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Limsa Lominsa - Foremast - Parade Square - [Very Slightly NSFW]
———
The sun rose high over the Foremast as a unit of Yellowjackets and Maelstrom guards gathered. Security was heavy, despite the lack of a crowd; the recent Simb’a incident necessitated the large guard as Limsan officials sought to prevent another lost of face. Nevertheless, the lack of a crowd drew some awkward concerns from a few of the guards, “Where is everyone?â€, “Did yea he’r? Ever since the Hellfist folks started disappearing, they be saying there is a curse,†“Yea jest? Me thought those only rumors,†“They say this one worked for them dirty Ul’dahians, mayhap they making sure….â€, “Sush, yea don’t call down the Trader’s curse by poking yea nose around…, they say them Death's Embrace are involved...â€
The rumor mill continued churning around as the guards sought to alley their concerns by reaffirming their superstitions. After a bell, drums rolled and the guards automatically scurried into position and snapped to attention with drill-honed precision. Drums rolled and a group of people emerged from the shadow of the Foremast towards a prepared stage. In the middle of the group, bound in tight ropes and in light clothes barely preserving her modesty, was a female Xaela, the prisoner Chakha Hotgo. Her tail sways perhaps unconsciously with the drumroll and she looks up at the open clear sky, her face locked and devoid of emotion.
How long ago had it been since that fateful day in Hawker’s Alley, where she spotted aaja… where the world she thought she had lost… came tumbling back. At first it was disorienting, then maddening… especially once she learned of the man… the Zanzan. She was well acquainted with the scheming nature of his kind; while she saw her former mistress as a friend, she knew very well how true that stereotypes of her mistress’s kind, the lalafell, can be. Such silly assumptions however, cast shadows within her mind that clawed at her psyche… once more, it felt as if someone was trying to take away what family she had left.
She remembered the sun… the night… cries of fear and terror… the laughter of the massacrers… the roar of the cannon… the yells in the night… screams of outrage … what was she remembering? What was she recalling? The drumbeats synchronized with her heartbeat… with the beats of her minds eye set adrift into the depths of her memories. Before long she was on the platform… and the officer read out the charges and sentence… what was said is said and what is to be done shall now be done. The whip was raised, and the punisher’s face blanked out against the sun (and covered by a hood). With a lash… it came down and the sentence began.
One Lash - it barely registered, despite the officer’s strength and sense of duty in carrying out the punishment. Within, the shock was absorbed as she recalled the true nature of her flesh… and mayhap soul. For a soldier of the Empire, magitek was the incarnation of Garlemeld’s superiority over the rest of the world… and to use it… to become one with it… was considered a means of becoming a part of the Imperial war machine. For the shadows of Garlemeld, many did not utilize said enhancements… fearful of what could be lost in the process. However, for those devoid of purpose nor care, said enhancements were means of granting both physical and cultural power among the legions of the Empire.
Ten Lashes - Was it her decision? Yes. She cannot deny it. They filled her emptiness with power - with purpose - she was no longer Chakha of the Hotgo - a innocent naive girl of the steppes. She was a weapon… a tool to be used by those who would impose order on the world - a tool did not need family nor did they need to feel… no remorse, no regret. The orderless world of the steppes took from her… the Dotharl as she knew… did not felt remorse nor regret… in a “free†world… they celebrated their slaughter. Those who would go against order needs be cut out before they infect others… if only the Dotharl were destroyed before… she wondered. If only they were all destroyed…
Fifteen Lashes - Her body shook, but she felt numb - how many people did she eliminate? Was the Dotharl band the first… when she lead the Empire to their camp? Or her fellow trainee? Or was it the insurgent boy? The corrupt centurion? Eliminate. Eliminate. Eliminate. Erase. Erase. Erase. The whip cracked against her skin - openly breaking and bleeding, but her castle remained strong. Erase, Eliminate, Remove, Cut, Delete. Delete. Delete. So many lives… so many diseased portions… so many possibilities… so many hopes and dreams… erased… deleted… eliminated.
