The Orphan, the Elder, and the Hermit - 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: The Orphan, the Elder, and the Hermit (/showthread.php?tid=5545)

The Orphan, the Elder, and the Hermit - DimmerMeerkat - 11-18-2013 Trading in the desert was careful work. Often times the tides of profit and loss were subject to the whims of unexpected sandstorms. An unnamed trading settlement sat far beyond the Sagolii Desert, several days' travel from the Forgotten Springs. And it was only "several days" provided one could keep their bearings and continue straight ahead over sand dunes and dry wasteland, rather than turning and weaving about as shifting sands often made travelers do. The sandstorms had been worse than usual this season, and the slow trickle of traders that normally favored the settlement with a handful of visits over the last few Moons hadn't been coming in as they used to. Some families and merchants had been prepared for the near total cessation of business, but others had not. The elderly Wildwood's stomach growled, painting a grimace on his grey-bearded face. His wife was just as uncomfortable, but her discomfort manifested as simmering to near-boiling anger.  "I think you know very well why this is happening to us," she said, the bitterness in her tone stinging her husband and making him wince. "Stay your tongue," he said, trying to sound commanding, though he was too famished to achieve the authority he'd hoped to. "I do not wish to discuss this." Ignoring his warning, she sniffed and looked out dusty kitchen window of their small, wooden abode. "As though it's not enough we have an extra mouth to feed, the creature eats more than her fair share. Yet she's still scraggly and mangy." The man's hand came down loudly upon the table's surface. "Gods damn you, I said I do not wish to discuss this." He hesitated in spite of himself, not keen to concede to the points she made. He didn't want to start an argument, but he felt the need to defend the young guest they had kept in their home for the last six years. "I would rather she eat more frequently. She is too thin. A growing Miqo'te is more likely to burn away excess faster than two withered old Elezen like ourselves." His wife sniffed again, defiant, but fell silent. As though her silence were an argument in and of itself, the man sighed heavily, wordlessly relenting. "We will eat well again, soon enough," he said quietly. The old Elezen woman turned away from the window, giving her husband a suspicious look. It didn't seem the sandstorms would let up any time soon, and there was nothing left to trade to the neighbors, rendering the man's promise either empty or foolish. He peered at her from the corner of his eye, a grave expression on his face. "I will depart for the Crystal Caves tomorrow morning." Foolish, then. "You'll-" the old woman began, when a smaller but boisterous voice traveling fast down the short, narrow hallway cut her off. "What are the Crystal Caves?" the little one asked, curious as always. The woman whirled to face the small, brown Miqo'te girl, lips thinning angrily. Ignoring his wife's anger, the elderly man bent forward in his chair and opened his long arms to the slip of a child. The child ran to him and threw herself in to them, easily lifted from the ground in to his lap. She was terribly thin, and was about as heavy as a feather. Only ten years old, she was maybe the size of a six year old Miqo'te -- and by far smaller than an Elezen child at the same age. She was the only Miqo'te in the trading post settlement; an orphan the old Wildwood had taken in when she had been intentionally left behind by a caravan when it passed through. "The Crystal Caves," he began, voice a little hoarse from worn use and old age. He cleared his throat and continued. "...are exactly as you would imagine them. A system of caves with glimmering clusters of crystals that stretch on for miles and miles." The little Miqo'te's big, blue eyes widened. Her pupils were dark and round, rather than slitted like a Seeker's, making it easy enough to identify her as a Keeper... if her fangs weren't evidence enough. The older man often wondered how and why a Keeper had come to find herself out as far as this corner of the desert, when they were better accustomed to the forest and the night.  He placed a hand on her head as she chirped a question at him. "Are we gonna take all the crystals and be rich?" The man tried to chuckle to distract the child from taking note of the way his face paled. "No, most certainly not. The crystals belong to another." "Why that greedy-" the child began, silenced when the old man's finger touched her lips. "Kaahi," he said gently. "The man to whom the crystals rightfully belong has done nothing to earn insult." Now his wife scoffed, apparently disagreeing with that statement. She turned away when he glanced at her, reaching for her cooking knife to resume chopping browning vegetables that would need to be stewed and eaten soon if they were not to go to waste.  "Sorry," Kaahi said, her ears laying flat, emphasizing her already thoroughly chided expression. The old man knew she was partially faking it. As if his gentle smile were a green flag to drop the act, she did just that, sitting up straight and looking hopeful. "Can I come with you?" Not having expected that question, the old Elezen blanched. He looked about, searching for the words to gently tell her that she couldn't. It wasn't a very safe trip with the sandstorms blowing through, and the man who owned and lived in the caves was a danger in and of himself. His eyes found the girl's tail, flicking about anxiously.  He flinched when he heard the "clap" of the knife his wife used to chop a carrot, daring a glance in her direction, only to realize she was glaring at Kaahi as she chopped and diced. He put the visuals together and frowned. It had never been a mystery that his wife didn't like having Kaahi around, but she was at least courteous enough not to say anything to the girl when he was around. He knew that she hated the child enough to be truly malicious -- a point of contention that had truly strained their marriage and their friendship. He also knew that when he wasn't around, she was an absolute witch to the little girl. The old man had tried to warm his wife to the child, but she only hated her a little more for it, so he stopped trying. He would not divorce her, however. It simply wasn't his way. Instead, he was sure to always be present when Kaahi was near his wife, lest the woman bruise her cheek again. And then it dawned on him that if he did not take the child, he would leave her here with his already irregularly aggravated, knife-wielding wife. He swallowed, tearing his eyes away from her kitchen utensil. "If you are to come with me, you must retire early this evening after preparing your canteens and cloak." Delighted, Kaahi hugged her adoptive Elezen father, practically purring. He chuckled weakly, then set her on her feet. "Go on, then. There is much to do." With a diligent nod, the little kitten scrambled off to her room--which had once been a simple den--spilling over her belongings and noisily gathering up what she thought she needed. The man's wife rolled her eyes at him, but she smirked in an off-putting, cruel sort of way, making him feel as though he'd just made a terrible mistake allowing Kaahi to come with him. He just wasn't sure who was more dangerous: his wife scorned, or the hermit of the Crystal Caves. He prayed he was correct in assuming the hermit was the safer bet. ----- Noises outside. More than the gusting sands. The voices of men. Gruff. Loud. Boisterous. Idiotic. The clank of pickaxes. Isceroth pushed himself off of his favorite recline; a simple smooth boulder with a natural dip. His wife had spent more than enough time seated on the boulder that the still young hermit believed her lingering essence was strongest there, and a most comforting companion when his bedfellow was none other than solitude. His skin was dark and neutral toned, contrasting with his longish, unruly silver-white hair. He was formidably tall, even for a Duskwight. His composure was rigid and disciplined, and his face seemed to forever don a stoic, emotionless expression. Taking easy, soundless strides towards the noisy exit from his expansive cave, he continued to take in the sounds of the voices. His hearing was stellar. It was sharp enough that he could count the men before they were in sight, and positively identify them all. Three Hyur men--two of them Midlanders, and one a Highlander. One Roegadyn with them as well -- younger and under-fed. All four of them, in fact, were scruffy looking knaves. Beggars turned thieves and scavengers. He might have pitied them. Perhaps in another life. One in which he was a charitable gentleman. But he was not. He was the hermit of the Crystal Caves, wealthy by right of his father's land, and wildly unapologetic by way of his blood. He was bitter by way of the death of his loved ones, and deadly by way of his bladed bow. And these men were trespassing. There wasn't a soul in the entire expanse of the desert who was fool enough to believe the cave was uninhabited, and the sandstorm wasn't enough to mask the very clear warning signs posted along the ridges and dunes. For the literate, there were signs that read "Trespassers Will Be Shot." For the illiterate, there were arrows, skulls, and crossbones. The weapon slipped easily from his shoulder, curved scimitar-like blades coming together at a shared hilt in the center of the bow. He took aim first at the Roegadyn, deeming him the most immediate threat, despite his emaciated build. He loosed his arrow almost as quickly as he had knocked it, and it sank in to the Roegadyn's neck, causing the giant to fall to his knees, dropping his pickaxe. The Hyur men all whirled about to face their attacker, only just beginning their charge when Isceroth loosed another arrow in to the eye of one of the Midlanders. The other two were drawing closer at break-neck speeds, their own axes and swords drawn. Two arms' lengths from appropriate attacking distance, the Duskwight hermit buried another arrow deep in to the skull of the Highlander, but had run out of time