Void Return. (Semi-Closed) - Printable Version +- Hydaelyn Role-Players (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18) +-- Forum: Role-Play (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18/forumdisplay.php?fid=27) +--- Forum: Town Square (IC) (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18/forumdisplay.php?fid=21) +--- Thread: Void Return. (Semi-Closed) (/showthread.php?tid=11153)

Void Return. (Semi-Closed) - Qaeli - 04-18-2015 Southern Thanalan – Zah’arak U’roh could’ve gone his whole life without seeing this place again. Memories, both painful and jovial, flooded through his mind. One moment he saw his mother, proudly telling the other Huntresses that he was going to be the best warrior the tribe had ever seen as he brawled with the other Tias. The next moment, the most painful memory of his life: his own mother, clawing and screaming, trying to kill him with her last breaths as her Tempered husk bled out on his halberd. However, his mind was focused. The unknown sender of that letter knew his darkest secret, one he’d only told two people, of which he was certain one was dead. His head swiveled left and right as he walked forward, watchful, his spear ready within a moment’s notice; his body was on high alert, as thing entire thing screamed retaliation. As the Miqo’te braved his way through the treacherous quagmire of crushing remembrance and hostile amal’jaa, something distant began to nag at the periphery of his mind. Intangible concepts of doubt, sorrow, fear, and rage skirted the outer threshes of his mind, threatening to penetrate his psyche. In the instant that he reached the deepest antechamber of the amal’jaa stronghold, where the wretched memories of his possessed mother’s final moments were strongest, those feelings disengaged entirely. At the centre of the chamber stood a lone figure, cowled in threads of midnight, thereby starkly silhouetted by the crystal that had burst from the belly of the chamber, formations winding upward like the grasping of claws. No words or gestures of welcome were offered, merely beckoning silence, as the dragoon’s clinking plates and bootfalls filled the vicinity. As U’roh looked upon the darkness-clad figure, his brow furrowed and arms crossed, clearly not amused by this invitation. Scanning the chamber for other bodies and finding none, he spoke flat and direct, “I take it you’re the one who wrrrote the letter, then.” Golden eyes studied the figure, whose proportions were clearly defined as female, pressing the matter, “So what’s this about, then? How the hells did you find out?” The answer did not come immediately, or at all, truly. Several moments of silence passed before the figure’s voice finally broached it, tonality thick with a sort of chilled indifference, a voice unknown to the grieving son, “You have peered into the face of death. Witnessed the fear, the pain, the disbelief. Begotten by the steel of your own bearing.” The figure’s shoulders rose and slowly fell, as if taking a commemorative breath. “Understand you what happens behind those curtains in that moment? The dispersal of the sum of one’s experiences. The aether flowing, fueling and comprising their entirety… gone. Returned unto the Silent Mother, forever relegated to the cage of romanticised memory, locked within the minds of those that survive the fallen.” Subtle movement denoted a lifting of the woman’s head, gaze ascending toward the unseen heavens. “Or are they?” U’roh, not exactly following the mysterious woman’s words, posed another question, “Does this have something to do with ‘the truth’ you mentioned in the letter?” He then mulled her words over, a fresh memory of his lifeless mother’s body suspended on the pike of his spear, broken body sunk unto his own. He was crying, unable to stand under the crushing weight of his loss, collapsing to the ground with his mother in his arms, clutching as much at sadness and vengeance as her lifeless form. Snapping back to the present, he remained still, observing the woman, seeming content to listen. “Speak. What is this about?” “To whence do you think your mother gone, little spear? A husk of rotted meat and dissolving meal, buried beneath a pile of rubble; a pitiful stage for the replaying of such weighted memories in her spawn’s fragile mind?” There was something approaching amusement within that voice, though not necessarily engaging malice. Still, the words caused U’roh to grind his teeth, rubbed thoroughly in the wrong manner. “She’s