The discussion with his brother was quick and painless, a fact that mildly surprised Qion'a. No yelling, no questioning about tributes and no demands. It had been strangely pleasing. Though that was not entirely true: he was ordered by 'his majesty' to fetch the masked man he had brought to the 'kingdom' by 'whatever means'. Violence was not Qion'a's specialty, no matter how many squirrels he had vanquished and eaten. But it was true that they couldn't let him walk away, no matter how very alive he seemed to be.Â
The red robed miqo'te walked across the tunnels he and his special friend had come from, with his dried wand as the only light source. He stopped at every turn, tracing a faint magical glyph in the air to measure the state of the aetherial fields. He then walked in the direction where the glyph had the most problems keeping its shape, following the disturbances. It was only a matter of time before he found the fugitive. But maybe there was an even easier and quicker way.Â
"Hey!" he shouted loudly. "Thal! Are you there? I know you are! Answer me so we can chat for a bit!"
The first thing the miqo'te who called himself Thal had done was exactly as he had said: he tried to catch a whiff of fresh air to follow it out of the twisting mining tunnels. It didn't take very long, however, before he realized that the pervasive organic stench of the swamp and the earth around and above him was going to make such a thing extremely difficult. There was no such thing as fresh air in this part of the Shroud. He tried to recall the turns they'd taken in, but that too resulted in nothing but frustration.
When he came up short at a dead end for the fifth time - and he suspected it might even be the same dead end - the miqo'te finally paused for a moment. Scratching at his scruffy chin, he frowned through the holes in his mask at the carved out walls of the tunnels that refused to let him go. Tail swishing in annoyance, he turned one way, then the other, and then let out a puff of air before bouncing on mud-caked toes and turning to go back the way he came.
It was then that one ear twitched, catching the echoes of a voice that carried faintly through the tunnels. Wising up to things, however, the man remained silent, though his senses went back on alert. He tried to pick out the direction the voice had come from so as to move in the opposite.
"I don't know why you decided to run. It's not like we are going to dissect you!" Qion'a walked a few more steps and raised one finger to draw another glyph. The magic brought with it more light than what his wand was creating. It banished after a second, leaving behind a low hum that lasted much more than its light. It was followed by the approaching sound of his footsteps.
The sought for man grimaced behind his mask, ears flipping one way and then the other before focusing in on the footsteps. They came from the direction he'd arrived, which meant...
Puffing up his tail, the miqo'te squared himself off against the approaching sounds, and then called out in a light tone, "Your invitation turned into more of a demand. So you can understand my hesitation!"
"Yes, well...I apologize. Honesty became a very rare resource at the wake of the Calamity, I'm afraid." There was some glee in Qion'a's voice. His steps did not increase in frequency, but they did grow closer and closer.
Â
"We have a lot of folks like you in this place, you know." he continued, not waiting for any reply. "Not exactly like you, of course! Most of them lost their minds and never recovered. But, in any case, it would help my brother's reign to understand how you were made."
"Not comforting!" He called back to the shadows in the tunnel, tail twitching with each echoed footstep. His toes curled into the dirt as he broadened his stance somewhat.
"I'm appealing to your mercy, not to your comfort. Though I can try that!" His voice was clearer, closer. The dim blue light of Qion'as wand crawled slowly over the stone floor. He was just a turn away. "Though it's hard to bargain with a man that has everything he wants. What could we give you? Would you like a couch, maybe?"
"Eeh, what's a guy to do with a couch?" He rolled his shoulders, loosening muscle and joint, and his gaze moved to stare fixedly at the steadily increasing glow. "I think I'd rather ya just show me the door."
"Haha! Yes. I mean, no."Â
Qion'a's red robed self stood out in the center of the corridor, holding his wand above his head and to a side. He cast a long shadow against the wall, and there was nothing under his hood that could be seen. Only darkness.
He raised the other arm with the hand open. "We will let you go once there's nothing left to learn from you. If we could find whomever raised you, that would be even better! We could ask him directly, you see. But I imagine you don't know him at all."
The cornered miqo'te bent his arms loosely at his sides, and the stoic, painted face of the mask stared unblinkingly at Qion'a's robed form. "Not exactly something I have interest in, sorry." He let out a huff. "Look, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way."
