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Telluride · **02-25-2015, 09:21 PM**

((This story series is semiclosed, meaning that participation is available on request, but please check in with me first. It has room for a lot of people as it develops. The chief purpose of it is to reveal and begin developing several of my alts, demonstrate their goals, and tie them in to the hapless bard who will just happen to get mixed into all this here and there. Also, consider this an audition for some of the Bad Guy ideas floating around. I already know a few people whom I would love to have contribute to this tale as it grows, so please let me know if you'd like a place in it.))

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RESONANCE

ACT 1, Scene I

Beneath a large converted windmill among the Grey Fleet of La Noscea...

"Obby..." The voice was feminine, inquisitive, attentive, and floated above a faint hum in the room.

He felt the smile on his own face as if it were a warm breeze, and focused on the woman's features, which had taken on a hazy quality in the dim lighting; he must have had one too many shots of Calibri Bay again. But that was all right, all right entirely. "Mel, come over here and see me."

"Obby." It was feminine, still, but terse, and still firmly directed at him; it was a situation still salvagable, though her face was still hazy, the room still all but dark. Just a closer look, maybe a touch at the right time, would solve everything, too many drinks or not.

"I'm right here, and you should be, too. Come see me, and call me Obelisk, sweets - M' name is always longer and fuller when you're around."

"OBBY." Loud, offended maybe. It wasn't over yet, though.

A slight chuckle rocked his frame "Oh, don't be like that; I'll make it all better if you just..."

Whatever lingered of the warmth he felt was gone in an instant as a cold shock took over his senses and sent his heavy limbs flailing. The modest stool under him wobbled and swayed, threatening to spill the massive weight of overgrown Roegadyn onto the floor, but he found his reflexes still sharp, belying any idea that he'd been intoxicated, and his large hands gripped the stool's legs until it was steady again. The world was brighter with a suddenness, and it pained his blinking eyes, which felt grittier than he imagined only a minute ago. The sense was lost on another realization, that he was dripping wet, and drops were still falling from his sleeves and hair. A trio of blinks and a frantic look around brought realization upon him like a hammer to a nail: He was guarding the lab's steel-reinforced wooden door - supposed to be guarding the door, and listening - and the female voice that had been speaking to him was not the beautiful Melange, but his own little sister.

"What in the swivin' hells, Glim? Who d' you think you are, Leviathan?"

The Roegadyn female was carrying a bucket that still contained a few last ounces of rainwater; she shook it, as if it were a weapon, and stood over him. She was nowhere near as massive as her burly older brother, but their eyes, their dusky skin, and the color of her hair - black with tinges of cobalt blue - were such a match for him that no one could have missed the resemblance when they stood together. Her red robes were loosely fit, but still could not fully conceal her amply athletic figure, and she was indeed fair of face. Her hairstyle was, in fact, eerily similar to the image of the staff retainer, Melange, that the male had been entertaining in his dreams, and the thought made Obsidian Obelisk cringe inwardly at what he might have said next in his nap.

"If he'd caught you sleeping, you might wish I had been. Be happy I didn't freeze it." A telltale blue-white shimmering became visible around her gloved hands - a warning to him that he didn't really need, that she very well could have bathed him in umbral ice if she'd wanted to. It wouldn't have been the first time, though for all her humor and bravado, Glimmer had never found it in herself to actually hurt her older brother, even if he was a bit piggish at times.

Obelisk stretched his arms, and rubbed the grit from his eyes as the warning aura faded from his sister's hands. "He's been in there over three bells, and nothing's come of it but that blasted hum - no explosions, no tinkling crystal, no thuds or scrapes or nothin'. Put your ear to the door, if you don't believe me."

Obsidian Glimmer set the bucket down next to the stool, straightened her posture, smoothed out her robes, and stepped to the thick door, setting her ear to it. The faint audible vibration in the room was a much more powerful thing with her ear to the door....

...and instinct propelled her several fulms away, barely able to stay on her feet, when the hum was at an instant replaced with a sound like a mountain of exploding glass, barely muffled by the door. The shockwave was enough to flutter Glimmer's robes and leave her brother grasping at the stool again.

They could do little else but blink for a number of seconds, but finally, Obelisk stood, and reached for the heavy turnhandle of the door.

It turned mere moments before he could touch it, and the door creaked open and inward. A fine glittering mist puffed out from the door frame, and the figure that became visible within was likewise covered and surrounded in it.

A brown leather mask with twin breathing bladders, not unlike those sported by more stylish goblins, covered the man's face and features. He was Hyuran, of possible Highland stock, gathering from the size of him, and noticeably tall for the line, though the two Roegadyn still towered over him. Black neck-length hair, blown to frizz and sparkling with the clinging mist, and swarthy skin suggested perhaps a desert lineage. He was otherwise clad head to toe in protective worn-black leathers, with a thick blacksmith's apron, all marked and pitted from time, impacts and scorchmarks. The glitter in the air swirled behind him as he stepped from the door, and directed a gaze at each Roegadyn in turn, one clinging to his stool, the other with gloved hand over her mouth.

He reached up and seized the top of the mask, pulling it down. The face underneath had sharp features and piercing, deep-set grey eyes, further framed by the lack of the glassy soot that covered the rest of him. He gave both the Roegadyn another look each as they recovered from their shock, and then he spoke.

"It worked." The voice was solid, and echoed with a sense of propriety, a voice free of shortcuts, and with a hint of Thanalan accent.

He cleared his throat, and settled the look upon the female.

"Glimmer - go find Melange and Threnn, and get them back to gathering those Thanalanian crystals. One successful test is not going to be enough, and as you have likely figured out already, the last of the supply is little more than dust and shards. Whether they buy them, or get them by hand, it does not matter; take as much gil as you need. We are getting close, and you are the only one I trust to see this done."

The woman moved her hand and opened her mouth to reply, but whether it was the choking dust, or some other thought, she nodded instead, and turned to stride to the stairwell, robe billowing behind her.

With the comely Roe gone, the Hyur turned to her brother, who had finally released the stool, and was wiping at his damp sleeves and pants, muttering something about crystals.

"Obby, I'll need you fixing the scaffolding in the lab - this success has left it somewhat in tatters, I am afraid. If you need help, I will have to look for a disposable work crew. The ladies are going to be busy, and we have come too far to slow down now. Oh, and do dry off?"

Obsidian Obelisk offered a grunt and a shrug as an initial reply, and peered through the doorway and the haze. "I'll be spit-roasted before I need more hired grunts. On it." He bent down to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe, and pushed past the opened door, mumbling and waving his hand in the air in front of his face.

The Hyur reached behind his thick apron, pulled out a worn but thick handkerchief, and began wiping the eye lenses of his mask, speaking to himself in a low register.

"Now, we're going to need a Gunsmith."

Telluride · **02-25-2015, 09:25 PM**

RESONANCE

ACT I, Scene II

In the back streets of Uldah...

The day in Uldah was hot, as it usually was during most days, and especially so between Pearl Lane and the markets, in that sketchy zone between the desperation of refugees and the stalls what would call themselves "honest business" as if that meant anything in the Syndicate-run city. In a back street, on the way to the Quicksand, a bard of notable size had made perhaps the error in judgment of stopping by a threadbare blanket spread upon the ground, which was covered in various hats, shoes and broken musical instruments that perhaps had been trendy and fashionable once, but all who would have considered them so would have been long since washed away before the cataclysm.

No, it was his own fault when the aging woman there, clad in garments more stained and tested by time than she was, saw him pick up a large hat, and accosted him with a cracked voice.

"I have it on very good, very honest, very reliable knowledge that this hat, this hat right there, was once owned and proudly worn by an Allagan minstrel, as he performed for the lords of the Crystal Tower, many, many cycles ago. You want to stand out, like a bard? You want to be seen as a master of that craft? This hat will be your symbol, the announcement to the world that you have arrived, and no one need ever know otherwise!"

Nathan turned the hat over and over in his hand. He'd seen their like before, dozens of times. Fantastic and woefully exaggerated stories alike had filtered through the taverns ever since the exploration teams had reopened and accessed the Crystal Tower, sending descriptions and samples of ancient relics floating along in their wake. It seldom occured to most customers, eager as they were for the latest thing, even if that thing was older than their entire nation, that objects of real value as artifacts would have quickly been snatched up, stolen, acquired and appropriated almost immediately.

He'd seen this very design of hat all over the place in the last cycle, in fact: massive, fluffy, and with a faux feather so large and frilly that no living avian save for the fanciest queen of rocs could have grown it. Yet, for all that, It was about as unique as a single green pea in a bushel full of them - "The Hat of Amon" they all wanted to call it, and if perhaps that historical figure did exist, he, or even she, would have to have been one oddball individual. Of course, the bowed hawker in her slops was hoping desperately that he didn't know that.

"Love, this thing would have been the same garish nightmare then as it is now. I do love a good hat, but even a Roe-lass touched by Menphina herself would look a joke in it," he said. He continued to turn it over in his hand, idly watching the feather flutter in the induced breeze.

"Bah! What do you know of bards, you oversized barbarian? Maybe one day you'll meet a real one, and learn a thing or three like this lady has! You won't find a hat like that like anywhere else!" The aged woman shook her finger at him.

Perhaps she was right, for the chapeau did look twice as worn and used as most of the replicas he'd seen, but that made it worse, and not better. In fact... wait. A flash of crumpled brown caught his eye. Within the hat, he saw a piece of parchment sticking out, and though little of it was showing, he did catch a couple of markings - musical notes. He bit his lip to suppress the sudden interest that his face might be starting to show, and sighed, audibly, instead.

"All right, how much?" He said.

"Five hundred Gil!" The elderly woman stretched out a gnarled hand.

"Five... Byregot's Brass Balls, you're a nutter. One hundred."

"Three fifty, not one gil less!"

"Two hundred, and I won't steer the Brass Blades this way!"

"Two fifty, and you can take that tabor with it!" She pointed at a small, hip-worn drum lying next to several torn examples of Yellowjackets' hats.

"Done!"

One hand shake and exchange of gil later, he made his way quickly around the corner, to the alleyway behind the tavern, and began to pull at the parchment tucked into the hat's material. Old hats may be of questionable worth, but perhaps an old song... those could be very valuable indeed.

Telluride · **02-26-2015, 03:21 PM**

RESONANCE

Act I Scene III

Camp Drybone, on an unexpectedly rainy day

It was the sort of day that left the residents of Drybone feeling both fulfilled and sullen, for it was anything but dry. A torrent of warm rain pounded on the little village, and the Aetheryte square was soaked in an inch of mud, with more ochre and clay-laden water cascading in little waterfalls from the bluffsides above.

The rainfall was a blessing, in that it meant that the meager crops around the settlement would be healthy and hearty, and the boon to the local wildlife meant work would be easier on the guards for a day or two, as the local fauna, bolstered and sated by the sudden plenty, were more apt to prey upon one another rather than harass the locals out of the normal sort of animal desperation. However, on these unusual, very uncommon days, tourists and traders and travelers were apt to mutter and complain about the name of the town, wondering about where the dry went, how the bones must surely have been washed away, and how Mudbowl would surely be a more accurate name. This was the source of the sullenness that would hang over the locals, who were too dependent on the trade to truly vent their feelings on the matter.

Very little stirred in the square besides the rainwater: the guards and Brass Blades were huddled under the eaves and canopies of the shop entrances, doing their best not to become sodden. The mix of emotions and the rain had quickly led a swarm of patrons into the settlement's little tavern, which quickly filled beyond capacity, turning the place into a standing-room-only sea of bodies and chatter, filling the air with the smells of sweat, mud and ale. It was too full even to allow the two more entrants to push inside, and so like the guards at other posts, they huddled under the eaves, pulled back to the wall to escape the encroaching puddles.

Nearest to the door of the pub was a Lalafellin woman, lanky for her race, with wide Plainsfolk eyes enhanced by dark cosmetics, and hair of violet hue. She was a contender for the most impeccably dressed person in Drybone that day, clad in black satin coat and pants and matching shoes, though the shoes and the lower pantlegs were thorougly mudsplattered, causing their wearer to frown and look down at herself.

"Mmf, this will take forever to clean. If we can't trust Drybone to be dry, it's a lesson in trust overall." The voice was crisp and prim. She folded her arms, and peered out into the hazy square, in which the Aetheryte was heavily obscured by the weather.

Her companion towered over her, but was still petite for her kind - a Roegadyn woman of golden-brown skin and red-orange locks. Two bells ago, despite her size, or perhaps even because of it, she had presented a ravishing figure of her kind: Hair combed and styled up in waves, face enhanced with a flattering blush and heavy mascara, and her voluptuous figure left to little imagination in a tight, low-cut black coattee and skirt. However, her own shoes, black and usually vibrant with white lace frills, were similarly mudlogged, and the humidity had already begun the process of thinning her makeup, which threatened to run at any moment; her clothing was already slightly damp, and were it any wetter, might have threatened to show her off more than necessary, save for the dark coloration of it. She was studiously avoiding touching any part of herself, though, save for one. She held a thin, especially sharp and jagged knife, not the sort one would expect to see held by a woman so dressed, and was cleaning her manicured nails, frowning at them in much the same way as the Lalafell frowned at her own shoes.

"Wetsludge, that's what I'm calling this place!" The Roegadyn's voice carried hints of a breathiness that might have gone well with her attire, but was pierced by notes that could only be properly called whining.

