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Gallien Vyese · **03-16-2016, 05:01 PM**

Returning from his studies and the unexpected run in with the Inquisition out within the Amdapor ruins, Gallien with Syros by his side as always could not get the nagging situation from within his head.... The whole situation bugged him and looking quietly to the sleeping fairy"...those books"

Arriving back to Camp Bronze Lake, where he as called home for the past moon. He greeted the Inn keep as he moved hastily to his room, setting his things down he scrambled around the mess of a desk he has with all his notes from Wanderer's Palace, and his first run in with the Inquisition. Finally finding a quill pen and a piece of parchment he sat down and began to write.....

Dear Sir Halgren,

Hello, I do hope this letter finds you well, I imagine the injuries you sustained are healing rather well by now.

More to the point of the letter, I have run into the Inquisition once more within the ruins of Amdapor City, they were after Xandu once again, and I happened to be doing some research in the area. Thanks to this last incursion I have taken an interest in this entire situation, and more relevant the knowledge being tossed around within it.

I ask of you, to pass on word to Helene, that I wish to speak with her as soon as possible, mail will be good enough as I know she and the rest of the Inquisitors are surely busy. I will be at Camp Bronze Lake, for the foreseeable suns.

Thank you, for your time and assistance

Gallien Vyese

After Finishing the letter he quickly sealed it and sent it out, hoping that it will reach Orrin in due time. Under his breath as he walked back to his room "...Those books, what knowledge they hold, and Xandu herself...Sharlayan Astrology I think they called it" looking up to Syros now floating next to him. "I think things will be getting more interesting very soon my friend"

Nihka · **03-24-2016, 11:19 PM**

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Nihka's MusingsIt was a few days after the ... incident. The smell of smoke was finally washed out of her hair, and hopefully the men and women living in that chamber had calmed down. On an airship to Ishgard, Nihka clutched a small box close to her chest and watched the gloomy clouds part around the holy city. Ishgard itself was massive, and majestic. Even its airship docks held an air of the age and pride that oozed from every corner of its stone construction.

Nihka was uncertain how old the docks actually were. In fact, despite their apparent age, she assumed a great deal of this grand city had been rebuilt several times over, over the centuries of war. Perhaps the large platform had originally been built for black chocobos, and only been repurposed for airships recently. All told, it didnâ€™t matter, and her musings drifted away as the ship docked and she set foot on solid ground.

Wind whipped at the scarf she had tied over her hair, frigid enough that she had to keep her ears covered. Muffling the sound of everything around her was uncomfortable, but losing her ears to frostbite would be more uncomfortable. The docks were in the upper levels of the city, the Pillars as sheâ€™d heard it called, but not quite as high as the high houses. Those structures towered up above her, looking down both figuratively and literally.

Up here, ladies in fine clothes walked and chattered with one another and men strode with purpose. What that purpose was, Nihka wasnâ€™t sure. She had her own. The frills on their clothes, both the men and the women, Nihka mused were probably for trapping heat. In weather like this, heavy skirts and bustles and multi layered jackets were not merely fashionable, but a necessity to survival.

Nihka wasnâ€™t fond of how much she had to bundle up when she visited. She almost, almost missed the fire crystal... but that was a long time ago, in a story that has long since ended. Such magical protection wasnâ€™t feasible for the whole of a population.

Around the path, to her right, she walked by the Jeweled Crozier. The marketplace, up with the nobles. She had heard that some of the merchants would refuse to even sell to those on the lower levels. When they did, sometimes they might charge more. Charging more to those who had less money. It made no sense to her.

Nihka did her best to avoid notice as she walked through the city. She wasnâ€™t a native, miqoâ€™te were rare here, but she also didnâ€™t look like a rich adventurer. People might take her for some poor cat venturing up too high in the city, or a poor adventurer (which was technically the truth and far preferable). Down in the Foundation she was marginally more comfortable. There were more adventurers about and more working class citizens of the Holy See; it was easier to blend in.

The smell of the Skysteel Manufactory touched her nostrils, and made her smile a little. Knowledge, innovation, progress. That it was science in the name of war soured her opinion slightly. By the time she got to the Brume her mood was dark. By the time she got to the Brume, her thoughts had turned to Eva.

What was she going to do about Eva?

The woman had threatened an old man with a bomb, and could have killed them all when she tried to throw a grenade under a door. Future work would need to be done as far, far away from the known heretic and violent anarchist as possible, despite the fact that the womanâ€™s stated goal was certainly beneficial to all.

Eva suspected that someone was attempting to summon a primal in the image of a dead dragon. Since that particularly dramatic reveal, Nihka had done some research and learned something frightening.

It was feasible.

What literature she could find referred to them as eikons, rather than primals, and was spotty at best. However, rumors abounded of a group of moogles summoning their own primal in the Shroud which defied all logic since there was no pre-existing precedent for it. With a little work, Nihka was able to compile a list of rumored primals that the Warrior of Light was said to have fought. A long dead saint, a dark rider, a chittering insect, among others.

While many were the gods of various beast tribes, those that werenâ€™t stood out to her. They were ideals, concepts, old icons from long ago. They represented hope for their people, and somehow had manifested just like the well-known primals that plagued Eorzea. They drew form from the hopes and dreams of those who worshiped them. They were very similar to a ragged old statue in a broken room in the Brume of a long dead dragon.

In her research, Nihka decided on some terminology of her own. An eikon was a summoned god, a being of aether that drew from the emotions and adulation of a people. A primal was a being, an eikon, that represented a primal force of nature: fire, earth, air, water. She wanted to get her hands on the book that Eva referenced, it could confirm or refute her theories, but until then she had to work with what she knew.

