Sorimachi gazed down upon Chachanji with a look that straddled amusement and faint confusion. But with time, as he spoke more, his voice acquiring a firmness not unlike steel, the tattered man’s expression underwent a subtle metamorphosis. The corners of his eyes sagged, his smile grew rigid and firm, like he needed to pin it there to keep it from falling away. The curve of his gently bent neck and back, to make it easier for him to meet Chachanji’s eyes, grew heavy with invisible weight. A silent melancholy, a sense of resignation. These lay deep within Sorimachi, as evident as his utter lack of surprise.
“Mn. As much as I ‘magined. T’weren’t any other response ye could give me. Ye, yerself, aren’t able to respond any other way. ‘Pologies for wasting words, ‘tis simply… ‘tis simply the Coordinator’s orders.â€
He glanced to Virara, and yet despite her greater height compared to the other Lalafell, Sorimachi had to stoop to meet her gaze, practically kneeling. As Chachanji spoke, Virara’s eye drifted ever downward. Rather than emboldened, something about her usual, firm figure seemed less confident, suffused with doubt. Virara never allowed herself to express doubt.
“Aye, that much is true. If ye weren’t as such, ye wouldn’t be Chachanji Gegenji, the man the Coordinator asked for. C’mon then. I’ll answer for this later personally.â€
A suppressed ripple of morose sympathy traversed his face. As if to apologize in advance for something, but it wasn’t clear what. Sorimachi even spared Virara one moment of his attention and beckoned her with a quick twitch of his fingers. With a short rustle through his many layers of clothes, the groundskeeper withdrew his cluster of greying and tarnished keys and unlocked the manor’s door, back hunched over its undersized knob. The entryway complained with a oaken groan.
“It wouldn’t do t’ let the young miss stand outside in the weather. Whatever she be, a lady she is as well. A lady with pride.â€
Sorimachi glanced knowingly down to Chachanji as he bowed deeply in the Eorzean manner, hands ushering the two inward into the poorly-lit foyer like he was tossing linen sheets, his tremendous sedge hat set aside. Threadbare black hairs matted his skull with the occasional grey strand standing out like veins of silver.
For her part, Virara did not speak. She simply moved her body forward without thought, eye dark and hidden behind her dyed bangs, wearing an expression colder than the slick cobblestone they’d walked upon to reach this place. A silent pride suffused every aspect of Virara’s being, no matter how unassuming or awkward she might be, but somehow Chachanji would likely not see it at that moment. It had become submerged beneath a deep tide of uncharacteristic trepidation.
How much did he understand about Virara, after all? They’d spent considerable time together, and he knew of her past, her strength, her resolve. Besides the times they’d gathered to train, mere playfighting with pulleys and wooden figures, it was difficult to keep track of her transient existence. Constantly traveling and finding new places to test her limits, Virara lived the life of a girl who was being chased. She was a loosed arrow flying heedless of the wind. Did the arrow know the will behind the archer’s hand? What did the arrow want? Could it know want? Again and again Virara was challenged with that question, and no answer was ever truly given. Or could be given. Brackish and reflective, people skipped words across her and still she retained her shape, until perhaps, one day, she would dry up and there would be nothing but the basin, the parched lack that remained behind. Did Virara want something, truly, then?
As if to suffocate any doubts they might have had in an instant, the thick door of the manor shut behind them like rolling thunder. Or it might have been thunder. The weather was, after all, awful.
“Please, this way.â€
Sorimachi led the two guests along a hall lined with Thavnarian damask and ancient Nymian light fixtures, the oaken floor creaking with every step. Here and there stone walls clearly too spartan for a wealthy abode reminded visitors of the house’s history as a pirate bunker. A high ceiling clearly intended to accommodate the tallest of Sea Wolves dwarfed even Sorimachi, despite his substantially greater stature.
It wasn’t long before they reached a wide open living space, a main hall redolent of medicinal herbs and sandalwood incense. In the center, a pool of light illuminated by a great Ul’dahn chandelier; along the sides of the room, parlour tables and a long lounge seat, presently occupied by a reclining figure. In the back of the room, a small private bar. A woman with tanned skin and a thick arm, face half-obscured by messy locks of black hair, hunched over her station, following the two Lalafells’ every movement with a guard dog’s hostility. Her powerful arm and half of her chest, aside from a typical Far Eastern chestwrap, were bare, like the attire of gambling house dealers, shoulder and bicep etched with intricate patterns. The other half of her body was shrouded in Doman robes, left arm hidden in billowing navy blue and scarlet cloth. Flying cranes, swirls of heavenly wind, the thin, emaciated red petals of the flowers that lined the banks of the river before the underworld; her body was a canvas, and it was difficult to determine how much more was concealed by her Doman attire.
The figure in the lounge chair, however, lay back fully, black-haired head facing Virara, Chachanji and Sorimachi. Their face was covered in the improvised tent of a thick, leather-bound book, slovenly resting upon the bridge of their nose and forehead. A small oil lantern adorned the cartonnier at their side, along with a conspiracy of crystal glasses filled with melted ice. He did not stir at the sound of their entry, but Sorimachi bowed deeply, after a quick, familiar nod and a warm smile to the tremendously intimidating bartender.
“... Beggin’ yer pardon Young Master. Cha-... Erh, Young Master Chachanji Gegenji is here to see you. And ah… one more…â€
Sorimachi’s pained expression seemed nostalgic for the handy refuge of his great hat. Yet the figure upon the lounge chair refused to move.
