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[The Nightmare Ends - The Scales Part Fourteen]
OOC Comment:
Theme Music!
The long ride gave the young woman more than enough room for reflection. She watched the sight of a high moon rising, and then drifting steadily overhead as the minutes turned to hours upon the desert road as it wound its way through the heat of a Thanalan night. Clouds on the far horizon flashed with the intense light and energy high in the atmosphere. The image of dragons swooping through the cloudy heights, unleashing torrents of bright, searing breath lit her imagination.Â
She passed within sight of Little Ala Mhigo's silhouette. That refuge for her former countrymen, the camp where they had spent several moons so many years ago. She had never been back. She preferred not to.Â
There was irony in the predicament. How far had she come to escape the obsessions of the Tower City? How much had she sacrificed upon the altar of freedom: to make of her life what she wished, and where she wished--far from the zealots of Halone and their willingness to sacrifice everything good in the pursuit of their mindless quest for victory in an endless war. Yet, here that very war had found its way to her new threshold. She kept the company of Dragoons. She beheld the spectacle of Heretics preaching to the crowds of her adoptive home. And now, what? She rode, alone, through a desert night. Armed to the teeth, prepared to bare steel against what? The Dravanians and their faithful.
How far she had come. How little had changed.
Yet, she knew her cause was different. She understood the stakes of the struggle in its whole. The real, true dangers of the Horde that had been impressed upon her throughout her youth, and firsthand knowledge of what they were capable. Still, that was not her battle. Every time she closed her eyes all she could see was him. Her Duskwight friend, lashed by chains to to a high stone tower. Bearing him to the heavens, a sacrifice to the scaled gods of Heresy. That nightmare that had haunted her for a moon, and driven her to action otherwise incomprehensible.
She wondered, at times, if Verad ever thought of her. She figured in his mind she was little more than a simple, pleasant smile. But every stride of her Chocobo through the waning night air revealed a further truth. The jingle not of jewelry, but of armor. The sound of a woman prepared for battle—for war.
There was resolve. A bounty of courage sprung from the understanding that she had no choice. Step by further step she drew closer to her nightmare. To the visage of all she feared.Â
The last time she had approached Forgotten Springs had been under such different circumstances. She had been part of a small party, riding in a Chocobo-drawn caravan. Every need had been taken care of; she was there on the behest of the Grand Companies, engaged as a model in a series of morale and recruiting promotions. All she'd had to do was smile and look good for the artists and their equipment. It had been a wonderful time, despite the heat, and despite the sand. The work hadn't been as easy as she'd hoped, but at least she had been paid for it!
Now she approached in altogether different circumstances. A sentry posted to the gate hailed her. The sun had just begun to rise over the distant mountains. Long rays giving hint to the sand of the scorching heat that awaited. There was no gil or fun in the offing this visit.
"Aya Foxheart." she answered, "I visited a month ago, I am sure someone can vouch for me."
The sentry nodded, raising a curious eyebrow. She recognized the Hyur, it would be difficult not to. She was waved on through.
"Appeal to their pride, but do not overly flatter them."
She tried to remember Kiht's words of advice. She knew so little of dealing with tribal Miqo'te - and without the protection of an entourage and gil she knew not what could avail her if she made offense.
"Reference Azeyma a few times, and ask if they have any recent kills. Ask for details of the hunt."
She hitched her Chocobo to an empty post. She looked out across toward the quickly rising sun.
"Tis like any social setting, but with different cultural values."
The words were meant as comfort and encouragement. But how very different, indeed, were those values.
She glanced about. The entire night had passed during her ride. She had a lot more to accomplish. Verad's life could very well depend on it.
It had not been an easy matter to engage the U'ranika and her huntresses in the search, but Aya knew that if anyone could find Verad and the Heretics it would be they. U'ranika had already confirmed that a party matching their description had been spotted entering the Sagoli suns afore, and it was now only a matter of locating where in the desert they could now be found.
U'ranika lead a small team of huntresses; she'd met Aya on her previous trip when they were engaged to provide protection for the project. She'd thought the blonde a fun, if trifling woman at the time. She wasn't all that convinced that her first apprehensions were wrong, but the young woman's concern seemed sincere, and she'd appealed to the pride of the tribe. They couldn't just allow something like this to go down in their territory, could they?Â
Aya tried to do her part, holed up within the Immortal Flames outpost in the small settlement with a map of the desert. She'd gone over it and over it again, searching for clues as to where the heretics could be found: near water, she told herself, and plentiful shade from the midday heat.
Speaking of the heat, she had discarded most of her armor which lay in a somewhat neat pile in the corner of the room. Sweat evaporated quickly in the dry air, but the oppressive oven-like atmosphere of the outpost was still preferable to the bare sun of the exterior.
She leaned her head back against the chair. The fatigue of a day and a half of activity washed over her at once. She wanted nothing more than a bath, and a comfortable bed. For this all to be over. For the nightmare to end.
A white-haired Miqo'te stepped into the room, boots echoing against the solid wood floor. Not of the U'tribe, a "civilized" Miqo'te. Aya blinked with blank, confused expression: one that was something of an automatic defense mechanism. She could never know what to expect.
