Hydaelyn Role-Players

Val had nearly fallen asleep during the Harbingers' weekly company meeting, but he wasn't so out of it that he didn't hear the need for people to submit drink recipes for their menu. He watched as everyone filed out, the cogs in his head already turning in order to create his masterful list of alcoholic beverages. The night also ended like many nights before, with Val following Faye to her office and dealing with the various business of the members for however long it would take. When they finished, Val insisted that he stay to finish work of his own. 

He crept into his room and sat down at his desk, looking at the pieces of blank parchment in front of him along with the inkwell and quill as if they were surgeon's tools. 

"Y'got this Val," he thought to himself, "Just a bit'f writin'. Ain' nothin' hard 'bout it."

After what must have been a good hour of psyching himself up, Val removed the quill from the inkwell and began to write. A few more hours and a good basket full of crumpled up papers later, Val silently crept to the company board and posted his masterpiece. It read as follows:

"...got four of those Allagan silvers, should fetch you a pretty gil or two in the market. If you want I can go get them sold for you when we're done here. Brought back some Coeurl skins too -- real high quality stuff. Got all your other things sold, gil's in the bag. Big haul today, boss!"

Bruuder, recently appointed as a retainer, had always been  the last-moment sort. The tall, dark haired highlander stood before Berrod with the bar counter between them. The hour was late, and he had managed to be let in just before the Astral Headquarters closed up for the night. Drystfarr had retired a bell ago, and Berrod had been quite ready to do the same. 

Bruuder's report had finished; the spoils of his venture were all laid out along the bar counter for Berrod's perusal. Still, he lingered with that quiet, expectant awkwardness associated with the desire for payment. Berrod had the special coins in hand ready to hand over, but he hesitated and gave the other man a harsh glare. 

"Did ya  double cross us back at Hullbreaker?"

The question was sudden, and blurted in a tone that betrayed hours of brooding on the possibility. While usually indignant about his own affairs, Bruuder's apparent guilt about being conveniently late that day forced him into a defensive stutter. "Wait -- what?" 

A few days ago he had been hired to take a group of three of Berrod's Colleagues to Hullbreaker Isle on a simple treasure hunting mission. Nothing too grand or world-breaking, they just needed a guide to help them find things that other adventurers had not. Bruuder, having been there a few times before, had been a perfect candidate to see them there and back. He had been instructed to meet them at the ferry. 

Someone had met them there. Someone who looked and sounded exactly like Bruuder, forced Ul'Dahn accent and all. That Someone claimed the retainer's identity as his own and took the group to the isle, where he abandoned them to what would have been a grisly, muddy demise. Fortunately the trio beat the odds and survived the ordeal -- and found out that their real guide had 'overslept'. Berrod immediately had them retrieved from the isle and held a close, tense meeting with everyone involved -- including Bruuder, who had been spoken to separately from the others.

The Retainer's story set the stage for a neat little conspiracy. He'd been approached by a lovely lady the evening before and took her into his company for the evening. They indulged as adults did, and as a result he slept throughout the day and missed his appointment. When Bruuder spoke Berrod had been convinced enough that the poor man had been used in their enemy's ploy, but after speaking with Athe...he wasn't so sure. 

Athe had brought up a worrying possibility. What if Bruuder was lying? No one knew who the doppleganger was, or if he'd shown up again, but what better way to get a mole into the company than to present a victim? The Highlander had been Berrod's friend for a while -- they'd occupied the same territory back in the days of the Lane. The moment Berrod got a break, he had tried to offer one to Bruuder as well. Would he really double cross him and his colleagues? The uncertainty was maddening, and Berrod refused to let it linger any longer. 

"You know I wouldn't stab you in the back like that, you dumb arse -- you pulled me off the streets! You really think I'm that much of a buggerin' whoreson?" Ah, there was the anger. Bruuder was incensed, and in his usual fashion, already primed for things to come to blows. 