Lost in her own thoughts, she went down the stairs, down the ramps, into the Brume, and made her way towards the meeting place of the cult of drilltooth. Here, it was dangerous, homeless and destitute people huddled around whatever source of warmth they could find. Hopefully, the people in the broken down place would be willing to hear her out. She had medicine, she wanted to help. She knew what it was like to be sick and cold, to be alone, hungry, to be homeless. She knew what it was like to have lost everything.

Briefly, she thought about apologizing for Eva. No, at this point, she didnâ€™t want to be associated with the woman at all. She did this for the people, not for her.

With luck, she might convince the preacher, the leader of the cult, to look into the source of his funding. Even if he was unwilling to talk, at least the medicine would help make their lives a little easier.

Boo the Hamster · **04-11-2016, 01:50 AM**

It was a while until he found someone at Zenith.Â The sun he went there, he was unable to find anyone, so was unable to give an answer to Anstarra, Orrin, or..ugh.Â Sea Wolf names are hard to remember.Â He can easily recognize her though.Â Klyn..something or other.Â He let out a soft sigh as he found a parchment, and began to write.Â He doesn't know how to reach the Sea Wolf, and can easily reach Anstarra to let her know what has happened.Â But Orrin?Â He must make amends, and this is the best way he can begin.

Ser Orrin Halgren,

I hope this letter finds you well, for I have good news.Â I have finally been granted audience by the dragons who reside in Zenith.Â They will come to our aid when the time comes should he dare try to defile her grave.Â There will be no need for the tools we used to defend Ishgard's skies.Â This letter will be brief save for one detail. Do NOT go in the air should Ishgard wish to send aid. I also wished to meet with you, in person.Â I wished to apologize for my harsh words, and I feel that I can only do so face to face.Â Where would the best place to meet be?Â I hope to see you soon.

Skies be clear,
Enju Abbagliato

He sent it off to be delivered by moogle.Â What else can one do now besides wait?Â He looked along his weapon, and the stone that gave him power.Â One that can easily turn against him if it so chooses.Â Perhaps with this fight, he will not have doubt, as he did in the battle where he sacrificed everything for Eorzea, and Ishgard in his own way.

She would be proud...

Klynzahr · **04-13-2016, 02:28 PM**

Dawn was breaking in the east. Beyond that she knew nothing.

Â Â Â Â For the last eight hours her world had consisted of beating wings, frigid air, the softly wheezing bundle in her arms, and the constant pain in her joints. It had been a nerve wracking journey into the churning mists, riding blind for hours with nothing but the sounds of the lead chocobo to guide her. Yet there had still been anchors. The scents and sounds of the earth had told their own stories of her journey through woodlands and mountains. Here in the sky there was nothing but beating wings, frigid air, the softly wheezing body in her arms and the faint light of dawn breaking in the east.

Â Â Â Â Â Bending over her charge for perhaps the hundredth time that night, Klynzahr attempted to shield her more effectively from the biting wind. Stiff with cold herself, the sea wolf could do nothing but slide her own arm around Xanadu's horned head to break the wind a little. Her chilled fingers burrowed deeply into the rented chocobo's feathers, never attempting to guide the bird. Blind and lost, Klynzahr was gambling two lives on the homing instincts of a tailfeather hunter's chocobo.

Â Â Â Â Â She jerked awake sharply as the chocobo's landing sent a lance of pain through her back. Panic swelled in the blind Sea Wolf's chest, muting her senses with fear. Straining her eyes to their limit, showed nothing but a green blur. She was utterly lost.

Â Â Â Â Then she slowly became aware of new leaves whispering overhead. The air was cool, with taste of spring greens, and to her left a small brook babbled over stones. Two pairs of footsteps were approaching, with light leather boots on hard packed earth.

Â Â Â "Please," She called out shakily to the pair, "Where is this?"

Â Â Â Â Their reply sent a warm shiver of hope through her. "Tailfeather!"

Martiallais · **04-28-2016, 02:16 PM**

The soothing sound of flowing waters served as an all too different back drop compared to the screams and pleas for mercy that still echoed around the knight as he lay suddenly awake, staring at the familiar ceiling.

Rubbing a palm over his face, he climbed from the bed, a sense dread lingering in the air despite the serene surroundings and pleasant memories that simply being at the Bobbing Cork brought to mind. Whether it was the weight of what they sought to stop finally bearing down upon him or lingering thoughts from his conversation with Leanne that turned dark and sinister, Martiallais wasn't sure what had caused the nightmare but he knew that, for now at least, he'd helped set wheels in motion to, hopefully, contribute to the group's success. The Twelve knew they needed all the aid they could get in the days to come.

Finding himself staring out over the clouds in the Shroud, he shook his head then took a seat at the desk and began penning the first of a pair of missives.

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Passing the short missive off for delivery as he made his way from the inn, Martiallais looked north, towards his home. He'd come to the Shroud in part to make preparations of his own for the battle ahead, afterall. He was entirely certain, however, that Ishgard would and could make due without him for a few moons' time. And there was surely no harm in making a few more pleasant memories here in the Shroud.

Klynzahr · **05-06-2016, 11:14 PM**

Five shots later her hands were still shaking. The encounter at the church doors reeled through her mind in a continuous replay of sounds and sensations. Twelve hours before, she had been wracking her brain for any slim chance of forcing a peaceful settlement. Somehow the impossible had been achieved, the cult subdued without a drop of blood spilled.

