He saw her in the market while he was waiting to buy a skewer of meat. She stood out in the press of people, slender and short compared to the Elezen and Hyur around her, long dark-furred ears and golden hair darkening to the color of the sky after sunset. "Pretty", he thought, and then "Familiar, too. Where have I seen her?"
She slipped gracefully through the crowd. Not forcing her way like a wedge, but coursing like water. She paused to examine a silver locket hanging on a jeweler's pegboard, moved to turn the pages of a book, and then to run a finger over the tip of a pen. Idly. Passing time.
The scent of roasted meat and the shopkeeper's voice drew C'kayah's attention back. He took the hot wooden skewer gingerly, grinning his thanks and paying the man with battered coins. He made his way to the front of the shop, settling on a stool to enjoy his food, when he remembered who she was.Â
It was an amusing plan involving a beautiful Duskwight thief, a mysterious accomplice, a strange Lominsan martial cult, a unique sword and helmet, and the mysterious land to the east. His participation had earned him a favor, the only real currency in the world. They had lured the leader of this cult, along with two others, into the La Noscan highlands on a brisk day and then briefly held one of them hostage while the thief laid out the full scope of her actions to them. Their accomplice had held this woman, knife to her throat, throughout the entire speech. They'd threatened and blustered at the time, like angry wasps, and it seemed the metaphor was apt.
He'd run into them in a tavern outside of Ul'dah, and again in the city. The leader with his strange helmet, and a handful of others in their distinctive red coats. For a Lominsan cult, they were widely travelled. Fearing a hunter, he'd left for Gridania but it seemed that even here they could reach. It was time, he thought, to leave the city and go to ground.
He turned back to watch her again. Her back was to him, as she caressed the smooth curves of an ornately carved Elezen walking stick. As she moved on, a flat shape dropped from the worn satchel she carried across her back. He quickly made his way through the crowd to the stall she had paused at. Stooping, he retrieved a tattered book bound in blue leather. The pages were parchment, yellowed but supple, and written in a neat hand. Poems. Rhymes. Recipes for cooking plums. He chuckled at a schoolgirl's limerick before closing the book and tucking it into his own satchel. There was no time to read it now, he had preparations to make.
"I like this walking stick", he told the merchant, "but what I'm really looking for are water skins. I'm going on a trip."
She slipped gracefully through the crowd. Not forcing her way like a wedge, but coursing like water. She paused to examine a silver locket hanging on a jeweler's pegboard, moved to turn the pages of a book, and then to run a finger over the tip of a pen. Idly. Passing time.
The scent of roasted meat and the shopkeeper's voice drew C'kayah's attention back. He took the hot wooden skewer gingerly, grinning his thanks and paying the man with battered coins. He made his way to the front of the shop, settling on a stool to enjoy his food, when he remembered who she was.Â
It was an amusing plan involving a beautiful Duskwight thief, a mysterious accomplice, a strange Lominsan martial cult, a unique sword and helmet, and the mysterious land to the east. His participation had earned him a favor, the only real currency in the world. They had lured the leader of this cult, along with two others, into the La Noscan highlands on a brisk day and then briefly held one of them hostage while the thief laid out the full scope of her actions to them. Their accomplice had held this woman, knife to her throat, throughout the entire speech. They'd threatened and blustered at the time, like angry wasps, and it seemed the metaphor was apt.
He'd run into them in a tavern outside of Ul'dah, and again in the city. The leader with his strange helmet, and a handful of others in their distinctive red coats. For a Lominsan cult, they were widely travelled. Fearing a hunter, he'd left for Gridania but it seemed that even here they could reach. It was time, he thought, to leave the city and go to ground.
He turned back to watch her again. Her back was to him, as she caressed the smooth curves of an ornately carved Elezen walking stick. As she moved on, a flat shape dropped from the worn satchel she carried across her back. He quickly made his way through the crowd to the stall she had paused at. Stooping, he retrieved a tattered book bound in blue leather. The pages were parchment, yellowed but supple, and written in a neat hand. Poems. Rhymes. Recipes for cooking plums. He chuckled at a schoolgirl's limerick before closing the book and tucking it into his own satchel. There was no time to read it now, he had preparations to make.
"I like this walking stick", he told the merchant, "but what I'm really looking for are water skins. I'm going on a trip."