***
Above ground, where the hot sun of the desert reflected brightly and uninterrupted off the sound, there was suddenly a dark shadow. It was cast by a tall, thin form. The Duskwight did not step into Thanalan; he did not appear. He was simply there, as though he had always been there, stationary. The smell of Ul'dah still clung to his body, though his form was wrapped in palpable heat. The air around him shimmered for a moment, asÂ
A long shadow was on the sand. It had not been there a moment before. Yet it had not been cast, nor had it appeared, it was simply present as though it had always been there and the world was only just now noticing it. The tall, thin, gray man whose feet connected to the end of the shadow, stoo stationary. The air around him shifted, waving visibly, like he was hotter than his surroundings. This lasted an instant, and then the breeze of Thanalan pulled the clinging aether from his body. Eddies of the scents of Ul'dah lingering in the folds of his clothes, his dark, greasy hair shifted in the wind, the tattered ends of rags on his face and arms swaying.
His silver eyes snapped up, dilated. He looked at the knife in his hand. A single drop of blood fell from the dip of the blade into the sand. Otherwise, the knife was clean. Dark lips frowned, "Ah. I suppose that cut was not quite my best work. Still..." The tattoos on his face darkened from gray to black. His face turned towads the sand, his shoulders turned towards the desert, his spine and stance pivoted towards the mountain.
The Duskwight hummed. "What is this?" He squinnted, leaned forward a modicum to look and listen into the cave. He smiled. "Ah, Oschon, I always count the days until you send me back underground." Flciking the knife fast and hard between his spry figertips, tossing away the last two drops of blood on the very thing knife, he slipped the weapon back into the invisible depths of his pockets. A flash of thin light beside him, like the sun catching hair or spiders web, was the only clue to the garrote that disappeared as well.
Flexing his fingers, the elderly Duskwight decided that he felt very much like this was the right place for him to be. He was dextrous today. His knees did not ache quite so much, and his body felt more light than weak. All of this in mind, the old man started forward, smiling into the relative shadows of the cave. It did not seem so very dark to him. It did not smell at all terrible. It felt comfortable to him. The darkness and the earth welcomed him like cool, clear water welcomes a fish.
***
Deeper in the caves, the red robe shrugged at the masked man and waved it's wand, a trail of blue light forming where it had just been. "I am not fond of violence!" he said. "You won't find the exit. I'll just wait until you tire yourself up." He took a step to a side, letting his back against the wall and staying there.
"Hah! Too bad for you, I won't tire. But, uh, all the wandering is getting a little boring," the tone implied a cheeky grin as the man bounced on the balls of his feet. There was a moment where he judged the distance between himself and Qion'a, noticed the other's relaxed posture against he wall, and then his own body moved with an instinct he hadn't known he had but followed nonetheless. He sprung forward, one hand outstretched, the other arm bent with his forearm square in front of him, intending to grab the hooded miqo'te as well as pin him against the wall.
There was no movement from Qion'a in response to this action. He was easily grabbed and thrown off balance, his back hitting against the wall. He did not drop his wand, though, which still shone in his hand.
Red hair shifted as the miqo'te leaned forward until the mask was inches from Qion'a's face, close enough that his eyes were visible in the shadows. There was a strange mirth in them. "You're gonna show me the way out," he said. "I'm not a fan of violence either, but I'm even less of a fan of being 'studied', so... your choice here."
The other smiled. "An interesting proposition! I commend you on your initiative. I'd like to see how far you are willing to go."
The mask remained impassive as the miqo'te pressed his forearm to the base of Qion'a's neck. His other hand, which had grabbed one of the Keeper's arms just above the elbow, twisted so that the limb was contorted against the wall. The man who called himself Thal didn't think about how he knew to execute such actions; they came natural in the need of the moment.
The winding turns were almost familiar to the Duskwight, though the stone here was different than the earth he'd grown up around. His old fingers ran along the wall as he walked, as he took the rights and the lefts with cool amusement. He imagined that somewhere below Eorzea, there was a city that looked like this, where Duskwight still dwelled in great number. He imagined this, but he did not believe it. He believed in empty tunnels that stank of rot.
