Hydaelyn Role-Players

The broad blade of the slightly glowing sword thrust through the black-feathered breast of the young mirrorknight with a savage crunch. The poor thing fell dead instantly, crumpled in a little, feathery heap. There was still skin visible from between the black plumage; the thing must not have been more than a moon old. A silvery-plated boot stepped on the carcass and applied enough pressure to withdraw the gleaming weapon, decorated with ornate patterns -- a true demonstration of masterwork crafting. The blood upon it as usual, was unfortunate, and drew a grimace of disgust from the wielder.

He was unmistakably hyur; a midlander by the stature of him. Well cared for blond hair shone in the sun's light like golden strands, swept neatly out of the way of silvery-blue eyes that glimmered with cleverness and ambition. They remained trained on the carcass, momentarily ignoring the odd, perilous environment of the Burning Wall. The orange, corrupted crystalline structures tossed and filtered the sunlight in a manner that was most unflattering upon the glittering replica armor he wore. 

The garb of a Free Paladin! Doer of good deeds, helper of mankind, defender of the defenseless against the thralls of evil. He was a bearer of Light, and so the task he attended to while grisly, was necessary for light to prevail against the darkness. Silver upon silver upon steel and ivory, it represented everything he had worked for up until that moment. Draped about it was a sigiled tabard that spoke of his achievements as an adventurer, and strapped to his hip was a satchel of rewards, tokens and keepsakes given to him  by those willing and unwilling alike. 

The subject of unwilling keepsakes flit through his head at a very convenient moment, for something had begun to take place with the carcass below him. It remained quite dead, but something coalesced in the air about a fulm above it. The Midlander's eyes widened in genuine surprise. Surely not...? 

It was only a matter of moments before a crystal had appeared; orange and small -- oddly shaped and unrefined. It glowed brightly, as if waiting to be picked up by his armored hand. He knew very well what it was, he possessed four others in his satchel. To think that the fifth would show up here! It was unfortunate then, that the moment he reached for it, another phenomenon occurred. Orange, crackling aether leaped from one of the corrupted formations nearby, sending a shower of sparks into the air and down to the ground around him. 

Naturally he had raised his shield, allowing the subtle violet glowing metal to catch and deflect the...mostly harmless sparkles. When it was done, the crystal laid atop the baby mirrorknight's carcass, glowing very feebly. Something had gone terribly wrong with it, and he knew all too well that it was spoiled. It was against his luck that the process had occurred in a corrupted area such as this. 

Still, he took it. The gauntlet prevented his skin from coming into contact -- but unlike the others he had seen before, it did not glow at his touch. His count then, would remain at four, for now. Yet, he would not abandon the opportunity. He had killed the mirrorknight baby for a reason, and now, the little crystal had made things even more inconvenient for him. It was the perfect bait! There was no need to drag a stinking, feathery carcass across the desert; he could burn it, and use the crystal to draw the thing's mother instead. 

"A body cannot draw its mother if it cannot cry," the Free Paladin reasoned as he turned the crystal between his fingers, "But a soul...it calls out to its mother in a way more profound than any other. This will do."

The three men entered the settlement of the Golden Bazaar together, hastily seeking the first sliver of shade they could find. The irony of the weather was not lost on them -- the aetheric disturbances caused by the Calamity had caused Eastern Thanalan to play host to frequent and sweeping showers. The blazing sun of this day was actually considered unusual weather in what was supposed to be a desert. Along the way the fellows had actually begun wondering which of the extremes was worse. 

They were all hyur, two highlanders to one midlander. The highlanders resembled strongly, with dark brown skin, thick nosebridges and jet black eyes. The structure of their faces was statuesque in nature, framed by long, almost glossy shoulder-length hair. The differences between them were quite subtle -- one sported thicker eyebrows, while the other was a good two ilms taller. It was not at all difficult to tell that they were closely related. At first glance it appeared that they both wore the same colors of loose fitting garb, but in truth the dust and dirt had simply coated them in a simple tan -- down to the matching metallic cesti slung from their waists. 

