Years ago.
She held her tongue.
When they knocked on the door of the small shack her brother had called home, Delial opened it and stepped aside. There was no need for words, after all: they had their arrangement, their task, their payment safe in the city. There was nothing more to be said.
It is the right choice. It is the safest choice. The words crawled slow circles through her mind even as her brother fought and struggled. He howled at her, voice taken to a defiance so unlike him. She could not look at him. She had nothing more to say. It is the right choice. It is the safest choice. It is the right choice.
She held her tongue, and when her brother was gone, she closed the door behind her.
----
Now.
Two years ago, Gharen Wolfsong was as good as dead. He was poisoned and broken and, miraculously, brought back from the edge. He accompanied her to a ball, danced with her while his sister glared. He spared her life again and again, to the discontent of everyone who called Wolfsong ally.
One year ago, Gharen Wolfsong was dead. His sword, bloodied, had been abandoned with is belongings and the man who took his life growled and snapped from behind an iron helm. Chained as he was, Delial held no doubt he was as volatile, as hostile as ever, yet he suffered their presence as well as a mad thing who likened himself to a wolf could if one did not think too hard on how he nearly killed or maimed several of the number that had been called in to deal with him. Once he had been unmasked, directing that violence elsewhere had been a simpler matter than Delial expected.
Banurein gave it its voice, the wolf that lingered in Gharen's skin. Banurein gave it fangs, black and dripping, and let it loose. Carved into his chest were the reminders of who it was that marked him as hers to begin with.
Delial took a breath and pushed on, leaning heavily upon her staff. She parted ways from her ride not far outside the Observatorium, giving her thanks and goodbyes once the road split westward. The cold was not quite as she remembered it when her heart was heavy with worry, when she spent her days wondering if she would find Wolfsong mangled and half-eaten somewhere in the snow. It sank into her bones sent shivers down her spine but it was numb, felt at a distance if she felt it at all. A heavy cloak was pulled tight around her shoulders and pressed near her heart beneath the layers that she wore was a stone, black and humming, warm in a way though it did little for her poor fingers and toes.
The road and her company continued on north where they would inevitably come upon Ishgard. It was the fork west that Delial took, gauging the mountains ahead against those in her memory. The wagon trails had long since been buried by fresh snow but she did her best to remember, as tricky as it was when the landscape was perpetually redressing itself in fresh, unmarked snow. If she called for the Huntress then surely she would come, but she cast the thought aside. Eager as Jakkya was to lend aid to Gharen and Roen both, Delial had no desire to drag her back to that place.
The three of them had hoped to confront the Pale Lady but it would not be so. Banurein had agreed to attend to the lingering plague in Gharen's veins albeit at a distance, suspecting a trap. The men she had sent in her stead unknowingly led them to a manor left to ruin at the foot of a mountain. It sat broken but proud, ringed by bent iron fences and frozen boulders. The crag overhead seemed a mouth intent on devouring the place, with gigantic icy fangs reaching ever closer one patient ilm at a time. The wind howled and whipped around them, furious and implacable, one final and nearly deafening warning they had no choice but to ignore.
Bells past sunset, Delial finally found it again. The moon did little to guide her and when daylight finally faded she could rely on little else but instinct and the stone, black and yearning, at her heart. The head of her staff glowed with burning aether, casting deep and wavering shadows as she trudged past the fence and into a yard that might once have been the envy of neighboring nobles. Though the windows were stained opaque with ice and dirt, the light gave the appearance of things writhing inside. Delial might have written them off as just shadows had she not known the truth of the place. As she drove on to the door, one lurching step at a time, she could hear the scratching from the other side of the wood. It did not stop when, groaning, the door opened and slammed shut behind her; it only dispersed, scritch-scritch-scratching from corners, from walls, from joints in the high ceilings.
A grand foyer yawned out before her, tattered and broken as the building that housed it. The taste hit her first as she gulped in the stale air, ignoring the dull ache of her knees and feet. It was stale and musty and overpowered yet by the harsh tang of vile aether, the sense of which had nearly overwhelmed Gharen when they found him there. "This place pulls at me in all directions," he told them, and it had only gotten worse the further they ventured. It was yet another thing he had survived, Gharen Wolfsong, and when he slew the winged thing that hid deep in the cavernous basement they took him and fled the place without a glance back. It was at her insistence that they visit Costa del Sol, seas far, far away from the manse beneath the mountain. There was no doubt in her mind, however, that it could not be forgotten.
They are your kin. How could you let this happen? Voices whimpered and wailed as they tore down the things that haunted its halls, though Delial could never tell from what or where they came. Her first concern was Gharen's safety but the voices stuck in her mind like bee stings, left to trouble her. If they were echoes then to whom did they belong? Why did Banurein chose it? Infest it?
You left me to this fate. I had no choice.
I would do anything for you. Tell me.
Delial took another hard breath, banging the butt of her staff into the floor once. For a moment, the scratching subsided, echoing only from the further halls hidden behind rubble and rubbish. Her obligations had been attended to save for one, one which she sat on silently for the better part of the year. The Huntress knew and so, too, did the Wolf; but she was dismissed to her own duties and he, he no longer remembered. It is better that way, she reminded herself, coughing into a sleeve. It is the right choice. Her staff blazed brighter as she centered herself, one hand clutching the stone, black and throbbing, by her heart. She was beyond certain time had long since run out for her brother, gone from Ul'dah so many moons. All that remained was to make certain the favor was repaid in kind.
She held her tongue.