The other looked up at her, not bother to unfold her arms. "Oh, stop it. You're going to get dirty looks from the guards..." The Lalafell peered across the way at the Brass Blade guards, who, actually, were watching the pair, but with expressions that, even from there, were recognizable as lewd. "Oh, never mind, just stop. He'll be here when the weather permits."

The Roe's reply began with a high-pitched hmph, and she lowered her knife. "He shoulda been here before that, the lazy bum. I coulda filched a chocobo and a cart and done it myself in the time he's taking!"

"No, because you wouldn't, and you don't know anything about successfully harvesting those..." The Lalafell cut her voice to a whisper, suddenly. "Items." The last word was a hiss.

"I could do it if I wanna! I just shouldn't have to!" The Roe's face turned into a pout.

"Just... don't make me say it." The smaller woman stared out into the rain.

"Say what? You've been throwin' that at me for a fortnight now, and I'm gettin' tired of this Midget of Mystery thing you think you have going on! YOU stop it!" She tucked the dagger within her cleavage and folded her arms under her bosom.

The Lalafell cringed at that, and her hands flexed, and began to glow in an orange aura; motes and sparks of flame flew from them. It lasted but for two seconds. She took a pair of breaths, straightened her posture, and directed a powerful stare at her companion, struggling to keep her words to a loud whisper rather than a traveling shout.

"I will tell you once more, and only once more, Melange. The only reasons you are here at all, AT ALL, are for distraction, motivation and eye candy. We will meet our seller, and I am going to give him a ten percent bonus and convince him that the weather will be the perfect cover, to get him to make the haul in the rain and the mud. You are going to do what you do, and wiggle like a cheap courtesan if you have to, to get him to agree, and this time, do not pick his pocket! Just because the Lord favored your bouncy arse in his chambers once, ONCE, Melange, does not mean you are immune to..."

"He was blackmailing me, you know that!" The whiny voice was whinier still.

"Because..." The shout was pulled back into a loud whisper again, and the Lalafell wagged her finger at her tall companion. "Because you can't keep your hands out of pockets, and you are JUST useful enough for that reason, otherwise, he'd have given you to the Yellowjackets instead of bedding you once, ONCE, and hiring your grabby-handed..."

The door to the tavern flung open near them, interrupting, and a pair of dusky Hyuran women bolted past them into the torrents. The Lalafell took another breath, and ran her hand through her hair, continuing before the open-mouthed Roe could interject.

"Just play your role, and we'll be done with this, and you can go back to prancing your way around again, and I can get back to working with him in the lab, and we'll both be happy."

The Roegadyn's mouth opened wide, then clamped shut, and then opened again, and she giggled. "I knew it! Threnn is jealous, Threnn is jealous, nyah!"

The Lalafell glared up at her, and then back at the obscured Aetheryte. "All that meat hanging off you, and you just can't grow up into it, can you? Wise up. He's no longer interested in you, so you'd be wise to just be useful."

"Bah! I've got plenty of use! You ain't so smart." The Roe's hands fell to her hips.

"You might have Obelisk under your finger, but if you don't give him a little something soon, even he's going to get tired of it, and then he won't be there to keep Glimmer from doing to you what you know she'd love to do to you, if she wasn't as dedicated to this project as I am. Now, just be patient, unless you really want to go running out in a storm dressed like we are."

Melange clamped her mouth shut - for a moment. "Fine, fine! But Thal's nuts, where could he be... and why here?"

Threnn waved towards the east, and replied quiety and slowly, in a schoolteacher's tone for a wayward child. "The Mor Dhonan crystals are too stable, too hard to resonate, for this stage. We need something more volatile, and from somewhere that they would just as likely not be missed. Burning Wall meets both those criteria, but it's a dangerous climb, and the Mirrorknights are a constant hazard, and the goods have to get past Highbridge, and... I know we told you this, this morning..."

The Roegadyn woman had already recovered her knife, and was trimming away at her nails again.

"...and you were as attentive, then. Just, pull your top up. You're sagging."

Melange eeped, and tugged upward on her coatee, and the rain continued.

Telluride · **03-05-2015, 08:50 PM**

RESONANCE

Act I, Scene IV

At the Hourglass, in Ul'dah.

"In Lominsa City, where the lasses are pretty,
I met a fair femme; Morning Mist was her name
She served breakfast vittles, made fresh on the griddle;
They tasted right pleasant; her lips did the same..."

The door to his room at the Hourglass shut tightly behind him, the dull thud and click of the latch serving to cut off the simple lyrics, leaving him simply humming along instead; he set his pack at the door, leaving him carrying only the lute, in its hip case, and the massive, gaudy Allagan-style hat, its unrealistic feather fluttering in the breeze of the closing door, that he'd purchased on Pearl Lane but a bell ago.

Dim shadows from the table lamp, glittering from the fireshard used to light it, were cast behind him. The room was neither the cheapest nor the best that the Hourglass had to offer, its decor being a mix of ochre walls and simple, age-faded paintings, but it did offer one particular advantage for a man like himself. It was located in one of the farther corners of the old building, which meant that sounds were less likely to travel both into and out of the room, just the sort of arrangement that suited a bard in need of space and time to practice.

He kept the hummed tune going to himself, and paced the six steps to the modest bed, turning himself to fall rump-first upon it, hat still clutched in his hands. His boots came off with a pair of kicks, and he stretched out, back to the headboard and against the pilow, and set the chapeau upside-down in his lap.

"Now, then, let's see if you're worth spending gil with scavengers." He peered into the bowl of the hat, and again caught sight of what the street seller seemed not to have noticed or cared about, stuffed into a torn seam - a visible corner of worn and discolored parchment sheet, with a pair of what appeared to be musical notes written neatly upon it. Gloved hands reaching into the hat, one pulling the seam apart, and gingerly tugging at the parchment.

By all rights, the thing should have torn, or even crumbled to dust, but with the luck that Oschon reserves for fools, little children and wayward bards, it held together, and within moments, Nathan held before him the small scroll, intact. Much of the writing on it was familiar in style to him, but unintelligible, with what looked like a long title at the top, and a modest paragraph of the unreadable flowing script at the bottom, in what might have once been a deep crimson ink, but which had browned with time and smudging. However, what was between these areas was something that was encouragingly and comfortably familiar to him.

It was musical notation, the full presentation of the tiny pair of notes he'd spotted in the first place.

Though many had considered his traveling troupe of a family to be wild-hearted wastrels, the truth was that they had been dedicated to the musical and performing arts, and that their leaders, the First String herself included, were troves of knowledge about anything related to music, and ensured, through long but passionate lessons, that every member of the group knew and appreciated how to read song transcriptions made by people long dead and whose cultures would otherwise have remained unknown and alien. Nathan could not read the script on much of the page, as achingly familiar as it seemed, but by Oschon's boots, he damn well could make sense of the bars and notes scribed upon the page.

He licked his lips, and peered over the lines. Perhaps the foreign writings might have said something more about key, and which instrument the tune was made for, but there was no use wondering about it for now. He hummed the tune out under his breath, softly, and it was full of rising and suddenly-falling pitch, apparently of drawn and slow-tempoed notes, and he fancied that the light of the lamp flickered almost to the tune of the song. It was quite stirring to him, in fact, even muted, and he felt his pulse rising - it was something he'd never heard, a style he'd not experienced, and that alone made it of immense value.

His hands, in fact, did falter a bit from haste as he reached for the lute case beside him, and released the fasteners, steadying himself enough to remove the ornate instrument with greater care. His blood was stirred; few things, even the tender kiss and embrace of a lover, had ever effected him thus.

He paused to take a few deep breaths, and looped the instrument's strap behind his neck, securing it in place. His hands flexed, working themselves back from eager falterting to the tight control he needed, years of experience finally dampering the excitement of a boy receiving a Starlight gift.

He plucked the first note, felt it resonate, and then the second, proceeding through verse into the bridge; perhaps the song was not meant for a lute, but the instrument made a thing of wonder of it nonetheless, and he swallowed to help keep himself focused, eyes on the page, fingers on strings. The light again seemed to flicker in his imagination as he played, as if the very room itself wished to play along.

At the end of the first iteration of the chorus, something finally permeated the crocodile's smile and the sway of his body as he played - the lamp was, indeed, flickering in the room. No matter; fireshards did not last forever, and it would take only a quick request from the innkeeper to obtain a fresh one. In the meantime, the song must continue just as the show must go on. The notes continued to float from his fingers' skilled touch upon the lute strings, and he felt his pulse quicken again, despite himself, for the song was working itself to a crescendo. The hairs on his arm began to stand on end, and he felt a stiffness in the hair from his head, as well, as if it, too, might be crackling. It reminded him of...

The room filled with a sharp crack, the volume of which subdued the lute, and was plunged into darkness abetted only by the faint starlight coming from the window. The lamp's shard had shattered.

Telluride · **03-05-2015, 08:52 PM**

RESONANCE

Act I, SCENE V

Larkscall, somewhere north of Little Solace

There was a sharp sort of thwip, and a plunk, followed by an eerie mix of sussuration, shriek and rustle.

It was exactly the sort of sound that one would expect from a crossbow bolt piercing and taking down a flying sylph, since that was precisely the source of it. It was a sound that the weapon's wielder had heard numerous times this morning, among the perturbing mix of noises that usually permeated the thickets and bowers of Larkscall: the cries of axebeaks, the splintering crash of angry trees, and the everpresent rustle, rustle, rustle of morbuls, ochu, and the current prey - the purple-hued sylphs that occupied and held the northern reaches of the woodland in the name of their master, Ramuh.

The owner of the crossbow was indeed very much an intruder in these woods, which no one could deny from even the most cursory look of her. Her robe was a rich, lush red that only berries in these woods had any chance of matching, and no berry in the Twelveswood was big enough to pass for the garments of a Roegadyn, even one of the average height for her kind. Her skin was dusky, nearly ashen, with but a hint of glinting blue in her otherwise black hair to offset her Hellsguard origins. To suggest that Obsidian Glimmer stood out among these woods was as astute as suggesting that the sun was bright and warm, or that travel by aetheryte from Limsa Lominsa to Gridania was swifter than walking.

Nonetheless, she was crouched within the branches of a felled dryad, its thick branches not hiding her as much as simply breaking up the obvious contrast of woman to woods; the cover made reloading the crossbow into a chore, snaking it between branches, but it was enough to lure the purple leaf-beings close enough to target with the weapon.

The crossbow itself was something of an awkward thing, anyway. It was heavy, poorly balanced for carrying, and took entirely too long to load, even with a lever, to be of much use in open combat. It was a weapon for a sniper, or an entrenched assassin, or someone who cared only for firing at long-range targets without concern about whether or not one was seen. Glimmer considered herself the latter sort.

As the last of the faint rustlings from the fallen sylph faded, she stood, and lifted the other burdensome object she had with her; it scraped against the leaves and twigs of the dryad. It was a cone of thin, light metal, shaped like a lengthened, acute-angled megaphone, but with a small, box-shaped contraption attached to the thinner mouth. She hoisted it and aimed it at the bolt-pierced corpse of the sylph, narrowed one eye in aim for a moment, and then pressed a button on the mechanism.

A piercing, high-pitched tone practically screamed from the open end of the device, and Glimmer grimaced, even though it was no more than a noise from her end of it. The dead sylph rustled, and a cracking, tinkling sound could be heard within the din.
Glimmer sighed, and lowered the device into the loamy ground. She tapped lightly on one of her pearl earrings, activating the voicelink enchantment, feeling its slight vibration in her earlobe.

A crisp masculine voice sounded in her hearing. "What news?"

She dug her boot's heel into the dirt. "Not enough volatility, I'm afraid, sir. The crystals are responding to the resonator, but only cracking. I suspect either that their matrix is still too stable, or else the resonance is being affected by the delivery method. You're getting results, sir, but not the ones you want, yet."

"Are they breaking on impact?"

"No, sir," she said. "I chose sylphs to minimize that possibility. This last one was a clean hit, total penetration, but still a subpar reaction from the tone. Could it be a question of scaling?"

"We don't dare discount that, but if we can't get them to work with the quarrels, then we are stalled on the next two stages. Recover the spent crystals, and return as soon as you can. We will have the next shipment within two suns, and I'll need your skills back here. End transmission."

She squeezed the pearl to end the spell, and her face scrunched; the only sound left was the eternal rustling of Larkscall. It did seem a bit...

"Noisy one is there! Noisy one is murdering one! Teach noisy one not to invade our home!"

The voices were the shrill notes of tempered sylphs, and she spun in place, still among the dryad's wilting foliage. Three, no, four of the purple-tinted leaf beings were flitting her way, a few dozen fulms from her, and they were already starting to crackle with the corruscations of angry spellbinding.

She glanced at her equipment - the crossbow was unloaded, would take to long to load, and it would be looked down upon to waste the crystal-tipped bolts any further. The cone-shaped resonator would need a charge.

Neither one mattered.

She took a pair of long steps backwards, moving away from the dryad's foliage and putting it between themselves and her, and she seized the slim black wand at her belt.

"Come on, then, you nasty little vegetables. You can tell Ramuh about me when your aether goes to meet him!"

Pale yellow flames enveloped her hands, and the wand, in a bright, hot aura, and she gave the encroaching creatures her wickedest smile.

Telluride · **04-18-2015, 03:41 PM**

RESONANCE
ACT I, SCENE VI

The Wanderer's Lantern Inn, in the Lavender Beds

(Special acknowledgements go to Kiht'li Jinjahl, Ereshkigal Atropos, and Lottie Forsaidh for their contributions to this installment, which is derived from our RP logs. Thanks to all three of you!)

