Lightsnowe

Every window was thrown wide, begging for just the slightest breath from off the coast. Men of all makes and models slouched or sprawled and it felt like the whole hazy dive was holding back a languid yawn. Darkwood bartop circle-stained with glass-sweat, only the occasional clatter of shuffled ice disrupted the stillness of the place. The heat invited laziness and ill-tempers. The figures lining the bar’s broad counter sank into privacy, to each man his own private and personal hell. Rhode Lightsnowe sulked among them, elbow to elbow with a pair of hardy regulars. Ears flat against his head and tail drooping limp, the miqo’te fellow pressed his cheek into a fist and executed a perfect sigh. The effort dusted away the thin shavings of shelled peanuts arranged in a congregation before him. He traced their passage with half-lidded eyes and tapped the counter. ‘Keep, ‘nother please thank you.’ The barkeeper, a broad sweatstain of a fellow, rumbled consent and lurched into motion. A clink of glass, the bobble of liquor. Rhode cupped his brimming shot-glass with a steady hand, tugged down his scarf and tossed it back. Honeyed fire spilled down his throat, coiled in his belly like a smoldering viper. A pleasant numb scaled its way back up, invaded his thoughts. Gods be good, or Gods be damned. Somebody turn down this heat. Ifrit himself wouldn’t put up with this. ‘A bit much’ he would concede, daubing his horned head with a kerchief. The image caught Rhode unawares, and he chortled at it. The chortle closed up his dry throat, evolved into a cough. The cough in turn got lonesome, invited friends. Soon the lavender catte was hacking and wheezing and lashed out blindly to drink the nearest thing accessible. The beer was rank and unpleasant. But it was nasty enough to do the trick, flushing down his fit in one uncomely glug. Best polish the thing off, just to be thorough. When Rhode smacked the mug back down on the counter, it was with a sigh of satisfaction and total ignorance of the sheer hate radiating from the guy next to him. ‘Oy CATTE. That there was MINES.’ ‘Uhm?’ Rhode retorted, with the masterful prose of a silver-tongued diplomat. He frowned from beneath his scarf, tilting his nose downward and taking in the measure of the mountain stirring beside him. The guy, a Roegadyn of considerable heft, twisted in menace. Eyes of dull bronze regarded Rhode like a tag of tissue stuck beneath one’s boot. ‘Said that was mines.’ ‘Alright alright, I heard you clear the first time, just. Hold on I’ll get you another what-was-that, plumfruit smoothie? No it was a cupcake milkshake, right?’ The heat was putting him in a mood. ‘Say ‘keeper, another Pink Passion Peach Crush for my man here!’ A murmur of amusement evaporated from the sticky crowd. Heads turned and gazes were cast. The Roe’s lips twisted into a not-quite smile, not quite sneer. His irritation hardened into something more akin to gratitude. Like he’d just opened his first Starlight present. ‘Outside. Now.’ ‘Yeah you know what I think that’s a great idea.’ He was wrong. The pier was wretchedly hot, and the flat sea refused to give up even a whisper of a breeze. Once the offended Roegadyn had vented his summery frustrations, Rhode was reduced to an untidy heap easily mistaken for misplaced rubbish. An entrepreneurial gull alighted nearby, to point and laugh and caw its buddies over. His vest had been torn in the beating, something in his ribs had given with a wet snap. One eye was swollen shut entirely, the other unfocused. Just out of reach of his bruised fingers lay his scarf, torn from his face and stomped upon with baleful intent. Rhode strained to reach for it. It was rare enough a concession that he abstained from wearing a helmet, to have the tattered scar-covered tilt of his lips exposed for all to see was an indignity even he couldn’t endure. ‘That’s all you got?’ he rasped and ejected a wad of bright scarlet. ‘Kicking my ass?’ And with that, the miqo’te’s world faded to black.

Hello Eirhildr, and welcome! I don't think you're rambling at all, part of the journey is in finding one's self after all. When you mention you feel like something's missing, that's an interesting thought. What do you feel is missing?

