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Jancis · **05-27-2015, 05:24 PM**

It didn't matter that she was wounded and injuries were recovering. Her bags were light, just awkward, and she had to get to somewhere that day!

Jancis had two large bags, one on her back and one under her arm, including a satchel against her hip. Idle people at the airship dock watched her as she waited for the lift, insisting on others go ahead of her since she would take the entire box up. At least, until one of the guards gave her a hard time to get in and just go.

She waddled across the gleaming streets of Ul'dah, the shuffling swishing sounds making her a spectacle. Regardless, Jancis waved and bid everyone good sun. Laughing, one person got the door for her at the Quicksand, which rewarded him with a slew of 'thank you's.

At the receiving desk for the Hourglass, she stopped and asked to be let into Lady Crofte's Room. The conjurer's face wasn't as recognizable as it use to be, so after nearly a quarter bell of explaining her intent and how she knew the Sworn, someone finally relented and escorted her over.

The paladin would be working. Somewhere back in the unseen halls that mazed through the Jewel or even just buried under paperwork in her desk. It didn't matter where; she was going to be gone for hours. Just enough time.

Pulling the satchel from her side, she pulled out the biggest bundle of thread. It was thin like fishing line, but rough to catch on what it was sewn through. Threading a large curving needle and preparing her knife, she got to work.

Something special for Cici...

Berrod Armstrong · **05-29-2015, 06:16 AM**

((Written while listening to this for inspiration! Have a listen while reading, if you like!))

The power of the fifth rushed through him. Fromhis throat it spread, down to his chest, arms, belly, legs and feet. The power was -- different. It wasn't the raw rush of aether meant to be fired through his fists in any direction he pleased. It was a careful circulation to be honed and properly distributed in the right spots, at the right time. Punching, kicking and other actions of excessive blunt force would yield nothing.

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Berrod Armstrong stood next to the crackling fire near the Sil'Dih ruins in Central Thanalan, surrounded by the blackness of an inky desert night. His hair was loose, and fell wildly down his back -- voided from his shoulders due to the shaved sides. All that covered him was a pair of snug, dark shorts -- likely stolen from one of the twins. The firelight splashed him with flickers of orange that highlighted well against the sweat-damped bronze. A slow pulsing swept from under his feet, slightly disturbing the sand beneath him. His eyes were closed, and his face was scarlet for reasons he did not wish to bring to mind. Priority laid upon utilizing the power of the fifth for aught other than the Voice.

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It was Ginny who had given him the idea, and very recently, at one of their occasional nights out. The answer of how to control a circulating flow had been in front of his face the entire time, in the form of that woman.

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Dancing.

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Among many things that the Highlander wished for nigh no one to find out was his talent with dancing. The act of dancing itself bore no shame, but rather the sort of dance he excelled at. It was quite responsible for the flush at his cheeks -- but it was not the time to be embarrassed. He was alone, after all.

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He put one foot forward and let his toes onto the sand. Immediately he felt the energy rush to them -- but the circulating nature of it would only cause him pain if he tried to discharge it; he knew this from experience. He needed to make it flow back up his leg, and provided the motion for it to do so. The rock of his hips was slight, controlled, and almost seductive. It set a tightening in his large thighs and shifted his balance to the other foot. It worked well enough; he felt the rush up his leg and under his groin. Yet, it could not remain there. His waist rotated with the aid of corded obliques, and sent the flow down his other leg.

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The throat recognized the flow and opted t provide more. It was both a blessing and a curse; more power was always good, but the control he required to direct it attained a steeper requirement. A pulse of aether shot down from his neck -- he had to act fast. A repeat of the roll of his hips sent the flow from his leg up to meet it at his waist, and a lascivious rotation of his waist mixed the two. It was rough at first, but with a few more slow, steady rotations combined them into a new, smooth, and powerful flow. The action in itself stirred thoughts that awakened the sacral, which leaked its own power that threatened to destabilize his efforts. The prospect of all that energy discharging in his waist was not at all appealing. From just below his navel the sacral aether poured, already muddying what he had worked to refine.

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Yet, it was all of him. It was all compatible; a solution, not a suspension. All of it could be mixed. Berrod took control and raised his arms above his head. With careful control of his abdomen he performed several bucking, rolling undulations, slow and focused. His feet kept him well balanced, and his thighs served as excellent suspension for the manouevre. Sure enough, it all blended, molding into something potent. Sweat rivered down his frame, gleaming in the firelight as streaks upon his skin. Through every motion, tautening and stretching of his muscles it glimmered, rendering him as a fluid dancer drenched in liquid, glowing heat.

