughed a grisly laugh, before taking a long drink from an ancient flask.  He was watching from a reclined position, shielded from the wind by the large rock upon which he lay.  Old and tattered clothing matched the grizzled appearance of the man.  His hair hidden beneath a ratty turban, his beard a mixture of matted gray and brown with the slow-growing stubble that came with age.

Aya grimaced, shielding her face with her left hand.  Her right knee rest upon the rocky ground, a beaten wooden sword rest in her right hand.

She fought back the urge to shout again with as the searing pain coursed through her.  "I'm... alright!" she hollered back in a less than convincing tone, before struggling back to her feet, while the observer laughed.

A massive highlander stood in front of her.  Fully clad in leather and cloth he was preserved from the elements in stark contrast to her.  The larger wooden instrument in his hand bore the sign of quickly drying blood.  "Uh.. I'm sorry Aya!  I didna... I mean I didna mean ta..."

"Shuttup, lunk!"  Hollered the old man, interrupting the stammering apology.  "You're not here to talk!  I said to make her cry, and you haven't done it yet!" His expression was one of frustration, if not outright anger toward the young swordsman.

Aya reached her feet, breathing heavily.  With difficulty she drew the sword back and crouched into a ready position.

The old man's smile returned with a laugh, "Eh!  Maybe we'll make something of her yet.  Lunk!  Make her cry and its a two-steak dinner on the old man!"

Lunk nodded before taking a moment to adjust the mask that guarded his face.  A precaution not, apparently, given the girl.  

He'd get his steak before the night were done...



She stood bare before her mirror.  Eyes passed from one injury to the next.  She'd never really appreciated mother's tutelage so much before.  The salves and tinctures did their job.  Even wooden blades wound, but with time and care they healed.  Cosmetic could often hide those still fresh.  In the "real game" healers stood by to aid the combatants.  But, that wasn't the way Samuel operated.  No one operated like Samuel--not any more.  She shuddered, rubbing both arms up and down as she recalled the old man's words of warning:

"I don't teach up-and-comers.  The sands isn't what it was."  The voice was gritty and earnest.  "We used to kill.  That was the sport.  Now?  They're not fighters.  None of 'em!  And I don't take anyone new.  I'm done.  Done!  They want to make a show, and that I can't teach."  He had waved both hands dismissively.  "Besides, what are you?  A delicate little flower of a girl?  I know where ya work!  And this is a lil' more dangerous than gettin' yer ass slapped by a handsy costumer drunk on Momodi's swill.  You just don't get it do you?!  I'm not teaching you, missy! I'm not."

A purse-full of gil seemed to change his mind, but not before a final warning, "You're going to regret this."  And how she did...

She turned from the mirror with a sigh as her eyes fell upon the open letter resting precariously upon the tiny table that doubles as her desk.  It had arrived in unusual double-monographed form. One was more than familiar, as dubious as any, the other was unfamiliar but bore the elegant design of an Ishgardian house.  This was even more dubious than the first.

The letter began, "You are most cordially invited..."  and ended, "Dubiously Yours, Verad Deauxbois".  An even stranger name for a strange, yet endearing man.  Who happened to have the dubious habit of stumbling into every form of honor that Aya despised.  Still... he was Verad, and she had never declined an invitation of his before.  

But this was in... Ishgard.  

She sighed again.  A deeper, remorseful sound that coursed through her.  She shook her hair, running fingers through the wetness of her freshly-cleaned locks.  

She pretended to think about something else, but her gaze fell upon the small ribbon-bound bundle of papers she kept more carefully than any other: the correspondence of her brothers in Ishgard.  Her eyes followed a well practiced route from the bundle: to the wrought iron weather-crow hung above her door, to the small family portrait that was the only decoration upon otherwise barren walls.  It bore an empty seat--the only sign of a missing sister, and daughter.  

The Inquisition had fallen.  The gates were free.  The streets were open.  Orrin Halgren, the dragoon had assured her of all this.  V'aleera had implored her.  Osvald had invited her, in his always too-gentle way.  

Perhaps it was time...

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 11-07-2016

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[Homecoming - Part One]

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Home?  They say it is where the heart is.  But, in truth, how difficult it can be to define.  To some, it is obvious.  A place of birth, of coming-of-age.  A place of loyalty and frustration - of every facet and exuberance of love.  

It can come naturally.  With thoughts and memories: recollections of family, of friends.  The place of timeless moments joyful and heart-breaking.  For others it is more than remembrance: it is duty, obligation, and hope.

What of Aya?  An Ala Mhigan washed up on the shores of Thanalan's desert expanse by way of the Tower City.  Her path unwound through the many roads and tracks of Eorzea.  

Could it be found at the beginning? She did not even know where to start.  Where to begin.  Opening her eyes she saw only the reflection of flickering candle-light off tile and the rippling surface of warm bathwater.  This was her place of ultimate reflection.  Of quiet solitude where only her thoughts could penetrate the steamy thickness of the air.  

The beginning?  She could hear the tune - echoing through the hollow chambers of aural memory.  The sounds of the manor - the family keep.  She carried only the faintest sense of the place, the land over which once flew the crow banner of her ancestors.  

What of that heartland city?  Ala Mhigo.  To her it meant the sound of longing pipes echoing through the mountain pass.  Could she recall the faint outline of the city's towers against the setting sun - or was that the effect of the tiny painted landscape that was the most prized possession left by Enna's doomed mother to her only daughter?

