â—† P R E Y â—†
[ Part Three of Six ]
[ Part Three of Six ]
â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â… â€¹ ⧫ › â†â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”
Author’s Note: Part three of four now five six. And I will put this TRIGGER WARNING OF VIOLENCE, DEATH, AND EMOTIONAL TRAUMA here for those sensitive to such things.
If you're interested in learning a bit more about the Qulaan tribe and what became of them, Jali's past specifically, and what her hang-ups with romance and sex are (and you're not sensitive to the above triggers), click to read under the spoiler tag.
â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â… â€¹ ⧫ › â†â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”
[ Warnings: Mention of violence, slight gore, emotional trauma, death, and general feels under the spoiler. ]
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SpoilerJaliqai let her eyes close as the door clicked shut behind her, slumping back against it heavily, hear head rolling back until it made contact with the wood. She breathed in a deep breath of the warm, yet musty air, holding it in her lungs for as long as she could manage before expelling it in a soft, almost shaking sigh.
When her eyes opened again, she stared up at the vaulted ceiling before her gaze fell, moving across the lackluster inn room. The old, creaking floorboards. The missing torch above the fireplace. Old liquor bottles scattered about. The bed looked hard, the linens scratchy and threadbare.
It was one of the worst inns she had stayed at, that much was certain. Only the meager fireplace seemed even remotely appealing, the dancing flames seeming to beckon her closer. She moved across the room until she stood in front of it, basking in the heat that radiated from it.
Yet even so, standing in front of the fire with arms crossed over her chest, she felt cold. Not the chill of a breeze squeezing through an ill-fitted window. Nor was it was the cool draft that slipped under the door from the hall.
Loneliness. It was a feeling that wasn't altogether foreign to her, even if she would've argued to her last breath otherwise. She had grown up in a small, tightly woven tribe. If anything, the Qulaan had been more like a pack, like the wolves they claimed as their brethren. Tough, fierce, but ultimately social creatures that weren't meant to be alone.
About eight cycles had passed since that last hunt. The hunt that had destroyed what was left of her tribe. They had been so confident in themselves, their prowess. The hunters and warriors had allowed anger and rage to distort and warp their better judgment, making them think they stood a chance against foes wielding magic and steel.
Chakha. She still remembered the girl, only a cycle or two younger than herself. Her wide silver eyes, always seeming to dance with mischief. Her dark skin, the long brown hair that fell to her waist. The way she could travel so lightly on her feet that one would never hear her coming until it was far too late. She had enjoyed turning her stealth upon Jaliqai on numerous occasions, always laughing her clear, mirthful laugh when she near jumped out of her skin and spat curses at her in their harsh native tongue.
More than anything now, though, she could remember the way her body hung limp in Baiju's arms as he carried his partner back to the tribe for the last time. The thick, dark red trail that followed him. The cold, seething anger and deep, unfathomable sadness in his eyes as his world lie broken in his grasp. Her own eyes wide and unseeing, utterly devoid of that light she had held such affection for.
She had been killed by Garlean soldiers, their paths just happening to cross with the pair of hunting partners as they ventured out in pursuit of a trail. Nothing but a coincidence.
They had thought to sneak past the men and avoid confrontation, as they had many times before. Chakha was a natural at slipping by unnoticed, after all. Yet all it took was one misstep, Baidu's foot coming down upon a branch the wrong way. A loud snap, followed by shouting, several loud pops and bangs, running..
They sang as the flames licked at her body, dancing playfully around her like she had often done between hunts, pulling in child and tribemate alike to join her. The tribe sang haunting melodies that sounded more like wails and howls of grief than songs, under the moon and the Mother's watchful eye.
Chakha had been an unfortunate casualty of an unfortunate accident. Yet the Qulaan had all been so close. Of course they had lost their own before; one didn't hunt as they had without occasional losses. Yet this had been so sudden, jarring, and unexpected. Senseless. She had brought such joy to everyone in the tribe, and everyone shared in their pain.