Where had it gone so wrong?

"Ratotoskr, Ratotoskr"

Their chants enveloped her in river of passion and fear, the mob carried her onwards, with homemade weapons jostling her along the way...

She extended her hand for another drink, palm open.

Her open palms rose into the air, leading the cultists to join their surrendering leader.

The rasping of cloth on glass paused and a bottle opened with a chink. The innkeeper didn't need to ask and he was wise enough to remain silent.

They rustled behind her muttering protests. She couldn't have guessed how many hung back resisting. There were inquisitor's shouting, weapons falling to the ground, and orders rushing between the sides. One moment Sir Heuloix stood beside her, the next moment she could not find him. Eva was moving too fast to follow.

Somewhere to her left a voice lifted, crying out for drilltooth's protection.

The warm glass tapped lightly against her knuckles and she shifted her hand to take it. Over the last ten days, the Forgotten Knight's bartenders had grown accustomed to the dance that her gnarled hands played. His steps were smooth and silent.

"I will have that man, Now!"

It was inquisitor Vidoq's voice, rising above the babble of his mass arrest. Cries of protest rose from the stragglers. Then an explosion obliterated all other sounds.

Briefly she considered asking for the bottle.

Ice cold cobblestones clawed at her hands and knees, rebels screamed, inquisitor's barked orders....

The words were too great of an effort.

Another explosion shook her to the core. Footsteps ran past in every direction, inquisitor's bellowed, some desperate soul set his boot squarely on her left hand, stumbling at she pulled it away. For one moment they tangled in a heap on the icy streets. Then the escaping cultist took flight.

The hot whiskey seared a path down her throat.

"I will have her!"

With those four words Klynzahr's mind froze again. For several moments she sat in a fog of denial and fear, utterly unconscious of the tavern sounds around her. Then sluggishly her mind slid back to a crowd strung to breaking with passion and fear.

"Ratotoskr, Ratotoskr"

The cries washed over her, while her mind struggled numbly to orient itself against the shock. They had taken Eva and six shots later she could not stop her hands from shaking.

McBeefâ„¢ · **05-07-2016, 06:26 PM**

Evangeline was afraid.

It had taken some time, for its tendrils to worm their waypast her defenses of confidence and determination. Yet it had, and now, Evangeline was afraid.

Fear was a strange thing you see, one that is often maligned and misunderstood. For while many things are called fear, they all spawn from one universal source. The fear from which allÂ fears are bred, the progenitor of all the tiny terrors that haunt our days.

The fear of the unknown.

For five days the Inquisitors had questioned her, for five days she had sat in stone rooms surrounded by iron implements coated in caked blood and charred flesh. For five nights she had sat in her cell, corridors echoing with the screams of those less fortunate than she, air thick with the stench of cooked meat.

Yet it was not only for herself she feared, but for others. Companions who went out to face fire and death to defy a god, while she sat locked in a cell. Companions who she should be standing alongside.

Evangeline huddled on the straw mat, drawing her body close as she tried to force out images of the past. Instead she kept faces in her mind, the only ones she could rely on now. AÂ
Roegadyn beauty with a broken nose, a fine featured duskwight in the armor of a temple Knight, and evenâ€¦

Even a blonde haired Au Ra, her pink eyes forever locked in an expression of disdain.

She huddled on her mat and says a silent prayer to any god that might listen.

â€œPlease.â€

"Keep them safe."

Anstarra · **05-09-2016, 02:13 PM**

Anstarra Silverain, lieutenant of the Maelstrom's First Foreign Levy, liaison to Coerthas, sometime Adventuress, long-ago graduate of the Gridanian Lancers' guild, onetime aspirant to Ul'dahn nobility, former bodyguard, secretary, mercenary and Dragoon... was extremely disappointed in herself.

"Gods damn it."

Principally this state of being came about because as she stood on one of the grandiose, ancient, soaring, gravity-defying walkways surrounding Tharl Oom Khash, and asked herself how in Hydaelyn's name she had come to be here, in this place and time, preparing to face a mad former Inquisitor alongside dragons and dragoons alike, she had come to the inescapable conclusion that it was almost entirely her fault.

"Gods damn it."

Distantly, in the recesses of her mind, she could hear another voice laugh in mocking amusement. How convenient were it truly a psychosis... but no, this was just the other part of her, more persona than personality, the one whose mask she had worn in order to escape the unwanted burdens of being a hero.

"I'm NOT though! I'm not a hero!"

The empty vault of the sky - so grand, at this height - gave no reply. Inside, Skybreaker only laughed harder.

Anstarra sighed.

Down below, the figures of the Ishgardian knights, drilling and patrolling, were virtually ant-like at this distance. Small wonder, in what might well have been an amphitheater for dragons, in ages past. Those men and women down there, they were heroes. Noble Orrin too, obviously, and bold Enju, helping prepare for the conflict. Even Leanne, for all that she and Anstarra did not get along, was undoubtedly a hero. As were the others who intended to fight in this battle, and those who had contributed. Even her beloved, kind and pacifistic Nihka, was a hero in her way; she fought when she had to, not because she wanted to, and she saved others' lives. Those were the actions of a hero.

So different, from herself.

Anstarra used to tell herself she didn't want to be a hero because it was an inconvenience. She didn't want her everyday life tangled up in adulation and obligation. And ever since her defeat at X'zarann's hands, and the... geas, he had put on her (if not mystical, then certainly psychological, and just as binding if not more), she had been shorn of any need to worry about it. No Skybreaker, no prodigal fighter from a land of killers, no hero, no worries, nothing. Just whatever amusements and projects she launched herself into.