The midlander walked a few steps ahead, his silver and sigiled armor glittering almost offensively in the harsh sunlight. It seemed to bother him none. The occasional wind swept mischievously though the otherwise well-combed strands of thick golden blond atop his head -- that hair gleamed perhaps more obnoxiously than the armor. An ornate shield was strapped to his back, decorated with silver, gold and ivory. His sword was equally intricate in its craftsmanship -- as they should be, seeing that they were replicas of the relics of old. He stood quite apart from the dusty highlanders behind him, though the resembling pair didn't seem to care.

"There a reason why we up along in this shite-hole of a town, Ray?" The taller one asked loudly. They had just approached a blessed slice of shadow cast from one of the stone buildings. Ray the midlander glanced around at the baking premises with squinted silvery-blue eyes. "I just wanted to pass by and make sure everything was okay before heading to the Shroud, Rory."

"The Shroud?" The shorter highlander barked in a tone of protest, "Oi, Ray, how many times me and Rory gonna tell ye? We got that woodsin buggery them ponces always on about. We can't go through there."

Ray untied a silk coated waterskin from his belt and lifted it to take a carefully rationed drink of water before speaking again. "Well, Mack -- what I want is for that to stop being a problem. We'll go to someone in the Shroud who can help you get rid of it. That way we can adventure there and make more of a profit." Without concern for the pristine state of his water's vessel, he offered it across to the pair.

Rory and Mack laughed in loud unison and waved the offer away. "Keep that, Ray! I ain't drinkin' from summat that looks like pretty bloomers. I got me own." Mack was the one who spoke, but they both made the motions to get their own rather worn-looking leather skins. "Suit yourselves," Ray allowed gracefully. "All looks well here, at any rate, don't you think?"

"Yeah, looks quiet," Rory grunted after an excessive pull, "Could probably jus' take a breather an' march on."

"Good! It's settled then -- let me just find a privy, comb my hair and we'll move on."

Another scandalous pair of howls belted from the highlanders. "Come off it, Ray! Privy an' combin' yer hair? What next, powderin' yer nose? Next yer gonna be wearin' Felicia's dresses! Forget yer damn hair, go piss on a rock an' let's get on with it."

Ray patiently shook his head and offered what looked like an almost embarrassed smile, "I don't think what I have to do can be done on a rock." His words quieted them instantly, and it was a few moments before Rory murmured an awkward, "Oh. Well uh, well you fix up then, we'll wait out here."

Again Ray smiled and turned, before stopping. "Oh! Erm --" Hastily he dug into a travelling satchel on his hip. "Could you hold these for me? I always get nervous that I'll -- lose them. If they fall in or something silly like that. I trust you two." The objects in question appeared to be two brightly glowing -- though small -- crystals; one orange and one blue, yet both irregularly shaped. Perhaps he was being silly; he handed one to each. 

"Yeah, sure, give it here, we'll keep it safe."

"Mhm, don't worry about it."

Ray beamed. "Thank you! I'll be back in blinking." Once more he trotted into the sun to find himself a privy, tossing light everywhere with that armor of his. The Highlanders leaned against the wall, inspecting the crystals they had been given; the glow had faded the moment they left Ray's hands. "Odd lil' things ain't they?" Mack remarked, "Don't know shite 'bout crystals though, so it's all odd to me."

Rory agreed with a snort. "Same here. Is what it is though. Ey, how long you figure he's gonna take ta get outta all that armor just to take a shite? Maybe he's got a hatch that opens up at his arse." 

They both shared a loud, raucous peal of laughter that drowned out the distant and anguished shriek from the Burning Wall.

The silver-armored hyur walked down the perfumed halls of the brothel with a shameless urgency. He did his best to keep his face even, though his nose did wrinkle at the masked scent of debauchery. Light filtered in through stained red glass, giving the place a most sultry look. 

He stopped before one of the many dark wooden doors lining the walls and carefully knocked. The composed facade before his silvery-blue eyes fell for just a moment; he was loth to put even his gauntlets to the touch of anything in the place. Far too many voices inside responded to the disturbance, but a low sigh of resigned expectation was all he could manage. The door swung open, and the man simply could not hold up his neutral countenance any longer. A very pronounced grimace formed under locks of his golden hair. "Good Gods, man -- put something on, and -- the smell...!"