When the last ember had cooled, the grief-stricken tribe had nothing but blood and vengeance on their mind. Anger. Ignorance. Pain.
They should have known better than to set out to track the Garleans back to their camp. They had had encounters with them before, small skirmishes that had ended in injury and retreat. But now they hunted them, and their attacks were met with a force that brought them to their knees.
It was nothing but a massacre. They should have known. Jaliqai remembered catching a glimpse of Baidu in the chaos, covered in blood, fighting until he couldn't stand any longer, a blade brought down square into his chest. Others cut down around her, the loud mechanical popping of guns firing. Screaming. So much screaming.
The greatsword clattering from her hands as a shield rose up to meet her face was the last thing she remembered clearly before the world went black. The rest of the memories immediately after faded in and out. Being dragged across the ground. The feeling of weightlessness as she was lifted, then the floor of the wagon rising up to meet her as she was tossed. Groans of pain and misery around her, vaguely familiar voices and scents.
Those who had survived had been rounded up, she later realized after she had came to. No one told them where they were going. No one treated their wounds. She remembered watching the woman across from her die, the rattling of her breath as she struggled to claim her last few inhales.
Every so often, someone walked through the wagon to check on them. Those who had expired had been unceremoniously dragged out, left by the side of the road for the animals to feed upon.
That had been Jaliqai's freedom. Injured as she was, playing dead hadn't been difficult. She was practically lying upon death's doorstep, anyroad. Slumped against the dead man beside her, the soldier who made the rounds gave her a few checks before roughly throwing her out with the others who hadn't made it.
Hours had passed before she could move. Light was fading, and no longer could she hear the caravan as it moved on. It took every bit of strength she had to crawl her way out from under the body of another. She had only made it but a few fulm away before she collapsed again.
Again, she faded in and out of consciousness. Injured, starving, thirsty, cold. Dying. Alone.
She didn't remember when she had been found. All she could remember was the indistinct murmur of voices, warm broth sliding down the back of her throat, the sharp sting of medicine on the numerous cuts and gashes that covered her body.
When she had awoke, those that had found her and nursed her back to health had said that she had been out for days. The Doman farmers had found her still barely clinging to life as they had trailed behind the caravan from afar, gathering up the bodies of the fallen Xaela to give them proper burial.
"Burn them," she remembered begging them in her rough, broken Doman. "Please."
And so they had. The villagers lined the bodies up, shrouded them with care. Jaliqai hadn't wanted to look upon their faces. It hurt too deeply. The hyurs guided her off to the side as they lit the pyres, attending her in respectful silence. Her throat stung, her eyes burned with emotion and the smoke, as she sang for them. Cried for them. Howled for them.
For a time, she stayed with the farmers, regaining her strength. Even after she recovered, she continued to linger for yet longer. Where else was there to go? Her tribe was gone, destroyed. These people, though kind and generous, were not the same as the family she had lost. No matter how much she tried to belong, to become a part of them, they were too different. She was surrounded by people, yet never had she felt so acutely alone.
Finally came the time to move on. She thanked them for their kindness, for a debt she could never repay, and begged them not to speak a word of what had happened to her tribe to others. To let the memory of the Qulaan be that of the fierce, relentless hunters that they were, not as another's prey. They agreed and sent her on her way, with their blessings and what supplies they could spare.
And so she wandered across Othard, a lone wolf. In time, she returned to what she knew. Even without a tribe, she was a formidable huntress. Over the following moons and cycles, she found more and more work chasing bounties that people were paying to see taken care of. Her reputation grew.
The Hunt kept her armed, armored, and fed. More than that, it kept her focused and driven. It kept her from remembering, most days, though sometimes the memories crept back into her mind of a night when she laid her head down. The whiskey helped with that, she'd found.