Twenty Lashes - How many lives did she delete - eliminate - erase? As easily as a entry into a Allagan data frame or Garlean processor - she removed many confounding variables, without a hint of regret or hesitation. Her orders came down and she carried them out. A shinobi is a tool, a blade used by their masters, the only objective that matters is that the mission is carried out to its fullest. A running family of a rebellious lord. A noisy local official. Annoying pirates off Ilsabard. An army moving through a narrow and collapsible pass. So many faces, all blank and full of regret. Hers or theirs?
Twenty-five Lashes - Her master was defeated. It seemed impossible, but it became fact once the apparent missive was sent out. Many had betrayed their homelands, their people, their families, yet a single letter had abandoned them to the hordes. Chakha herself was on assignment in Vylbrand, disposing of a bothersome pirate captain, before learning from her contact of her master’s death and the disbandment of the Shadows. Never since the massacre had she experienced such a shock… but it remained for only a moment. She was alone again… far from those she knew… cut off from her duty and purpose. A blade cast off into the sea.
Thirty Lashes - There she would have remained, if not for the experiences she obtained while wandering the land of savagery. Chakha knew who would have need of her services, and who would give her a purpose once more. A aspiring, yet unfortunately overambitious merchant. A renegade paw. A crazed heir. A gang of rogue Blades. Her new masters were pleased with her work and sharpened her blade with praise and generous portions of gil. She was passed along like a borrowed sword - she was a borrowed sword - owned by those who knew of her. A short time, yet a long time, eventually leading her to her last mistress.
Thirty-five Lashes - Emerald eyes scanned her face, blonde hair with black highlights frame her head, although Chakha could smell the faint scent of hair dye. She had been passed along from master to mistress to master… and now she found herself in the employ of a girl only a summer or two below her own age. “Hi! I mean… *cough* greetings, Miss.†Her first mission with the mistress, passed over from her old master to the young mistress… was amusing. Infiltration. A trinket shrouded in darkness. She wasn’t sure that her new mistress knew the nature of her work. But the times… was entertaining, at the very least.
Forty Lashes - For the first time in a long time, she eliminated relatively little. Here and there, an unfortunate soul. At first, it was a misunderstanding… but as she knew more about her mistress… she became hesitant… briefly… her means of elimination changed. The greatest of her past work was her capacity for delayed action… the army in the pass, the rogue Blades… the renegade gourmet. She refined these skills as she worked about fulfilling the innocent requests of the girl. For a time… she recall… “Because we’re friends, right?†A dramatic yet honest smile, it was a interesting time. The tool felt itself being used in interesting ways, yet it felt something. It did not quite feel… this way in a long time.
Forty-five Lashes - It began when she moved to Limsa - Hellfist. What a pompous yet stereotypically Limsan moniker. One name caused so much trouble, she had eliminated, deleted, cut, removed so many others. Yet this one name caused so much trouble, it was another mark - another name to slash off on a lifetime of marks. Mayhap it would have been easier if she did not find her ajaa and learned of the Zanzan which grasped the former’s heart. Twice did she come close to slaying the Zanzan, yet it only looked at her… ‘his’ attempted murderer with strange eyes. Hate she knew. Fear as well. But the Zanzan did not show such emotions. Thus, she concluded that the Zanzan is a deceptive and unknowable being. Even if ajaa ordered her to tolerate him, she still could not bring herself to accept the Zanzan. The Zanzan was not a mark, none desire his death, yet she felt - she FELT.
Fifty Lashes - She felt for the first time in years. Days of light and joy, shrouded by a night of fear and terror, the pain between her legs and heart shearing away the brilliance of the past into dark agony through which becoming a object was a means of release. I’m sorry. She said… now or in the past? The object felt… the object desired and despised… the object regret and saw a long line of puppets… their blank faces filling up with features as they turned to stare at the sinner. In a world where life was cheap, the auditor reigned; yet now the soul counter turned her… it’s gaze on her. A snap. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. She was alone again… on the dark steppes… fires in distance behind her… and a new sun rising… figures approaching from the sunrise. The imperial patrol of her past…? her ajaa…? Or a new shadow cast by her own mind?
