Home Is In The Highlands [Closed]

[V'aleera]

My Dear Friend,

 

 

It has been some time since last we saw one another in the city of which you presently call home. I apologize for the lateness in coming of this first letter, but since my return home I am afraid life has been quite hectic. But as I sit here, relieved from duty after yet another successful hunt in the highlands, my thoughts turned to you and how it is high time I sent word.

 

 

I suppose I should begin with the most significant news: the reports of dragons breaking through the great barrier of Daniffen's Collar and assaulting the city directly were neither unfounded nor understated. Almost all of Foundation suffered terribly under the monsters' wrath, the poor souls of the Brume and Foundation's poorly guarded depths suffering the worst of it all. So many lives were lost, not only among those brave warriors of the Holy See, but even among the simple folk with neither the elderly, infirm, or young spared. To see firsthand the devastation and the sorrow made my heart weep, and to know that I sat uselessly in the desert whilst this terror was unleashed upon our people breaks it a hundred times over. Though many were yet saved, and the lower city not broken beyond repair (though so great a many are left to weather the cold now bereft of homes and shelter), this was an unforgivable failure by Ishgard's mightiest to protect those who need us the most. I include myself in this condemnation.

 

 

But just as the sorrow and rage in my heart at witnessing such tragedy wrought upon the humblest among our people is indescribable, so too was my relief at finding my family safe and sound, their home only moderately damaged and easily repaired. My father was injured in the chaos of the attack and now walks with a slight limp and a cane, but he remains in high spirits. My mother, ever the pious and charitable soul, has done as best she can to host neighbors within her household til they might return to their own. And oh my jubilation dear Aya friend, at finally laying eyes upon my beautiful sisters; they are the most magnificent little things I have ever been blessed to encounter. The twins are thusly named V'lavielle and V'illette, and are just shy of half a year born. They remain lively and happy, with hair a color much akin to yours moreso than my own, and have weathered these trying times well. My captain has... advised me as to my proclivity to discuss the subject of my sisters at too great a length, so I shall proceed to the next matter at hand before I fall victim to passion again.

 

 

Speaking of family matters, I discussed at length with my father my travels across the breadth of Eorzea and those people I had met. Naturally, you yourself were included in my tale and my father made several remarks as to the current affairs of your own family that I thought you might desire to know. According to my father, your brother Osvald has risen to prominence as an apprentice at a blacksmith shop of some great renown! As I recall, that very shop is even responsible for supplying weaponry and other metalwork to the order of the Knights Dragoon itself! My father also believed he heard mention that your father may be suffering some manner of illness, but he was uncertain of the validity of that rumor or the severity of the alleged sickness when I pressed. I shall pray for his good health whatever the case.

 

 

Oh Aya, I had thought to come back to a life I knew and missed, and while my duties remain ever the same, to hunt and slay the fiends that would see our fair people brought down, I fear great and lasting change has come to Ishgard. Surely you have heard that the Gates of Judgment are open once more to outsiders? And that Lord Aymeric has brought our Ishgard into this "Eorzean Alliance"? So much has changed in so little time. Some say our nation is on the cusp of a glorious new era; others whisper that the true nightmare of the Dragonsong War has yet to begin. But I have faith, in my heart and in my soul, that Ishgard shall persevere no matter what the future brings.

 

 

May the Fury guide your path and guard your spirit til the Spinner sees fit to cross our paths once more,

 

 

V'aleera Lhuil

[Aya]

Some would say that the heart of Ishgard cannot be found amongst Cathedral spires.  Nor, even amongst her military barracks.  No, the heart lies deeper within the body.  Within the very firmament of the foundation.  Through the tunnels and chambers opened by generations of labor beneath the feet of the tower-city above.  There toils the working industry of the city.  There fires are stoked, stone cut, wood carved, metal forged and shaped.  From there the masses are drawn that feed the armies of the Dragonsong War, the fuel and fodder of a generations-long crusade for the very survival of the city.

 

In a wide chamber sat a row of commercial buildings.  Built of crude-cut stone and mortar they had well weathered the tumultuous Dravanian assault now moons past.  One building in particular stood for attention: a squat split-level, bearing a masonry stack that belched rich black smoke that rose through grating toward the sun-lit heavens in the distance above.  The workshop's metal roof had weathered a beating of debris which had littered the avenue outside, now swept into squalid piles against its rough-hewn, but stout walls.

 

A hum of activity consumed the entire area, but there the peal of hammers rung again and again, evidence of the industry within.  A young boy darted from an open door, moving quickly into the street, dodging several crates of goods as he hurried about an errand.  A young low-born woman, carrying a basket smiled at the boy, before ducking into the building herself. 

 

It was where the Dragoon's journey into the tunnels of her youth had brought her.  Like a journey back through the mists of time... not that there was any time for reflection.

