Crimes Against Nature [Closed]

[Leanne]

A cold breeze caressed her cheeks. The starry sky of the night reflected within her golden hues. A slow and calm sigh broke the silence she had kept for so long, up there, legs dangling from the highest peak of the Dravanian Hinterlands, a scenery Leanne found herself particularly fond of, even more so after so many contentious events.

 

Staring at everything that the vista presented, and at the same time, nothing at all. For her vision was clouded by her own thoughts, by an internal heart-to-heart. One of several she had by that point. One where she always had an interlocutor. Owner of a booming voice and eloquent words, he spoke with a manner of inquisitive curiosity.

 

“Thine mind. Clouded by many forms of reasoning. Some insightful. Others, not quite. Is the death of that individual enough to impair thine judgment, young Skysinger? Was he an important person to thee?”

 

Pursing her lips, she closed her eyes,and shook her head. “Nay. While all people hold their own importance, I never had the chance to make such a connection.”

 

An image swiftly flashes in front of her eyes. One arrow, used with surgical precision, whistling midst its merciless flight. Enough to kill a single mushroom. And unfortunately, kill a single man.

 

“It is thine knowledge that-“

 

“I know. I know. Even so, life is precious. And losing one’s life,” Leanne utters in the open, hand being brought up as a small swallow approaches, landing on her index. “is a great loss. Regardless of such.”

 

She had already accepted death of the man known as Nheu. Perhaps it was her fault, perhaps it wasn’t. She didn’t know for sure actually, but the grim reminder remained, of reality, of death, the ultimate destiny of all that lived in the realm. The one single thought that her idealism could not quite brighten, and she had to face it every single day. A much known, common hazard of her profession. Even then…

 

“Life is precious.” Leanne repeated, lowering her hand after the swallow flew away.

 

“It is.” The voice within her agreed. “Keep in thy mind then that thy life is just as precious. And thou art right now losing time.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Thou dost know. And nevertheless, thou art to keep wasting time.”

 

“I know.” She speaks openly with groan. “But this is something I must do. I have to protect my home. My family. My friends…” she trails off, looking up to the sky. So full of blinking stars, so bright with the shining moon.

 

The voice within her pauses. Then continues. “There is so much I and the old woman can do for thee. Thine life choices are of thine own choosing. But don’t forget the sacrifices done for thee.”

 

“Do not forget either mine sacrifice done for thee.” Leanne huffs.

 

“Hah.”

 

Leanne continues. “I -will- keep on living. For mine sake. For thine sake. For the sake of those that are alive, and those that died. For mine and their dreams. I will carry them for as long as I walk. But first, I must protect the things I love. Like thou hast done then, Reinhardt.”

 

…Silence. An awful, deliberately long silence.

 

“Thine stubbornness could make for an epic, young Skysinger. Hard to argument against thee.”

 

Leanne smirked at nothing. “Isn’t because I have a point?”

 

“Nay. Thy heart may be bright, but doesn’t make thee always right. Yet…”

 

“Yet…”

 

Reinhardt does not answer. Rather, he changes subjects. “I am approaching. Feel free to descend.”

 

Leanne nodded. “Aye aye.” She returned to look at the Hinterlands. The ruins of Sharlayan, occupied by the goblins. The slumbering giant primal, known as Alexander. The Great Gubal Library, there in the distance.

 

“Sylphlands…” she muses.  A land full of morbols, angry treants, aggressive sylphies, zus, birds, plants…

 

Lifting herself, Leanne stands tall, upright. She could see it again. Mortality looking right back at her eyes. Waiting for her, for others. For the slip that would claim their lives.

 

The life of an adventurer…

 

She takes a deep breath, then steps forward. Exending her arms and closing her golden hues, Leanne goes into free-fall.

 

“So many things to solve..." she muses again. The void incidents, Edda and Taeros' impending marriage, a dream to carry...

 

"Thine life."

 

Abruptly, midst her fall, a lumbering dragon zips past, having Leanne land on their back. 

 

"First things first."

 

Leanne speaks, as both she and Reinhardt disappear into the clouds.

[GloryRhodes]

South Shroud Landing

 

 

Khuma trembled, clutching the pale, featureless mask fastened tightly over her face.  They were supposed to protect them.  They were supposed to keep this from happening.  From above, the rain continued to pour, beating a cold wet rhythm on her dirty leathers, soaking her bowstring to uselessness in the mud half a dozen fulms away.

 

The masks protected them from woodsin.  That's how they could live out here without fear.  The masks collected the woodsin, and then they burned them and got new masks.  They could live out here forever without even conjurers, that's what they'd said.  That's what had been true.  True until tonight.

 

Bathu screamed; had been screaming; was still streaming.  She wouldn't stop.  Khuma refused to look and stayed hidden behind the tree, clutching her mask, praying to Menphina to make it end.  The thing, the horrible thing screamed as well, howling in a hundred voices, each one different, unique, pained, but Khuma could still pick out Bathu's cries.

 

"Help me!  Someone help me!"

 

She didn't move.  The rain fell and the screaming continued, and she hid, terrified, shivering in the cold and the wet and the fear like an animal.  On the other side of the tree something moved.  Khuma froze.  At the very corner of her vision a shape slithered across the ground towards her bow.

 

Don't move.  Don't breathe.  Don't make a sound.  The shape became a hand, an arm, a person.  Bathu's fingers clawed down into the mud and she pulled herself along the ground, still screaming.  Khuma stared, peering out through the darkened holes of her mask.

 

Bathu's mask had fallen off, leaving her face bare and terrified.  her eyes were crazed as she screamed again.  "Help!  Help me!  Someone!"  She was going for the bow, left discarded in the mud.  or maybe she was just trying to get away, to put distance between her and that awful screaming thing that was even now moving on the other side of the tree, teeth crunching down on something wet and warm.

 

Her fingers touched the bow, and she scrabbled for it wildly, flinging mud in every direction.  Desperate, he clutched it and turned over onto her back.  Her legs were stumps, taken off mid thigh by those impossible teeth in the screaming thing that had descended upon the camp.  Bathu raised the bow, triumphant in death, and realized she had no arrows.

 

Khuma had arrows.  They dug into her back as she pressed harder against the tree, watching her sister.  Then, despite her prayers, Bathu finally saw her.  Their eyes met, and Bathu began screaming again.  "Arrows!  Give me an arrow!  Help me!  Khuma!"

 

Shut up.  Shut up shut up shut up.  It can hear you.  It's coming shut up.  Shut up and die.

 

"An arrow!  Give me an arrow!"

 

She didn't move.  She didn't say anything.  She just looked at the ragged mess of bleeding meat where her sister's legs had been, and she shook her head.  No.  No shut up.  Go away.  Go away and die!  Leave me alone!

 

Bathu pleaded.  She was crying.  Even in the rain and the dark Khuma could see the tears in her eyes.  She was begging, dying for an arrow.  Then there was a snap; cracking bone.  Bathu was lifted from the ground, bow still dangling from her hand, but her body had gone limp.  She hung in the air, tears still streaming from her pleading eyes.  "Why?"

 

Then she was gone, and Khuma was alone.  Almost alone.  She clutched the mask tighter, holding in sobs.  They were supposed to protect them.  This wasn't supposed to happen as long as they had the masks.

 

Then the thing came around the tree, and the screaming continued.

[Nihka]

Roots caressed her skin, and she reached out to touch them. The earth embraced her, cradled her, sheltered her. Here she was safe, where no one could find her. They couldn’t find her, He couldn’t find her. She rested beneath the earth as her leg healed, safe in the blessings of the Shroud.

 

-

 

Arden looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. Above were the trees. Beneath his feet was the rough ground of the Shroud. This was where he belonged. Out of the city.

 

-

 

Those people. Her leg had been broken. They’d pinned her down. They were going to kill her. She’d had to flee, and down here she had finally found some semblance of peace, for the first time since Arden arrested her.

 

-

 

Arden’s mask upon his face. It was worn smooth, and still fit him like a second skin even after so many years. It kept him hidden, in a sense, carrying the blessings of the Fane upon his work to protect him from the elementals and hiding his face from the criminals he might encounter.

 

-

 

She was whole. She was safe. She could close her eyes and rest, finally. Except that Arden Wood was still alive. She could feel his blood calling to her, deep in that cursed city.

 

She would need more blood.

 

-

 

There was anonymity to wearing the mask of the wailer. Hiding brought a sense of security, a detachment from the self and from the consequences of your actions. When you wore the mask, you gave up your identity and declared to the woods that you were one with them. But this was his mistake, and his responsibility.

 

He unhooked the mask, and lowered it from his face.

 

-

 

Jainelette tore at the cocoon around her. The Shroud strove to protect her, to keep her safe from harm deep underground, but she could not accept rest until she had found her revenge. Roots grew around, even as she tore them away. She had to make them understand, she couldn’t rest yet, so she tore open her arm and fed the roots her blood. They parted, and created a path to the surface, as the blood red spread up through the trees above. The Shroud understood wrath.

[Zelmanov]

“You came all the way here for that?”  

 

Those words clawed at him,digging into the flesh of his thoughts. It had been two moons away from home and he had naught else to show for it but that infuriating taunt. He could still feel the heat, remember the sight of the southern shroud ablaze as the ground opened up underneath their feet as if to swallow them. He heard that moment of silence before the explosion. He also heard the high-pitched, shimmering whine of the greenwrath taking one Wood Wailer after another.

 

Even just thinking about it nowforced his lips to contort and his nose to wrinkle, never had he seen such an affront to life and honor, even in all his time against the horde. Those men were robbed of their lives by the very ones they wished to appease. There was no fight, no struggle. They were just deconstructed, deleted without a second thought with no corpse left to bury not even the mask that was supposed to protect them. Syros North was the cause and they paid for it.

 

It was injustice.

 

He felt a roiling rumble in thepit of him he had not felt since that day 7 years ago and it took all he could muster to suppress it, his breathing had to deepen, his muscles forced to relax. Yet, he was so blinded by that feeling that he could not recognize it for what it was until he and those he could call to arms had scraped their way into the heart of Amdapor.

 

“You came all the way here for that?” the voidsent asked in annoyance. Thoughit was asked in reference to lifting a curse set upon a trio of adventurers they had found in the city, it cut it into him as well. Came all the way here, for what? To kill Syros himself in the name of the Wailers that died? To kill Syros because Orrin could not fight an elemental even if his whole being screamed at him to? Or was it so that he would not let another get away, like X’kirra?

 

Why had he come all the way here, to Gridania? Ishgard was still at war. One thousand years of faith, a campaign of honor was just laid false before the eyes of truth; the nation was turbulent and perhaps ready to collapse upon itself. It was a country ever in need of its defenders. For even if blood and treachery were the start of the war, they could not simply lie down and die to the dragons. Yet, he came all the way here, all the way here for what? To help Anstarra? Anstarra was merely a piece to getting X’kirra and that final wyrm tear that had escaped him before. Was that it then? Came all the way here for revenge? Perhaps it was, but no longer.

 

He could feel the anger of theprisoners that have been attacking the shroud, or so he thought, and if he could drive the elementals out, he would if only on principle of their inability or indifference when it came from discerning one life of a human being from another. But were it to be done, it’d not be this way. For solely the sake of the people of Gridania he’d preserve that damnable pact and make those responsible pay, even the ones that so comfortably sat in the Fane if need be.

 

 

Orrin’s eyes shot open at thesound of his linkpearl going off in his ear. He had been sitting in an inn room in the bobbing cork, fully suited in his gear and the call made him rise to his feet. Taking his lance in hand he sets out from Fallgourd Float towards the northern border near Coerthas. 

 

((part 2 coming eventually))

[Verad]

A Series of Short Conversations In and Around Stillglade Fane

 

“No.” Guerrique snorted and turned away from his cell door’s window.. It was a surprise, to him, that he would have been brought out of repose for this. It was a surprise that he had been brought out of repose at all, really. The Fane believed it better to keep prisoners resting and docile save for when meals and the privy were required. In the . . . it had to be sennights now, didn’t it? In that length of time, he could remember but two moments when he had been brought out of slumber for other purposes: first when the Hearer had come to offer Ursuline a bit of surcease, and second when members of the Wailers had come calling.