to prepare a fourth shot for the remaining attacker. Leaping in to the air, the Midlander came down on Isceroth with a force that could have shaken stone, yet his sword never followed through. The Hyur had barely seen the Duskwight move, and his skin was burning with an odd, itching sensation. Then, all he saw was red as blood poured from a split across his hairline. It was deep. Too deep to bleed so much, unless the skull had been- He fell face-first in to the sand. Looking inappropriately bored, Isceroth turned his bow, flicked it quickly to shake the bulk of the gore from it, and buried the top blade in to the sand to purge the steel of the thief's blood. He glanced at the four bodies, then off towards the horizon, wondering if the vultures would brave the storm to claim their prizes. Isceroth paused then, noting a darker form moving slowly in his direction, teetering weakly from being whipped from all directions by the ruthless gusts of wind and sand. He waited a solid ten minutes before the shape was clear of the storm and close enough to take note of his presence. The hermit looked the elderly Wildwood over, expressionless. In the stranger's arms, there was a crumpled hempen bundle, with a richer brown strip of fur poking out of it through a hole and wrapping around the elderly man's wrist. It was a tail. Though he seemed nervous, the old man came to stand before Isceroth, just out of slashable reach. He bowed his head reverently and wheezed. "I beg audience with the one who owns this place." The hermit slowly looked to the dead bodies, which had already been partially buried by the shifting sands. Either the old man hadn't seen them, or had chosen to ignore them. "Are you the one responsible for these trespassers?" Isceroth asked, looking pointedly at the closest carcass. Apparently the Wildwood had noticed the bodies. He tried hard not to look at the one Isceroth stared at, holding his bundle more tightly. "No sir. There are only Wildwoods where I am from, save for one." After a long, distrustful glance, Isceroth turned his back on the man and moved in to the cave without a word, away from the stinging sands. Unsure what to do, the Wildwood stood where he was, shifting uneasily and watching the hermit depart. Unexpectedly, the hermit stopped and turned, speaking blandly and soft enough that had the elderly man not been an Elezen himself, he might not have heard him. "You may enter." The old man did just that, taking small, nervous steps in to the cave. Out of the storm. In to the Crystal Caves. Kaahi stirred in his arms, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes, irritated by the storm. She wriggled defiantly until he set her on her own two feet, and he held her hand until her legs found their strength again. The brown cloak she wore made her look more gawky than she already was, as it was far too large for her. She blinked her eyes clear and began to look about in wonder. The cave was dark, but the crystals glinted with a light that gently illuminated the path they walked. Far away, there was an orange flicker that danced against the stoney walls, no doubt cast by fire. The child's gaze then found Isceroth and stared at him, curious. Feeling her gaze, he stopped and looked to her. She tilted her head, interested, noting his foggy red eyes and wondering if he could see well or not. Noticing their mutual lingering gaze, the old Wildwood spoke up. "She is my daughter." Isceroth was silent a long moment. "Your daughter does not resemble you." "She is not mine by blood, but by oath," the old man explained calmly, trying not to sound condescending. Of course the child didn't resemble him. They were of two very different races. "I see," Isceroth said blandly. Asking nothing more, he continued toward the orange light, turning and disappearing in to the apparently man-made entrance from whence it shone. When at last they arrived, the hermit made no motion for the pair to make themselves comfortable, despite the availability of rug-covered ground-space, and cushions and pillows aplenty. Instead, he turned to face them again, standing tall and rigid. His expression was hard to read -- a mix between disapproving and sleepy. He simply waited. After hesitating again, the old man spoke. "I have come to beg a loan." "No," Isceroth answered immediately. "I do not lend." The old man had trouble finding his voice. "Sir, I have traveled far, and would do so again to repay you with the spoils of the next trading season." "The desert is fickle. You've no guarantee there will be any spoils to be had. I do not lend." Looking helpless and frustrated, the man fought for words. "I carry with me the deed to my home. I will use the lien as collateral." "I've no use for your hovel," Isceroth replied coldly. "Sir," the old man pleaded. "Our food has run short, and we are likely to run out before the traders return to us." The hermit replied with a sharp edge to his bland words. "You should have been better prepared." The old man bowed his head. "You are correct, sir. I am at fault, and I shan't be so careless again. But my entire family faces starvation