The fellow who stood in the door was a highlander, unlike his midlander visitor. He possessed a stocky and thickly muscular build, with finely carved features and a thick nose-bridge that seemed common among his clan. There was nothing of a highlander's height on him, however. So short was he for his blood, that he met the midlander eye-to-eye. Red hair was tied to the back of his head in a long tail, and bright green eyes offered a smug, almost taunting look. The man stood there quite in the raw, about as shameless as the two highlander women and the roegadyn man that sat on the bed behind him. The sheen of sweat upon them all marked them well as having been...exerting themselves. "Well hello there, Ray. Come to join?"

"I -- most certainly have not," Ray spat indignantly. "I've been looking for you, I should have known to visit this place first. Do you spend all your free time here, Rutherford? For -- for godssakes, at least a sheet, man!"

At Ray's words a bundled sheet hit the back of Rutherford's head, sending a nigh nauseating whiff of depravity out the door. "Fine, fine," Rutherford grumbled. He grabbed the sheet and wrapped it carefully around his waist -- but took extra care to wear it as low as possible. "But I insist that you call me Liucen. Or Lou, you know I like my pet names. Anyroad, you're early. Is it done?" The smugness left Liucen Rutherford's handsome features; he had become all business.

"It's done," Ray confirmed, "Though, I ran into a few complications. I dealt with it peacefully enough -- paid a few people at Highbridge to convince some tails that I had flung myself off the side into the chasm. That won't last long, but it'll last long enough for us to continue."

Behind Liucen, the three on the obnoxiously cushioned bed seemed to have grown bored and sought to entertain themselves in the meantime -- it caused Ray to look the red-haired highlander dead in the eye, forcibly obliterating his peripheral vision. "It cost me a fair gil, and I can't imagine your...diversion here is cheap."

"Now now, I've earned it," Liucen admonished, "And so have you, though you always refuse to join me. But -- other business. What's your count at?"

"Four."

"Oho, you're lagging behind. I'm at six now, and the other two are both above seven. I thought I'd been slacking," Liucen teased smugly. He had to raise his voice just a little; the three behind him had begun to get a tad bit noisy. 

Ray scowled, but dared not look past his companion to the positive melee taking place upon the cushions. "Must they do that? The door is wide open and I'm standing right here...at any rate, it's not like I have much control over when I get them. I have to keep trying. I had hoped that those two would produce at least one...and the one I used for bait was far too corrupted to be of any other use."

Liucen looked back at his colleagues and bit his lip. "Well then. I can support your protestations on what they're doing because I'm not included." He turned back to Ray with a nod. "That's fine, we'll all be at the next step soon enough, and when that happens, they'll be singing songs about us instead. Now! Time's wasting and I really must get back to business. Offer's still open: will you join?"

"I am a married man, Liucen."

The smirk that swept across the redhead's lips was most unsavory. "So's the Sea-Wolf. I'll see you later then." 

With that, he gently closed the door.

The inn room was small, simple, and rustic. Four wooden walls, fortunately intact, surrounded a squishy double-bed. The little night-stand was quaint, but sufficient. A door on one of the walls led off to a bath, while the other could be opened into the hall. The small window was completely obscured by a dark, tattered curtain. The layout of the place clearly spoke of its specialized purpose -- toward sleeping...or toward whatever other bed-oriented activities the debaucher Liucen saw fit. 

On that night, he laid bare between his hosts for the evening; an elegant Roegadyn woman of minty green skin, and a strapping -- though short -- highlander fellow with a dark, sun-kissed complexion and intriguing white tattoos. Their recreation had long since ended, and as the other two breathed quietly in sleep, Liucen looked up to the ceiling in idle thought. Only a few slivers of light entered into the room via the door frame and a slit between the curtains, but it was enough to provide a deeply muddy outline of the overhead wooden beams. 

A slow, irritated breath left him -- would that his company had more drive; he wouldn't be bored and thinking foolish thoughts of work in the middle of the night. Not that he could blame them -- the redheaded Highlander was much smaller in stature than the rest of his kin, but made up for it with stamina and insatiability worthy of song. Sleep was out of the question -- perhaps roaming hands? No, that would only incense and excite more, and compound the problem. Waking them up seemed a very viable option, but they were very nearly strangers, and who knew how they'd react to that?