From the outside, one could be forgiven for missing the place. It wasn't the largest edifice in this part of the Gridanian village, and was nestled between two larger properties. The front gate featured lively woodwork, true, and the sign of the Tonberry was distinct enough, but the place had an air of being satisfied with its position as a locals' favorite rather than a grand destination. The Sakura trees in the yard, in full pink bloom with the season, obscured much of the outside save the path to the door, giving those wandering in a feeling of sanctuary under the warm-tinged and dappled shadows. Despite the isolation, the place did have the benefit of being quite near to one of the more prominent market and advertising boards in the area, and got just enough curious clientele from foot traffic to keep it in a comfortable business without driving the regulars off.

It was a connoisseur's sort of inn, in truth, trusting to its curious and distinct house beverages, and perhaps a little bit to the entertainment room below, to build its reputation, one that they hoped would be as potent and persistent as the little green entities whose images decorated wall and rug, and for whom the house's most powerful concoction, the Tonberry Tonic, took its inspiration.

For all this, though, the tall bard was, for once, not there to drink, at least not more than was proper for taking up time at one of the cozy tables near the fireplace; he had been satisfied with a mug of the house mead, the better to ruminate. He sat alone, for the moment, content to watch the interaction between the regulars; the lady of his favor had promised to come by eventually in the evening, once her appointed tasks were completed. A clutch of off-duty soldiers were sharing a raucous tale by the bar, something about a goobbue and spell-flinging, and he caught the occasional glance from the well-formed barkeeper, a woman of highland blood; he wondered, idly, whether their usual barkeep - a fetching Roegadyn woman, spicy of both skin tone and disposition - was off that night.

He'd taken a bit of time to converse, briefly, with Ereshkigal, upon arriving, speaking softly to her of the request he'd made a fortnight before though, she'd had her hands full with patrons for much of the evening. He watched her bustle about the tavern floor, looking every bit the perky mix of scholar and businesswoman she'd become, styled pigtails flouncing as she stepped, tail picking up effortlessly with each spin to avoid swatting chairs and guests, and her well-fit dress of Limsan cut making her the model for barmaids everywhere, even though she was, for all intents, the owner of the establishment. There had been a time when she was simply a digger and a scholar, spending time in caves and in study of rocks and lost history, and he had been fresh from his shepherding days, not having found his audience, relying on his skill with the bow to earn gil guarding her excavation team. There had even been a time of greater closeness between them, but it had melded into a solid friendship as each of them, having a dream bigger than simple dalliance, chose a separate path. Odd, in retrospect, that it should bring them both into the business of entertaining tavern patrons, in their own ways.

The door opened, letting in a cool breeze, and into the room stepped a Miqo'te male of the same scholarly disposition that he had once associated with Eresh herself. He was clad in a green robe, of a fashion commonly seen among Limsan arcanists, and his skin and well-groomed hair were a grey that reminded the bard of pipe-smoke. The bard recognized him, from a pair of brief encounters, as the personage he had come to see this evening: Kiht'li Jinjahl, Eresh's brother.

"Dare I ask?" The miqo'te in question directed a gaze across the tavern, as his eye fell upon the owner.

Eresh herself turned to face him, and waved. "We're up and running." She stepped through the small crowd, to take her brother's arm. "Come this way. You have someone waiting."

The bard took a quick sip from his mug, and eyed the two as they interacted.

"We're open? And who needs what?" The learned Miqo'te allowed himself to be escorted through the crowd.

Eresh nodded in the bard's direction. "Nathan requested to speak to you about your skills."

The thus-named bard nodded, suppressing the amused thoughts brought on by her phrasing, and politely gestured them over, addressing Kiht directly when the pair reached the table. "That I did. I was hoping I might have a few moments of your time." He could sense the gears turning in the Miqo'te's head as the answer came.

"I see; it's been some time Nathan. I trust you are well? How can I be of assistance?" The scholar settled at the table.

Ereshkigal, harried by the customers and business, interrupted with a quick practicality directed at both bard and brother. "If you need anything, let me know. And then tell me all about this meeting. You boys have me curious." She stepped away, to have a quick word with the patrons, and check on the hyuran bartender, who was humming to herself and cleaning the bar top, possibly thankful for a break in the action.

The bard patted his tunic, and took another sip of the mead, before replying. "I'm well enough, sir, but I am hoping that you might have the scholarly range to help me with a little puzzle. It seems like something I -should- know, but... well, is there a private room where we might share a few words? Nothing hostile, just a matter that a little less cacophony would help with."

The scholar across from him must have been curious, but he reacted promptly. "We can step to Eresh's office, if she doesn't mind."

The woman herself had apparently heard her name, and smiled a quick goodbye to one of the patrons before calling over to them. "You boys can head on there now if you'd like. Let me know if I need to bring room service."

Kiht stepped from the table. "If you will then my friend, we'll see what we can discover." He turned, and gestured for the bard to follow. "You do know the way to my dear sister's room, right?"

Nathan clucked his tongue, likewise getting to his feet from the table. "I'm sure I can find it."

"You mean you've never been? Twelve blessed..." The bard found himself the target of the sort of amused glance that he was more used to directing at others, than receiving himself. "Allow me to buy you a drink in celebration of finding the lone highlander in Eorzea that hasn't found himself there."

Nathan glanced briefly toward Eresh, who by accident or design, was not looking at them, and shrugged, following Kiht to the back of the tavern, and through the door into the staff's quarters.

Another door admitted them into an ornately laid-out office, serving as both meeting space and the proprietress' personal quarters in the back. The two males disregarded the bed and living space, and ignored her meeting desk and its two chairs to take seats across from each other at the large wooden meeting table within.

"Now, what have you brought me?" The scholar's tone was calm and collected; betraying neither undue curiosity nor annoyance.

Nathan had taken the few strides to the table, taking in the layout of the place; as he sat, his gaze lingered a bit longer on the room's light source: an ornate chandelier consisting of lit and hanging suns and stars and moons. It was very much the sort of fixture he himself would favor, if he ever meant to have a house of his own, and gave off a bright yellow glow which lent the wood furniture a certain warmth. He had spent a full few seconds wondering what exactly was lit in the fixtures - there was no tell-tale flickering to suggest flame - before he focused back on the other male to answer.

"Something I can't read, and that I hope you might at least help me with, if it is familiar to you." The bard removed the crumpled and smoothed-over parchment from the relative safety of his tunic pocket, and slid it across the table. He felt a slight hitch in his own breath, and blinked to ward off the feeling.

Kiht pushed his glasses up and arched a dark brow, savvy enough, apparently, to catch the hyur's hesitation. "Hmmm, odd that you'd..." his gaze slid over the document and his brows rose considerably. â€œWell now, something you don't see often. High Allagan script? I haven't seen this in ages..."The scholar trailed his fingers over the strange letters. "Hmmmm....interesting. Where did you find this, if I can ask?"

Nathan leaned forward, peering at the page, a memory of tinkling crystal rising and falling away in his thoughts. "The musical notation is no mystery. It's older, but I've played harder. I know it works..." He paused, holding back a further thought. "But, I feel I need to know what's on the rest of the page. Allagan, you say? I've seen bits of that, but I can't read the stuff." He chewed his lip, tying to derive motivation from the slight pain. "It was stuffed in something I bought from a peddler in Uldah. I... played the notes. It's a compelling song, but... you can read it, then?"

Kiht nodded, still tracing his fingers along the script, his eyes shifting over the foreign characters. "Hmmm? Oh yes.... Reshie didn't tell you I studied this at the Academy?"

The bard's shoulders relaxed of their own accord, barely visible, likely, but his nerves could not be convinced of it; he shook his head. "Not specifically, but I haven't many scholarly contacts, and I was taking a gamble that you might at least have a lead to offer. Usually, I wouldn't be quite so concerned about a song, but... this one, I played, and it's left me with a painfully compelling need to know more."

The other canted his head, his gaze on the aged document seeming to fall upon the less legible portions of it. Growling softly, he muttered to himself, eyes suggesting that he was rereading the part before and after. "Dammit... â€œThe word was followed by a snarl, which took Nathan by surprise, which the bard hoped he successfully stifled. â€œPlease tell me you didn't smudge this." The scholar finished.

Nerved frayed by swirling thoughts of possibility and nightmare, the bard was taken aback enough to find his hand held to his chest, in the fashion of both guilty and surprised alike. "Me, sir? No, not I. The words were as they appear when I found it. Its previous owner didn't even know it was there, I don't think, else I'd not have it in my possession. Is... is it bad?" His fingers drummed the table.

"No. I should have expected not, as you are friends with my sister. Reshie and I share a passion for preserving such things.... Oh yes, the text... well let me write out what I can make of it and we'll see what you think? Personally, I find it fascinating."

Kiht rose from the table, and after a few steps, returned with a bottle of ink, a fresh quill and a sheaf of parchment from the workdesk. He was smiling as he sat, and the practiced hands were soon dancing ink upon the fresh page, looking back and forth between paper old and new.

A lump formed in Nathan's belly, and he chewed his lip once more, looking back and forth between the document and the scholar. "Fascinating is a good thing, in this case, I hope?" His bootheel dragged over the floor, leaving a jarring squeak than maybe only the bard himself heard. The squeak was drowned, though, in the click of the room's door opening, and the sound of swishing cloth and two pairs of footsteps.

"Your lady friend has arrived, Nathan."

Ereshkigal stepped through the door, her gait the same collected sway as before; behind her followed a woman of long red hair, Midland stock and wearing the light, flowing robes of a Gridanian healer and conjurer. Eresh motioned to the table, bringing her attention to the robed woman, who walked in with a steady, but perhaps slowed pace. "Go on and have a seat, hun. You three need anything from the bar or kitchen?"

Lottie Forsaidh 's eyes finally lifted from her quietude to fall upon Ereshkigal; she shook her head slowly. "Nay, thank you." She murmured, her voice quieting.

The bard's brow furrowed; he was torn between lurid fascination over the scholar's activity, and the sight of the lovely midlander. "Lottie? Well, I suppose this is not a matter of terrible secrecy..." He looked up to Kiht, eyes widening. "Is it?"

Kiht'li continued to neatly write out the sentences as he translated them, pausing only to look up at Eresh. " Hmmmm? What? Another? One of yours, Nathan?" He inclined his head, still focused on the task. "Apologies, but we'll have introductions later."

Eresh shook her head at her brother, chuckling softly. "Nope, no customers for you." She offered up a cheery smile to the room, and stepped back out into the tavern's bustle.

Nathan steepled his fingers together on the table; hoping that would still them; his nerves were frayed already. What would she think of all this? "Ah, Lottie, you remember Kiht'li, from our last evening here?"

The midlander's reply was subdued, but polite. "I have. I'm happy to see you both again."

Both Hyur turned their heads to watch the scholar work. Outwardly calm, both, Nathan still felt a stirring of sprites in his stomach, and tried to sneak sideward glances at the lady, in a balance of both tight concern and shoulder-relaxing relief to see her.

Kiht's scribing subsided. "Hmmm. Other than the parts I cannot make out due to smudging, this is what your piece says." He slid the paper over to Nathan.

Nathan Telluride grasped at it as if it were a drink at last call after a horrible evening. He wasted no time in scanning over the words, eyes frantically darting over the page, teeth nearly making a meal of his own inner cheek in seeing the results of the scholar's work.

The title was simple enough: â€œCrystal Fugue.â€ The original was followed by the songâ€™s musical notation, which Nathan had no trouble understanding, still, but the scholar had transformed the old characters of the final message beneath the music into something more legible:

â€œMy Lord and Emperor:

As your humble servant, it is my role to support your will with all the skills and powers given to me to do so, just as I was able to resurrect you from the void. To promote your ends, I offer you this masterpiece of compositions, the playing of which will strike her at the very foundations of herâ€¦â€

The translation noted that a smudge had followed, but continued to the next paragraph.

â€œWith her resistance shattered,â€ A smudge had followed, again, the notes clarified. â€œâ€¦and the void need have no hold upon your empire. Should the very world oppose you, then this song will unmake the world.â€

Kiht'li raised a finger, to point out the translation's highlights. " 'Crystal Fugue', and here regarding, â€˜My Lord and Emperor.' It appears that this piece was intended to do more than simply delight the ears, Master Bard; however, the lines of text that have been smeared render a full translation impossible. I could only guess and speculate regarding them, something I'm loathe to do."

The bard blanched at the mention of crystal, and his knuckles cracked from the pressure he put on the table with suddenly flattened hands. "Emperor? Allagan script, and Emperor... somehow, I feel I should be even more worried than I am, and I'm already feeling a chill." He threw a quick glance at Lottie, trying to force a smile, but even inside, he felt it was unconvincing. The woman herself seemed briefly lost, eyebrows lifting and fixating toward the two males.

Kiht'li Jinjahl looked up at the man and canted his head again, thickly rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. "Hmmmm? Ah you seem apprehensive about this, sir. Surely you don't feel this piece would invoke some lost magick or summon forth a daemon or voidsent to lay waste to us all?" His tone was light and seemingly humor filled.

Lottie broke her silence swiftly. "I pray it wouldn't."

The scholar reached to push his glasses back up on his nose. "Nathan, is there something youâ€™re not telling me about this document?"