[V'aleera]

She could smell it before she saw it. But that's how it had always been down here.

 

The city above, the Ishgard best known far and wide, sung of in the tales and legends, all was defined by sight: spires of cathedrals and towers reaching ever toward the heavens, magnificent architecture to inspire awe, the looming instruments of defense against the vile Horde ever beating at the gates, nobles and merchants strutting meticulously paved streets in colorful finery, and gallant armor clad knights ever marching to and fro, faceless and vigilant.

 

But here in the lower parts of the city, the place of her birth and origin, the sights all blended together. Gone were the many colors of the high born, replaced by dull and practical drudgery. And each building seemed to blend into every other; hulking gray masses of stone and concrete, build in shapes easy to conceive, simple to mend, and utterly uninspiring. The knights, however, yet occupy this place as well. Always faceless, always vigilant. This place, so deep within the heart of Ishgard, was not to be ever distinguished by its sights but rather its smells. And there were few Ishgardians born better able to appreciate the roiling fragrance of this place than the out of place woman standing in front of an indistinct brick of a building on an indistinct corner.

 

The strongest scent was that of sweat. Though the people of this place, and many places like it within the city, were hardly unaccustomed to a grueling work ethic the eternal winter did wonders at keeping one dry in the midst of perspiration. Not so with this particular place. V'aleera wrinkled her nose. Alongside the sweat was a smell just as familiar to the knight: metal, of all kinds and in all states. Noxious sulfurous fumes prodded at her nostrils from within the bustling smithy, the scent of molten iron and furite pummeling her senses the hardest. The strongest agents in play, perhaps, but they were hardly alone: oils of many likes and varieties applied to finished steel along with the sweet scent of paints and waxes used to adorn the less lethal segment of a freshly created instrument of death teased her with each breath.

 

With a set brow and a trained stoic gaze, the miqo'te stepped through the thresh hold of the shoppe. Immediately her ears flicked upon her head in response to the suddenly strengthened barrage of noise; hammers crashing down upon heated steel, the screams of steam as blades were tempered, and the low growl of powerful men and women plying their arduous trade. She paused, her tail flicking quickly back and forth, basking in the irony of how having lived a life upon the battlefield could not in and of itself steel her against this uniquely cacophonous experience. Shaking her head to clear her mind of battling scents and sounds, she stepped forward.

 

Garbed in a white armor regalia more fit for wearing at a table of officers than a raging battlefield, the miqo'te approached a midlander who looked to be more than ten years her younger. Chest thrust out, thus prominently displaying the demarcations of her rank and place within the distinguished order of the Knights Dragoon, she spoke to the fledgling apprentice loudly and over the din of the workshop , "Boy! I have come to consult with your Master Dunois on a matter of significant importance. I sought to send word ahead several days past, but have yet to hear reply to my plea. If he is not presently engaged, I would have you fetch him. If he is not present at all, I should like to speak to whomever has been left in charge of this shoppe."

[Aya]

The young lad was clothed in what barely passed as clothing in this thread-bare winter age.  The forge-fire was a blessing, searing the entire shop with an overbearing heat that made one soon long for the exterior chill.  He stammered for a moment at the strange sight of a full-fledged Dragoon, hesitantly drawing scraggly arms up to gesture toward the shop itself.

 

The young Highlander woman V'aleera had seen enter, watched motionless just a few feet away.  The small office was crammed with a pair of chairs and a table.  Poorly sorted paperwork was strewn about an opened desk.  The woman grasped a ladle, stopped mid-motion as she was filling a bowl with meager porridge. Her long brown hair was covered by a scarf, and she wore a colorless dress of undistinguished quality. Nonetheless, her features bore the quiet, staid pride that seemed the hallmark of her countrymen.

 

Through the office door was the workshop itself, filled with the searing, hot-orange of forge-light.  A massive Highlander stood within, at work upon an anvil.  He stood more than a head taller than most men, with a wide barrel-chest and powerful arms that were the hard-earned hallmark of his trade.  He dropped the hammer with a loud peel that rung near-deafeningly through the office.  A second, a third, then a fourth time.  Tongs lifted the result of his work, a perfectly shaped rosehead upon an angled shaft a few ilms in length: a nail.  With the sizzle of steam it joined a host of brothers within a cooling bath.

 

Sweat dripped from his brow.  Tinted goggles covered tired eyes.  His arms were dark, seared and soot-covered.  He turned his upper body and reached with tongs to grasp the next prepared nail-rod.  He laid it against the flat of the anvil, and raised his hammer once more.

[V'aleera]

Nodding at the boy, V'aleera moved at first to pass him, but then halted for but a moment. Reaching into a pocket, she withdrew several small coins and taking his hand in a quick firm grasp deposited them within before continuing deeper into the shop.