But... more recently, she'd been forced to acknowledge the truth of why she had never wanted to be a hero. Because a hero was someone who fought for others, and she had only ever fought for herself. Oh, she'd learned fear for others, and caring. Had almost gone mad when Nihka was taken. But that risking of self had been for herself, because Nihka was hers, her beloved, and it hurt Anstarra herself to lose her. Of course she would avenge such a thing, and did. And when she wrought bloody, murderous retribution on the man who took her fiancee.. it was not for Nihka's own good.

Anstarra let out a slow, shivering breath, as she remembered both the horror on her lover's face, and the depths of hatred in her own heart, for Weylan. That beast still coiled within her. Within her soul, the soul of a killer, who fought only for herself... clearly not a hero by any means.

So why was she here?

Why was she standing at the roof of the world, waiting to engage in a life-and-death struggle against gods-knew what odds, to prevent, of all things, the summoning of a bloody Primal that might well manifest on a scale not too unlike bloody gods-blighted Bahamut? This was.. was Warrior of Light stuff. Hero stuff. So why was she, Anstarra, here? They had plenty of fighters, warriors, yes, heroes. And artillery, and allied dragons, and just... they didn't need her. So why?

Images floated before her, reasons, justifications; irritation with Xanadu, retribution against Friont, a global sense of self-preservation, a sense of possessiveness over Enju and attachment to Orrin (or was it the other way around? or both at once..), vague pseudo-patriotism for Ishgard, her own pride...

All these were valid excuses, and could hold up to outside scrutiny... but searching herself, the most vivid image reared its uncomfortable head again. Of a woman led off in chains, for liberating fools. Of another woman, broken and sobbing, to see her taken. Of the reason, the knowledge of the plot that led poor, desperate men and women to that place, turning them into pawns that needed to be rescued by the woman.

A need to validate that sacrifice. That pain. To vindicate.. and avenge them.

Anstarra gritted her teeth, staring down at the site. She hadn't acted then, couldn't.. but she could act now.

"FINE. Just this bloody once."

She turned, and lifted herself up on her chocobo, so that they could go down and join the other damned idiot heroes.

GloryRhodes · **05-09-2016, 04:15 PM**

There are many kinds of heroes on this star, and nowhere is that more apparent than the embattled land of Eorzea. Â Faced with threat after threat, the brave women and men of that land rise beyond their limits to face down armies, gods and monsters. Â They are a courageous people, and their heroism takes on many forms.

A scarred man fights his years and his upbringing to stand sentinel at the edge of a better world. Â A bitter woman with nothing to gain watches the skies because she has everything to lose. Â A loyal knight has risked everything he has worked for because honor and duty come in many forms. Â A dreamer sacrifices herself for strangers because no one else would. Â A lost soldier holds his spear pointed towards the darkness because it reminds him of where he is.

A woman who has spent her entire life hated and degraded summons her will to face one last day because the easier path is rarely the right one.

Xanadu pulled on her boots, then stood from the edge of the bed. Â Tailfeather smelled like chocobo shite and unbathed hunters, and she would be glad to be rid of it. Â Her hat, an old beaten black cone, hung from a hook on the wall, and she took it in hand, running her thumbs over the matted felt.

For a moment she was transported back to the start of this whole venture, out in the beating sun of the Sagolii. Â She'd been wearing this hat then, and Friont had commented on it. Â He was tall, even for an Elezen, with his wild black hair and eyepatch he cast a rather romantic figure, if one went for that sort of thing. Â The sun was sinking, and his shadow seemed to stretch for malms across the sands. Â "The hat doesn't do you any favors," he'd said.

Was that really less than a year ago? Â Thinking back Xanadu saw herself as so much younger, awed by her first mission for The Inquisition, studying under a true hero of Ishgard. Â "Sir?" Â Her voice had been so small then, weaker than she could ever remember it being. Â If her voice had been larger, if she'd been less awed and more of herself then maybe she would have seen it coming. Â She could have slipped a knife between his ribs right then.

He'd reached out and flicked the wide brim of the hat, "It makes you look like a witch. Â You know we're supposed to hunt those."

She hadn't responded. Â He'd found that damned Belahdian tablet about Bahamut. Â Then he'd called off their archaeological expedition and told her to meet him in Ishgard. Â Of course she'd been locked out. Â It took her a moon to get back into the city, connections and position be damned. Â An Au Ra claiming to be a highborn Inquisitor? Â Impossible. Â She was sure some of the guards had recognized her, and had thought maybe they'd finally be rid of her.

Friont had come and gone to The Tribunal, taking with him forbidden texts about Dravanians and Primals, and it had all come together. Â Moons of chasing him, fighting, being hunted by her own order, and it had all finally come to this.

The Grave of Ratotoskr. Â The place where Thordan and The Knights Twelve had fought her and her brother Nidhogg a millennium ago. Â The holiest site in all of Dravania and Ishgard. Â Friont was coming. Â They were ready.

Xanadu Mol pulled on her hat and glanced in the small mirror on the bedside table. Â Someone had once told her that her eyes, a luminescent pink, were the eyes of the demon. Â Her horns, unlike some other Au Ra, didn't sweep backwards elegantly, but curled threateningly around her cheekbones, ending in sharp points on level with her mouth. Â Her scales, a midnight black, creeped down out from under her hair and up from her neck to her lips, making her seem even more alien. Â And he was right, the hat made her look like a witch.