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The energy migrated very quickly up to his arms-- it was an odd sensation; he felt as if a giant was about to tug him from the ground between a pinched finger and thumb. While it was safe to discharge the aether above him, it would be uselessÂ to do so. He wanted to use it, not waste it. Berrod found that motions of his arms could not make it flow downward -- it was focused on leaving his palms. Creativity was definitely required. His solution was to arc his arms downwards and plant his palms on his thighs. From there he slid them up his hips, his waist, then to his stomach. When the aether left his palms it simply deposited into his own body, nigh smeared throughout his form, well distributed thanks to the path he made along himself, marked with a disturbance of the sweat that now poured from him. The palms slid up his chest and up to his throat -- and the circle completed.

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He did not feel the outward blast of power -- he only saw the flame slowly disturbed, moving like a lazily flowing curtain of bright orange. The waves in the sand crept, and the little pebbles he had sent flying drifted. like leaves in the wind. Water in the stream nearby slopped like thick syrup. It stoked his curiosity, and he took a step toward it.

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When his foot set down on the dirt, a moment of disorientation took him. Something -- was off. The stream was nowhere to be seen and the gorge's walls were quite too close. It was dark, too -- had the fire gone out?

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No...there were still orange flickers about, and he felt the distant heat on his back. Slowly, he turned around. The stream was behind him, and the fire crackled on the other side of it. The distance was about ten yalms. The energy in him pulsed gently as well, nearly spent for the moment -- he would have to call upon more if he needed. This was the power of the fifth â€“outside of the Voice. The throat produced wind and sound...and now he had just moved with the grace and speed of both. Two people instantly came to mind -- both already annoyingly too fast for him in their own right; Galliford and Melkire. What would they be capable of with this power? It was frightening to think about.

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Yet, he was full eager to pass it onto them when the time came.
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Even if it meantâ€¦dancing.

Dogberry · **05-29-2015, 11:22 AM**

She had read about the art in books. Seen it on the arms, chests, and backs of sailors and other unsavory sorts in Limsa Lominsa. She had heard that Domans were particularly adept at the art, and searched Mor Dhona for someone who could teach her. Some were forthcoming, for a price. She gave them gil, food, and medicine. They taught her to make the implements she needed. The ink and the needles. She was even able to borrow an heirloom ink stone. They let her sit in and watch the art performed. They even let her try on animal hides. She had the basics down.

It came from an idle thought, but soon became an obsession. It was the only way to free herself from the mask. It was the only way she could reclaim the face that was taken from her.

Iskierka drew the design in face paint first, and looking in the mirror, she brought the tebori needle to her face. It had already been dipped in black ink. She pressed the needle to her skin and rocked it forward and back in a steady rhythm. She felt the pain immediately, but continued on. The pain was part of the point. Transformation should never be comfortable. After so much had been done, she wiped the blood away with a rag.

They had advised her not to do it herself. The idea of lying idly while the process took place made her uncomfortable. It was too much like the act that led her here in the first place. No, she had to do it. Another had taken her face, but she would make a new one for herself. She would finally get to decide how the world saw her. It took her an entire day to do this. She worked tirelessly, breaking only for her bodily needs, and even then she ignored them for as long as possible.

Finally, she was done. She washed her face in a basin kept beside her, and looked at herself in the mirror. The lines were clearly drawn, maybe a few touch ups needed here and there. Her skin was red and stinging in pain as the network of pinpricks bled and scabbed over. For all its bloody crudeness, her face was hers again. She smiled through the pain.

Her Doman hosts were most gracious. They fed her and tended to her wounds from the tattoo process. Her rent for the week was more gil than they had seen since coming to Eorzea. It was odd to Iskierka, who had never been rich by any means, to suddenly be the richest person in the room. She knew the life of a refugee well, but being there made her feel like an interloper.

When her week was done she took the chocobo porter to Camp Dragonhead, and as the chocobo ran, she felt the cold, bitter wind against her new face for the very first time.

Leggerless · **05-29-2015, 10:17 PM**

She made her way to the Bismarck, checked in with one of the waiters to confirm her reservation, and was promptly escorted to a table topped with elegant linen seated next to a seaside view. Lynx made a small smile as she looked at the tableware prepared ever so neatly. A young, Miqo'te waitress soon made her way to the table, giving a bow and handing out a menu to the woman in red at the table.

"Miss Wolfe, 'tis a pleasure to serve you here again. We've just received a shipment of fine wines from Wineport; shall I get you a glass?"

Lynx turned her head towards the waitress, looking briefing into the Miqo'te's eyes and offering a faint smile. "One of the finer reds. I trust your judgment on which one shall suit my tastes."

The waitress gave a small nod and a cheery expression as Lynx offered her answer. "Of course!" She left Lynx alone for a moment, tending to a second and third table before retreating inside. Within a few minutes, she appeared with a small bottle and a wine glass. She set the wine glass down, uncorked the bottle, and grabbed the glass to tilt it at an angle to seamlessly pour the dark liquid in. She set the glass back down in front of Lynx, with the bottle and cork at the side. The waitress beamed at Lynx once more.

