Bulletin Board

[SM Nick]

In the busy streets of Ul'dah, a red-haired man can be seen dashing through hectically, trying to move around the people walking around. The man had a uniquely emblazoned bandana on his head accompanied by a red doublet vest and some fingerless gloves, along with some Ul'dahn halftrews. He had a comedic frantic look on his face as he pants while running.

 

Solis: "Gods gods gods I forgot about the meeting! I don't want Nik to scold me AGAIN! Excuse me! Pardon! Excuse me!!!"

 

Not long after he said that, he saw that a light pink-haired Hyur midlander, almost his height, was walking in front of him, but he could not stop his momentum before running into the Hyur, making them both fall to the ground, luckily with no one else around them at the moment.

 

Solis unfortunately landed while accidentally smothered in the Hyur's rather large bust, which to a pervert, is paradise, but to a straight innocent guy like Solis, is not since he might be mistaken for a pervert with his concurrent nosebleed. He screams as he frantically pulls himself free from her bust, and saw her flustered face looking at him, innocent eyes and such. Solis's face was also flustered red with blood coming from his nose, but instead it had a scared look, as if he thought he was going to get hit, due to what happened with Aleria that one time. He gasped loudly, took a deep breath, clapped his hands together, bowed his head down in front of the girl, before exclaiming,

 

Solis: "I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY! I SWEAR IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT!!! I WOULD NEVER DO STUFF LIKE THAT ON PURPOSE! JUST BELIEVE ME I AM NOT A PERVERT!!!!!"

 

An awkward silence followed after for moments until the girl spoke calmly,

 

Celestia: "It is all right."

 

Solis was very surprised, jolting his head right back up.

 

Solis: "A-All right?"

 

Celestia: "It was only an accident. I can tell from your eyes that you would indeed never do something so lecherous at a lady." She smiles. "My name is Celestia!"

 

Solis, now blushing hard: "S-S-S-Solis. You can call me Sol if ya want! How about that, Celes?"

 

Celestia, now blushing hard as well: "C-Celes? Well if it's comfortable with you then ok."

 

She giggles, followed by Solis chuckling nervously, before a linkpearl started ringing in Solis's pocket. He picked up the linkpearl and put it close to his ear.

 

Solis: "Yes?"

Niklas over linkpearl: "WHERE ARE YOU?!"

Solis, caught off guard by Nik's voice: "A-ah Nik! I can explain!"

Niklas over linkpearl: "You can explain once you get here, we've been waiting for 2 bells for you!"

Solis: "I know I know I know I know I can't help it! I'm on my way!"

 

Solis gets up and helps Celestia up as well, dusting off her dress for her while putting the linkpearl back in his pouch.

 

Celestia: "Was that a friend of yours, Sol?"

Solis: "Y-yea. I gotta go! See ya!"

 

Solis runs by Celestia, waving as he runs, with Celestia smiling and waving back as well.

 

Celestia: "Bye~! Hope I see you again another time!"

[Unnamed Mercenary]

Late in to the evening, one could find a certain man scouring the floors of the Ossuary looking for a very particular object. He had asked nearly everyone in the building after he had returned.

 

“Have you seen a ring fitting these details? It is an important item and I must find it.”

 

Bells would go by. People would come and leave.

 

He had searched under each bookcase. By every pillar. Even inside the urns, much to the thaumaturges’ disliking. Not that they would act upon it. A tall hyur, over twice their height? The lalafell would rather not deal with the potential thought he might attack them. It was simply safer to wait for him to leave.

 

Clothes dirtied, exhausted, and ready to give up, he began walking towards the exit, head down. He would have missed the glimmer of metal and jewel had it not been for a poorly aimed spell a pair of thaumaturges had hoped to fire at him.

 

As the weak lightning spell flew past his side, he saw it. Wedged into a crack of the doorframe.

 

Her ring.

