Thread Closed
[Sorry for the rather petulant tone, that wasn't my original intention but it is what emerged!]
Closed eyelids felt the warmth of Vylbrand's rising sun. Â Tired senses tried to mingle the sensation with the potent scent of a final pinch of fine pipe weed, and the vibrant sound of an active quay below.
She exhaled a cloud of smoke with a sigh. Â Why? Â
Did it really deserve an all-night vigil?
She signed again, slumping her head against the rich mahogany of the chair she'd dragged out to the balcony. Â On the adjacent little desk lay sheets of paper abandoned. Â Ink dried crisp to long-idle pen. Â She'd been determined to record her thoughts - and a tribute to the Battle of Gloam. Â
But somewhere, she'd lost herself to idleness and contemplation. Â Why had she done it? Â Why had she cared? Â She'd little interest in Limsan politics or law: how had she found herself there? Â Attending hearings, defending sailors, and, by the twelve, going to sea aboard a privateer bound for battle?
Only there was no real question. Â She'd always known why; she just didn't want to admit it. Â The reasons were:Â Leanne. Â Osric. Â S'imba. And numerous others.Â
A barmaid's friends. Â People she admired--some of them heroes in their own right. Â It had been so simple, really. Â All she wanted was to earn their respect. Â In her heart-of-hearts didn't she always understand that's what had mattered to her? Â It had just been an opportunity to show them that she too could be relied upon: to do the things that were right. Â To do the things that were hard. Â To do the things that were brave.
She wanted to show them she wasn't just the smiling girl they'd met at the Quick Sand. She'd been terrified back then - of everything. She was comfortable now: with herself, with her city, with her path. But for what end?
The thought filled her with loathing. Â And with frustration. She refused to open her eyes to face the sun. Â
Even where she had been successful she'd always failed at her larger purpose. Â No one seemed to understand why she was there. Â It was dawning upon her that she'd never be more than the pretty smile with a tall pint of ale.
Their causes were deeper.  Their stories more gripping. Their attachments seared in moments of high pressure.  Heroes, it seems, were just a world apart.
She rolled onto her back, slumped with the full indignity of exhaustion. Â
Unable to shout. Â Unable to cry. Â She just sighed again, with a deep shudder of disappointment. Â
Perhaps it was better this way, she tried to convince herself. Â Was this really the sort of trouble she needed? Â S'imba, the only one who really seemed to trust her, was still in more trouble than she was capable of getting him out of. Â Just what sort of further worries could lay ahead with this bunch?
She had been there. Â Aboard the Sultana's Revenge when the hour came due.
She was a woman who spurned the Ala Mhigan cause. Â Comfortable to make due with what life she could find in the rest of Eorzea. Â But ties of blood are slow to die.
Her heart had raced as the Revenge turned into the Imperial squadron, with the able Yheli at the helm. Â She could still see S'imba standing proud. Â Hands upon his hips and expectation upon that daring grin. Â When the nimble Privateer broke through the last bank of fog they caught the Cruiser entirely unaware. Â Imperial sailors turned at them in horror. Â She leaped the gap between the ships, stout forest spear gripped in hand. Â Ladders followed. Â Osric cried his battle cry. Â The privateers of the Revenge swarmed like winged death.
With spear in hand she dove upon those poor sailors with an unexpected intensity -they were the momentarily defenseless edge of the Empire's military might, and she showed no restraint. Â They were caught one-by-one with the swift, silent, deadly work of a Shroud-trained Lancer- and the fury of an Ala Mhigan Fox.
It was over as quickly as it had begun. Â The entire action was a blur of memory. Â She had looked up to Osric and his blood-covered blade raised in exultant celebration. Â Had she, in that moment, not been the very picture of Ala Mhigan Resistance? She couldn't recognize her own self. How could Osric?
She thought of her father. Â The man who had raised her. Â Protected her. Â The man who had surrendered everything to save his family from the conquest. Â She thought of every pride he had abandoned, every deprivation he had faced. She remembered the proud warrior-lord. Â She thought of the weary old man who remained. Â
She pulled her fist to her chest.
"If he knew..." she wondered in the ancestral tongue of their motherland. Â "Would he at last be proud?"
