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[Meanwhile in Ishgard]
Rich black smoke bellowed from the tall, masonry stack of the solid stone structure. Even in the lower levels, deep within the foundations of the Tower City, land was at a premium. The one level shop was built of stone, covered by a sloped slate roof resistant to embers and sparks that would sometimes rise from the roaring furnace within. Attached was a split-level home, modest, but warm and mostly dry. It was a busy shop, passersby and neighbors could hear hammers ringing throughout the long hours of each and every day.Â
Kael was familiar with the spot. When he opened the door he was first greeted by the gentlemanly Duskwight owner of the property, Master Dunois. His white hair was thin and long, covered by a handkerchief that looked rather out-of-place. His features worn with the advance of age. His arms and chest still bore the powerful muscles of his trade, though they too had grown stiff and drawn. He offered a cheerful smile; the light of eyes that once bore the spark of a master smith, had long ago gone out. Replaced by the dullness of a man worn down with the destitution of hope: his wife had passed away decades hence, and his only child, Lorraine, had vanished around the same time as Aya. Worry and loneliness had scuffed away sheen off of the once inspiring man down, finding support in a feverish work schedule and the blissful bleariness of drink, but there seemed not an ounce of bitterness in his tired heart.
"Kael Tharintreu!" he exclaimed with a tone just as friendly as his smile. He set down the tools with which he was working. "Tell me, how is the wife? How are your children?"
Kael allowed himself to smile, it was a subtle expression upon his chiseled features. "They are well Master Dunois." He was dressed well, well enough, at least. Endless-winter had left linen an expensive import, and most were now reliant upon locally produced wool for every article of clothing. Only a few could still afford linen cloth, and while his vest was worn, the dye still held. Sign of a man of means, at least in these parts. For this, he had his wife to thank.Â
"Ah, wonderful, so wonderful." smiled the old man. "Ah, ah, I am sure you are here to speak with your brother! I'll leave you two!" Kael nodded in gratitude, the Duskwight turned and walked through the shop toward his kitchen, and perhaps a taste of wine.
Within the shop a hammer fell—propelled by the burly, forceful muscle of the Highlander smith. Osvald had always been large for his age, and had grown into a beast of a man. With club-like fists, fearsome arms, and a barrel chest whose muscles had developed through consistent hard work in ways that the field of battle simply could not avail. His way was quiet: he had metal and stone upon which to take out his frustration.
When Kael entered his brother did not look up from his work. Dressed in a thick blacksmith's apron, his arms were bare and dark. Singed by embers and stained by soot, he seemed, as always, unmoved. The hammer fell once more, a peal that tore piercingly through the shop.Â
Kael stood for a moment, and nodded, his hands upon his hips. "Osvald."
The hammer fell again, striking the red-hot spearblade against the edge of the anvil. Tempered, shaped, formed. What had once been raw iron would be worked, at last, into the form of a Dragoon's armament.Â
"Osvald." he repeated somewhat louder.
Osvald lifted the hammer once more. Kael flinched at the anticipated fall, but the tool had not budged. The smith looked up.
"What do you want?" he asked in Ishgardian, with a tone of quiet annoyance.
"I just want to speak to my brother," replied the elder to the younger in the brogue of their native tongue.
"You could have come later," he replied in kind, using the language of their blood-kin, "Some of us must work for a living."
Kael, stoic, was unmoved, "And some of us must tend to our families."
The smith huffed. The hammer fell. Kael flinched, but did not move.
"Have you heard from Aya?" Osvald lifted his eyes, the hammer at rest. He looked at Kael - a look that spoke more than words between brothers.
He turned his eyes toward the forge. Toward the box that hummed quietly; the gears within whirled and turned upon an endless cycle driving the bellows that fed the forge. It was the auto-bellows that his teenager sister had repaired in the dark of the night, years ago. A gift, a repentance, a way of making up for all of the trouble she had caused him in the early years of his apprenticeship. It hummed, but it always ran. He treated it like a member of the family: freshly greased and oiled. It was something like an alter, it always reminded him of her, and sometimes he worried what it would mean if it ever broke down.