She smiled, and watched the face in the mirror twist into something from an Ishgardian nightmare, predatory and cunning. Â Back then she hadn't been able to tell him that looking like a witch was the point. Â When love isn't forthcoming, a cunning woman can always rely on fear to keep herself alive.

Two women who hate each other work towards the same goal because while their methods may be different, they would both die before abandoning their charge.

Helene La Floret passed through the halls of The Tribunal like a storm. Â The servants and minor aides and apprentices stayed well out of the woman's way. Â She pushed open the door to her office, intending to grab her bow and begone, but paused as she saw that she had a guest.

Frienne Crusoe was sitting on Helene's desk examining her paperwork. Â "You spelled 'imminent' incorrectly."

Helene put a hand on her hip and sighed, "Don't you have a children's tears to freeze on their cheeks, Experiment?"

The old nickname made Frienne's face clench up in irritation, but it it just fell into the endless pool of irritation she'd collected over the years. Â That well would never run dry. Â "You're going to Tharl Oom Khash, then?"

"Of course. Â You were there when Frimont turned, and you heard the whole story from Dragoon Halgren. Â He's been working with Friont this whole time. Â I don't know exactly what he's planning, but if there's even a chance they're right about a primal then I plan on being there to stop it and take Friont in to stand trial."

Frienne snorted, "Please. Â You and I both know Friont's dead. Â I did the examination of his body myself. Â It was him."

Helene grinned, "That familiar with his body are you? Â Frienne, I didn't know you had it in you. Â Wait until the gossips hear."

Frienne just rolled her eyes, "Enough with the jokes, Helene. Â Do you honestly think he's going to be there?"

She shrugged, "Maybe. Â It's hard to believe, but I've heard weirder. Â The Archbishop and The Knights Twelve turned into primals. Â Maybe Friont had a twin brother, or glamoured a corpse. Â I don't know, but I intend to find out myself."

Frienne pushed off of the desk, "Well I don't believe it, and I'll be there when Mol is proven to be behind this whole farce. Â Then I'll push her off The Witchdrop myself."

Helene smirked, "If you're right I'll give her arse a kick right along with you." Â The two women shared something almost friendly for just a moment, and then Helene snatched her bow. Â "We'd better get going then. Â We don't want to miss it. Â Speaking of, where in the seven hells is Dammerung?"

And one man, who fought his way up from nothing on the strength of his sword arm and the courage in his breast falls because even those most deserving of the title of hero are not armies, gods or monsters. Â They are mortal, and the only thingÂ guaranteedÂ to mortals on this star is death.

The Gold Saucer was more opulent than Dammerung could ever have imagined. Â Growing up in The Brume he'd never have even believed that such a place could exist. Â Laid out before him on the massive table was a banquet fit for kings, and beautiful women of all shapes and sizes, dressed in the most scandalous clothing he'd ever seen, catered to his every whim.

"Wow," he said. Â "Helene really knows how to throw a party. Â Where is she, anyroad?"

His host, a tall Elezen in the flowing robes of the Ul'Dahn elite, seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Â He knew he'd never met a man with hair that white, and that broken nose would have been instantly recognizable anywhere. Â "I'm sure she's just been distracted," the man said. Â "Preparing for a trip to The Grave of Ratotoskr must keep even a woman like her incredibly busy."

Dammerung laughed, "That's the truth. Â Getting up there the first time took forever, and now with the dragons of Zenith covering the air approach it's even worse."

The man was Helene's manservant, though he didn't really seem the type. Â From what he knew of Helene it seemed like she'd have picked someone more handsome. Â "Ah, so you have to move up through Mourn and Anyx Trine, then."

Dammerung nodded, watching the way the man shuffled the deck in his hand. Â it seemed like a nervous habit. Â The cards were ruffled, flipped, spun, twisted and turned almost like magic. Â It was hypnotizing. Â "Yeah, it's a hell of a walk."

The man nodded, then tilted his head, "What was the Dravanian name for it, again? Â I'm terrible with their words."

"Tharl Oom Khash," Dammerung said, downing another drink. Â Then he looked around. Â The serving women were gone, it was just the two of them in the room. Â "Where are the other guests? Â Wasn't this supposed to be a party? Â I thought that girl Jana or Gaillien would show up, at least."

The man's hand moved, and Dammerung felt a stinging sensation in his throat. Â He reached for it, and he felt the rigid edges of a playing hard. Â Then he felt the blood. Â Immediately he reached for his sword, but the man's hand moved again and Dammerung watched, confused, as his hand fell to the floor, free of his arm.

He surged forward, knocking over the table, flipping it, but the man dodged to the side. Â More cards flew, and Dammerung fell to his knees. Â Then, the man seemed to shimmer. Â His white hair turned black, the broken nose straightened, and one crystal blue eye vanished, revealing a dry, empty socket. Â Inquisitor Ivarault Friont smiled as his glamour faded, and he pulled an eyepatch from his robes, replacing it on his face. Â He was so tall. Â Dammerung should have known from the height. Â He should have seen it coming. Â Where were the other guests?

Friont walked over to the dying man, and knelt in front of him, smiling gently. Â "Thank you for being so forthcoming with the information, my friend. Â Really, the Inquisition should have taught you to be More Subtil."