"Cabernet Sauvignon; a fine red like you requested. Shall we move onto the meal, Miss Wolfe?" ((Have no idea if IRL wine types also apply in Eorzea))

"Ah. The meal." Lynx glanced at the island on her right from her table before answering. "Chef Lyngsath is not busy now, is he?"

The Miqo'te hestitated a moment before responding. "He is currently servicing one other patron's meal, but should be ready for the next within half a bell."

Lynx let out a small chuckle as she took hold of her wine glass. "Sauteed coeurl with a black truffle risotto please."

The waitress gave a bow before turning her attention towards the other guests at the Bismarck. Lynx held up the wine glass in her hand, lightly swirling the contents inside before taking a generous sip.

Such a beautiful red. I expect the coeurl and risotto to pair nicely with it.Â

Lynx turned her body slightly towards the right to take in more of the seaside view the Bismarck provided. She continued to gingerly sip and think to herself.

When I first discovered you, my dear Red, I developed quite the interest. I examined your precious values. From these values, however, I found you to be... passionate, yet far too trusting. You are an asset whose loyalty I did not have to buy. First... I think I shall refine your taste. Improve your versatility. What comes next is yet to be decided.

Lynx turned her head as the waitress came back with the requested dishes. The combined smells of both the risotto and coeurl permeated her as she took a small sniff of the plates. There is a certain type of elegance found only in fine cooking, and Lynx is willing to pay well for such a treat.

"Miss Wolfe, here is the sauteed coeurl and black truffle risotto you requested. I trust it is to your liking?"

Lynx picked up a fork and knife, cutting into the coeurl meat to check the inside. It was cooked well, it seemed, much to her delight. "Very much so." She says, giving a nod towards the waitress. She pulls out a large amount of gil from her satchel, setting it on the table for the waitress to take.

"Excellent! Please let me know if you need anything else." The waitress said gleefully, before giving a small bow and taking the gil for the meal. She retreated back into the building for a moment, but was soon back out and servicing the other guests. Lynx cut up the meal into small parts, taking in the meal bite after savory bite. She alternated every few bites with a sip of her wine, careful not to break from the routine she established. Slowly but surely, the meal and the wine bottle whittled down to where only a tinge of wine remained within the bottle and the glass. At the conclusion of her meal, she carefully set the tableware into piles for the waitress to carry away, so that she may waste less time at her table. She lingered a little longer in her chair to take in the view once more before setting off from the Bismarck. A few steps outside from the Bismarck, she put her hand up to her ear to speak into a pearl.

"The packages have made their way into the Moraby Drydocks? Sooner than I expected. Take them through Oschon's Embrace; you should have no trouble getting past the Yellowjackets there." She pauses to listen to the other side speak. "It isn't illegalÂ what you're carrying around; it's just valuable. Upon successful delivery, you'll earn three months wage as a bonus."

With a click of her pearl, she turned off her end and made her way towards the ferry in the city.

I think I shall do as I please now.

Star Lin · **06-02-2015, 08:28 AM**

As soon as he walk into the Quicksand to get dinner, Momodi caught his attention.Â When she mention that Chachan might need help, he didn't wait for the details, only asking where the group might be at that moment.Â When she mention that they were probably at Toll, he didn't wait for the rest, catching aether in the air, and allowing himself to be pull along to the aetherite at Toll.Â There he waited on the path into town until he saw Sir Cyneler leading the group from Castrum.Â For one brief moment, seeing the green hair Lalafell being carried, he thought Chachan hand been hurt, but then he saw the rabbit ear helmet and he almost drop to his knees in relief.

Yet, sitting at the strange table, soup going cold, John's mind play back what took place in Jancis room.Â Lady Ann, finally falling to sleep and then dealing with the injuries that Chachan had.Â Cha had his brother back but not completely.Â The stones that had been on Gogon, now dead, drain of whatever had made them Soulstones.Â He stir the soup once more, barely listening to the others talking.Â The memories had to have went somewhere.Â Could they now be resting in Gogon's own head?Â It would explain why he seem to be in a coma, lost in those memories.Â Could his curse be used to help, even just a little?Â Risk losing Cha's friendship for tainting his brother.

Jancis question startle him out of his thoughts.Â He told her that he wanted to check on Lady Ann, make sure she was comfortable.Â He mutter an apology to Cha, slipping out the door and missing the look of confusion on Chachan's face.Â He enter Jancis' room, moving first to Ann.Â She was sound asleep, which was good.Â One less person that may hate him once this was over with.Â He blush as he remember what she had said earlier.Â 'Girlfriends?Â They would run away screaming, if they knew about this curse.'Â He shook the thought from his head, he knew what his life would be like.Â He moved over to the bed where Gogon 'slept'.