in Azeyma’s care now. Free from the damned prrrimal,” he said, his tone quickly turning aggressive and angry at her amused tone. Even if she did not seem openly malicious, the memory of U’qawhu was still held in the highest esteem, the matter openly sensitive for the dragoon. This brought another memory, training under that Elezen’s tutelage. “Good! Let the vengeance burning inside you fuel your strikes. Now, come, as though I were Ifrit himself!” she had shouted, easily deflecting amateurish blows with a halberd of Ishgardian steel, one of the very make the Miqo’te carried on this day. Once more returning to the present, staring holes into the back of the woman’s head, he continued in his defense, “She rests now, with the very bow she used to provide for me, and in her great shame, serve Ifrrrit. Where are you going with this?” His words, filled with romantic fancy, earned a hollow chuckle. The figure’s cloak began to billow, put into motion by an unfounded eddying. “Like an infant, you clutch to such hopes, willing them to be true, cloaking yourself in the tidy warmth of naïve wishes.” Something crackled within the air, a darkly fulmination gathering at the woman’s left hand. “’Within Azeyma’s pillowy bosom she lies, ever restful,’” the words were spoken, now with open mockery, in a voice perhaps frighteningly close to the Miqo’te’s mother. “Shall I grant you a lens to the truth, little spear?” Once more U’roh grit his teeth, about to lose his temper in his traditionally hot-headed way. Reaching for his spear and channeling that vengeful crystal of his, he was prepared to force the truth out of the woman, until the familiar voice of his mother struck him still. Yet clutching his halberd, he growled, “Speak…” As the demand was spoken, the growing darkness around the woman’s hand suddenly furled unto itself, dissipating from view entirely, along with the current that had disturbed her cloak. “You squeak demands for that which you have earned no right,” she said, quiet with an undercurrent of danger. Suddenly, she exploded into action. Using the crystal as a launch point, she spun into a turning leap, her trajectory leading her straight for U’roh. Just after the apex of the leap, a strangely dim flash erupted from the earlier enveloped hand. In the wake of the burst of light, a crystalline blade materialized, burgeoning with lethal erosions formed into piercing spikes in myriad directions. With cold precision, she brought down the bright blade in an overhead strike, threatening to cleave the feline male in two. Fortunately for U’roh, he was able to escape from the heart of the attack, the ravaging tip of the blade only carving a fine chip through his breastplate. As he leapt back, however, he felt a sudden bite of cold at the flesh behind the nominal damage to his armour. “Void?! Shite…” he grumbled, having been subject to that very particular form of cold a handful of times in his adventures. Still, he would not back down. The moment his feet gained purchase, he was soaring through the air again, fueled with draconic haste characteristic of the order he idolised. “When it comes to my mother, I have EVERY RRRRIGHT!” he shouted as he crashed down, aiming to split the woman in twain, if she would defame his mother so. He only felt the jarring impact of stone, however, as the woman skirted aside of the diving attack at the last moment. With clearly practiced balance, she caught her spinning maneuver mid-twirl and stepped right back into the attack, another downward slash speeding straight for the dragoon’s throat. Disappointed and clearly vulnerable upon missing his mark, U’roh used his momentum in the best way he knew how. Hurling his weight forward while yet clutching upon the stone-buried halberd, he twisted his waist in order to steer him clear of that sword strike, the swiveling motion bringing both feet straight into his attacker’s chest. This impact he would use to rebound himself in order to land upright. However, to his surprise, it was not the soft flesh of a woman that his boots collided with, but a diminutive wall of steel. Denied his intended launch pad, his back struck the ground, the failed maneuver only salvaged by his managing to wrench the halberd from the ground. Skidding back a few fulms, he scrambled to his feet, staring the hooded woman down. His face twisted with feral rage, slit eyes screaming for blood, and so he lunged, intending to impale and pin the woman with the halberd tip. The hooded woman’s