He paused, moved his fingers in a small circle on the wall. Lingering warmth, like a faded sunbeam, met his fingertips. It was so subtle, but present. He hummed, looked down the few tunnels that branched from here, listened. Patting the wall, he walked on.
"If you push too hard on my neck, it may cause an speech impediment!" Qion'a said with a trembling voice, pausing to struggle for air every few words. "Did you learn these things while picking apples?"
"Nah, it's those alligator pears. Have to watch out for the teeth," still joking, even as he kept the weight up. He gave Qion'a's arm an extra twist, just to bring home the point, before repeating, "Gonna take me out now?"
The man groaned. "You make a strong case. If you would kindly release my arm I will guide you to the exit."
He waited a few seconds longer before, very suddenly, easing up and stepping back. The fur on his tail remained puffed out in a display of aggression, and the muscles in his limbs kept their taught readiness, but he nodded his head down the tunnel with a light bob, red hair bouncing. "Alrighty then, off we go."
Qion'a had somehow managed to keep a firm grip on his wand. He raised it and made it glow stronger. "You don't mind the light, don't you?" he asked, pointing one fing at the branch.
Flicking his gaze between the branch and the hooded Keeper, the miqo'te shrugged and then gestured a bit impatiently, "Whatever makes it easier. Let's go now! I have a mighty need to see the sky again."
Qion'a nodded. "I guess I'll lead, then." And then he turned away to walk into the tunnels.
The masked miqo'te watched Qion'a carefully for a couple seconds before following, red tail flicking with each step. "That's the spirit," he encouraged. "I bet you secretly want to get out of here, too, anyway. No one in their right mind would want to live in this place."
His answer was a chuckle, and then silence.
Knowing where Qion'a was leading him was anyone's guess, as the tunnels didn't seem to have any significant difference from each other. The corridor they were looked the same as the previous one, and it would look the same as the next one. There were no sign of fresh air or of the sky. Only Qion'a's light and his long shadow cast behind him.Â
The Keeper finally spoke after they had given a few turns on their way out. "Do you ever wonder if you have a family somewhere?"
There was a lengthy silence, broken only by the soft padding of feet down the tunnels, and then in a breezy tone, "If I do, it's probably healthiest for them to keep thinking I'm dead."
Qion'a turned around. "For them or for you?" he asked, walking backwards.
"What'd I say?" A beat. "Hey, you can't lead me out if you aren't looking where you're going."
"I can!" Qion'a smirked. But he did turn away from the man to look at his own feet after saying so. "I do not think you understand how people work. When they see someone alive who should be dead, their reaction isn't to yell at them because they should be dead." He tilted his head and, for the first time since forever, his ears raised up enough to create two small pointy ends under his hood. "Being alive proves that you never died in the first place. That's what they'd think."
The masked miqo'te shrugged, tail fidgeting uncomfortably. "It's been five years. I'm sure they've moved on." He then added quickly, to steer the conversation, "How much farther? Don't make me pull out my alligator pear moves again."
"That seems pretty selfish." Qion'a muttered, staring at a wall. He placed one hand on it as he continued walking forward. "You could actually just run ahead yourself. First turn to the left and then straight ahead, if you are in such a hurry."
He breathed in deep behind the mask, picking up his pace to move up alongside Qion'a, and tried to catch any smells of the outdoors on the air. As always, scents returned to him muddied and indistinguishable, and he huffed in annoyance before stepping past the other miqo'te. "The opposite of selfish," there was an unusual bite in his voice before he smoothed it back out, swinging his arms to either side of his body, "Sweet sky. If you're lying, I won't stop at just twisting your arm."
"Yes, your...ah...willingness to use violence has been noted." Qion'a said, stopping as the other one moved beyond him. "I guess it was a pleasure meeting you!" he added.
The masked miqo'te turned to face Qion'a and rounded the left corner backwards. One gloved hand lifted to wag disapprovingly at the Keeper. "Ya didn't exactly give me much choice." Then he was out of sight.
"There are always alternative. You simply chose the quickest way." he answered loudly to the walls. Silence followed, and the light soon retreated with him away from the corridor.