 

That had not been so pleasant a conversation at all. They hadn’t laid hands, and all the better for them, but it had been of a certain tone, one that suggested only a very slim usefulness kept him away from the hangman’s noose or the headsman’s block or whatever it was the citydwellers were using to cut off heads these days. And always the same question, asked with the same patiently frustrated tone, their armor so white compared to the usual Wailer garb he hadn’t seen they’d been a bit blinding in the dim light of the cell. When he had left the prison, did a Padjal come with him? He didn’t know. And if so, where was he? And again, he didn’t know.

 

And now there was a Padjal in front of him, short enough that Guerrique could barely see the horns peeking through the cell window, and here he was offering something he couldn’t have been. The Duskwight had been through his share of false promises by now, and he knew another when he heard it.

 

On the other end of the door, the Padjal sighed. “I apologize, but this is no mere jest, ser,” he said, “And I would not come were the circumstances not dire. If you do not take this opportunity, then your life is assuredly forfeit.”

 

“You’re a neat speaker, an’ that’s plain enough,” said Guerrique. “But no. Fane an’ the masks doing at odds? Doesn’t make sense.”

 

“They are not at odds, I promise you that,” continued the Padjal. “But I am at odds with both. You have met my comrade. She eased the pain of your lover, did she not? We would see you both released, and not in the manner the Fane would prefer. Please. Take this chance.”

 

With his back turned, Guerrique could make his hesitation more plan, his expression uncertain. “You think they’ll do for ‘er? Looking like she is?”

 

“I do. They will not suffer the corruption within you overlong. Once their tolerance has reached a limit - “ He could hear the Padjal’s throat as he swallowed. Exaggerated, perhaps, but sounds could carry far down here. “But she and I - we may have a way to cleanse you.”

 

A click on the bars sounded behind Guerrique, and he turned his shoulder to see a small hand clasping the bars in his window. There was something perverse, he’d always thought, about the spirits making their servants out of children.

 

He scowled, and wrinkled his nose. “You get her first. You bring her here, and we’ll go on our way.”

 

“Ser, I cannot allow you to just leave unfettered - “

 

The Duskwight held up a hand. “Snakemolt, if you please. We’ll hold up there. If you’re good to your word, it’ll be you and the Hearer come calling - no later than a sennight from today. If not, y’won’t see us. Just give us a means to leave, and we’ll creep on out.”

 

The Padjal on the other side of the door said nothing. Then, slowly, the door in front of him was unlatched and creaked open. Guerrique hastened to slam it shut.

 

“No! You get her first, you understand? You fetch her and bring her, and we’ll go separate - “

 

This close to the window, he could see through it, and the forestchild was nowhere to be seen. He frowned.

 

“Terrible at directions,” he mumbled, opening the door and glancing around the hallways of the Fane. “Think he’d never broken out’ve prison before.”

 

---

 

Another sun, and Hamond Wolfedge would be free.

 

He had not planned for the possibility of recapture, but he had not anticipated the presence of many things. The eastern watchtower, the metallic fort in his path, the interference of adventurers, so on, so on. Nothing but obstacles since his first escape. When he was laid low, he was sure the demon’s game had ended, that he would awake in Toto-Rak in some newly-concocted hell.

 

To find himself in the Fane was an unexpected outcome. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Their security was firm enough, and to be in the heart of Gridanian governance had given him ample opportunity to take what notes he could from the chatter of guards and the occasional mumblings of Conjurers passing by. If this world was a trick of the demon, then it had made it real, more real than any of his illusions of time past. If it was not, then the Young King would find what secrets he could glean from the halls of power to be very useful indeed.

 

He set about tensing his wrists in his shackles. The locals preferred to keep their victims in slumber (a far cry from their last gaol, in his view), but after reports of his escape from Quarrymill, and his capture at the tower, he had been bound and manacled twice over. The less he could move, in their view when they required him to be awake, he supposed, the better.

 

It had been highly effective. He had not been able to manipulate his chakra and muscles alike but for brief moments during feeding, delaying his efforts considerably. Another sun’s worth of meals, and the chains binding him would have been strained, worn thin enough to break.

 

Their spells of slumber, too, were not so powerful as they would have been on lesser minds and bodies; to a Fist of Rhalgr, at least, they were a nuisance, a state of somnolence in which he was dimly aware, but unable to move, to strain. He could sense his surroundings, though, and he could hear the click of footsteps down the hall, the clatter of a key in a lock, and the creak of his door opening.

 

And when the Young King entered the room, he was grateful that he was in this state, for fear that he would weep at the sight of him. Clad in the robes of the childseers that controlled Gridania, he raised a staff of wood and ivory high and, with but a word, the sleep that always threatened to overtake Hamond was gone.

 

In an instant he was up on his feet; in the next, his shackles strained and shattered as he pulled them apart, chains clattering to the floor of his cell in pieces. In the third, he was down on one knee in front of the Young King. “Liege,” he whispered, breathless, reverent. “I know not how you have come, or if this is the demon’s trick again - but no, it cannot be.” Hamond shook his head. The demon had sent him glimpses in the past, to be sure - visions of Theodoric. It was surreal, to be sure, that he was here. But too different from the workings of Neruhm to be anything but real.

 

“Er.” Hamond glanced up. In his forcefulness, he seemed to have caught the boy tongue-tied. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “I have secured your release, my, er . . . loyal . . . subject? If you would follow me, please. But be wary. The guards abound.”

 

“Yes, liege!” He sprang to his feet, the impact from his legs creating a rumble in the wood underneath them.

 

“. . . Wary and quiet, please.”

 

---

 

“This’s gettin’ us nowhere’s, Thya.” One shadow spoke around a mouthful of chestnuts, the crunching sound making every word a crackle.

 

“You hush it, Pah. They ain’t seen us all sun, an’ this is the last batch. Boss’s gonna want to know who’ve them Padjal got what kinda guards, right?”

 

“‘S right, and most’ve ‘em got guards now. Lots an’ lots. We had our shot, n’ we got paid, so let’s take that an’ leg south.”

 

“Just another couple bells, is all. Don’t even need to shoot or nothin’, just stay -hid-.” An extremely perceptive onlooker might hear the whispering, but see little more than a pair of potentially argumentative bushes. And so close to Nophica’s Altar, who would find it odd to hear a little bit of unexplained whispering in the air?

 

“Don’t like this city, y’know. ‘S all wrong from what it used t’be.”

 

“Got that right. Gettin’ all their birds sick, lettin’ in all these ‘venturers, an’ half the masks have new suits. T’ain’t right at all.”

 

“Gil’s still good though, least the boss’s is good. We get another hunt, get ‘em good, then we cut clean and go southwise. Ul’dah’s nice ‘cept for the Keepers.”

 

“Oh, we’ll get ‘em good. You seen that shot I made, yeah? Never heard it comin’, the kid did.”

 

“‘Course he never heard it, Thya, nobody did, tha’s the point.”

 

“Well, yeah, yeah, but even so, takin’ into account all them factors, wind an’ such, even if he coulda, he wouldn’t’a.”

 

“Maybe so, maybe s - oop, looklooklook!”

 

The bushes waited until an appropriate breeze had passed through in order to rustle. “Right there, you see? The little’n.”

 

In the near but not-too near distance, a view of the Fane allowed the two the sight of a Padjal, his robe pulled over his head to obscure his face, exiting the cave entrance that led to the Conjurer’s Guild. Behind him was a hulk of a man, clad in a ragged robe too short to cover powerfully built legs, but with a hood heavy enough to keep him likewise concealed.

 

“Why’s he hidin’ his face, y’reckon?”

 

“Maybe he’s incognitoing.”

 

“Tha’s not a verb, Pah.”

 

“Oh, you hush. Look at that fellow, though, big as an’ ‘ouse. And look, look - “

 

The pair had not gotten more than a few yalms out of the entrance when the shadows could see the figures of a troupe of Wailers approaching.

 

“Why’s they all in white?”

 

“That’s Serpents, Thya. Boss said about ‘em, you recall? Elites f’r the elite, you know. Half-a-dozen I’d say” The shadow sighed. “Pass me them chestnuts ‘fore they turn black. That many guards? This’n’s a bust.”

 

“Sure, sure - wait. Wait, Pah, look.” She pointed. “They s’posed to raise spears? like that?”

 

“Nah. Not ‘sposed to surround ‘em, either.” From their point of view, they could no longer see the Padjal, or, for that matter, his companion - the height of the Elezen obscured, and the white of their armor distracted.

 

“Don’t see ‘em do that often to one’a them. Sure ‘s not a ritual? Look, ‘e’s raisin’ his staff, see?”

 

Thya felt a hand on her back before she was shoved down into a bush. Above them, a bright and blinding light flared out over the Fane, followed by the rapid passing of two pairs of feet, one light, one heavy.

 

“Nophica’s arse, Pah, wha’d you do that for?!” said Thya, raising her head from the dirt.

 

“It’s tits, Thya, and nasty magic. Worst kind. An’ look.”

 

The pair chanced peeking their heads outside of the bushes. In the distance, bodies clad in white armor lay collapsed on the ground. Civilians and Conjurers alike had not yet passed from shock to panic.

 

“Think they’re dead?”

 

“Nah. Padjal? Just sleepin’. But he’s runnin’ from guards, not goin’ with ‘em. You follow?”

 

“. . . Means he’s not got any.”

 

“Mmhm. Keep eyes on ‘im. I’ll go tell the boss.”

 

---

 

“Twenty gil?! Last sennight it was only ten!”

 

Helena did her best to maintain a bright and businesslike smile in the face of customer outrage. Fortunately, it was only mild exasperation in this case, a young woman with a wrinkled duneapple she supposed was a relation. This was not Ul’dah, she had to remind herself, and the prospect of a wildly fluctuating price was much more of an outrage. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she’d cultivated a customer base of adventurers. They would put up with whatever insane spikes might be thrown at them with a smile. “I’m afraid that’s so, miss. Horse oil’s been very popular with a number of Wailer Spears of late. They’ve placed a number of orders in advance. Would you like to do the same? If you pre-order five vials now, I’ll be happy to throw in this . . . “

 

She glanced down at the contents of her stall. Pelderain Dornier had slipped her a number of what he called “collector’s edition vials.” As far as she could see they weren’t much different from the usual kind, save for having had the stopper painted gold.

 

“Actually, forget what I’d offer extra, it’s not worth it. Still cheaper to place an order in advance these days. Would you prefer that?”

 

“Ah, yes, yes, I’d prefer that very much.” The woman brushed aside a lock of dusty blonde hair. “I’m sorry, I think I might have lost my temper. It’s just we have a family anniversary coming up, and gran’s mind isn’t as sharp as it might have been last cycle. Thought maybe the horse oil would’ve gotten her a bit of wits back.”

 

Helena gave the woman’s gran a closer look. A duneapple, to be sure, and her eyes distant, lost in whatever else might have been more interesting than the Stalls. Most things, to be sure. Her hand lowered down to underneath the counter, where she kept her own supply of vials. A week’s worth, usually taken from each of Pelderain’s offerings. If he had a problem with the loss of coin, he never said.

 

Surely, she could stand a day without. Sure she could.

 

She dropped her hand, and withdrew her ledger instead. “Very well then. You needed just the one, correct? Simple enough to offer a ten-gil price for that in the next shipment.”

 

“Thank you,” said the customer, with drawing her coinpurse. “Thank you very much, mi - “ She stumbled forward as a pair of men brushed past her in the Stalls, both cowled and robed. Helena leaned forward to catch her shoulders before she slammed into the front of the stall and rattled the merchandise.

 

“Are you quite all right, miss?”

 

“I - yes, I think so. Rude of them, wasn’t it?” The woman pushed herself away and adjust a short, threadbare tunic. “But - yes, here. Ten gil. For Linette Fahn.”