 

Passing through the threshold of the office, V'aleera's ears twitched once more at the immediate ringing of hammer against steel, her eyes flitting toward the massive man leaning over his station of toil. Composing herself the dragoon wrought upon her face a pleasant smile, directing it toward the other woman in the room. The knight quickly addressed her in a manner of practiced politeness, "Good day, miss. I am V'aleera Lhuil, sworn to the order of the Knights Dragoon which keeps this shop, among others, retained in its service. I have come to beg assistance and accommodation from the master of this shop. Is Master Dunois present, that we might speak?"

 

In uttering her request, the miqo'te's eyes would be drawn back to the burly highlander working his craft nearby. Cocking her head slightly as she stared baldly at the man, her lips pursed and her brow furrowed slightly in thought and reflection. Indecision flickered in her eyes, her tail flicking sharply back and forth as a question clearly sat unspoken on her features.

[Aya]

The young woman remained frozen in place for a moment as V'aleera cast her smile.  Something seemed amiss.  Dragoons didn't often venture to this neighborhood.  As she was addressed she finally seemed to snap out of it.  The young apprentice scurried back into the shop, while the young woman returned the ladle to the porridge and bowed her head politely.

 

"Fury bless you, madame," she said in a strong but quiet voice, a slight accent upon the words.  "I fear that Master Dunois was injured in the attack, and has been unable to return to his work.  His apprentice, Osvald," she says with a nod toward the shop just as the sound of hammering returns, "has been attending to his business."

 

As she spoke she removed a piece of bread from her basket and placed it upon a small plate.  She then sliced a small piece of cheese off of a modestly small block to add atop the bread, before offering V'aleera the plate. 

 

"You must have walked far, please, here Madame, I am sure you must be hungry."

[V'aleera]

The reaction of the woman before her was not one V'aleera was unfamiliar with; those considered lower being unsettled in the presence of a knight or lord of high rank was not uncommon. But it was always other knights, well-bred knights, who instilled such a sense into the common folk. That she herself might cause such left the dragoon equally unsettled, though she rebounded in short order as well.

 

To hear the fate of the master of the forge caused a frown to crease her lips, as well as a deepening furrow upon her brow. "I see. I am deeply grieved to hear that such injury befell so honorable a craftsman. His well-being and recovery shall be in my prayers." Out of habit moreso than deliberate inclination, V'aleera tilted her head in a small but reverent bow. The woman's closing words, however, would see the concern flee from the knight's visage, to be quickly replaced with validation and curiosity. A small grin touching her lips she turned to call out to the man, "Sir! You would be Osvald? The Osvald, son of Thule and brother to Aya?"

 

Before he can reply, the nose of the miqo'te twitches slightly and she turns her gaze once more toward the woman, now bearing an offering of food. The smile V'aleera elects to offer is a genuine one as she nods her head, "I would not dare impose upon you, but I thank you for your offer nonetheless." She waves her hand in a short dismissive motion.

[Aya]

The young woman's eyes opened with surprise as V'aleera shouted to Osvald.  A look of concern and worry crossed her features before she quickly drew the plate away, bowing her head as she set it back upon the table.

 

What business,would bring a Dragoon to this shop, one who knew his name so well...

 

The Smith lifted the nail-rod in tongs, slipping the shaped metal into the forming slot fixed to the anvil he worked.  He lifted his hammer to prepare for the four quick strikes that would form the rosehead, and finish the nail.  But, he paused.

 

He lifted his head and looked toward the office, he thought he had heard something.  He spied the unusual sight.  He didn't quite recognize her as a Dragoon, but her import must have seemed obvious—he had heard something after all.  His serious expression showed no hint of change.  He nodded toward her, and raised the index finger of his empty, heavily gloved hand to ask for just a moment more.

 

He turned his attention back to the nail, it must be struck while hot.  He lifted the hammer, driving it against the flattening end of the rod with four successive shots of force.  With the final blow landed he grasped the tongs once more, lifting the nail and adding it to the bath.

 

He turned to inspect the other nail-rods awaiting their turn for the hammer in the heat of the forge, and stepped away to lay hammer and tongs upon a workbench.  He removed the thick cloth gloves that protected his hands.  Massive hands; long powerful fingers, large even for his size.  They lifted the tinted goggles that protected his vision, and set them aside.  Bright blue eyes ringed by scorch-black.  He wiped his brow with a cloth, and stepped slowly, voicelessly toward the office, floorboards creaked beneath his weight.

 

Shoots of curly, blonde hair escaped the wound cloth bandanna that protected his head.  He was shaven, but long-since, and a fair, ruddy stubble mingled with soot and black dust upon his broad, angular features.  Why is it that Highlanders always seem so stoic?

