The gate loomed over them. By all other accounts it wasn't particularly tall. Eorzea wasn't a place that was always made friendly to those of their stature, but they generally were able to make do. Here it wasn't even a matter of being able to simply reach up and find a latch, already a pain in the neck-literally. There was no latch at all. A house of this size was alien to Virara, who had thought the minor estate of her previous company a mansion. Here they were, at the gate of the residence, and it was still far enough away to appear rather small.Â
"... I, uh... I didn't think it would be so difficult simply to walk up. This was not part of the plan."
Slowly, Virara drew back her fist. Her breath drew into a quiet hiss as she inhaled deeply. Her boots pawed at the gravel beneath her, grinding down firmly against the earth. Centering her sense of balance, she drew inward, coiling her spine, filling her lungs with the biting air. The dense, finely honed power at her core built like a boiler near bursting, as she had always been trained to do. Every ilm of her body entrusted itself to the function of lending force to her blow. A small cannon, the caliber was low, but the ammunition was quite volatile.Â
Of course, it was just the path of least resistance. Even as her unconscious body prepared to strike, Virara gradually became self-aware. Feeling another's gaze upon her, she glanced to Chachanji, entire body primed to begin beating away at the iron gate. A typical response from a person who lived her life in linear paths. When something got in the way, crush it. That was the sort of way Virara had been raised. Yet even so, she tilted her head questioningly at him. Somehow, she seemed to already know what his answer would be.
However, even before she began to relax her tense posture, Virara's soft ears, red with the cold Vylbrand wind, twitched. Chachanji likely heard it too; hurried footsteps on the gravel path ahead, beyond the gate. A figure slouched its way down the terraced hills, appearing limbless from the way they folded their arms under a thick, green, woolen robe. Their face was obscured by a massive wide-brimmed sedge hat, and their sarouel-style pants hinted at a workman's outfit, the sort Chachanji probably had seen countless times in his youth in Othard. A question leaked quietly out of Virara.
"... How did he see us from that far off?"
Virara relaxed her posture, to a degree. No need to broadcast any more hostility than she naturally emitted; Virara was, after all, made aware of her unconscious glaring by Leanne. She decided upon the method of holding her eyes open, a bit wider than normal, taking extra care not to leer openly. Chachanji was better off speaking to them than she was, but she had called him there on her behalf, and the idea of making the boy speak to the transparently misanthropic merchant lord alone did not sit well with her. The unfortunate side effect was that she looked much as she did when Eaubront gave Virara her first coffee, but better to look overstimulated than vaguely murderous. Given the circumstances, Virara had no faith in her already lacking ability to remain cordial.Â
The man's sedge shade hid his face from view, which stirred a sense of unease within the girl, but she barred it up deep within. When he raised his chin to address the two unexpected guests, Virara momentarily forgot her resolution not to leer.
"Greetings, si-..."
The Doman Hyur's face had the square chin and well-defined lines of a handsome man, perhaps ten years their senior. His calm, small brown eyes and natural dimpled grin broadcast an intense atmosphere of warmth, enough that the frigid cliff side demesne seemed almost temperate. Yet all of this was utterly despoiled by the hideous network of scars haphazardly splayed across his face, like they were etched there by a child's wandering hand. Scars from puncturing. Scars from slashing. It almost appeared his nose had been reattached, and the repairs were crude. Half an ear peeked out from behind coarse black sideburns; Virara could see nothing on the other side. With the methods of recovery available in most nations where magic was practiced, the mind boggled at the depth and severity of the injuries that could still leave such lasting traces. Even the aged, craggy emptiness monk Bozu had a face as soft as a baby's in comparison to the man standing before them. Was this how Kuze greeted all of their guests?
Virara suppressed a desire to step back. Faces were nothing but shapes and shadows to her. She marked them but did not invest within them any sentiment deeper than its layer of skin. There were only a few who defied her best attempts at total indifference. The feeling that seized her heart in that moment wasn't disgust, as others might have felt, but a sense of confusion. She was overwhelmed with the task of committing his face to memory. Virara simply did not know where to begin navigating the pitted, creased landscape before her.Â
The man's soft, almond-shaped eyes darted between the two of them. They lingered on Virara, but if he was bothered by her reaction, he hardly let it show.
"Mite bit chilly for a walk 'innit?"
The man huddled into his robes uncomfortably, cold air dying his breath white. His voice was mellow and carried faint traces of the Lominsan accent, like he'd adopted it as affectation. Somehow it fit his low-class, ragged clothes and unassuming bearing. Up close, they could see his olive work clothes bore many gardening tools, like a small sickle and a short-handled spade, fastened to a thick belt about his waist where the sash would normally be.Â
"What brings ye all the way out to these parts? Go on, come inside."
Even before Virara opened her mouth to answer him, the groundskeeper hustled to the side for a moment before returning to drag the large iron gate to the side. With a groaning of metal, he invited the pair in, dipping his head and oversize hat with an obliging nod.
