Many malms beyond Mist, where many of the more well-to-do newcomers to the island made their home, a lavish holding draped itself precariously across the Vylbrand cliffs. Typical whitestone roads and bleached walls would eventually give way to a wide field of green contours traced by sparsely paved road and a grey stone wall, where the cliffs did not create a natural barrier. Tall, neatly manicured trees with a distinctive asymmetrical lean to them from the coastal winds drifted lazily over the short grass like passing clouds. Rows of short walls and teak fences outlined a series of terraces in the Yanxia style, wide and curving, topped with lush garden greenery, colorful flower beds, and even orchard trees. They gave the natural incline the appearance of a long, flat staircase. For the island, the private grounds were generous but there was still a paucity of space that left the panorama feeling compressed in comparison to a wealthy family’s home in Gridania, to say nothing of a Monetarist abode near Ul’dah. It was as if all of the common amenities of a country mansion had been compressed haphazardly into a can a size too small. The terraced gardens appeared to be constructed with both the curious grafting of Eorzean/Othardian aesthetics and economy of space in mind. A small manor lay some distance away; its two consecutive sets of walls distinguishable due to the upraised cliff it perched upon. Its crenellated dark stone facade, almost the color of basalt, rose over the fields in contemplative melancholy. Judging from its militarist bent, it perhaps was once a wealthy pirate’s stronghold or arsenal. But where cannon emplacements once stood vigil watching the coastline, wide, round exterior decks wrapped in rich mahogany now exploited the view. The thick stone walls and Lominsan-style iron, gate, however, were no less unfriendly to unexpected guests as they had likely been when the residence first arose. Virara’s plan of breaking and entering, while not impossible, seemed even more ill advised than ever before.
As they approached the exterior iron gates, Virara raised her small chin to look up at the widening gap between the tops of their heads and the arch’s capstone. A Gyr Abanian griffon gazed scornfully downward upon them across its beak. Her ignorant eye spotted a muted, angular pattern secreted within the black stones encircling the gate’s columns, but she was hardly cultured enough to recognize it as anything but a design that looked quaintly Near-Eastern. The owner of the residence had made many modifications to the stronghold, it seemed, that served only to obfuscate their origins-or indulge a dramatically xenophilic streak. Every oddity skirted playfully close to gaudiness without truly crossing the line. The designer’s eye was finely attuned to the sensibilities of a person who wanted to entice and irritate in equal measure. Without question it was the work of an architect with habits borne of carrying out countless projects for decadent Monetarists, as it had none of the graceful restraint of the Gridanian school, and it clashed sorely with the uniform austerity of Lominsan coastal cities.
They’d heard a scattering of things about the Kuze Group, both from the papers and Chachanji’s mother. A small trading company specializing in Far Eastern agricultural products, it had expanded its activities dramatically after the Razing, all of its constituents removed from its homeland. Previously a traditional, family-owned business following a standard inherited model, the original Kuze family endowed a bloodless stranger freshly returned from a sojourn in Thavnair. Having taken their name without so much as a marriage, the new Kuze immediately relieved the previous management council of its responsibilities, with no provision for hiring replacements publically known. Shortly after, the Kuze Group enlisted the services of several defunct privateer bands that had been rendered headless by a power struggle with the Admiral’s thalassocracy, stripped down all but a few of the seaworthy ships and emptied their cannon and magazines, selling those ships that couldn’t accommodate a presumably satisfactory level of goods. These were merged to create a small merchant fleet of the Group’s own supervision, with a few armed ships remaining as token security, but largely relying upon the Maelstrom for protection. Indeed, the Group’s interactions with the Maelstrom itself allowed for many previously untouchable rogue bands to make amends with Limsa. Whoever led the company had the ability to overcome their status as a foreign upstart and arrange for a favorable deal, or one that seemed favorable to the thalassocracy in any case.
In addition to this, the flow of agricultural goods the Kuze Group presided over slowed to a trickle. The low-status monetarists who dealt with the Group only begrudgingly in Ul’dah knew of whisperings of a buyout, a wealthy moneylending family embroiled in controversy and courting the suspicious Far Easterners. On the perimeters of the Black Shroud, the Group pressed unsettlingly close with an agricultural project under the suspicious eye of the Wailers, and in their holding upon Vylbrand, terraced fields sprung up even around an old, abandoned mansion. The Group had dramatically increased its manpower. Where did they find the additional hands necessary to develop a small merchant flotilla of their own? The refugees from Kuze’s homeland seemed to know.
