The Most Ghosts

[Lightsnowe]

Every window was thrown wide, begging for just the slightest breath from off the coast. Men of all makes and models slouched or sprawled and it felt like the whole hazy dive was holding back a languid yawn. Darkwood bartop circle-stained with glass-sweat, only the occasional clatter of shuffled ice disrupted the stillness of the place. The heat invited laziness and ill-tempers. The figures lining the bar’s broad counter sank into privacy, to each man his own private and personal hell.

 

Rhode Lightsnowe sulked among them, elbow to elbow with a pair of hardy regulars. Ears flat against his head and tail drooping limp, the miqo’te fellow pressed his cheek into a fist and executed a perfect sigh. The effort dusted away the thin shavings of shelled peanuts arranged in a congregation before him. He traced their passage with half-lidded eyes and tapped the counter.

 

‘Keep, ‘nother please thank you.’

 

The barkeeper, a broad sweatstain of a fellow, rumbled consent and lurched into motion. A clink of glass, the bobble of liquor. Rhode cupped his brimming shot-glass with a steady hand, tugged down his scarf and tossed it back. Honeyed fire spilled down his throat, coiled in his belly like a smoldering viper. A pleasant numb scaled its way back up, invaded his thoughts.

 

Gods be good, or Gods be damned. Somebody turn down this heat. Ifrit himself wouldn’t put up with this. ‘A bit much’ he would concede, daubing his horned head with a kerchief.

 

The image caught Rhode unawares, and he chortled at it. The chortle closed up his dry throat, evolved into a cough. The cough in turn got lonesome, invited friends. Soon the lavender catte was hacking and wheezing and lashed out blindly to drink the nearest thing accessible.

 

The beer was rank and unpleasant. But it was nasty enough to do the trick, flushing down his fit in one uncomely glug. Best polish the thing off, just to be thorough.

 

When Rhode smacked the mug back down on the counter, it was with a sigh of satisfaction and total ignorance of the sheer hate radiating from the guy next to him.

 

‘Oy CATTE. That there was MINES.’

 

‘Uhm?’ Rhode retorted, with the masterful prose of a silver-tongued diplomat. He frowned from beneath his scarf, tilting his nose downward and taking in the measure of the mountain stirring beside him.

 

The guy, a Roegadyn of considerable heft, twisted in menace. Eyes of dull bronze regarded Rhode like a tag of tissue stuck beneath one’s boot.

 

‘Said that was mines.’

 

‘Alright alright, I heard you clear the first time, just. Hold on I’ll get you another what-was-that, plumfruit smoothie? No it was a cupcake milkshake, right?’ The heat was putting him in a mood. ‘Say ‘keeper, another Pink Passion Peach Crush for my man here!’

 

A murmur of amusement evaporated from the sticky crowd. Heads turned and gazes were cast.

 

The Roe’s lips twisted into a not-quite smile, not quite sneer. His irritation hardened into something more akin to gratitude. Like he’d just opened his first Starlight present.

 

‘Outside. Now.’

 

‘Yeah you know what I think that’s a great idea.’

 

He was wrong.

 

The pier was wretchedly hot, and the flat sea refused to give up even a whisper of a breeze. Once the offended Roegadyn had vented his summery frustrations, Rhode was reduced to an untidy heap easily mistaken for misplaced rubbish. An entrepreneurial gull alighted nearby, to point and laugh and caw its buddies over. 

 

His vest had been torn in the beating, something in his ribs had given with a wet snap. One eye was swollen shut entirely, the other unfocused. Just out of reach of his bruised fingers lay his scarf, torn from his face and stomped upon with baleful intent. Rhode strained to reach for it. It was rare enough a concession that he abstained from wearing a helmet, to have the tattered scar-covered tilt of his lips exposed for all to see was an indignity even he couldn’t endure.

 

‘That’s all you got?’ he rasped and ejected a wad of bright scarlet. ‘Kicking my ass?’

 

And with that, the miqo’te’s world faded to black.

 

[Luna Aequor 🌱]

The sun's rays stained the sky in brilliant white. Luna Aequor loved days like today. She held onto her rod and reel, listening to the small waves folding over and slapping against the dock. It was peaceful, save for some light chatter worlds away and birds chattering softly in the sky. She sighed at the relief of her solitude. The smallish rod fit her Lalafellan hands perfectly, made of a polished wood that she assumed was a blend with some elm. Her ginger hair was pulled into their usual twin buns atop her head to keep her vision clear. Her eyes - one blue and one green - were fixated on the horizon, wondering how far the seas extended and what of it she hadn't seen yet. 

 

A bite! 