 

It was a little scuffed and scratched, as would anything that had been thrown into a building made of rock. But, it was whole. The damage could be repaired. Taking out the small box he had previously kept it in, Franz vowed to hold onto it better from then on.

 

He could inquire at the Goldsmith’s Guild later.

[Lady Rivienne]

Jubilation is heard among those gathered.

 

Music plays in the air and conversations are lifted to the very ceiling, drowning the sound of the fountain.

 

She was a woman who had little desire for grandiose events, leisure time always was sought elsewhere, away from this supposed jewel of the desert. But, her assignment required her presence here, among the denizens, among those who wore familiar faces. Her husband could not become an asset, but another would play the part of companion this eve -- and his part was perfected. Rivienne hung off his arm, this midlander male, a serpent like herself by the name of Ivaan, a man whose iron demeanor melted whilst standing at her side. In this crowd, they were invisible, hardly noticed, for she was but another figure among the many, and he was an unknown with those present. The Commander chose the pairing well; his twin serpents with deadly venom.

 

Pleasantries were shared, dutiful to her facade, Rivienne gathered information unknowingly from those present. She heard the rumors of this man's taste in women, long legs were preferred. It came as no surprise to the agent when she noticed her target charming several women far taller than he. Golden eyes were narrowed, peering behind dark lashes, to those present before her. A smile painted her scarlet lips, laughter bubbled from them, but her attention remained to the whispers coming from the pearl in her ear. She was camouflaged among these joyous citizens, the woman in dark rouge.

 

This merchant was no fool, though he appeared alone, after the ladies he failed at claiming for the eve left his side, Rivienne was given information that there were shadows that breathed nearby. Ivaan had eyes on the man, now left to his own devices, then turned his gaze to the corridor North of him. The information gathered became crucial to their task. This particular piece of scum was providing trade routes to Gridania and packing the contraband, in several shipments, to the very sanctuary of her woodland. The serpents moved among the crowds gathered, like true snakes in tall grass, to position themselves using this gathering as their cover. While a grand act was on display, a true drama was unfolding underneath their noses. The play continued below them, but these actors would not put on a mock performance.

 

She excused herself from her friends and turned off the world around her. A proposal was blatantly ignored, laughter was drowned out, she was focused simply on the task at hand. Golden tresses danced along naked shoulders as an arm extended out and fingers gathered the thin stem of a wine glass, on display, 'pon a server's tray. Ruby lips were glossed with the caress of her tongue and her expression softened to a woman already falling under the power of alcohol.

 

That is when he saw her approach, this temptress in red, who wore wet lips eagerly awaiting to meet his own. A vixen among these wallflowers, who went straight for him. He could smell the perfume upon her sun-kissed flesh, how it came from her bare clavicle and the bounty neatly wrapped in fabrics. His head swam already from the wine he had, so much that his vision was clearly on her. It was pathetic how simple this became; Rivienne pulled the strings of this weakness, he was but a marionette, easily manipulated. This puppet was unaware that Ivaan had already slipped into the cool shadows and used the information they gathered, about their corrupted Wailer, to good use. Their attentions were drawn, figuring that he was sent from Gridania to expedite their next shipment.

 

The serpent provides the distraction within a few minutes of her engaging with the merchant; it is then that Rivienne quickly uses the words that would mark the end of the man's existence. Her venom sank into his ears, an ambrosia he delighted in.

 

"Let us find somewhere quiet -- to talk."

 

His excitement caused his eyes to light up and he hurried to take her by the hand. Her giggling melted into the air, and here, among the many gathered, under the sworn, under the blades, Rivienne slipped away from view with this man in tow. The agent was easily forgotten, and made little to no impression of ever being present. Corridors were crossed and the ball became a distant memory as the alley was presented to them and night blankets the area. In the quiet, she found a corner away from view, where their bodies could fit in the crevice of the wall. There, he leaned to whisper lewd words, it was here that his hopes were shattered.

 

Just like the wine glass in her hand.