He look so much like Cha.Â His ears drops a little, knowing that after this, he wouldn't be allow to call Sir Chachanji by that name.Â Taking a breath, he reach down, removing his glove for only the second time in eleven years.Â Even as he sat the glove at the head of the bed, he felt Howl's absents more keenly than ever before.Â 'I wish you were here now, Howl.Â Or even Warren, to keep watch on me and break contact if I stay in the 'Dreaming' for too long,' he thought.Â There was no time to call Warren though.Â He had to do this now before the others in Sir Chachanji's room began to worry.

'I know that you and your brother will hate me after this, Sir Gogonji,' he thinks, even as he reach a trembling hand out to the Lalafell's face.Â 'But if this means that he gets his brother back, then I'll happily accept it, knowing that he at least will have you back completely with him.'Â His hand came to rest on Gogon's eyes, John's own glazing over, and his body slumping, even as 'he' fell into the chaos of Gogon's mind.

Ha'uruh Nunh · **06-02-2015, 10:53 AM**

A tool is an item built to serve a specific purpose or function.

Annunu only rarely left the medbay in what Chachanji had called "Coralhaus" - she supposed "Coral" or Coral-something was the name of his company, but such details had been filed away as momentarily irrelevant when she'd first arrived in this place - since Gogonji had been brought in and laid on the bed.Â She left briefly once to bathe and change, since her clothes were hanging off of her in tatters; she returned within a bell, haunting Gogonji's bedside, saying little in the presence of others, making herself quietly useful by cleaning sheets and utensils, turning him as necessary, checking vitals, and generally functioning as a healer's extra pair of hands.Â She only had to be told to do something once; she only made mistakes once; she was quiet, polite, and effective, but rarely moved more than a yalm or so away from the prone Gogonji.

You are just a tool, he'd told her, and don't you forget it.

She napped fitfully on the bench by the bed when she had to have sleep, but in general she did not sleep.Â Bells spent alone with the patient, she brewed tea constantly, in anticipation of a waking that did not happen.Â She knew the strength Gogonji liked it; it would be hot and fresh for him when he awoke, whenever that happened.Â That which was left to cool, she drank herself.Â She subsided on little else, for she only ate that which was brought to her and never requested else or additional.Â She watched Gogonji.

"I understand."

When no one else was in the room, she spoke to him.Â Perhaps it was because she thought that the sound of her voice would help him somehow, or perhaps it was for herself.Â She told him every story she'd ever heard from Chuta, even the ones she knew would elicit rolled eyes and a "hmpf!" were he awake.Â She told him about herself, her past, her training, her skills, her likes and dislikes.Â She described to him the room, Chachanji, and everyone she had met in the Coralhaus in minute detail, with the exacting eye of one trained to observe subtleties.Â She even read to him from the medical dictionary shoved in the back of the room, though she stopped after a while as if she couldn't continue.Â She shared what little she knew of his history, what he'd shared and what others had let slip, reminding him constantly of who he was, where he was, and the fateful events that had brought him here.Â She rarely touched him, but often smoothed his blankets, wiped his forehead, touched a damp cloth to his lips to keep them from drying.Â When her voice gave out, she drank tea.

She would not, could not forget it.

Gharen · **06-04-2015, 07:14 AM**

The sunâ€™s light had begun to fade as the day passed into dusk, a cool breeze accompanying the growing shade of the forest canopy as the first stars started appearing in the sky. Gharen Wolfsong wearily looked skyward and gauged his heading, hefting his satchel slightly on his shoulder and adjusting the sword that hung at his side. He had been following game trails in the lesser-known areas of the shroud for the last day and a half, looking for signs of the huntress Khit Jakkya. Despite his dogged persistence, he hadnâ€™t held much hope of actually finding his quarry, much less her clan.
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Heâ€™d taken a roundabout path to Gridania, specifically for the calming effect the forest usually had upon his mind. Normally in this place where one could seemingly become lost forever, swallowed whole by the forest itself, he felt most at homeâ€”at Â peace.
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He turned from the game trail and began walking west, his tired mind wandering to thoughts of his sister, their fight, and his failures to impede Nero and the destruction left in his wake. They had taken their toll upon him. Sleep had become an elusive thing, and when he was able to, it was plagued with nightmares, the false memories given to him by Raelisanne Banurein seemed stronger as a result of his sleeplessness, replaying in his mind and further stripping him of his ability to rest, not unlike what she had inflicted upon him a cycle ago now.
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Since returning to the shroud, he could not shake the feeling that he was being followed, yet despite all of his efforts, he had seen no signs to verify his suspicions. He approached the river that acted as a natural barrier to separate the Sylphlands from the rest of the Shroud, the roar of the river rapids below nearly drowning out the creaking of the bridgeâ€™s assembly. Each step seemed to add a weight upon him. When he was at the bridgeâ€™s mid-point, he stopped, gripping one of the ropes that assisted in suspending the bridge as he looked at the segmented footing beneath him, tiredly rubbing at weighty eyelids.
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That feeling of encumbrance spread to the rest of him, and he was overcome by a sudden feeling of disembodiment. Looking up toward his destination, he spied a faceless figure in the shade standing at the end of the bridge. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and, out of a fugitiveâ€™s habit, he looked over his shoulder at the other end of the bridge, where another shadowed figure now blocked his retreat. Knowing instantly his peril, an equally knowing but leaden hand drew his sword, turning his attention back to the first-spotted figure.
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Sheer surprise and martial force struck him in tandem, the first figure having bridged the several yalm gap in mere seconds; it grabbed his sword arm in a vise grip and leaned in, easily beginning to twist Gharenâ€™s arm and blade toward himself. Unable to move his feet, Gharen struggled vainly, attempting to deprive his blade of the taste of his own flesh. The shadow proved too much, however, and the blade began to pierce his flesh. Gritting his teeth and stalling his breath, he became aware of the heady scent of iron as his tunic became matted with spreading crimson, droplets of the same splattering upon the bridgeâ€™s uneven planks.
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Waves of pain spread through him, his muscles convulsing, brow gleaming with sweat as he strained to counter this sudden assault. It was not until he felt the blade emerge from his back that his held breath broke with a gasp, gravity immediately claiming victory as he collapsed to his knees. The assailantâ€™s grip withdrew in that moment, its head cocking aside as it simply watched him, no doubt satisfied with the outcome. Gharen wavered upon the bridge for what felt like an eternity as his lifeblood spilled upon the bridge. He looked up past the mass of shadows into the evening sky, trying to utter final words, as if the wind might carry his apology to her, but no words came forth. Instead, he slumped to the side, and gravity completed what it had started, carrying him hastily, headfirst into the rapids below.

