Heart of Gold: Jajara's Tale ((OOC welcome ))

[cuideag]

(( In an effort to get back into the habit of writing, I'm going to challenge myself to write little quick fics every day about IC encounters or events. I used to do these 100 word challenges with some old WoW friends and I suppose this is continuing that tradition. Comments are welcome! These are crossposted from the XI:7 forums. ))

 

 

 

 

They did not speak in the weeks after the Calamity. Even when the Great Berimu, blessed with the wisdom borne of his name, led them to the oasis where the stars always shone the brightest, they shared no stories and sang no songs. It had been her father who told her that the stars themselves had blessed the place and so they came closer in hopes of hearing a beautiful song to share among their kind. They prayed and waited and huddled shivering around the fire. They stared and saw nothing but the wretched burning wound that was Dalamud and knew that the stars would be forever pale and cold, mere ghosts of themselves.

---

"What do you expect to do?"

 

Jajara listened to her breathing, the soft sounds her shoes made on the sand, to the occasional call of beasts in the distance. Straps of her leather satchel slapped against the backs of her legs and with them she counted the moments passing by. Only once did she think to turn around to fetch her watch, a gift from her father which had been rumored to have come from the hands of a Sultansworn; only once did she look back behind her and remind herself that there was no way to go but onward.

 

So she pushed herself forward, rising and falling over the crests of dunes built and moved by hot, stinging winds. Great Berimu was hours to the north by now; not once had she heard his bellowing call, and Jajara had little reason to believe they would risk an extra day or two just to search for her.

 

The thought drew a scowl to her face. Though she tried hard to focus on breath and step and motion, her thoughts inevitably drifted towards the last words she expected to ever hear from her mother.

 

"What do you expect to do?" she had said and there was disappointment glistening like venom in her eyes. "What exactly can you do for anyone?"

 

She shifted her backpack and wiped her brow. It was her uncle that had pointed a way and whispered well wishes. Somewhere at the edge of the desert stood the city of Ul'dah, and Jajara Jara had no where left to go.

[cuideag]

"So, uhh... 25 cut malachites..."

 

"Yes." Check.

 

"... 63 lapis lazuli..."

 

"Yes, 63." Check.

 

"Uhh. This oughta be about a dozen sphenes..."

 

"Very good. Mistress Jara?" Audit, question mark.

 

"... An' I made a couple'a lapis necklaces, too. Got all that?"

 

It was a tall man who knelt beside her with a ledger in one hand and a quill in the other. By all means, Harvard looked every bit as professional as he felt: his coat was finely pressed and free of even the tiniest smudge of dust, an accomplishment especially considering the dusty streets of Ul'dah. His shoes were expertly shined and sounded soft as slippers on the stones wherever he walked. He did not smile and it was true that his features were severe to say the least but he carried with him an air of trust and responsibility, as though his work was indeed his sacred duty and the sacks of miscellenany he took from the diminutive lalafell were the holiest of relics.

 

"Quite. Mistress Jara?"

 

Jajara Jara blinked at him. "Huh?"

 

Harvard gestured to his side with his brow. There was a stone block beside him that had not been there very long before and, for whatever reason, it appeared to have been quite intent on bumping into him repeatedly. "Might I ask...?"

 

"No, you can't have 'im!" blurted Jajara with her eyebrows pinched in disappointment. "He was a present an' he's... well, I dunno what he is exactly but I guess he gets confused at times." With that, she reached over and patted the tottering block. "Come on, pumpkin', we better leave 'im to his work." She squinted at him as she walked off into the crowds and as, strangely, the stone block wobbled and tumbled after her on tiny grey legs.

 

Harvard stood and glanced at his sleeve. Broad lines of white, chalky powder marred his sleeves and he could already feel the eyes of other retainers and busy-bodies. His nostrils flared and, in his professional manner, Harvard began to count backwards.