 

“Done,” said Helena, making a note in her ledger. “And done. Stop by same day next sennight and I’ll have it ready.”

 

“Obliged to you, truly.” Linette bowed her head and turned to take the older woman’s hand. “Come on now - gran? Gran?”

 

 

She had turned to stare down the path of the Stalls, her eyes open, unblinking, as she followed the pair of robes until they were out of sight.  

[Nihka]

Amenne hated it here. The grass was red. The trees were red. Everything looked like blood. The feelings of the void were palpable, an oppressive weight that pressed down on her very soul. She took solace in the blessed mask on her face, and in the aged figure she stood beside.

 

Arden wasn’t wearing his mask, though. It worried her, but also invigorated her. Her idol stood exposed and strong. Even in his old age, even though she had long since grown taller, he was still imposing and his mind as sharp as ever. He used to play games with her when she was a child, and he was why she’d joined the wailers. When she’d heard that Arden Wood was coming out of retirement, she jumped on the chance to be in his escort.

 

If she’d known he was going here, she’d have been a little more hesitant.

 

The village was lost. No survivors. Void magic had corrupted everything with blood, there were piles of ash and bone, and tainted plants had overgrown the buildings.

 

“You should be thanking me,” Jeremiah said smugly. He was the other escort that had chosen to watch over Arden. He’d delayed their trip by two suns, and it turns out he’d put in a leve to issue for adventurers to contact the village. It made Arden furious, but Amenne quietly was thankful. “If we’d come here when you wanted to, this would be us.”

 

“Boy, don’t try to lecture me.”

 

“These piles of ash are clearly the remains of people. There are still some bones in them. Some sort of void fire no doubt. Killing the villagers as they ran. You can see them on the road out of town. You can see the burns on the warehouse door. The problem undoubtedly began there.”

 

Arden listened to Jeremiah with a restrained glower, and when he finished Arden looked to Amenne. She flinched back half a step, and he raised a brow.

 

“The boy knows where to look,” Arden started. Jeremiah grinned smugly. “But he’s also an idiot who thinks he’s smart.”

 

Amenne stared at Arden.

 

“Girl. If you can’t do better I’ll be very disappointed.”

 

“R-right!” She stood up and looked over at Jeremiah. “I think I know what he means, just from looking at the site. One, it has rained since we lost contact with the village. Whatever event cut us off was not what caused the fire, or the ashes would have washed away by now, or at least be wet. The ground around each pile is scorched individually, which suggests someone came by after the fact and burned them. Jeremiah, since it was your leve you should know: were there any thaumaturges signed up?”

 

“Well, yes…”

 

“Then you should be smart enough to know that a thaumaturge, when faced with corrupt corpses, will forego the preservation of evidence in favor of preventing the bodies from reanimating from void magics.”

 

Amenne started to walk through the village, picking her way carefully to avoid the piles of ash.

 

“Some of the bodies are on the road, but most of them seem clustered around the gate. However, there’s a patch that’s empty. That’s probably where the adventurers you hired stood and fought. The bodies are arrayed in a semi-circle, tightly packed in two places. The other is the warehouse door, which as you say is charred. The fire comes from the outside, though, which means someone was attacking the warehouse, not the other way around. Considering how large the scorch mark is here, I’d say there was something big here that the adventurers had to fight.”

 

Amenne looked at Jeremiah. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she saw Arden smiling proudly. It reminded her of the games he’d used to play with her, when she was just a child. The old man was already retired by then, and a friend of her mother’s. After her father died, the retired couple agreed to babysit her so that mother could work. Arden created mysteries, crime scenes as a game and challenged Amenne to solve them.

 

Only this time the crime was real, and the void would kill her for getting it wrong.

 

“Too much evidence is gone. We should check in the warehouse, but we might be better served pulling up the list from the adventurer’s guild and questioning them.”

[Zelmanov]

Part 2!

 

Though the Astrologians couldpredict the movements of the horde decades ahead of time, what they gained in foresight they lost in precision. In the grand scheme of a thousand years of battle, being a week or a month off was never truly unheard of but the window of opportunity for this attack, for the return of Sarkany to poison the fields of Coerthas, was coming to a close. Sarkany had been canonized into the enchiridion as one of Nidhogg’s commanders near nearly half a millennia ago, making the serpent at least an extra hundred years older than that. He had favored terrorizing further south than most, emboldened by relative youthfulness and fueled by the rage of his forbearers, his breath wilted the grass, choked the life out of man and crop alike and so Sarkany’s bitter bile would pour south of Skyfire Locks, cutting off the lowborne from the safety of the shelters and ruining the farmlands. Sarkany sought the blood of commoners, not of those who could fight him.

 

The plan was set the day theassault was divined from the heavens. 

However, in what Orrin had begun to understand as prohibitively singleminded focus, no Astrologian could foretell that this particular assault would come after the calamity. Such an assault during the currently endless winter would be even more devastating than any that had come before and so the Holy See’s hand was forced to relay a larger, more spectacular force south: The dragonkillers at Camp Dragonhead would be calibrated southwards to prevent retreat once Sarkany overextended, the soldiers would emerge from the locks, already beneath their soft underbellies to drive their spears in and upwards. From there Sarkany and his brood would be forced further south or risk crashing against Camp Dragonhead, and men from house Durendaire would come from Whitebrim through St. Daniffen’s pass to properly close them in.

 

Orrin’s role was to cut throughfrom the south, ignore all others and go for the monster himself. This was nearly standard procedure, Dragoons were best used strategically, bringing down the more troublesome and aged dragons so the footmen could stay and fight, nothing emboldened men than seeing several centuries old lives extinguished, struck down from the sky in righteous judgement. However this time, Orrin was to act alone, not with a squad or even bolstering an existing one, it was his responsibility alone to ensure Sarkany choked on its own poisoned breath. Given an opportunity for glory? Ordered to die? Neither made sense to him. No lord would give over the glory of slaying such a beast to the Mutt of Ishgard of all men. Nor had he knowledge of whom would see him to troublesome to be kept alive especially at his age, none others than those that saw Ser Aymeric as an obstacle and Orrin thought them all too craven to ever be able to act against the Lord Commander. Regardless, the rage that hadboiled within his blood from the result of the moons long campaign in the shroud could finally find chance to be quenched by the blood of a dragon he found truly reprehensible, one that razed villages just like the one he was found in.

 

 

Orrin walked along the pathwestward of Fallgourd, into the dead and razed ground that even the elementals could not breath life back into again. Even so, he knew the Dragons avoided the shroud even now, either in fear, or accordance with the elemental’s whims. He figured that it would be another bell’s march before he would hear even a hint of the battle. His footsteps carried him northwards, the dead granite mixing with scattered patches of snow.

 

Kshhhhht…Ser..Ha…” his linkshellpinged again, amongst the static came screams of death and carnage “Wou….-ushed..back!” The aether garbled the message, his movement quickened in hopes of getting a better signal “Fleeing south! Towards you!”

 

Orrin’s attention is quicklycalled to the flap of leathery wings and a deafening roar.  He draws his weapon and his eyes instantlydraw heavenward By the Fury, the creature is to seek shelter so far south? The heavy forked lance held at the ready, he breaks into a sprint. This would be troublesome, he had hopes to catch Sarkany amidst the chaos and strike from the flank or behind, but this meant he had duty to fight the commander head on. It drew into view now, the blackened silhouette against the azure skies taking more definite form. It was low to the ground, the flapping of its wings favoring one side over the other and protesting howls of anguish and rage would echo through the valley that linked the highlands to the Northern Shroud. The figure changed direction and dived at him. It was a near streak of light, the massive form of the dragon spiraling down at him like a loosed arrow, all the while unleashing a fluorescent, greenish ichor from its maw. Orrin plants his foot and pushes off to dive to the side but the sheer impact of Sarkany with the ground tossed Orrin onto his back a few feet further from where he intended to land.

 

Orrin is left with his earsringing, head rattled within his helm. He had the empty sky in full view, how many must have witnessed that sight before they breathed their last. He gasps for air and his lungs and nose burned. The impact kicked up the snow and dirt of the borderland and clouded the battlefield. He rolls onto his belly, curling onto hands and knees, coughing into the mouth guard, the sound of blood or phlegm or something smattering against the inside. He heard rumbling footfalls and the batting of wings. Get up, Hells damn you, get up. His hands grip the haft of his weapon and he drives the back end into the blackened soil and pulls himself up with it. What little greenery, like lichens and mosses that dotted the ground were browning, wilting, submerged in the thin green blanket of poisonous gas that came up to Orrin’s ankles. His gaze turns to the impact crater made by the dragon’s dive bomb.

 

The dirt and snow began to settleand so Orrin would get to witness the half-millennium old dragon for the first time. The unblinking red eyes of his visor hid his surprise. The Enchiridion described the Sarkany as an unholy terror, whose visage was as poisonous as his breath, claws wrought from steel, but even its flowery depiction failed in properly capturing what he saw approaching him. It stood upon two legs, like a wyvern, but its gait was more humanoid than that. Also, unlike a wyvern, the creature’s wings, one tattered and torn, were folded upon its back as opposed to being draped beneath its arms. The claws seemed to be elongated to lance-point, far too big to be walked upon. It stood tall, thrice as high as Orrin and many more times as thick, upon its shoulders writhed a myriad of heads that moved like the mane of tentacles upon a morbol’s maw. Each rise and fall of the dragon’s chest forced a puff of noxious gas from the mouths of all its heads, save one that was firmly planted at the center, glaring at the oddly garbed dragoon that fought to stand back on his two feet.

It raised its two massive clawsto either side and tossed all its heads back in what could called a chortle. Orrin readied his weapon, body aching, strength draining. Aye, death here would be fitting for one such as him, he let out a cry and charged, each step kicking up the low hanging fog at his feet, cutting a swath through it towards the beast. He strikes.

 

 

 

((News of tainted ground near thenorth of the shroud could be heard among the chattering of hearers and wailers, the area dead and brown, blood soaked into the soil. I didn't want to bum this page of an entire, lengthy combat scene))

[Anstarra]

((PLOT INFO CONTAINED HEREIN! Subject to hearsay, perspective, opinion and assorted potential insanities))

 

 

 

"Lady Liadan,

 

If the seal of this document is unbroken when you find it, then I trust you have received the missive from Ser Carter. Though he is a frightened and damaged man, and rightfully so, I consider he and his companion to be trustworthy figures, having met them thanks to your directions. As such, you should also receive this along with the stone you entrusted to my care some moons ago. It is far better served in your care, as will be made plain in due time.

 

Permit me to begin this with a confession. You have known for some time that the being you sought, the culprit behind the incident at Toto-Rak of forty years past and the damning of twelve other souls to the embrace of the void was a Padjal. I must now make it known that I am the Padjal you have sought.

 

You should not feel shame at not realizing - I am sure, with your command of the elements and your ability to see into the aether, that you have seen that I lack any of the corruption of my fellow prisoners. I appear - or appeared - untainted, as I did all those years ago. The reason for this is simple: the twelve souls I offered to the void were not sacrifices. They were shields. The bargain I struck protected me from the effects of the darkness and passed it into them. The madness and, in the case of poor Ursuline, the twisting of forms, was meant for me. As long as they lived, I would remain unharmed, another Padjal in a forest where we are thinly spread, and where the people revere us too much to doubt us.

 

The death of Syros North has changed this. With his demise, the void that permeated his form has passed to me, and so I may no longer freely walk the forest. This is nothing I had not foreseen. I have known for some time that one of the twelve would meet their end and I would receive the share of my corruption that had been measured out to them. In the past, I expected that this would nevertheless be time enough for my plans to be enacted.

 

What I did not expect, however, was to abandon my plans entirely. And that is because I never expected someone like you, Liadan. You may consider this document my admission, and my confession - but not, I must stress, my request for forgiveness.