Still, there were some times when even the booze didn't stop the feeling of loneliness from overcoming her. Days where she almost instinctively thought to look over her shoulder for a hunting partner that wasn't there, and her heart felt like it would squeeze so tightly in her chest that it might burst. Nights where she could hear the wolves howl and all she could think of were the flames dancing higher, the choking smoke of the funeral pyre, the smell of decayed and burning flesh.
When it felt like too much to bear, she had joined in with other bands of mercenaries and bounty hunters, trying to find a place where she belonged. For a time, it would take her mind away from the memories, dull the ache in her chest. Yet it was never the same. These men and women didn't care for one another like the Qulaan. They weren't a family. Each time, she would finally move on again, even lonelier than she had been before.
Cycles passed, and though everything was different, nothing changed. She hunted, day in and out. She searched for a family to replace the one she missed, always to no avail. Only when the Garleans -- those hateful, three-eyed whoresons -- razed Doma to the ground did she realize that it was time to leave her homelands.
She bought her way onto a ship bound for Eorzea, a land that she had heard rumor of but knew precious little about. The Hunt would be better there, she told herself. Garleans wouldn't stifle her every movement, their horrid magitek reminding her at every turn. Things would be different, strange.. but she would adapt. She always did.
That was when she had met Bayard. Tall and broad like an Auri warrior, and every bit as fierce. Bronzeblade, they called him. She hadn't known the story of the name then. She had been intrigued by him as soon as she had signed onto the same contract that he had, yet oddly fearful. Cautious.
Time ticked on, and the two had grown close. Closer than she thought possible, with someone who wasn't even Xaela, much less Qulaani. Yet there was something about him that was so incredibly familiar. His understanding and passion for the chase. His strength, relentlessness. The warmth and loyalty he showed to those he called his own, the way he led them.
Almost six moons, they worked together. He taught her, and she taught him. She was his cunning, and he was her muscle. A pair. They were almost inseparable.
Their attraction to one another was even more obvious. Yet each time he had propositioned her, tried to get in even closer, she had refused him. She couldn't. All she could think about was her hunting partner, whom was supposed to give her children one day. To strengthen their tribe.
Sex was one thing. In the cycles since she had lost her family, she had tried. One-night stands that were as lacking in passion as they were in purpose, and always followed by guilt and anger. Yet those partners left with the rising sun, never to be thought of again after their faces and names had faded from her memory.
Bayard was different, and she couldn't give herself to him, not in the way that he wanted her to. Even as desperately as she wanted to. She couldn't settle with him or give him a family. The Xaela had clung too tightly to her duty, to the ghost of her tribe, to betray them.
Once again, she had left. The conflict within her had been too much to handle, so close to the man. As soon as their contract had been completed, she had said her goodbyes and left him. It hurt terribly, only time and distance managing to make it fade to a dull ache that she could manage on most days.
She had went so long without thinking about such things, and then she had came to Ul'dah. Kiari with her confessions of love for her. Grey pushing and prodding at her, trying to get her to open up, not knowing that all he was doing was forcing open wounds that had almost healed over. Pouring salt into them.
"Wouldn't you like to have a mate?" the miqo'te man had asked her at their last meeting.
Of course she would.
She longed for her hunting partner. The one she was meant to be with. The one she had sworn herself to. A man who might be nothing more than ash now, whom she may have burned and sang for, but had been too coward and pained to look upon his face.
She also longed for the man in the room next to hers. A man who longed for her just the same. A strong, brave, loyal man who had given her the first feeling of family that she had had since that last hunt. A man who she wasn't meant for, but with whom she felt oddly complete. A man who she had run from once when she realized how she felt about him.
A log shifted in the fire, falling and sending up a plume of smouldering ashes, suddenly breaking her out of her reverie. As she snapped back to reality, the thoughts still lingering at the edge of her mind, she looked to the door.