The bonds of nostalgia did not connect Aya to these places, too strong with the scent of strangeness.  What only infant eyes had spied could leave no strong impression.

What of nostalgia?  To what place could she attach such feelings?  Was it really a place that could be nostalgic, she wondered?  For her, a refugee child, the exactness stung with the certitude of loss.  There could be no return to those places she remembered with sepia-toned heart.  They were the transitory stopping-points of an itinerant family.  

Thanalan was grit.  Vylbrand was sea-salt and the friends whose brief fraternity seemed a life-time in hindsight.  The Shroud, the scent of pine and the gentle tones of the forest realm.  Intermingled with all: family.  Mother, father, brothers, and sister.  The feeling of their voices, and the warmth of their proximity.  While she was still too young to truly understand their hardship.

Was she blessed?  Others could not help but feel a longing for those places of their youth, when all still seemed fresh, warm, and whole.  Many unknowingly sought to embrace their past, to dwell in the nostalgia of a home which they had never truly left behind.  But even for them it could only be a faint facade of what once had been.  She possessed the sure knowledge that hers could never be reached: no physical place could capture those feelings.  Only a place and a time long since washed away by the intervening moons.  All they were, all they could ever be, were in her mind.  

She closed her eyes.  Submerged her thoughts in memory.  And touched that home that no others could love.

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 11-08-2016

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[Homecoming - Part Two]

The Airship always provides two things in bountiful plenty: scenery, and time for thought. While the Shroud rolled on beneath the billowing sails of the graceful wooden vessel, the Ayas thoughts were fraught with turmoil.

To those who know her only as Momodi's bubbly barmaid, she would have seemed unrecognizable. Or those who saw her only as a poster girl, a glamour model. To those who only knew her as the face and figure of Gridanian fashion. Even to those who had seen her dance, and thus witnessed a brief, if clear, glimpse of her heart. It would not be fair to call the smiles facade: she loved every day's simple pleasures and company. But the warmth of her outward expression could not hope to penetrate the fullness of the heart within. She was simply human, after all.

One sentiment had hung in the back of her mind: dereliction (manquement, trahison, she could never decide the fullest severity of it all). It had been there for more than days, more than weeks and moons. Years had passed since the fateful day of her irrevocable decision: immediate flight at all cost. It had meant freedom. Freedom to pursue her own happiness, to discover herself, and to explore the world around her: she had escaped the stone cage that was Ishgard, but at the cost of all that had been left behind.

It was unlike her. She always let go. She focused on the here, the now, and the future, wasn't that right? The past was a millstone around the neck of those who failed to move on and adapt. In the rapidly changing landscape of Eorzea this seemed more important than ever. But this was different, wasn't it? This was family. Downcast eyes were accompanied with a feeble grip on the side-railing. Why did it always feel like this when she thought of home?

She had rolled through the justifications so many times that they were now summoned forth with the summarized rapidity of a well-rehearsed argument. The dangers of her place in Ishgard seemed to be closing in around her. One too many enamored admirers, too many of whom were blessed with the very power of birthright and status that could make life for her or her family difficult, or worse. Parents insistent that she serve their familial expectations, and their concept of propriety and tradition. The deep-hewed contours of a society sculpted to prevent the rise and success of an outsider, and daughter of refugees. An endless winter that snuffed hope, happiness, and health with the same sureness with which it it smothered spring in its blanket of endless snow and frost.

But no matter the justification, her heart ever returned to the same conclusion: dereliction. Abandonment of family, of friends, of home. She had left behind her brothers, Kael and Osvald, and their adoptive sister Enna. Mother was left without a daughter of her own. Father left bereaved of his very joy and purpose. Uncles, aunts, and cousins to whom she owed so much felt the sting of her sudden disappearance. The friends, patrons, and fellow performers whom she had left without word or farewell.

To what, to whom, could she ever think herself loyal? Could there be a greater betrayal than that of blood and sororal bonds?

Her eyes focused on the landscape passing beneath the ship. She had been here before. In this strange, darkened mood. With eyes cast uncharacteristically backward, brimming with self-criticism and doubt. Yes, father was overbearing. He insisted that she live the life he desired, rather than that which she had desired: but was that not his right? Had he not seen them all through the gravest of danger? And what had she done with it all? Just what had she accomplished to make her family proud?

She let out a heavy sigh, eyes closing as she wondered whether this trip was just one more bad decision to compound the rest. Over the years this sense of betrayal had carved a hollowness in her heart. A hollowness that sought to undermine everything she loved in life. "I am happy," she would repeat to herself, as though the proof were in the words themselves. Yet, simple irresolution ever seemed to deny her peace. She could draw upon ample evidence of her failings. The violence of her days as a sell-sword, and the cowardice and cravenness that followed her departure from the Shroud. How could they even understand what life had been like for her in Ishgard, let alone Ul'dah?

News from the Tower City did nothing to settle her. She had first learned of father's illness from V'aleera's letters, but it was Osvald who wrote to tell her of the despair into which he had sunk upon her flight - which they had all believed was her demise.

Of course, she failed to reckon with her father's own story. With all the ghosts of the family history. These were not perfect men and women: all were failed in their own way. When faced with the decision to stand in brave defiance with his countrymen had he not turned and fled with his family? Just how deeply did he compromise in order to survive the reign of the King of Ruin? He had overseen the loss of everything they had once possessed. Betrayal, dereliction, it seems, runs in the family.