"The Immortal Flames outpost, of course..." she muttered to herself in obvious displeasure. Her eyes flicked toward the seated figure of the fair-haired Aya, her Miqo'te ears twitched slightly with surprise.
"Ummm..." the Ishgardian girl stammered, "Are you a friend of Kiht's?"Â
The Miqo'te's lips quirked into a smile as she offered the slightest nod. "Aya, we've met." She removed her hat and approached the table with a soft step. "In the shroud, at that old Keeper manse; after the time Verad got beaten senseless."
How the hapless Duskwight seemed to bring people together in the most reliable of ways. Aya let out a relieved sigh and a soft smile. In other moments she might have laughed, or shrugged away the display of blonde forgetfulness. But she was full of tired and the weight of responsibility. "Oh.. I remember now! Anstarra!"
V'aleera's entrance was less subtle. The Ishgardian dragoon, well known to Aya since their childhoods, crashed through the door in an obvious hurry as her heavy boots beat the floor. Her eyes filled with annoyance and a concern shared by her furrowed brow. The expression softened for a moment as she too spied the unlikely woman at the center of it all. "Aya? For what purpose are you here?"
She was less here for Verad than his fellow hostage: Kyrael. But her presence was more than welcome. Aya noticed that her unexpected allies were not those struggling vainly in the visions her nightmare: Kiht, Osric, Crofte, Immortal Flames, Brass Blades, Sultansworn. These very protectors were nowhere to be found.. Verad's fate was instead in the hands of a myriad assortment: Ishgardians, and a Miqo'te bard. Perhaps there was hope yet.
Aya stood, gesturing toward the map as she spoke in her heavy Ishgardian accent, "Several suns ago, huntresses spotted a group of strangers moving from the north, through the pass into the Sagoli." She moved her finger along the route the huntresses had indicated. "The travelers were careful to avoid Forgotten Springs. And U'ranika was certain they were not adventurers. She estimated that there were eight of them total, in addition to a heavy load of baggage. I don't know if Verad and Ky were among those eight they counted."
She nodded slightly as she let the other two women take in the news. At least the Heretics had been seen. Her hunch about the Sagoli had been astute.
"So there are, at worst, eight of them. Perhaps six." observed Anstarra.
"Right..." Aya again nodded slightly, while with her left hand she gestured toward some of the areas of the desert map. "Several of the huntresses are out right now searching for them. They're covering areas they thought the party was most likely to have headed. There aren't that many areas of the desert with sufficient cover for several days, let alone water if they did not bring enough with them."
V'aleera narrowed her gaze toward the map. She had been quiet, her attention intense. At last she lent the quiet confidence of her voice, "I know little of hunting in this barren wasteland. But a paltry eight heretics shall pose no threat when found."
She continued, "When their location is confirmed, the attack must be immediate and ruthless. No mercy or hesitation can be suffered; heretics have been known to kill prisoners when rescue appears imminent."
Aya simple looked back toward her with tired blue eyes. The confidence of her childhood friend stirred her own. She nodded in agreement.
The discussion continued as the women thought about the merits of conducting their own search, before the sudden interruption of a U tribeswoman bursting into the outpost. They'd spotted a group of eight in the southwestern outskirts of the Sagoli. Two, who had been bound, had been observed to be digging something in the desert.
Aya swept her unclasped armor from the ground, quickly pulling the jacket on and working the buckles to tighten it around her upper body.
"Can you lead us there?"Â The huntress nodded.Â
Anstarra flipped her hat up, her expression sharp. "We'd best hurry if they're digging their own graves."
V'aleera grit her teeth. Eyes narrowed as if she could already see the prey. "At last, the quarry are cornered. those vermin have scurried in the shadows long enough. We shall end their miserable heathenous existence."
Anstarra flashed a toothy grin, "Spoken like a true Ishardian. With a little luck, and Twelve willing, the sand shall drink their blood by day's end."
Aya pulled the metal mask over her lower face, and lifted the spear from the wall. Once again her concerns where warranted: there was no time to wait. No hesitation could be conscionable. This had been more than a hunch and a search from the start. It is why she had come with spear in hand.Â
The party could not have seemed more strange, the three mounted figures cut entirely different forms as they hurried across the desert. The Ishgardian Dragoon, in full control of her well-disciplined war mount. The Shroud Miqo'te Bard and her mostly un-tamed Chocobo, off chasing the wild life as soon as she dismounted. And the Ishgardian barmaid and her rented Chocobo, wheezing fitfully from the sand-filled air thankful just to have reached a stopping point in the desert's early evening.
The trio quickly joined the huntresses, and were joined by yet another Ishgardian Dragoon: Orrin Halgren. In the distance they spied the Heretics' shelter. There were eight of them, in addition to the two prisoners who laid bound and unmoving in the distance. Out of the sand dunes rose a leather-looking wing, fixed and immobile. Aya shuddered deep.