[V'aleera]

Crossing her arms, the dragoon peered at the man working the forge. Slit-pupiled eyes narrowed with greater scrutiny upon his features, noting quickly the few blonde escapees peeking out from beneath his bandana. Though her expression betrayed little emotion beyond insistent curiosity, there was a notable lack of impatience present in her features. Standing still and silent the dragoon appeared content to wait for the man to finish his immediate work, rather than demand his common needs be relegated to a secondary concern to higher knightly endeavors.

 

She stood in sharp contrast to the highlander; short and lanky, with muscles that couldn't be seen beneath the pristine covering of her white officer's regalia. She frowned only slightly as she began to feel the forming of sweat beneath her leather and linen jacket and slacks, realizing that for a professional soldier she had spent remarkably little of her life within the confines of a facility where the tools of her trade were forged. Nonetheless, she waited motionlessly, only her eyes betraying an eagerness to engage the much larger man.

[Aya]

The imposing smith strode closer before stopping a few fulm from the pair of steps that lead down into the office.  Blue eyes studied the Miqo'te, as she imagined they must his work.  She was a strange sight, terribly imposing in her own right despite her diminutive size.

 

Only the slightest cant of his head revealed a hint of communication from the man, who had not made out what the woman had shouted amidst the sound of his work.  Neither broke the silence; both seemed satisfied to spend the long moment of awkwardness in quiet observation. 

 

It was the young brown-haired woman who at last broke the stillness.  Unable to bear what she perceived as tension she blurted out in a rapid voice, "Osvald, Madame Dragoon is here in search of Master Dunois.  I informed her that he was indisposed, and that you were handling his business affairs."

 

Osvald turned his head enough to look upon the woman.  His jaw shifting as he looked back to V'aleera.  "That is truth.  If you are here on a business matter, Master Dunois is indisposed."

His voice was deep, and as solid as his form.  There was a hint of brogue upon it, despite the naturalness of the Ishgardian tongue, it seemed clear that it had not been his first.

[V'aleera]

Able to suppress her curious grin for a moment to assert a solemn look at the mention of the injured forgemaster the miqo'te nods in reply, "Yes, this young woman told me such just a moment ago. I am sorry for your master's misfortune and wish him haste in his recovery." Taking a step closer to the man who towered well above her, V'aleera craned her neck up in a manner as dignified as the humble act itself could hope to be. "However, I believe that you may be able to assist me just as well. You see, what I require is not quite the mastery of the good blacksmith, but rather access to a proper facility for a foreign smith in my service."

 

The well-dressed knight began to slowly pace, her head nodding in short habitual bobs, "The story is a long one, but I shall endeavor to keep it to the fundamentals: in the course of my duties I have come into possession of an exquisite weapon of foreign make. So fine was this masterpiece that even in a state that suggests it should have broken into scrap ten times over, it remains marginally battle ready." She raises a finger, "I have come into an accord with a skilled smith of that foreign land itself who has offered to undertake repairs of the weapon, but who requires a facility in which to work." Turning once more toward Osvald, V'aleera places a hand upon her chest and bows a respectful half-bow toward the highlander, "I humbly request the use of this smithy, and am prepared to offer recompense in proportion to the trouble the presence of my project may cause."

 

Peering up into the blue eyes of Osvald with her own mismatched pair of gold and silver, the dragoon awaits the man's response. Before broaching the second matter of discussion which sat impatiently upon her stilled tongue.

[Aya]

Osvald listened silently.  The brown-haired woman let out a breath of relief.

 

As V'aleera described the problem she faced, Osvald narrowed his eyes a bit and glanced away.  It was an odd request: why this forge, when she could have requisitioned access to one in an official capacity.  Perhaps it was the... yes...

 

"A foreign smith," he stated flatly. 

 

He took in a breath, and glanced back toward the closed door that lead to the attached house, where Master Dunois recuperated.  It was the sort of decision that he should defer to the Master.

 

He looked back down to V'aleera, not moving an ilm.

 

"Building materials.  Steel.  Iron rod, at least.  Half tonze.  Three thousand board-fulm of lumber.  And mortar-clay."

 

He lifted his right hand, drawing fingers along his jaw.  "Your smith shall not interrupt our business.  And shall work only under supervision.  He will assist in our efforts to rebuild.  On a one-to-one basis."

 

"Satisfactory?" he asked, with the slightest tilt of his head.

[V'aleera]

Standing stoically with arms crossed across her chest, the blonde miqo'te looked upon the large highlander as he gave thought to her request. Though she worried at what possible price he might demand, a high price in coin being particularly untenable for one in her own position, she uttered a quiet sigh of relief as Osvald stated his demands. Nodding in agreement she was quick to respond, "These are reasonable requests. The materials you desire should not be terribly difficult to acquire, and given the little smith's enthusiasm at the prospect of the work, I am sure her would not mind assisting in the rebuilding effort in exchange for this opportunity. I must ask his approval first, of course, but in the event of a favorable response I shall send him here with haste."