When news reached the family that she was alive and well, it lifted a heavy burden, but father had simply never been the same. Once irascible, and full of energy, he had grown tired and morose. She wondered if he would even want to see her. If mother would. Aya could not but wonder what sort of welcome awaited her in the belly of frostbitten stone.

The airship docked in the heights of Gridania's wood-craft skyline. Calmly, she gathered her belongings from below.

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 11-11-2016

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[Homecoming - Part Three]

It was only a brief stopover, but there were some things that simply had to be attended to whenever passing through Gridania.  Fortunately, Miounne is a woman who is all warmth and welcome when one does not owe her money.  That made this trip significantly less stressful than others.  The exchange of warm smiles was enough for pleasantries with her old employer.  She could not help the sigh of relief that escaped her lips as she stepped down the steps to exit the Canopy.  Gridania had become an altogether more welcome place, something to which she owed one Monsieur Otto Vann, and a handful of retired Wood Wailers.

She adjusted the bag she carried over her shoulder.  The long coat that adorned her lent an oppressive heat to the moment, despite hanging open in the sun of an autumn morning.  Preparing to travel through Coerthas was never easy, and it meant a coat to awkward to carry even on a sunny day.  Stepping toward the Old Town she mentally reviewed her to-do-list: visit the designer Yoyomundi, check in for her overnight stay at Lea's, and pay a quick visit to the Sleeping Boar and the Rabbit Hole.  For a moment she felt aghast at the tediousness of it all.  

There was a near collision as she stopped cold in her tracks, completely oblivious to the weekday foot traffic moving all about her.  She looked up, her free hand shielding her eyes from the rays of sunlight that managed their way past the overarching canopy of of buildings and trees.  She took in a slow, deep breath of the crisp autumn air.  She closed her eyes in appreciation.

This was the scent of freedom.  The taste of liberty.  Visiting friends was no hardship. She opened her eyes, adjusted her pack, and hurried on her way with smile restored.

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"Oh, Aya dear, yes he is back in the gardens.  He will be so pleased to see you."  The matronly Elezen offered a warm if sympathetic smile that Aya returned with eagerness.  

Madame Delannoy was the heiress of storied heritage, and the misfortunate employer of one Silas Greenthumb, a gardener.  And it was he that Aya had come to see.

She strode slowly out the open doors and through a cozy wood portico into the garden.  The sound of her heels against the board flooring was unmistakable, and amidst the uneven rows of shrubbery and plants, showing only the first sign of fall's tinge, a squat, hunched figure perked up.

Silas was the latest, and last, of a long and storied line of gardeners.  They had served the Delannoy's since his ancestor had first ploughed and contoured the plot of land into the finest garden in Gridania.  It had been renown for its sense of intimacy with nature, and the glorious palette of its spring-time hues.  But somewhere along the line the family talent had petered out, and although Silas was as much part of Madame Delannoy's inheritance as the manor itself, the garden had suffered for it.

The hunched-gardener looked about, eyes narrowed in the squint of the hopelessly myopic.  He couldn't see her, or at least could not quite make her out, but he already knew his guest.  "Flower girl!" he called out with child-like excitement.  "Flower girl, I'd know you anywhere!"

She could not help but grin.  There was something about the fellow that always made her smile.  "Oh Silas, it is me!" she let out an excited laugh.

He moved with a fitful little start, working his way to one of the cobbled paths that wound its way through the lawn and garden that were his charge.  The ornamental plants never bloomed with the radiant plumage of generations past.  The hedge-trims were largely neat, but lacked the remarkable natural feel that the Madame remembered from her childhood.  But, there was one phenomenal thing Silas achieved every year.  From spring through autumn the garden was blessed with a sweet, complex perfume of varied fragrance that ever varied but never waned until the winter frosts first struck.  

This fragrant bouquet Aya absorbed with a happy sigh, meeting the giddy little gardener upon his path.  

"You've brought me some flowers I hope?" He asked with an irrepressible anticipation.

Aya laughed, drawing her bangs back with a free hand.  A little motion that escaped the fellows near-useless vision.  "Silas," she said with playful disappointment as her hand came to rest on a cocked hip.  "You know that I only worked that job for a week, and that was cycles ago now."  The gardener grinned with a nod.  He could not see her smile, but he could hear it, despite her best effort to obscure it.  "But!" he insisted irresistibly, "you're still the 'Flower Girl'!"

She laughed along with him, opening the small package of flowers she was carrying and offering them to him.  They were just what he wanted. In fact, he had just ordered them.  Aya, as she always did, had stopped by her former employer, offering to make the next delivery for them.  They gladly obliged.

Silas poked his face over the bag, stubby fingers pulling it open while she held it toward him.  "Perfect!  Just perfect!  You always bring the best, Flower Girl!" he laughed excitedly while accepting the package.  He unceremoniously plopped it on the ground by the path, "I really cannot thank you enough...!"

She interrupted him, retrieving in an unseen flourish a small box from her purse.  "And...".  He fell silent, useless eyes opened wide in surprise as he stared at the unexpected object.

"What is...?" he began to ask as she abruptly flipped the lid open.  A tinkling tune began to play, while the figure of a dancing girl made a slow pirouetting circle atop.  It was another of Verad's Dubious oddities, finding new life with the help of deft fingers and a little ingenuity.