Like any accomplished worm, the deeper beneath her skin he got, the more satisfied Olivian seemed. It seemed genuinely more important to him to thrive off the disapproval of others than to secure his own safety, evidenced by the fact he hadn’t mentioned getting arrowed and how unpleasant and unfriendly that was. So it was, when Ajisai -or Nubia as the grumbly little creature had introduced herself- mentioned she hoped he’d be stuck out in weather conditions he didn’t find comfortable, she was presented a serpent’s smile of venom and appetite. ‘Ah hah, yes very good. Very good in-deed.’ And while his face certainly didn’t -feel- very annoying, he checked it anyway with a white glove and a ‘tut-tut’ reserved for only the most keen of ears. The tall fellow, looming a good head and shoulders above the fairer skinned Summoner, continued to squint at him as though he were trying to read something scandalous on his bones, but that girl teased him into finding insight elsewhere. Fortunately, the Boss interrupted with her instructions. Olivian watched and listened, clearly straining to pay attention. It was altogether too bright for him, out in the middle of the road. He strode some paces away and listened from the cover of trees, polishing off his paper-pipe with a few hurried puffs. Evidently the grand plan was to split up, sensible enough. The Boss seemed to know her guerilla warcraft just fine, hitting and running and forwarding a scout asset to the next mark while cycling the goods back to HQ. Olivian wondered whether she had any formal training, pursuing the thought to its logical conclusion and moving on. Being placed on scout duty seemed to piss Nubia off, which served to deepen Olivian’s insufferable air of satisfaction. ‘Well lets go,’ she placated as amiably as an underpaid babysitter on a Friday night, and delivered on her assessment of annoyance by stomping off in the requisite direction. Introductions were handed out begrudgingly, and to each individual Olivian shared his name and a handshake, should one be welcomed. His hand was delicate, but his grip shockingly firm for one of such floral demeanor. It was a bit redundant to introduce himself three times in a row, but it displayed extraordinary care and seriousness, as though he were there to meet each of the three personally. And with that, they were off. The mid-day sun soon became wearisome along their dusty trek; Olivian shrugged off his jacket and loosened the throat of his tie, revealing his thinnish frame and attention to the high style of an ancient kingdom. He did well to conceal his third, silvery bead of an eye with an unruly plume of coiled black hair, artfully drawing the rest of the mass back into a low tail with a few efficient gestures. ‘Ixal? I am afraid I am not familiar with the term,’ he stated. ‘We will be soon to Buscarrion my dear, what is it expressly we will be looking for?’

As anticipated, his actions caused all manner of fuss and distrust. The crew seemed to snap to the Bosslady’s commands, both spoken and otherwise. They fanned out with some semblance of professionalism, checking the road for waylayers or other such unwelcome subterfuges. Olivian remained as still as prudence permitted, knowing full well any sudden movements or jerking gestures would be awarded with another skewering. Alton's open distrust promised it, nearly begging for the chance. Speaking of, the arrow-wound had taken to mending on its own, owing to a technological marvel the details of which would remain unexplained until insisted upon. Hint: while the body beneath absorbed enough Aether to knit itself back together, the well-dressed fellow’s coat had taken to a shade even darker than before. A near-imperceptible difference, but a difference all the same. A true curiosity; the observant onlooker would have noticed the silver pearl of this odd man's third eye, marking him as a Garlean. And those born of Galarond are well known for having no magical sympathy what-so-ever. Hence the rise of their technologically advanced Empire: where one cannot contend with conjured balls of fire or storms of ice, one must make do with wartanks and mechsuits. Yet here he was, self-mending. And calling forth mini-Primals, no less. Anyway. The bandits shuffled around him, taking stock of the wagon, murmuring among themselves. The Summoner observed placidly, simply raising his palms and side-stepping to keep out the way. From some private pocket he produced a thin, finger long stick of some white paper material and a little silvery rectangle; with the cup of a hand and the flick of a thumb, he bit one end of the little stick and produced a devious little flame to light the other. In an instant, the scent of minty leaves issued forth from him, riding along a long plume of pale smoke that expelled from pursed lips. Olivian tipped some ash and smoked patiently, his poisonous eyes drifting from person to person. The stealthy slip of a girl whom he’d spotted earlier came glowering over, making her demands of explanation. ‘Vitus,’ he corrected politely, curving his lips to the side to avoid blowing smoke in her dark, distrusting face. ‘And I wouldn’t -quite- say I gave up, my dear. More accurately I see no observable reason to oppose you or your industrious kin in your redistribution of locally sourced wealth, and frankly you’re all far too lively to pass up on.’ And she accused him of not being ordinary, which earned her a private, devilish smile. ‘Ah-hah! Hah, aaah… quite.’ he trailed off, as though that were the natural end of that conversation. There were some allowance made about the girl’s temper, even as she grumbled away and shot-putted her rightfully acquired bag of beans back into the wagon with an unaffectionate ‘whump’. Olivian tipped some ash from his little stick, dismissing the notion with the masterfully good nature of a seasoned diplomat, or the flagrant disinterest of a sociopath. ‘Well what a day. What’s next on the itinerary? Something out of this dreadful sun, I do hope.’ A puff and a plume and he chewed his mini-paper-pipe and pocketed his white-gloved hands and stood at the ready, wearing an expression of haughty amusement.