Nathan Telluride lifted his chin, but looked not at Kiht, or Lottie, but at the light fixture above them, and continued to stare at the lights for another moment before replying. "The song, in particular. It has me concerned. I played it, and... well, maybe it was an incredible coincidence, but, I don't think so. I think this.... this may be some lost bardic melody, like the ones we play to inspire mages and warriors."

Kiht'li Jinjahl let a single brow arch behind his glasses. "While it is true that your kind have made an art out of fusing the power of both verbal chant and music into an unusual form of spellweaving, I've never heard of those songs being able to inspire more than a handful of people at a time, let alone summon the sort of power this one hints at."

Nathan's breath caught, and he looked towards Lottie, care for her, and worry about her reaction both clawing at his guts. "You're a mage, love. Maybe this may make some sense to you?"

She directed a look at him, and his anxiety made it hard for him to read. "Do you speak of invoking the soul with song fueled by aether?"

Nathan shook his head vigorously - a denial much more emphatic than his usual sort. "No, no souls, not that I know." He peered at the translation, and whispered aloud, "Resistance, shattered... Twelve forfend."

The bard took a long breath, and turned back to the scholar. "Do you happen to know if Eresh lights her room with shards of any kind?"

The scholar remained steady in demeanor â€œTo my knowledge the whole house is illuminated in much the same manner as most, that being crystal shards as flame has proven to be ... unstable."

Nathan glanced up at the light fixture again, peering at it rather too directly. The shapes of the celestial objects danced in his thoughts as the bright yellow light danced in his vision, leading to images of moons, stars, shattering in his mind's eye. It was not certain how long he might have remained thus spellbound, for the room's door opened to admit the proprietress once more, a drink in her hand, tail trailing behind her. Eresh sat at the table, quietly.

Kiht also broke the bard's reverie. "Are you implying that you played this song, and...â€ He gestured vaguely to the lighting at the ceiling. "The crystals responded?"

Lottie smiled at Eresh as the miqo'te settled herself, but offered no verbal response.

The bard was used to banter. He could deflect questions with practiced ease. Silence, though, was not his best element. He took another labored breath, looked at the translation once more, and then faced Kiht. "Not simply responded. Shattered. I had a fireshard lighting the room the first time I played it. It practically exploded when the song ended, and then, I tested it again, with an Earth shard that I purchased. I got the same result - the song, well, shattered it somehow. I tried to stay away from a large formation of aetheryte, but..." His nose wrinkled. "This translation is word for word?"

Kiht'li managed to look mildly offended. "It is word for word, sir." His sister snickered softly.

Nathan's eyes locked on the translation, and he made an effort to steady his breathing. "Maybe I am over-reacting; the effect caught me by surprise. After all, bards are known for being overdramatic, but... this could be something of real note."
Lottie's eyebrows furrowed, and then her form seemed to jolt to life; she said only a soft "Pardon," before sliding closer to the document.

The scholar sighed and muttered something before returning his gaze to Nathan. "So you claim to have played this, and the crystals shattered? Perhaps it's less to do with magic and more to do with the resonance and tone? At the proper pitch, a chord struck on your harp could shatter glass."

Nathan Telluride sets his hand on the lute case at his hip; it was reflex more than intent. "I could play the melody - it's a haunting thing, but not immediately sinister. I don't want to ruin Eresh's ornate chandelier, though, if this was not some cosmic coincidence. As for glass, well, I first played it at an Inn, and the windows remained perfectly intact."

Ereshkigal arched a brow herself. "Please, leave the inn first. I've heard enough of this conversation to know better than to allow it."

The pointed request seemed to have a calming effect on the bard; several butterflies departed. Eresh always did have a way of defusing problem conversations, something which had endeared her to him in times past. "Which is why I'm not simply demonstrating, my dear."

Eresh flashed him a bright smile. "Thank you for that."

The bard lifted the translation, and looked at it as if it were a dozen malms away. "So. Now, what do I do with a song that plays havoc with aetheric crystals? Gods know what I could do... and what I probably shouldn't."

Eresh tilted her head, her drink apparently yet untouched. "Have you thought about attempting it around the negative aetheric crystals?"

Lottie's voice pierced the room, its absence from the earlier conversation lending force to her words. "Burn it."

The bard's heart skipped a beat, and he turned to her. He paused, quiet, unmoving; inside he felt as if cold water had been splashed with him. "I ought to have some long-winded reply to that, love, but... I'm not sure what to think."

Lottie's voice was mellower, more filled with the lilt of sweeter calm, as she replied. "My heart adores adventure, Nathan, you know this. But years of training beneath the conjurors bid me to pay mind to the possible dangers that arrive."

Kiht was fast to interject. "And the preservationist and historian in me demands that we seal the document and attempt to study it."

The bard felt a tugging within him as if a rope was being pulled through his innards, and he sat up straight, mind reeling, words coming in starts, as the two ideas wrestled with each other. Finally, he looked to Lottie. "That's... that's a concern. I've only played with shards, love, toys... but I have no idea what this thing can do, if I brought it near an Aetheryte... or, gods forbid... a chorus of bards to Mor Dhona... but still, I have no idea what this thing could really accomplish. Could the Allagan truly do what this dramatic scribble suggests?"

Lottie Forsaidh 's sunset gaze wandered to Kiht, likely anticipating his reaction. "There are particular groups of thieves and bandits who may hear whisper of its existence and attempt to steal it." Her lips twisted with confusion. "What happens then?"

The scholar remained adamant. "Then we set the resident mercenaries upon them and beat them off like the craven fools they are."

Lottie, too, was fast on the response. "If it is possible. Even the Lambs of Dalamud existed despite the watchful gaze of the Wailers - thousands died before they were apprehended. â€œHer finger tapped delicately at the table, "How many days would pass before these bandits would be caught for their crimes? How many people would they encounter, I wonder?"

Kiht's brow revealed his discomfiture. "Do you always find the ones that seem to seek out the most negative and violent endings to your tales, Master Bard?"

Nathan bit his tongue at that; there was no way the Miqo'te could know exactly the stories that he and Lottie had shared, of their past tragedies, and how they drew strength from them, and from each other, choosing life and dreams over dwelling in defeat. He traced his fingers over the notes, slowly, almost reverently. "Imagine, though, what effect could this have in beating back the beast tribes and their primals." He went back to chewing his poor, abused lip.

Ereshkigal looked between the three. "I'm sorry, but am I the only one who wants to see what happens when that is played around the various crystals?"

Lottie's eyebrows lifted. "Negative." Her elbows leaned against the table. "Pray forgive me if I care to not take unnecessary risks to abide personal vices, Mister Kiht'li."

Nathan's head swarmed with stories, stories yet untold, of great battles between wailing primals, assaults on the Garlean enemy, shrieking Ixals standing within the broken shards of shattered aether crystals. "But, still, I concede that she has a point. One bard, with this song, could wreak horrible havoc, if this is what it sounds like. Mor Dhona..." He lifted the brim of his hat, though it seemed to weigh five times as much as it should have.

Lottie looked at him, and it seemed as if a weight was lifted from her; her shoulders seemed to lose their tightness.

Kiht shrugged and laughed softly. "Ah, but it matters not, as it is your document, sir. I'd ask that you leave it behind if you intend to discard or destroy it." He paused at the conjuror's suggestion. "A weapon? Such is the nature of men and certain women: give you a piece of lore and history, and you immediately seek to turn it to use dominating others."

Ereshkigal sighed, her expression a crestfallen one, and she muttered. "No love for the science behind it all."

Nathan set his jaw, feeling the tension fill the room, and let old habits attempt to break it. He looked up at Eresh. "And here, you were asking me to take it outside. I could risk your chandelier on a demonstration."

The hostess blinked at him. "I'm not saying in here!" She shook her head vigorously. "No, I know of a place we used to go where we experimented with blowing things up."

Kiht remained solid in posture, his composure apparently untouched. "Sister mine, I've every bit the curiosity that you have regarding this. However the Bard's mistress seems to believe that naught but ill will come our way. Should he leave the piece here and we find ourselves besieged by thieves, we'll at least have an idea of who sent them. But again my part in this is played out it seems: you've your translation, sir. I bid you all good eve." The scholar strode towards the door, offering a final farewell gesture as he took his leave. Lottie inclined her head to him as he passed.

Nathan cleared some cobwebs from his thoughts, and rubbed his chin. "Eresh, this place you describe. How secure is it?"

The miqo'te paused; her glanced shift side to side, and it was her lip that was chewed upon this time. "Umm, itâ€™s an open desert with nothing around it. So, secure how?"

The bard paused with her, his own insides feeling like a dust devil. No, there was no real choice but to confront the uncertainty, and he addressed the Hyuran conjuror. "This puts dread in you, doesn't it, love?"

Lottie's reply was swift. "Uncertainty. But I do not govern your actions; you're free to do as you wish."

Nathan set his hands still on the table. "Then, I have a thought. Eresh, you know about keeping destructive forces under wraps. Twelve knows you've handled pyromaniac mages for uncounted moons, right?"

Eresh nodded and chuckled softly. "Yes, I do."

Nathan felt a lightness of his own, in his stomach. "Then, let's let a field test decide. No one but the four of us knows of this thing. I'd like to see what it would do to a bigger crystal, in a safe place, but..." He paused. "If it is too much of a risk to the world, we will consider disposing of the document. Is that a fair thought to all?"

Eresh nodded excitedly, turning her attention to Lottie. "Pleeeeease?"

The conjuror smiled, "Yes, we may."

Eresh clapped her hands, wiggling excitedly in her seat. She turns her attention back to Nathan. "So, when do we do this?"

The bard still grappled with the storm in his head. Lottie seemed to have warmed up a bit to it, but he knew her well enough to suspect that further convincing might be needed; the miqo'te's, reaction though, gave him pause; he'd not seen Ereshkigal so excited about anything in a long time. Outwardly, he could only sigh deep enough to leave him gasping for air. "Soon. In the meantime, if it makes everyone feel better, we can leave this document here. I don't know of anyone else I'd trust with it besides you two ladies, and Kiht."

Eresh shrugged. "Up to you. I know a safe place to put, it but I'll leave that up to your discretion."

Nathan licked his lips. "Well, I trust myself, most of all - I simply wanted to show a little caution. I've no issue keeping the thing. Kiht's already translated it." And, I've already memorized the song, he thought to himself.

Lottie gave him a direct look. "I'd feel comfortable if it was in our room. I have been gifted with a flower press; we can rest it between a layer of wax paper. It's least likely to be found even by the passing, curious cleaning lady." Her tone was even; the request seemed reasonable enough.

If Eresh pouted just a little when she leaned forward, he pretended not to notice. "Just be safe with it, Nathan. You're too good to lose. Be extra careful."

He returned a brisk nod. "I think that's a fair compromise. Unless I was heard before, which I don't think I was, no one's actually played this song, or knows its notes, but myself. The seller, as I mentioned, didn't even know it was hidden in the item I bought." He looked at the two pages on the table - the transcription, and the original. So much potential trouble, possible destruction, or power... He slapped his palms on the table, with an air of finality, and reached for them, rolling them into separate scrolls, his hands gentle with years of instrument practice.

Lottie nodded a slow acquiescence, leaning back into her seat. "It relieves me to see that you are taking this so seriously; I pardon for my stance as well. I might seem slightly different."

He felt his shoulders slump. The conjuror had seen plenty of pain and destruction in her life, this he knew. The two of them had spent a number of nights in each otherâ€™s arms, mutually relieved to have someone who knew tragedy, understood it, and yet, determined to live onward despite it. If the two Miqo'te were dubious of her hesitation, he could understand it, but twisted bits of memories, of fire and screams and feathered killers, made him sympathetic to Lottie's thoughts, for more reasons than his attraction to her.

"I do hope you'll forgive me not being my usual jovial self, both of you. This has been hanging over me for some time now, and it may still be. But at least I know what it says, though that does not make me feel rather better at all." He looked at the rolled documents in his hand; the feel of the parchment on his calloused fingertips dominated his consciousness for a moment.

Eresh piped up a cheery response. "You're fine. You know I've got your back no matter what."

The bard hesitated but a moment. "Eresh, no one else must not know anything about this. At all."

The miqo'te waved him off. "Pft. With you two being this concerned about it, I wouldn't say anything to anyone."

Nathan turned to Lottie. The whirlwind in his thoughts still spun; perhaps it was time to let it loose, to dissipate. "Love, I know you have danced with, and faced, some magical horrors in your past, and survived them. I know so little of magery, really, and apparently not enough of history. Bard song or not, I am a bit out of my element."

Her demeanor remained even and calm. "Then we'll behave accordingly from then on, and see where it takes us."

He tucked the scrolls into a pouch at his belt, feeling much more grounded, as if his feet had touched the floor for the first time in hours. "I thank both of you, and Eresh, please also give my thanks to your brother, for his time and expertise." He looked to Lottie. "I think I'd rather like to stay in the inn tonight, love, and let sunrise bring some fresh perspective." The smile he offered must certainly have been tainted by the weariness he felt within.

The hostess pushed her chair from the table, and stood. "If you two need anything, let us know. We'll do what we can. I'll return in just a moment with a key."

Lottie offered a smile and a bow of her head, "Thank you for your hospitality." The words followed the hostess as she stepped out of the office, and Nathan watched the door close behind her, before setting a hand softly on Lottie's shoulder. "A white witch is suddenly someone I think I need at the moment."