Zelmanov · **05-12-2016, 04:40 PM**

A loud roar and the fluttering of leathery wings startled Orrin awake. Almost immediately he kicked off his bedroll and reached for his weapon that was just by his side. As his hand came upon the haft of the spear he realized he was currently looking up at not clear skies, but the ceiling of his officerâ€™s tent. Soon enough he heard the familiar, almost therapeutic, sound of soldiers shouting drills; the roar being nothing more than the grinding of heavy metal against wood as cannons and dragonslayers were re-positioned and calibrated, the wings were nothing but loose flap of his tent caught in the wind. His breathing slowly calmed and he fell back onto his roll with a sigh. After what felt like a bell he picks himself up and donned his armor. Cradling his helm under his left arm, he pushed past the entrance of the tent and was greeted with blinding light that forced him to bring his armored claw of a hand to block his eyes.Â

It had been nearly a moon since Orrin had heard the voices of other people, nearly a moon since he had something other than charred Hropken meat or ill-prepared kupo nuts. It was not, however, his longest stint in the wilds alone. After Reillette, he had been gone so long that some had believed him to have gone rogue. None had bothered to come for him then, no â€œDragoon Hunterâ€ to come and put him down like the rabid mutt some had believed him to be. Was it faith that protected him then? His father? Or was it that he was not worth the trouble in the grand scheme of the war? No matter, his isolation then was nothing to the tortuous solitude he experienced being the lone sentinel of Tharl Oom Khash.Â

The air was thick with aether here; some soldiers had already came down with sicknesses as the result of a surfeit of it. For Orrin, even though the light of the crystal had seemingly ceased its protection of him, the echo still did him the honor of assaulting his waking and sleeping moments with spectres and phantoms of Ishgardâ€™s past and his own. Time and time again he had found himself drawn to precipices and cliffs that in the past used to be whole, flat land, following after visions almost to his death. The murder of Ratatoskr so clear, the pained cries of betrayal that transcended language and species. That inner dragon that had so cruelly taken the form of his past love screamed and cursed and strained against its fetters. Fetters that Orrin himself had loosened in rage when he fought Frimont.Â

The warmth, the seemingly endless fount of power that surged forth in righteous fury had nearly consumed him. Had Inquisitor Helene not robbed him of destroying his former heroâ€¦he avoided the thought. There was no doubt now that the sins of Ishgardâ€™s past flowed through his veins as the urge, the call ever strengthened. He had not drank dragonâ€™s blood but his armor was quenched in it, his soulstone possessed it. His mortal strength waned but that of the dragons was everlasting. Frimont knew that, it was the only way a man with grey in his hair could continue to fell multiple hydras in a single jump. Was it going to be the only way for Orrin to protect the people he had come to call friends? Protect his nation?

Orrinâ€™s eyes adjusted to the light, staring at back of his clawed gauntlet, a feature he lamented was absent on the Drachen Mail. The damage he could do with the claws as well as the spikes would have been terrifying. Now however, those claws, the helm he carried were there to symbolize the union of dragon of man, of power given, not stolen. Though he felt unsettlingly comfortable inside the scale suit and seeing through the blood red dragonâ€™s eyes of his visor he knew full well that these were equally a reminder of what he could become, what he refused to become. He need only hold on for a little while longer. The war will end in his life time, he need only wait for the dawn and his watch will end. He would cast aside the soulstone and with it banish the specter of his first sin from his life. This is what he wanted to believe even though resting on a splintered, caved-in table in his tent was a letter that still held the scent of the Sagolii sand calling for his aid.

Klynzahr · **05-19-2016, 04:31 PM**

Klynzahr had to admit a small twinge of foreboding as she left her familiar room in the Forgotten Knight. However this time it was not related to the fate of ragged cultists, draconian primals, ex-inquisitors, or imprisoned companions. She reasoned that most educated Ishgaurdians should be capable of differentiating between arcane geometries and heretical symbols but The Knight's motley patrons inspired no such confidence.

Â Â Â Even if the staff could recognize the markings, she doubted that they would be pleased to find the walls of their late guest's room covered ceiling to floor in mathematical equations.

Â Â In the three long weeks since that memorable mass arrest, the dingy little room had become it's own prison, with every dusty chair bringing nagging memories of Evangeline. Memorizing the contents of the Mealven's Gate Geometrix was no small feat, less so when you could not read it's pages to begin with. She credited the task with preserving her sanity, during those long cold days.

Â Â Â Â Testing each spell through trial and error, she had painstakingly rewritten hundred page long tables of angles and derivatives by carving them into the inn's wooden walls. After three weeks of checking and reviewing her work, Klynzahr no longer needed to feel for her answers in the wood. She had memorized over half of her grimoir. Â

Â Â Â Â The book was tucked away in her bag now, along with what potions Eva had left, and her old surgeon's satchel. They thumped reassuringly against her hip as she felt her way through Ishgaurd's icy streets. She had taken the same route half a dozen times before, growing familiar with the loose stones and treacherous potholes. So she arrived with little trouble in a short back alley that was too fine to be visited by the Brume's impoverished residents and too shabby to be frequented by the city's elite. Â Â

Â Â Â Â Â Â From the moment that Klynzahr was first offered a chart and compass, she had shown a remarkable talent for manipulating shapes and directions. It was this gift that prompted a ship's officer to teach the unpromising, near-sighed cabin girl to read and the same gift that later caught the eye of a drunk, seafaring arcanist. It had allowed her to manipulate the arcane geometries with creativity and finesse, learning and improvising as she grew. Last week it had also allowed her to deduce that this unassuming alleyway lay directly above one of the inquisition's larger prisons.

Â Â Â Â Â "Hope ye ken fergive me not writing lass." She addressed the unyielding stone under her feet. "Couldn't get me leave ter visit an'ye well know messages ken be landin' in th'wrong ears."

