19th Day of the Sixth Umbral Moon
The city-states of all Eorzea are abuzz with renewed vigor. Adventurers seem to be doubled in number and activity, and almost all of the excitement has naught to do with the pending Starlight Celebration, as strings of lights and trees begin to festoon sections of Limsa Lominsa.
The news has spread swiftly, though it came from distant Mor Dhona--treasure-seekers and brave valiants alike are flocking to the newly accessed Crystal Tower--an unnatural spire spearing unnatural heavens. The place has always filled me with a sense of ill-at-ease, and the mutterings within the tavern of The Drowning Wench has not eased my mood. Words of ancient technologies and old magicks belonging to the Allagan empire, and an arms race between our nation and the still-limping Imperial presence that persists dominate conversation.
I was not there for the assault on the Castrum that held the dread Ultima Weapon...but I had heard tales of the feat, and nothing beneficial can come from attempting entry to this tower. I know it. Still, excitement among some of those within my home city can't be silenced, even if I were to disengage my ears from my head at blade's edge...and I will likely be called to lend shield and sword to the cause. My heart sinks to the potentiality.
Other matters, too, command the attention of adventurers through the realm. New challenges arising from the Grand Companies as rumors of new dangers in Thanalan and the Haukke Manor in the Shroud. Continued recruitment for the lairs, labyrinths and keeps of the world, as fresh adventurers seek guidance, and seasoned warriors are sought and compensated for their aid...and again, whispers from the Primal threat, as the zealotry of the beastmen continues despite their repeated defeats.
...the beastmen...what is it that drives them so relentlessly? I've pondered how they earn such resolve, and I think a new opportunity to delve into the answer has presented itself. Word of a request has reached my ears during my wandering through the shoppes in Ul'dah of the need for an envoy. I had sworn it was the ramblings of a sun-baked buffoon until I had heard confirmation from the Eternal Flames themselves.
The Amal'jaa seek audience for relations.
Many have questioned the validity of their request. Still others have felt need to heighten security and patrol, arms ready just in case. But many others have stepped up and brought themselves to answer the request.
I seek to be among their number...perhaps in so doing to learn something about myself.
23rd day of the Sixth Umbral Moon
I'm not sure why I felt the need to pay such attention to my armour. I was not standing audience with Admiral Bloefhiswyn, nor was I at parade. Still, I was compelled to ensure my equipment passed muster.
I was due to speak with the head of the Amalj'aan Brotherhood of Ash.
I was given a brief by an officer of the Immortal Flames of the situation, as reports from other adventurers of the realm had spread to their ears. This particular clan was a splinter group from the rest of their kind, and had labeled them as heretic. Their apparent holy land, referred to as Zahar'ak, has become flush with the beastmen that worship Ifrit, and the Grey Ash seek to drive them from their holdings. Adventurers of capable arm and mind were to report to an area just south of Zahar'ak to offer aid to the Ash crusade as a form of diplomatic goodwill.
Goodwill. To the beastmen. The fall of Dalamud has rattled more minds than I anticipated. Still, things must be desperate if a prideful nation like Ul'dah is willing to entertain thoughts of diplomacy.
I set out for the camp tomorrow. Tonight, I rest and drink in Ul'dah to stay as far removed from the withering desert sun as long as possible. I will ensure my wits remain mine own, as it would be poor form to represent the crimson standard of the Maelstrom with my brain pickled and my eyes bleary...but then, the music and raucous debauchery inherent of this city is infectious, and I make no guarantees...
24th day of the Sixth Umbral Moon
I have completed the full ride out of Ul'dah to the camp of the Brotherhood of Ash and presented myself to their chieftan, an immense Amalj'aa warrior named Hamujj Gah. The camp the Ash have made is spartan at best, but considering the history of the beast tribe it remains fitting--the Amalj'aa normally seek glory through matched, honorable combat, and the mere thought of the Amalj'aa as I have known them brings very visible--and audible--disgust from him. I can't help but believe that the level of his disgust is perhaps a bit overblown in order to show good faith to the adventurers who otherwise would have drawn arms against his clan without even a question...but the story he tells is compelling.
The excitement about the camp is compelling, too--small war bands of adventurers and Amalj'aa alike rush in and out of camp, striking swiftly at areas of Zahar'ak and riding away as fast as they had arrived. Some outfitters are there, an armorer and smith...and naught much else. It's small, mobile, practical in its execution, but no less a bustling outpost than anything else in Eorzea.
My own mistrust of these beastmen is matched by theirs of me, as jaws tighten and weapons firm against hips and scabbards, as if a simple wrong blink of the eye would shatter the tension in a clangor of pitched fighting. Still, these Amalj'aa have welcomed all, and their roars of triumph at each small victory against Zahar'ak is earnest and heartfelt. These are truly a tribe that lives with their hearts on their sleeve.