[Skylar Steelheart]

 

(( Omigosh. Poor Harvard, hahaha. The demon bricks are so cute. ))

 

Edit: AUGHH I could have sworn this said OOC welcome and it doesn't, I'm sorry! Ack! *hides in a corner*

 

[cuideag]

 

(( Omigosh. Poor Harvard, hahaha. The demon bricks are so cute. ))

 

Edit: AUGHH I could have sworn this said OOC welcome and it doesn't, I'm sorry! Ack! *hides in a corner*

 

 

(( I'll fix it. It's fine! Thank you! *huuugs* ))

[cuideag]

If one asked her what her strengths were, it would be highly unlikely that "memory" would be among her answers. "Why," she might say, "There's times when I can't remember my birthday or which way is north or what I had for breakfast today." Yet at times, usually when she least expected it, odd fragments would return to her out of the depths of forgetfulness.  Typically they were insignificant: an odd joke told by her youngest brother, the limp in her father's leg, or the earthy smell of blankets that had already been ancient when Jajara herself was but a newborn.

 

Their meeting had seemed insignificant of the time, of course. She was but a fresh and hopeful face looking to find employment and she had come at Mister Shipkeeper's behest to prove her skills. The ship she found herself sitting upon unnerved her to no end, constantly creaking and rolling even in the calm sway of the sea. It was not Ul'dah - far from it, geographically and physically - and when the rain had started to fall she had only begun to feel less and less eager to stay.

 

Yet a presence had stepped up behind her, so quiet that she almost did not notice. It was the man in black robes and an absurdly wide brimmed hat, to whom the others had given strange and wary glances. She had thought nothing of it, knowing not their significance if there was any to be found in the first place for they were all strangers to her then. Raindrops ceased pelting her skin and when she had looked up, curious as to whether or not it had been intentional, she had only been met with a faint but gentle smile.

 

Jajara saw less and less of Ul'dah lately. The company's ship was not home but she took some comfort in the way it groaned and shifted beneath her feet. And when the rains rolled through on heavy grey clouds, her mind would inevitably drift away to recall that first and foreboding smile.

[cuideag]

(( Aaaack, I failed! Skipped a few days. >_< Got to get myself back in!! ))

 

Busy was good. Busy was very good, especially as of late. Jajara Jara hummed to herself as she made her way along the walkways of Limsa Lominsa, a lighter mood uplifting her spirits. At first the city had been a bewildering mess of stone and light, one she could hardly walk without wanting to hurl herself off the nearest edge. Something about the constant wavering shimmer of the sun off the ocean waves nauseated her and so she had avoided the place when business did not call for her presence.

 

Lately, though, Limsa Lominsa had proven fortuitous. Earlier that evening she had made not just one but four new friends - miqo'te, lalafell, and roegadyn alike - and she had left what had started as a brief pause in her day for a light snack with a smile. What's more, one of the miqo'te had even given her chocolates! Just the thought made her salivate and sigh with pleasure. Ohh, she liked Tirra a lot.

 

"Ya did good, Jajara," she said to herself with a nod. "Ya did real good! Play yer cards right, an' we'll be drownin' in chocolates in no time!"

[cuideag]

(( Aaagh... too... laaaazy...! ))

 

Upon reflection, Jajara could not recall exactly how it had happened. The springs were alive and hopping with chatter and laughter and, in some small part, deviousness. The game had only just begun when Mister Garryson had turned his evil eye upon her and demanded from her a most embarrassing Truth. She had only assumed that was the nature of the game: mutual embarrassment seemed to be a common theme wherever her often bare-chested leader went and now that everyone else was also mostly undressed it seemed appropriate that they would all suffer it together.

 

Jajara did not expect, however, to see Vivita slosh her way to her side of their circle. There was an air of defeat and regret about her, and the stubborn pride of a warrior faced with a challenge she was not prepared to face. "Alright, Mama J," she muttered to wolf whistles and open snickering. "Let's do this. Pucker up."