 

I asked you some time ago what you would do, what your life would be like, if you could not hear the Elements as you do. Do you recall? You told me that in all likelihood you would be slain at the hands of the Garleans, and that for you, your powers were a blessing. I understand, and respect that. I admire it. You have shown a dedication to the forest that many in your profession treat as merely an obligation brought on by their role; so, too, have you dedicated yourself to the people with equal fervor, by the compassion you have offered lost souls like the other prisoners.

 

It was a good answer, and I cannot argue against it. But I never told you, though I wanted to with great fervor, my own answer to that question, for not a day passes when I do not think of it. If I had not been chosen to speak for the elements, I know exactly what I would have done: I would have learned my family’s trade, tending orchards with my father and tanning leather with my mother. I would have grown up with my older siblings and watched my younger grow in kind. I would have found someone to love and raised a family with them, and watched them raise families of their own until my passing into the aether. The world is a disorderly one, of course, and there was every chance that other circumstances beyond being the first child of the Fahn family born in the Shroud, and having the ineffable qualities that attract the attention of the spirits would contrive to intervene. But they did not, and I was ten cycles when I started hearing understand the whispering I heard every day and the demands they made.

 

When you first realized the threat you faced was a Padjal, we discussed stories of those who might have rejected the gift so offered to them. I would ask you, in all seriousness, if to become a Padjal is any kind of gift at all: for a child to be taken from their families and made something different: unaging, a conduit for spirits as much feared for their wrath as respected for their blessings, and set apart from the forestborn by their devotion and reverence, needed in society but separate from it. Were it not for tradition and the undeniable power of the elementals, would we accept this? The taking of children and making them into something other? Such a thing, I think, would be considered a crime against nature, and I cannot condone it.

 

I realize this is a difficult thing to ask any devoted Gridanian, and in truth, many of our kind embrace their role, or at least accept it over time. This, however, is something I could never do, nor could my family. They objected, strenuously, and it was for their objections that I was taken from them and placed in another household: that of the Senna family. Whatever the family is like now, it was not a kind upbringing, but rather something of a re-education. I became resigned to my role.

 

I could not become resigned to the demands of the elementals, however. I could not resign myself to placing the needs of the people below the forest. I could not resign myself to the forestborn’s treatment of the weaker among them, of the Keepers, of the Duskwights. And I could not resign myself to the elementals’ unwillingness to intercede. But unwillingness is not the word, is it? The correct one is their inability to even distinguish between the Shroud’s inhabitants enough to intercede in the first place.

 

And so I resolved to scorn the Shroud. I plotted, and turned against my fellows. I had plans to breach the Hedge, to weaken the spirits’ control over the forest. But I was found out, and in a manner that would cause great embarassment to the Senna. I was placed in Toto-Rak - another testament to the brutality of man allowed by the spirits without interference - rather than eliminated.

 

I do not know how long they planned to keep me there. I suspect I was only to be held until the Seedseer Council could find a way to eliminate me without angering the elementals. It did not matter. Within a sennight I had found what lurked in the dark in Toto-Rak. I know not if the years of torture and horror attracted the voidsent, or if it was some lingering thing from the days of Gelmorra. But I found it, and we spoke, and I made my bargain: the souls of twelve prisoners to shield my own and keep me safe, out of time and undying, until the Shroud was better prepared to change. At that time, I would be released, as would the twelve, and I would be free to enact my plans. If I succeeded, then I and the Twelve would be freed. If I failed, or the corruption that held any of the twelve passed to me, then the voidsent would have a claim upon my soul, and, upon my death, my body.

 

The circumstances of my return are unclear; I do not believe that Neruhm - who took a part of my name in the exchange, as you will see - intended to release me. I returned to find Toto-Rak abandoned and in ruins, and the Shroud greatly changed. Even if my return was an accident, the timing could not be better. The great disaster I have heard others speak of from five years past has left the Shroud weak, weaker than it ever was. The Spirits cannot enact their will as forcefully as they could. Now was the perfect time to renegotiate the Pact of Gelmorra.

 

I found Syros North from among the ranks and recruited him as my agent, and left the others to their devices. He was a kindred spirit, broken as he was - another product of a tradition that puts power on those who do not want it, do not ask for it, and are damaged by it. Our plan was simple enough - by certain methods made known to me in the void, we would take items of holy power and concentrated aether and, through them, summon the legendary Toto-Rak. The spirits would submit to my demands, or the Shroud would be swallowed by a thousand maws. I believe your companions slew an abortive attempt at summoning the creature - incomplete, formed as much by Syros’ madness as by the legend - some sennights ago. But there were other sources of power - namely, the very stones you have sought. I would find them, and through those I would enact my work.

 

But all of that changed when I met you, Lady Liadan. I have seen you fight to save those the Shroud would condemn as beyond saving. I have seen you question the wisdom of a government that privileges the status of its noblest citizens and its tradition of governance over the safety of its people. I have seen you raise a hand against the country’s elite for the sake of both the forest and its inhabitants alike. And you have given me cause to reflect.

 

I see, now, that as the Shroud has grown weaker, the people have grown kinder. Toto-Rak is a ruin, a memory of the past that I hope shall remain forever so. The people revere the council of the present time for their deeds as well as their position, and seek to emulate them. The grudges of the past are beginning to fade. This is not the Shroud of two generations past; it does not deserve the suffering I would have wrought upon it if it failed to change.

 

Further, I see the terrible hypocrisy of my actions - to condemn twelve souls to suffering without choice in order to free others from being made Padjal without choice is a cruelty I can no longer countenance in myself. And so I renounce my schemes, and return the stone you entrusted to me to your care.

 

You shall not see me again, Lady Liadan, for some time, for there is work to be done and much to be corrected. I said at the start of this letter that I do not offer this as a request for forgiveness. I do not believe there can be forgiveness. You asked me once, in all earnestness, if even the one who inflicted this suffering can be saved. If I can, then I cannot see it.

 

I do, however, ask this of you: save them. Save the twelve who remain. I believe that Nicolae Lynch’s plan will work, and that Neruhm’s hold on their souls can be removed with the right magicks in the right place. If it can, then save them all. Whatever horrors they wrought in life do not deserve the hell he would inflict on them when they die. It is too late for Syros, perhaps, but not too late for the others. Even the worst of them should be judged by their present deeds, not the damnation of the void. And every one of them who dies gives Neruhm a greater foothold into the world.

 

When you have cleansed them, enter Toto-Rak. Find the abandoned wing in which I made my bargain, and eliminate Neruhm. He cannot be allowed to manifest, and certainly not in the body of Padjal. It would become the terrible scenario you feared from the outset - a master of succor and the void. This cannot come to pass.

 

When you have done all this, then I offer you this: I still believe, firmly, that the Pact can be renegotiated. All I wish to change, now, is to give those who would be Padjali a choice, and ensure that no child should enter our company without the right to decline the offer. This can be done without the summoning of legendary beasts or holding the Shroud hostage. If you would join me in this, then we will speak again.

 

If, however, you feel that this is beyond our grasp - that the Shroud must be, or ought to be the way it is, then return the stones to their rightful places and meet me again. I will submit to your judgment. I will be waiting.

 

May the spirits whisper sweeter things to you than ever I heard in my life,

 

O-Rehn Fahn"

 

 

Anstarra laid down the letter, expression distant and thoughtful. Thoughtful, not so much over the letter's contents, as over the nature of the grasp its author might now have on Liadan. The manipulations were subtle, and many. The off-handed admonishment of Toto-Rak as a testament of the brutality of man 'without the spirits' interference', despite having just bitterly lamented that exact interference. The admission of guilt, coupled with flattery of his mark, inspiring a sense of importance in her (a classic con: only YOU can help me regain my family's fortune! Please send money...). The promises that were no promises at all.

 

"He will submit to her judgment, indeed." Anstarra shook her head, laying back against Wark's side. The chocobo continued to groom himself with indifference. The letter had reached her covertly, along with Orrin's much briefer missive, before she could begin her morning patrol, and now was the first chance she'd gotten to read it.

 

It was a quiet day in the Highlands. Snow laid thick and heavy, seeming to mute the world. The serenity was an illusion, of course, and yet a pleasant one. It could become easy to convince oneself that as long as that serenity held, as long as nothing broke the stillness of the image, that all was well. That any turmoil lurking beneath the surface could just be gently smothered by it, until the illusion became the truth.

 

What terrible things might people do, to preserve that serenity.

 

"Maybe the system -is- broken. Well, I mean clearly there is a problem with it, if people like O-Rehn and Syros can be produced by it. And while one might argue that any system will have its failures, can one like this really afford them? In essence, what we're seeing here is a test of stability."

 

"Kweh."

 

"Indeed. It could be argued that the interference of Adventurers represents a corruption of the purity of the test; that if it could fall without us, then it should. And it's a fair point to make!"

 

"Kweh!"

 

"Oh, I know. Many Adventurers ARE products of Gridania, and thus of the system. You can't properly cut them out of the equation. Conversely, the whole thing seems very shaky. One sneaky Void Prince, one faithless Padjal, and we stand on the edge of a mini-Calamity? I'd rather tend to agree the whole thing needs shaking-up. If only, you know, it wouldn't be risking everyone in the Shroud's lives."

 

"Kweh."

 

"Yes, I know mom and dad still live there, Wark, thank you. I gave you their Starlight gift to you three days ago, and you already ate it. Now shush, I'm trying to think."

 

The bird sniffed, and returned to his grooming. Anstarra smirked, crossing her arms and looking out over the snow and mountains once again.

 

It was not impossible that O-Rehn had made a heel-face turn. Her own proposed plan allowed for the possibility, and either way she continued to believe that killing a Padjal, no matter how righteously, would only bring misery down on their heads. The real question, to her mind, was whether the powerful Cleansing ritual would be sufficient to utterly dispel the grasp, the contract between O-Rehn and Neruhm. If the Padjal was truly repentant, that was the best course. And if he wasn't... well, it would be bad, to free a monster again, but at least he wouldn't ALSO be a Void Prince. That would be another order of magnitude worse.

 

On the other hand, if O-Rehn was NOT repentant, then Aya, Rhea and Orrin's (oh, and Hadrian Hearns' too) inclination to outright murder him and Neruhm (Neruhm first) was probably the better plan. Though would the Tainted be killed by the backlash? They would need to be Cleansed first. The problem with the CLEANSING was that if Hearns was RIGHT, each one of them Cleansed was more freedom for O-Rehn, freedom from the consequences and negative aspects of his pact with Neruhm. In that light, of COURSE he gave the orb back to Liadan to use; he'd like nothing better than for us to free him to continue his mad plan to hold hostage the entire Shroud.

 

"Who says the Elementals would even negotiate with a terrorist!" An bursts out. "The whole Pact is BASICALLY us begging them to let us live in their house! For all we know, the monster Toto-Rak is the hungry, half-rabid guard dog they've kept locked in the basement ever since they decided they'd let people come visit. The ELEMENTALS won't give a damn if it's loosed, it'd just be US who gets it in the ass!"

 

"Kweh?"

 

"No, not in the fun.. how do you even know about that? Hush now. Dirty bird."

 

Indignant sniff. Tail feathers ruffled and flapped against An's face, making her sputter and bat them away. She glared at Wark, but he was once more totally engrossed in his grooming. Muttering, she settled back down.

 

Ultimately, the Pact wouldn't be changed by someone like O-Rehn, other than perhaps to dissolve it entirely. The price for revenge against his personal discomfort, the loss of the life he might have had, would be the actual lives everyone else DID have. This mess belonged to Stillglade Fane; they needed to fix the problem in their system, before this kind of thing happened again.

 

Anstarra still firmly believed that subduing O-Rehn, Cleansing him, and delivering him unto the Fane for containment (and perhaps rehabilitation, if such a thing was possible) was the best solution. Then, with him safely held, they could gang up and push Neruhm's teeth in. With the Void Prince destroyed, any fate meted out on O-Rehn would be determined by the Fane.. a Fane who would be forced to face the proof of the problems in their methods, for what was a fallen Padjal if not that? If O-Rehn was truly repentant, even he would endorse this process.

