[Interlude - Crimes Against Nature Part Nine]
Long fingers of sunlight seemed to stretch across the horizon, and played menacingly with the sharp mountain peaks rising imposingly in the distance—the final gasping attempt of the waning day to keep its grip upon the parched deserts of Thanalan.  The dark of night would soon swallow the landscape, quenching the heat of the solar-scorched landscape and basking it in the looming chill of silver moonlight, the herald of onrushing winter.
High above the landscape, perched upon the cresting crown of one of Ul'dahs high towers a spark flashed against the backdrop of falling night. Â Encouraged by several determined puffs, and shielded by the cupped fingers of a feminine hand, the ephemeral flicker gave life to a dull glow. Â A wispy string of smoke began to rise from the bowl of a long and slender pipe. Â Itself perched unnaturally upon the outstretched hand, and pursed lips of a young woman, who herself kneeled precipitously upon the curved surface of the turret. Â
A drawn hood partially shielded her tender features from the howling early-winter gusts, that bore up great clouds of sand and grit. Â Exposed finger tips had no such protection, and she tried not to wince as she carefully controlled the puffs of breath through the pipe stem, encouraging the embers within the bowl to light its contents.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd freed the pipe from its simple hiding place. Â It had been at least a year since she withdraw it from its quiet case, tucked beneath the intimate attire of her small chest of drawers. Â The tobacco itself had been surreptitiously pinched, all the better to avoid any suspicion of the vice.
She tilted her head back, forming her lips into a wide ring, breathing out a ring of smoke that drifted lazily upward for a merest moment before being blasted away by the fierceness of Thanalan wind.
Bright blue eyes scanned the horizon from behind the protective edges of the canvas hood. Â How long had she been gone? Â Moons, it seemed - and moons it was. Â She couldn't deny that something in her had missed the sight of that empty, barren desert wasteland. Â Missed the scorching sun, and the chill frigid nights that it left behind as it hurried on its daily cycle each evening. Â She tightened her lips around the pipe; even the Shroud was no longer enough for her to forget her adoptive home.
Despite the length of her absence, everything had seemed to quickly return to normal: Â Madame Momodi acted as if not a step had been missed, not a beat gone unnoticed in her barmaid's absence. Â She was already working shifts again nearly every evening, and making the rounds on market days. Â Routine, that's all it was: only her dancer friends seemed to make more of it, welcoming her home with a weeknight party on the town. Â That said: they seldom needed much of a reason for a good celebration.
She closed her eyes, lending focus to the feel and taste of the fine smoke. Â She allowed the fragrance to wash over her and felt the mild exhilaration of its touch upon her lips. Â
Despite these appearances, she knew things were far from normal. Â The trouble of the Shroud still upset the tranquility of her private moments. Â The horror of what she had seen: the way the Earth swallowed the most elite of Gridania's soldiery, the white-clad Twin Serpents, at the behest of a renegade Conjurer was too much to banish. Â A renegade, yes, what other term could there be? Â But a renegade with just cause: an impossible to forget truth that had been shared with her that unexpected evening upon the Float. Â What is a Padjal gone bad? Â A master of Succor and Void. Â A looming terror, a menace waiting to unleash itself upon the Shroud, as he already had his innocent, and not-so-innocent victims from Toto-Rak. Â
She opened her eyes, scanning the barren landscape as the last moments of sunset played out upon it. Â The conjurer, Liadan, seemed prepared to give up everything to deal with the threat posed by the villainous Padjal. Â But, her attention had its flaws. Â Compassion directed her every effort toward the impossible goal of saving the damned. Â Void-touched souls who were beyond the redemption of mortal hands.
No emotion played upon her features as she contemplated the situation. Â Her blue eyes were unusually cool as they surveyed the fresh nightscape. Â Her fingers now strained to clutch the pipe against the force of blasting wind, which whipped the aroma of pipeweed swiftly away from her perch.
No amount of effort to save the ghosts, as the pipe-smoking blonde referred to them, would bear fruit - and certainly it would not aid in the grand struggle unfolding in the deep shroud. Â No, Liadan's effort was compassionate, but misplaced, as was that of the Ishgardian Dragoon (as should be expected). Â There were mysteries to unravel, but more than that, there was a threat to stop - a threat to defeat. Â Vulnerabilities to seek out, plans to uncover, and plots to foil. Â While Liadan and her allies darted from symptom to symptom, the wily serpent worked his coils tighter around the Shroud itself. Â Keeping secret his darkest venom, which he would prepare and unleash at a time of his own choosing.
She clutched the pipe tighter. Â Lips tensed as her entire body clenched, while her free hand drew her coat tighter around her to ward off the chill that now hung in the star-lit night.
The Serpents protected him. Â What of the Adders? Â What of Hadrian, what of Arden Wood? Â The old wailer whose son was killed when Weylan's unit, the 16th Spear, was nearly annihilated. Â The old man had known something, something he was loathe to admit. Â Whatever they were up to: it seemed to escape others' notice. Â How deep their plotting went, or how much it mattered, she couldn't know. Â But, if not her, then who would look into it? Â Their knowledge was deep: perhaps deeper than any non-Padjal in the Shroud. Â They had been there. Â They had known. Now what?
She closed her eyes. Â When she slowly opened them, they were directed downward at the high rampart wall whose top was dozens of feet below her. Â She was no Hearer. Â No void-master, or studied arcanist. Â Neither a Dragoon, nor a Shroud hunter. Â Not even a bard, whose stories and songs could inspire others. Â But, she knew there was still more she could do. Â Would have to do, if conscience was to be her guide. Â It was a precarious position, like her perch, and similarly it would not be dangerous, provided she kept her poise. Â
She slowly drew the pipe away from her lips, letting out an audible sigh. Â At last she had to admit to herself what she already knew: this quiet return to Ul'dah was a mere interlude. Â
She would not stay away from the Shroud for long, even if her return would be more circumspect. Â She drew the pipe in once more, savoring deep as it worked like an energizing balm, calming her, while setting her mind free for contemplation.
"Just an interlude..." she repeated out-loud, speaking around the stem that perched on her lips, to no one in particular.