"I have not." came the quiet reply in his deep, heavy voice. "What makes you ask?"
"I saw one of her friends earlier today, at lunch. I could have sworn I heard her say Aya's name. I thought perhaps she had written again."
Osvald looked back to his work. He clenched his teeth together. How badly he wished that were the case. "Not that I know of," he said with a voice that refused to share his emotion.
Kael tensed. He always seemed in-control. In control of his surroundings, in control of the situation, but most of all, in control of himself. He drew his hand up, fingers drawing across rough, fair stubble. "Why doesn't she write us? Why doesn't she tell us what is going on? What is she even up to out there?"
Osvald looked up. "She's not out there for us, Kael."Â
Kael scowled, "Maybe not. But she is 'of Tharin', yet. By blood, by birth, by everything that matters. She is our sister, she could write us at least."
Osvald's gaze was steely. Blue eyes, like all three of the siblings, capable of vicious piercing stares, as well as the full depth of warmth. "Tharintreu." he said, simply stating their Ishgardian-adoptive name. That first borne by their distant cousins settled in the city generations afore.
Few things were more offensive to Kael - the very name had been forced upon them by circumstance. It robbed them of purpose, of being, of the very essence of who they were. However; he contained the snarl that grew within his chest. Osvald was not the object of his frustration. They had fought before, but that was not his intention this afternoon.
"You've heard the news?" he quipped, rapidly moving the subject forward. He unfolded his arms, pacing slightly, "Refugees in Ul'dah have revolted. Mobbed against the gil-whoring Lalafelen who run the place. She could be among them! Maybe she was? Why doesn't she tell us." His voice had grown energetic. He lifted his hands, fists clenched tight. He wanted to scream with frustration, but he unleashed all he could in a grunt.Â
Osvald stood silent, stone-faced. His eyes followed his brother's movement. Kael continued, "That is our place. That is where we belong. Not in this Twelve-forsaken pit of a city. (Even Halone herself refuses to bless these ingrates!)"
"No, not here, but amongst our people, standing ready to reclaim our homeland. Where our banner can fly once more! Perhaps she has even laid eyes herself upon Tyr Abania." His expression was something of a smile. Such a note of high optimism, of hopes and dreams despite the insurmountable obstacles. It had always been foremost in his heart.Â
Osvald still did not budge, but he answered, "You could serve a House. You could become the soldier you always wanted to be. You do not need to leave for that."Â
Now Kael snarled, his arm swung out in Osvald's direction. "I serve a House, and you will not forget. The only house that matters to you, or I. The House of our Fathers. There is none before it. Never forget our father. Never, Osvald, forget our duty!"
The smith grunted with a defiant gesture of his hammer-wielding hand. "Still stuck on the same godsdamned thing. Always, aren't you. Chase your dreams, Kael, but I have a life to lead and so does Aya."Â
This, Kael was used to taking in stride. He nodded, his body relaxing somewhat. "I will live the way for which we were born. Father expects no less."
The quiet smith remained silent. He knew how right Kael was.
"A living, Osvald?" Kael asked, as he began to examine the ongoing work in the shop. Numerous practical, every-day metal objects of use in this quarter of the city, along with a handful of bladed weapons in various states: spearheads, dirks, and short-swords. "And good work it looks to be, brother. Perhaps someday you shall make hammers and axes that make Rhalgar smile." He looked to his brother with a grin.Â
Osvald glanced up, but said nothing. Kael shrugged, turning back toward the shop's entrance. He stopped as Osvald reached across the anvil, grasping a finished dirk. He tossed the blade casually; Kael caught it by the handle. "The master believed it was time I use my own trademark."
Kael turned the weapon over, looking down at the base of the blade just above the guard. There, blackened and engraved was a small slightly oblong square-shaped crow, its wings spread. Just as it flew in their memories. Kael nodded, testing the weight of the blade as he let out a breath that approached a laugh. He looked back to Osvald with a fraternal smile—his brother reciprocated, happily.
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