 

But... Anstarra did not believe it. Those last comments of his, that renegotiating the Pact 'can be done without the summoning of legendary beasts or holding the Shroud hostage'... were a pure lie. Else he would explain how, in the letter, openly. Rather than dangle it as a tantalizing lure to draw Liadan back into his grasp so that he might execute her if she proved to be less brainwashed than he hoped. Or else hold her hostage, or otherwise use her. Why else keep it quiet? Why should his revelation of such a plan be contingent on her acceptance of his world view, if he TRULY intended to leave it up to her?

 

No. More likely, his hubris still ruled, his dangerous intent. All he wanted now was for the other Tainted to be Cleansed, to remove the vulnerability, the possibility of backlash, leaving him free of Neruhm and in full possession of his powers.. free to seek to breach the Hedge in secret once more.

 

And this time, he might even succeed. Succeed in breaking through to the Elementals. Succeed in threatening them, in coercing them. In driving them to sunder the Pact and fill the Shroud with the Wrath, unmitigated.

 

"That won't happen." She pushed herself to her feet. She needed to speak with Hearns, with Orrin, with Nihka. With Liadan. With any and all of the others who had come to the forest's aid thus far. Needed to put a stop to this, before it was too late.

 

They were running out of time.

[Verad]

Back of the Sleeping Boar, Old Gridania:

 

“Uh-huh. No movements. Uh-huh.” Hadrian stood near what passed for the “loading dock” of the Sleeping Boar, a small porch stacked with crates and a smaller backdoor nearly blocked by the same. He had one hand near his ear and the other tapping out a bit of ash from his pipe. His expression was, as always, inscrutable to Weylan, and he was only now beginning to suspect that the Wailer’s mask he never took off was but a part of that.

 

The younger Wailer was doing his best to politely ignore Hadrian’s pearl conversation, having seated himself on a crate of wines yet to be unloaded and placed in the bar proper. He had been told to sit with Hadrian and keep a look out for their “supplier”; that meant, he suspected, the Duskwight who had all the patrons drinking that banned Horse Oil stuff. “Horse-powered” they’d started calling it. A bit too much like the phrases those new “Doman” folks would say, for his tastes. They always did prefer horses. But he didn’t drink it, and Hadrian was fine with it, so what did it matter?

 

There were other concerns, anyhow. He hadn’t yet brought up what he’d heard of Hadrian’s conversation a couple sennights’ past. Stumbling into negotiations between the older Wailer and what had looked like a mob of adventurers about getting help for the next hit had not been part of Weylan’s plans for the evening, and the entire thing had left him mostly speechless. Half of the conversation had been beyond him, and the other half was merely confusing, talk about demons and cleansing and why their target needed to die. And after that, he asked for their help. Their help. Why get outside aid after all the good and right talk about Gridania taking care of its own?

 

And why had she been there, that Keeper bitch? And hanging off of some Seeker woman’s arm like she belonged?

 

“All right. Good.” He snapped up to see Hadrian was ending the conversation. “Keep me posted if he moves. All should be ready in good time. I’ll check in tomorrow.” Hadrian lowered his hand from his ear, and lifted his pipe to check to see if it was properly cleaned. “They’re getting bored out there, Wey. Think we have to move on this or they’re going to cause some trouble.”

 

“Oh? A-are they?” The hitch in Weylan’s voice caught him off guard. Glancing down, he noticed for the first time that he was trembling, that his fists were clenched. His chest rose and fell as he took a few deep breaths, tried to repurpose a few bits of lancer training techniques to steady himself.

 

“Mm. Might be that I was being overcautious there. Wanted to do this out somewhere quiet, but he hasn’t moved far from that damn farm.” Hadrian blew out his lips in frustration, an act Weylan found oddly childish in contrast to the scars around the bottom of the older Wailer’s face. “Might just have to hit ‘em and run, take the body elsewhere to get the horns sawn and ground. Risky, but . . . “ He shrugged. “Well, they’re just farmers.”

 

“You don’t want to wait for those, uh, adventurers to confirm what you were saying? That he was, uh, you know, ‘corrupted’?”

 

Weylan’s voice rose to a higher note than was strictly necessary for a questioning tone of voice. It brought a smirk out of Hadrian. “Wey, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fishing for a bit more than that.”

 

Shaking his head quickly, Weylan retrained his eyes on the path to the back door. “No, I mean, I thought you were just feeding them a line, like, ‘Oh, it’s okay if we kill this Padjal because he’s demon-corrupted,’ right? Like, they wouldn’t get it, would they? Not like you.” The space around the back door was poorly lit, the dim and fading lantern on the wall giving Weylan a few yalm’s sight into the dark, and not much else. “Or like the other guys.”

 

Hadrian’s shoulders rose as he sighed. “Yeah, I’d like that to have been a line, Wey. Really I would. But that was pretty much the truth. I’d explain all of it, but let me leave it at this: The way I know the ‘children of the forest’ are what they are is because I got to see that one go rabid.”

 

Rabid Padjal. Now there was an image. Weylan’s head shot to the left to stare at Hadrian in shock. “What, like, go bad? They can go bad?”

 

“Oh, they can, Wey. They can go bad and worse. Spent a long time learning that.” He held his hands out, palms up, pipe still in one. “Can’t say much about it to the locals, though, because who’d believe that? But you get it by now. There’s more to it, but maybe when Peld isn’t nearly at the door.”

A rightward glance showed Weylan that a figure was approaching in the dark. Hadrian’s sight must have been the better of the pair, because he hadn’t even noticed the dim outline slowly taking shape into a Duskwight of middling height and build, apparently struggling under the bulk of a crate in his arms. Neither Wailer made a move to assist him as he approached the porch, until at last he knelt down and dropped his burden in the dirt with an exaggerated gasp. “Hearns, you swiving arse,” he wheezed, bent double to catch his breath. “You could’ve at least helped.”

 

“Looked like you had it. Weylan, this here’s our supplier, Pelderain Dornier, erstwhile inventor of the now-banned Horse Oil, which he is generously given to the loyal customers of the Boar and charging nary a gil.” Hearns said all of this with an exaggerated circling of the hand, as if introducing royalty. “He’d bow, but y’see the problem. Peld, this is Weylan, he’s, uh . . . “ He frowned in Weylan’s direction. “Yeah, I guess he’s my second in this. Got the records for the first hit and all, that’s something. Keeps his head clear and the boys in line. You’re both charmed, bow or nod or however you want to do it, Twelve knows it’s not my business.”

 

Weylan settled for at least a nod of the head. Duskwight or not, the man was working closely with Hadrian. That was worth something. Pelderain failed to notice it in his fatigue, finally planting his hands on the crate’s edge to keep himself steady. “There you have it, then. Another moon’s supply. Any more and people will start getting suspicious about anise purchases in the city.” The Duskwight scowled, creasing a small, dark goatee, and mumbled something Weylan couldn’t quite hear. “Now, why this instead of the usual drop?”

 

“Ah, that.” Hadrian leaned forward on the railing of the porch, fishing around his belt for a tobacco pouch. “Let me get you caught up. Wey here was asking me if we were inclined to take help from adventurers that came calling. Seem to know what’s what about our time in the dark. They sign on, we can take the bastard down for sure, I’ll tell you that.”

 

“But outsiders? Come on, Hadrian, do we really - “

 

“Hold on, hold on. I don’t think we need ‘em, but think about it, Weylan.” He plucked a handful of tobacco into his pipe and tamped it down. “Think about that leve you went on. They didn’t do the job right, an’ then when you cancelled it, they hunted you down and threatened your life. That’s adventurers, isn’t it? Just a bunch of - of - “ He patted his pockets. “Either’ve you got a match?”

 

Weylan provided a short matchstick, and both he and Peld endured the silence necessary as Hadrian lit his pipe. Interrupting his thought more than once was unwise. “Right, so. Adventurers. If Padjal’s is animals, then adventurers is beasts. Barbarians, really. No morals but what they decide in the moment, no loyalties but their closest friends, and too powerful to lock ‘em up or smack ‘em down.

 

“Some days I think they get all that power by givin’ up all their sense. Think about that Seeker from that chat, Wey. She seemed on board with killin’ a Padjal, right? If he’d done something as bad as he did. But the second Bellveil got brought up, oh, no, he couldn’t have done something like that, and even if he did it didn’t matter, he’s ‘different now’. For all she knows the grey’s done worse’n the Padjal - no offense, Peld - but see if that matters a jot.” Seeming to remember the now-lit pipe, he bothered to take a small puff. “That’s adventurers, Wey. But they got interested in this, so we gotta deal with ‘em. They want proof? They wanna ‘confirm’? Well, we’ll give it to them.”

 

He thrust his finger at Pelderain, who seemed to flinch back a bit in the dark. “An’ that brings us to you, Peld. Think it’s about time we put your real talents to use.”

 

The Duskwight held up his hands near his chest “Oh no, no no Hadrian. Our relationship is strictly alchemical. Haven’t the faintest what you’ve got in mind, but - “

 

“You get to prove Bronco Grease a fraud and make Bellveil look like an idiot in public.”

 

“. . . Pray, continue.”  

[Verad]

Somewhere in the Gridanian Caverns:

 

The pot exploded when it hit the cavern wall about a fulm from Guerrique’s head. Shards of formerly-carefully-shaped clay scattered on the ground beneath him, a few chips landing on his shoulder.

 

His only response was to grin, and offer the recruit an approving nod. “Good swing! Hold it, hold it, don’t pull back from it yet.,” he said, giving the man a genial nod and brushing aside the stray shards of pottery. “A little over-aggressive, if you ask me.”

 

His student, now contorted in an uncomfortable position in which the lance had been swung like a very long staff, squinted his eyes. “Why? That blow would’ve taken a Wailer’s head clean off, you ask me.” In front of him was a crudely arranged striking gallery, consisting of pots and crates the nascent clan had gathered together for training purposes. A few bartered-for bales of hay had been placed on logs and given a vague person-shape, and behind the student, were being used by a pair of other lance-wielding novices to practice their thrust.

 

“There’s truth in that, surely, but look at your pose. Supposing you just stumble across one guard on a lone picket, then I’ll grant you you’re right. But they move in teams now, don’t they? At least pairs.” Bridging the gap between them, Guerrique jabbed his hand, fingers outstretched, at points along the recruit’s torso. “You take that one down, certain as anything the other will get you right in the sides here. Go fetch yourself another pot, start taking swipes at it that aren’t meant to make it like you’ve always wanted to be a catapult, hm?”

 

Obliging, the novice righted his posture and went about fetching more targets for practice, but did not look quite chastened. He had good form and training, but he was raw on experience, even compared to the other two they’d nabbed who were good with a lance. Guerrique mused that it might take an unpleasant encounter with another clan’s patrol or a fight over land with poachers to get the fellow to see the error in overestimating his offense. With luck and time, hopefully that realization would not be posthumous.

 

They were not the recruits he and Ursuline had tried to gather before being rudely interrupted by a case of the adventurers, but they would do. The pair had been forced to rely on a technique quite similar to that of the Redbellies: seeking out young and disenfranchised Duskwights and promising them, if not a better life, then at least a life on their own terms. It had worked quite well after the cleansing ritual, garnering them a good dozen soldiers. It wasn’t enough for anything more interesting than self-defense in the caverns, and perhaps the odd bit of poaching on the side, but it was a start. From there, the pair could rebuild what they’d lost before they were put in the dark.

 

“YOU SWIVING WHORESON I SWEAR BY ALL THE TITS AND TESTICLES OF THE TWELVE IF YOU CAN’T GET YOUR GODSDAMNED FINGERS TO HOLD THE KNIFE RIGHT I’LL TAKE YOU BACK TO YOUR MAM TO TELL HER SHE SHOULD’VE STRANGLED YOU IN THE CRIB AND DONE US ALL A FAVOR!”

 

Assuming Ursuline didn’t kill them all first, anyway. Guerrique did his best to look as if nothing was wrong while heading towards the cavern the Little Bear had chosen for training a few of the newcomers in close-quarters work.

