Entry Eleven
Fishing for Dragoons
Irridias Velnyx.
As curious a sort of man that you would never expect to have hiding behind such armor. He is, majority, blithe and almost childish with his teases and jibes, like a boy picking on his sister. Yet, there are ever-so-brief moments that his character breaks and these serious interludes emerge to expose something raw and, perhaps still bleeding, etched upon his soul. He laughs at the naivete of my idealism, but at the same time praises it for some manner of subtle heroism. He accepts who and what I am without question or reservation and speaks oft against the rift between our peoples.
Yes, a curious sort of man is Master Velnyx.
I happened to catch him in Amethyst Shallows, making an attempt to fish from the lake there. He'd heard about some water-born monstrosity of a fish and was quite determined to catch it for a girl in Gridania. It made for quite a battle to watch, the great beast nearly pulling him over the edge of the pier more than once, but he has a warrior's pride and ferocity when it comes to winning. He bade me take his fishing pole while he took up a harpoon he had nearby. A harpoon, mind you, it looked like those great metal barbs they load into the dragonkillers in Ishgard. As he came prepared with such a thing, I could only surmise that this had been his plan all along.
In the next moment, he ran and lept from the end of the pier, a darker shadow against the velveteen of the night sky. Dragoons, so graceful in their art and so deadly; the marriage of both beauty and hazard. In a single moment, he betrayed himself for what he was: a man who was built for battle, who coveted it as closely as most men covet gil. A man for whom the armor and weapon were more than just tools, but the physical embodiment of the emotional barbican by which he shields himself from the world.
Yet, for all that, after the ferocity of his attack send a tidal wave of water crashing over both me and the pier, he emerged from the water victorious and as boyishly flippant as ever, seeming quite satisfied with himself. It makes me wonder if he is half so reckless as all that when it comes to true battle; I fear for his enemies, if so. A man so casual with his own life would care little for those on the other end of his lance.
Once the battle was won, we spoke at length, though it was mostly I who did the talking. He was courteously kind, inquiring after my work, and the things I might do beyond them. I told him that, perhaps, I wanted to be a chocobo farmer or raise racing chocobo, were I ever to leave my studies behind, after the Duskwights have once again found their place in the world. When the world once again knew true peace. It was a small lie, but what else could I tell him? That I have no aspirations beyond the salvation of my people? That there is a part of me that believes I shall not see it in my lifetime? What use is there in planning for a future that may never come to pass? I comfort myself with the knowledge that the work I do today may inspire another Duskwight in the future, but that is all I can hope for. He said that my hope and my desire to protect such knowledge and save it for future generations felt like some small manner of heroism to him -- but perhaps it was just a kindness.
At the moment of our parting, we said our farewells and, as many often do, he referred to me as a lady. In my tidal-wave and rain-drenched condition, hands covered in fish blood and reeking like the worst kind of sahagin, I told him that I was no kind of lady. As he sauntered away, he said, "Ah, you see, but that's what a lady /should/ look like. Far better that than the fancy dresses the women of Ishgard favor."
I couldn't help but laugh. Brightest Gods, a most curious man, indeed.