The group grew busy discussing their options. Aya watched the movement of the enemy in the distance. Her eyes fell upon the longer of the two forms laying motionless in the sand. The white-haired Duskwight. Her friend, and reason for being there. The others were professional soldiers, and a professional adventurer. But still, she knew, she'd have her eye on what mattered. She steadied her breath. Measured the pace. Conscious, slow, meaningful. She summoned her inner calm, focused the inner reserve. Silently she summoned the lines of the song of war. Of the Crow's flight.
One of the Heretics' lookouts spotted the group, letting out a cry. In an instant all thought of a plan was moot. The man who looked in charged turned his gaze upon the tall sand dune over which they emerged. With spears and bow at the ready they descended toward the heretics and their prisoners. The Dragoons belted out their war cries. The leader directed his followers.
Aya's eyes were steely, fixed with intensity upon the leader as he tugged Verad into the air by the white strands of his hair. Now was the moment. Her trance-like breathing swallowed emotion. Her attention focused upon naught but the target. She took quick steps with long strides upon tall legs. Speed, decisive speed. Gravity propelled her down the slope of the dune in silence; a stark contrast to the war cry of the Miqo'te dragoon to her side.Â
The two Dragoons fell behind the surprising quickness of the sprinting blonde, while the Heretics quickly formed a defensive line athwart their leader and the hostages. Two of the harriers stepped toward Aya, intent upon blocking her approach.Â
Her eyes remained fixed through the line, and upon the leader. She carried her momentum forawrd as she suddenly set her heeled boots into a controlled crouching slide. The leader watched the pair of Dragoons as he prepared to carry out the ritual. A dragoon could cover a lot of ground, they were threats—but she was clearly no dragoon. From the coiled position of the crouch she sprung forward, leaping above and beyond the pair of set defenders, with a graceful forward flip. She rolled smoothly into a landing that preserved as much of her momentum as possible. Redirecting the power of her charging leap, she emerged from the roll with a lunge toward the figure of the leader. There was no hesitation; she was set upon her course. Decisive, precise, and sudden she struck with the full power of her leaping, rolling charge. Bare spear point was driven where the man's neck met his collar, with a frightful and determined silence that matched the suddenness of the motion.Â
His eyes were wide with shock, but he had caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, and managed to barely lean back in time to avoid the fatal strike. He dropped the hostage to keep his balance, nearly stumbled backwards as blood began to flow from a deep gash the spear blade opened in a line from his neck to his shoulder.Â
The battle engaged around them around them, while the other hostage cut his bonds to escape, and joined the fray, slashing at the leader's exposed back. His focus remained intent upon the lancer who had bested him with the charge. His wounds were a hindrance, and the two entered into a posturing exchange, neither able to land a telling blow. He thrust and moved around her with his blade, testing her balance and poise. She kept her feet again, and again, but found herself unable to beat his expert defenses. She was buying time. Buying time, and little more.
He was no poacher or bandit caught in the wrong place at the wrong time—he would have his way given enough time. But still she fought. With tenacity and determination. She held her ground. There Verad lay, where he would be at the Heretics' mercy; at the mercy of the wyrm lying moribund in deep desert sand. The nightmare ended here, one way or another. The battle that raged around them soon turned against the Heretic and his men. One by one the Ishgardian Dragoons put his defenders to an end, while Anstarra focused disrupted the progress of the ritual itself. The end approached, victory was in sight.
Still, the leader fought on, deftly avoiding Aya's spear thrust. He countered countered with his sword-arm passing parallel to Aya's own weapon. It was a sudden and nearly unavoidable strike; she managed the slightest deflection with the haft of her spear, enough to save her life. She did not feel the slice of the blade, or the heat of blood upon her neck.Â
Behind her, Sellaine, the Leader's lieutenant staggered near defeat. His men collapsed all around him. With is forces clearly defeated, the ritual at an end, leader cried for a halt, an end, a surrender. Aya stepped backwards. The beat of her heart finally caught up with her—the sensation of rushing blood, and the pounding in her breast.Â
The Heretics had yielded. She eyed Verad. V'aleera finished the lieutenant with a coup de grace: a settlement of unfinished business.Â
Only the leader remained alive. Surrounded. Anstarra fell to Verad's side, attending to his injuries. Aya continued to stagger backwards. She had held; it was over, it was over, it was over.
The weight of the moment was heavy. She heard the Dragoon, Orrin, giving her orders. She shook her head. She knew how Dragoons would deal with Heretics. It was no longer her battle. Verad was safe, all was well.
She turned her back on the group and struggled back up the dune from which she had embarked upon her long heedless charge. She closed her eyes, struggling with the moment. She felt the sting of her wound, superficial as it was. She swallowed hard. All was well.
The drake would be buried beneath the sand from which it came. The Heretic threat was at an end. Verad was safe. Verad was safe. All was well.
She pulled herself atop the porter's Chocobo, and offered an expression of exhausted gratitude to the U-tribe huntresses.Â
She spurred the bird onward, onward to Ul'dah.
Onward to a perfumed bath. Onward to the taste of mulled wine, and Shroud honey. Onward to another day of work, serving drinks and casting smiles.
Away, away, away from all of this.
Verad was safe. All was well. The nightmare was no more.
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