Anything else he might have said was cut off by the quick return of their hostess, her tail swishing behind her; Eresh stepped over to them, and offered a key to Nathan. "Go get your rest."

The entire evening must have come crashing down upon his thoughts; he looked up at the chandelier, its lights piercing his vision, and he rubbed his forehead as if to massage away the concern, and the pounding it left in his head. What does the fool do when the power of kings and mages falls into his hands? "Thank you, Eresh, for everything. Your inn is quite the place, my dear. I'd hate to have broken the fixtures.

Eresh smirked at him. "I'd appreciate you didn't, but you're both welcome. You know I'm here for whatever you need. Take your woman and head on to the room. No need in keeping her up." She tweaked the smirk into a final, warm smile, and paced from the room, leaving the two Hyur to themselves.

With the miqo'te gone, Lottie beamed up at him, looking more sheepish than she had seemed in many suns. "I fear of snoring the paint off the walls; Iâ€™m dreadfully tired tonight.â€

He pushed himself from the table and stood, reaching out to her. She was always lovely, but something in the weariness of the evening, of the subject at hand, seemed to frame her in an ethereal beauty, to him. Perhaps it was relief. Perhaps it was anticipation, or hope, or the promise of rest. Perhaps it was simply the passing of apprehension from his spirit, a weight that had already begun to lift, now that his secret had been shared, and accepted. "Let's enjoy the comfort while we can, and let the sun give us inspirations come the morn."

She took his hand. "...Or perhaps promise that tonight is behind us. Today has been particularly draining on me."

They walked like refugees from the office, and up to the inn's suites. If the Crystal Fugue's notes resonated in his thoughts, he focused on the touch of her fingers upon his palm, and the noise abated.

END OF ACT I

Telluride · **03-14-2016, 12:14 PM**

RESONANCE

ACT II, SCENE I

The cave behind Burgundy Falls, southwest of Highbridge, in Eastern Thanalan. Dusk.

A breeze had picked up in the pockets of broken land east of Highbridge. The area was already slightly cooler than the parched lands to the bridge's west, pocked as it was by projecting rockfaces and the sparse yet persistent grasses and thin trees that dared to take root in the sandy soils, giving shelter to the Qiqirn and the phurbles that made the area into a home.

Cooler still was the cave interior. Burgundy Falls splashed into the skinny waterway just outside the cave, and the flowing breezes blew the resulting mists into the cave mouth, and collecting in a deep pool within, making it a solace for travelers. There was said to be gold dust in the bottom of the pool, and veins of gold within the walls, but no miners were there today, and the lone figure within the cave at the moment carried neither pick nor pan for prospecting.

Instead, the tall Hyur was dressed entirely in greys and deep brown leathers, a muted choice that would have surprised those who knew him. The vest covered his torso but left his arms bare, and airborne dust and misty air had formed a dirty sheen on the exposed skin. The pants were simple and tough leather, as were the boots. Only the long and gaudily-decorated case hanging from his back by a strap, and the feathered hat on his head, betrayed the man as anything but a simple foot traveler or worn courier.

He was seated against a rock next to the pool, and took a moment to wipe the grimy dust from his forehead and cheek with a silk handkerchief. It had been a good hike from Camp Drybone, where he'd left his chocobo stabled. The walk, though hot and dry, had done him some good, he felt, and there was no sense risking the faithful bird in whatever his actions might incur. He patted a pocket at his chest, and opened it to place the bit of stained silk back within. There might have been a piece of parchment there, could have been, but his attempts to recover it had gone awry, in ways both heart-wrenching and invigorating. The memories flashed like a pulse through him, bringing the sound of his blood pumping in his head to attention. She'd have had a fit if she knew what he'd been after, but he really didn't need it. After all, what bard worth his hat couldn't memorize a song?

He rubbed his forehead, squeezed the memory back into storage. Things were different now, and the world perhaps a bit colder, but wider, more open, filling his gut with hints of butterflies he'd not felt for a long time, not since nights camped out in Swiftperch with but a dim campfire, his instrument and a small cup of broth to keep him company. Those nights were chapters past, but the lessons from them, and the sights of bright stars and the lit spires of Limsa Lominsa in the distance, had not been forgotten, only stowed.

Or, maybe he'd not learned a damn thing in an entire cycle. The thought made his face crack in a smile, and shake his head. He was here, after all, doing something he'd put off for a year, for her sake, for a lack of need, or drive. But Nathan Telluride was a man who knew what his gifts were, and weren't, and when a chance came to use them, he could be more stubborn than a wart, even if it cost him dearly, which, in a sense, it had.

But a doorway opened, and not passed through, was an affront to Oschon, and thus, here he was.

He stood, stretched, and scratched, imagining he must look every bit like some discarded refugee who, maybe, had simply robbed a real bard of hat and instrument along his travels. Maybe there was some truth to it, but night was falling, and a sense of urgency stirred his legs to life and banished thoughts of philosophy for the moment.

Through the other end of the cave, as he came to it, the Burning Wall glowed like a sea of frozen, floating candles.

It was, of course, aether: aether corrupted, crystallized, left upon the landscape in a iconoclastic reminder to the races of Eorzea that all they built could be destroyed, and that there would always be forces they could not control. It had no purpose but to be a blight, a reminder, one all the more effective for the brash beauty of it. That corruption and destruction could be scenic, compelling, was but a further jab to those who would seek to control and shape the fabric of Hydaelyn herself.

And thus could a bard feel no guilt about giving it his own little test.

He stopped just outside the cave entrance, and looked to his right. A relatively small crystal, only eight fulms high and four wide in branching measurements, was there, unconnected to the greater formations of the area; he reached for it with a gloved hand, gave it a push, ensured that it was solid. It wasn't a simple shard, and yet, it wasn't so big that it might obliterate the landscape. It would do, and he had his plan.

He stepped back into the cave, which angled enough to take him out of view of the crystal, and unslung the lute case from his shoulders, setting it to the ground, and opening it to reveal the green-gilted instrument, his family's legacy, his one connection to them and all he was, all he wanted to be. He reviewed the plan in his head once more, as he lifted the instrument, and set it in place before him, checking the tune with a few plucks as much from instinct as need. It was simple - stay in the cave and let the natural acoustics carry the sound like a funnel, and test the effect. He'd be sheltered from the results, and risk no more than perhaps a phurble and the sheer rockface itself. Anyone coming up the path before him would have been there for likely no good purpose, anyway, seeing as the winding rock led through naught but the crystals, coblyns and some of the winged monstrosities below that never left the crystals, likely drawing sustenance from them in some way. Let them wonder at what might happen.

He took a long breath, and stared for long moments through the cave opening, letting himself fall back into memories of faces. He blinked, cleared his throat, and strummed the opening chord.

The sound echoed through the cave, carried along by and ricocheting against the walls; the plan seemed to be working. He attuned his breathing to the difficult rhythm, putting his whole body into generating the song. Was this how the ancient bards felt - elated, powerful, as if their very forms were merging with their songs, their voices, spreading power to those they hoped to inspire? Was this something like... what mages must feel? He almost slipped on the sudden thought, but discipline held out over thinking, and he adhered to the tune.

He felt a resonance, a vibration, as if it were suffusing the very air around him; he'd felt it before, in practice, but the cave amplified it, too. Dust and dirt fell from a section of the cave wall behind him. But on he played.

The second verse began - this was when the shards from his earlier attempts had begun to shimmer, as if taking notice of the music; more dust fell. His heart raced, feet tapped.

A keening sound came from the mouth of the cave, where he knew the crystal to be. He played on.

Heat, determination, anticipation seemed to coalesce in the sheen of sweat spreading across his arms. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed at it, hastily. No stopping... and his mind seemed to raise a surge of pressure in his skull, but he willed it back. Was he not a man, a man who could choose, or would be be gripped for the rest of his life by concern, fear that he dare not assert himself, ever, that he was indeed just some sort of manchild? No... the word echoed in his mind as the building notes did in the cave. A man finds his will and makes it known. Faces seemed to arise in his thoughts again, some contorted in argument, others in open smiles of encouragement.

He played on. His fingers began to ache.

The wall thirty yalms behind him burst, a sound of shattering and crashing, sending dust and grit into the damp air of the cave. It was too far away to impact him, thank the Twelve; but why... unmined shards? It could be... and his fingers, unrelenting and unheeding in their motions, played on...

And a sound of a hell unleashed followed. It was sharp, explosive, alive with crashes and tinkling and it seemed to boil the very air, and... a shock wave pushed him near from his feet, only reflexes keeping him afoot, and a booming echo in his ears nearly deafened him, leaving a whine in his hearing as he recovered.

The scene from the cave mouth looked as if sparks from a million bonfires had congregated into the air, flying fast and freely, some settling to fall, others still arcing skyward, illuminating dust that had been thrown into the air. In the distance, the wall still burned as it always had... he stepped closer, moving the lute to hang from his back again, a perhaps damned curiosity driving him forward.

The wall still glowed... minus the outline of a sphere. It was not eight fulms. Sparks and glittering pieces of fading orange crystal glittered in a globe of dusty, dying light, a hundred yalms from the cave mouth. He could see just enough of the winding, rocky path beyond to give a thought to it - scathed. It was as if a sandstorm of godly strength, or a mad primal, had blasted all in the sphere into ash, motes and scoured rock. Winds were already carrying traces of light and ash into the air. If there had been coblyns, or ought else in that sphere, they could be naught but ashes, wet or dry.

The bard stood limply in the cave mouth, feeling nothing but throbbing, hearing naught but the high-pitched whine in his ears.

It was likely that Highbridge would have stories to tell travelers of the night that pocked the Burning Wall. It would be said that corpses of the winged humanoids, battered as if by the fist of a god, would be found decomposing at the bottom of the ravine, and that the hole in the wall would be visible for malms away. But they would not speak of the bard, for he had run, and it was all that he could do to hold his hat upon his head as he sprinted through the desert, trusting to the cover of night to hide him.

Back at Drybone, among the wave of perking heads and gasps, two particular figures touched their linkpearls.

Telluride · **04-04-2016, 01:50 PM**

RESONANCE

ACT II, SCENE II

Within a laboratory hidden below the Grey Fleet of La Noscea

"What does he need her for?"

The voice was feminine, and floated as usual above the faint hum that was an almost constant feature of the facility, but while the words formed a question, the tone was not inquisitive in the slightest. It was a tone that a disapproving matron might use to rebuke some dingy waif, and coming from a particular and deceptively delicate-looking Roegadyn throat, it carried a hint of menace.

"What's he doin' that's all that different from usual? That Wood Wailer gal, that tiny little madam, Melange..." The other voice, gruff and deep already, tightened a bit on the name. "He finds a useful one, does what he wants for what he wants. Hells, I'd do it. And you can chuck an icicle if you want, Glim, but if you found a long-necked poncy sorceror who suited your purposes, you'd be doing the same thing. Don' even lie to me."

The female sniffed, pushed up the sleeve of her red robe, and pored over the book laid out before her. The ink on the page was still relatively fresh, and was densely packed with figures, numbers and a pair of charts. Her eyes were narrowed, scanning, taking it all in. "These numbers... Twelve, it's true. This advances us by moons, maybe a full cycle, if we can incorporate this into the projectors we'd be ready for Mor Dhona within days. But what under the stars could cause this sort of a reaction? The Burning Wall's corrupted, but it's supposed to be much more stable than this."

The male, whose hair matched hers in color and highlights, black with tinges of cobalt, looked up from his own workdesk, where he had been sharpening a small but ornately-forged one-handed pick. "That's all your stuff. I'm just gruntwork, and I ain' inclined to changin' that now. Especially now. Still trying to get the cannons modded."

"You're not stupid." The female countered. "We studied the Wall for fortnights. Its matrix is too dense, too amorphic, for these readings to be possible. But there they are. I looked at the readings, looked at the samples, saw what he saw. They simply just don't shatter like this, not this way. We tried. But the pattern's there - induced fractures, explosive release, too much like we're doing with our own samples. You know blasted well what this means - someone's beating us in our own work, or there's some natural phenomenon just begging to be put to use." He fingers tapped on the pages as she spoke.

The other Roegadyn, a massive specimen of even their own race, turned around in his reinforced chair to look directly at her. "And the boss near twitching at it all. You'd be too, I bet, but ya can't even think of if right now. Yer all in a tizzy."

The delicate fingers dragged down the page - any harder, and she'd have torn it. "She's going to compromise us. You peel a banana, you eat the fruit, and you toss the peel. That's how it's supposed to work. He's wrapping himself in the peel. He doesn't need her. We're more than capable of keeping away any trouble."

The male huffed in her direction. "What, like I ain' thought about that already? You're tied up in the lab and the field, he said. I'm needed in the forge, he said. She's all innocent looking and useful, he said. Like I don' get it. He tumbled Melange, tossed out her into the field, same thing... and don't give me that look; yeah, I ain' happy about it, but you're the one always chidin' me. Funny how he starts takin' a spellslinger for an escort, an' you're the one gettin' all worked up this time."

Glimmer flexed her left hand, and a hint of frosty blue seemed to form around it, part of her namesake. "I am not some silly girl."

"You can call me a target, but you can't call me a liar." The male stared at her, long and direct enough to make it an obvious challenge.

She met it with a stare of her own. "This is ridiculous. Even you have to see that. He's getting too close, too involved, too quickly. I don't like it, and you don't like it either. This puts everything at risk."