 

Luna jumped. She reeled in her line slowly, teasing the fish, enjoying the bit of fight in it. It didn't feel like a large catch. She let the fish pull on the line, taking it further out to sea, and she reeled it back, feeling sharp tugs as the fish became more desperate. Luna grinned and took a deep breath of the salty air. 

 

Another sharp tug. 

 

"Not today you bastard," she said between gritted teeth. Her voice had a higher lilt to it - her spirits high and hopeful for a delicious dinner tonight. Maybe it was a small crab that she could throw in a pot and let it cook down for hours with some vegetables. Perhaps a smaller fish she could filet and drench in butter. The fish was nearing the edge of the dock, Luna peered over to find its shadow kicking violently against the strength of her line. She reeled it in, careful not to yank the line and snap it. That was until she heard a commotion erupt from the nearby tavern. 

 

Luna's head snapped in the direction of the noise just as the line split and the fish got away. She tossed her rod down and stuck her hands to her hips, glaring in the direction of the small mob of homely adventurers and pirates pouring out of the wooden doors onto the street. She witnessed one of the largest Roegadyn she'd ever seen tower over a brightly-coated Miqo’te. 

 

She took wide-swinging short steps towards the group, hearing the Miqo'te taunt the Roe. Oh dear gods, she thought, knowing this curious cat was going to get himself killed. Then the Roe swung at him, connecting a gruesomely sized fist with his jaw. Then his eye. Then his cheek. Again. Again. Again. Jeers and cheers erupted from the drunken crowd. Luna stood back, not sure how to intervene. Whipping out her bow and setting one through the Roe's shoulder wouldn't exactly solve the situation. 

 

Then the Miqo'te hit the ground and soon after passed out. The tavern patrons filtered back to their original bar seats, some wavering down the street singing crude songs and tripping over themselves. Luna didn't know who that Roegadyn was, but he looked pleased with himself. The Miqo'te laid motionless on the pier. Luna sighed and stepped towards him and poured some mineral water over his face. It dumped onto him in a more violent manner than was likely comfortable, but whatever woke him was worth it. 

 

She leaned down, her already short stature bringing her even closer to his body. "Didn't you ever learn to pick on people your own size?" she asked with a cocked eyebrow. 

Edited February 6, 2020 by Luna Aequor 🌱

[Lightsnowe]

Rhode lay motionless. Sleeping off the whupping, collecting a fine little puddle of drool. A fly landed on his pale cheek, strutted like a conqueror.

 

His was a brief and unpleasant respite. Visions surfaced and faded, snapshots taken along the winding paths of life. Some were familiar, some were foreign. Most were unhappy. One instant he was pacing a beach clutching the soft hand of a long-lost lover, the next he was casting aside a dented helmet to mourn a fallen brother beneath a war-stained sky. Here there were endless vistas of grey emptiness, presided over by mangled titanic forms, and then just as suddenly he was suspended over a roiling ocean with nary a spec of land in sight.

 

Plummeting, plummeting, throwing his arms over his face and screaming into impact-

 

Splash.

 

All failing limbs and sputtering oaths, Rhode awoke to a world of wet hair and sore joints. He was well enough to curse, at least. He sewed together a tapestry of vulgarity so acidic it could peel the weather-proofing from the planks beneath him. And who could blame him, he was drowning after all.

 

This is it. Committed to the icy depths. May my sins sink with me.

 

Only after a few moments of sputtering and morbidity did the catte come to realize he wasn’t in fact drowning in his phantom ocean. His sins would be sinking another day it seemed, for when a single golden eye cracked open it was to assess a sun-kissed pier and an unimpressed Lalafell. Rhode lay there a bit, entangled in his own limbs and tattered vest. The undone braid of his lavender-and-white hair matted against his frowning face, lending him the sullen visage of some cat-eared swamp thing.

 

‘Heterochromia,’ he observed in greeting, taking great care to leverage himself onto his back. Indeed, he liked her eyes. Found himself gawking at them upside-down, his head tilted accordingly. When it seemed that would be the end of this conversation, the Miqo’te groaned his way up to his feet gathered his scarf and wound the dusty fabric loosely around his neck then turned to the fair eyed lady. Nimble fingers pinched droplets of her mineral water from his sloppy braid and his scrutiny narrowed.

 

Rhode was of unremarkable height and lean of frame, the figure beneath his shredded attire honed by strife common to the age. Standing just before the Lala, he seemed to affect a slouched posture. Diminishing himself as to not tower impolitely over the shorter stature of her being. Or maybe it was to favor his ribs?

 

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled into the carefully wound scarf, the perfect sigh. His tattered lips rendered invisible, his tattered ego bare to all.

 

‘Being fair, I had it coming. Stole the bloke’s drink and didn’t need to mouth off at him. Ah well.’