Berrod was not always the sort to respond with reason, though he had his moments. "Yeah, that's what I know, which is why I think it's easy ta use against me. If you say you ain't though, I'm gonna hold ya to it. Here, I'll pay ya fer a couple days well. Take a few off, yeah?" He dropped the venture coins into a little pouch and tossed it across.

Bruuder caught it, but he wasn't wearing the placated look that usually came on the heels  compensation. The Highlander was livid, red-faced and glaring. With a quick swipe of his arm he tossed the pouch right back into Berrod's face. The impact would have been rather comical had it not been for the circumstances. "Keep your shite-stained pay, you bastard. I rather go back on the  streets then have you lookin' at me like I'm some kinda turncoat. Thanks for the break." As soon as he was done speaking he turned to the door.

"Bruuder, it ain't --"

"Cram it up your arse, Armstrong," Bruuder spat, "Word on the street is that's your specialty."

The insult stung, and came very close to inciting a loss of temper. Employing his usual tactic of silence, Berrod managed to weather the sudden tempest of rage that tore at his insides. He was suddenly aware of the door slamming; Bruuder was gone. Perhaps for good.

...or perhaps it was an act. 

Either way, uncertainty remained.

"Name your desire! Anything you want."


Burning Blood had uttered that to Jak just the day prior, the Highlander youth caught immensely off guard by it and shocked even. Anything he could want? Him? The hopeless street rat given the chance for anything, any teeny tiny thing? No, surely there had to be a limit. A Hora. That was all, that was all the youth had asked for. Burning Blood had promised him lessons, to be his teacher. If Jak wanted to be anything of worth he needed to start somewhere. Be it to Blood or Luc or the strange Elezen that he had met the night before, Jak had a huge door opened for him and whatever was behind it he'd take it head on.

"Do you like it?" Jak's head snapped up, sitting in the guest bedroom bed Burning Blood had allowed him to stay for now. No words were said at first, a simple smile coming over Jak's face as he looked back down to the simple fist weapon Blood purchased for him. Simple as it was, it still had a shine and small blade attached to the side.

"Yeh, I do. S'uh, well...mean look at it!" Jak jumped from the bed, giving a very sloppy fighting stance to the tattooed Roegadyn. No stern look, no attempt to look threatening in the stance; No, Jak looked to be the happiest teen Ul'dah had ever seen standing there in new clothing and weaponry. And all Blood did was nod, hiding any joy in Jak's glee behind golden hues and stoic face.

"Good. Put it to good use." And Blood left Jak to his affairs, the Kidlander spending the better portion of the night fighting imaginary people, grinning to himself and eventually passing out on the bed, spread eagle and clutching the hora in his hands.

Ignorance was indeed bliss.

Hnaba
Jancis was on the heels of the roegadyn in front of her, she didn't give pause to figure out how Tausen fit in the small passageway let alone how he managed to sprint so quickly through it.

Hnaba


All of them were in an underground tunnel in the central Shroud, chasing the dark-haired miqo'te after she dashed down a hidden door under the fouled rug. The house they had been was desecrated, blood and all matters of waste barely making the space visible and breathable. The very elements themselves were wary of the place and the tremor of the disturbance had reached Gridania and the padjal within.

The search for her fellow company mate, her hunter as she had been told, led to this obscene house and to someone she had trusted before. She had broken from the group to find out more information. She had been at this house before them. She had claimed to speak to the guards mere minutes before they did. She had a personal article of their quarry. And now she dashed, hoping to elude them.

Jancis did hope the elements would aid her at where ever they ended up. Thaliak only knew what would happen if he was not there.

There was a gloomy ray of light as Tausen, Naga, and Jancis jumped from the tunnel.

And they found themselves in a tomb...

Hnaba!

Blood and Ash

Kin and Smoke spent perhaps 20 minutes in the Castrum. Two moved quickly where more would have stalled. They found the man. The target. The servant of the Storm Witch. Smoke swiftly ensorcelled him before the pair took him and fled. They returned to the home of the Order. What needed to be done could not be done inside. The others could not see what Smoke would do.