lips hitched narrowly upward as she watched the dragoon’s ferity turn into a bull-headed assault. As he closed in for that lunge, she charged him at the point of no return. The crystalline blade, itself refracting otherworldly light and particles, dipped low before being brought up underhand, slamming into the underside of the spearhaft, sending it spinning into the air. In conjunction, she stooped low, a swift turn of her hips propelling a viper-like kick that slammed into the cleft of U’roh’s chin, launching him back once more. The Miqo’te did not see the kick coming, having become rapidly consumed by anger he had thought long locked away after the fierce battle with his mother’s kidnapper. Losing the spear compelled the throwing of a wild punch, stopped short by the crack of a boot to his chin. Once more upon his back, his fury mounting, “F-fucking bitch! What did you do?!” he roared. “Why do you TALK like her!?” he spat, a spatter of blood to follow, yet dazed. Even as he laid upon the ground, the woman paid no pursuit to her advantage. Rather, she slowly stalked forward, blade scraping the stones with each alternating step, scourging the air with distant, agonised cry each time. “Pick it up,” she demanded coolly, the abandoned halberd suddenly sliding across the ground to lay within U’roh’s reach. “A kitten should have his fangs when mewling for fresh milk.” “ANSWER ME, TWELVE DAMN YOU!” he cried as he seized the halberd and scrambled to his feet. Once more he charged, vexed by this woman’s mimicry of his mother’s voice, pain seared into his heart like an iron brand. Practiced movements worked in congress with his racially-defined agility, starting with a few raking slashes and stabs. “Sod off! You are NOT her!” He was overcome with rage, hatred of himself, his enemies, and the primal for taking his mother away from him. Yet sadness lurked within his every thought and movement, burdened by the death he was forced to partake in. Hopelessness--the realisation of his own limitations, unable to make any quantifiable difference—threatened to drive him mad. Even so, he drove at the woman with intensifying combinations, wild and wide, but blazing fast thrusts and slashes aiming to catch leg, shoulder, arm, neck or chest. Still she dodged or parried them all. In a rush of furious frustration, he threw his head forward in a ramming headbutt, at last finding his target. A loud crack sounded as skull met hooded skull, and a streak of white shot over his vision, briefly blinding him. Still, he didn’t flinch. “Tell me, you voidsent piece of SHITE!” he shouted, taking a low grip on the halberd before leaping into the air and coming down with a devastating overhead slash that would cleave her scalp in two. The woman, having been sent reeling one hundred-eighty degrees by the collision, seemed vulnerable. However, before the impending blade of the halberd cratered her skull, she suddenly tucked low, then sprung high into the air, just lateral to the halberd’s arc. She leapt swift and high as a Dragoon, her cloak lost in the flurry of motion and the swipe of that polearm. Upon her descent, the crystal blade began to flow with light anew, the body of the weapon shifting and stretching as she came crashing back down, diving with the precision and power of one fueled by the dragon’s blood, voidspear streaking like an arrow of unholy light. As the halberd found dirt and stone instead of flesh and bone, it became lodged in place, leaving U’roh to wrestle with it while wondering where the woman had learned to take to the sky like the Isghardian dragonslayers. Unable to wrench his weapon from the ground, he was forced to abandon it as the woman’s wrath loomed so quick, so close. He managed to leap back just in time, though the concussive force of the woman’s dive knocked him from his feet. Teeth grit as he struggled to lift himself. “J-just full of surprises, aren’t ya…” he said, noticing the woman had lost her cloak. “Seems ya lost your bleedin’ hidey cloak.” Scrabbling to his feet, he readied himself as best he could, ready to look his attacker directly in the eye for the first time, though her face was obscured by the plume of dust and raining detritus that had rocketed up from the point of impact. After a few moments, the transformed weapon cut a swathe through the haze, slowly giving reveal in the settling wake of the woman U’roh had been battling. What he saw struck him speechless. Unruly locks were no longer silver, but raven, accentuated