Before she knew it, she was crossing the creaking wooden planks. Reaching out and swinging it open. Marching down the hall, hand rising to knock impatiently on the wooden door. A few moments of footsteps later, the door swung open, Bayard standing there, looking down at the smaller woman with confusion.
"Red..?"
"I changed my mind."
Reaching up, she grabbed for him, pulling him down to meet her as she pushed herself up onto her toes. Her lips found his in a sudden kiss, almost a cycle of repressed longing behind it. Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her tightly against his chest.
She wanted him -- the living, breathing man in front of her -- and this time no ghost would stop her.
When her eyes opened again, she stared up at the vaulted ceiling before her gaze fell, moving across the lackluster inn room. The old, creaking floorboards. The missing torch above the fireplace. Old liquor bottles scattered about. The bed looked hard, the linens scratchy and threadbare.
It was one of the worst inns she had stayed at, that much was certain. Only the meager fireplace seemed even remotely appealing, the dancing flames seeming to beckon her closer. She moved across the room until she stood in front of it, basking in the heat that radiated from it.
Yet even so, standing in front of the fire with arms crossed over her chest, she felt cold. Not the chill of a breeze squeezing through an ill-fitted window. Nor was it was the cool draft that slipped under the door from the hall.
Loneliness. It was a feeling that wasn't altogether foreign to her, even if she would've argued to her last breath otherwise. She had grown up in a small, tightly woven tribe. If anything, the Qulaan had been more like a pack, like the wolves they claimed as their brethren. Tough, fierce, but ultimately social creatures that weren't meant to be alone.
About eight cycles had passed since that last hunt. The hunt that had destroyed what was left of her tribe. They had been so confident in themselves, their prowess. The hunters and warriors had allowed anger and rage to distort and warp their better judgment, making them think they stood a chance against foes wielding magic and steel.
Chakha. She still remembered the girl, only a cycle or two younger than herself. Her wide silver eyes, always seeming to dance with mischief. Her dark skin, the long brown hair that fell to her waist. The way she could travel so lightly on her feet that one would never hear her coming until it was far too late. She had enjoyed turning her stealth upon Jaliqai on numerous occasions, always laughing her clear, mirthful laugh when she near jumped out of her skin and spat curses at her in their harsh native tongue.
More than anything now, though, she could remember the way her body hung limp in Baiju's arms as he carried his partner back to the tribe for the last time. The thick, dark red trail that followed him. The cold, seething anger and deep, unfathomable sadness in his eyes as his world lie broken in his grasp. Her own eyes wide and unseeing, utterly devoid of that light she had held such affection for.
She had been killed by Garlean soldiers, their paths just happening to cross with the pair of hunting partners as they ventured out in pursuit of a trail. Nothing but a coincidence.
They had thought to sneak past the men and avoid confrontation, as they had many times before. Chakha was a natural at slipping by unnoticed, after all. Yet all it took was one misstep, Baidu's foot coming down upon a branch the wrong way. A loud snap, followed by shouting, several loud pops and bangs, running..
They sang as the flames licked at her body, dancing playfully around her like she had often done between hunts, pulling in child and tribemate alike to join her. The tribe sang haunting melodies that sounded more like wails and howls of grief than songs, under the moon and the Mother's watchful eye.
Chakha had been an unfortunate casualty of an unfortunate accident. Yet the Qulaan had all been so close. Of course they had lost their own before; one didn't hunt as they had without occasional losses. Yet this had been so sudden, jarring, and unexpected. Senseless. She had brought such joy to everyone in the tribe, and everyone shared in their pain.
When the last ember had cooled, the grief-stricken tribe had nothing but blood and vengeance on their mind. Anger. Ignorance. Pain.
They should have known better than to set out to track the Garleans back to their camp. They had had encounters with them before, small skirmishes that had ended in injury and retreat. But now they hunted them, and their attacks were met with a force that brought them to their knees.