[Skylar Steelheart]

 

Omg, hahahaha. Poor Jaja...! *dies*

 

Or maybe not poor Jaja, if Vivita is a cutie. *snickergiggle*

 

[Rhylund]

(( I'm sure you're expecting more teasing about you-know-what... but I'm just going to say that I've enjoyed reading these. Stop slacking! ))

[cuideag]

She breathed. La Nocsea was peculiar to her, too salty and too cool and far, far too blue for her tastes. She breathed it in, staring hard at a large stone that sat in the middle of a field just off the road. Deep gouges marked it's face: at least sixteen of those and counting were made by her alone. It felt heavy and unwieldy to her despite the fact that she had crafted it herself, honed the blade by hand and fitted the shaft to her own specifications. 'Never were much for them,' she thought to herself. 'What's a gal to do if it ain't with her hands?'

 

She breathed and raised the blade evenly with both hands, her body dropping into a slight crouch. It was her way, of course; the past few days had seen their ups and downs all dulled out by the near constant hammering of metals and ores. Five hundred and thirty three ingots all nearly identical; another two hundred rivets drummed out until the memory belonged more to her hands than her mind. It was the work that helped her focus and so she poured her soul along with every mold, filed away her troubles and drowned them in sweat.

 

It wasn't her fault. To think so would have been foolish and though Jajara Jara counted herself a fool she knew the blame could not fall to her. It did not stop her from breathing, however. Seventeen strikes down, marked with a grunt and a clang, it did not stop her regretting.

[cuideag]

There were times when Jajara Jara forgot herself. She hardly ever realized it, hardly ever noticed it: a blink or a breath and then she would become aware of the darkened sky bells later (or in a few occasions the rise of dawn). She would move and function without thought and there would be a pile of carefully wrought ingots at her side, or a bag full of perfectly polished gemstones. As of late, when she would take herself out to the edge of the desert where she liked to practice her art, she would be left with a feeling of great power, great strength that would only wane when she woke from the flow of movements that took her.

 

The door slammed and she was alone. The door slammed and she woke then, felt the breath heaving into her lungs, felt more than heard the dull whine of complete silence. No, not complete silence, she realized then. Footsteps light and quick were walking away. He was leaving. Why was he leaving?

 

She breathed and her lungs felt clogged as if with sand, gritty and sharp and stinging at the whole of her. Jajara was aching and, for a moment, she did not know why. The lights were dimmed in the apartment that they shared, in rooms that were always far too large for her when she was alone.

 

The door was shut and he was walking away. 

 

Jajara forgot how to breathe.

[cuideag]

(( This was written for a character building exercise but I'm gonna cross-post it here anyways because I am a giant cheater. ))

 

 

Jajara was fifteen years old when she was finally allowed the marks. Her mother was, as per the usual, displeased. Throughout the ceremony she stood by as a dutiful wife and matriarch was meant to do. "Duty first" was Jojore's motto and she performed every task that was required of her with grace, even if that grace was often overshadowed by her stony, prickly nature. Her chin was high and she stared at her daughter down the slight nub of her nose until it became late enough for no one to speak unkindly of her departure.

 

Sasayome, on the other hand, was ecstatic. "There's m'darlin'," he boasted often and loudly to his brothers and cousins. "Tough as a sand drake an' three times as fierce, that's fer sure!" And then he laughed that booming laugh of his, planting his meaty hands at his hips. "HAR HAR HAR!" he roared while Jajara's uncles scowled amongst one another, amongst sons yet to earn their place. "So much fer yer lilly-livered sons! HAAAR HAR HAR!"

 

The significance of the occasion was not lost on her: there were, as far as she knew, few enough women in the clan who took up arms. It simply was the way things were and in those days she had never thought to question it. Her father seemed eager enough to bend the rule for her and even if her brothers and numerous cousins gave her odd looks and whispered when she walked by, she did not let it deter her. She could move and dance with the best of them and her strikes were fierce even if they were not always true. She was young still; she had time to learn and plenty of reason to prove her mother wrong.