All signs pointed to an aggressive business inclined to brazen risk-taking. The massive, internal build-up of its own infrastructure and workforce combined with a bizarrely small leadership pool, if such a thing even existed, seemed to be evidence of that. They were betting on themselves. It was possessed with a suicidal lack of reverence for territories or Eorzean business tradition, such that they’d even consider purchasing their own moneylenders. They seized what they could before the small company could be crushed by the massive resources of their competitors in Thanalan and Vylbrand. A sense of centralization existed within them, a hegemonic intent to control all stages of Kuze’s product internally with a secrecy bordering upon paranoia. The coordinator, Makoto Kuze, never appeared in public, never entreated with a business partner directly; no one even truly knew their sex. Without question, Chachanji’s mother knew this company was losing money at a dramatic rate, but it was beloved by fortune. To be certain they were an ugly duckling, albeit a wily, opportunistic one that changed its plumage regularly. However, not even so much a tiny murmur of illicit activity stained the group’s dealings. What connection could Kuze possibly have with Virara’s old enemy?
Virara herself could not gather even a guess, not to her own satisfaction. Nothing she’d been told betrayed a tangible thread between the Kuze Group and Tsuchigumo. Yet the feeling would not abandon her. When she gazed into the darkness behind her eyepatch, she felt its malign touch, the bite of its wire, heard the wet popping of its aberrant joints. The air was thick with the acrid scent of static along with a familiar floral note. A mask lay in the darkness behind her eyepatch, one with a gentle, elderly smile, eyes like the falling crescent moon. Waxy cheeks of faded wood and lacquer, tufts of white hair peeking from beneath cracking, pink-tinged wooden lips. They frothed over with stolen words. Virara hated that smile. She didn’t think about things like hate. Yet she could not help but know this.
No one who knew Tsuchigumo was normal. Nothing about this business could be normal. Virara was certain of it. The question remained, however; why had they allowed her to make such a connection in the first place? What had happened to the empty monk who’d spilled the name Kuze to Chachanji the same way? Did he still watch over those refugee children? Virara’s weathered hands tightened at her sides. Were they eating well? Had he been forced to abandon them? What sort of hold did Kuze have over his pious soul?
They were beckoning to her. Virara felt it. They beckoned and yet refused her, confounding her at every turn. The dark, empty-looking manor on the hill was engraved with silent laughter. She felt the owner’s unspoken ridicule, of this place, of Eorzea, of its businesspeople, of their own people, of her, and yet it was a sign of some kind of interest. Or perhaps, Virara considered, just another way to keep her from causing them excessive trouble. Continue to frustrate her with their refusal to communicate long enough that she’d consider simply giving up. But Master had told Virara long ago that her only useful trait was her thick skull. She was too stupid, too stubborn to give up. The memory of her was sharp and distinct and redolent of apricot blossoms. It urged Virara onward even when her mind could perceive no path before her.
She allowed herself an apprehensive glance over her shoulder at the boy.
“... Without question. This is it.â€
A slow blink. He’d followed her this far. She barely could understand why. But it wasn’t an unpleasant thing, having him there. Virara’s voice was quiet as ever. The wintry air, spurred into a chilling breeze by the ocean wind, burned her cheeks pink, and she burrowed deeper into her ragged coat.
“You don’t need to go in. Not if you don’t want to.â€
As they approached the exterior iron gates, Virara raised her small chin to look up at the widening gap between the tops of their heads and the arch’s capstone. A Gyr Abanian griffon gazed scornfully downward upon them across its beak. Her ignorant eye spotted a muted, angular pattern secreted within the black stones encircling the gate’s columns, but she was hardly cultured enough to recognize it as anything but a design that looked quaintly Near-Eastern. The owner of the residence had made many modifications to the stronghold, it seemed, that served only to obfuscate their origins-or indulge a dramatically xenophilic streak. Every oddity skirted playfully close to gaudiness without truly crossing the line. The designer’s eye was finely attuned to the sensibilities of a person who wanted to entice and irritate in equal measure. Without question it was the work of an architect with habits borne of carrying out countless projects for decadent Monetarists, as it had none of the graceful restraint of the Gridanian school, and it clashed sorely with the uniform austerity of Lominsan coastal cities.
They’d heard a scattering of things about the Kuze Group, both from the papers and Chachanji’s mother. A small trading company specializing in Far Eastern agricultural products, it had expanded its activities dramatically after the Razing, all of its constituents removed from its homeland. Previously a traditional, family-owned business following a standard inherited model, the original Kuze family endowed a bloodless stranger freshly returned from a sojourn in Thavnair. Having taken their name without so much as a marriage, the new Kuze immediately relieved the previous management council of its responsibilities, with no provision for hiring replacements publically known. Shortly after, the Kuze Group enlisted the services of several defunct privateer bands that had been rendered headless by a power struggle with the Admiral’s thalassocracy, stripped down all but a few of the seaworthy ships and emptied their cannon and magazines, selling those ships that couldn’t accommodate a presumably satisfactory level of goods. These were merged to create a small merchant fleet of the Group’s own supervision, with a few armed ships remaining as token security, but largely relying upon the Maelstrom for protection. Indeed, the Group’s interactions with the Maelstrom itself allowed for many previously untouchable rogue bands to make amends with Limsa. Whoever led the company had the ability to overcome their status as a foreign upstart and arrange for a favorable deal, or one that seemed favorable to the thalassocracy in any case.