Silas' wide eyes were joined by a mouth opened wider with delightful surprise.  He stammered for a moment, "But - But Flower Girl w - why?  Is this - is this for me?"

Her voice flowed in reply like the sweet current of a summer stream, "It is yours, my friend.  A gift to a most loyal customer, and a fine friend."  

He embraced it suddenly, pulling the still playing music-box tight to his chest.  "It sings!" he shouted in happiness.  

She laughed, "It does..!"

He did not know the dancing figure was meant to remind him of her.  He didn't know anything about her except that she always brought flowers, and somehow - somehow always made him feel better than he had before she'd been there.  

"Tell me about what you've got planted right now..." she asked softly, gently nudging him back into the garden that was his life's work...



Madame Delannoy personally opened the front door for Aya as she left.  "I thank you." she said, with a bow far more humble than Aya deserved.  "You are welcome.  And: Merci, Madame.  Thank you."  She bowed her head deeply, hand held to her chest in a sign of gratitude. The Mistress knew exactly what the young woman meant.  They exchanged smiles one more time, and then she stepped out into the evening cold.

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Aya knew this road all too well.  The sun was already rising late this time of year, leaving a short day for the walk to Fallgourd Float.  It had been many moons since her last time upon the path, but she remembered it like the patrols were yesterday.  Airship service to Ishgard had already been renewed, and she could have saved herself a wealth of trouble by using it.  But something about that just wouldn't be right.  

There were too many steps to retrace.  Too many memories to relive.  The greatest trial of her life to see again with fresh eyes.  The miracle of her survival to appreciate.  The charity that had been her savior to repay.

She adjusted her coat, and embraced the chill.  She flexed her grip around the spear that completed her guise as an adventurer.  She took in the scent of the wood, and the sound of the breeze rustling dry leaves.  Tonight she would sleep in the all-too-familiar quarters of Fallgourd Float's inn.  

And tomorrow--tomorrow she would return to Coerthas and its frozen expanse.  She would be well on her way home.

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 11-20-2016

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[Homecoming - Part Four]

The wind roared with primal might and whipped freshly fallen snow into a whistling cloak of biting fury.  Sturdy trees shuttered in the face of a Coerthas blizzard that tested the strength of roots-massive anchors dug deep within frostbitten earth.  The brief hours of winter daylight were cut shorter yet by the long enveloping shadows cast by the threatening peaks that loomed menacingly above the highland hinterlands which the storm relentlessly gripped.  The chill of death descended upon the land on the heels of the retreating sun, smothering everything within its creeping expanse.  

This was never the plan.  There had been a plan hadn't there?  Three days in the open country with a week's worth of provisions, just in case.  Heavy fur-lined trappings, the bounty of gil spent with an unusual foresight by the happy-go-lucky girl.  She peered through the narrow slits of snow goggles that protected her eyes during the brief hours of daylight, but banks of thick coniferous trees vanished into the gray-soupy cloud of white-out mere feet before her.  Each step forward bore the weight of snow and frost accumulating in the furs that had so far preserved her against the season's even harsher cold.

This was never the plan.  There had been a plan hadn't there?  The sky had been clear on the night of her flight.  A new moon was the key to success, and there had been no sign of approaching storm.  But the expanse of Coerthas' forest could trap the most experienced woodsmen, let alone a woman who had never before set foot in them.  A woman had known nothing but stone, cobble, brick, and shingle for a decade or more.  Three days passed, and she seemed no closer to her goal.  The roads were hostile, patrolled by those who would carry her back to the prison-city from which she had fled.  There was no comfort, and no path but to move forward.

This was never the plan.  There had been a plan hadn't there?  It seemed like everything was coming and going in circles.  Each step forward felt like the last.  Her thoughts trapped in a cycle of a confused searching.  How many nights had she spent in that makeshift shelter?  She'd lost count.  The storm arrived with such merciless haste that she had been caught unprepared.  Only quick thinking had spared her - it had, hadn't it?  But the food was gone.  

This was never the plan.  There had been a plan hadn't there?  The weight was intense.  Her muscles strained. Her flesh long ago had gone numb from the wet chill, but she pressed forward despite all.  Just another step.  Another step forward.  She didn't think about where she was going - she had no idea.  The forest closed in around her.  Long-shadowed trees were enveloped in life-quenching darkness.  

This was never the... hadn't she been over this already?  She struggled to stand upright.  Her feet paused momentarily.  What is the plan?  She wondered, confused.  Tired.  Exhausted.  Her stomach was empty.  Her blood grew cold.  Senses that had been sharpened by the demands of necessity now grew weak and faint under its strain.  She pulled the protective goggles from her eyes, searching hopelessly for a path in the endless expanse of snow-covered forest.  A mittenned hand fished into a pouch, retrieving her magitek-beacon.  With a click it hummed to life.  A blue-white light shone in every direction, but still she could not find a way out or a path forward.  If she even knew where forward were, her tracks rapidly filling in behind her.      

There had been a plan hadn't there?  She looked in confusion as she stared at the light emanating from the device in her hand.  What was she looking for again?  She felt the strange warmth in her palm.  She smiled against a blast of wind, and wondered if this was what the end felt like.