by strips of an odd primrose hue. They mostly obscured the singular rivulet of blood that ran astride her nasal bridge. Those eyes swirled with a confluence of silver and abyssal purple, but the blue was unmistakable. Her normally easy smile, gone, replaced by a stern stoicism. So much was foreign, and yet he knew her instantly. “Q-QAELI?! Was all the Miqo'te could manage after he felt that rage subside away. "I... thought you were dead, what happened...." He said, slumping to his knees, tears once again streaming down his face. "You were alive all this time?! Why didn't you tell me?!" The young woman U’roh had known and promised to follow, disappeared so many months ago, looked upon him with hard, unforgiving eyes. The chill U’roh had felt from the mere glance of the spear over his armour encroached again, this time within his eyes, in the very corners of his mind. With a hard stomp she freed the lodged halberd from the ground, snatching it up with a free hand. “Tis nae me wha’s doin’ th’hidin’,” she spoke with an inflection all too telling. With undue force, she flung the halberd like a javelin, the pike splitting stone and earth at U’roh’s feet, once more lodged in place. She lowered the bladehead of the aether-rich spear toward the ground, stepping toward the confused and tortured Miqo’te. “I cried out,” she began, the prior stabbing humor gone from her voice, replaced by something neutral, perhaps tinged with sorrow, “but none answered. I screamed until I ‘ad nae voice, but none ‘eard.” Her advance halted mere paces from where U’roh struggled to regain his footing. “’Alive?’” she said quizzically, as though the meaning of the word were foreign to her. A singular shake of her head followed. “Nae alive. Nae dead. Jes’… gone. Here,” a rap of knuckles to the pulsing spear gave signal to the spoken destination, “tae th’place where none, yet all go. Th’place where ye mothah, or a’ leas’ a part o’ ‘er, ‘ad gone. Hurdled intae th’dark by th’temperin’, tipped intae oblivion by th’tip o’ her son’s spear.” “Q-Qae… let me help you. I don’t know what happened. You just… disappeared. I thought we lost you…” The Miqo’te pleased, wincing through the pain of the burning—it hurt, but the wounds in his heart hurt worse. His legs were wobbling, his scarred face teary-eyed and staring directly at her, her words finally reach flattened ears, “W-wait. Are you saying… that she’s alive because I remember herrr?” he asked, his sorrow not allowing him to fully comprehend her words. “That…” he started, stopping when he realised he didn’t know what he was going to say next. “I don’t understand." Quietly, she paid no heed to the offering of aid, an offering that had missed its window by some seasons. “Lost… aye. Alone? Fer a time.” When the wounded male pressed with his questions, her lips drew a measure tighter, nostrils flaring in the nominal effort of an insular sigh. “E’en now, ye…” With a fluid spin of the haft, the spearhead was downturned and plunged into the stone, leaving it between them. “She were trapped, ‘cause ye could nae let ‘er go. Cause ye made ‘er one wiv ye shame. Tha’ part of ‘er, anyroad. Trapped in a whirl o’grief an’ regret, ‘cause ‘er son cannae live wiv wha’ became o’ her. Instead enchainin’ ‘er wiv fond monuments an’ reclusion from acceptin’ th’truth fer wha’ i’ be.” Her silence on his plea made him hurt even worse, eventually sliding back to a knee, unable able to weather the wounding inflicted by her home-hitting words. “S-so, all this time… I’ve been keeping her from moving on?” he asked, thinking he finally understood. He had thought he put it all behind him. Rhena was slowly helping him come to terms with what had happened. He thought he had done the right thing, ending his mother’s physical existence and thereby freeing her. Now he was being told that it was all in vain, and he was to blame. He had no words. “Then what about you, Qaeli? You were my best friend. You still arrre. You just disappeared without a word. Yet every day, I prayed to whatever of the Twelve would listen to let you be okay. I see now my pleas fell on deaf earrrs.” He said, looking down, not even having the emotional strength to look her in the eye anymore. The ground below him slowly took on a damp sheen from his tears. Qaeli, meanwhile, looked upon him in silence, slowly steadying eyes devoid of pity or remorse, for either her actions or the suffering of her friend. As he wept, she offered neither motion or word of comfort. Instead, she stepped