 

That there was a grown man of a Duskwight easily a good four fulms and thirty ponz larger than Ursuline curled up on the ground and weeping to himself was nothing out of the ordinary as far as Guerrique was concerned. Ursuline’s reputation as a clan leader in the long years past had been built around being as fearsome as her name suggested, with a stare that could make a hardened warrior flinch. Chastising a recruit, in whatever manner, was normal enough.

 

She normally didn’t literally kick them when they were down, though, but there it was, her boot colliding with the recruit’s midsection in a few heavy thumps. “There, that’s right, go ahead and cry! Maybe you’ll cry out all the damn useless parts and we can pretend you’re almost a person!” On the other side of the room, two other novices were glancing between Ursuline and the cavern exits, trying to decide if movement would attract her attention. Relieved expressions crossed their faces as the other clan leader arrived.

 

In the middle of winding up for another good kick and questioning her student’s parentage, Ursuline’s arms were caught from behind and held back. “Very good, very good!” said Guerrique while dragging her away from the downed Duskwight. “Ah, Rossaux, Inant, if you could pick up your friend there and get him back to his room? We’ll just set this for another day, hm?”

 

Grateful for the excuse, the pair struggled to pick up their fellow and drag him out of the room, doing the best to ignore the stream of curses coming out of Ursuline’s mouth. When they had left, Guerrique tightened his grip a moment. “Are you calm?”

 

“I am.”

 

“You’re certain?”

 

“Yes. Let me go, Guer.”

 

“Well.” He paused. “All right.” He released her arms. She elbowed him once in the gut, as she stepped forward. It wasn’t hard enough to make him double over, but there was an audible “oof” of pain from it. That seemed to please her enough to settle her down.

 

“All, right, so . . . so what was that, then?” He said as adjusted his clothing, wrinkled from the restraint. “That was . . . Guillaume, wasn’t it? I thought he at least knew how to hold a knife.”

“It was his smirk,” she said after a long silence, her arms folded, her tone sullen. “His dumb smirk when he hit a point on the dummy dead-on.” She pointed to a crude strawman. A dagger was still embedded at an angle, where a mark had been drawn to show where to hit just under the ribs on a Hyur. “He looked over his shoulder with it and it just . . . “ Her shoulders sank. “It reminded me of the Padjal. At the farm. He had the same damn look.”

 

“Ah. Him.” He frowned. Whether or not to go back to the farm they’d staked out and gut the Padjal before he saw it coming had been a point of contention ever since Leanne Delphium had them help track the forest-child whereabouts. She’d let them be privy to her conversation, and to learn that he was the one responsible for trapping them in the dark, for torturing them body and soul, for twisting Ursuline’s skull and nearly growing a demon from her, had been . . . well, there was no beating around it, he supposed. They were both fucking furious.

 

But Delphium had saved them both, and had helped restore Ursuline to her original form. They owed the adventurer greatly. So they’d stayed their hands to their great regret.

 

“There’s not much we can do about it, pet. It’s . . . it’s in adventurer hands now. They don’t brook much in the way of meddling.”

 

“To hell with that.” Ursuline fixed her eyes on her partner. There was certainly something fitting in her having possessed the eye of an ahriman; even without the sense that she could kill with a look, there was still that lingering fear that it was possible. “We can’t let a monster like that walk, Guer. We can’t let him be revered by people. Not after what he did.”

 

“I need no convincing,” he replied, placing his hand on his chest. “But even were we to break word, remember what the girl said. Kill him and it’s the Greenwrath. The forest protects its own, and the woods are always watching.”

 

The mention of Greenwrath made her shudder, and he moved to put his arm around her. She didn’t shrug it off. That was the real barrier, he felt. Whatever satisfaction there might have been in slaying the Padjal, their lives would be immediately forfeit. They had nearly been forfeit to Greenwrath over a moon ago, when the elementals had risen to the aid of a Hearer in defending the Padjal (of all things!) from being captured. The two Duskwights had nearly been swallowed by the earth, and it was a miracle they were alive. Neither of them, he supposed, wanted to feel that again.

 

“. . . So . . . what if he does it himself, then?”

 

Guerrique’s brow furrowed as he pressed his lips against the top of Ursuline’s hair. “Pardon?”

 

“Not murder, Guer. Suicide. Supposing he’s the one that does the deed. Poison, knife on his own throat, however he pleases. But he does it. Can they really protest that?”

 

“Hm. There’s a thought. But supposing there’s still a ‘wrath?”

 

“Then at least it’s not focused on us personally and we can get away, don’t you think?” She peered up at him, dark bangs falling away. There was cunning there, calculation. She’d been thinking about this, he realized.

 

“That might be so as well. Two thoughts. But supposing they’re both true, how do we make that case? You heard the boy, or man, or whatever you want to call it. He’s waiting for judgement from another.”

 

“I think - I think I know how, yes,” she said by taking a step back. “We just think about the answer to the question Delphium didn’t ask.”

 

“And what question is that?”

 

“Why is he hanging around that farm, anyway?”

[Boo the Hamster]

Several letters are found within Dubious Distributions, the Shroudwolf Clan residence and letters addressed to Orrin Halgren, Liadan Summerfield, and Jana Ridah...

To whom it may concern,

We have little time.  All of us must come together and find a way to deal with what is going on in the Shroud, lest we let the Shroud be consumed.  I announce a call to arms, for all who have worked towards a solution of recent events in the area.  Those who do not know of recent going ons must be caught up.  We have become divided, and while we sit idle, those who do harm to the Shroud are taking advantage of this.  We cannot let this stand.  We cannot be divided when we all must band together.  I beg of you, please head to the Winds Estate at Plot 28 of the 6th ward within the time stated here: 16th Sun of the First Astral Moon, 17th bell. ((5pm PST, 1/17)).  If we cannot work together, then we will never succeed in clearing the Twelvesood of the Void.  The sooner we work together, the sooner all of these events will be little more than a footnote in the history of the Shroud.  Let those whom you work with on these know

 

Enju Abbagliato.

[LiadansWhisper]

Several letters are found within Dubious Distributions, the Shroudwolf Clan residence and letters addressed to Orrin Halgren, Liadan Summerfield, and Jana Ridah...

To whom it may concern,

We have little time.  All of us must come together and find a way to deal with what is going on in the Shroud, lest we let the Shroud be consumed.  I announce a call to arms, for all who have worked towards a solution of recent events in the area.  Those who do not know of recent going ons must be caught up.  We have become divided, and while we sit idle, those who do harm to the Shroud are taking advantage of this.  We cannot let this stand.  We cannot be divided when we all must band together.  I beg of you, please head to the Winds Estate at Plot 28 of the 6th ward within the time stated here: ((TBA)).  If we cannot work together, then we will never succeed in clearing the Twelvesood of the Void.  The sooner we work together, the sooner all of these events will be little more than a footnote in the history of the Shroud.  Let those whom you work with on these know

 

Enju Abbagliato.

 

Liadan folds the letter, places it within another envelope and addresses said envelope to one Tengri Geneq, location Camp Tranquil, South Shroud. She tucks a note inside which reads,

 

Tengri,

 

Just received this. I have no idea who this person is. I have the vaguest recollection of his name or one similar being mentioned as a cohort or ally of Anstarra. This gives me pause. What do you think?

 

The name is not Gridanian, so this is likely another adventurer wishing to involve himself in something he doesn't fully understand whilst pretending the rules don't actually exist.

 

But I may just be tired.

 

--Liadan

 

Taking up another piece of paper, she jots down a quick note and folds it over, sealing it with wax and addressing the note to one Leanne Delphium.

 

Leanne,

 

Who is Enju Abbagliato and why should I agree to any meeting with him?

 

-- Liadan

 

P.S. I need to see you about that cut.

[Leanne]

 

Leanne,

 

Who is Enju Abbagliato and why should I agree to any meeting with him?

 

-- Liadan

 

P.S. I need to see you about that cut.

 

Sat before a desk, Leanne quietly reads the parchment in the silence of the night, words lightened only by a dim, lukewarm candle. Sighing softly, she reaches for a pen, deftly hands quickly coming to jut its own set of words on a piece of paper. Her calligraphy had hints of being heavily trained.

 

Ms. Summerfield,

 

For the sake of answering all those questions (and to have my own wound finally healed because it does hurt a lot), I suggest a impromptu meeting of our own at your earliest convenience, at a place of your choice. I am sure this is not a necessary permission, but regardless, feel free to bring Mr. Tengri, and take the necessary security measures so our conversation does not share of any extra set of ears.

 

-- Leanne Delphium

 

Giving the letter an ounce over, she nods with a sigh, sealing it shortly afterwards. Resting into the chair, she rubs her eyes, super tired, and hurting.

 

"Not what I intended to happen, yet, this might be the necessary spark to get things finally moving. That is, if people agree to cooperate for once." she yawns, eyes fluttering. A nap wouldn't hurt...not more than she was already hurt, at least.

[Jana]

To whom it may concern,

We have little time.  All of us must come together and find a way to deal with what is going on in the Shroud, lest we let the Shroud be consumed.  I announce a call to arms, for all who have worked towards a solution of recent events in the area.  Those who do not know of recent going ons must be caught up.  We have become divided, and while we sit idle, those who do harm to the Shroud are taking advantage of this.  We cannot let this stand.  We cannot be divided when we all must band together.  I beg of you, please head to the Winds Estate at Plot 28 of the 6th ward within the time stated here: ((TBA)).  If we cannot work together, then we will never succeed in clearing the Twelvesood of the Void.  The sooner we work together, the sooner all of these events will be little more than a footnote in the history of the Shroud.  Let those whom you work with on these know

 

Enju Abbagliato.

 

Jana was practically seething as she paced back and forth in her small temporary inn room. Who was this random person sending her mail about what she'd been led to believe was a sensitive matter out of the public eye? After grabbing her most potent tome, she crumpled the paper and threw it into a nearby trash can before storming out. She needed some answers, quickly.

[Reppu]

Reppu glances over Leanne's shoulder once the miqo'te finishes writing, arms draping over and around the Miqo'te's shoulders. She buries her head against Leanne's fiery mane of hair, giving a soft kiss to it. "Hey, can you add something to that for me if you did not? I think her and I should probably talk. If the Elements can trust me with their power, and she can do so with it as well, I think her and I can actually sit and be civil. You also might want to mention me having the shining, holy artifact she left behind before."

 

A brief laugh follows, with a murmur against Leanne's head. "... Not sure I plan on giving that stone back to her right away, mind. More curious to find out what Anstarra did with the other two." Reppu's own thoughts ring, as she closes her eyes, sighing softly in her comfortable little cling.

[Leanne]

Reppu glances over Leanne's shoulder once the miqo'te finishes writing, arms draping over and around the Miqo'te's shoulders. She buries her head against Leanne's fiery mane of hair, giving a soft kiss to it. "Hey, can you add something to that for me if you did not? I think her and I should probably talk. If the Elements can trust me with their power, and she can do so with it as well, I think her and I can actually sit and be civil. You also might want to mention me having the shining, holy artifact she left behind before."

 

A brief laugh follows, with a murmur against Leanne's head. "... Not sure I plan on giving that stone back to her right away, mind. More curious to find out what Anstarra did with the other two." Reppu's own thoughts ring, as she closes her eyes, sighing softly in her comfortable little cling.

 

Leanne let her eyes close, leaning into the embrace with tired sigh.

 

"I will bring this topic during our conversation. What I wrote is...more than enough. Trust is not a given, after all. It is a reward."

 

"...With that said. Trust me." she asks simply, sealing her letter.

[Melkire]

Summerfield,

 

I do not often play the informant, and rarely do I divulge what information I possess without proper tender. Knowledge is power, and power is valuable. I am a collector of certain commodities and a retailer of remarkable relics, not a mere "fence". For you, however, given our association and our mutual understanding on the matter of recent events, I shall make an exception.