One adventurer in particular has shown even less trust of those milling about camp than any other--a Miqo'te who fights as fiercely as her tongue. While her battle fervor is not unique to her race, everything else about her is amplified to levels bordering obscenity. She rides to battle on the back of a Drake. She wears a mask that hides her features entirely, and the armor she wears--if armor it can be called--allows very little to the imagination of her figure...though those who would stare upon her curves would be met with their eyes sliced to jelly by her swift sword.
Her fur bristles with literally every adventurer who walks by her. She speaks very little, but her mask cannot shield her scorn for what she must clearly take to be invaders of her turf. I will have to keep far away from her if I'm to see this journey through.
The next few days will see me working the outer areas of Zahar'ak. Battle plans are being drawn out, but with very little military affair--more often than not, they consist little of pointing at an area, slaughter or destruction of structures and rushing back to camp. The Brotherhood lack numbers even with the new corps of adventurers to swell their ranks, and they plan accordingly, sending small parties in and out at random to keep the heretic Amalj'aa on their toes and barely able to breathe.
I will see how solid their resolve is against their own kind, and whether this path of peace on a blade's length holds true
27th day of the Sixth Umbral Moon
It has been three days since I arrived at the Ash Brotherhood's camp. They have been this strange combination of welcoming and terse, but they continue to allow me to proffer aid to their cause without a second thought. My visits to the camp have been short, allowing me leave after their tasks have been met. I'm pleased by the allowance, as the camp is active at all hours, and sleep has been difficult to come by there.
Even when I take my leave, I find sleep difficult, however. The savagery and fervor of these beastmen is deeper than even I had anticipated. I had seen the howling rage in the eyes of the Amalj'aa as they rushed to defend their idols and rituals to Ifrit....the hatred in their deep, black eyes, even as they fall to my blade. The engagements at Zahar'ak have not been what I would class as challenging--the beastmen charge recklessly at me, zealotry and madness burning away all training and idea of martial skill...but each fight lasts with me regardless.Â
This battlefield is soaked in hate to the point where even the sands of Thanalan seem more red than usual.
Focusing my time away from the camp at the forge has cleared my head only slightly. My mind continues to wander to that place. To the drive on both sides of the battle. I know where liberty and justice lies--I have no qualms about which side is right. The drive of both forces, however...the wellspring of motivation which they draw from. It fascinates and terrifies me, haunting my thoughts when I am left alone in my own head.
I can't wait to return to the camp and aid them again, despite all that is wrong and angry about that place.
2nd day of the First Astral Moon
It has been about a week since I had arrived to the Brotherhood of Ash, and I have begun to earn the trust of some of those camped here. There is still an undercurrent of tension in body language, at least, but the Amalj'aa who speak with me do so with a greater measure of ease. Their resolve has firmed in the face of the response of the realm's adventurers...and though there are still many who don't share their brethren's enthusiasm, results speak louder than promises do.
The heretic Amalj'aa, however, have proven to be a very stalwart and stubborn foe. For every three slain, another five seem to materialize, and their fervor to Ifrit and His power maintains. It has been an intense deadlock, but one that has provided a great deal of insight.
It is clear that direction is needed on my part...a point to bearing shield and armour that goes deeper than simple freedom, though that cause is no less just. My scope must narrow and focus. The engulfing flame of a forge can harden steel, but it is the focused blows of a hammer that give that steel its edge and its purpose.
We are closing in on Valentione's Day in the realm. I will break from camp soon to distance myself from the festivities and have a small meal with my husband near the church in Thanalan. I still do not know which grave is his, and so out of respect for those bereaved who are aware of where their loved ones are interred, I will dine with my White Stream just outside of the lichfield. I believe we will have a talk about what purpose is and what dying for that purpose means.
14th day of the First Astral Moon
I am ill today. Mentally. Physically.Â
Today should have been a day of reflection. A time to take stock of what was lost but to celebrate the time I had shared. Instead, it was interrupted. Infringed. Violated.Â
Every Valentione's Day, I lunch with my slain husband, my marvelous White Stream, at the lichyard of the church of Saint Adama Landama. It is an annual tradition that I've always held dear and has helped me maintain connection to him in some way. It's a simple affair--a small picnic with a fine red and some small talk to the wind, in hopes that my voice will carry to his hearing. I tell him how I feel about things, tell him I love him. Today, instead, he would witness me at my worst.
As I sat outside of the lichyard, a pair of cutthroats approached me. Perhaps it was because I was dressed simply, or that my arms weren't apparent from where they stood, but they believed me an easy mark. I dare not repeat the offenses they were wishing upon me here, but needless to say, it was not only gil that they were drawn to.
I felt a rage that I have not felt in a long time grow within me. I turned around to face them, and I must have been lit aflame, as the two vagabonds stepped back, their wicked smiles melting away. I had my sword buried in the ground behind me, and produced it. I did not bother to bring my shield. I did not need it.