It is said that one's life flashes before one's eyes as you are about to die.  She stumbled forward, and fell face-down in the fresh snow.  There was no flash, only the dull-numbness of the frozen air encroaching all-around.  It seeped into every pore, cut through every garment.  She thought of the fires of home.  Of smiles and laughter.  A sense of warmth overcame her, then of peace.  The struggle was over.  She felt her body no more.



She was as if floating.  Gliding, sliding along.  She could still hear the wind.  It howled around her.  How strange, she thought, that death could sound so much like life.  But everything was so restful, carried aloft by these currents.  



She felt a bump, and a thud.  Then the gliding, the floating returned.  The peace that had overwhelmed her had been interrupted.  Eyes strained to open.  Dark tree-shapes slid past her.  The shapes grew broader, and darker once more, until she saw no more.



Warmth.  Warmth.  Warmth.  This is better -  warmth in the darkness.  The cold was gone.  Or maybe it had never been.



A rush of sensation forced her awake.  A pressure against lips, a sense of touch as if the broken connection to her body were suddenly restored.  A feeling of heat filled her mouth, her throat, and flowed deep within.  



She exerted every once of strength to force her eyes open.  Bare slits saw the reflection of fire covering whatever space she was in.  A moment later she felt the sensation again, as she took in another mouth-full of hot broth.  



It seemed as if an eternity passed as she tried to open her eyes.  Slowly the scene emerged within the hut.  A gray-haired Elezen carefully, and slowly offered her spoon-fulls of the life-giving soup.



Her throat was too hoarse to speak, and the old man never broke the silence.  How long she was there - only he could know.  At some point he ushered her back into the elements, and seated her on his hand-built wooden sledge.  He looped a yoke over his shoulders and began the task of bodily pulling her along the still-fresh snow.  The storm had passed.  The sun returned.  

At last he stopped, and helped her stand.  He set her pack upon her shoulders, stocked and full.  He placed her beacon within her palm, gripped her shoulders with a broad smile, and turned her around.  He gestured toward an obvious path, and then turned back the way he had come, drawing the yoke upon his shoulders as he took up the weight of the now-empty sledge.  She tried to call to him, but no voice escaped.  At last, she started down the path.  Within minutes the wood opened up before her, forming a broad snowy plain.  But the fresh snow was receding.  In the distance it became patchy, interspersed with bare ground.  On the horizon stood the black, enormous trunks of the Black Shroud...



Slender fingers of a gloved, feminine hand pushed away the flakes of frost from a small slab of gleaming white granite that was embedded in the soil.  She traced the outline of the inscription, which read simply, "Du Bois" (of the woods).  As she gazed at the memorial she imagined her own name upon it, "Aya Tharintreu".  As it would have been, but for the man memorialized.  

With a careful, slow motion she lowered a token of her affection onto the small slab.  A single White Rose, carefully dried to preserve against the ravages of frost.  She knelt before the nondescript grave, thoughts and memories washing over her. Tears flowed free--sadness mellowed by a sense of overwhelming gratitude.

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 12-02-2016

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[Slowing the Wheels of Justice One - Merchant, Marine Part One]

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(Several of the characters referred to here, originally appeared in the story: One Late Summer Limsan Afternoon)

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Aya closed her eyes against the damp, chill wind.  It was just what one should have expected on an early winter evening by the Lominsan wharves - not that she had expected it.  She pulled the cloak tighter around her form, swirling winds whirling around uncovered legs while the wet frigidness of the air cut through every layer of clothing she did wear, biting the skin beneath.  

Lominsan sailors and their land-bound longshoreman cousins are a hearty breed.  Bound in leathers and coated canvas better suited to the atmosphere in which they made their living, they went about their business around-the-clock.  At the moment an exchange of shifts was underway, and Aya watched carefully as one crew exchanged with the next.  She noted each on its way, eyes carefully inspecting each male Roegadyn who passed her by.  

Beginning to doubt her purpose, she at least spied the visage she had sought.  It had seared its way into childhood memories, under the name of 'Masters'.  Her eyes followed him as he walked with a small group of co-workers focused, no doubt, on their quest for after-work refreshment.  It wasn't long before they spotted her too, and she became subject to a long second-look, but one of appreciation rather than recognition on the part of the Roegadyn she had once known as a foe.

"Wonder what she's doin' all th' way dun here?" Asked one.  "Why don't you ask her how much she charges?"  Joked another to a hearty laugh.

The information was good.  Here was Masters, once a teenage gang-leader, now a common dock worker.  She wouldn't have believed it had she not seen it for her own eyes.

...
"He couldn't cut it.  It was one thing stealin' food and bullyin' kids.  When it came to the real work he just wasn't cut fer it.  Washed out, never initiat'd, not even the north siders were take'n him"
...

She let out a huff, before pulling the cloak tighter about her figure.  A futile effort to stave off the cold, while her mind became distracted by thoughts of warm fire.

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The dark room wasn't quite an open fire, but it was indoors, and it would do.  Why was it those in the information trade always seemed to like to work in the dark?  She'd have a thing or two to say about the benefits of working in the wide open of the Quick Sand...

But, her mind was focused on the task at-hand.  This was no normal meeting.  The Miqo'te who stood before her was both stranger, and something far closer.  His figure was contorted, powerful legs bent and mis-shapen, leaning to the left where he maintained his balance with a simple carved stick of sturdy Shroud dark-wood.  The left side of his face was scarred to an unrecognizable degree, barely human, his mouth twisted into a permanent half-grimace.  An eyepatch covered the eye, while the other, still-good, offered a penetrating gaze that seemed to ever hover somewhere between insight and malice.  