 

Extensive and exhaustive questioning has yielded fruit. Though his peers plead ignorance, a hireling of mine declares Abbagliato a known associate of one Lady Hijiri whose acquaintance, might I remind you, we have made. 'Twas, in fact, at this "Winds Estate" that he claims to have been introduced to the woman. Take that as you will.

 

I do not think you tired. I think you, above all else, cautious. Adequately so.

 

As Always

Your Guide and Guard,

 

--Tengri Geneq

[Anstarra]

Anstarra grimaced as she folded up Enju's letter. Against most odds, things had congealed into a bizarre stalemate of sorts over the past few weeks, but she did not take this with any kind of relief. Inevitably it meant that everyone was stewing their own little pots, coming up with Twelve-knows-what solutions or notions. This letter was a symptom of that, of the frustration of inactivity and stasis. It might get things moving in a positive way, it might not, but either way it would certainly kick the hive.

 

She looked at the fresh piece of paper beside it on her desk, and sighed. Time to extend an olive branch... after a point, pride became only a hindrance.

 

Dear Miss Summerfield,

 

I hope this letter finds you in good health. It has been too long since we have conversed, and I fear the events of our last parting have settled in memory as something far more dire than they ever should have. Thus, I would like to formally and sincerely extend my apologies for my actions in that moment. I could cite hubris, or frustration, or fear, but in truth there is no valid excuse for my behavior. What began as an intention to lightly reprimand a valued ally whom I felt had betrayed our trust, became something far more aggressive, and even physically hurtful. Something unacceptable.

 

I wish I could say it is the sort of thing that could never happen again. That I will always retain self-control in the future. But for all airs and intent, there remains within me some part little better than a beast, a thing willing to lash out when I am given harm. And because of that, until the day that I may fully subsume it, I give my word that I will never again come within arm's reach of you, even if we do come to work together once more. I have lost that right.

 

For all that, I implore you to see that we must indeed work together once more. This period of quiet can be none other than the calm before the storm, and our division has created a basis for cracks in our entire alliance's union against the threats facing the Shroud. This.. factional infighting, keeping of secrets, collusion and worst, outright opposition between parties who should be tightly-knit in face of a common adversary, can only lead to ruin.

 

Despite calls for blood from various quarters, I will state at the outset that I am not convinced of O-Rehn-Fahn's irredeemable guilt or villainy. I come from a childhood of murder and cruelty. It is a sordid tale, which I am sure holds no interest for you, except in this; if one such as me can seek redemption, should not everyone else get that chance, at least once? If that is not enough, remember to whom I am betrothed. Nihka is a gentle soul, one who would spare and lend succor even to those who have caused her grievous harm in the past. I would rip off my own arm before I lent aid to a cause that would cause her grief, as O-Rehn's murder would.

 

There is little time for deliberation. I implore you to remember the numerous times we worked together, the successes we achieved. I urge you to recall that I personally carried you out of Lord Ramuh's vengeful storm, moments before it would have been your end. And that I stood and helped defend you as the ritual was wrought that saved the souls of six men and women. And that even before that, back in the beginning, I stood alongside Nihka and Tengri as we held back angered stone golems from you and O-Rehn himself as you cleansed the area of corruption.

 

A moment's frustration and ill behavior should not, must not negate all the good we have wrought and must yet perform. As you said, there is at least one final battle to fight... but in truth, we are in the midst of the penultimate one, perhaps even more important to the future of the Shroud. So many fear what O-Rehn is, or might be, that they are willing to destroy him out of hand in order to prevent what harm he could do. Others believe that what he has already done is so unforgivable that there can be no redemption. On my love for Nihka, I swear I am not one such. Can you afford to turn away my aid?

 

Let us set aside our childish differences, and work together once more, for the safety and bright future of the Shroud.

 

With utmost sincerity,

 

Anstarra Silverain.

 

 

She leaned back, skimming over it once more. Then, she dried the ink, carefully folded it, set it into a sealed envelope, and left to find a courier. Her name was not upon the envelope; hopefully Liadan would at least read it. Everything had started to stall, it felt like, when they had their fight. If nothing else, opening communications might stymie some of the backstabbing and spying that had sprung up with truly disappointing alacrity in the wake of it all. It did not help that all these rumors and tales of O-Rehn's supposedly monstrous nature had arisen exactly when Liadan began to isolate herself.

 

Anstarra returned to her desk, penning a much briefer affirmative response to Enju's desire for a meeting. Time for the stalemate to end, it seemed, one way or the other...

[Nihka]

Somewhere, deep in the Shroud: a small shack. 

(Really, a place of no consequence, and a man no one cares about.)

 

 

Doctor Josephe Bloom paced across the room; boots clacked against the wood floor with a measured, if fast, rhythm. Everything had been going well. With the assistance of the adventurers, his patients had been restored to their former selves; they had determined that the mystery illness was not, in fact, an illness but withdrawal symptoms from an addiction to the recently banned Horse Oil.

 

Alchemically mixing voidsent blood with holy water had seemed repugnant at the time, but the results spoke for themselves when the bath was applied to the patients. It had given him a new appreciation for alchemy, one that perhaps he should have ignored. After his patients displayed signs of recovery, Josephe spread the word to the other healers around the city for what to do to treat the mystery illness.  He was ostracized. Word spread that his medicines were contaminated with the blood of voidsent and soon no patient would seek him out, no healers would work with him.

 

He was forced to watch as more and more citizens of his beloved home fell ill with the same symptoms he had thwarted. So what if it was with the assistance of adventurers and their questionable alchemy? Was it wrong to place your hopes in an illegal substance, if that substance worked?  Was it wrong to trust an adventurer?

 

Was it wrong to hate those who were once your colleagues for throwing you out of your home and denying you the practice of your true talent?

 

 

The good doctor may have been banned from healing within the reaches of the Black Shroud by his peers, but he would not forsake his calling. He had retreated from the city with several books imported from Ul’dah. There, he could study, and there he could find a cure no matter what it took.

[Anstarra]

Through correspondence and miscellaneous advisories (use your imaginations I'm tired it's 4 am whyy), a recording of the meeting is made available, taken by one of Anstarra's recording linkpearls.

 

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vkyKZJV1320P889T3PoCOOQ2It5th7dNoE1DmhtrTR4/edit

 

(This also contains chatter from the LS, just cuz.)

[Nihka]

At the top of the board, Nihka wrote out a single word: Liniment.

 

 

Technically, a liniment was topically applied medication, usually a lotion or an oil. Generally speaking, it was meant for pain relief. However, given the flexibility of alchemical science a liniment could be designed for many different purposes.

 

 

She stepped back and tapped her lip. They might be able to win this on a technicality. Both products, hitherto, had been marketed almost entirely as orally ingested medicines. The fliers for competition specifically called for a “Tournament of Liniments.” If they called him out on this particular fact, they might be able to end the competition before it even began, before anyone had to drink the clearly addictive substance. The trick was in finding a way to turn literal engine grease into workable medicine.

 

 

Step one: identify what she was working with. There were at most two parts to any Bronco Grease formula. The base, airship lubricant, and the optional elemental shard thrown in for “premium” products.

 

 

In her workshop she had set up a blackboard for notes and cleared out a work bench. On the bench were three jars of Bronco Grease™ and two of the vials of Horse Oil™ that Anstarra had purchased moons ago. There was a whole crate stashed away at the Dubious estate. Could probably sell it for a fortune on the black market, which is exactly why it was in Thanalan and not here in the Shroud.

 

 

Nihka frowned a little, eyeing the jar of grease. She didn’t want to deal with Horse Oil yet, so she’d investigate the grease first. Bronco Grease was just that, the grease used to lubricate a bronco style airship. It had no special additive save the elemental shard that Spahro had put into it. Otherwise, it was a plain oily substance derived from…

 

 

What was grease derived from?

 

 

Reverse engineering a substance was incredibly difficult, particularly once alchemy got involved. By definition, alchemy changed the very nature of the materials on which it was applied. Determining the method was possible, but not easy. However, something like grease would not require any major alchemical changes to create.  Grease could be found in any book on chemistry and material sciences, and she kept a big library in her workshop for just such a purpose. After a little research, she determined: Grease was normally an emulsion of glycerin or soap into a mineral or vegetable oil.

 

 

Bronco Grease™ was something of a misnomer, though. It was more of an oil, which is to say, it was more liquid, enough so that it would flow and pour. A grease, most often, would remain semi-solid until applied upon with some significant mechanical force. Of course, even though technically topical, her formula still had to be capable of being consumed.

 

 

Nihka picked up one of the jars, and began to pour measured amounts into smaller vials, the thick liquid struggling to dribble down into the slender glass cylinders. One by one, these samples were inserted into the massive furnace built into the floor.

 

 

Looking over a list of the boiling points for different carrier oils, Nihka adjusted her glasses and stepped around to the other side of the furnace. With a flip of a lever, the heat intensified. Inside, the grease remained unperterbed. High tolerance to heat; this was expected from something used to lubricate an engine and she was unsurprised.

 

 

heat tolerate high

slick

viscous

stick / spread (adhere surface)

 

 

While she waited for the results of the burn test, Nihka tilted a vial, watching the contents dribble out, thinking about how it coated the throat, or really anything it touched. As a carrier oil, it might serve well to soothe a sore throat if prepared properly. So, she wrote on the chalkboard under the heading requirements:

 

Edible

soothe throat

pain ease

 

 

Somehow, the grease/oil itself was technically non-toxic. It would make you sick and incredibly queasy, but you would survive and remain in relatively good health. She knew, she’d tried it. The taste was still on her tongue. She added another note to the board for requirements:

 

 

Flavor (optional)

 

 

She thought for a moment, with a grimace. The advertising for the product did leave her in a little bit of a bind. She added another note to the board, in hopes that she could have the eventual product match the claims:

 

 

energy

 

 

Water crystals to help dilute. Lightning crystals to split. Fire for heat. Earth to bind. Wind to cut. Ice to congeal. An old book from a far away land listed these qualities of the different crystals, and to find a way to turn engine grease into something she would need to use all of them.

 

 

She lay out the herbs and began to grind them down into a small powder, then pulled out a small vial of blood. Beastkin for verve, she let a single drop fall into the vial and resumed grinding until the lavender and mint formed a paste. Letting the mixture to sit and acclimate to itself, she turned to a new bowl and added a sprinkling of goat horn to the bottom, a carefully prepared powder she’d picked up while in Ul’dah.

 

 

Paired with an ice crystal and pure water, the goat horn would congeal into a semisolid glue. Water would help to dilute it to the proper consistency, something that would closely match the bronco grease. With the gel prepared, Nihka added a portion of the herbal paste and mixed them together, then placed that mixture into the furnace and removed the test sample of bronco grease to examine them. Five ticks later, while inspecting the grease, the goat glue combusted inside the furnace.

 

 

It took all night, and half of the day, before Nihka finally came up with a workable solution.

 

 

A full lightning cluster to split the oil, pulling out detergents to leave a pure oil. This was an incredibly difficult process: for each gallon of grease she started with she managed a pint of oil, several batches simply were ruined. Take a vial of beastkin blood and congeal with an ice crystal, then ground to a powder. Mix with the herbal blend and use earth aether to bind the active ingredients together. At this point they no longer resembled their original self, but a new substance, a dark powder that could be dissolved into pure water. Add just enough to make it the consistency of an egg yolk, then take the oil and paste and emulsify them together. It was like making mayonnaise, really.

 

 

The finished product looked the same as the grease she started with, and Nihka smiled as she dropped the crystal shards into the vials, sinking halfway into the fluid before floating. Bronco Grease, reformulated. She pulled one vial out and dabbed her finger into it, spreading a little onto her wrist. There was a little tingle, and she smiled. She was wary of trying it, but licked her finger anyway.

 

 

Topically, it would numb pain. When consumed, it would hopefully help to ease a sore throat. When consumed, it would be edible, and perhaps might…. help invigorate someone. When consumed, it would taste…. well, it would still taste awful, but there were limits to what you could manage in a week of work.