In addition to this, the flow of agricultural goods the Kuze Group presided over slowed to a trickle. The low-status monetarists who dealt with the Group only begrudgingly in Ul’dah knew of whisperings of a buyout, a wealthy moneylending family embroiled in controversy and courting the suspicious Far Easterners. On the perimeters of the Black Shroud, the Group pressed unsettlingly close with an agricultural project under the suspicious eye of the Wailers, and in their holding upon Vylbrand, terraced fields sprung up even around an old, abandoned mansion. The Group had dramatically increased its manpower. Where did they find the additional hands necessary to develop a small merchant flotilla of their own? The refugees from Kuze’s homeland seemed to know.
All signs pointed to an aggressive business inclined to brazen risk-taking. The massive, internal build-up of its own infrastructure and workforce combined with a bizarrely small leadership pool, if such a thing even existed, seemed to be evidence of that. They were betting on themselves. It was possessed with a suicidal lack of reverence for territories or Eorzean business tradition, such that they’d even consider purchasing their own moneylenders. They seized what they could before the small company could be crushed by the massive resources of their competitors in Thanalan and Vylbrand. A sense of centralization existed within them, a hegemonic intent to control all stages of Kuze’s product internally with a secrecy bordering upon paranoia. The coordinator, Makoto Kuze, never appeared in public, never entreated with a business partner directly; no one even truly knew their sex. Without question, Chachanji’s mother knew this company was losing money at a dramatic rate, but it was beloved by fortune. To be certain they were an ugly duckling, albeit a wily, opportunistic one that changed its plumage regularly. However, not even so much a tiny murmur of illicit activity stained the group’s dealings. What connection could Kuze possibly have with Virara’s old enemy?
Virara herself could not gather even a guess, not to her own satisfaction. Nothing she’d been told betrayed a tangible thread between the Kuze Group and Tsuchigumo. Yet the feeling would not abandon her. When she gazed into the darkness behind her eyepatch, she felt its malign touch, the bite of its wire, heard the wet popping of its aberrant joints. The air was thick with the acrid scent of static along with a familiar floral note. A mask lay in the darkness behind her eyepatch, one with a gentle, elderly smile, eyes like the falling crescent moon. Waxy cheeks of faded wood and lacquer, tufts of white hair peeking from beneath cracking, pink-tinged wooden lips. They frothed over with stolen words. Virara hated that smile. She didn’t think about things like hate. Yet she could not help but know this.
No one who knew Tsuchigumo was normal. Nothing about this business could be normal. Virara was certain of it. The question remained, however; why had they allowed her to make such a connection in the first place? What had happened to the empty monk who’d spilled the name Kuze to Chachanji the same way? Did he still watch over those refugee children? Virara’s weathered hands tightened at her sides. Were they eating well? Had he been forced to abandon them? What sort of hold did Kuze have over his pious soul?
They were beckoning to her. Virara felt it. They beckoned and yet refused her, confounding her at every turn. The dark, empty-looking manor on the hill was engraved with silent laughter. She felt the owner’s unspoken ridicule, of this place, of Eorzea, of its businesspeople, of their own people, of her, and yet it was a sign of some kind of interest. Or perhaps, Virara considered, just another way to keep her from causing them excessive trouble. Continue to frustrate her with their refusal to communicate long enough that she’d consider simply giving up. But Master had told Virara long ago that her only useful trait was her thick skull. She was too stupid, too stubborn to give up. The memory of her was sharp and distinct and redolent of apricot blossoms. It urged Virara onward even when her mind could perceive no path before her.
She allowed herself an apprehensive glance over her shoulder at the boy.
“... Without question. This is it.â€
A slow blink. He’d followed her this far. She barely could understand why. But it wasn’t an unpleasant thing, having him there. Virara’s voice was quiet as ever. The wintry air, spurred into a chilling breeze by the ocean wind, burned her cheeks pink, and she burrowed deeper into her ragged coat.
“You don’t need to go in. Not if you don’t want to.â€
ã€Œè’¼æ°—ç ²ã€ã‚’使ã‚ã–ã‚‹ã‚’å¾—ãªã„!
AV by Kura-Ou
Wiki (Last updated 01/16)
My Balmung profile.
AV by Kura-Ou
Wiki (Last updated 01/16)
My Balmung profile.
~