for my negligence. It is the first I have made such an error. I fear my age is to blame... I am quite old." "Indeed you are," the hermit replied. "Another reason I will not lend to you. You may die before your recompense." The young Miqo'te's ears stood up straight at the thought of her father dying. "P-Papa can't die!" "Kaahi, hush," the Wildwood elder urged. She defiantly broke away from him and marched towards the hermit, who was effectively thrice her height. "You take that back!" she demanded, jabbing her finger in to his leg. Something snapped the moment she touched him. Steel glinted in the light, and before she had time to realize what was happening, the little girl was on the ground, blood spilling from a slash that spanned from her left brow to the right side of her nose. It wasn't deep enough to mar bone, but it was painful, and would most certainly scar. Her adoptive father was beside her immediately, helping her to sit up and checking her for fatal damage, panic apparent in the entirety of his composure. When they both realized she was going to be fine, Kaahi pressed a hand over her bloody face and wept quietly. It hurt. "Do not. Ever. Touch me," the hermit said warningly, although his voice sounded bored and toneless. In fact, everything he had said since the Wildwood and his daughter arrived had been devoid of tone.  Gently shushing his dismayed little girl, the older Elezen took a moment to gather his courage. He needed to convince the hermit to lend to him, but he had to be careful not to offend him at the same time. The hermit didn't seem riled, but apparently he only needed a flash of irritation to set him off in to a violent strike. "You... have lent before, sir?" Isceroth replied flatly. "I have." There was a long, uncomfortable silence. The older man took the time to dab Kaahi's face with his sleeve. "Consider lending again, please. I will do anything you bid if you grant me only five thousand gil." Another stretching silence. Isceroth eyed the young girl. "You will sell the child to me for ten thousand gil," he said. Sudden, hot anger flashed in the Wildwood's eyes. He glared daggers at the younger man that was towering above him and his daughter. "Out of the question." Isceroth considered this. "The price is unfair? Then I will offer you one hundred thousand for ownership of the girl," he offered easily. Kaahi's father didn't stop to consider the more impressive offer. He replied immediately. "I said no!" the old man barked, shaking from the intensity of the sudden wave of anger that washed over him. "She is not for sale." Isceroth stared dully at him, then looked to the still distressed Kaahi. He neither frowned nor smiled. Nothing seemed to change. "Very well," he began. "Then I will lend you five thousand gil, and you will repay me at the turn of the season with ten percent interest applied. If you do not pay the full amount, the interest shall be applied to the remainder of the amount owed for each Moon on the first Sun. Do you understand these terms?" The old man's head spun, lingering anger mingling with sudden relief and surprise. "Was that..." he gasped. "Was that a test, sir? Your attempt to coerce me to sell my own daughter?" Isceroth did not deign to answer the question. He simply repeated, "Do you understand the terms of your loan?" The old man recollected himself and decided not to push his luck. "Yes sir." "If you fail to pay me any amount by the turn of the season, I will kill you," Isceroth added, just as easily, causing the Wildwood to swallow hard, nodding meekly. Isceroth nodded in turn and left the two where they sat, vanishing in to a part of the maze-like cavern that was well out of sight. Kaahi finally forced open her eyes, still shaken by the attack, her wound still bleeding. "I'm scared, papa." "We will depart soon, my darling." He pressed his sleeve gently against the wound once more. "I am sorry." "It's okay," Kaahi said weakly, smiling up at him. "You'll protect me?" "Of course I will." ----- Isceroth's hermitage was truly fine. Few outsiders had ever come in this far, and it would stay that way for as long as it could be helped. He did not like outsiders. He did not like people. But every now and then, little occurrences would assure the young hermit that outsiders were not all uniformly shallow, greedy ingrates.  The offer to buy the child had indeed been a test, and the old man passed it. Any other common beggar or thief might have easily sold a child that was clearly not their own creation for a fist full of coins. The old man did not. He lifted the lid to one of his coffers slowly, eyes unfocused and thinking. The love of a parent for their child was something that resonated with him. A secret he would not share. His son had been so young and frail when he died, and since that day, he had been broken. He desperately wanted to cast the memories and the pain aside, but it was not so simple. The wounds were fresh. Four years fresh. He blinked hard to clear his mind, peering down in to the coffer. He counted the appropriate amount of coins in to a single velvet pouch, and drew it shut.