My Brother's Keeper IC Thread [Closed]

[Klynzahr]

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

[Zelmanov]

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Just a minute!” Achenne would call out, standing up, tightening up the straps on her blouse, corralling the unruly raven hair into a neat ponytail before answering the door. 

 

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

 

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

 

“I be Achenne Raunard, aye.  Lady though? You must be mistaken, this is the Brume after all m’lord.” She felt the lump in her throat, there was no joy in the Hyur’s expression. “Is…is something the matter?” 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

She didn’t want a grave, she wanted her husband. A quiet, pitiful sob was all she could muster.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 “Leave, damn you!” she said, voice going hoarse. 

 

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

 

“Not another step closer! Go! I never want to see you again! You took him from me, you and /your/ war!”

 

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

 

“I deserved a life with you, Artoix, nothing more.”

 

_____________________________________________________

 

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

[111]

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

There was some sort of commotion outside, and she could hear the faint ringing of bells, which only seemed to grow in intensity. Was this some Holiday she'd forgotten?

 

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

 

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

 

Crows? But they looked strange...

 

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

 

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

 

"TO ARMS"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"THE ENEMY COMES"

 

 

 

 

 

I want to thank everyone (especially the player of a certain au ra Inquisitor) for a fantastic and fun story. I'm treating 3.3 as happening within a few days of the trial, but that's just my own personal preference, take the events above or leave them as you wish. 

 

Hope to make many more stories with everyone!