They found a space outside and behind the headquarters. Kin provided a nearly collapsed piece of wood from the fire. The ash would be needed. Smoke sneered a warning to Kin as she crumbled the burning ember with her bare hands. She cut her palms. Her blood mingled with the ash. A paste began to form. Kin retreated into the house.

The soldier's armor had been stripped off, his upper body exposed. Smoke worked a subtle aether under his skin to seize his muscles and paralyze him. She straddled his hips and begain to smear the blood and ash past onto his bare chest. Symbols of power and purity were drawn over his skin. The heart would be stronger this way. Better. Cleaner.

She chanted the old words before pressing her thumbs gently to the mans eyes. She could feel the motion of his eyes beneath the eyelids. He was awake but perfectly immobile. She smiled and leaned close, whispering to him in a kind voice. "Servant. You heart belongs to Storm Witch. But now is mine."

He didn't scream, he couldn't, as her hand pressed into his chest. Hisses of smoke as his flesh and blood sizzled against her skin rose into the air as her fingers sank deeper. He was still as his paniced heart flailed in his chest. Her hand slowly twisted to cleanly carving out a hole in his chest. Her fingers closed around his desperate heart. She did not let it go still before she pulled. A spray of blood and the sound of snapping tendons and the man was gone.

She cradled the heart in her hand, examining it closely before smiling and pressing a soft kiss to the organ. It was good. Pure and clean. Perfect. The ritual would wait no longer. There were preparations to make. The Storm Witch would not escape again.

Val hadn't been able to get much sleep since that day in the Quicksand; the one where Verad had proclaimed himself to be Eorzea's Greatest Lover. It rubbed Val the wrong way. How could that man seriously call himself the greatest lover. If anything, it should be him! Alas, Verad had pointed out something very true: There were no books written about Val's exploits in making love, whereas Verad had at least one (that he'd no doubt written himself). 

...Val wasn't much of a writer, nor did he really know his way around books. He didn't even know how to go about getting one written, much less published and sold throughout Eorzea. Honestly, Val didn't even know what "publishing" was. What he did know, however, is that Verad had sold a giant pile of Lalafel lust novels to the Company upon their first meeting, something about a shipping error--whatever that was. Luckily for him, Val knew precisely where these books were kept.

For the next few days, Val would remain late in his office to "finish up paperwork," which wasn't entirely a lie. He would pull one of the large sacks out from under his bed, which contained only a sampling of the total books, and write in them with ink and quill. When he finished, he tore the original cover off and used his own sewing techniques (which were actually quite impressive; another skill he'd never admit to) to bind a new cover to it. The title was simply, "val nunh iz gratizt luvr in eyorzeeuh".

He repeated this process for each book until he'd finished and, when Verad was out one day, slipped into the man's room and dumped all of the books in his floor. Should Verad happen upon them and decide to actually read them, he'd find that only the first page was written on in all of them. They all contained different things; it was a volumed set! First edition, all for Verad! They contained marvelous things such as:

"val nunh iz gretizt luvr"
"val nunh iz betr et luvn den vehraid"
"nu won cumperz 3 val nunh en behd"


Some seemed to be written from the perspective of others:
"wun dey i wuz en brahnz laik n i thot titen wuz ataken but den ey herd fey mone n new it wuz jest val shayken wirld wif hiz luv"
"i herd hi mekz fey soh wet dat luhveyuhthan gitz jeluz"
"dey sey hi mekz hur screm soh lowd itz liek siren iz sumond i pee uh litl sumtimz cuz i thenk shi iz"

After a while he seemed to have gotten bored, drawing little squiggly lines next to them and often showing crude stick-figure diagrams to illustrate precisely what he'd been doing during his personal time with his ladies. Some of the phrases were written horizontally, some vertically, and some diagonal. Some had smiley faces drawn beside them, and some a circle with an oval at the top that might have been a thumb's up.

Val left the office with a smile on his face. That'll show 'em.

"Are you sure this is the kind of thing you need? Not that I don't mind being done with this whole business, Ser Tarot, but I don't understand why you feel that this is worth all the--"

"Ah, so you WANT to stay in debt to me?"