"Yeah. And we don't get a say. Welcome to my world for the last few moons. It's just hittin' you because unlike the others... she's a mage. Your role. You think this little flamethrowing fluff piece is gonna try to horn in on your own role, don'cha?" His nostrils flared.

She grit her teeth. "You ought to be every bit as concerned, Obelisk."

He broke eye contact, and waved a hand. "'Course I am! But you know how this works. We made our oaths. The more we fight it, the more he's gonna shut us out. This ain' like you - you know the best thing is to wait it out, let him get what he wants, see what happens, an' then it's back to business. Somebody's always tellin' me that, who... oh, yeah. You."

The shimmer around her hand disappeared. "You really are an arse, you know that?"

He grunted out a chuckle. "Mom taught us both. But hey, you ain' supposed to be the one gettin' jealous. I'm the problem child, remember?"

She smirked, and finally turned from him, glancing back over the pages. "We're close. So close. Gods, the power we're going to unleash..."

Telluride · **04-27-2016, 10:19 AM**

RESONANCE

ACT II, SCENE III

An interlude, in an inn in Mor Dhona.

In some other place, the first signs of dawn might be showing.

The mage and the bard had been in Thanalan but a couple of days and nights before. The weather had been precisely and unsurprisingly dry, but they'd brought abundant water and supplies, and it had made for pleasant camping under perfectly clear skies. Even the more aggressive fauna had avoided them, as if fortune were scouting ahead for the pair. At night, there had been talks of stars and their meanings, and whether they truly had any.

By the time they had reached Mor Dhona, however, the clouds seem to have begun to follow them, and massed in the sky until there was no sky, only a rumpled, uneven grey to accompany them. While the bard was accustomed to difficulties in camping, it seemed odd to insist on roughing it when there was an inn, and good food, and even a measure of local enthusiasm and cheer to be had in the settlements around the Rising Stones. They had not come to Coerthas, yet, so there was no reason, not quite yet, to be grim for its own sake or any other, and so a pleasant evening was had under the canopies of the growing town.

Perhaps the Twelve simply had a taste for drama, however, or perhaps the clouds care not for the whims and feelings of god or sentient beings, for even as the pair enjoyed the succor of the bustling town, the skies continued to darken, and by what may or may not have been sunset - for there was no way to confirm it - the rains came, fast and strong enough to wash clean the stones and send traces of the passing of feet and dust flowing away in rivulets.

The night, though it simply became a lesser darkness flowing into greater, had been passed in such ways as travelers were wont to pass, but whereas the bard might once have taken note of the dalliances and discussions, his body and voice simply went through their motions, practiced and instinctual as if they were indeed but a long-remembered song. His thoughts were more akin to the cloud cover; his concerns were as the rain, washing away the moments even as they happened.

In this way did the night pass, and while other parts of the world might be experiencing the first golden kiss of dawn, naught but rain fell inside and outside of the bard's sense of fleeting time. Soon, he would come to Coerthas; soon, he would find the entrance to Natalan, as it was called, and soon, he would visit his musical gift upon the dirty birds' treasure, and shatter it, and thus complete this errand, assuaging curiosity, a need for closure, and the lingering, tingling sense in his gut.

It was that tingling, and shaky dreams of faces and voices lost, that finally stirred him. With the other of the pair still asleep, he dressed quietly, and seized the comfortably familiar instrument case. He wandered from the room, closing the door softly behind him, and wended his way from hall to the outside, to the inn's common balcony, where guest tables sat unattended, protected by rain from hanging banners, but still somewhat damp from the rain that still drove into the stonework, making the air a thing of mist.

He did not heed the moisture in the air, or even the light sheen on the chair and table as he sat down; it infused his shirt, leaving it chilly, but even this was simply registered in his thoughts as fact, no more worth reacting to than the slight pangs of hunger in his gut. The water was everywhere, as if there had never been any sort of air but the most humid, but it did not fall directly upon the chair and table, and perhaps his strings might become dampened if he stayed. He did not heed that thought, either, as he brought the instrument to place in front of his chest, and stretched out to a languid lean.

Calloused fingers reached for the strings, and plucked out a tune. The drone of the rain swallowed it but a few yalms from the table, and yet, he played on. It was not meant for any but himself and the clouds, anyway, and thus his voice raised only slightly above a whisper.

If a song had a spirit, an expectation of its own use, it might have been offended to have been so quiet and muted by the elements, when it would be more used to a shouted, booming presentation. But the clouds cared no more for such a thing than it did for the bard himself, and thus he sang on.

â™ª No stars in a rainstorm, and last night, it brought me down
For I knew they were there, but now it's me who's lost and may never be found
Compelled by the magic, I feel it lure me to the fight;
Now it's cold, and I'm losing my hold, stumbling through a starless night

This could be the last morning, coming, to find an ending to the pain,
Like seeking starlight in the rain.

Shoulders weighed by demons, I thought that I had let them go
When I tried, found they hide deep inside, in every lyric that I know
Are we only puppets, cavorting to repeating times
Is it all just a lie; are you and I simply a fugue without a rhyme?

If this is the last morning coming, have all our efforts been in vain,
Like seeking starlight in the rain?

There's power in the lightning, but tonight it only brings me down
'Cause it's power that's free, unlike me, after a peace that can't be found
Relying on the magic; I feel it gather in the air
Is it fear that I'll hear in my voice, or will we even make it there?

There's no sign of the morn that's coming, no hint of dawn to sustain
Will there be aught left of us, more than starlight in the rain? â™ª

( With respect to Dio for the inspiration: )

Telluride · **05-03-2016, 05:03 PM**

RESONANCE

ACT II, SCENE IV

On the road to Natalan, east of Dragonhead in Coerthas

Perhaps another bard, eager to be rewarded with laudation or the rapt attention of a virgin audience, might have spoken of storms, or swirling snows, and breezes gelid enough to strip the warmth from flesh and bone in moments. Such embellishments were expected of bards, after all, and what audience refused the promise of dramatic tension in the very weather itself? The claims would not even have been questioned, after all, for the bleakness of the Coerthas highlands was a legendary thing even among the inhabitants, and punishing winds were simply expected.

However, it would have been a lie, believable or not, this time. Instead, the skies east of Dragonhead were murky, but the clouds simply hung in the sky as if painted there, for there was no wind, no breeze, no snowfall; the air was crisp and exactly as cold as one would expect, but still and hanging. An absent wind meant that no smells were carried forth from the pair that lurked behind the rockface that rose and blocked any view of them from the creaky wood and bone gate that led into the destination their days of travel had finally revealed: Natalan.

The settlement was a testament to both the persistence and the audacity of its founders, the Ixal. Balloons of stitched furs and rough fabrics hung low in the air, lifting platforms, cargo, and gondolas, enough to transport most of the inhabiting beaked beastmen and carry them far away, or perhaps even to nearby Dragonhead, if the Ixal dared. If that had been their intent, in building the settlement, then it was likely that they had not accounted for the experience of the Coerthans against aerial targets; a people hardened enough to fight off waves of Dravanians were sufficient deterrent to keep the beastmen raiders quiescent.

This meant little, though, to the lurking pair. They had layered blankets on their chocobos, and tied the birds to a tree; the mounts, luckily, heeded their training and remained silent and still, and huddled together to share warmth. The two themselves - the tall and beared hyuran bard, and the lissome duskwight mage - were dressed warmly but not thickly, in brown fur jacket and well-lined black robes, respectively. They were as a blot on the white ground, but they had not come intending stealth.

The head, hat and bearded all, peered around the rock again, taking in the view. One of the scraggled wolves of the region, likely tamed and guarding, was sniffing the air within a dozen yalms of the ragged gate, and a pair of spear-wielding Ixal themselves stood guard, one at each of the gateposts, nearly motionless in the cold.

The bard drew himself back, and he felt a sensation creep through him, as if he had been coated in slime, or had a massive, unscratchable itch that seeped through him in intervals. The sensation wasn't new to the moment. He'd begun to feel it as they had left Mor Dhona and entered Coerthas, as if fortnight's worth of anticipation and drive had not truly felt real until the confrontation he sought had become truly inevitable. He bit his lip. He could have turned back at any preceding moment, remembering dozens of his own speeches about nonviolence and happiness, or taking into consideration the life of the comrade who had insisted upon following him when he had let slip his intentions, in a moment of strained peace. But something else... itched, physically, but more in his thoughts, his sense of well-being. Images of ash, screams, squawking birdmen, and shattering crystals, these had visited his dreams nightly, lingered after wakefulness. Perhaps his companion had noticed, and perhaps the mage had not, for the talks along the way had been pleasant enough, even a sort of vacation, were the destination not such a thing of dogged compulsion. But to see Natalan now, a village of Ixal, of the race that had all but eliminated his kin from the world... it made the itch into almost a crawling of the skin. The man he was, was still there, but just as a tickling at the throat can only be ignored so long before one coughs, so was that man's presence subsided, and the giant of a Hyur who took up the massive bow could hardly said to have been Nathan Telluride in much more than appearance and verbal habits. The bard, truly, was still lingering under an awning in Mor Dhona, and the hyur in fur was a bowhunter, one who lived only by the credo that to miss was to die, and with but one way to clear the sensation that made even his eyes seem to itch.

But he was still a man, after all, and felt another twinge. No one but him -had- to do this.

He sidled closer to the mage, set a hand upon her shoulder and whispered into her ear. "Are you ready for this, my dear? There's still time to change your mind."

Violet eyes focused on him. "Of course I'm ready, and you're not going to change my mind. I set out to do this, and by the Lover, I'm going to see it through."

He nodded, eased away a few ilms, and pulled his hat down tightly. It was as if she were echoing the arguments he'd had within himself, and the creeping feeling in his stomach lurched at them. Touching his hat seemed to help, but somehow, it always had. "Then may we return victorious, or, by the Twelve, be a cautionary tale for every tavern bard in Eorzea."

She offered him a soft smile at the low words, and it sent a fresh surge through his stomach. "I'd prefer not to have my death be the focus of someone's ballad, if that is all well and good. Shall we?" She reached out with a graceful hand, and touched his nose, which barely registered the contact in the cold. No, he thought, but it's for a ballad that we're here in the first place; what else can we be, in the end, but a memory fit for a song, or to play the song that makes us a memory?

The thought did not escape his lips, and he simply squeezed her shoulder. "I'll not turn back now." He gave a quick test pull upon Heartstring, his longbow. It felt... right, as if he were simply following an order. Was this how a trained animal felt...but that thought, too, dissipated. A quick hand went to the lute case still strapped to his belt. "I'm feeling a bit of an itch."

The mage unlatched her crescent-headed staff from its resting place on her back, and from her robe pocket, she retrieved a black stone, its shape the same crescent as her staffhead; she tossed the stone up, and caught it deftly as it fell again. He'd seen the stone before, and though he knew, at the level of logic, what it meant, and was for, the reality of it was as jarring as its contrast to the expanse of snow around them. "If you want to go back," she said, "Now is your chance. I'll grant your wish, but I don't think it's going to be pretty."

He stood to his full height, bow in hand, and assessed her with a quick glance. Like dusk, she really was, body and garments alike. "I have a song to sing here, and it has only one real note. If you're joining the chorus, the curtain rises now."

He took a half-score of paces, deliberate, unhesitating, until he stood upon the path to the gate, and nocked an arrow from the quiver at his hip; a single word escaped his lips as his bicep bunched to draw back the stout bow: "Encore." His fingers released the string, and the guard wolf sprouted a shaft from its forehead; the arrow pierced the hard skull between its eyes, dropping the flailing beast and drawing a shuddering whine. Even as it fell, its fur was set alight, and he felt the heat from the path of the swirling streak of energy. She had not even paused before moving to his side, and the convergence of arrow and fire left a burning declaration, in the wolf's charring remains, to the Ixal at the gate.

The guards squawked, and it as if his very soul was being scratched; he felt it as a grating in his teeth. But the hunter, not the bard, was not the one to respond, and even as the first of the birdmen lifted his spear to throw, it had an arrow piercing its throat, the thwip of Heartstring's retort barely audible.

More audible was the whooping cry of the mage, sounding as if she had been joyously released from a horrid captivity. Her staff swung into place, and icy mist formed around both the guards before materializing into a crystalline shaft that impaled them both through their abdomens; black blood stained the snow, and they gurgled and died.

The hunter spit into the snow; the dark stains that the mage's effort brought forth were as a gate crashing down in his mind. "I've not even begun to whet my appetite..." The voice was his, but perhaps not what anyone might have expected from him. Still, as if summoned and dared by them, a snarling, four-legged streak of fur and claw vaulted over the fence, bounding towards the pair. The mage simply whipped the moonstaff to point at the charging wolf, and from the sky descended a bright blue flash, which impacted the canine, leaving little more of it than dust as the energy was spent; sparks briefly orbited the mage as if they were avatars of her satisfaction.

Silence reigned for a pair of moments as the echo faded, and they sprinted for the gate, stepping through, and quickly ascended a raised wood platform behind the fenceline, giving them a view of the path ahead. "You truly are a slayer," he said, not even looking at her.

"You've seen nothing yet." Her voice was hard, but brash.

He nodded; the words simply blended into the rush. The moment had come, and they had made their declaration; already, a faint cry could be heard from the interior of the camp. He set his teeth, and looked ahead; the next gate, barred but unguarded, lay but a few score yalms away. "We make for that gate, and we bottle them at it. Numbers will hinder, not help them, and fear will work for us. You can demonstrate there." The words were as sharp as broken crystal, spoken through his set jaw.