 

 

Her attention then turned to the Horse Oil. She wasn't going to drink it. Twelve above, she knew how bad an idea that could be, drinking a highly addictive substance… But, what did it do topically? Was it worth risking?

 

 

No.

 

 

Nihka packed up her supplies and the medicines, and headed out. It was already almost time for the competition; she wouldn’t let Verad lose. She also packed her plated gloves, just in case.

[Anstarra]

"Alright, that's enough of that."

 

Pelderain Dornier had ranted and raved as the pair of Wailers dragged him away from the scene. Calling them fools, snarling about how they should all pay tribute to his brilliance, and so on, and so forth. No further mention of O-Rehn Fahn, though; that seed had been planted in the fertile ground of a credulous, gawking crowd.

 

He kept it up, right until the two men took him out of sight and earshot of the crowd. Down the open warren of tunnels that stretched between the Amphitheater and the Wailing Barracks. Then, a smirk played over his lips.

 

"Hearns' boys, right?"

 

One grunted, and the other nodded. Outwardly, they continued to walk him, restraining him. Had to, in case they were seen, though no one was around, now. Pelderain's smirk widened.

 

"Good work. Hah. That will fix him. O-Rehn Fahn, that little shit... bah!" His expression soured. "But Bellveil. Where did he find an alchemist of his own! Oh, I'll get him. And his little Keeper bitch, too. Show ME up, will they? Oh, no. This is only the opening act, I promise you."

 

One of the Wailers grunted again, presumably the same one. The other sighed.

"Shut yer yappin', Dornier. Hearns asked us to get you out, so we will, but Twelve help me if you get us caught I'll put a spear in you myself."

 

Pelderain bridled, lifting his chin (which, as a Duskwight, he was quite well-suited to do) and glared down at the masked man, opening his mouth to administer a proper tongue-lashing, to one who would dare speak thus-

 

 

"Why don't I spare you the trouble."

 

 

The two wailers whipped around, releasing Dornier and brandishing their spears lightning-quick. Pelderain's heart hammered as he spun-

 

"Gukk!"

 

-just in time to get sprayed with arterial blood.

 

What?

 

The Wailer who'd been talking was spinning away, his spear flying from his hand, blood everywhere. The other one just grunted again. Something long and red was extending from his back. Then it pulled back, and he fell too.

 

"Pathetic."

 

The speaker's lance was very bright, the blood on it very red. Pelderain stumbled back, falling, eyes wide, mouth working. A long, white feline tail, blue-tipped, black slacks and shirt, and a.. turban, obscuring the attacker's face, save for the lower jaw. Fine-boned, full-lipped, bronzed, and twisted with contempt.

 

"Drugs. Addiction. Corruption. Pathetic!" The figure stepped closer, casual, dextrous fingers twisting the lance to flick blood aside in an arc. "I came out of curiosity.. but I've no use for a thing like you." The lance lifted, aiming at Pelderain's heart.

 

This galvanized the duskwight, and his eyes widened with outrage and fury. Fury which boiled up in snarled words. Words that rang with void-infused hatred.

"YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO JUDGE ME! SUFFER! DIE! SMALL-MINDED WORM!"

 

Vicious energy thrummed in the air, the very timbre of Pelderain's voice unleashing sickness and agony. The miqo'te staggered, teeth baring before the assault. Blood trickled down from behind that mask, from nose and eyes. Pelderain continued cursing, lifting himself to his feet, snarling invective and hatred, driving his would-be murderer back one step, then another...

 

...the miqo'te bared teeth, and crossed arms...

 

...and Pelderain's eyes widened, and his mouth widened more, and more, his words becoming a scream as the corruptive agony of his assault returned upon him. His blood seemed to boil, his gums rotted, his bones creaked, wracking pain assailing him from within as his own power devoured him. He turned, and doubled over, vomiting blood. It fouled the grass, made it wither.

 

"So. That is the power of the Void." A brief pause.

"Distasteful. And, still, pathetic."

 

The lance took Pelderain Dornier through the heart.

[Nihka]

The Price of Success; Gridania, Mih Khetto’s Amphitheatre

Immediately following the event: A-Tonic Warfare

 

Nihka sighed. Not the sigh of the depressed, or the sad, but the sigh of the accomplished. The sigh that came with a smile. Specifically, the sigh of someone who has succeeded at something important, something they weren’t sure they could manage.

 

In this case, it was the dismantling of the stage for the Tournament of Liniments. Well, that and directly causing the arrest and capture of one of the void corrupted individuals who had been terrorizing the Shroud for the past several moons and causing a significant portion of the populous to become addicted to a horribly corrupting drug. But it was probably just the pride of cleaning up that had her feeling accomplished.

 

Slowly the crowd began to disperse, now that Verad had run out of the reformulated Bronco Grease. There was more back home, thankfully, and she could make as much as they needed. They’d need a lot of it, too, since for some reason it seemed to purge the void taint from the addicted.

 

That was a little odd, but such was the case with alchemy.

 

As more people left, her attention was brought to the odd individual that didn’t disperse with the rest of the crowd. She hadn’t noticed him before, a wood wailer in full armor and mask, standing right at the edge of the stage and watching her. The fur on her tail stood on end, the way he was watching her made her uneasy. More so when he looked to the side and nodded.

 

She looked that way, and saw another wailer.

 

They were the gruff, weathered sort. The kind that went on long patrols and didn’t talk to many folk while they were in town. The sort of wailers she’d seen drinking at the Boar. Her ears lowered, and very slowly she set down the banner she’d been folding. The last few people hoping for a fix left, and she saw them bump against two more wailers who had been hiding in the crowd.

 

The one closest to the center of the stage hopped up while the other three took flanking positions, barring any easy escape route as they approached. Nihka took a few steps back, until her heel reached the back end of the stage.

 

“Nihka Mioni. You are hereby under arrest for the crime of poaching in the Twelveswood.”

 

Behind her someone spoke, and she turned with a startled squeak, eyes wide and blood draining from her face. She knew that voice.The four wailers came closer, their heavy boots thudding against the stage.Nihka reached for the pearl on her ear, but one of the men near her snagged her wrist before she could touch it. He squeezed, hard.

 

“Oh,” Weylan said with a smirk, “and don’t worry about being gentle, boys. She doesn’t bruise.”

 

She twisted and brought up her knee, slamming it into the first man’s crotch. His grip on her wrist laxed as he staggered back with a grunt. She grabbed her own hand, and pulled, yanking her arm free and turning it into an elbow to one of the wailers behind her. Her tail lashed wildly, trying to keep it moving too fast for anyone to grab it.

 

Surrounded as she was she fought back, trying to find an opening between them she could bolt through, but there were too many of them. One brought the haft of his spear into Nihka’s leg, just behind the knee. The leg collapsed, and she fell to the stage. Another grabbed her arms and yanked her back up to her feet. She kicked and squirmed as her wrists were twisted behind her back and quickly lashed together.

 

“..No! S-s-stop!” She gasped, cried out. “Help!”

 

A few passers by paused to look. They saw a dark skinned miqo’te being arrested by wood wailers, and kept on walking.

 

“You’ll shut up if you know what’s good for you, cat.” Weylan sneered, stepping up to the stage to stand in front of her. She tried to kick, even though her leg was numb, but the wailers holding her yanked back almost hard enough to tear her shoulder. “And here I thought today was going to be dull. Then what do I see on stage but my favorite poacher pussy?”

 

Weylan drew a fist back, and slammed it into her belly. She tried to double over, but they were holding her too tightly. She tried to scream in pain, but had no breath left. Tears ran down her cheeks as she felt her earrings removed, one by one, and placed into a pouch on his belt.

 

“By Gridanian law, all linkpearls are to be confiscated upon arrest.” He looked up to the men holding her. “We’ll have to search her more thoroughly later. For now, let’s find somewhere to put her.”

[Anstarra]

Letters are sent out, in the middle of the next day following the so-called Tournament of Liniments.

 

They are addressed to Enju, Kiht, Zanzan, R'shesha, Reppu, Aya, Orrin, Leanne, Spahro and Liadan.

 

 

"Greetings, and hopefully well-met.

 

Nihka did not come home last night, and is not answering her linkpearl. She was last seen helping Verad defend Bronco Grease against Pelderain, the void-touched ex-prisoner, in Mih Khetto's Amphitheater in Gridania. After his triumph, they parted ways, with her remaining at the Amphitheater itself to clean up.

 

I intend to investigate, myself, though I implore you all to keep eyes and ears open.

 

Hopefully this will turn out to be a false alarm, but this close to the objective, with so much riding on our efforts in the next few days, I find myself unable to believe in coincidence. And even otherwise, I would not wish to take that chance.

 

Please let me know if you hear anything.

 

Anstarra Silverain."

[Boo the Hamster]

Enju had the eyes of a worried man as he glossed through the letter An had sent him.  Nihka's missing?  She was there a moment ago, a warm, wide smile on her face.  He can remember it as if it was yesterday.  He went to Gridania the moment he got dressed up, and began his search.  He talked to the vocate, and several citizens with a hint of worry in his eyes.  It took him several hours of asking about a Keeper in the Amphitheatre, but eventually one citizen said what happened.

 

He could remember the words, or so he thought he heard the civilian as.  "Oh, that one?  Poacher got arrested.  Surprised they were so bold as to be in the middle of the city."  His rage was boiling at that, though to make a scene now would only make things worse, as Reppu reminded him earlier when he talked along the pearl with her about Weylan.  The memory, or the memory they shared unwillingly played out in his mind, and he let out a long, soft sigh.  He asked the civilian where they would take her, and the Wailing Gaol was the best answer he could get, so he went there, brows furrowed.

 

At the Wailing Gaol, he asked the receptionist about Nihka.  Released today, they said, her pearls returned.  Maybe..he tried to contact her, and knew he would get no response.  A vain hope, but one he had to try.  He looked to the receptionist, stating, "If she was released and her pearls are returned, then why is she not responding?"  The receptionist didn't have much more information, but did give a name: Egbert Stone.

 

A cold trail.  The worst scenario that one can have when locating someone.  He remembers of times past, where a trail often meant one was dead or worse, loyal men turned heretic, heretic turned dragon.  The fires of a hamlet.  'Oh Twelve, why must it be now that these memories return?' he lamented.  There was one last place he could try, as the moon rose high above him.  The ferryman.

 

He looked to the man, with a stern look, asking about a Keeper of Nihka's description.  The ferryman blinked, talking of Nihka..

 

"Oh, Nihka?  She's a sweet girl, quiet too.  Takes the ferry to and from the Lavender Beds often, but I haven't seen her in a few days now.  But she spends her time in Ul'dah now anyway."

 

Enju finally found someone that liked her, and this was when his face broke that mask of emotion.  He looked worried, scared in front of the ferryman, rolling his lips inward as if trying to find the right words.  He blinked a few times, nodding to reassure himself.  'It's happening again..what if she goes missing too..'  He thought, though looked to the ferryman once more.

 

"You haven't seen her?  Truly?"  Enju spoke, his eyes pleading for aid toward the ferryman.  "She's been missing and was released this morning.  If you have any information, please.."  He said that last word in a near breathless tone.

 

Seems the ferryman shared his grief.  "I'm sorry, ser, but I haven't seen her.  Wait, there was last night at the Amphitheatre...Probably headed back to Ul'dah."

 

Enju knew of this information already, and so did everyone else.  He merely shook his head.  "I wish that were true.  Thank you for your help."  He looked toward the West, to the Serpent Gate, though knew it was already late.  How is he going to tell Anstarra?  She was right there, in front of him last night.  Twelve, why didn't he just stay there? He could have stopped this!  It was his fault...

 

He asked the ferryman to take him to the Lavender Beds, a long boat ride of rotten silence the whole way through.  He waved the ferryman in thanks before checking Nihka's room.  Empty.  At least he won't have to explain to Sehki what happened, or lie to her.  He slumped in a corner of the room, sitting down by the wall.  All that's left is to relay his information to Reppu, and to listen for Reppu's information in turn, if she had any.