The blacksmith blinked then shook his head. The typically smug and coy tones of Crooked Tarot's voice had been replaced by a cool and calm vibration. It rang deeply in the craftsman's heart and it honestly wasn't a nice feeling at all. There was danger there and he fell silent as he moved to pick up the long packing box that held Crooked Tarot's order. It wasn't heavy at all, lighter than even a sword. It was an odd request--oddly specific and oddly placed. But again, he dare not overlook this chance generosity from Tarot to have his own debts with the man wiped clean if he did this one simple thing for him and told no one of it.

Ever.

The dissimilar eyes of the merchant looked at the box before taking it, opening the lid and looking inside with a grim sort of satisfaction. "Yes, this will do nicely." Lips turned up at the corners, eyes glinting with that same cool thoughtfulness, as if he'd just told a joke. "I won't lie to you--this piece of work will undoubtedly leave quite an impression."

"I would certainly hope so! That's what it's for after all!" the blacksmith said anxiously, risking a small smile as he licked his lip unconsciously. "I uh--I mad sure it was just to your specifications. Right down to the handle there--"

"Yes, I see that. Excellent work." Again, the merchant seemed to be elsewhere as he looked over the product in his hands.

"I--I didn't know you had business all the way up there, Ser Tarot."

"I've got business all over, Master Blacksmith."

Good. Tarot had already forgotten his name. The blacksmith sighed in relief and nodded, not pressing his luck on the matter. It was true that no one really care three damns about Dravania here in Limsa for the most part (unless they were of Ishgard stock, naturally) but it was still an odd request. "Not to pry, Ser, but--I thought you hated chocobos. Are you getting into breeding or--?"

"It's for another customer of mine," Tarot replied, closing the box and turning on his heel. "I hate the birds, you know that." With the snap of the box lid still ringing in the air, the merchant left the small smithy, leaving the blacksmith behind to wonder.

"Just what in the Hells would someone want with a branding iron--and why would they want the Dravanian brand on it, of all things?"

The Faces of Mercy have made good on their promise of war, and left little breathing room for the Agency during the past few weeks.

Burgenheim Rousa and his brother Heidricht Rousa were attacked by one of the Face's champions, Daudalus -- a Roegadyn martial artist who seemed to have a body hard as steel. Both brothers were defeated and left in critical condition. Daudalus went on to attack Berrod Armstrong along the Burning Wall in East Thanalan. The Highlander managed to make a retreat after suffering quite the beating. Daudalus remains at large. 

Tragic news came only days later as Camy Laykk discovered that her parents had been murdered by the Faces, proof that they would stop at nothing to demoralize and break their quarry. It was a strategic triumph for the enemy, given that Camy was often a reliable source of support for any agents in the field. With Camy retreated in grief, they grew bolder. 

B'ren Lyrgh found himself doing battle with a skilled conjurer. The pair wielded the elements against one another in heated contest and both sustained heavy injuries. At great cost to himself, B'ren managed to end his foe. Draco Ixtar had been nearby, unable to do anything but call for help once B'ren collapsed after his victory. 

Athe and Oscare arrived on the scene to assist, but found themselves in just as much trouble. A thaumaturge sped by on an unusual mount and triggered a devastating explosion that sent them reeling. Athe suffered critical damage to his eardrums, and Draco in her panic assaulted Oscare and ran off into the woods. The backup needed backup.

To that effect, Berrod, Caleb Agron, T'rhiko Tia and Tarot came to the rescue and managed to transport the shaken group back to the house for care. Draco was nowhere to be found, but Tarot arranged the help of some special friends to search as much of the woods as they could.

Still, the faces did not let up. The next day they worked on two fronts, sending an assassin to take care of the retainer Bruuder while he sat drinking at the bar. Alyssa Galliford was there and worked to stop him, but the assailant somehow managed to get a knife into the retainer's neck. Bruuder died on the spot, while Galliford finished off the attacker. 