"You found 'im, I'm presumin'." The voice, soft and calm, belied his appearance.  

This wasn't how she remembered him.  The sprightly kid Miqo'te who could climb a sheer storefront with an easy scamper.  He was as always as quick-witted as he was fleet-footed, with a cheerful sense of mischief that saw him leap into danger time-after-time if it meant a little excitement, and the chance to help friends out of a jam.

She'd wished what she'd heard hadn't been true.  That he had kept up, just like always, as he grew up.  An urchin--son of the streets--he'd known nothing else.  Just as he'd helped keep kids out of trouble, soon he was coming to the rescue of his gang and their cohorts.  He was always their "ace-in-the-hole".

She nodded.  "I did."  The good half of his face smiled.  When joined with the scarred grimace, the effect was unsettling.

His luck finally ran out.  He made fools of one-too-many, and a trap was laid.  This time there would be no fanciful story-book escape.  No hijinks or witty retorts tossed over a fleeing shoulder.  Only pain and suffering.  He was hobbled, and maimed under intense torture.  His tail amputated at the base, and hung as a grizzly trophy by the rival gang leader.  He was left hobbled; legs broken were not allowed to set properly.  Muscles rent by imprecise blade-work never healed correctly.  They plucked an eye, and branded the side of his head, scorching his face with a sadistic glee.  

This was not what he had deserved, a young man so full of life and cheer.  He had done his own lot of ill in life, and perhaps no story book ending was ever in his cards, but he'd done nothing deserving what he got.

"That," he said coolly, the smile becoming a smirk of satisfaction, "Was a favor fer an old friend.  Now, though, you had somethin' else you wished to discuss?"

In the end they dropped him off with the Yellow Jackets.  He was still a wanted criminal, and they'd let the law handle the rest.  Maiming was one thing, but killing altogether different under the gangland code of Limsa.  No need for a streetwar, just a little sweet retribution.

"There are two sailors accused of mutiny awaiting judgement by the Board.  I am sure you already know I helped the last so-accused to defend himself, and now he is acclaimed as a hero of the Maelstom."

The disfigured Miqo'te nodded.  "Funny tha'.  Aya.  Funny tha'," he rasped. "Wherever you go they seem to be make'n 'eroes of somebody."

She canted her head gently, the dim light betraying a smirk escaping beneath her hood.

In, the end, there was one more lesson to be learned: a clever Miqo'te with a photographic memory is no man to trifle with.  Dole, for that was his name, settled his business with the Jackets by providing evidence against every single member of the gang that had tortured him.  Each one faced their own judgement, round up and dealt with according to their crimes.  Save one, whom the wily cat preserved as evidence of his power over them.

"I want their hearing delayed," she answered matter-of-factually.  "And the street is against them, calling for their hanging.  I want to change that, and I think you're just the man to help me."

The Miqo'te drew his free hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully.  "Well, you've made 'ero of one mutineer already.  It is not too much of a stretch to claim these men may be as well."  

She nodded.  "The Captains have little precedent to guide them in there matters.  They will be guided by the street."

He concurred, "True 'nuff.  Though it won't be enough.  The Captains all 'ave their own agendas."

"I know." She answered shortly, leaving the rest unspoken.

Crippled, and having made a good return on his incarceration, the Jackets quickly released their sympathetic prisoner.  The days of adventure were over.  There would be no more escapades.  But the man, now simply know as 'Ace', made the decision to go into work for himself: a trader of information.

"Who are you friends?" he asked perceptively, the gaze of his good eye waxing penatrative.  

"What do you mean?" She asked with weakly feigned surprise.

"The Jewel of the Desert does not just come to Limsa Lominsa to save the lives of mutineers."  He observed, signaling that the game was on.

"There must be someone interested in it.  Interested 'nuff to engage you."  He paused for effect, drawing his cane before him, and leaning against it with both hands.

"And, Thanalan's Ishgardian Belle does not trade in information for gil.  Pose for posters, aye.  Serve swill, aye.  Dance fer all ta see it all, aye.  But exchange information, nay.  That she won't do, 'cept fer cause."

She feigned surprise at the man's insight, all accurate as far as it goes.  

"Theretofore," he stated with a little triumph, "she is actin' on behalf of friends." He purred with a tenor made all the more disturbing by the scarred grimace.  "Now, she is an old friend.  And I am willin' to do what she asks.  All I ask in return is to know on whose behalf she acts, so that I can know who I am workin' for."  His eyes narrowed, his price set, every piece carefully maneuvered to pin his target down.

She listened, the feigned surprise fading from her features as he named his price.  She held his one-eyed gaze for a moment that stretched beyond suspense.  Her eyes slowly narrowed, revealing a look of confidence and mischief that the Miqo'te couldn't help but recognize from their childhood days.

At last she reached carefully into her bodice, sliding out a folded parchment which she duly offered to him.

Surprise was now his to offer as he suspiciously accepted the parchment.  It was warm to the touch, and smelled of her fragrance as he unfolded it.  

It was an official letter to one "Aya Foxheart, Quicksand, Ul'dah" bearing the letter head of "Escrow and Sons, Limsa Lominsa".

Ace knotted his brow.  "What's the meaning of this?"

"If you read, you'll see they are offering thanks to a loyal customer."  It was her turn to pause for effect, her lips drawing back into a pursed-lip grin.