I charged. The first tried to raise his knife, and all I heard was a small, pitiful whimper before my blade bit into his face, slicing him open. It silenced him, but I still stabbed downward into his back as he fell to the ground to ensure he was slain. By this time, his compatriate was attempting to flee, even though he carried an immense axe. I walked after him. I didn't bother to run, or charge...his footsteps were panicked, and the ground was uneven. He stumbled, looking behind him and yelling out in panic.
I let him. I let his fear utterly flood into him.
And then, I closed the distance, cutting his leg off at the knee. He wailed and fell onto his back, grasping at his thigh. His screams were piteous and horrible, but not agonizing enough for me. I stood over him. I locked my eyes to his and drank in his shock. And then I dragged my sword across his throat and watched him bleed to death.
I have killed bandits before and not batted an eye. I have no compunctions against taking the lives of the wicked. But never have I felt such righteous fury. Worse yet, I feel vindicated. I felt just. I felt zeal and delight in their pain, that they would interfere with such an important day. No amount of drink will drown this feeling of this day.
I fear what I have done...or where it may lead me.
12th day of the Second Umbral moon
I understand why the butterfly first flies after breaking out of its cocoon. I feel as though I have shed a second skin and metamorphed into something...stronger.
Time in the realm has seen my eyes open to things that the ideas of valiance had blinded me to. The misery of the refugees in Ul'dah. The sellswords overcharging for protection when all they guard are tankards in local bars. The cutpurses who would try to interrupt a quiet moment of reflection.
I still have not let that go. And my thoughts have turned to Garlemald, and the engines of war that have taken my husband and changed my fortunes. I made several incursions to the Castrums that still infest the land and have laid waste to the soldiery within. Man and machine all fell to my blade. I was like a feral beast, my soul removed from my body, floating just away from the melee and watching my form cleave through the Empire's ranks. My form was sloppy. Undisciplined. Disgusting. All sense of balance and propriety lost to venom and bloodlust.
I have felt the bitter, acid-bile of rage rise up in my throat and have become comfortable to its flavor. I have found people who use this as a tool. They do not attempt to color combat as a dance, but for what it is--brutality, swift and just and violent and righteous.
They favour the axe. So do I.
The heft of the weapon feels...proper. It requires all of my physical might and every onze of my emotion to be channeld through its haft and into my opponent. The clanging, dull thud of its strike reverberates through my entire body, shaking me to the very soul. Its momentum carries me on to my next swing. It's a slow waltz of violence, demanding more physical focus than anything the Sultansworn have shown me.
Most of all...it feels like vindication. I enjoy this turn. I spread my new wings and fly towards whatever horizon this leads.
15th day of the Second Umbral moon
Things have become...unique.
I dare not elaborate, as it is no longer my life that is endangered but the lives of an apparent many others, but I will simply say that a memento from my dear husband has brought forth an entirely new universe to me.
It is as if a veil before my waking vision had been pulled back and an entire secret world has bled forth. I have been stunned, assaulted, scared....but most recently, I have also been embraced. The new lives enfolded into mine own have taken me beneath their wing with a willingness and a level of comfort that defies all previous experiences I've had.
Of direct note has been a constant friend and companion regardless of where I roam. A powerful woman by the name of Brynhilde Wulf. She has granted me endless kindness, advice, and even retorted at my verbal jabs, countering with ones of her own that very often leave me at a loss for words and disintegrating in to mirth. She sees through my rage and my disgust, finds a bright spot, and pats my head knowingly as a mother would.
I'd fight for her and her kin to the death. And now I may have opportunities for just that.
Entry undated
It has been a long while since I had opened up the leather cover of this journal. A great deal has happened since my last entry. Too much to account for here. I had met people, been to new places both dreamy and dire, made contacts and lost contacts, even managed to begin a walk to great personal power.
In all that, however, I was still aimless and wandering. No matter the causes I lent my arm to--and they were worthy of my time and efforts--they still felt short of that which I needed. The direction and purpose I have sought across the whole known area of Eorzea.
So, then, my wandering has led me to the doorstep of an unassuming small plot in the Goblet, the ward of the fabled Red Wings. I had heard tell of these fighters, though naught much more than assumption. I know they operate within the authority of the Immortal Flames, of whom I have little love for. However, if they are the avenue to the purpose I seek, I will release my conscription to even my beloved Maelstrom to see me become more than a sellsword.
Those whom I have met are warm and welcoming enough, with Miss Cliodhna and Ser Koporo being personal standouts. My direct superior Lieutenant Aire seems to find me engaging enough to not be annoyed, and she carries my sense of humor besides. It still is odd that I report to a superior, though. I have been by myself for so long that it will take some adjustment to become part of a rank and file.
It is not too dramatic for me to say that this is my last real chance at this adventuring life. Should this not fulfill what it is I seek, then I will renounce myself to my armorsmithing trade.
I pray to any ears above that I will not have to come to that. I have experienced too much to merely just....settle.