Cliodhna Eoghan · **06-07-2015, 06:58 AM**

Cliodhna curled on her side, pulling the bedding into a tighter cocoon around her. Her hair loose and spilling partly over her face, as she pulled the blanket over her head. She had blacked out again, that's twice in one week. Nuzzling the pillow, she sighed into it gently.

Kurt had found her this time and had thankfully put up less of a fuss than the others had. Though having it happen so soon after the last fainting spell worried Cliodhna. He had promised to work on her unfinished projects but if it was getting this bad...Squeezing her eyes shut, she blocked out the rest of that thought.

It was terrifying to imagine her being unable to handle her precious machines or use her abilities. Even if it was a farfetched fear, Cliodhna was afraid of it. Already she couldn't remember what it felt like to use her chakra without some varying degree of pain. Same for when she needed to hide her appearance.

There was also the matter of Erik knowing. He sensed something was off and had been for awhile now. Though she had requested he let the matter drop and that it was under control; Erik was finally running out of patience with her. Had they not been (thankfully) interrupted the other evening, he would have pressed her about it.

Heaving another soft sigh, Cliodhna brushed the hair from her face. She was suppose to be napping, but was too concerned on Kurt's progress in the hanger. That new suit needed to be finished quickly and though she had faith in hi abilities, he would be unable to read her notes given the simple fact they weren't in the common script. Rolling out of bed, she threw her clothes back on and headed towards the hanger; pulling her hair up as she went.

Steel Wolf · **06-08-2015, 08:44 AM**

It was a test of endurance and stamina that she had never known before.

Steel gritted her teeth, a bead of sweat running down her brow as her face wrinkled in a combination of pain and determination. She had been challenged, so of course had to accept. However, she was ill-prepared for the feat that was placed before her, and now she was both regretting the decision and hell-bent not to falter.

It was the heat that was the worst part. Anything referred to as "Ifrit's Kiss" would involve fire of some measure, but it was beyond anything that Steel had ever experienced before. And all she could see through tear-stained eyes was the Miqo'te standing before her, arms folded across his narrow but toned and taut chest, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

And those eyes...they never seemed to move. As if they were issuing the will to fail.

Steel slammed her fist onto the table and picked up another small wing. The food item was innocuous enough, save for the bright red color that coated the flesh. Several cleaned bones lay spread about the bowl before her. It was the last one....just three, maybe four more bites, and victory would be hers, and the Miqo'te who called himself Snarl would be defeated.

Steel wrenched her eyes shut as she took several hurried bites, pulling the chicken meat from the bones. Again, her senses were assailed by a torrent of firey spices. It tasted the same every time--initially delightful, perfectly seasoned and cooked...but then the wing would bite back, throwing torrents of comet-level heat into her mouth and down her throat.

She doubled over and coughed, her fist banging the table another few times as if the food would relent with her tapping out. It didn't. Each wing had compounded the agony, but victory was so close. So tantalizingly close....

She looked up at the small bone between her fingers pleadingly, looking at the final bite of poultry meat hanging off of a tendon. A rivulet of the red sauce ran down the meat, dripping into the bowl. She growled and took the last bite, chewing and swallowing as fast as her muscles would allow.

"You've still got sauce on your fingers."