When they knocked on the door of the small shack her brother had called home, Delial opened it and stepped aside. There was no need for words, after all: they had their arrangement, their task, their payment safe in the city. There was nothing more to be said.
It is the right choice. It is the safest choice. The words crawled slow circles through her mind even as her brother fought and struggled. He howled at her, voice taken to a defiance so unlike him. She could not look at him. She had nothing more to say. It is the right choice. It is the safest choice. It is the right choice.
She held her tongue, and when her brother was gone, she closed the door behind her.
----
Now.
Two years ago, Gharen Wolfsong was as good as dead. He was poisoned and broken and, miraculously, brought back from the edge. He accompanied her to a ball, danced with her while his sister glared. He spared her life again and again, to the discontent of everyone who called Wolfsong ally.
One year ago, Gharen Wolfsong was dead. His sword, bloodied, had been abandoned with is belongings and the man who took his life growled and snapped from behind an iron helm. Chained as he was, Delial held no doubt he was as volatile, as hostile as ever, yet he suffered their presence as well as a mad thing who likened himself to a wolf could if one did not think too hard on how he nearly killed or maimed several of the number that had been called in to deal with him. Once he had been unmasked, directing that violence elsewhere had been a simpler matter than Delial expected.
Banurein gave it its voice, the wolf that lingered in Gharen's skin. Banurein gave it fangs, black and dripping, and let it loose. Carved into his chest were the reminders of who it was that marked him as hers to begin with.
Delial took a breath and pushed on, leaning heavily upon her staff. She parted ways from her ride not far outside the Observatorium, giving her thanks and goodbyes once the road split westward. The cold was not quite as she remembered it when her heart was heavy with worry, when she spent her days wondering if she would find Wolfsong mangled and half-eaten somewhere in the snow. It sank into her bones sent shivers down her spine but it was numb, felt at a distance if she felt it at all. A heavy cloak was pulled tight around her shoulders and pressed near her heart beneath the layers that she wore was a stone, black and humming, warm in a way though it did little for her poor fingers and toes.
The road and her company continued on north where they would inevitably come upon Ishgard. It was the fork west that Delial took, gauging the mountains ahead against those in her memory. The wagon trails had long since been buried by fresh snow but she did her best to remember, as tricky as it was when the landscape was perpetually redressing itself in fresh, unmarked snow. If she called for the Huntress then surely she would come, but she cast the thought aside. Eager as Jakkya was to lend aid to Gharen and Roen both, Delial had no desire to drag her back to that place.
The three of them had hoped to confront the Pale Lady but it would not be so. Banurein had agreed to attend to the lingering plague in Gharen's veins albeit at a distance, suspecting a trap. The men she had sent in her stead unknowingly led them to a manor left to ruin at the foot of a mountain. It sat broken but proud, ringed by bent iron fences and frozen boulders. The crag overhead seemed a mouth intent on devouring the place, with gigantic icy fangs reaching ever closer one patient ilm at a time. The wind howled and whipped around them, furious and implacable, one final and nearly deafening warning they had no choice but to ignore.
Bells past sunset, Delial finally found it again. The moon did little to guide her and when daylight finally faded she could rely on little else but instinct and the stone, black and yearning, at her heart. The head of her staff glowed with burning aether, casting deep and wavering shadows as she trudged past the fence and into a yard that might once have been the envy of neighboring nobles. Though the windows were stained opaque with ice and dirt, the light gave the appearance of things writhing inside. Delial might have written them off as just shadows had she not known the truth of the place. As she drove on to the door, one lurching step at a time, she could hear the scratching from the other side of the wood. It did not stop when, groaning, the door opened and slammed shut behind her; it only dispersed, scritch-scritch-scratching from corners, from walls, from joints in the high ceilings.
A grand foyer yawned out before her, tattered and broken as the building that housed it. The taste hit her first as she gulped in the stale air, ignoring the dull ache of her knees and feet. It was stale and musty and overpowered yet by the harsh tang of vile aether, the sense of which had nearly overwhelmed Gharen when they found him there. "This place pulls at me in all directions," he told them, and it had only gotten worse the further they ventured. It was yet another thing he had survived, Gharen Wolfsong, and when he slew the winged thing that hid deep in the cavernous basement they took him and fled the place without a glance back. It was at her insistence that they visit Costa del Sol, seas far, far away from the manse beneath the mountain. There was no doubt in her mind, however, that it could not be forgotten.
They are your kin. How could you let this happen? Voices whimpered and wailed as they tore down the things that haunted its halls, though Delial could never tell from what or where they came. Her first concern was Gharen's safety but the voices stuck in her mind like bee stings, left to trouble her. If they were echoes then to whom did they belong? Why did Banurein chose it? Infest it?
You left me to this fate. I had no choice.
I would do anything for you. Tell me.
Delial took another hard breath, banging the butt of her staff into the floor once. For a moment, the scratching subsided, echoing only from the further halls hidden behind rubble and rubbish. Her obligations had been attended to save for one, one which she sat on silently for the better part of the year. The Huntress knew and so, too, did the Wolf; but she was dismissed to her own duties and he, he no longer remembered. It is better that way, she reminded herself, coughing into a sleeve. It is the right choice. Her staff blazed brighter as she centered herself, one hand clutching the stone, black and throbbing, by her heart. She was beyond certain time had long since run out for her brother, gone from Ul'dah so many moons. All that remained was to make certain the favor was repaid in kind.
![[Image: d_footer.png]](http://cuideag.com/ffxiv/resources/d_footer.png)