 

She smiles a pleasant toothy grin and begins to speak once more, "With that settled however, there was another matter I wished to broach. You are the son of Thule, yes? And thus the sister of a woman named Aya, who once resided nearby here, in the depths of Foundation?"

[Aya]

Osvald nodded at the assent.  She may find the materials easy to acquire, things were harder down here, especially without the Master able to pull his usual strings to acquire them himself.  These were challenging times.

 

Despite the lack of emotion in his expression he could not quite hide the surprise at hearing his sister's name spoken upon the lips of a Dragoon.  She did not seem the miscreant sort.  She did not seem so, but you can never be sure. 

 

He swallowed; his jaw tensed.  Hints of worry graced his features. 

 

"Yes.  Of what import, is that to you?"  he asked with steady voice.

 

His eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly.  She suddenly seemed familiar.

[V'aleera]

If there was a cloud of worry floating in the room, the small blonde defender of Ishgard was entirely unaware of it. Her face beamed with delight as her head bobbed in numerous affirmative nods, "Aha! So my father spoke the truth of it then! What fine fortune!" Laughing to herself, V'aleera takes a brief moment to compose herself, her bright grin falling to a more appropriate friendly smile, "It was just the other day I sent a letter to Aya; I do not recall if you and I have met in years past, ser, but Aya and I knew each other as girls."

 

V'aleera taps her chin in thought, "Ah, but we always were some degrees separate, so I thought little of it when I ceased to see her in my training years. It wasn't until only this year in fact that she and I reconnected; we found one another by chance whilst I was... on an extended assignment in the city of Ul'dah, where she had taken residence." The miqo'te smirks and nods with an air of upbeat certainty, "It is a good sign that yours is the smithy that is to lend me aid in my endeavor, I think."

[Aya]

Osvald never fully trusted smiles.  They could conceal everything from barbs, to ill-intent.  But, this was not a smile, it was a grin and an altogether natural one.

 

His muscles, silently taut, released in a wave of relief. He closed his eyes as an audible exhale escaped.  She was alright.

 

It was only a moment later that he realized what the Miqo'te was saying in her excitement.

 

Unceremoniously he grasped her.  Powerful hands able to easily take full hold of her diminutive feminine shoulders.  He looked at her with eyes wide, a sudden excitement upon his face, so stark the contrast from a moment before.

 

"You have seen Aya?!" he asked in disbelief.

[V'aleera]

Being affected the by the mood of the moment of getting to meet one of Aya's brothers, possibly for the first time or maybe again, she wasn't sure, V'aleera simply chuckled until she gasped, caught in the grip of the looming highlander. Peering curiously upward at the brightened features, she nodded, "I have seen her, though admittedly not in several moons. But she was in perfect health and condition last we met, bar her unfortunate decision to reside in that sandy cesspit."

 

The miqo'te grimaces and rolls her eyes as her thoughts turn to the Jewel of the Desert and her time spent there. "Really I have no idea what she was thinking! Living and mingling in that nest of thieves and thugs, serving as a barmaid to adventurers of all things!" The dragoon shakes her head, "To see her use a spear with the skill I once witnessed, I do not think I shall ever be able to imagine why she elects to pursue such a common profession in such a lowly place."

[Aya]

Osvald's wide-eyed expression did not fade in the least.  He listened, looking more excited by the moment as he tried to take in all of the news.  The little Dragoon discoursing on the finer side of Ul'dahn culture while firmly held between Osvald's hands made for quite a sight for the young brown-haired woman who covered her mouth and let out an excited laugh.

 

The smith seemed to snap out of it, suddenly releasing V'aleera as a broad grin covered his lips.  "Ah!  I am just so heartened to hear she is well! Its just the second time we've heard of her over these years."

 

He gently urged V'aleera to turn around, and toward the table that was being set for lunch.  "Come, come, sit down you'll have to tell us everything."

[V'aleera]

Given the changed mood of the situation, V'aleera was more than happy to be led to a seat at the table and to accept the previously declined offer of a meal. Taking her seat, she leaned with one arm on the table, her eyes flitting between the excited man whose shift in demeanor was almost comical to the amused young woman. Nodding her head she spoke, "It would be my honor to tell you what I can, though I fear the life Aya has elected to lead is not entirely known to me."

 

Sitting quietly for a moment and giving some thought to her past interactions with the Ala Mhigan dancer, the dragoon spoke, "Though I may not wholly understand Aya's choice of profession and home, I believe I am not wrong in saying that she has found herself in the midst of a great many friends and companions. Many of them honorable, some of them more dubious. By her own words when last we spoke, she is not merely safe, but happy and content in her present place." V'aleera reaches for a piece of bread, nipping a piece off with her teeth and chewing it before speaking again, "Though... she was quite adamant in her desire not to return to the Holy See, in spite of my encouragement to the otherwise. It is an unfortunate thing, I think."