The red robed miqo'te walked across the tunnels he and his special friend had come from, with his dried wand as the only light source. He stopped at every turn, tracing a faint magical glyph in the air to measure the state of the aetherial fields. He then walked in the direction where the glyph had the most problems keeping its shape, following the disturbances. It was only a matter of time before he found the fugitive. But maybe there was an even easier and quicker way.Â
"Hey!" he shouted loudly. "Thal! Are you there? I know you are! Answer me so we can chat for a bit!"
The first thing the miqo'te who called himself Thal had done was exactly as he had said: he tried to catch a whiff of fresh air to follow it out of the twisting mining tunnels. It didn't take very long, however, before he realized that the pervasive organic stench of the swamp and the earth around and above him was going to make such a thing extremely difficult. There was no such thing as fresh air in this part of the Shroud. He tried to recall the turns they'd taken in, but that too resulted in nothing but frustration.
When he came up short at a dead end for the fifth time - and he suspected it might even be the same dead end - the miqo'te finally paused for a moment. Scratching at his scruffy chin, he frowned through the holes in his mask at the carved out walls of the tunnels that refused to let him go. Tail swishing in annoyance, he turned one way, then the other, and then let out a puff of air before bouncing on mud-caked toes and turning to go back the way he came.
It was then that one ear twitched, catching the echoes of a voice that carried faintly through the tunnels. Wising up to things, however, the man remained silent, though his senses went back on alert. He tried to pick out the direction the voice had come from so as to move in the opposite.
"I don't know why you decided to run. It's not like we are going to dissect you!" Qion'a walked a few more steps and raised one finger to draw another glyph. The magic brought with it more light than what his wand was creating. It banished after a second, leaving behind a low hum that lasted much more than its light. It was followed by the approaching sound of his footsteps.
The sought for man grimaced behind his mask, ears flipping one way and then the other before focusing in on the footsteps. They came from the direction he'd arrived, which meant...
Puffing up his tail, the miqo'te squared himself off against the approaching sounds, and then called out in a light tone, "Your invitation turned into more of a demand. So you can understand my hesitation!"
"Yes, well...I apologize. Honesty became a very rare resource at the wake of the Calamity, I'm afraid." There was some glee in Qion'a's voice. His steps did not increase in frequency, but they did grow closer and closer.
Â
"We have a lot of folks like you in this place, you know." he continued, not waiting for any reply. "Not exactly like you, of course! Most of them lost their minds and never recovered. But, in any case, it would help my brother's reign to understand how you were made."
"Not comforting!" He called back to the shadows in the tunnel, tail twitching with each echoed footstep. His toes curled into the dirt as he broadened his stance somewhat.
"I'm appealing to your mercy, not to your comfort. Though I can try that!" His voice was clearer, closer. The dim blue light of Qion'as wand crawled slowly over the stone floor. He was just a turn away. "Though it's hard to bargain with a man that has everything he wants. What could we give you? Would you like a couch, maybe?"
"Eeh, what's a guy to do with a couch?" He rolled his shoulders, loosening muscle and joint, and his gaze moved to stare fixedly at the steadily increasing glow. "I think I'd rather ya just show me the door."
"Haha! Yes. I mean, no."Â
Qion'a's red robed self stood out in the center of the corridor, holding his wand above his head and to a side. He cast a long shadow against the wall, and there was nothing under his hood that could be seen. Only darkness.
He raised the other arm with the hand open. "We will let you go once there's nothing left to learn from you. If we could find whomever raised you, that would be even better! We could ask him directly, you see. But I imagine you don't know him at all."
The cornered miqo'te bent his arms loosely at his sides, and the stoic, painted face of the mask stared unblinkingly at Qion'a's robed form. "Not exactly something I have interest in, sorry." He let out a huff. "Look, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way."