Steel glared angrily at the tanned, shirtless Miqo'te, then at her fingers. The sauce, indeed, coated her left hand tauntingly. She fiercely jammed each finger into her mouth, whimpering around the firey lightning that coated her tongue as she sucked each digit clean.

Snarl grinned broadly, his tail swishing in delight at the victor. He reached to his hip and placed a sizeable bag of gil. Two lithe female Miqo'te, wearing things that barely qualified for clothing, framed the Roegadyn, one presenting a tall glass of milk. The crowd before her erupted in raucous cheering as the other female raised Steel's hand into the air victoriously.

She was too busy chugging the milk to acknowledge, but success--and the drink--tasted sweet.

McBeefâ„¢ · **06-08-2015, 01:15 PM**

You're a big girl Evangeline, you can do this.

The Elezen bites her lip as she looks down, a sick feeling rising unbidden from her stomach as she does so.

You asked for this, remember? This is what you wanted.

It had finally hit her. All at once, as she looked down at the embroidered unit insignia and packet of orders on the bed. She was chained. Her vision swims and she breathes heavily for a moment, not sure if she wants to vomit or cry.

You asked for this! The voice in her head keeps assisting You left the Rose!

She braces herself against the bed and waits, her breath slowing and vision clearing as the panic subsides. She was chained, yes, but not domesticated. Releasing a breath in a long shuddering exhale, she forces herself to pick up one of the patches, running her fingers over the stitching.

"Well... as dogs of the state go, they at least don't seem so bad." Taking the patch she pins it to the shoulder of her robe. Later on she'll have to speak to that tailor about getting it sewn on. Standing up she heads out of the cramped barracks room.

"Time to see what sort of breakfast a dog eats."

Jancis · **06-10-2015, 04:51 PM**

Around Eorzea, folks are having their own wanderings. Village hills and mountains have small gatherings of yew and footprints, the ground covered in water to make footprints noticeable through the mud.

Friends and those relating to Oschon send little keepsake boxes and trinkets made of yew to celebrate the Wanderer's moon.

[Image: Rockey_Box_5to9.JPG]

Camp Bronze Lake is a bustle! Springs have attendants in abundance, helpful staff around to offer another towel or drink. Bottles of Warmwine are prepared in advance for the many pilgrims expected at the healing waters.

With the Wanderer's Palace and ruins against the sky, there has never been a more restful pilgrimage.

The bell tolls soon for Oschon.

DoomsdayClock · **06-10-2015, 05:30 PM**

Waking up somewhere unfamiliar was an unsettling feeling. When Lhoâ€™s eyes shot open he was instantly aware he was not upon his canopy bed, nor in his room at Morbolvineâ€™s manor. Pink eyes darted about the room, adjusting to the dark as he took in the outlines of the small guest bed, the white sheets, and the privacy wall and partition that kept this little nook separate from the rest of the room. His breathe caught in his chest as his head turned to take in every detail, as memories rushed back through his mind of the previous two days. His hands came to rest on his knees as he pushed himself to a seated position, trembling as he wondered if maybe this could have been some bad dream. Vision adjusted to the darkness, details became more clear with a layer of acceptanceâ€¦and Lhoâ€™a confirmed that indeed, it had all happened just as he recalled.

â€œAnkouâ€¦what will we do? We got so used to being amongst themâ€¦â€ He spoke softly, and was greeted with another wave of dread as he received no reply.

The inner voice that had been with him since childhood was gone. He was completely and utterly alone.

â€œEverything Iâ€™ve doneâ€¦all for that woman. And here I amâ€¦.what have I to show for it? â€œHe sighed, looking down at his ash colored palms as he shook his head. â€œ Nothing. â€œ

His legs felt like lead, prying himself from the bed to rise up and drape the sheet about his shoulders like a makeshift cloak. The Keeperâ€™s features peeking out as he slid open the door to wander out into the main portion of the room. In the corner he spied the heavy burlap bags, the faint hint of leaves and shoots emerging. His plants, his children. Dug up from the earth outside of Bentbranch and carried along on his journey, it was only fitting they should follow him here as well. Other than that he feared touching anything, it was not his roomâ€¦..the words lingered in his mind â€œ Itâ€™s not my room.â€ With little concern of acknowledgement for permission, he then moved to the entrance to were Evangeline slept, the elezen whoâ€™d stepped into his corner when sharp arrows, and sharper words had been drawn upon him. Heâ€™d barely known her, and yet since that point sheâ€™d afforded him far more kindness than he deserved, and he knew it. Pink eyes honed in on her sleeping form a moment longer, as a finger raised to tap against his chin. Why? Sheâ€™d been ready to bring weaponry, to fight for his causeâ€¦a cause he was rapidly realizing he may have been wrong in.