[Aya]

Osvald nodded along, "Of course, Aya... well... she knows what she loves better than just about anyone, I think."

 

He helped V'aleera to her seat, while the brown-haired young woman made sure the Dragoon was set with bread, cheese, and if she wished, porridge to enjoy.

 

The bread was rather meager, but freshly baked with a hint of the oven's warmth still within.  The cheese, meanwhile, was modest, but reminiscent of Ishgard's famous flavorful nature.

 

"Oh, yes, allow me to introduce Enna.  She is also a dear friend to Aya." he motioned to the brown-haired woman, who bowed gracefully.  "If you were Aya's friend, I am sure you two must have met... but it was so long ago!" he grinned in amusement.

 

"Oh! Do excuse me for a moment!"  A sudden thought had the smith turning and moving quickly to his shop.  As Enna smiled warmly, Osvald slipped through the door and into the house.  A few minutes later he re-emerged, somewhat ostentatiously carrying a bottle of wine and a set of four glasses into the office.

 

"This!," he proclaimed, "Calls for celebration!  I have informed the Master of our illustrious guest, he shall join us if he can... but..."  He rather abruptly opened the red wine, and poured a glass before V'aleera.

 

"First, you just must tell me... does she still dance?" he peered at her with an earnest curiosity.

[V'aleera]

V'aleera gratefully supped on both the bread and cheese, but politely declined the porridge. Her eyes widened as she saw the burly highlander return with a bottle of wine and she attempted to dissuade the man to no avail, resigning herself to drinking a single glass of wine in the spirit of celebration.

 

The dragoon smiled at the question, genuine reminiscence flashing within her mismatched eyes. "Ah, yes, I remember how she would dance in the street during our youth to pass the time. She truly had a passion for it, didn't she?" The seeker miqo'te smiles warmly at the thought, "I... believe she may have made brief mention to continuing to dance, even in Ul'dah." She frowns in a regretful manner, "I am afraid I do not clearly recall that, specifically." Sipping from the wine, V'aleera's smile returns, "But do I have a remarkable tale to tell you of her other feats within Ul'dah! Aya played a not insignificant role in a remarkable affair within the Jewel of the Desert, thwarting wayward Dravanian heretics themselves, if you'll believe it!"

 

Grinning widely, the dragoon leans forward, "It is good that you're seated with food, as this story is quite the epic! Now then, I believe it all began with the unfortunate antics of the most dubious old elezen I have ever had the misfortune to meet..."

[V'aleera]

Dear friend,

 

A series of fateful events has allowed me the opportunity to acquaint myself with members of your kindly and hospitable family; in particular the smith Osvald and miss Enna. I shall not bore with you the matter which resulted in our meeting, but I shall say it was one I am most glad for!

 

Osvald appears quite an industrious man, even in the case of the absence of his guiding hand in his master Dunois (who was injured during the Dravanian assault), and miss Enna was a picture of courtesy. Naturally, when your name entered the discussion they were most enthused and excited to learn of the details of your life abroad. Though I did not and do not claim to know you enough to speak to every detail of your life and habits in Ul'dah, I sought to inform them to the best of my ability. Each seemed considerably relieved and rejoiced at news of your well-being and prosperity, and it was they who encouraged me to pen this letter, that I might communicate the news and happenings of your family to you while you yet remain foreign to the Holy See.

 

It is to my regret and heartfelt sadness that I must tell you in so impersonal a method as a letter that the hardship and struggle which has beset Ishgard in these dire times has not spared your family. Your brother Kael, whom I am told married into an Ishgardian family of some esteem, saw the Dravanian assault reach the very doorstep of himself and his family. In the course of the vigilant defense of his home and kin he came to be wounded, while his father-in-law and brother-in-law both succumbed to fatal blows and have risen to join the Fury in her glory. I am told he has received well-earned honors in reward of his valor, and has assumed a far greater role of responsibility within his household. I was directed by miss Enna to note that he remains a proud and caring father, and that he endeavors to instruct his children in the native tongue of your family.

 

Miss Enna also implored me to discuss with you the state of being of your father, whom has grown sickly and weary in the trying times since the attack upon the city. I do not know your father personally, but miss Enna recounted how he ventured out on his lonesome into the fury and fray in the midst of the attack to find her and return her home. I recall my father once made mention of yours, to the effect that he was a warrior of some fashion before your family's flight from the east; such action gives great credence to this claim. Your father is presently being attended by his diligent wife, and by the words of your brother has grown peaceful and taciturn in his time since.

 

In all, your family appears to be thriving as well as can be expected in these tumultuous times of upheaval and strife. Nonetheless, I believe your presence is greatly missed and would be a significant boon to the morale of your kin here within the city. Until such a time as you deem fit to return, however, I am happy to facilitate this communication between yourself and your family.