A few bells later - Chakha huddled in her cell, her treated wounds still aching and her horns and tail end throbbing; conjury had closed the wounds, yet the stings of the mind still hurt. She muttered “I’m sorry…†over and over, until a presence pressed upon her. She opened her eyes, and a figure sat there on the floor. It eyed her through reptilian yet familiar eyes, “Regret is for the weak.†It stated in a robotic monotone, a voice she recalled using in the past, “You have become weak, vulnerable.†It stated. “I will regret… for ajaa’s sake,†Chakha replied. The figure just sat there and tilted her head, “Ajaa does not understand. She doesn’t know all that you’ve done. She is blinded. But she will see one day. She will abandon you one day. You are a tool. To cut, to eliminate, to delete, to destroy. That is your purpose.†Chakha closed her eyes, “No. No. No.â€
———
Prison Hulk - Off the Coast of Limsa Lominsa -Â
“Ey, who she talking too? She’s the only one in the cell.â€, “Shush, they of get delusional after a flogging. Just ignore it.†"How she only get off with fift'ty lashes for murde'r?" "Ant' non left of the Hellfist crew to call for he'r ead. So the Admiralty just wiping their hands of it. Yea know how it works, you don't got a crew to yell at the Command Post, yea just chowder for the fish.Â
The guard muttered, ""Plus, this here lady got the service of Lieutenant Zanzan. They say he could convince the Admiral herself to dress up like a lass, or get the Syndicate to convict themselves in a forthnight with his siren voice. A real enthralling thing that little man is." "Mayhap he be a siren, glamoured in the guise of a man?", the other guard whispered, his eyes shifting back and forth. "Mayhap, gotta keep a eye on that little one."
———
The sun rose high over the Foremast as a unit of Yellowjackets and Maelstrom guards gathered. Security was heavy, despite the lack of a crowd; the recent Simb’a incident necessitated the large guard as Limsan officials sought to prevent another lost of face. Nevertheless, the lack of a crowd drew some awkward concerns from a few of the guards, “Where is everyone?â€, “Did yea he’r? Ever since the Hellfist folks started disappearing, they be saying there is a curse,†“Yea jest? Me thought those only rumors,†“They say this one worked for them dirty Ul’dahians, mayhap they making sure….â€, “Sush, yea don’t call down the Trader’s curse by poking yea nose around…, they say them Death's Embrace are involved...â€
The rumor mill continued churning around as the guards sought to alley their concerns by reaffirming their superstitions. After a bell, drums rolled and the guards automatically scurried into position and snapped to attention with drill-honed precision. Drums rolled and a group of people emerged from the shadow of the Foremast towards a prepared stage. In the middle of the group, bound in tight ropes and in light clothes barely preserving her modesty, was a female Xaela, the prisoner Chakha Hotgo. Her tail sways perhaps unconsciously with the drumroll and she looks up at the open clear sky, her face locked and devoid of emotion.
How long ago had it been since that fateful day in Hawker’s Alley, where she spotted aaja… where the world she thought she had lost… came tumbling back. At first it was disorienting, then maddening… especially once she learned of the man… the Zanzan. She was well acquainted with the scheming nature of his kind; while she saw her former mistress as a friend, she knew very well how true that stereotypes of her mistress’s kind, the lalafell, can be. Such silly assumptions however, cast shadows within her mind that clawed at her psyche… once more, it felt as if someone was trying to take away what family she had left.