Only moments after that fiasco across in Middle La Noscea, Oscare Iono was approached by an Elezen woman who utilized the power of charming and glamour. With it, she forced his hand into slaughtering several civilians and arranged witnesses from the Yellowjackets. Both Oscare and the woman left unharmed, but the report of the murders was sent to the Coral Tower in Limsa Lominsa.

The Agency is under heavy fire, and has been pushed back into a corner more tightly than it has ever been before. The outlook is bleak, but there is something to be said about cornered animals...perhaps it applies to adventurers as well.

"Daudalus," A reed-thin man, who one could hardly mistake as anything other than an Elezen spoke first in the group. "Your progress is most displeasing. The Heretic and his Company still breathe, their lives are a beacon to others that defy Her will." His voice was neither accusing nor begging explanation, merely stating fact. The glinting silver mask moulding into a serene expression belied the rage held in those eyes that peered from the thin slits that allowed for just enough viewing area. "Your brothers and sisters have nearly finished their work in this land."


The Roegadyn was garbed in a handsome surcoat that has been crafted to protect armor from the elements, while maintaining the wearer's gallant, striking appearance. Fashioned from soft wool in a deep, rich shade of purple, the coat was sleeveless and reached just below the knees in flowing folds. A leather belt gathered the surcoat together at the waist, and slits in the front and back permitted greater comfort and ease of movement during the wearer's actions on the battlefield or in the courts of intrigue and stratagem. Edged with intricate golden scrollwork, the surcoat had otherwise been left unadorned.


As he knelt, the frighteningly long staff banded with thin rings of metal was strapped to his back. There were no useless ornaments or etchings of scripture across the wood, merely notches for each man and woman he had saved during his time serving. "The Agents are a cunning lot," He said with his features folding with hurt, his one good eye downcast. "I hadn't anticipated them to react so quickly."


"And now here you kneel before your brothers." The Elezen swept a hand across the room, motioning to each and every cloaked figure donning the silver mask. They lined the rounded walls of the underground room, the soft rays of light shining through the canopy of grass seemed to be swallowed by their dark suits of armor. Each and every one of them varying in size and frame, sporting unique weapons the likes of which hadn't been seen by the hulking assassin in his life. Imagining how they worked was frightening, and actually seeing them in action was even moreso.


"I ask," Daudalus started in a tight voice, "That you lend me your aid. Perhaps you too will see what this lot is made of."


The room fell silent as they focused on him, watching him rise and adjust the notched staff that matched his size upon his back. Spreading his hands before him, he said, "Those who have finished their assignments may follow me if they so wish it. For every extra head that you take, you will bring glory to Her name and Ishgard."


The Elezen spoke up again. "Take what you need to finish your assignment. Our time draws to a close and we have only a handful of tasks to complete other than your own. The Stormbringer and those that dare side with him will be brought to justice by your hands." A simple nod of his head indicated the meeting was at an end, and the armored assassins silently stepped across the spongy soil, moving as one body towards the campsite. All that remained were Daudalus and the Elezen, whom the Roegadyn stared at for some time until taking his leave. Even as the distance opened between them, he could feel those proverbial daggers digging into the back of his head until losing line of sight.


A gust of wind rustled the jade sea of grass as he made his way up the makeshift stairway, taking two steps at a time until he passed through the thick brush of green. Inside the forest clearing was his force, now having grown larger in number. Made up of hardened veterans and serpents, they all went about their tasks. The sharpening of weapons and polishing of leather slowed to a halt as he entered, and all masks turned to stare at him expectantly.


"We march!" He cried, and watched each and every figure rise and get to work on disassembling the campsite. Soon thereafter, they followed in tow as Daudalus led them towards the desert. None questioned their bold stride or lack of briefing.


They moved as one mind.

One purpose.

“I- I spy with my- my little eye… sooomethiiing… tan.”

Dodo, the flightless feathered friend who sat beside D’ly on a toasty bolder looked to her in bewilderment. They were in Thanalan. Specifically outside of Camp Drybone.  Everything was tan.

Dodo huffed.