Olivian shirked into himself a bit, shoulders tensing and head scrunching down in the classic form of a man hearing bad news from behind his back. He was facing the wagon by now, all squared up and contended to just walk away from the… colorful youths surrounding him. And his poisonous eyes passed slowly over the spot where Ajisai occupied, and although they did not stop upon her, his lips tilted into a cruel and knowing grin all the same. And just then an Au’Ra fellow sauntered into view, must’ve been a trick of that damnable light which had hidden him prior. The Titans recoiled at the closeness of this individual, gazing between one another in silent debate over who done goofed and let someone get so close to the boss. This new guy, with the horns and the scales and the forced bravado, seemed to be a very sad man roleplaying as a rambunctious girl, something about the quality of him giving away the game to a more studious eye. Or eyes. More on that later. In any case, Olivian found himself distracted by Altan’s performance, less so out of genuine interest and more owing to how the lad’s scaly mouth seemed more suited to frowning than spinning smooth lines about the state of one’s pants. ‘Why yes, they are rather spiffy aren’t they,’ the Summoner agreed, patting down his quite fashionable trousers with a sniff of pride. Not one to be outdone, the leader of the troupe spoke up again, drawing another languid peer over the Hyur’s bloodied shoulder. He frowned at her intelligently, and reached a fine white glove to rub at his forehead, or brush the dark curls of hair as one would part a curtain. He politely waited for her to finish. ‘Vitus, actually. Vie-tuss. Vitus! Now I do recall mentioning ‘silent as the grave’, yes, and I have to say dear lady you are doing a VERY poor job of listening.’ Olivian swiveled around to face the group again, eyes moving from person to person. Pulling in small details; reading the eagerness in eyes, observing the distributed weight of stances, measuring the quality of hardware. He determined quickly who was serious and who was along for the sake of it, but everywhere he looked he found earnesty and pride. It was nearing amusement, to see such energetic folk all gathered together for a single cause. Hells above do I miss war. Sigh. There is a camaraderie you can only find on the field, a kinship tied between souls who have bled together, snored together, wept together, laughed together with their very lives on the line. He saw it here, in these dirty bandits, and that set him back a step. -’come on, almost got it…’- There was a hand peeking up over the rim of the wagon, patting around the interior in search for goodies, the way a cat paws blindly beneath a table. It was charming, and Olivian issued a brief melodic laugh in spite of the threats around him. Of course he could see the girl just fine, though concealed by a glimmer of some mudra or other. Very very few things could pass unnoticed by the third silver eye stuck like a pale bead in the center of Olivian’s forehead, though itself might have passed inspection hidden as it was behind the unruly crop of his jet hair. He fired a knowing wink in Ajisai’s general direction, then righted himself to address the catte lady smouldering before him. ‘But you know what, I think you’re onto something. Let’s be friends.’ The Summoner clicked his teeth twice, and immediately the quartet of oily, muscular manly Titans flexed one final flex before poofing out of existence with a comical plume of white Axe body spray. Well that isn’t true, one stayed behind. It hovered over to the Lallafell driver, who was catching it up on the storied history of the rare and coveted Giannantonio bean, and then proceeded to scoop up the little fellow from beneath his armpits and caber tossed him off into the distance. Some say Bubali Dobali never landed, and indeed continues his flight to this very day, jammering on and on about his wonderful fruit. His conjured men fading from this realm, Olivian was left by himself, offering a devious smile and a courteous bow as he flicked the tailgate of the splintery wagon and down it clunked, freeing up the ill-gotten bounty to be plundered without contest. ‘The Adventurer’s Guild doesn’t pay well enough anyway,’ Olivian reasoned, straightening and adjusting his thin black necktie. ‘Besides which, you all seem much more interesting.’