It was nothing but a massacre. They should have known. Jaliqai remembered catching a glimpse of Baidu in the chaos, covered in blood, fighting until he couldn't stand any longer, a blade brought down square into his chest. Others cut down around her, the loud mechanical popping of guns firing. Screaming. So much screaming.
The greatsword clattering from her hands as a shield rose up to meet her face was the last thing she remembered clearly before the world went black. The rest of the memories immediately after faded in and out. Being dragged across the ground. The feeling of weightlessness as she was lifted, then the floor of the wagon rising up to meet her as she was tossed. Groans of pain and misery around her, vaguely familiar voices and scents.
Those who had survived had been rounded up, she later realized after she had came to. No one told them where they were going. No one treated their wounds. She remembered watching the woman across from her die, the rattling of her breath as she struggled to claim her last few inhales.
Every so often, someone walked through the wagon to check on them. Those who had expired had been unceremoniously dragged out, left by the side of the road for the animals to feed upon.
That had been Jaliqai's freedom. Injured as she was, playing dead hadn't been difficult. She was practically lying upon death's doorstep, anyroad. Slumped against the dead man beside her, the soldier who made the rounds gave her a few checks before roughly throwing her out with the others who hadn't made it.
Hours had passed before she could move. Light was fading, and no longer could she hear the caravan as it moved on. It took every bit of strength she had to crawl her way out from under the body of another. She had only made it but a few fulm away before she collapsed again.
Again, she faded in and out of consciousness. Injured, starving, thirsty, cold. Dying. Alone.
She didn't remember when she had been found. All she could remember was the indistinct murmur of voices, warm broth sliding down the back of her throat, the sharp sting of medicine on the numerous cuts and gashes that covered her body.
When she had awoke, those that had found her and nursed her back to health had said that she had been out for days. The Doman farmers had found her still barely clinging to life as they had trailed behind the caravan from afar, gathering up the bodies of the fallen Xaela to give them proper burial.
"Burn them," she remembered begging them in her rough, broken Doman. "Please."
And so they had. The villagers lined the bodies up, shrouded them with care. Jaliqai hadn't wanted to look upon their faces. It hurt too deeply. The hyurs guided her off to the side as they lit the pyres, attending her in respectful silence. Her throat stung, her eyes burned with emotion and the smoke, as she sang for them. Cried for them. Howled for them.
For a time, she stayed with the farmers, regaining her strength. Even after she recovered, she continued to linger for yet longer. Where else was there to go? Her tribe was gone, destroyed. These people, though kind and generous, were not the same as the family she had lost. No matter how much she tried to belong, to become a part of them, they were too different. She was surrounded by people, yet never had she felt so acutely alone.
Finally came the time to move on. She thanked them for their kindness, for a debt she could never repay, and begged them not to speak a word of what had happened to her tribe to others. To let the memory of the Qulaan be that of the fierce, relentless hunters that they were, not as another's prey. They agreed and sent her on her way, with their blessings and what supplies they could spare.
And so she wandered across Othard, a lone wolf. In time, she returned to what she knew. Even without a tribe, she was a formidable huntress. Over the following moons and cycles, she found more and more work chasing bounties that people were paying to see taken care of. Her reputation grew.
The Hunt kept her armed, armored, and fed. More than that, it kept her focused and driven. It kept her from remembering, most days, though sometimes the memories crept back into her mind of a night when she laid her head down. The whiskey helped with that, she'd found.
Still, there were some times when even the booze didn't stop the feeling of loneliness from overcoming her. Days where she almost instinctively thought to look over her shoulder for a hunting partner that wasn't there, and her heart felt like it would squeeze so tightly in her chest that it might burst. Nights where she could hear the wolves howl and all she could think of were the flames dancing higher, the choking smoke of the funeral pyre, the smell of decayed and burning flesh.