â€œI was wrong..â€ He repeated, replaying the events in his head. Heâ€™d tried to take a life. Heâ€™d tried to make put an exclamation mark on what he saw as the degradation of his Matron by making an example of what he saw as a constant point of stress in his clan. But when action became reality, and he was visited with the image of the red haired Seeker bleeding out, heâ€™d hardly even felt it as real. It took days, and a trial to make him even reflect on the severity of such an action. It took consideration of his own near death, for him to realize that Jâ€™sahr had likely felt the exact same pain, and fear as he committed his most foul deed.

â€œIâ€™m hardly better than that rabid mongrel Roninâ€¦.I may speak well, think more highly of myself, but really we are not so different at all.â€ He added softly, slipping out of the room and moving through the main area of Evangelineâ€™s private chambers. There he traced fingers over the spines of the myriad of books that lined the shelves, stacked on the desks and populated just about every field of vision. This was reality now.....and this would have to do.

Leggerless · **06-10-2015, 07:31 PM**

"Are you in need of assistance, Miss?"

Lynx jerked her head at the voice she heard. She tried frowning, yet the goggles on her face did not show much. â€œâ€¦Thatâ€™s a rhetorical question, yes?â€ With her arms still free, she pushed up on the head of the beast pinning her to the ground. The head rises a few ilms, but not anywhere near enough space to maneuver out. She glanced up at the woman once more; her silent gaze as her next response to the question.

The paladin look at Lynx covered in snow and goggles over her eyes. Letting out an exhale in a puff of steam, she dug her feet into the ground and placed her shoulder against that of the dead Aevis' neck and trunk. She nodded to the woman. "On three. One. Two. Three!" She heaved and pushed up and away the fallen lizard's body to allow her room to slide out.

Lynx rolled out away from her, the assistance gave her enough room to make it out before she would drop the beast down. She pulled herself up off of the ground and walked towards the dead beast, pulling out both of the blades stuck in its oversized head. She glanced down at the blades once to verify their condition before sheathing them away. The now free Midlander steps away from the Aevis then looks towards the woman once more with a small smile on her face. â€œElise Wolfe is what you may call me.â€

The paladin nodded to her once in greeting, her voice just loud enough to carry over the winds of Coerthas. "Well Miss Wolfe, Coerthas is not a place that is friendly to solitary travelers." She was already eyeing the wounds upon the fallen beasts: the three dead Aevis lying in the snow. A small arch of the brow her only indication of any impression made. "...Although I suspect you are used to fending for yourself." The paladin about turns, but there was a pause and an exhale, as if she gave something a second thought. She glanced over her shoulder at Lynx. "Where were you headed? Will you be alright?"

Lynx glances up at the darkening sky before returning to face the paladin. â€œWhere I was headed isâ€”â€œ She stops mid-sentence to cough once before continuing. â€œAhem. Whitebrim.â€ The woman tilts her head to the right to examine the paladinâ€™s figure once more for a few moments. Her tone becomes more serious as she speaks. â€œYour accent is not of this land, andâ€¦ that hair...â€ She raises her left hand to point at the paladin while her right hand begins to dig inside of her coat. A small grin forms on her face as she speaks. â€œRed.â€

The paladin does not seem to take any note to the word as she tucks a forelock away against the winds. She glances down the road, eyes squinted against the snowfall that was getting heavier. "You best hurry then, the weather seems to be taking a turn for the worse. You do not want to be caught out here in a blizzard." She does not meet Lynx's eyes for long even when they exchange words, it is apparent that the paladin does not want to linger long and her words are somewhat hurried and distant. "But you should be able to make it to Whitebrim before nightfall." She glances up at the sky, a frown lingering upon her brows. She too could see that the sky was darkening.

â€œBefore nightfall? Good, I gauged the travel distance correctly. Ah, right!â€ She walks towards the paladin, pulling out a small book with her right hand that was in the coat. Lynx holds the object out for her to grasp it, looking her square in the eyes. â€œThereâ€™s a person I meant to deliver this to back in Camp Dragonhead. Yet, they could... not accept it. I offer this now to you; the woman who helped me.â€ Lynx raised the book a few ilms closer to the paladin's face.

She blinked, surprise clear on her face as the offering was made. Her grey eyes looked to the book for a moment, regarding it, before her own hand rose to accept the gift. "I need no recompense, Miss. You had already dispatched the beasts before I even saw you." The paladin turned the book over in her hand as if to give it a cursory glance. "Perhaps I can deliver it to another, if you leave me a name. I will be passing through Dragonhead soon, I imagine." Her tone remained neutral and her face without warmth. Her words were polite but her voice was hoarse from the conditions. She gave another glance over her shoulder to where she had come from, as if scanning the area for the rest of her company.

