The tea house was bustling, busy with the voices of men laughing and chatting and women offering drinks and gaily chattering, brightening the atmosphere. Â In the center of the square space, on a natural stage created by four columns of wood, Rhisi sat with a zither on her lap. Â The large harp-like instrument sang under her skilled fingertips though few of the patrons of this crossroads-inn cared to pay attention to the music. Â She sang as well, in accented Doman, a song about honor.
A group of heavily armed men watched her playing and she kept her eyes demurely cast down, fingers running over the strings of the instrument with minds of their own, voice rising with heartbreaking purity over the sounds of the busy tea house. Â One of the serving women offered the table of men a fresh pot of tea and was sent away sternly- dark eyes would brook no interruption of the miqo'te playing in the center of their vision.
As her verse turned to honoring one's fathers by bold and brave action, the entire table stood and the tea house grew silent save for her playing. Â One of the men shouted something in Doman and pointed at Rhisi with a gunblade, his lips curling into a snarl.
The hells broke loose.
The serving women screamed and ducked out of the way, other men rose and scrabbled for their weapons, blades and spears and heavy clubs. Â Tables were overturned and voices were raised in shouts. Â And through it all, Rhisi did not cease her song, long lashes falling so that her eyes seemed closed. Â Her hands moved on the zither with a sudden ringing trill and her voice rang out with it and a slash appeared in the tunic of the gunblade-wielding Garlean. Â Then there was chaos, Doman fighting Garlean, clashing, shouting, blade ringing against blade, the echoing of gunshots, the splintering of wood as tables were crashed into or used as make-shift weapons. Â And over it all, Rhisi's voice and the tinkling notes of the zither.
The commander fought his way to her only to find her on her feet, catching the blade of his weapon with her instrument. Â He shoved and she fell backwards, long sleeves of her robes catching her, tripping her. Â One of the Domans caught her and she was back on her feet, wrapping her sleeves around her arms and dashing for her pack. Â The zither was reduced to kindling and she mourned it's loss but it had done it's purpose. Â As she ran she bent to grab her pack only to feel the sudden searing cold of the gunblade against her ribs. Â The gunshot threw her forward and gave her the momentum to keep running, to drag her bloodspattered pack with her. Â She'd escaped, though enough of her lifeblood had been left on that floor that by rights she should have lain there with it.
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Rhisi sat in her bath, fingertips slowly running over the scar on her ribs. Â The thin slice that led to the star-shaped scar tissue where the bullet had passed through. Â The only reason she had survived was because her slim ribs had caught the blade- it had nicked the bone and gotten caught instead of passing through. Â The sound of the gunshot was something she'd never forget. Â It had been so loud she had been half-deaf for days as she had tried to heal herself, half-delirious with pain and on the edge of fever. Â One of the resistance had managed to track her, though she'd done her best to hide her trail, and found her lying half-dead in a creekbed. Â He'd gotten her to an herbalist.
She'd stayed there only a few days, but they had been good days. Â She had learned a great deal.
The song she had played on the zither fell from her lips in a soft hum and she smiled. Â It had been called "Honor". Â She wondered if she should translate it and sing it for the people of Eorzea.
A group of heavily armed men watched her playing and she kept her eyes demurely cast down, fingers running over the strings of the instrument with minds of their own, voice rising with heartbreaking purity over the sounds of the busy tea house. Â One of the serving women offered the table of men a fresh pot of tea and was sent away sternly- dark eyes would brook no interruption of the miqo'te playing in the center of their vision.
As her verse turned to honoring one's fathers by bold and brave action, the entire table stood and the tea house grew silent save for her playing. Â One of the men shouted something in Doman and pointed at Rhisi with a gunblade, his lips curling into a snarl.
The hells broke loose.
The serving women screamed and ducked out of the way, other men rose and scrabbled for their weapons, blades and spears and heavy clubs. Â Tables were overturned and voices were raised in shouts. Â And through it all, Rhisi did not cease her song, long lashes falling so that her eyes seemed closed. Â Her hands moved on the zither with a sudden ringing trill and her voice rang out with it and a slash appeared in the tunic of the gunblade-wielding Garlean. Â Then there was chaos, Doman fighting Garlean, clashing, shouting, blade ringing against blade, the echoing of gunshots, the splintering of wood as tables were crashed into or used as make-shift weapons. Â And over it all, Rhisi's voice and the tinkling notes of the zither.
The commander fought his way to her only to find her on her feet, catching the blade of his weapon with her instrument. Â He shoved and she fell backwards, long sleeves of her robes catching her, tripping her. Â One of the Domans caught her and she was back on her feet, wrapping her sleeves around her arms and dashing for her pack. Â The zither was reduced to kindling and she mourned it's loss but it had done it's purpose. Â As she ran she bent to grab her pack only to feel the sudden searing cold of the gunblade against her ribs. Â The gunshot threw her forward and gave her the momentum to keep running, to drag her bloodspattered pack with her. Â She'd escaped, though enough of her lifeblood had been left on that floor that by rights she should have lain there with it.
----------------------
Rhisi sat in her bath, fingertips slowly running over the scar on her ribs. Â The thin slice that led to the star-shaped scar tissue where the bullet had passed through. Â The only reason she had survived was because her slim ribs had caught the blade- it had nicked the bone and gotten caught instead of passing through. Â The sound of the gunshot was something she'd never forget. Â It had been so loud she had been half-deaf for days as she had tried to heal herself, half-delirious with pain and on the edge of fever. Â One of the resistance had managed to track her, though she'd done her best to hide her trail, and found her lying half-dead in a creekbed. Â He'd gotten her to an herbalist.
She'd stayed there only a few days, but they had been good days. Â She had learned a great deal.
The song she had played on the zither fell from her lips in a soft hum and she smiled. Â It had been called "Honor". Â She wondered if she should translate it and sing it for the people of Eorzea.