Â Â Â Â Â She flopped back against a nearby wall, feeling utterly foolish. For several minutes nothing stirred in the alleyway, except the whistling wind and her breathing. Finally Klynzahr pushed herself up to leave, only to be held back by an invisible tug.

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â "....might be as I'll not be able t'send any word now, but I've thought bloody hard on it, an' there be no other way..... They summoned Marty this mornin' an' I'll be damned ifin I let him go alone...

Â Â Â There's bound ter be casualties by th'time this shite be done with.... an hundreds o'malms to th'closest aid. They'll be needin' a medic... someone they ken trust.... an' well ... ye allus did say I were a good mender....

Â Â Â Â Â Might be as I donna make it back here, but I'll make damned sure that every survivor be attendin' yer trial, an ifin they donna.... why I'll haunt th'bastards day an' night."

Â Â Â Klynzahr halted herself, with the last whispers still hovering around the alley. Then with a stubborn scowl masking her uncertainties, she began to feel her way resolutely to the chocobo stables. Her last whisper hung in the wind.

"But if I do come back alive, I swear on me Mum's grave that I'll get ye pardoned an' carry ye off ter Costa Del Sol."

Zelmanov · **05-21-2016, 05:49 PM**

The dwelling was much like others in the Brume, made from splintered wood scavenged from the scaffolding used to repair the war-torn city of Ishgard. Tightly packed among the others, leaning against the firm grey stone walls that have stood for millennium, the impermanent shack would conversely and most undoubtedly fall come the next attack. But that did not matter to Achenne Raunard. Though there was sparsely enough firewood for the hearth and snow would get in when the wind blew just right, this was a home she had built with her loving husband. A home, she believed, that could always be rebuilt so long as she had him by her side.Â

Achenne sat at the low table that rested in the middle of the singular room dwelling. There was a hay mattress in the corner of the room, just behind a cobbled-together shelf for some semblance of privacy. Clothing was laid out by the hearth of a crackling fire; her one good dress and her husbandâ€™s tunic and gaiters left to dry without freezing over in the cold. She did not know when Atoix would return, the assignment was to be of indeterminate length, but she nevertheless she would wait each day by the door when the bells rung for the return of the patrols and soldiers whenever she could.

A fortnight, He had been gone for longer, in fact the longer deployments gave her some degree of relief. The long absences were routine. It was the sudden, urgent call to arms that had always struck terror into her heart. She remembered the tolling of the alarum when the barriers that protected Ishgard fell. She held herself on that hay bed as cannon shot and dragonâ€™s roars echoed off in the distance at the Steps of Faith. Atoix came back bruised but better off than most that day. His valor, recognized by the Lord Commander, had set him on the path to Templar Knight. It was just like him to leap at the chance of proving himself upon hearing La Floretâ€™s missive.Â

â€œThis is it, Achenne, when I return I shall be of the Knights Templar, we can say goodbye to the brume, you will live as you should, as you deserve.â€

There is a knock on the door. Strange, she was not expecting guests.Â

â€œJust a minute!â€ Achenne would call out, standing up, tightening up the straps on her blouse, corralling the unruly raven hair into a neat ponytail before answering the door.Â

A Hyuran man stood before her. His medium-length, chestnut brown hair was pulled back neatly, barring a few errant strands over his forehead. It all sat upon an older face, accentuated by a tightly trimmed band of stubble on his chin and hardened with a stare that seemed to go right past her. His garb was well-tailored, form fitting. The clothing and stature convincing her that the man in front of him was an actively serving Highborn.

â€œExcuse me, miss? Is this the residence of Lady Achenne Raunard?â€ His accent was impeccable and confirmed her suspicions. His voice, combined with his icy-blue eyes put a chill down her spine.

â€œI be Achenne Raunard, aye. Â Lady though? You must be mistaken, this is the Brume after all mâ€™lord.â€ She felt the lump in her throat, there was no joy in the Hyurâ€™s expression. â€œIsâ€¦is something the matter?â€Â

Her eyes go wide, she clasped both hands to her mouth stifling a gasp. How did she not notice it before? In the manâ€™s hands was a shield with the crest of House Durendaire, three jagged grooves clawed down the length of it at an angle.Â

â€œI am Orrin de Halgren of the Knights Dragoon, Bannerman of House Fortemps and Commander of Camp Mistwall. It is with heavy heart to say that Ser Artoix Raunardâ€¦â€ Achenne felt faint, her vision blurred with the welling of tears, she had seen this before, with her neighbors, the words nearly the same, just swap a name here, a location there. â€œâ€¦has gone missing and is presumed killed in the battle of Camp Mistwall in the Churning Mists, this is all that remains.â€Â

It was like a lance to the gut, lashing out to yank the shield, her husbandâ€™s shield, from his hands. Wrapping her arms around it tightly her head falls forward in grief, in such obvious pain and yet, he continued to speak.

â€œHe had fought valiantly in combat against forces that would make lesser men flee in terror. Many dragons and a primal lay dead by his contribution. Many more of Ishgardâ€™s men would lie with them were it not for him. In light of his contributions he has been posthumously been made a Knight Templar and shall have a marked grave plot in the pillars amongst others who were worthy to walk in Haloneâ€™s halls.â€

She didnâ€™t want a grave, she wanted her husband. A quiet, pitiful sob was all she could muster.