D’ly frowned.

Another huff and a shake of his head began his search for whatever tan thing she was spying on.

“...iiiiiiit is big.”

That cut down his guesses to… 80% of their surroundings. Fun.

“...it moves.”

In an instant Dodo jerked his head in the direction of a herd of myotragus nannys that roamed in the distance.
  
With an excited squeak D’ly clapped her hands together and gave a nod. Then…

“I- I spy with my little eye… sooomethiiing… grey.”

This was going to be a long day.

The wheels in William's mind goes fuss fuss fuss...

That's what the miqo'te boy had been doing ever since his significant other contracted a cold. He's not sure as to how she caught it, but he has his theories. However, that's a mystery that'll never be solved until he can find a way to make her better.

He had told his carbuncle to stay with her, acting as a sort of room servicer for her, to make sure she feels better despite the cold she'd gotten. Although, for William, being sick is not good, not good at all, he means, what if she maybe gets worse? What then? What for?

He purses his lips in thought as he brought up a meal he'd bought with his hard-earned gil to the room in the Mizzenmast Inn in which she was staying. What if it's not a cold? What if it's something worse? No, it's not, stop fussing so much about it. But what if? Shush.

But yet, the little fussy boy will keep fussing until his friend is better, that's just how he is. Then, something hit him... not literally, of course, although the door may have smacked him as he opened it. Perhaps there's an alchemical way to fix her problem. And then, it hit him again, the bedpost this time, as he nearly drops his things. There's an alchemist's guild in that scary place, right? May-bee I can go there...? I could learn how to make her better... yeah... proh-bab-lee... well, to Ul'Dah... may-bee....

With that settled, he'll make plans to leave for the city-state in the desert, make a quick trip there and back.

The lingering ache of entirely too recent wounds reached her before the light overhead or the sterile smell of the infirmary. Gone was the hand that held onto hers shortly after she first arrived, along with the salve-soaked strips of cloth which had dressed most of her wounds, but as awareness crept back in so did the lingering smell of rot sticking to her own skin and hair from the chimera's den. It brought to the forefront of mind the last vivid memories before the world went dark - the biting sting of ice, the burning numbness in her limbs and spine from the electric burst the creature spat forth, the burning rake of claws.

In the silence, the songstress lifted her head and squinted to see who was still around. Ruruni and Marina were still well out of it, and Aimee was elsewhere, presumably being watched over by Oni. Even Rhisi had taken her leave to rest and, she assumed, Jonathan must have gone back to his practice, and Felix and Alexi to their own business.

Whatever either of them do when no one is looking, she mused.

She sought for the linkpearl which was still tucked behind her right ear, but the desire to avoid troubling anyone further won out before she could ask who was about. She lay there, instead, and reflected on the events which put her and the others where they were, and the weight of her decision, the burden of three souls nearly lost, sat in the middle of her chest like a brick.

I did this, she thought. In my haste to see things done, I risked us all and nearly got them killed. Keep pressing on and through, no turning back. No... there very nearly wasn't.

Her head dropped back to the pillow with a dull, heavy thump as her eyes pinched shut. She hadn't remembered the trip back to the Hall but for the brief shifting and distorting of aether around her, and the vague sense of being held up, albeit awkwardly by one of her arms. She couldn't tell if the deep soreness in her shoulder was from that, or from one of several healing wounds.

I should be the last person in this position. A Marshall should be more careful... any leader holding others' lives in their hands ought to know better. We should have waited for the others to catch up to us. I'm no leader. Ser Wulfegard would be disappointed at such carelessness.

Ciel turned onto her left side but the motion and her own weight sent a searing stab of pain through the same shoulder, and this alone was enough to force her to move again, this time sitting up to stare toward the door. The bright lights reflecting off the pristine white walls of the room forced her to squint again as she looked around. Neither of her resting comrades had stirred as a result of her own fluster of movement, and she could make sure to avoid it at all if she could just make it back to her own quarters. The pounding and dizziness between her ears seemed to disagree with the very idea and screamed for her to rest longer before trying to move, just as any of the infirmary's caretakers might if they were present.

