Delial did not sleep that night. She left the Cove, left Drumstick with his basket of fish and the others without so much as a word. She ignored the house she once based herself out of and, troubled, walked the dusty roads. Her knees had taken to aching again but she ignored them as well; the cold of Coerthas did not help, nor did the news learned there.
Webs were nothing new to her: an entity nudging another who nudges another, a cascade of cause and effect that, if one was clever, brought about an end desired. The ends were set in stone as far as she was concerned: Banurein wanted Gharen, needed Roen, and controlled at least a handful of agents in our around Ul'dah itself. Yet there was more: she had seen herself the pull she had with at least noble family in Ul'dah's upper eschelon, and Deilal did not doubt that there were others yet. Banurein was a woman who thrived on knowing things and knowing people; it also happened she was good at knowing things about people.
It was a point to which Delial was outclassed. In Ala Mhigo, mayhap, things may have been different; Ul'dah was a different beast entirely, one that thrived on gil she did not have and influence she could not gain. In Ala Mhigo, she had her name. In Ala Mhigo, she had her reputation.
And what is that now, love? What use is that to you now?
When she looked up (having failed to even realize that she had been staring at the paths) she found herself standing before the Pissed Peiste. The hour was late but she could still make out the glimmer of lamp-light pooling beneath the door. Something twisted in her gut: he would not be there, her sworn knight. If all that Osric and Saravena and even Askier, too, by way of his journal were true then something had gone very, very wrong. It was bad enough that Roen Deneith was being held captive, but that it would be two men she had thought to trust...
Delial growled and spat and shook her head as if to shake loose the suspicion that had been chilling the pit of her stomach. Something had gone wrong and there were more things than she cared to acknowledge pointing at Itarlilht. Were it any one else being taken hostage, she would not have cared; were it Askier himself held captive, she may have even helped. Roen Deneith was different. She was special, and her brother (traitorous as he may be) was still owed a debt. Why he would think to interfere was one piece of the puzzle she could not work out and that in itself filled her with dread.
It took her several moments before she peeled herself away from the door, turning upon a heel to sulk back the way she had come. The skipper said they had gone across the sea, stolen a boat. Limsa Lominsa: it was where she had first met the white-haired woman, the very same woman whom Itarliht promised to stand against together. "I'll be wherever ya want me," he said, the memory of it clear even if that night was fogged by sweetened wine. "'Specially by yer side."
It was faith that she held on to, bolstered as best as she can; faith that the signs left for them to follow were wrong somehow, that there was something they had overlooked. Delial tried to turn her thoughts elsewhere so that she did not have to wonder of blood splattered snow and singed wood. "The things he did to Roen," Askier had written, and she tried her hardest not to think on that either.Â
"That Roe is a monster."
Webs were nothing new to her: an entity nudging another who nudges another, a cascade of cause and effect that, if one was clever, brought about an end desired. The ends were set in stone as far as she was concerned: Banurein wanted Gharen, needed Roen, and controlled at least a handful of agents in our around Ul'dah itself. Yet there was more: she had seen herself the pull she had with at least noble family in Ul'dah's upper eschelon, and Deilal did not doubt that there were others yet. Banurein was a woman who thrived on knowing things and knowing people; it also happened she was good at knowing things about people.
It was a point to which Delial was outclassed. In Ala Mhigo, mayhap, things may have been different; Ul'dah was a different beast entirely, one that thrived on gil she did not have and influence she could not gain. In Ala Mhigo, she had her name. In Ala Mhigo, she had her reputation.
And what is that now, love? What use is that to you now?
When she looked up (having failed to even realize that she had been staring at the paths) she found herself standing before the Pissed Peiste. The hour was late but she could still make out the glimmer of lamp-light pooling beneath the door. Something twisted in her gut: he would not be there, her sworn knight. If all that Osric and Saravena and even Askier, too, by way of his journal were true then something had gone very, very wrong. It was bad enough that Roen Deneith was being held captive, but that it would be two men she had thought to trust...
Delial growled and spat and shook her head as if to shake loose the suspicion that had been chilling the pit of her stomach. Something had gone wrong and there were more things than she cared to acknowledge pointing at Itarlilht. Were it any one else being taken hostage, she would not have cared; were it Askier himself held captive, she may have even helped. Roen Deneith was different. She was special, and her brother (traitorous as he may be) was still owed a debt. Why he would think to interfere was one piece of the puzzle she could not work out and that in itself filled her with dread.
It took her several moments before she peeled herself away from the door, turning upon a heel to sulk back the way she had come. The skipper said they had gone across the sea, stolen a boat. Limsa Lominsa: it was where she had first met the white-haired woman, the very same woman whom Itarliht promised to stand against together. "I'll be wherever ya want me," he said, the memory of it clear even if that night was fogged by sweetened wine. "'Specially by yer side."
It was faith that she held on to, bolstered as best as she can; faith that the signs left for them to follow were wrong somehow, that there was something they had overlooked. Delial tried to turn her thoughts elsewhere so that she did not have to wonder of blood splattered snow and singed wood. "The things he did to Roen," Askier had written, and she tried her hardest not to think on that either.Â
"That Roe is a monster."
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