A target for Olivian’s indignation emerged from the thicket, a lean catte-like slip of a woman as world-worn as she was pretty, with a whole posse of riffraff in tow. They shared knowing smirks with one another, reminding the Summoner of a ragged wolf pack. Or a squad of mates, fresh-faced and earnest, their uniforms still steaming from the Academy's irons. The woman cooed out a clever line about how handsome he was and how meaty his shields were, sounding every bit as smug as a catte cleaning her whiskers after her meal. The sight trimmed Olivian’s fury considerably. In another life, perhaps these very ones would have marched on Ishgard, Olivian mused while he flipped the bloodied arrow around and around between his slender fingers. In another land, Garlemond would have fed these ones and raised them to be full of the pride of the Empire. Perhaps that pride beats still within their hearts, the pride of the Land. But he was reminded of the sting of his arrow-wound, and more importantly the ruination of his fine shirt and with a stamp and a wave of his hand he cast the dark ringlets of hair out of his face and shot an accusatory point at the gang’s conspicuous leader. ‘You there!,’ he declared sonorously, his voice pitched with command. ‘These goods are under the direct protection of Olivian (don’t say it, you've got to remember to stop saying it) Vitus. That would be me. And I would see this chatty fellow and his… provisions to their rightful place. Unless you wish to put me to the test, I would advise you stay right where you are and contemplate every meaning of ‘still as the grave’, or you will find your ill-advised career has come to an unsightly end.’ Not too bad, as far as threats go. Olivian was never one to repeat himself, and though his initial wrath had subsided upon seeing the state of the woman and her brigand brigade, it simmered still just beneath the surface of his poison apple stare. He continued to regard the catte-lady with the intensity of a serpent staring down a blade of grass, while the ludicrously muscular Titan-Egi quartet set to flexing and throwing gang signs and crude, taunting gestures of their own. And though his composure may not have presented someone worth taking seriously, having thus far presented a more suitable pin cushion than foeman, there was an off-putting quality to the discipline of the Hyur’s posture and a sharpness to his movements that betrayed a talent for violence forged by cruelty and tempered in the fires of war. For a very, very brief instant, his fingers of his right hand twitched towards the wrist of his left, peeling back the glove just a hair or so, before ultimately deciding against it. Gloves on, for this one. For now. As for the wagon-driver, well he was blessedly ignorant of his own peril, and took go jabbering to anyone who happened to be nearby about the quality of variously sourced beans. He started hooting on and on to the Titan-Egi who had stopped the chocobo, then set to jammering further to nobody specific while lighting up his little pipe. Of eager Ajisai and stoic Altan, neither party made any notice, leaving them to their own unsupervised devices. The Summoner snapped the arrow, discarding the broken pieces back unto the earth. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, the day has already proven tedious enough without this needless bloodshed, and as it stands I must meet my destination before the set of the sun. I’ve a tailor in-town who will undoubtedly be glad to see me, or rather his pockets will. Honestly, I’m putting his kids through school by now, but such is the cost of quality goods, no?’ And he pointed out the best dressed of the brigands, further indicting him (or her!) with a slight upturn of his fair chin. ‘Ah see this one knows what I mean. That vest is impeccable! It really brings out the best of your build. Well done. ‘See? We are all friends now. Well, I’ll be leaving, take care. And remember! Still as the grave. Ta!’ And he spun around, kicking an elegant whirl in his overcoat and shrugging goodbye with an upturned glove.

Gainfully unaware that the coveted bean-hoard was being ogled by a bean-consuming brigade, Olivian was dutifully contemplating a sneeze when the impact punched him from his perch and shoved him off the wagon entirely. With an ungentlemanly shriek he cartwheeled artlessly and landed in some otherwise unoccupied brush, face down and arse up. And there he lay for the span of a few heartbeats, trying to figure how he’d gotten deposited there so suddenly. He blinked and coughed out a leaf and squinted at the sunbeam that just so decided to mock his inelegance by shining right into his irritated, handsome face. And he started to flounder and writhe and flap effect-lessly to his feet, but his legs were just a mite too long and his coat just a bit too heavy and he couldn’t find purchase. Friggle…. Fraggle…. Oh sod this. ‘BOYS!’ he shouted in a voice that echoed like a peal of thunder, a simple syllable carrying with it the weight of command. A voice that harbored no repeat, a voice that would snap petty officers into attention for fear of immediate retribution. And just as suddenly as he’d shouted, four massive figures just ‘pop’ed into being. They were the each of them utterly identical, bronze-skinned and oil-slick muscle-men with undercuts and tremendous beards, utterly nude save for scandalously placed clouds of darkness. Their powerfully built legs terminated in miniature tornados, kicking up small plumes of dust where instead mortals would have left footprints. Two of the Titans set to fishing out their Summoner from his compromised state, while the other two floated soundlessly over to the wagon, drawing it to a halt with simple, unignorable gestures. Hefted back to his feet, Olivian raged over his now-dirty coat, and took to slapping away the dust with his immaculate white gloves, which served only to transfer the filth from one garment to the other. There was also the matter of the annoying protrusion jammed through his chest; fortunately the arrow had only pierced lean muscle but was no less painful, and no less bloody. The white of his elegant shirt was already stained for all time, as more of his blood pumped in joyous release from the wound. Green eyes misted with pain and incandescent with rage, the tall fellow yanked the arrow from his chest and held it aloft like excalibur itself. ‘Rrrrrrrrrrrgghhh WHO SHOT THIS?!’ he yelled, as his four Titan cohorts posed around him like some jojo meme.