His thoughts abruptly halted as the line of light along the door frame went out, and the sliver from the curtain extinguished. The room was thrown into a disorienting pitch blackness. Liucen blinked rapidly but it made no difference; for a brief moment he endured the fear that he may have gone blind -- but something above him came into view that set the matter to rest. 

At first they appeared as two silver rings adjacent to one another -- not unlike bands of eternal bonding. Careful scrutiny led him to judge them as eyes; or rather, irises within which yawned widely dilated pupils. Try as he might, the highlander could not discern anything else of a face around them. Unease gripped him for but a blink; he knew exactly what it was. Whispers filled the room -- potent, but quiet. They tugged at his sense of apprehension, but better sense won through. He kept his own, unseen green eyes on the glimmering silver pair.

Slowly they descended, and with that, the whispering grew in volume. Liucen feared that his hosts might wake, but they showed no sign of doing so. Instead, he remained still. The eyes were no threat; this he knew despite the instinct that screamed at him to spring out of bed and take action. Half a fulm from his face they eyes vanished; but there was a definite presence there still -- had they simply been closed? An answer came in the form of lips, pressed ever so gently to his. He could not help it -- a sharp intake of breath cut through the room. Fortunately, aside from a shifting adjustment, neither woman nor man next to him woke.

The lips against his grew bold; they were soft, feminine, and tasted of a delicate yearning. Never one to turn down a good snog, the Highlander participated -- only to feel the intrusion of something into his mouth. It was only the other mouth upon his own that stopped him from sputtering; the dry, papery texture of the object nigh choked him, and tasted of dust.

All at once the pressure from the lips vanished, but the object in his mouth remained. The light along the door's edge and between the curtains glowed once more, and the murky outlines they cast may as well have been floodlights compared to the inky blackness from before. The whispers too, had gone silent. Liucen sat up and reached into his mouth to retrieve what had been placed within. Sure enough, it was a slip of parchment -- only slightly damp at the corners from his saliva. 

Without another thought toward his sleeping companions, he rose and moved to the window for a little light. There was a note on the parchment -- as he had suspected. The handwriting was in a neatly sloped and slightly loopy rendition of the Eorzean script. It was all Liucen could do not to snort; he had a hard enough time reading normal letters, it would be a chore to decipher this rubbish in only light from a damned window. Yet still, he proceeded.




Raymond has acquired his fifth and sixth. Your report to him was inaccurate, I am on my tenth, and Yvonne is on her ninth. We're very close. Good work, that night -- you proved it well; these replicas are powerful, and with the powers we gather they shall be more so. The next step is nigh, on our road to being sung heroes. Would it that what we've gathered could increment our replicas without the rest. Sleep well; and swallow this note when you have read it -- and don't make that face; gods only know what else you've swallowed tonight. A bit of paper is nothing.







The grimace Liucen had made at the last instruction was quickly replaced by an exasperated deadpan -- that too, did not last long, for a figure out in the dimly lit alley had caught his attention. She was tall, elegant, and poised for grace. Silver hair flowed down over her shoulders and back in natural ringlets, framing a face that seemed hewn of the finest, whitest marble. The lengthly, delicate arch of her neck and the ears that swept from her hair marked her easily as elezen -- for the glimmering silver robes she wore well obscured her form. A white book was clasped in her hand, accompanied with a silver-feathered quill. 

It was if she had sensed him looking; she flitted her eyes up to the window -- those very familiar silver eyes -- and smiled. She gave the impression of being the very light source of the alley -- and Liucen soon realized the impression wasn't wrong. The book closed inaudibly, and she vanished from sight -- plunging the alley into darkness. Beauty stolen from his view.

The Highlander risked a grumble as he begrudgingly crammed the parchment into his mouth and chewed it to pieces. "You and your husband," He found himself perhaps more stirred than previously by the mere sight of her. "Bloody teases, the both of you."