 

His voice had a lyrical quality to it, a smoothness. It sauntered and swayed to an unheard melody, low and near confidential. It was a tone one would reserve for a near and dear friend, not someone you’d just been drenched by.

 

There was something else. A hollow to the brilliant gold of his eyes. There was something unright about them, about him. Something that zapped the instincts like static. ‘Danger!’ it jolted. ‘Fight it, or flight it!’

 

For his part, Rhode held eye contact, then turned his gaze elsewhere. Aware of the undefined effects he could have. History taught him the dangers of staring too long.

 

The best augurs are those who divine from the portents of the past.

 

The quote sprang to mind unsolicited. Where had he heard it before? Had he heard it before? These things tended to surface into his thoughts unbidden, bobbing like so many parcels floating from a wrecked ship. A flicker of confusion danced over his expression. He regarded the nearby gulls dispassionately, seeking insight where only squonking could be offered.

 

‘From the look of it, I owe you a drink too. Water, yeah? And a fish, maybe.' He broke from his solemnity to fire her a toyful wink, gestured at her snapped line with a thumb. 'But arguments could be made that one ain’t entirely on me.’

 

 

 

[Luna Aequor 🌱]

Luna watched as the miqo'te struggled to his feet. Every bend and stretch of his muscles looked painful, and she narrowed her eyes as if the pain was her own. When he stood, he looked damp and slender, holding himself up just barely. She cocked and eyebrow once more at the chaotic glint in his eyes - something she attributed to having just been beaten and violently brought back to this plane of existence. He was seriously something else. 

 

When he spoke, it hung and hummed in the air like so many strange bards Luna had met through the God's Quiver. She wondered if that was his gimmick, if that's what got him into trouble to begin with. Even as a training bard herself, she often restrained herself from looking like a strange bird screeching songs with a three-string through the Shroud. It seldom got you the attention you wanted. Though, out near the pier now they could hear bards performing for gil near the marketplace. The salty air welcomed it more than the solitude of the forests. 

 

"So you went to a tavern, stole some drinks, and got thrown out?" she asked with a smirk. "Is that a routine of yours? Set your chronometer to it, do you?"

 

Luna shrugged at the mention of water wasted. She would get more. She wouldn't have wasted her last bit on this guy, that was for sure. She was starting to wonder if he hadn't been in the fight if he had just as soon been tripping over himself towards the alley the rest of the drunks, who didn't retreat inside, went to play.

 

"I don't suppose you're going to do well limping to the nearest healer like that, are you?" Albeit she was no healer, but she could at the very least offer some sort of aid. Maybe toss the lad over her chocobo and make Pony carry him to the nearest healer. "You don't owe me a line, but I guess I can't let you just paw your way to the nearest doctor."

[Lightsnowe]

Rhode’s lavender tail swayed and snapped. He regarded the Ladyfel evenly with terrible eyes, gnawing unseen and shredded lips beneath the shroud of his scarf. As the pain settled from sharp and distracting to a more tolerable throb, he was allotted more focus to take in the breadth of his waker.

 

Small and studious, with the charming pointed ears and silent intensity of expression championed by her people. A kindness to her, a care to her attire and effects that bespoke an organized and efficient mind. Empathy too, if her sympathetic wincing were any indicator.

 

A commodity rarer than Ascian Silver, empathy. Mayhap Voldmyr has the right of it; the size of a person only informs how much asshole they can contain.

 

Less than most, this one. Less than most.

 

The lady reprimanded him with a clever quip about how he set his habits, drawing forth a brook-like burble of a chuckle from the Miqo’te.

 

‘Ah- that’s me, sorted. Wake each and every morning, step one foot on the floor and one foot in some big pisser’s mug and he clocks me back to sleep. Never know how hard it is to get things done in a day when you ain’t roused ‘til noon!’

 

Well he thought that was funny, at least. Patting his thighs and tending to a phantom tear. These theatrics loosened something vital and cast him in a wracking gasp of pain, palm clutching at his re-arranged ribs.

 

To her inquiries of finding a healer, Rhode presented a charmed and thankful grin. It was swallowed entirely by his unseasonably scarf, given away only by the faint crinkling in the corners of his fathomless eyes.

 

‘Well I was fixing to jaunt my way back to the ol’ shack. Bossman wanted me back before sunfall and if I get crawling now my carcass should be there by next week.’

 

It was near impossible to get a read of whether he was being serious or speaking in hyperbole.

 

‘Thanks for not taking my wallet. Oh, and uh if you're offering...’

 

A cautious, practiced hesitation. History had also taught Rhode Lightsnowe to be wary in requesting the extended company of strangers. Particularly of the pleasant variety. And that was a lesson he needn't learn twice.

 

‘Would you mind speeding me along? Back to the bossman at least? I think he’d like to meet you. You seem like good people.’