"I understand that you have been in a little... mmm... difficulty with them, owing to your previous life.  And that this has made certain desired transactions fraught with difficulty, even through your subsidiaries."

He folded the paper carefully.  The slow methodical motion gave him an opportunity to hide the surprise that emerged only partly upon his voice, "How did..."

He sighed, steadying himself.  "And you, I s'pose.  Could make these acquisitions for me, without the least suspicion."

Her lips pouted, her entire body shifting its expression, "Suspect me?"  She asked plaintively above suspicion, "What could you suspect me of?"

He grinned, nearly laughing at the girl's game.  He slipped the paper away.  "Very well then.  A favor from one old friend to another."

She smiled and added a slight nod.  "From one old friend to another."


As Ace slipped back into the shaded corridor he was joined by his Hyur assistant.  "Well, boss, seems she wasn't goin' ta give up 'er friends."

"No... that she's not.  She not only passed, but she's proven even more wily than expected.  I should 'ave know not to underestimate her."

"Passed?" asked the Hyur, "Was that a test?"

The Miqo'te turned to him with seriousness, "Is it really a test if you know someone is going to pass?  I want you to draw up a list of everything we might want from Escrow and Sons.  We may not get another opportunity this good."

RE: Stranger in a Strange Land - Aya - 12-05-2016

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[Slowing the Wheels of Justice Two - Merchant, Marine Part Two]

[With Leggerless as W'chaza Yheli]

The sound of high-tide swells crashing against the white-stone bulwarks hundreds of feet below was a steady accompaniment to life in Limsa Lominsa.  This late morning was no different, the location a tiny cafe ensconced in the upper reaches of the labyrinthine city.  It was a literal hole in the wall - or nearly so - with a small staff of energetic servers and barristas catering to a mostly foreign clientele.  Although the Captains and maritime officers of Limsa Lominsa had begun to assimilate the more civilized traits of the great Eorzean cities, coffee-houses had not yet made their way into the Limsan mainstream.

The matter on Aya's mind was rather similar.  The morning had been a rather lazy one, and she found herself reading local papers, thinking, and writing notes upon a few pieces of scattered parchment while sipping hot, black coffee and waiting for her appointment to arrive.

The bulk of her effort was dedicated to a few stanza of verse, scribbled together with numerous adjustments and edits.

Wind roars while cables snap and sing,
Doused in the dank of chop sea spray.
The few who dare, to battens cling,
Gritting into wind; too proud to pray.

These were the first to ply the sea,
Charting their way they searched, and strayed
Wild as the surf: damned, rough, and free.
They risked it all, to raid or trade.

More would follow, in their wake.
Then softening ways, and routes begin,
The waves were claimed for living's sake,
Organized, to be but merchantmen.

So the wild, raging, waters tamed
Leave men behind, unsure of what to make,
Without their place or name, now shamed,
By this strange new world, in which they wake.

The rules of conduct now are named,
All brought tight, strict and uniform.
What once was theirs, cannot be claimed,
The calm has settled violent storm.

And now, in anger, rage, and grief
They look to search and find once more,
For shred of peace, and sweet relief,
For what was theirs in youth or yore.

Accompanying the verse were a few stray thoughts made tangible with the aid of her ink pen.  

"The Maelstrom are an attempt to bring order to pirates."

"Pirates have always operated by a code, but one that was flexible and adaptive to the needs of the moment, and to the desires of the most powerful, and popular pirate captains."

She'd never been fond of pirates.  Those who gleefully take from others; disrupting and destroying lives for the sake of pillage: the taking of what is not rightfully theirs.  Criminals were criminals, but pirates a breed a part.  So apart that when deciding between city-states she had settled in the almost entirely unknown Ul'dah, rather than the Limsa Lominsa in which she had a history.

She touched the pen to her tongue.  A thought lingered, not quite fully formed, looking for a place upon the parchment.  After another moment she lowered the pen, quickly tracing the letters as if without haste the thought would flitter away:

"Piracy is a way of life that escapes other bonds.  To pirates it does not mean glory or gold.  It means freedom."  In this, at least, she could relate.

Then stepped in a character from central-casting.  The Miqo'te woman was incredibly tall for her people, patches of gray speckling the dark hair that framed a pair of active silver-blue bespectacled eyes.  She wore the uniform of a Maelstrom Officer.

Descended from the Sun Seeker's of the Sagoli, she could not have seemed more strange at first-blush, but she could have stood in for everything the Maelstrom intended for the future of Limsa Lominsa.  Despite appearing an outsider she had been raised within the city, and learned the ways of life upon its elevated streets and alleys.  She was well learned, a natural scholar and voracious reader.  She'd come to sailing late in life, and earned her Commission more for the capability of her intellect than her knowledge of the sea.

Beyond this, there was the less obvious: being possessed of the fitness of a naval officer in the prime of her life, there was nonetheless a slight plumpness to the young woman.  A lover of life, as well of knowledge, she'd embraced the ways of modern Limsa Lominsa, founding a cafe of her own and catering to customers who came from far and away for the taste of the finest pastries in Vylbrand, or so they claimed.

Lieutenant W'chaza Yheli was everything that the Maelstrom hoped to become.  Handsome, stylish, learned, cosmopolitan, and decidedly modern.  Everything about her suggested a professional, without a whiff of piracy.  