"... I, uh... I didn't think it would be so difficult simply to walk up. This was not part of the plan."
Slowly, Virara drew back her fist. Her breath drew into a quiet hiss as she inhaled deeply. Her boots pawed at the gravel beneath her, grinding down firmly against the earth. Centering her sense of balance, she drew inward, coiling her spine, filling her lungs with the biting air. The dense, finely honed power at her core built like a boiler near bursting, as she had always been trained to do. Every ilm of her body entrusted itself to the function of lending force to her blow. A small cannon, the caliber was low, but the ammunition was quite volatile.Â
Of course, it was just the path of least resistance. Even as her unconscious body prepared to strike, Virara gradually became self-aware. Feeling another's gaze upon her, she glanced to Chachanji, entire body primed to begin beating away at the iron gate. A typical response from a person who lived her life in linear paths. When something got in the way, crush it. That was the sort of way Virara had been raised. Yet even so, she tilted her head questioningly at him. Somehow, she seemed to already know what his answer would be.
However, even before she began to relax her tense posture, Virara's soft ears, red with the cold Vylbrand wind, twitched. Chachanji likely heard it too; hurried footsteps on the gravel path ahead, beyond the gate. A figure slouched its way down the terraced hills, appearing limbless from the way they folded their arms under a thick, green, woolen robe. Their face was obscured by a massive wide-brimmed sedge hat, and their sarouel-style pants hinted at a workman's outfit, the sort Chachanji probably had seen countless times in his youth in Othard. A question leaked quietly out of Virara.
"... How did he see us from that far off?"
Virara relaxed her posture, to a degree. No need to broadcast any more hostility than she naturally emitted; Virara was, after all, made aware of her unconscious glaring by Leanne. She decided upon the method of holding her eyes open, a bit wider than normal, taking extra care not to leer openly. Chachanji was better off speaking to them than she was, but she had called him there on her behalf, and the idea of making the boy speak to the transparently misanthropic merchant lord alone did not sit well with her. The unfortunate side effect was that she looked much as she did when Eaubront gave Virara her first coffee, but better to look overstimulated than vaguely murderous. Given the circumstances, Virara had no faith in her already lacking ability to remain cordial.Â
The man's sedge shade hid his face from view, which stirred a sense of unease within the girl, but she barred it up deep within. When he raised his chin to address the two unexpected guests, Virara momentarily forgot her resolution not to leer.
"Greetings, si-..."
The Doman Hyur's face had the square chin and well-defined lines of a handsome man, perhaps ten years their senior. His calm, small brown eyes and natural dimpled grin broadcast an intense atmosphere of warmth, enough that the frigid cliff side demesne seemed almost temperate. Yet all of this was utterly despoiled by the hideous network of scars haphazardly splayed across his face, like they were etched there by a child's wandering hand. Scars from puncturing. Scars from slashing. It almost appeared his nose had been reattached, and the repairs were crude. Half an ear peeked out from behind coarse black sideburns; Virara could see nothing on the other side. With the methods of recovery available in most nations where magic was practiced, the mind boggled at the depth and severity of the injuries that could still leave such lasting traces. Even the aged, craggy emptiness monk Bozu had a face as soft as a baby's in comparison to the man standing before them. Was this how Kuze greeted all of their guests?
Virara suppressed a desire to step back. Faces were nothing but shapes and shadows to her. She marked them but did not invest within them any sentiment deeper than its layer of skin. There were only a few who defied her best attempts at total indifference. The feeling that seized her heart in that moment wasn't disgust, as others might have felt, but a sense of confusion. She was overwhelmed with the task of committing his face to memory. Virara simply did not know where to begin navigating the pitted, creased landscape before her.Â
The man's soft, almond-shaped eyes darted between the two of them. They lingered on Virara, but if he was bothered by her reaction, he hardly let it show.
"Mite bit chilly for a walk 'innit?"
The man huddled into his robes uncomfortably, cold air dying his breath white. His voice was mellow and carried faint traces of the Lominsan accent, like he'd adopted it as affectation. Somehow it fit his low-class, ragged clothes and unassuming bearing. Up close, they could see his olive work clothes bore many gardening tools, like a small sickle and a short-handled spade, fastened to a thick belt about his waist where the sash would normally be.Â
"What brings ye all the way out to these parts? Go on, come inside."
Even before Virara opened her mouth to answer him, the groundskeeper hustled to the side for a moment before returning to drag the large iron gate to the side. With a groaning of metal, he invited the pair in, dipping his head and oversize hat with an obliging nod.
ã€Œè’¼æ°—ç ²ã€ã‚’使ã‚ã–ã‚‹ã‚’å¾—ãªã„!
AV by Kura-Ou
Wiki (Last updated 01/16)
My Balmung profile.
AV by Kura-Ou
Wiki (Last updated 01/16)
My Balmung profile.