around the planted spear, reached out a hand to take firm grip of the collar plate of his breastplate, and with strength unbecoming her size, lifted him forcibly back to his feet. “Guilt be fer th’selfish,” she began, a press of fingertips to his chin urging his gaze back to her own, “A trait ye nae be defined by. But, ye’re weak,” she spoke solemnly, as though those words were hurtful to speak. “Weak, ‘cause ye ‘ave nae yet embraced th’whole o’ye’self.” She moved both hands then, stepping back astride the spear, leaving him to stand or collapse again. “D’ye f’ink th’women an’ men ye aspire aftah, they who hunt /dragons/, could leap as they dae, ifn’ they were fettered by their failures an’ shame, as ye be?” Lowering her gaze the space between them, she turned a sideward look to the voidspear, eyes tracing unseen movement within the base of the manifested weapon. “From th’void, tha’ fraction o’her could sense wha’ laid in th’deepes’ part o’ye. ‘er son, hamstrung a’ th’heart cause o’ wha’ befell ‘er.” U’roh, struggling to stifle the flow of his tears, knew that she was telling the truth. Guilt. Shame. There was no space for such things within a Dragoon’s heart. Deep within his own, he knew this, even if Qaeli’s words felt like a harpoon driven through those depths. Given the opportunity to stand when she pulled away, he made the effort to keep upright. “Y-you’rrre rrright… I can’t let my past be my future, while it’s true my vengeance drives me.” His head swam, encouraging him to use his halberd for balance. ‘Is this why I couldn’t use my crystal? The doubt and shame in my heart?’ he asked himself, already aware of the answer. Looking back to Qaeli, he took a breath, daring to ask another question, “You were… in the void. D-did you speak with her in therrre? I mean, what’s… left of her? If so, what did she say?” Blue eyes flicked over U’roh’s tear-stained face, her tongue flicking out to taste of the drying blood that had courted the corner of her mouth. “We… ‘spoke’, aye. Nae as ye an’ I dae now. But,” she gave a wave of her hand, dismissing use of further contemplation on the matter. Instead, she reached toward the voidspear. As her touch neared the haft, wisps of smoky pallour snaked out to bridge the distance. “She said… e’eryf’in’. S’nae th’kinna place where f’ings’re kep’ t’th’chest. Nae those kinna f’ings, anyroad.” Shaking her head, she tapped a forefinger against the body of the spear. “Roh… wha’ d’ye f’ink this be?” she asked, eyes yet upon the otherworldly weapon.  “An’ let me couple tha’ wiv th’question I asked ye afore. Where d’ye f’ink ye mothah be?” U’roh’s gaze drifted heavily to the spear, a heavy silence having fallen over him as he listened, weighing Qaeli’s words with only a modicum of understanding. His mouth opened, ready to testify to the odd quality of the spear, when another thought struck him. ‘Can it be?’ A shudder went through him, chilled and confused by the possibility before him. “The spearrr is concentrated aetherrr. Void enerrrgy,” he began, eyeing the spear with a fresh wariness, even though the immediate danger to his life seemed to have passed, “that you… You can do that?” His attention rubber-banded back to Qaeli, briefly distracted by the true realisation that his friend commanded any measure of void energy. She offered no answer, merely staring at him expectantly, waiting. “S-sorrrry, not the point,” he reminded himself, looking back at the crystalline piece in question. “A piece of the void itself. A piece of… of her?” he said, swallowing for the sudden aridity within his throat. “She is…” Instinctually, he reached toward the spear, though he stopped short as he felt, even through this gloves, the chill nipping at his fingertips. “The spear?” He said lamely, tasting the absurdity of the words with a degree of reproach. “Aye, Roh,” Qaeli answered with incredulity aplenty, upturned palm gesturing to the spear. “’ere’s ye mum. I know she lookin’ a lil’ underfed, but tis nae th’girl’s shape wha’ mattahs. S’wha’ she holds inside wha’ makes ‘er—donnae be stupid.” Her hand clapped against her thigh as it dropped away, staring hard at the Miqo’te. “I know, I know.  