He bounded from the platform, not stopping to see whether the game followed. He didn't question it; it almost did not matter, for his thoughts but formed words: The last son brings his regards to your doorstep, beasts, and so the door has been knocked. Answer or hide within; it matters neither way.

His dash ended behind a low rock overlooking the gate, and there was no question as to what the Ixal's response was - a half-score of them, accompanied by a pair of leashed wolves, scuttled into view as if vomited forth from the settlement's center. They stopped at the gate; the wolf tamers struggled with the leashes upon their beasts, and the others took position just on the other side; six of them carried bows, and they wasted no time in nocking and loosing arrows. The hyur hunkered behind the rock, muttering a low curse, but crunching footsteps followed him close, and he heard the whip of a spinning staff; ice formed in the air above them, and the arcing arrows bounced from it.

He grunted, and half-stood, nocking and loosing an arrow of his own; one of the archers fell, screaming, its eyeball no more than a bullseye. If the mage had any comments on his accuracy, she wasted no time on them. Her feet dug into the snow, and an arc of blue flame formed above the gate, its two points falling upon two more of the archers, devouring them more like a glowing acid than simple flame. The victims' comrades shrieked and flinched, beaks clapping; the mage tossed her head back, and from her throat arose a laugh, shrill and sinister, which made whimpers of the Ixal's cries.

He glanced up at her, breathing through gritted teeth for a moment before offering words; her laugh had almost felt like a scratch to his itch. "You sound as happy to be here as I am. If we didn't have business left, I'd show you how damnably hard you just made me." He nocked another arrow, and loosed it immediately, adding a fresh scream to the cacophony at the gate.

She looked not at him, but focused at the gate; another flash of blue came into being at the Ixals' right flank, and three more of them, and one of the wolves, burst into flaming gobbets. Flares of the same hue danced around her person, like spinning ribbons, and the air around her became hot, making slush of the snow at her feet. "Still worried about me being here?" She said, her tone still as shrill as her battle cry.

A snarl from the beastmen's other flank became audible. "Not now." He simply replied, and stood quickly to full height. The bowstring was pulled back and taut, and then let loose another shaft. The bounding wolf, finally untangled from its leash, had leaped the gate, snarling in fear and pack-minded rage, but the arrow went down its throat, emerging from the back of its head, and the beast could only spew blood and saliva as it fell into a spasming heap into the snow.

It was, apparently, enough. The remaining few of the birdmen fled back towards the center of camp.

The hyur waited a few moments, letting the lingering cries tickle his ears, before nodding towards the gate, which itself was alight and burning with touches of the mage's flame. With the ease and perhaps the fortune of a fool, he bounded towards it, bow in hand. The short run ended with his boot kicking the center of the gate, carrying all his momentum, and the damaged fence fell; he waited not at all, passed through, and sprinted towards the mountainside to the right, hugging it closely as he slowed.

The mage caught up with him briefly after. She crossed her arms at the hunter as he gazed towards the settlement, and the air seemed to warp around her for a moment, and pop back into place, as if it were a bubble bursting in a pond. "We go further in, I'm assuming?" She said.

"All the way to the heart, and if there are none of them alive when we are done, so much the better, and we can set the whole place to the bloody torch." He tugged at the bowstring, the itch and agitation translating into action. His eyes focused, and he caught a violet glint in the near distance, and pointed to it. "There. I'm after their treasure."

She shaded her eyes. On the other side of the small settlement, dimly visible in the smoke and haze of her handiwork, stood the aetheryte. It arose a dozen yalms above the cliff near which it loomed, throwing off glints from both campfire and crackling fences. It was the rival of any in the civilized towns for size, and was covered by hastily-painted glyphs and surrounded by tattered banners. If it was a conduit, like the others, then anything could come from it, just as in the cities of the Twelve's races - perhaps even a primal.

"We've had success so far, but I worry about the two of us taking on the heart of this camp alone. My ice can protect you, but I'm not sure how well, if there are many. Do you even have a means of destroying it?" Her tone had lost its shriller notes, and was a more melodic voice of concern.

He was still focused on the aetheryte, its violet reflections permeating, empowering, his resolve. Musical tones danced in his consciousness. His eyes narrowed, and he wiped frost from his brow. "You're going to see. Worry can burn with them, for I've none of it left. Let them fear, not I."

"As you wish, then. I'm with you all the way." She lifted her staff.

"Then burn with me." He gripped the bow, and trod along the rockface, keeping parallel to the path, but not on it.

The path towards the settlement's center remained unguarded, as if the Ixal had been routed, and their progress was rapid, but the reason became clear as they approached the depression in the ground which marked the center.

They came to the turn in the path, and pressed against the rock; peering around. Smoke rose from cookfires in the stone bowl, in which the snow had largely been cleared. A line of armed Ixal had formed on the north side of the depression, blocking the path into the heart of the settlement - the nests, the huts, the living space.

The aetheryte clearing, and nothing else, lay to the southern path. Why, of course, would raiders care about it, if they had come to destroy the settlement? It made tactical sense, given what little the beastmen must have gleaned from the assault, to protect their homes, their young. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on point of view, it bore little bearing upon the mission of the pair looking into the bowl. Only a trio of growling wolves were in the depression itself, sniffing the air. Of course - it was a perfect killzone, should someone have tried to storm it.

The hyur's grin was a thing wide and toothy; he turned and nodded at his companion, moving his hand forward in a signal to run... and run he did, stopping at the southern edge of the clearing to loose a quick arrow at a patrolling wolf, catching its heart through its ribs, and setting the fur of the other two bristling. The line of Ixal warriors on the northern side shoulder a squawking challenge, and several archers stepped through the line, and knelt.

The hyur nocked another arrow, lining up the second of the wolves, which had charged; it quickly slid to a halt in the dirty slush as another arrow caught it in the shoulder.

The mage sprinted behind, but stopped, and made a gesture; solid and slippery ice formed under the feet of the third wolf, changing what would have been a powerful leap into a skidding fumble, and the hunter was able to spend another arrow to pin it to the very ice below it.

"Go!" She shouted, and as if the word were the command to fire, a half dozen bows loosed arcing arrows from the Ixal's line. The mage lifted her arms, and shouted a command; a wall of opaque ice sprung forth from the ground, intercepting the arrows and shielding both herself and the scrambling hyur from view.

"I did underestimate you... glad to have been corrected in this particular way!" His words faded as he scrambled from her towards the unguarded aetheryte. She smiled, though it was visible to no one, and spoke mostly to herself, voice lowered. "I told you, Nathan. Friends stick together, always. My magic will keep you safe."

Indeed, the words did not carry, and he would not have heeded them anyway. The violet crystal loomed large in the southern clearing, bedecked in banners and runes and lined by wooden totems, and he froze in place. His eyelids became heavy, and the crawling itch that lurked at the edge of his senses enveloped him like a mist. He remembered faces, names, songs, smiles, the touch of hands now ash, the smells of silks and perfumes and the fussing of sisters who no longer existed outside of memories; it was as if they had reached out to hold him to the spot, motionless. "There..." The word leaked out of him, like drool. "There... I will have peace, and those beasts will have none." His arm responded, finally, and reached ahead of him, towards the crystal.

A familiar crunching of snow under feet entered his awareness; she was next to him, facing the wall she had summoned into being. "Whatever you mean to do, do it. They'll charge soon enough, when no attacks come at them."

He lifted his bow. Knuckles cracked, and from him issued a substantial growl. He nocked an arrow, muttered a curse, and loosed a shot into one of the totems. It penetrated deep, still shivering from its flight and sudden stop.

"Maybe I'll leave one alive. To bloody well remember." His voice was a droning thing; the itch in his consciousness was becoming more like a buzz.

"If you wish," the feminine voice replied, matching his in being deadpan. "But here is what you sought, so do what you came to do."

His body seemed to unlock, and he slung the bow over his shoulder, taking swift steps towards the crystal, until he came to its rocky base. He reached for the case at his belt, and began to unlatch it. He resumed gazing... staring at the aetheryte, as if by look alone he could crack it asunder. He felt his shoulders bunch, and he dropped to one knee. His face felt more like stone than flesh, cold and seared.

The mage stepped backwards, eyes still on the entry to the clearing, until she was next to him. She put a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing it and eyeing him.

He sensed her touch, but did not actually feel it. The itch in his senses became like a thousand tiny pricks, and he leaped to his feet, yelling at the crystalline formation. "Hear me, Garuda, and your damnable, filthy spawn. You come to my home, kill my family, and believe you will thrive, and prosper?" He shook his fist. "No. I bring a message. I am the First Godsdamned String, and the last, and with me, I bring a song - the song that will see you screaming in despair!"

The mage simply blinked at him, closed-mouthed, eyes wide. She reached into her robe pocket, with a delicate slowness.

Whatever fury that had come from him, whatever drove the prickling in his consciousness, it subsided, and he was left standing, cold and stiff like the surrounding icepacks. The lute case opened at an additional touch, and from it he drew the instrument, gilt in green and gold. He spoke, and the words felt like a cold fog leaving his mouth. "If anything moves, send it squealing into the Abyss."

"Leave it to me. I'll make sure you are not disturbed."

He didn't respond, but simply trudged the few more steps to the rock formation underlying the crystal. He was unhurried, now, and the itch had given way to a lightness, a warm and mild euphoria. He sat upon the rock, looked up at the violet aetheryte, and set fingers to the lute strings.

"This is how a bard says goodbye, you damned abomination."

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Telluride · **05-04-2016, 03:30 PM**

RESONANCE

ACT II, SCENE IV
(continued from above)

Natalan, east of Dragonhead - at the Ixali aetheryte

He wiped traces of the ambient hoarfrost from the lute, and set cold fingers to the strings.

The music sheet popped unbidden into his mind's eye, but he didn't need it. The parchment itself was still locked away, now lost to him, for all he knew. It didn't matter. He knew these notes, knew them like he knew his own hands.

The first strummed note pierced the air, and the opening bars followed hard upon, deep and piercing, staccato more than rhythmical, at this point in the song. The mage watched him quietly; her staff had fallen to the snow beside her. Perhaps the air around them shimmered a bit, or perhaps it was simply his fancy.

His fingers danced over the strings, and the low and bass notes of the piece began to feel more tangible, resonating in his gut. The feather in his hat waved, as if there were a breeze, but there was none. A light sheen of sweat appeared on his skin, despite the cold that seemed gleeful to freeze it, and a pair of droplets fell to crackle on the snow.

The mage clapped her hands to her ears, and fell to her knees, whimpering, though the sound was no louder than a lute outdoors could truly be, and it was not enough to mask the squawking shriek that began to arise within the settlement's core. Was he still imagining a shimmering haze in the air, as if the snows were giving off rising heat?

But then the keening began. Sharp, but faint, whisper-faint. It did not slow his fingers, for they seemed enslaved to the performance, unhesitating; it also was not enough to screen out the obvious and bestial battle cries beginning to arise from within the settlement's center.

However, both of these were drowned in volume by a cry from the mage; she gripped her temples, moaning, and her hair began to lift as if affected by static.

The bard - for any remaining desire for hunting or archery this day had been wiped from his mind by the song - noticed but little of this, for his struggle, his gaze, was bound to the crystal itself. The song raised in pitch and tempo as the notes flowed through his consciousness, and his fingers may have well been separate entities. The crystal's reaction lifted from sharp whisper to perfectly audible, rising, a keening whine that filled the clearing, impinging upon the rest of the settlement, and drawing to it a cacophony of shrieks and crunching snow. The Ixal had heard, and if they had thought before that their attackers had designs upon the nests, no such illusion seemed to remain. A dozen of them were in the first vanguard, coming in two groups around the edges of the mage's protective icewall, spears raised with unmistakable intent as they clambered around the obstacle.

The mage seemed first to notice the intrusion. She reacted with a scowl at the crystal itself, and forced herself to stand, and rose a hand, one held more steadily than the rest of her form. Her earrings seemed to crackle and emit aether, which swirled around her, intensifying, and forming sheens of ice in a split path, flowing towards the charging birdmen, breaking and shattering against them in their charge. The Ixal howled as if they were themselves an angry wind. Frostbite seared them, but seemed only to slow their charge; their hesitation from before had dissipated, replaced with a furious, barbaric resolve. Yet, it would not be enough for the first wave. She growled from her throat; her hand seemed to lock into a grasping claw for a moment, as aether coalesced around her, and her shaking form knelt to slam a fist into the very snow at her feet. The skies reacted with a crack, as if she had punched the very firmament, and lit blue as arcs of lighting dropped from the clouds and enveloped the frosted beastmen, searing them anew and dropping them as steaming, sparking corpses.

It was the lightning, and the dying shouts of the birdmen, that seemed to permeate part of the bard's mind. His eyes narrowed, as if he would stare staggers into the keening aetheryte. "Yessss...." His voice, deep as it was, was still largely drowned by spell, war and the lute. "You don't like that, do you, you feathered scum?" Most of his form stilled, as if he were himself part of the rock formation upon which he perched.

The crystal seemed to respond. Its resonating whine became as much a reverberating hum, and the very tips of it came to visual life: purple-black motes of aether sparked from it, and danced around the whole as if they were moths attracted to their own light.

The mage pulled herself back to her feet, and stood still and steady enough to eye the wall. The battle cries still sounded from behind it; she shivered, and clutched tightly at the support of her staff.