Closed eyelids felt the warmth of Vylbrand's rising sun. Â Tired senses tried to mingle the sensation with the potent scent of a final pinch of fine pipe weed, and the vibrant sound of an active quay below.
She exhaled a cloud of smoke with a sigh. Â Why? Â
Did it really deserve an all-night vigil?
She signed again, slumping her head against the rich mahogany of the chair she'd dragged out to the balcony. Â On the adjacent little desk lay sheets of paper abandoned. Â Ink dried crisp to long-idle pen. Â She'd been determined to record her thoughts - and a tribute to the Battle of Gloam. Â
But somewhere, she'd lost herself to idleness and contemplation. Â Why had she done it? Â Why had she cared? Â She'd little interest in Limsan politics or law: how had she found herself there? Â Attending hearings, defending sailors, and, by the twelve, going to sea aboard a privateer bound for battle?
Only there was no real question. Â She'd always known why; she just didn't want to admit it. Â The reasons were:Â Leanne. Â Osric. Â S'imba. And numerous others.Â
A barmaid's friends. Â People she admired--some of them heroes in their own right. Â It had been so simple, really. Â All she wanted was to earn their respect. Â In her heart-of-hearts didn't she always understand that's what had mattered to her? Â It had just been an opportunity to show them that she too could be relied upon: to do the things that were right. Â To do the things that were hard. Â To do the things that were brave.
She wanted to show them she wasn't just the smiling girl they'd met at the Quick Sand. She'd been terrified back then - of everything. She was comfortable now: with herself, with her city, with her path. But for what end?
The thought filled her with loathing. Â And with frustration. She refused to open her eyes to face the sun. Â
Even where she had been successful she'd always failed at her larger purpose. Â No one seemed to understand why she was there. Â It was dawning upon her that she'd never be more than the pretty smile with a tall pint of ale.
Their causes were deeper.  Their stories more gripping. Their attachments seared in moments of high pressure.  Heroes, it seems, were just a world apart.
She rolled onto her back, slumped with the full indignity of exhaustion. Â
Unable to shout. Â Unable to cry. Â She just sighed again, with a deep shudder of disappointment. Â
Perhaps it was better this way, she tried to convince herself. Â Was this really the sort of trouble she needed? Â S'imba, the only one who really seemed to trust her, was still in more trouble than she was capable of getting him out of. Â Just what sort of further worries could lay ahead with this bunch?
Where prow through wave breaks,
Beneath salt spray scour,
When stout hull rattles and shakes,
There you'll find the hero of the hour
Beneath salt spray scour,
When stout hull rattles and shakes,
There you'll find the hero of the hour
She had been there. Â Aboard the Sultana's Revenge when the hour came due.
She was a woman who spurned the Ala Mhigan cause. Â Comfortable to make due with what life she could find in the rest of Eorzea. Â But ties of blood are slow to die.
Her heart had raced as the Revenge turned into the Imperial squadron, with the able Yheli at the helm. Â She could still see S'imba standing proud. Â Hands upon his hips and expectation upon that daring grin. Â When the nimble Privateer broke through the last bank of fog they caught the Cruiser entirely unaware. Â Imperial sailors turned at them in horror. Â She leaped the gap between the ships, stout forest spear gripped in hand. Â Ladders followed. Â Osric cried his battle cry. Â The privateers of the Revenge swarmed like winged death.
With spear in hand she dove upon those poor sailors with an unexpected intensity -they were the momentarily defenseless edge of the Empire's military might, and she showed no restraint. Â They were caught one-by-one with the swift, silent, deadly work of a Shroud-trained Lancer- and the fury of an Ala Mhigan Fox.
It was over as quickly as it had begun. Â The entire action was a blur of memory. Â She had looked up to Osric and his blood-covered blade raised in exultant celebration. Â Had she, in that moment, not been the very picture of Ala Mhigan Resistance? She couldn't recognize her own self. How could Osric?
She thought of her father. Â The man who had raised her. Â Protected her. Â The man who had surrendered everything to save his family from the conquest. Â She thought of every pride he had abandoned, every deprivation he had faced. She remembered the proud warrior-lord. Â She thought of the weary old man who remained. Â
She pulled her fist to her chest.
"If he knew..." she wondered in the ancestral tongue of their motherland. Â "Would he at last be proud?"