Alright, alright... just one more bell.

"I wonder what I'll call you..."

Kellach had just returned to Limsa Lominsa after a particularly trying day. His favorite white undershirt had been stained and was safely tucked away, leaving him completely shirtless. Behind him was a tiny little crab that had taken to following him for quite some time. He turned around, the crab stopped. It started using its pincers to bring in specs of food from the ground. Still, its eyes were planted firmly onto the effeminate large Hyur, almost pleading to get lifted in the sky.

"You're so cute, I want to call you Cutie Pie, but with the people I'm with, you're likely to end up in one..."

Still, he leaned down and grabbed the crab and brought it near his face. The crab, unsure of what was happening yet having already chosen to tie its amazing fate to an ordinary Hyur from off the continent, let itself be taken. In fact, it leaned forward a bit to nuzzle Kellach's nose. His eyes sparkled at how adorable this creature was, going against its very nature. Perhaps it was why he felt this much kinship with it. Both were not what they initially seemed. At least, to Kellach, crabs were... crabby, right? Or else no one would have came up with that term. With a warm smile, Kellach gently caressed the area between the crab's eyes. The crab, unsure of this gesture, raised a pincer to intercept but hesitated to pinch. Kellach withdrew his finger, but was still infatuated with the crab.

"I know! I'll call you Pinchyshell! And you'll be the best thing that happened to me today other than not dying!"

But she managed, at the end of all things, at the very last breaths, her room was re-arranged. 

Thaliak only knew how the enormous wardrobe moved at her bidding and lifting, but it had. It within itself was nearly a room; and her belongings and extra supplies barely made a dent to fill its shelves and drawers. She wasn't sure how she earned such handiwork from Master Vann, but it truly was a functional work of art.

Her room was filling up and Jancis felt like the Sultana herself. It smelled like warm chestnut and flowers. Laying down, she gasps, feeling herself sink down into the soft fur around her. It was warm and comforting; the extra quilting wrapping around her form. A small smile managed on her lips, it was grateful and humble. 

Otto Vann had brought it here himself, his fancy clothes crinkling from the labor it was not cut for. He was truly strong, even if no one saw it, and Jancis had a rare glimpse at the highlander's capabilities. And it was for her sake. He had made her a bed; one specifically for her.

After all that had happened, all the blood and misery, the hours of walking, the burns and wounds, this... it was the reward of a hero.

Closing her eyes, Jancis immediately fell asleep.

Anelia had to deal with many things recently past this week, and she realized that she has not had enough sleep ever since Crows case and Lazarov case was brought into attention. The worst part was, how her career as a Sultansworn can come to an end should she disobey Sultana and Syndicate's orders on aiding Natalie and Coatleque to pursue Nero Lazarov. 

Even from the last night, Anelia didn't really sleep but stare at the window outside to wonder what she has to do. Then also, a letter came to her two nights ago where her own foster father who took her into the noble of Ul'dah thirteen years ago is now extremely ill on his bed; possibly passing away at anytime soon. 

'Seems like I ran into a big mess than before... I can't get out of it this time, and I'll have to make a final decision. Whichever the path I choose, will have a great impact on the opposite side for someone to resent me forever... or even lose my career or life for this.

She wants to help Roen, but she realizes that will affect Order in the end. She shuts her eyes really tight and breaths heavily and shudders thinking about how she is involved in a fight with her comrades and friends.

The man wanted to speak to her about her secrets. About her bloodline and her true identity.

'It seems that you've found out about your bloodline, Anelia. I need to speak with you before I take my last breath. Please bring any friends if you wish, at least they should be aware of who you are.'
-Ivolt Thavius

Anelia writes a letter to certain people who she can trust to show up in her foster father's estate, and hoping that they'd attend for his final words and proceed with the funeral right away.

A lot is going in her mind, and she is not even sure if she belongs to Sultansworn due to these pressure. 

She closes her eyes, and finishes her last letter by sealing it inside the envelope.