â€œWith no next of kin, the privileges bestowed upon him shall be given to you instead. A place in the pillars and a stipend deserving of his position are now yours in gratitude for his service.â€Â

Gratitude? Deserving? She lets out a wail. Tossing aside the heavy shield with a resounding clang upon the stone floor she charges at the Dragoon, the man who marched her husband to his death. He doesnâ€™t move as she banged her fists against his chest in rage. The commanderâ€™s face did not betray any emotion, standing firm, immovable, she may as well have been hitting a wall.Â

â€œDamn you! May you rot in the lowest circle of Hellâ€ She said with a final defiant strike against him before finally collapsing onto her knees onto the floor. Seeing the discarded shield nearby, she gasps and pulls it back in against her chest, clinging to it. A few more moments passed and the Dragoon lingered. What did he want from her?

Â â€œLeave, damn you!â€ she said, voice going hoarse.Â

The Hyuran man remained ever stoic at the sight. He tries to take a step forward, to which Achene bellowedÂ

â€œNot another step closer! Go! I never want to see you again! You took him from me, you and /your/ war!â€

Â And with that, the messenger of Artoixâ€™s death departed, leaving the woman in the frame of the doorway. She looks at the shield, tracing her fingers over the clawed in grooves of the marred shield.Â

â€œI deserved a life with you, Artoix, nothing more.â€

_____________________________________________________

For Orrin, it never got easier, not after all these years. He looks at the next address in in the list he held in his hands and then to the house in front of him. He breathes in deep and knocks on the door.

McBeefâ„¢ · **06-04-2016, 03:10 PM**

Evangeline's eyes crack open as the morning light hits them, and her first sensation was that she must be captured by some great snake, or in the belly of some great drake.

She was almost immobile, surrounded by something warm and smelling slightly of salt. It took a few blinks for her vision to swim into focus, revealing the pale greenish blue forearm that wrapped around her chest, the culprit in her new imprisonment. She'd almost forgoten what it felt like to wake up next to Klyn. Evangeline smiles and shifts around, the Roe barely stirring at her movements as the Elezen brushes a strand of wavy blue hair from a giant cheek. The woman was fond of snoring, and more than once Evangeline had brought earplugs to bed, but this morning Klyn slept with all the peacefulness of a babe. Whatever stress and fear that had propelled her these last few months pouring out of her like a slit wineskin.Â

Klyn's work behind the scenes had likely spared Evangeline's life, and the woman's impassioned testimony sealed the fate of Friont. Evangeline leans down and places a kiss on that weathered brow that so many had discounted. They had underestimated her, because of her foreign speech and blindness, Friont focused on defending against the noble and powerful of Ishard, while a Blacksmith's daughter laid the final nail in his coffin. There were many more kisses she wanted to give the woman, but for now Klyn had earned her rest.

Evangeline slides out of the bed, eliciting a low murmur from Klyn, the Roe's hands seeking out and finding a pillow to crush to her chest instead. The previous night was a blur of wine, laughter, and relief. The two of them stumbling into the inn room, already half undressed. The desperate fury of the act last night almost annoyed now though, as she pads naked through the room, trying to find where her various articles of clothing had been flung. She suppresses a shiver as she tugs on a pair of crumpled breeches. Eventually she finds enough of to protect against the cold, and walks to the window, throwing the shutter wide, letting in the chill morning air to do battle with the dying warmth of their fireplace.
Â
There was some sort of commotion outside, and she could hear the faint ringing of bells, which only seemed to grow in intensity. Was this some Holiday she'd forgotten?

She smiled at the thought that the bells might be in celebration of their legal victory the previous night. However she knew most of the Church would rather drop a bell on her and Xanadu, rather than ring one in their honor. Still, everyone was rather animated, the streets full of pointing and shouts. Bleary eyed she looks to the horizon, rubbing at them as she sees strange black dots dancing at the edge of the mountains.Â

With an annoyed grumble, she realizes her glasses had also been last night's explosion of carnality. Evangeline searches for them on hands and knees, finally finding they had skittered underneath the bed. Having fished them out, she returns to the window, trying to figure out what she had seen.

Crows? But they looked strange...

Then, as the pealing of the bells reached a crescendo around her, Evangeline suddenly realized she was looking at something very far away... and very large. Her mouth goes dry for a second, and she runs back to the bed, shaking the woman awake as every bell in the city seems to boom out in one singular cry, their voices echoing and bouncing off the stone walls, the whole city shaking with their cacophony.Â

It is as if a thousand years or vigil, of sacrifice, of pain, poured out from those bells, reaching the heart of every son and daughter of Ishgard who could still hear them. It was wordless, but she did not need words to understand its meaning.Â

"TO ARMS"

Klynzahr rolls heavily out of bed, peppering Eva with questions, as she crawls shivering across the cold floor to collect her clothes. Strings of cautionary advice follow, as she assembles the familiar medical supplies and the less familiar books and quills.Â Elsewhere Evangeline knows others are going through their own rituals.

Somewhere Martiallais is buckling on the armor of a Knight, likely with a kiss from the Lady Dufresne.Â

Orrin and V'aleera are likely already prepared, Lances held high as they wait on some spire, ready to fly down onto any drake foolish enough to challenge the Dragoons of Ishgard.

Anstarra and Leanne would be stringing bow and harp both if they remained in the city. Ready to give wrath to invaders, and songs of succor to defenders.Â

And, in some private room, Xanadu would be gathering her cards and astrolabe, to stand and turn the wrath of the stars themselves onto the horde.

The bells crashed again, filling even her heart with steel at the noise, for she knew she was not alone. They rang out, the sound calling to a thousand years of instinct.

"THE ENEMY COMES"

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