***
Above ground, where the hot sun of the desert reflected brightly and uninterrupted off the sound, there was suddenly a dark shadow. It was cast by a tall, thin form. The Duskwight did not step into Thanalan; he did not appear. He was simply there, as though he had always been there, stationary. The smell of Ul'dah still clung to his body, though his form was wrapped in palpable heat. The air around him shimmered for a moment, asÂ
A long shadow was on the sand. It had not been there a moment before. Yet it had not been cast, nor had it appeared, it was simply present as though it had always been there and the world was only just now noticing it. The tall, thin, gray man whose feet connected to the end of the shadow, stoo stationary. The air around him shifted, waving visibly, like he was hotter than his surroundings. This lasted an instant, and then the breeze of Thanalan pulled the clinging aether from his body. Eddies of the scents of Ul'dah lingering in the folds of his clothes, his dark, greasy hair shifted in the wind, the tattered ends of rags on his face and arms swaying.
His silver eyes snapped up, dilated. He looked at the knife in his hand. A single drop of blood fell from the dip of the blade into the sand. Otherwise, the knife was clean. Dark lips frowned, "Ah. I suppose that cut was not quite my best work. Still..." The tattoos on his face darkened from gray to black. His face turned towads the sand, his shoulders turned towards the desert, his spine and stance pivoted towards the mountain.
The Duskwight hummed. "What is this?" He squinnted, leaned forward a modicum to look and listen into the cave. He smiled. "Ah, Oschon, I always count the days until you send me back underground." Flciking the knife fast and hard between his spry figertips, tossing away the last two drops of blood on the very thing knife, he slipped the weapon back into the invisible depths of his pockets. A flash of thin light beside him, like the sun catching hair or spiders web, was the only clue to the garrote that disappeared as well.
Flexing his fingers, the elderly Duskwight decided that he felt very much like this was the right place for him to be. He was dextrous today. His knees did not ache quite so much, and his body felt more light than weak. All of this in mind, the old man started forward, smiling into the relative shadows of the cave. It did not seem so very dark to him. It did not smell at all terrible. It felt comfortable to him. The darkness and the earth welcomed him like cool, clear water welcomes a fish.
***
Deeper in the caves, the red robe shrugged at the masked man and waved it's wand, a trail of blue light forming where it had just been. "I am not fond of violence!" he said. "You won't find the exit. I'll just wait until you tire yourself up." He took a step to a side, letting his back against the wall and staying there.
"Hah! Too bad for you, I won't tire. But, uh, all the wandering is getting a little boring," the tone implied a cheeky grin as the man bounced on the balls of his feet. There was a moment where he judged the distance between himself and Qion'a, noticed the other's relaxed posture against he wall, and then his own body moved with an instinct he hadn't known he had but followed nonetheless. He sprung forward, one hand outstretched, the other arm bent with his forearm square in front of him, intending to grab the hooded miqo'te as well as pin him against the wall.
There was no movement from Qion'a in response to this action. He was easily grabbed and thrown off balance, his back hitting against the wall. He did not drop his wand, though, which still shone in his hand.
Red hair shifted as the miqo'te leaned forward until the mask was inches from Qion'a's face, close enough that his eyes were visible in the shadows. There was a strange mirth in them. "You're gonna show me the way out," he said. "I'm not a fan of violence either, but I'm even less of a fan of being 'studied', so... your choice here."
The other smiled. "An interesting proposition! I commend you on your initiative. I'd like to see how far you are willing to go."
The mask remained impassive as the miqo'te pressed his forearm to the base of Qion'a's neck. His other hand, which had grabbed one of the Keeper's arms just above the elbow, twisted so that the limb was contorted against the wall. The man who called himself Thal didn't think about how he knew to execute such actions; they came natural in the need of the moment.
The winding turns were almost familiar to the Duskwight, though the stone here was different than the earth he'd grown up around. His old fingers ran along the wall as he walked, as he took the rights and the lefts with cool amusement. He imagined that somewhere below Eorzea, there was a city that looked like this, where Duskwight still dwelled in great number. He imagined this, but he did not believe it. He believed in empty tunnels that stank of rot.
He paused, moved his fingers in a small circle on the wall. Lingering warmth, like a faded sunbeam, met his fingertips. It was so subtle, but present. He hummed, looked down the few tunnels that branched from here, listened. Patting the wall, he walked on.