"Shake and quaver, devils! Shudder!" The bard's voice rose to match the challenge of the crystal's wail, and the powerful notes arising from the lute. In apparent response, another score of Ixal dashed from behind the icewall, ten to either side of it, several kneeling to nock arrows to shortbows.

Fingers and song accelerated both, and the shimmering haze hinted at, earlier, became impossible to dismiss as illusion. The air itself seemed to blend with them, and form a vortex around the aetheryte, whipping the purple motes around like leaves in a hurricane. Yet, as if the crystal itself had made a decision, its wail subsided in volume, only to be replaced by a crackling, a glassy, high-pitched tinkling.

The clearing illuminated. A beam of corruscating purple radiance projected forth from the very top of the crystal, shooting straight up into the overcast sky, reaching for the heavens. The beam's baleful light fell upon the clearing: aether made visible, if sickly, light.

The mage's mouth dropped, and she flung out her hands, fingers splayed. Sheets of frost emitted from them, solidifying another wall, a translucent one, between them and the Ixal. The birdmen crashed upon it, squawking, hammering it with their speartips. She turned to look at the bard, bathed in the crystal's glare, and barked, "Nathan! Whatever it is you're doing, do it now! It won't hold!"

The bard belted out a reply, but it was directed not at the mage, not at the Ixal cracking at the icewall, but at the nemesis he had chosen, the crystalline target for which he had come. "Yes! Your time is now!" He screamed over the music, still playing. The crystal, too, responded, its hellish violet glow pulsing from within, and there was a crack, one that somehow pierced through all the other sounds, one that he felt in his guts, in his very brain...

Visions lit up in his mind's eye, in a parade of forming and dissolving images. The faces of sisters... gone, vanishing. The sounds of a summer concert, harmony and hope... drowned out to silence. The face of a lovely older woman, with eyes that seemed to dance and lips that promised freedom... shattering. A curse against him, in an angry female voice, accusing him of being an angry child... silent. But then, there was a laugh, gutteral and grating, that seemed to arise from below, and set him to shivering, and with it came another image - a man of impossible height, within a dome of ornate walls of blues and golds, hands raising, laughing, laughing, and turning to face him; he saw a sphere appear in the air before it, a sphere of crystal, and yet, of blues and whites and greens and browns, the colors of life... and there was a sharp crack that drowned out all else, and the figure began to bow at the waist...

He felt a snap in his consciousness, and shook his head violently. The fingers drooped, and the notes died in a final twang from the lute, which he but held limply. "Gods..." The word barely made it from his lips.

He blinked. The crystal still hummed, still strobed purple light over the clearing, still fired its radiant beam into the heavens. He felt a seizing in his chest, and the cracks of the crystal's tips were like a shock to his bones, a shock to everything... the bones of the world, even...

He stood, with a suddenness, as if his very form rebelled against the reality around them; he faced the mage, and composed himself enough to stuff the lute roughly into its case, and shout at her. "By the gods, we have to GO!"

But the mage was not looking at him - she was staring at the aetheryte, her form still as stone, before her mouth dropped open again, and the hard gaze moved to the bard. "It was you... IT WAS YOU!"

And then the world cracked again... no, it was the icewall. The Ixal, raging and fuming, had damaged the wall enough with spears and fury enough to send it falling into frosty shards, each mirroring the baleful radiance and filling the air with frost and dry mist. Tight shouts arose from over a score of the beastmen as they struggled to see their foe, obscured as they remained behind a fog of indigo mist.

The bard's body felt like a weak tangle of limbs, but he struggled to ensure that the instrument case was closed, and to take up the bow, fumbling with hands that felt well and truly numb and cold. "We've got to run, for Twelve's sake! It's... I don't know if it's going to stop!" The crystal's keening became a wail, as if it were some banshee brought from the void.

He took a clumsy step towards her, but her hand shot up as if it had a will of its own, the flat palm demanding he stop. "Don't move. Do NOT move!"

She dug her feet into the snow, and from her robe, she withdrew the dark, crescent-shaped stone, and nearly flung it over her head as her arm lifted. The pulsing beam of radiance from the crystal flickered and danced, like a massive candle in a breeze, and a stream of the violet energy snaked towards her, coiling around the dark form of the mage very like a snake would. Then the energy in the air around her rippled, oozed, and rose in a cyclone over her head, around the stone she held aloft. Her eyes closed, and the twisting aether crashed into the stone, like a wave breaking upon a boulder. The mage's hair and coat whipped around her, the whirlwind of magical energy becoming akin to a true storm.

The bard, indeed, did not move. He did not feel able; it was as if a smothering blanket had wrapped his form.

The sky overhead, at least as far as they could see, turned from purple to blue, heating and warping, and sparks and ice formed and crashed over the silhouettes of mage and bard alike. The mage's raised arm quivered, struggling to hold the stone as it absorbed the massive ambient energies, and then she shrieked, drowning out all other sounds, carrying the pulsing hint of a shockwave in the aether-rich air. The wave froze in the air at the edge of the clearing, hovering for the briefest of moments as a torus of energy, and then began to collapse in liquid fashion. It pooled around her, morphed into a globular mass in the air, and vanished, sucked into her crescent stone as if it were a thirsty mouth.

For a moment, a silence enveloped the encampment, stilling even the crystal itself, leaving the Ixal gaping and shaking their heads, and the bard wide-eyed...

...and then the sky erupted. Incandescent flame poured from the blue heavens like a wash of liquid hell, white hot and fluid, and fell upon the Ixal.

The fires ate the snow, and made steam of the remains of the icewall. The Ixal were consumed, one by one, each smothered by the bright flame, their agonized shrieks filling the air; flesh was seared from bone, and then bone alike was seared with beaks and feathers rendered into char. The flash-heated air spread the smell of roasted flesh, and the visual hell of the flames was matched by a cacophony of the beastmen's damnation. The mage screamed in response, her own wrath, rage, fury fanning and fueling the flames. The conflagration continued to fall from the sky in a river, growing and growing, and flowed into the center of the settlement, scarring the land underneath it, turning the buildings and fences into ash and charcoal, and flooding towards the very nests that the Ixal had thought to protect, converting them into unnatural blue bonfires. Licks of flame rose into the air like foam from crested waves, and their rising sparks caught hold of the floating balloons here and there, lighting the whole night azure, and those balloons which felt not the direct touch of fire still bobbled and weaved at the scorching air that flowed upwards.

The bard managed to remember his legs, and shuffled behind her, stumbling in the melting slush to keep his balance, eyes caught by bursts in the dance of heat and light as if he were a nervous squirrel. He swallowed hard, feeling the gorge subside into his guts, and he held the bow with a grip strong enough to have broken his instrument, had be been holding it instead.
The firestorm from the heavens cut off, as if a dam had been slammed before it, and the last wash of inferno swept through the settlement, and then blinked out of reality. It left only the smell of ash, the stink of bodies and the embers of once-buildings visible; no recognizable bones, even, remained, only black earth, scorched in some places, sizzling in others. Little else was visible in the thick smoke... smoke which had been blue, and now black, and now, showing the first hints of a purple reflection again.

The mage stumbled, and the bard, feeling hot in the face from more than fire and ash, stepped quickly to her. She wobbled, and leaned against him, and violet eyes, quivering, looked up at him.

"Nathan...?" Her form went limp, and it was all he could do, in surprise and weariness, to slow her fall into the slush beneath them.

He knelt next to her, stiff and still in shock, and could only stammer a few sounds, nothing that bore any relation to the wasteland she had... they had... just invoked upon the settlement. Settlement, no - the village. It had been rendered into ashen waste. Deep within himself, the bard felt, rather than heard, a cry, a call for help, for anyone, a plea that once led only to faint memories of fleeing through wood and underbrush, running, escaping, heat and screams behind him, a thought that burned for revenge for... this.

A tinkling sound above them chased away the thought, and he glanced up. The aetheryte, quelled during the firestorm, was starting to throw off a purple glow again, and fresh cracks snaked through it. The light flickered, and faint, but visible, purple motes began to arise, anew, from the crystal.

The bard shook his head; his senses were numbed. He slung the bow over his shoulder, calling upon his limbs for strength, just one last day of strength, and he stooped, hooking his arms under the mage's, hoisting her limp form. He grunted, bowed, and hoisted, lifting her to his shoulder. He'd done it to many women in the past, carried them off, but always in fun, in comradeship, or excitement... never until now in desperation, and never with a blacker chill in his heart. Puffs of mist emerged in slow cadence from her mouth... thank the gods, thank the bloody gods.

He stood, and took a final look at the remains of the village, setting the weight of the unconscious woman on his shoulder, as gently as he could muster.

The bard, laden with the sagging form of the mage, stumbled towards the remains of the charred gates, his skin taut from frostbite, from heat, and from a thousand bleak thoughts. Behind him, the crystal continued to glow, casting a violet gleam upon his back. He did not look backwards.

Telluride · **05-11-2016, 02:03 PM**

RESONANCE

ACT II, SCENE V

Dravania - On the road, south of the Tailfeather Hunting Camp

Leaves crunched under his feet. Pebbles skipped to the side of the road, stirred by his heavy boots.

She lived. She was safe. She would remain so. Did it matter?

The weather was cool: not frigid, not warm, not comfortable, not a blazing of heat that left skin feeling raw, and not even pleasant, really. Cool, enough to present a balm to skin that, indeed, carried reddened reminders of flash-fired sky, but not a relaxing one. It was more a tingle, like a nerve exposed, or a sleeping limb coming enough to wakefulness to be used, but still retaining that warning, that one bad position could leave it useless.

You spoke of going home for a time. Home. You really thought this was a home? Comfortable, secure, yes, but you rebelled against those things, remember? You rejected comfort, you wanted more, well, you got it, and you got a nice little parcel to remind you.

It was an odd truth that to the north of Coerthas, the world got warmer again, not cooler, but cool compared to frigid was still a warmth of sorts. Perhaps it would provide some solace. The Highlands were behind now; there was no snow to preserve footprints in deep relief, none here, none but the packed dirt of the road, leaving little more than a scuffling evidence of his passing, which would soon enough fade as others walked upon it.

And just what did you think would happen?

His fingers slid over the object held pinched between them: a decorative feather, red as blood, red as a dangerous morning sky. Once, it had adorned one of his favorite hats, but that hat now rested upside-down on his bunk, back at Sable Hall, where he left it next to the wooden box that had held it, a mailed delivery. Within the hat rested a parchment drawing, two smiling faces; its edges were already frayed from travel and wear when he got it. He had left it behind, with the hat, but had taken the feather with him. The rest seemed better meant to be left behind.

It's not as if you haven't wandered before. It's not as if you haven't felt sorry for yourself before. It's not as if you haven't given up things for that greater promise before. Funny, how it's different now, isn't it? "I'm sorry. I love you, I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore." That's all the note said. What more did you think she ought to say?

Dravania was awash all around with the colors of foliage, greens and browns and even some yellows and oranges in spots. To the north, up the road, was Tailfeather, the hunting camp.

You're a killer, now. It doesn't matter whether how much of the fire was hers. You lit the match. You played the song and called forth the inferno. For revenge? For the family? For one long dead, in her honor? Or was this just stupid, blind curiosity? Rage? Why, bard? You can't plead pacifism anymore. You can't pretend to be unblooded. You sought it out. You knew. What gift were you giving the dead - more dead? And whose gifts, whose light, did you borrow, did you send flaring, did you snuff for it? Storms end, but you cannot ignore their passing, anymore, can you?

He stuffed the feather into the band of new, remarkably similar hat that he had bought on his way back through Thanalan, the only other stop he'd made after leaving Sable Hall, at a haberdashery to purchase it. Unlike the old one, it had no story yet. It had seen no malms, and few suns. But in Tailfeather... maybe he could think. Maybe he could get away. If he was the hunter, then let him hunt. It was one of the few places he knew where a man's skill with a bow could excuse anything.

As if the bard within was making a meager protest, the song sprang to his lips, unaccompanied; the lute case and its instrument still hung from his belt, but remained there. The song was faster in tempo, more energized, even acapella, than it had any right to be.

"She had a dream, and it was a sweet one
And she bled for that dream, fueled by desire
But when she got too close, the inferno consumed her
And the dreams seared away, like a feather on fire

Like a feather on fire, smoke in the airways
Like a feather on fire, a pyre to end the day
Can a man be trusted to live his own way
Or is he only fit to smolder, like a feather on fire?

Can a man want love, with no investment;
Can he chase the wind, and change his heart like his vestment;
Can one grim whim consign a soul to the pyre
And see intentions all burn, like a feather on fire?

Like a feather on fire, leaving soot on parched ground,
Like a feather on fire, smoke hanging all around
When nothing but an ashen waste surrounds,
Did you see it blacken, like a feather on fire?

Everyone has a dream, for good or ill,
The thing we protect, or that we hunger to kill
And when you sacrifice, because you know you will
Who'll be scorched by your desire, like a feather on fire?"

( Inspired by John Mellencamp's "Paper in Fire" )

Momoka · **11-25-2016, 12:59 AM**

(So Nathan and I no longer play this game, and have moved on to other and different things, but we thought to end our time here with a bang, and a piece of art to show off the greatest story never told. Thanks to all who were a part of it, who were our friends over the years, and those who still keep in touch. Im sure we might eventually run into each other again someday in the vast world of the internet)Â

[Image: llkk0vX.jpg]

"Resonance" - A Semiclosed Serial Tale

RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes