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Limsa Lominsa - The Night Before
The night before the trial. The city was silent, unnerving, like a graveyard after a burial. The festering underbelly of Limsa’s shadows flicked around the darkness, like carrion vilekin skittering and feasting in the damp recesses of a long derelict hull. Tomorrow, a man will be tried under a crimson banner; vicious untamed wolves feasting under the sham of a trial. Chakha was familiar with the like, guilty or innocent, it didn’t matter to these savages. The outcome of the trial was clear, any master of shadows can taste the tension in the air.Â
She walked the streets shrouded by shadow, among silent whispers and drunken shouting of the filth that skittered through the rotting decks. Her horn shudder and she briefly looked up at the towers of the city-scape, it was only for a moment, but she continued on, uninterested in the petty crimes of the city, such as vandalism. Although, it reminds her of a time a centurion caught a Ala Mhigan Resistance member openly writing badly phrased graffiti in old Garlean. It is said the imperial centurion forced the insurgent to rewrite the graffiti in proper Garlean grammar from dusk to dawn.Â
She passed a group of housewives walking home with a escort from the Sanguine Sirens, they were in discussion about what clothes they should wear for the inevitable hanging of Morris. It appears be a family event, alike the spectacles of Noxis in the Coliseum. She preferred the Order of Nald’thal’s executions, often a simple toss off Highbridge for the condemned. She moved towards the Aftcastle and noted a few individuals encamped at the area, willing to spend the night to save a place in the crowd overhearing the trial.Â
She cased the area, noting potential hiding places she spotted from her earlier reconnoissance of Limsa. Chakha smiled under her cloak and her right hand grasped a handle. A newly constructed pistol, single-shot, but very alike the pistols utilized by the pirate scum of this nation. She learned an ideal use from that riot a few suns ago, a match for the tinder calling for blood to mend a wound. Her smile twisted further as she recalled her daggers slipping into the back of Zanzan, the Despised One. Mayhap he’ll appear, and she would have the opportune to finish her work.Â
She has changed, since meeting with Emee. Was she trying to save her sister? Was she ridding the world of a evil voidsent? Mayhap. Or mayhap it wouldn’t matter at all. Her colors were twisted into a void that demands affirmation, a wound that needed to be mended. She giggled softly as she backed up against a railing near the Aftcastle, leaning back and dive into the ocean, a soft splash unheard by the twisting tension that may only be sated by blood.
The night before the trial. The city was silent, unnerving, like a graveyard after a burial. The festering underbelly of Limsa’s shadows flicked around the darkness, like carrion vilekin skittering and feasting in the damp recesses of a long derelict hull. Tomorrow, a man will be tried under a crimson banner; vicious untamed wolves feasting under the sham of a trial. Chakha was familiar with the like, guilty or innocent, it didn’t matter to these savages. The outcome of the trial was clear, any master of shadows can taste the tension in the air.Â
She walked the streets shrouded by shadow, among silent whispers and drunken shouting of the filth that skittered through the rotting decks. Her horn shudder and she briefly looked up at the towers of the city-scape, it was only for a moment, but she continued on, uninterested in the petty crimes of the city, such as vandalism. Although, it reminds her of a time a centurion caught a Ala Mhigan Resistance member openly writing badly phrased graffiti in old Garlean. It is said the imperial centurion forced the insurgent to rewrite the graffiti in proper Garlean grammar from dusk to dawn.Â
She passed a group of housewives walking home with a escort from the Sanguine Sirens, they were in discussion about what clothes they should wear for the inevitable hanging of Morris. It appears be a family event, alike the spectacles of Noxis in the Coliseum. She preferred the Order of Nald’thal’s executions, often a simple toss off Highbridge for the condemned. She moved towards the Aftcastle and noted a few individuals encamped at the area, willing to spend the night to save a place in the crowd overhearing the trial.Â
She cased the area, noting potential hiding places she spotted from her earlier reconnoissance of Limsa. Chakha smiled under her cloak and her right hand grasped a handle. A newly constructed pistol, single-shot, but very alike the pistols utilized by the pirate scum of this nation. She learned an ideal use from that riot a few suns ago, a match for the tinder calling for blood to mend a wound. Her smile twisted further as she recalled her daggers slipping into the back of Zanzan, the Despised One. Mayhap he’ll appear, and she would have the opportune to finish her work.Â
She has changed, since meeting with Emee. Was she trying to save her sister? Was she ridding the world of a evil voidsent? Mayhap. Or mayhap it wouldn’t matter at all. Her colors were twisted into a void that demands affirmation, a wound that needed to be mended. She giggled softly as she backed up against a railing near the Aftcastle, leaning back and dive into the ocean, a soft splash unheard by the twisting tension that may only be sated by blood.