 

Your friend as ever,

V'aleera Lhuil

[Aya]

The door knocked a few minutes before ten bells.  It was just what Aya had come to expect.  The late breakfast brought her enough time for her morning routine of exercise, meditation and bathing.  The somewhat regular schedule had helped her to find a regular footing after the move to Ul'dah.    In Gridania the mornings were cool and damp, accented by the drip of morning dew.  Somehow that left her missing the sweltering heat that made the little room at the Hourglass something of a sweat-box during the later hours of a summer morning.

 

Aya answered the knock with her clear but light voice, "Come in!" 

 

It would be the Boarding House's eponymous proprietor, Lea, with the morning's breakfast.  Aya reclined elegantly upon a cushioned divan, draped in a gossamer dressing gown loosely bound about her delicate waist.  A white towel wrapped its way tightly about her head, blonde hair still drying from the morning bath.  Lips' already brushed with the carmine color smiled warmly upon the woman's entrance, their mark left upon the porcelain tea cup she slowly lowered to the saucer held in her other hand.

 

Carrying a covered dish, Lea entered the small suite that was usually quaint and lovely.  Most of the furniture in the sitting room had been moved against the wall clearing a larger empty space in the center of it.  The divan had been pushed against the foot of the bed, with the chambers table nearby.  Lea had become used to this, her guest had rearranged the room almost the moment she had arrived.  Something about wanting some "space to move around in".  It was really the reams of newspaper and newsletters scattered about the room that caught her attention.  There must have been copies of every publication, newsletter and flyer in the entire city from the past several weeks all scattered about with some sort of unspoken organization organization.  Though, she did not make note of the hand-written sheets of collated notes neatly stacked and just recently moved away from the table to make way for the expected interruption.

 

Closing her eyes, Aya took in a deep savoring breath, "Oh, Madame!  It must be a breakfast divine!" She grinned  with closed lips, pulled back at the corners with a thrilled excitement.

 

"Fresh Rolandberry cake, with honey and butter.  Melon and apple fruit, and links of sweet sausage."

 

Aya took in another breath, her heart skipping a moment as her eyes widened at the richness of the spread.  Working for Master Vann certainly has its advantages!  She leaned slightly forward, eyes momentarily focused on the covered dish being set carefully upon the room's small table

 

"Oh!" Lea added as she suddenly remembered.  "Another post arrived for you this morning."  The letter had been set upon the platter and was made visible as she removed the cover to reveal the morning's meal.

 

Aya thanked her, paying little mind to the letter as she focused instead upon breakfasting.  Letters had not exactly been uncommon lately, in fact it was the presence of just one letter that may itself have been more noteworthy.

 

So, it was a few minutes later when she sat back, sinking into the cushions of the divan while enjoying a final few bites of the cake with one hand, her left clutching the envelope with a rather careless disregard.  She closed her eyes, absolutely lost in the decadent flavor of the sweet, fruity delicacy.  In the midst of a soft "mmmmmmmm" of enjoyment she opened her eyes to peer at the letter.  It had clearly been posted from Ul'dah, but she quickly took note of the hand-written note upon it: "This looked important - Momodi"  "Forward To-" had clearly been added, and as she flipped the letter over in a hurry she caught sight of an Ishgardian seal, a shock that cut her voice short.

 

With her right hand still occupied with remaining cake, she struggled to unseal the letter as quickly as possible with one hand.

 

The style of V'aleera's was immediately recognizable.  She fell upon the contents of the letter immediately, feeling like she could not take a breath until she had finished it.  She pulled herself up, leaning forward as she read it again, carefully.  Examining each and every word.

 

Aya had left the previous note that V'al had sent unanswered.  Her old friend, now a zealous dragoon had written in such a way, she thought, to try and leave her feeling nervous and guilty about not wishing to return to Ishgard.  That had, after all, always seemed to be her goal: to lure Aya back to the city.  For some time Aya had wondered about just what V'al's motive could be.  Was she trying, earnestly, to be friendly?  Was she trying to do what she thought would be best for Aya?  Could she have some nefarious plot in mind for her erstwhile friend upon a return?  She had never really felt certain.

 

No... she had always been earnest, and deep within her breast Aya's heart knew that was true.

 

Still, the way V'al had originally scratched out Aya's name in the first letter, and rendered the details vague enough not to alarm the censors seemed to still say enough about the city itself.  Now she wrote, once more to her "friend", but this time there had been no detail spared.

 

Aya set the cake down, holding the letter with both hands, with fingers firm and desperate.  It was the first news she had of her family in over a cycle.  

 

Osvald and Enna well.

 

Kael in mourning.

 

Old Dunois ailing.

 

Father...