The sun hung high overhead, wearing a light skirt of gently drifting clouds, and issued forth a delicate warmth into the dense thickets of the South Shroud. A slim maiden of a breeze whirled and danced and spun playfully through the boughs of the orderly lanes of the ancient wood, kicking up leaves and spores alike. Finches peeped and chirruped, small critters scurried over the forest’s gently sloping floor, and Olivian oen Vitus was bored senseless. My oh my my my, what a dreadful day, he thought sourly, shifting to maintain his perch atop one of the hard barrels as the wagon pitched side to side. One of the wheels was shorter than the other three, and that just about summed up his ill fortunes in a single pathetic image: not even the damn wagon would give him a break. What wickedness had I gotten up to in my past lives, to lead me here. Its too bright, and too loud, and my arse has gone numb. It may have fallen off entirely, and I’d not know until it is too late. And how does one go about finding one’s lost arse? Is there a Market Board for that? Besides Limsa, of course. Limsa is just one giant arse hospital now isn’t it. Thought of the ocean-side city did nothing for the woeful Hyur’s humors, which sunk further and further with each ship-like lurch of the wooden contraption as it ambled unevenly down the merchant’s path. You’d have thought that, given its well-known route and subsequent usage, the road would be worn smooth in the years since the Lumberline’s conception, but popularity had done nothing to make the ride to Buscarron’s Druthers particularly comfortable. Or safe. The job had been shockingly straightforward: Accompany a merchant’s shipment to the Druthers, then await further instructions upon arrival. There was general report of banditry occurring along this particular trail, as desperate and lazy an occupation thievery could be. And besides which, the Druther's woodsfolk would have eager need of able hands, Olivian had been assured, in growing their little hamlet into something more approaching a village. Eager hands, and numb arses. Let it never be said the Empire does not care for its small-folk. Let it never be said Olivian oen Vitus passed the opportunity to safekeep a month’s supply of… ‘Higane-cut Beans!’ bleated Bubali Dobali, the wagon’s lone driver. He was a stout Lallafellow with an impeccable moustache and a great warm baritone voice that would be quite soothing to hear, were it ever stopped long enough to reflect upon. ‘Shredded down the middle they did! Well I tell you, that’s how you let all the flavor out! Now don’t get me wrong, them Higane fellers know a thing or two about a thing or two but you can’t go choppin up beans all willy nilly like and tossin’ them in yer soup! Now sit me down and pass me a bowl of Tinillian chowder and we’ll talk. Those Tinillians know their way around a bean, let me tell-’ And onwards and onwards thence. Olivian never knew there were so many things to know about beans, nor there were so many words that could be used up in the span of a single morning, yet here he sat numb arsed and astounded. A waste of his talents, to be certain. Tall-ish and well-made, Olivian struck an impressive figure in his dark suit and darker overcoat, his curly obsidian hair hanging around his pale, haughty face in gently bouncing coils. Armed with a masterfully honed resting bitch-face and a green-eyed glare that could peel the paint from a Magitek walker, he would more than suffice as a deterrent to any of the rumored bandits who might or might not be lurking in the nearby vicinity, or anywhere in the world for that matter. Well ordered and well trained, he might’ve been better placed astride a war-bred steed, commanding troops and unleashing deadly stratagems upon some distant battlefield, calculating the dirty arithmetic of war. Yet this particular day found him sitting straight-backed on a bouncing barrel of beans in the woods, trundling off to some back-water no-place with only an over-enthusiastic Lalafell and a determined migraine as company. Such a dreadful day, Olivian pined with a frown, raising one of his start white gloves to shield his squinting eyes from the glare of the overhead sun. Where is a decent Meteor when you need one...