The foursome walked down the streets of the Goblet, their merry laughter echoing across the canyon walls. The first, a blond midlander in startlingly shiny armor, walked ahead of them with a proud stride and an air of smugness about him. Behind him trailed a silver-clad elezen woman who slid along the floor, looking rather pleased with herself. The other two -- a red haired Highlander in robes of white, as well as a shapely auburn elezen in a form-fitting maroon dress -- they trailed behind, casting an occasional glance back at the housing. 

"They were an awkward lot," The midlander declared, "Though that Duskwight remains irritatingly shrewd. We're going to have to find a way around that. Speaking of which, Felicia -- their wards?"

The silvery Elezen took a deep breath before giving her report. "Old magic. Strong magic. There are traces of that Camy woman's work on it -- but the rest. It's powerful, and complicated. It draws from their aetheryte as well."

"Can you do it?"

"It will take time."

"Good! Then our mission was a success. The next stage begins in a few days."

Captain Broenbharsyn -- or Barry, as he was affectionately called -- hauled himself into a nice inn room for the night. Vesper bay sported only two of them available to the public. One shite-hole overnight, and another more luxurious accommodation. His stay at the well-equipped establishment had been paid for by his client; among other comforts. Food, drink, a small amount of gil to gamble away at the docks...everything but a good whore. The man who had bought his business seemed too proper to endorse that sort of indulgence, at any rate. All that shiny paladin plate and properly combed blond hair. He hadn't hesitated to give him a bottle of worn-labelled rotgut however -- a treasure in the eyes of any old sea hound.

Broenbharsyn wasn't much of a young man. Pushing forty-four summers the old sea-wolf had already begun to see salty greys in his wild black hair and beard, and his pale green skin wrinkled around bright blue eyes. Half-drunkenly he pushed himself into the room after having tried two other doors that wouldn't yield to his key. It was spacious, with a large bed -- for all the good that would do without a good missy -- and several other luxuries; a desk and chair, a dark armoire, even a few poncy decorations here and there -- a floor length mirror, too. A door led off to the privy and bath. He'd heard that there was hot water, and a bidet to wash his arse. Fancy, fancy. With a grunt he plodded over to the table and set the jet black bottle of booze down on it. While he had decided that he definitely preferred a feisty dancer girl as company, circumstances dictated that he'd be cradling the bottle for company before bed tonight.

He made his way to the bed and pressed a hand onto the mattress. Firm, with soft, silky sheets. Nice, nice, the high life was his tonight. No salt-stiffened board of a blanket to fight with for once. The nightstand contained several bottles and vials of things, probably perfumes, oils and whatever else rich folk dipped themselves in before bed. Against his better judgement, Barry opened the little drawers to check for any stray gil a previous patron may have left behind. Nothing.

Perhaps it was foolish guilt, but the good captain received a vague impression that someone was watching him from behind. The great sea-wolf turned, only to behold the door and the writing desk with the bottle on it. A deep, rattling chuckle left him, heavy with the fumes of alcohol. The booze didn't approve, it would seem. Speaking of booze, the sudden need of a mighty piss gripped him, and so he plodded over to the privy door. The inside of the place made him whistle -- a large tub, with a shower -- as well as the fanciest looking damn privy he'd ever seen. A flushable one, gods-damn! He noted the hot water toggle on the shower as well and -- there it was, the bidet! Unfortunately -that- implement didn't look Roegadyn sized. Oh well. At least there was a nice face basin with soap. Usually he'd leave the door open, but tonight, this luxury demanded the intimacy of a closed room. 

The captain relieved himself in a timely fashion, forcing himself to be far neater than he usually was -- he even washed his hands this time, with soap, too. When it was time for him to open the door again, something stopped him short. Years of sailing had given him an uncanny sense of when someone was in an adjacent room -- it was a wonder, some of the things his shipmates got up to when they thought he was asleep. At that moment, with his hand on the door's handle, he felt a distinct presence in the room beyond. Someone pacing slowly, by the sense of it. Very quickly he ran through what he had done when he'd entered the room. Had he bolted the door shut? Likely, it was habit, but now he was unsure. A cautious hand went to a dagger on his hip, ready to brandish it in the face of the intruder. With all the hopes that it was just someone who stumbled into the wrong room, Barry wrenched open the door and held the dagger high. "Oi...! ...Ah?"