Virara bowed deeply, even going as far as to kneel and kowtow her head to the ground in exhausting respect. Her face was entirely obscured from view, perhaps so that they, or Chachanji, would not know what shape it took.
“... Virara. I am here as per my note. I believe you have received it. Master Munakata Kuze of the Kuze Concern, I humbly apologize for the imposition posed by my visit.â€
“Mn. As much as I ‘magined. T’weren’t any other response ye could give me. Ye, yerself, aren’t able to respond any other way. ‘Pologies for wasting words, ‘tis simply… ‘tis simply the Coordinator’s orders.â€
He glanced to Virara, and yet despite her greater height compared to the other Lalafell, Sorimachi had to stoop to meet her gaze, practically kneeling. As Chachanji spoke, Virara’s eye drifted ever downward. Rather than emboldened, something about her usual, firm figure seemed less confident, suffused with doubt. Virara never allowed herself to express doubt.
“Aye, that much is true. If ye weren’t as such, ye wouldn’t be Chachanji Gegenji, the man the Coordinator asked for. C’mon then. I’ll answer for this later personally.â€
A suppressed ripple of morose sympathy traversed his face. As if to apologize in advance for something, but it wasn’t clear what. Sorimachi even spared Virara one moment of his attention and beckoned her with a quick twitch of his fingers. With a short rustle through his many layers of clothes, the groundskeeper withdrew his cluster of greying and tarnished keys and unlocked the manor’s door, back hunched over its undersized knob. The entryway complained with a oaken groan.
“It wouldn’t do t’ let the young miss stand outside in the weather. Whatever she be, a lady she is as well. A lady with pride.â€
Sorimachi glanced knowingly down to Chachanji as he bowed deeply in the Eorzean manner, hands ushering the two inward into the poorly-lit foyer like he was tossing linen sheets, his tremendous sedge hat set aside. Threadbare black hairs matted his skull with the occasional grey strand standing out like veins of silver.
For her part, Virara did not speak. She simply moved her body forward without thought, eye dark and hidden behind her dyed bangs, wearing an expression colder than the slick cobblestone they’d walked upon to reach this place. A silent pride suffused every aspect of Virara’s being, no matter how unassuming or awkward she might be, but somehow Chachanji would likely not see it at that moment. It had become submerged beneath a deep tide of uncharacteristic trepidation.
How much did he understand about Virara, after all? They’d spent considerable time together, and he knew of her past, her strength, her resolve. Besides the times they’d gathered to train, mere playfighting with pulleys and wooden figures, it was difficult to keep track of her transient existence. Constantly traveling and finding new places to test her limits, Virara lived the life of a girl who was being chased. She was a loosed arrow flying heedless of the wind. Did the arrow know the will behind the archer’s hand? What did the arrow want? Could it know want? Again and again Virara was challenged with that question, and no answer was ever truly given. Or could be given. Brackish and reflective, people skipped words across her and still she retained her shape, until perhaps, one day, she would dry up and there would be nothing but the basin, the parched lack that remained behind. Did Virara want something, truly, then?
As if to suffocate any doubts they might have had in an instant, the thick door of the manor shut behind them like rolling thunder. Or it might have been thunder. The weather was, after all, awful.
“Please, this way.â€
Sorimachi led the two guests along a hall lined with Thavnarian damask and ancient Nymian light fixtures, the oaken floor creaking with every step. Here and there stone walls clearly too spartan for a wealthy abode reminded visitors of the house’s history as a pirate bunker. A high ceiling clearly intended to accommodate the tallest of Sea Wolves dwarfed even Sorimachi, despite his substantially greater stature.
It wasn’t long before they reached a wide open living space, a main hall redolent of medicinal herbs and sandalwood incense. In the center, a pool of light illuminated by a great Ul’dahn chandelier; along the sides of the room, parlour tables and a long lounge seat, presently occupied by a reclining figure. In the back of the room, a small private bar. A woman with tanned skin and a thick arm, face half-obscured by messy locks of black hair, hunched over her station, following the two Lalafells’ every movement with a guard dog’s hostility. Her powerful arm and half of her chest, aside from a typical Far Eastern chestwrap, were bare, like the attire of gambling house dealers, shoulder and bicep etched with intricate patterns. The other half of her body was shrouded in Doman robes, left arm hidden in billowing navy blue and scarlet cloth. Flying cranes, swirls of heavenly wind, the thin, emaciated red petals of the flowers that lined the banks of the river before the underworld; her body was a canvas, and it was difficult to determine how much more was concealed by her Doman attire.
The figure in the lounge chair, however, lay back fully, black-haired head facing Virara, Chachanji and Sorimachi. Their face was covered in the improvised tent of a thick, leather-bound book, slovenly resting upon the bridge of their nose and forehead. A small oil lantern adorned the cartonnier at their side, along with a conspiracy of crystal glasses filled with melted ice. He did not stir at the sound of their entry, but Sorimachi bowed deeply, after a quick, familiar nod and a warm smile to the tremendously intimidating bartender.
“... Beggin’ yer pardon Young Master. Cha-... Erh, Young Master Chachanji Gegenji is here to see you. And ah… one more…â€
Sorimachi’s pained expression seemed nostalgic for the handy refuge of his great hat. Yet the figure upon the lounge chair refused to move.
Virara bowed deeply, even going as far as to kneel and kowtow her head to the ground in exhausting respect. Her face was entirely obscured from view, perhaps so that they, or Chachanji, would not know what shape it took.
“... Virara. I am here as per my note. I believe you have received it. Master Munakata Kuze of the Kuze Concern, I humbly apologize for the imposition posed by my visit.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.