 

She leaned back into the divan.  She pulled her feet up close to her.  Eyes stared at the ceiling.  "Father..."

[V'aleera]

A bitter scent wafted through the air, the smell of wood not fashioned for burning being made kindling by those with no alternative. It clung to the already stifling atmosphere of a humbled borough situated deep in the bowels of Foundation, where the rays of the sun were held as more precious a luxury even than to those who walked beneath oft-grey skies upon the paved streets above. And where many had yet grown accustomed to the squallorous state of stench since the Dravanian assault some time past, one nose yet wrinkled with each reintroduction to it.

 

Garbed in clothes to mark status and adorned in emblems to mark valor, draped in classically fashionable blues, she came. Her naked familiarity, however, and the comfort with which she carried herself in this meek neighborhood might easily provoke the thought that this woman was no stranger among the poor and simple of the Holy See. Her distinctive physical attributes which sat atop her head and swayed behind her heels would confirm the presence of a woman who rose to claim her dignified garments, not one born to expect accolade within the honored echelons of Ishgard's military hierarchy.

 

Thick leather boots, blacker than night and polished to a near reflective sheen, stepped heavily down the avenue before coming to a halt in front of a shop which yet lay in some state of disrepair. Her eyes scanned the wreckage, lips curling in a small, sympathetic frown. Those same eyes, golden like the noon sun and slit like a prowling beast's, turned to meet the distant gaze of a nearby loiterer who looked too covetously upon the mild martial finery that lay upon her small frame. Several moments of an intense glare was enough to send the downtrodden fellow on his way, dissuaded from acting upon rakish instinct.

 

Peering once more toward the threshold of the shop, home to a smithy of no small renown, the small woman elected to not yet make entry; she was not to be alone in today's visit and it would likely be for the best that she stand post outside until the companion she awaited to introduce arrived. Not merely a foreigner, but a stripling boy he was; it would not do to have him become lost and pass his destination by. No, today she would await his approach, hail him at his arrival, and be greeted alongside him by their expectant hosts.

 

Gloved hands idly withdrew a parchment from her coat, unfolding it in short order and holding it up to read. The quartermaster's scribe had insisted, upon learning of her trip here, she deliver this letter to the esteemed Dunoix. Frowning at the aggressive and venomous tone directed toward a man she knew to be presently in a state of healing and recovery, she debated in her head whether she was obligated by duty to deliver the letter itself, or simply the abbreviated spirit of the demands for overdue product.

[Gegenji]

Compared to the cold beauty of the upper levels - areas where the young Lalafell had spent most of his time when out and about in Ishgard - the was something depressingly familiar about the area known locally as the Brume. The squalid conditions, the dirtied and battered populace trying to do all they could to scrape enough gil together to feed themselves and their families, it brought to mind unpleasant memories. The conditions of the Ala Mhigans left to rot in the Thanalanian sun just outside the walls of Ul'dah, the standard of living for his kinsmen - the Doman refugees - in Revenant's Toll even as they aided to build it up into something passing decent. It was a sight young Chachan had seen many a time and had yet to grow any sort of tolerance to - and one he hoped he never would.

 

He made a point to help provide food and water to the refugees outside Ul'dah, it was how he first met Roen, and helped out where he could at the Toll when he was visiting family. Seeing yet another place were people lived in dark squalor tugged at the Lalafell's heartstrings. He wanted to do something, anything, to try and help these poor people. And yet he was only here temporarily, and only brought enough supplies for his training trip with Virara and Memeli. While he hoped that he might be making things a bit better at the forge - given the conditions V'aleera had presented to him - it seemed like barely a drop in the barrel that was the Ishgardians' problems... and he worried even more that his lack of familiarity with building materials might just make things worse.

 

The depression wrought by all these thoughts seeped into his bones almost as much as relentless nipping of the chilly Coerthan air, and the boy pulled the edges of his heavy coat about him and hastened his steps. Dressed up as he was, with his long ears distending the sides of his hood, he might be mistaken at a glance for the child of some Ishgardian noble, having made a wrong turn and separated from their parents. A possible mark for those desperate enough to assault or even ransom off a child for a chance at a fistful of coin. Such thoughts clearly didn't cross the Lalafell's mind, his steps hurried by the cold and a desire to not keep V'aleera waiting, but it certainly seemed to cross those of some of the scraggly residents of the Brume. A few even parted from the shadows to give quiet chase before they caught sight of the Dragoon he was meeting up with; they weren't quite that desperate.

 

"M-Ms. V'aleera!" little Chachan called, a plume of white rising up to dissipate overhead along with the echoing of his voice off the tattered motley of wood and stone. While the call was initially relatively cheery, the overbearing gloom of the place made the follow-up anything but. "S-sorry if'n I'm late... it's like a maze down 'ere. A... very depressin' maze..."