There was no one there. His only company for the evening, as had been when he entered the room, was that jet black bottle of booze on the desk. A quick glance at the door confirmed that he had bolted it shut, and what presence he had felt beyond the door had evaporated. A rasping snort left his nostrils as he tossed the dagger onto the desk; the captain discounted it as the effects of intoxication. That sorted, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed and removed his boots. 

Perhaps it was the booze, perhaps it was luck -- when he leaned over to slip them off, something appeared in the corner of his eye. A distinct black shadow right at the edge of his peripheral vision. Barry grunted and turned his head in alarm...but there was nothing there. A steady unease grew in the pit of his stomach; three close occurrences of feeling someone was there, they could not be easily discarded on the excuse of being drunk. Was the room haunted? Perhaps -- which would be just his luck. Fancy fittings and a damned ghost. Still, ghost or no ghost, the sea wolf needed to get some sleep -- after a nip of the gift rotgut. Both boots were flung into a corner, and his shirt floated down upon them soon enough. Barry stood, stretched and took a moment to admire himself in the mirror for a moment. Softened belly notwithstanding, he knew he still had it; barrel chests were all the wenches needed to curl up on after a good romp. Too bad there were no wenches around. That alone drove him to turn and reach for the bottle on the desk.

This time, he saw it in the mirror, definitely saw it -- a silhouette, fleeting as it was; hyur sized, black as the darkest night. It had just -stood- there, and the moment he moved his eyes to properly gaze upon it, it was gone. It spooked the good captain in earnest, and made him seriously reconsider the offer of accommodation. He definitely wouldn't be staying here the night. Still, a sip or two of his free booze couldn't hurt before he dressed and departed. 

Except that the bottle was gone. Barry had turned his back to the mirror to acquire it...and it wasn't there. Vanished. Did he move it? Was he that drunk already? No; he'd just seen it, hadn't he? Damn it all. The large fellow made an awkward rotation, searching oafishly for the one source of his comfort for the evening. When his eyes glanced at the mirror he snorted at himself. There it was, on the desk, blind fool that he was. A curse muttered from his lips as he turned to the desk to swipe it up...and met only air. There was no bottle on the desk. 

Teeth of cold dread sank into the captain's neck; he had to force himself to look at the mirror, for every fiber of his body screamed at him not to. The black bottle sat neatly on the desk; a reflection of nothing. 

Barry only allowed himself to be a fool for so long. With no regard for the damned boots or shirt, the sea wolf pelted toward the door and made to undo the bolt. Unfortunately, the metal did not budge, even with a grunting application of mighty roegadyn strength. Against his better judgement, he glanced back at the mirror to check the status of the haunted bottle. 

Oh, how he wished it was the bottle that had been reflected.

The dark silhouette stood in the mirror, right next to him at the door with a firm grip on the bolt. From the way the head was turned, the thing was -staring- at him. With an unmanly yowl, Broenbharsyn released the door as if it had burned him and stumbled back to crash into the desk. Both his hands scrambled for his dagger -- for what good it would do -- but it was gone. On instinct, he looked into the mirror to see if it had eaten his trusty stabber too, but that was not there -- nor was the silhouette. 

"Navigat'r save me." His moan of terror was almost childlike and primal. Yet, with the thing in the mirror gone, he was emboldened to make for another escape. If he couldn't get the bolt open, he'd ram the damned door down. To his full bulky height he stood, snorting again at the barrier between him and freedom. He took two steps back, tensed, then rushed forward! More than three hundred and fifty ponze of roegadyn might would surely render the door to matchsticks -- and bugger paying for any damage in a haunted inn!

Before Broenbharsyn reached the door, a deep piercing gash opened in his throat, spraying blood liberally onto the wooden walls and floor. The wretched, doomed captain stumbled backward with a surprised gurgle and toppled onto his back, dead before he hit the floor. He managed to get a final, upside-down glimpse of the mirror before he left the material world, however.

The dark silhouette stood guard at the reflection of the door, with his own trusty dagger held in hand...right at the level where a roegadyn's throat would be.