It would be hard for Aya to claim that the current case pitted these two opposing forces of Limsan politics against one another.  If anything, the swirling conflict took the form of a gripping undercurrent that rippled below waters that appeared far calmer on the surface.  But, to her mind, the lack of any actual political conflict in the city was not so much a matter of an actual political consensus on the matter of the Maelstrom's far-reaching reforms, but instead a testament to the Admiral's unquestioned supremacy within the city and the fleet.  Few dared to question her intentions, whether they agreed with them or not.

W'chaza smiled with a sly confidence.  After all, it was Aya who had summoned her  with a note left earlier in the morning.  The trip to W'chaza's cafe had actually proven most profitable, the remains of a delectable cup-cake were still sitting on the table as she arrived.

"Ah, Miss Foxheart. Hope I'm not too late." She paused, glanced over at Aya and the cup-cake quickly, and put away the small book in her hands into her clothes. "Worry not, I set the staff on a supply run so the cafe's closed now. Anyways. I take it this isn't about a culinary pleasure."

Aya smiled brightly, an amused little smirk tugging upon her lips as well as the Officer took a seat at the little table.

"Mademoiselle Yheli, please allow me to get you a cup of coffee for coming all the way up here, on what I am sure is still a busy day for you."

The Miqo'te offered a surrendering shrug of her shoulders, "If you insist. I'll take it black." she demurred with a smile.

"You're right, its not entirely pleasure that brings me here this morning," stated Aya to un-surprised ears, "I am sure you remember that just a few weeks ago we appeared before the Captain's board together, and advised against the punishment of a certain Mister Leeds."

W'chaza nodded, raising the freshly poured coffee up to her lips before taking a sip.  "Aye, that we did. Something related to that now?"

Aya nodded, "There are two more sailors accused of mutiny under similar circumstances." She paused for a moment, as if to add gravity to what followed, "I have friends who believe these sailors to, perhaps, be innocent of any actual wrong doing.  All they are seeking is a delay in the judgement of the matter."

W'chaza's eyes opened slightly at the statement.  "A delay? Well." She stopped to think for a moment. "If it's similar to the last case, we have a precedent established already. Problem, though, is the case against these two is solid unlike Mister Leeds." Sighing, she takes another sip of her coffee. "Opponents far more prepared to counter any attempts we'll make now. This time, they'll want the noose on their necks even if it means getting dirty."

Aya nodded, "I can agree with all of that.  The only good news is that the goal is not the same.  Not at the moment: a simple delay in the hearing, rather than a suspended sentence."

The Miqo'te peered at Aya for a moment, slightly piqued by the accusation before moving on.  "Said something about friends knowing they're innocent, correct? Who might they be?"

Aya shook her head slightly, "An adventurer from the Black Shroud, and an Immortal Flames Soldier.  I do not know what they know, except that I trust their judgement."

W'chaza's eyed flicked to Aya's with a glimmer of recognition at the description of the two familiar characters.  

"'Trust their judgment' isn't going to work this time around." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, both hands wrapped around the mug as she glanced inquisitively at the collection of papers and notes lying on the table.  "It helps you have proof on the public's opinion, but a judgment call only goes so far."

"This time around?" She asked with an inquisitiveness before smoothly moving on.  "They may be guilty.  In all honesty I cannot tell you.  Only that a delay in their hearing could provide evidence that exonerates them.  Now, I've seen your knowledge of the Maelstrom Code first-hand, and I could think of no one better to help me in this effort."

W'chaza pursed her lips, staring at Aya for a moment with a mixture of curiosity and calculation.  

"No secret it was drilled into me at a young age, that's for sure." she said, "Presuming I help you in the matter, what do you need from me?"

Aya looked at W'chaza with an earnest expression, her voice softening, "To employ your knowledge of Maelstrom Law to find reason for this judgment to be delayed. And, if necessary, to appear before the Board and argue for that."

The Miqo'te certainly didn't seem pleased about the thought of appearing before another Board.  But few things interested her as much as a puzzle to solve, especially when it meant diving into books, and trying to tease meaning from the vagaries of Limsa Lominsa's newly minted legal canon, even if her every instinct at the moment was pulling her away from the commission.

"Seven hells, the Board again... I'm trying to ease out of that life, not get into the thick of it." she replied, setting her coffee down with one hand, the index finger of her other hand pressed firmly down against the table. She lets out a light sigh before she speaks again. "I can play their game while I'm still around. Just understand if this all fails, I won't be the only one facing trouble with the outcome. These sailors, myself, you... maybe even these friends of yours and others to come. It's like challenging the Admiral's supremacy with this particular case; you know that, right?"

Aya knit her brow for a moment.  The statement seemed far less obviously true to her.  Losing a legal decision didn't come at grave personal cost even in the more barbaric sectors of Thanalan Law Practices.  Was there something about Limsa she'd missed?

"Sheez... believe it or not, there's still supposed to be rules to this shite..." The Miqo'te glanced to her right, took another sip of her coffee, mulled for a moment, then looked back at Aya. "Alright. Fine. I have one condition, though. For one evening of my time, I want one evening of your time. A dinner date works, if that's fine with you." The Miqo'te nodded again, with a smile of mischief suddenly drawing over her features.

Aya managed to swallow a sigh, instead she just cocked a blonde eyebrow.  She took in a breath, before answering with a charming softness drenched in the color of her Ishgard-laced voice, "Of course."