Lynx smiles at her, yet her tone remains flat. "No need. I have--" she stops midway to put a hand up to her ear, listening into a pearl. She bows her head down, with a scowl across her face. "Hmph. C is willing to fund it? I'll adjust my schedule then to meet him." She sets her hand down at her side and looks up at the sky before facing the paladin. "Time we part, R--" She stops herself mid-sentence, feigning a smile, and grants the woman a quick bow. Turning her body around, she wanders towards Whitebrim Front. A final wave of her hand is given before returning her arms underneath her cloak.

Ha'uruh Nunh · **06-12-2015, 11:51 AM**

Annunu studied the blank parchment in front of her, quill in hand, sorting through her thoughts with a precision that had eluded her in the time since the failed raid on Castrum Centri, since Master Gogonji was laid low by the soul fragments that still struggled within him for supremacy.

In some ways, much had happened since then - he was now slowly recovering, having mastered two of the fragments and brought them under his control, and he was waking up more frequently, speaking more easily.Â But in other ways, she had ignored the passage of time outside of the medbay in Coralhaus and had ignored what must be percolating outside of those walls.Â Their discovered surveillance the one time they had exited the house was just one indication that ignoring the outside world was not an option.Â And Master Gogonji's gentle chiding at her lack of a plan for dealing with the inevitable repercussions of her own impending arrest weighed heavily on her mind.

She had never considered herself to be a martyr, and yet as he had pointed out, that was her tactic, her plan for dealing with threats that came his way.Â Instead of defeating them, she absorbed them - hurling herself bodily in front of problems and sacrificing bits and pieces of herself along the way.Â Her carefully crafted persona of the "Cherry Blossom Socialite," armor that had served her well for the years since her father's death, her wealth, her reputation, her position in society, her relationship with her fiance, her home, and then, finally, even her own life, her body, her well-being.Â Had Master Gogonji come to dominate her thoughts so utterly that she would continue to whittle away her very self to serve him?

And it wasn't even as if he'd demanded such sacrifice - he'd never asked her for it.Â He rarely asked her for anything, in fact.Â And the other day, he had urged her to reclaim some of that which she'd lost.

Still, the knotty conundrum remained of why she had allowed things to devolve to this extent.Â She held the unsullied quill under her nose, frowning slightly in concentration, the long feather making it seem as if she had a very unusual mustache.Â The only answer she could think of was that, even before the raid on the Castrum, she had permitted her service to Master Gogonji to take each piece of her in turn, ignoring the consequences just as she was now ignoring the way time continued to move outside of this house.Â He loomed so large in her mind and in her life at present that she had neglected every other facet of her life - even her own sleep and food at one point.Â And given his stable of enemies and her own, to ignore was to be vanquished.

So now what?Â Move her eyes from him to reclaim her life?Â So he had asked her to do, but she felt herself strangely hesitant, reluctant.Â Perhaps it was because, other than her estrangement from Chuta, none of the rest felt very important or worth reclaiming.Â Her wealth, partially inherited and grown by her own efforts, felt like little more than token chips to count how many jobs she'd taken, how red her hands ran.Â It kept score and maintained the cover persona of the rich, airheaded socialite.Â And yet... was it ceding too much of her own agency to neglect herself to the point where she would lose absolutely everything?Â Was she even a person anymore if she did so?Â Was this some sort of strange ritual of self-loathing, self-punishment, to allow herself to be unpersoned by her own actions?

Impatiently, she shoved those thoughts away.Â Sometimes it felt as if Master Gogonji had made a tangled skein of her inner workings, bringing long-buried thoughts and feelings to the fore.Â But in the end, she knew she had only herself to blame if she faltered.Â It wasn't his fault.Â But if she succeeded... Perhaps Chachanji and his attitude that a support system made you stronger had some merit.Â Even Master Gogonji had acknowledged that they needed others.

She dipped the quill in the inkpot.Â She had maintained armor, cover, and wealth before she had met Chuta or Master Gogonji.Â Even if it was simply in obedience to his order to retake what was hers, this was a good first step.Â She felt her lips tug into a small smile.Â And the first step was to make herself worthless for anyone to marry.Â Who in Ul'dah wanted a broke bride, after all?

She began to write the authenticating words to her customary money launderer, and felt some of the weight lift off of her mind.Â It turned out that funding a failed mercenary organization was quite the expensive endeavor for an airheaded heiress.

Kage · **06-13-2015, 05:04 PM**

Kage stared at Arturius with apprehension. This was now the last of the litter. Heh... litter. The lalafell had had no idea that the fat cat was actually FEMALE. He'd never picked her up or looked at her while she did her business. He'd never known that the calico fur pattern was a female genetic trait. HOW WAS HE TO KNOW?? Right when she needed to birth some kittens.

That's when. After nursing them for a few weeks away from the clan home Kage had decided it was time to let the kittens leave their mom. Gosh could he keep calling her Arturius? She didn't seem to mind...

Carefully keeping the last kitten warm and bundled, he'd put some gifts in the care basket and handed it to the Deputy Delivery Postmoogle alongside the letter that he'd sent to his dear friends who were given a kitten.

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