"If you push too hard on my neck, it may cause an speech impediment!" Qion'a said with a trembling voice, pausing to struggle for air every few words. "Did you learn these things while picking apples?"
"Nah, it's those alligator pears. Have to watch out for the teeth," still joking, even as he kept the weight up. He gave Qion'a's arm an extra twist, just to bring home the point, before repeating, "Gonna take me out now?"
The man groaned. "You make a strong case. If you would kindly release my arm I will guide you to the exit."
He waited a few seconds longer before, very suddenly, easing up and stepping back. The fur on his tail remained puffed out in a display of aggression, and the muscles in his limbs kept their taught readiness, but he nodded his head down the tunnel with a light bob, red hair bouncing. "Alrighty then, off we go."
Qion'a had somehow managed to keep a firm grip on his wand. He raised it and made it glow stronger. "You don't mind the light, don't you?" he asked, pointing one fing at the branch.
Flicking his gaze between the branch and the hooded Keeper, the miqo'te shrugged and then gestured a bit impatiently, "Whatever makes it easier. Let's go now! I have a mighty need to see the sky again."
Qion'a nodded. "I guess I'll lead, then." And then he turned away to walk into the tunnels.
The masked miqo'te watched Qion'a carefully for a couple seconds before following, red tail flicking with each step. "That's the spirit," he encouraged. "I bet you secretly want to get out of here, too, anyway. No one in their right mind would want to live in this place."
His answer was a chuckle, and then silence.
Knowing where Qion'a was leading him was anyone's guess, as the tunnels didn't seem to have any significant difference from each other. The corridor they were looked the same as the previous one, and it would look the same as the next one. There were no sign of fresh air or of the sky. Only Qion'a's light and his long shadow cast behind him.Â
The Keeper finally spoke after they had given a few turns on their way out. "Do you ever wonder if you have a family somewhere?"
There was a lengthy silence, broken only by the soft padding of feet down the tunnels, and then in a breezy tone, "If I do, it's probably healthiest for them to keep thinking I'm dead."
Qion'a turned around. "For them or for you?" he asked, walking backwards.
"What'd I say?" A beat. "Hey, you can't lead me out if you aren't looking where you're going."
"I can!" Qion'a smirked. But he did turn away from the man to look at his own feet after saying so. "I do not think you understand how people work. When they see someone alive who should be dead, their reaction isn't to yell at them because they should be dead." He tilted his head and, for the first time since forever, his ears raised up enough to create two small pointy ends under his hood. "Being alive proves that you never died in the first place. That's what they'd think."
The masked miqo'te shrugged, tail fidgeting uncomfortably. "It's been five years. I'm sure they've moved on." He then added quickly, to steer the conversation, "How much farther? Don't make me pull out my alligator pear moves again."
"That seems pretty selfish." Qion'a muttered, staring at a wall. He placed one hand on it as he continued walking forward. "You could actually just run ahead yourself. First turn to the left and then straight ahead, if you are in such a hurry."
He breathed in deep behind the mask, picking up his pace to move up alongside Qion'a, and tried to catch any smells of the outdoors on the air. As always, scents returned to him muddied and indistinguishable, and he huffed in annoyance before stepping past the other miqo'te. "The opposite of selfish," there was an unusual bite in his voice before he smoothed it back out, swinging his arms to either side of his body, "Sweet sky. If you're lying, I won't stop at just twisting your arm."
"Yes, your...ah...willingness to use violence has been noted." Qion'a said, stopping as the other one moved beyond him. "I guess it was a pleasure meeting you!" he added.
The masked miqo'te turned to face Qion'a and rounded the left corner backwards. One gloved hand lifted to wag disapprovingly at the Keeper. "Ya didn't exactly give me much choice." Then he was out of sight.
"There are always alternative. You simply chose the quickest way." he answered loudly to the walls. Silence followed, and the light soon retreated with him away from the corridor.
![[Image: AntiThalSig.png]](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/179079766/AntiThalSig.png)
"Song dogs barking at the break of dawn, lightning pushes the edges of a thunderstorm; and these streets, quiet as a sleeping army, send their battered dreams to heaven."
Hipparion Tribe (Sagolii)Â - Â Antimony Jhanhi's Wiki