When it felt like too much to bear, she had joined in with other bands of mercenaries and bounty hunters, trying to find a place where she belonged. For a time, it would take her mind away from the memories, dull the ache in her chest. Yet it was never the same. These men and women didn't care for one another like the Qulaan. They weren't a family. Each time, she would finally move on again, even lonelier than she had been before.
Cycles passed, and though everything was different, nothing changed. She hunted, day in and out. She searched for a family to replace the one she missed, always to no avail. Only when the Garleans -- those hateful, three-eyed whoresons -- razed Doma to the ground did she realize that it was time to leave her homelands.
She bought her way onto a ship bound for Eorzea, a land that she had heard rumor of but knew precious little about. The Hunt would be better there, she told herself. Garleans wouldn't stifle her every movement, their horrid magitek reminding her at every turn. Things would be different, strange.. but she would adapt. She always did.
That was when she had met Bayard. Tall and broad like an Auri warrior, and every bit as fierce. Bronzeblade, they called him. She hadn't known the story of the name then. She had been intrigued by him as soon as she had signed onto the same contract that he had, yet oddly fearful. Cautious.
Time ticked on, and the two had grown close. Closer than she thought possible, with someone who wasn't even Xaela, much less Qulaani. Yet there was something about him that was so incredibly familiar. His understanding and passion for the chase. His strength, relentlessness. The warmth and loyalty he showed to those he called his own, the way he led them.
Almost six moons, they worked together. He taught her, and she taught him. She was his cunning, and he was her muscle. A pair. They were almost inseparable.
Their attraction to one another was even more obvious. Yet each time he had propositioned her, tried to get in even closer, she had refused him. She couldn't. All she could think about was her hunting partner, whom was supposed to give her children one day. To strengthen their tribe.
Sex was one thing. In the cycles since she had lost her family, she had tried. One-night stands that were as lacking in passion as they were in purpose, and always followed by guilt and anger. Yet those partners left with the rising sun, never to be thought of again after their faces and names had faded from her memory.
Bayard was different, and she couldn't give herself to him, not in the way that he wanted her to. Even as desperately as she wanted to. She couldn't settle with him or give him a family. The Xaela had clung too tightly to her duty, to the ghost of her tribe, to betray them.
Once again, she had left. The conflict within her had been too much to handle, so close to the man. As soon as their contract had been completed, she had said her goodbyes and left him. It hurt terribly, only time and distance managing to make it fade to a dull ache that she could manage on most days.
She had went so long without thinking about such things, and then she had came to Ul'dah. Kiari with her confessions of love for her. Grey pushing and prodding at her, trying to get her to open up, not knowing that all he was doing was forcing open wounds that had almost healed over. Pouring salt into them.
"Wouldn't you like to have a mate?" the miqo'te man had asked her at their last meeting.
Of course she would.
She longed for her hunting partner. The one she was meant to be with. The one she had sworn herself to. A man who might be nothing more than ash now, whom she may have burned and sang for, but had been too coward and pained to look upon his face.
She also longed for the man in the room next to hers. A man who longed for her just the same. A strong, brave, loyal man who had given her the first feeling of family that she had had since that last hunt. A man who she wasn't meant for, but with whom she felt oddly complete. A man who she had run from once when she realized how she felt about him.
A log shifted in the fire, falling and sending up a plume of smouldering ashes, suddenly breaking her out of her reverie. As she snapped back to reality, the thoughts still lingering at the edge of her mind, she looked to the door.
Before she knew it, she was crossing the creaking wooden planks. Reaching out and swinging it open. Marching down the hall, hand rising to knock impatiently on the wooden door. A few moments of footsteps later, the door swung open, Bayard standing there, looking down at the smaller woman with confusion.
"Red..?"
"I changed my mind."
Reaching up, she grabbed for him, pulling him down to meet her as she pushed herself up onto her toes. Her lips found his in a sudden kiss, almost a cycle of repressed longing behind it. Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her tightly against his chest.
She wanted him -- the living, breathing man in front of her -- and this time no ghost would stop her.