Not… her, literrrally. Herrr will? Consciousness?” he asked with clarifying purpose. “An’ mine.” “So, she is… with you?” She nodded, brushing invasive raven strands from her view. “We aided one ‘nothah. Opened me’self up t’allow a joinin’ o’sorts. Like fresh clay mended ontae a vessel in th’middle o’th’bake. But,” she paused then, two fingers gingerly tapping over her left breast, “she be jes’ as presen’. ‘er wish clear.” “Her… wish?” “Aye.” Something stirred within U’roh’s belly. Dread. Desperation. The need to know. “What wish?” “Fer ‘er son t’soar,” she said, the weight of her tone conveying a measure of empathy. Another wave of tears blurred slit eyes, heralding crests of shame, guilt, and reprieve, all at once. Willing himself not to be swept away by them, he straightened his shoulders, fists clenching. “I-if… she is with, you…” The Miqo’te took a breath, the weight of the coming words heavily burdening his already battered heart. If he was to tear his eyes from the past and look forward, he had but one course of action left to him.“C-can I say goodbye?” he asked, setting his bleary eyes upon the conjured spear. Qaeli offered neither refusal or admission. Rather, she stood aside, allowing U’roh to satisfy this spiritual need without interference. Stepping forward, U’roh suddenly realised he wasn’t sure what to say. He had never grasped exactly how to say ‘goodbye.’ Finding no answers within the glimmering surface of the spear, he turned his gaze inward, eyes closing as, for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to focus upon the memories he should have relied upon all along: her beautiful smile, her gentle voice, and her loving embrace. Soon, the words began to trickle out, thick with emotions he had refused to feel until now. “I…I’m sorry, mum. It… must’ve been… so painful seeing me cling to so much hate. So much anger, it must’ve been hard. To see me cause the tribe to suffer for such selfish reasons. To see me walk almost entirely into the same fate that befell you.” He shook his head, once more opening his eyes. Though a spear stood before him, he glimpsed something else entirely: U’qawhu, Ranger of the Sands. “I hope, at least, it made you a little happier to see me make friends and find a reason for being,” he smiled wanly at the vestige of his mother, recalling the hard years that followed his failed challenge for the right of Nunh; before his beloved Rhena, before Qaeli, before his training in the Grindstone, with Ceuline, with Qaeli and even Gharen, she had been there. Glancing down, he drew out the crystal he had been gifted, looking its resplendent surface over with renewed hope. “I’ll live up to your wishes. I’ll… I’ll soarrr. I’ll be the best bleeding thing I can be,” he said with a deepening finality, returning his eyes to the fading image of his mother. When it had gone completely, he turned tear-stricken eyes back to Qaeli, albeit reservoirs of sorrow were now filling with a happiness he did not know existed. Thus, he gave a nod, signaling that he was finished. In answer, Qaeli reached out and wrapped a hand about the haft of the spear that had stood as proxy for the now-renewed Dragoon’s mother and, with a simple clenching of her first, caused the crystallised weapon to disincorporate in a shower of fractal dalliance. Watching the radiant display, U’roh stowed the crystal once more, solemnity once again taking root in his voice. “What will happen to her, Qaeli? Will she return to the Lifestream?” Qaeli, having shown little emotional resonance during U’roh’s farewells, pursed her lips to the side, “I cannae say. Learned much while I were on t’othah side. Til then, I dinnae e’en believe th’passed retained any sense o’who they were when still wiv th’quick. Oft ‘nough, they become th’Lost.” She shrugged. “Mayhap she’ll return t’th’Stream. Mayhap she’ll lingah awhile ‘til she fades altogethah. Mayhap she really will res’ in Azeyma’s embrace. Let ye know ifn’ she tells me.” Roh looked down, fresh concern etched into his features. “Aye, I can rrreally only hope for the best. At least she’ll go knowing that I’ll be fine,” he looked up to Qaeli then, as if he were seeing her for the first time all over again, “Thanks to you. If you… hadn’t done this, I would’ve likely gotten myself killed in the near future.” Stepping forward, he reached out a gloved hand to rest upon her arm. “I dunno what happened in the void, Qaeli, I can’t imagine how hard it was… But know this. You’rrre my friend. If there is anything I can do to help you—anything—let me know.” The young woman seemed unmoved by the affection and promise, though she did offer a slight smile that suggested appreciation. “Good o’ye t’say tha’, Roh,” she said, voice tinged with an ominous weight, “there be dark clouds… dark wings loomin’ o’er th’horizon. I’ll need ye help.”