 

It was to take most of the week that they were there, she was told. There were tales to be told of the achievements of honored ancestors, of lessons learned by those who lived and died by the ways of the clan. Little by little, as the marks were bled into her skin, she would become like those before and only when she was deemed worthy would he deed be complete.

 

"It'll hurt, lil' darlin'," her father told reminded her the night she was told. He wore the markings as well, as did all the warriors of the clan: like skeletal flames, arched and coiled across their eyes and brows in a deep sunset red. "It'll hurt real bad."

 

"S'fine, papa." Jajara wore but a single plait then, having not the patience to bother with two. "I ain't scared, not a bit."

 

"I know you ain't," replied Sasayome as he patted her on the head. Jajara dutifully made sounds of complaint. Later in life she would find that she missed that annoyance most of all, and that no one else could quite irritate her in such a way as her father. No, it would never feel right again.

 

"Don't change the fact that it's gonna hurt. Now, yer gonna be strong. You are strong, y'hear me, girl?"

 

"I know, papa. I'm gonna be strong."

 

Thick rugs were laid out near the oasis and a tent was set up to house the gnarled old seat that had served as the seat of ascension for generations and generations prior. Her grandfather and great grandfather dredged up robes and tomes, squat bottles of deep red ink and the long, iron-needled rod they would fill.

 

The first night was the worst. Sasayome stood well out of the way with his wife at his side, watching in silence. Now and again, when the needle nor the dour faces of her elders were bobbing in her face, she would glance over to watch him smiling proudly her way. It hurt like nothing she had ever felt before but not once did she allow herself to falter.

 

The first night was the worst, but the second was easy as breathing.

[cuideag]

(( This happened... some weeks ago! Oops! ))

 

The more it went, the more she regretted even buying that stupid chronometer. "A technological marvel," the merchant had barked. "An invention to finally put Althyk's domain within the grasp of mortals! Whatever shall you do without it?" And in that moment Jajara had sincerely pondered just how she could live without such a thing and her coin purse found itself a decent size of gil lighter that very day.

 

Jajara stared at it from her bed. She could not see its face, the odd mess of gears and bronzed gilding, but she could hear it. Every tick cut lout and clear over the occasional groan of the house around her, and with every tock she swore she could feel the blood throbbing through her veins. Her wounds were well on their way to healing thanks to Miss Reinette and Miss Jancis but they seemed stubborn as the woman who wore them, insistent on reminding her of their presence. Reminding her, of course, of the sea-snake that had delivered them.

 

Her favored retainer, a bald-headed man who called himself Harvard to her and Blackstone to others, had answered her summons a mere sun after she was able to give it and brought with him a few things with which she might occupy herself: silver scraps, spools of threads and a simple loom with which she might practice her weaving, glass lenses, several needles and pliers of varying shape. Miss Reinette had been very firm in that she not busy herself too much but the longer she lay the more she felt the itch to disobey. Moving her right arm still left her sore but she had to do something and one of the few somethings she was good at was work with her hands. It took her bells longer than it might have otherwise but she fashioned a pair of reading glasses for Chuchukepa, which she managed to smuggle into his room when she was certain neither Reinette nor Jancis were on the prowl. The loom remained largely unproductive. She glowered at it and the numbness that overtook her hands when she tried to work a needle.

 

The company had been unsettled when Sigurd broke the news. Two sightings of at sea and a call to arms from the Maelstrom. Had they not acted, surely there would have been more casualties. They would go out on boats, he said, and they would face them before they could reach the coast. They would be tethered as not to lose themselves to the sea. They would have crystals as not to lose themselves to the serpent.

 

The chronometer ticked and tocked, chaining down the moments so that they did not pass but stumble on mind-numbingly slow. Across the light blanket that covered her lap, threads lay staggered like angry waves.