She remembered the sun… the night… cries of fear and terror… the laughter of the massacrers… the roar of the cannon… the yells in the night… screams of outrage … what was she remembering? What was she recalling? The drumbeats synchronized with her heartbeat… with the beats of her minds eye set adrift into the depths of her memories. Before long she was on the platform… and the officer read out the charges and sentence… what was said is said and what is to be done shall now be done. The whip was raised, and the punisher’s face blanked out against the sun (and covered by a hood). With a lash… it came down and the sentence began.
One Lash - it barely registered, despite the officer’s strength and sense of duty in carrying out the punishment. Within, the shock was absorbed as she recalled the true nature of her flesh… and mayhap soul. For a soldier of the Empire, magitek was the incarnation of Garlemeld’s superiority over the rest of the world… and to use it… to become one with it… was considered a means of becoming a part of the Imperial war machine. For the shadows of Garlemeld, many did not utilize said enhancements… fearful of what could be lost in the process. However, for those devoid of purpose nor care, said enhancements were means of granting both physical and cultural power among the legions of the Empire.
Ten Lashes - Was it her decision? Yes. She cannot deny it. They filled her emptiness with power - with purpose - she was no longer Chakha of the Hotgo - a innocent naive girl of the steppes. She was a weapon… a tool to be used by those who would impose order on the world - a tool did not need family nor did they need to feel… no remorse, no regret. The orderless world of the steppes took from her… the Dotharl as she knew… did not felt remorse nor regret… in a “free†world… they celebrated their slaughter. Those who would go against order needs be cut out before they infect others… if only the Dotharl were destroyed before… she wondered. If only they were all destroyed…
Fifteen Lashes - Her body shook, but she felt numb - how many people did she eliminate? Was the Dotharl band the first… when she lead the Empire to their camp? Or her fellow trainee? Or was it the insurgent boy? The corrupt centurion? Eliminate. Eliminate. Eliminate. Erase. Erase. Erase. The whip cracked against her skin - openly breaking and bleeding, but her castle remained strong. Erase, Eliminate, Remove, Cut, Delete. Delete. Delete. So many lives… so many diseased portions… so many possibilities… so many hopes and dreams… erased… deleted… eliminated.
Twenty Lashes - How many lives did she delete - eliminate - erase? As easily as a entry into a Allagan data frame or Garlean processor - she removed many confounding variables, without a hint of regret or hesitation. Her orders came down and she carried them out. A shinobi is a tool, a blade used by their masters, the only objective that matters is that the mission is carried out to its fullest. A running family of a rebellious lord. A noisy local official. Annoying pirates off Ilsabard. An army moving through a narrow and collapsible pass. So many faces, all blank and full of regret. Hers or theirs?
Twenty-five Lashes - Her master was defeated. It seemed impossible, but it became fact once the apparent missive was sent out. Many had betrayed their homelands, their people, their families, yet a single letter had abandoned them to the hordes. Chakha herself was on assignment in Vylbrand, disposing of a bothersome pirate captain, before learning from her contact of her master’s death and the disbandment of the Shadows. Never since the massacre had she experienced such a shock… but it remained for only a moment. She was alone again… far from those she knew… cut off from her duty and purpose. A blade cast off into the sea.
Thirty Lashes - There she would have remained, if not for the experiences she obtained while wandering the land of savagery. Chakha knew who would have need of her services, and who would give her a purpose once more. A aspiring, yet unfortunately overambitious merchant. A renegade paw. A crazed heir. A gang of rogue Blades. Her new masters were pleased with her work and sharpened her blade with praise and generous portions of gil. She was passed along like a borrowed sword - she was a borrowed sword - owned by those who knew of her. A short time, yet a long time, eventually leading her to her last mistress.
Thirty-five Lashes - Emerald eyes scanned her face, blonde hair with black highlights frame her head, although Chakha could smell the faint scent of hair dye. She had been passed along from master to mistress to master… and now she found herself in the employ of a girl only a summer or two below her own age. “Hi! I mean… *cough* greetings, Miss.†Her first mission with the mistress, passed over from her old master to the young mistress… was amusing. Infiltration. A trinket shrouded in darkness. She wasn’t sure that her new mistress knew the nature of her work. But the times… was entertaining, at the very least.
Forty Lashes - For the first time in a long time, she eliminated relatively little. Here and there, an unfortunate soul. At first, it was a misunderstanding… but as she knew more about her mistress… she became hesitant… briefly… her means of elimination changed. The greatest of her past work was her capacity for delayed action… the army in the pass, the rogue Blades… the renegade gourmet. She refined these skills as she worked about fulfilling the innocent requests of the girl. For a time… she recall… “Because we’re friends, right?†A dramatic yet honest smile, it was a interesting time. The tool felt itself being used in interesting ways, yet it felt something. It did not quite feel… this way in a long time.
Forty-five Lashes - It began when she moved to Limsa - Hellfist. What a pompous yet stereotypically Limsan moniker. One name caused so much trouble, she had eliminated, deleted, cut, removed so many others. Yet this one name caused so much trouble, it was another mark - another name to slash off on a lifetime of marks. Mayhap it would have been easier if she did not find her ajaa and learned of the Zanzan which grasped the former’s heart. Twice did she come close to slaying the Zanzan, yet it only looked at her… ‘his’ attempted murderer with strange eyes. Hate she knew. Fear as well. But the Zanzan did not show such emotions. Thus, she concluded that the Zanzan is a deceptive and unknowable being. Even if ajaa ordered her to tolerate him, she still could not bring herself to accept the Zanzan. The Zanzan was not a mark, none desire his death, yet she felt - she FELT.
Fifty Lashes - She felt for the first time in years. Days of light and joy, shrouded by a night of fear and terror, the pain between her legs and heart shearing away the brilliance of the past into dark agony through which becoming a object was a means of release. I’m sorry. She said… now or in the past? The object felt… the object desired and despised… the object regret and saw a long line of puppets… their blank faces filling up with features as they turned to stare at the sinner. In a world where life was cheap, the auditor reigned; yet now the soul counter turned her… it’s gaze on her. A snap. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. She was alone again… on the dark steppes… fires in distance behind her… and a new sun rising… figures approaching from the sunrise. The imperial patrol of her past…? her ajaa…? Or a new shadow cast by her own mind?
A few bells later - Chakha huddled in her cell, her treated wounds still aching and her horns and tail end throbbing; conjury had closed the wounds, yet the stings of the mind still hurt. She muttered “I’m sorry…†over and over, until a presence pressed upon her. She opened her eyes, and a figure sat there on the floor. It eyed her through reptilian yet familiar eyes, “Regret is for the weak.†It stated in a robotic monotone, a voice she recalled using in the past, “You have become weak, vulnerable.†It stated. “I will regret… for ajaa’s sake,†Chakha replied. The figure just sat there and tilted her head, “Ajaa does not understand. She doesn’t know all that you’ve done. She is blinded. But she will see one day. She will abandon you one day. You are a tool. To cut, to eliminate, to delete, to destroy. That is your purpose.†Chakha closed her eyes, “No. No. No.â€
———
Prison Hulk - Off the Coast of Limsa Lominsa -Â
“Ey, who she talking too? She’s the only one in the cell.â€, “Shush, they of get delusional after a flogging. Just ignore it.†"How she only get off with fift'ty lashes for murde'r?" "Ant' non left of the Hellfist crew to call for he'r ead. So the Admiralty just wiping their hands of it. Yea know how it works, you don't got a crew to yell at the Command Post, yea just chowder for the fish.Â
The guard muttered, ""Plus, this here lady got the service of Lieutenant Zanzan. They say he could convince the Admiral herself to dress up like a lass, or get the Syndicate to convict themselves in a forthnight with his siren voice. A real enthralling thing that little man is." "Mayhap he be a siren, glamoured in the guise of a man?", the other guard whispered, his eyes shifting back and forth. "Mayhap, gotta keep a eye on that little one."