 

His face was grabbed and the back of his head met the cold, unforgiving stone wall behind him with force. The jagged edges of the glass pressed to the center of his chest and Rivienne's demeanor changed before his eyes. His choking was a plea, but it fell upon deaf ears. Even in his dizzied state, as the serpent hissed her demand of information in his ear, he provided a name, and that was all she needed. The glass was shattered down to the very stem, and using that, she made sure that his last breath would be taken.

 

While everyone danced, laughed and drank, this body was being placed in a crate, his gil purse taken and his dirty money fell upon him like rain. While people enjoyed themselves, his blood spilled into the gutters. While they took the night, she took a life to make Gridania safer.

[Cliodhna Eoghan]

The ball had been over for many hours but Cliodhan was still unable to sleep. She laid under the blankets of their shared bed, the only sounds in the quiet room was the soft ticking of the chronometer on the wall and the gentle breathing of Erik as he dreamed. Placing a hand over her heart, she willed the leftover fluttering to slow in attempts to calm down. Though with the enticement from earlier, it was little use.

 

Again, she replayed the night in her mind; going over what he had said, the question as he keeled before her, the tinkling of the wineglass as it hit the ground and her stuttered reply. Cliodhna placed a hand on her face, he was the only man to truly rattle her that much but also the only one allowed to, she lamented; lips curving into a smile under her hand. Moving her hand to lie across her heart once more she closed her eyes for a moment and tried again to relax.

 

Heaving a light sigh, Cliodhna opened her eyes and stared at her hand in the dark. Despite the lack of light, the gem on the simple band still maintained some light glimmer to it, just enough to show the many facets in the cut stone. Lightly, she brushed her finger over the ruby, smile softening her features. Though she enjoyed all gems and the worth they carried; Erik had known what one was truly her favorite and had used it as the central stone in her engagement ring.

 

Eyes widened a bit at that thought; engagement, the word repeated in her mind. Cliodhna was engaged, something she had never imagined would happen. Let alone with the man lying in the bed next to her. Glancing over, she brushed her hand though his hair, the brown tresses free of binding he usually had it in during the day. Gently she ran her forefingers over his forehead, smoothing the hair from his eyes as a light blush graced her cheeks. She was engaged to marry Erik. Finally after so many years, missed encounters, losses and stolen moments in the night; he was hers and hers alone. No more would conflicting aspects in their life hinder their relationship as it had for so long.

 

These thoughts were a comfort, it had been a long and difficult road, but just as she was unable to step away from that path; neither was Erik. So many times Cliodhna had thought him lost for good, just as he had with her but the lack of communication would always be resolved in the end until the next rough patch....but that last one was the last time. There was no need to worry or fret, no mixed signals or lack of information, nothing to keep them apart to give room for hindering misinformation again.

 

Giving Erik's bicep a light nudge with her shoulder, Cliodhna snuggled into his chest as he moved his arm to accommodate her, legs twining with his as his arm slipped around her waist in his sleep while hers curled around his torso. Nuzzling the crook of his neck, Cliodhna brushed her lips over his skin, giving Erik a soft kiss before snuggling closer and closing her eyes.

[Delilah Scythewood]

((Snippet from Locke's event "The Eater of Light" which signaled the end of his personal story arc!))

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"I-Is she...?"

 

The last word wasn't finished, but Lili could nearly taste the fear just from his tone alone. Though she couldn't find the strength to open her mouth to talk. To assure him it'd be alright. To express how happy she was that he was safe...!

 

"She's alive, but if we don't get her some sort of medical attention I fear she won't be for long."

 

Vahl?

 

That's right.

 

They were still in the Eater's domain. Was he dead? Was that bitch of a succubus dead too? She couldn't hear either of them. Where was Cyrus? Was he alive? Thousands of thoughts flew through her brain faster then she could process them. It was then the Twelve deemed her worthy of enough energy to crack her heavy eyes open. But the pains...Gods above, the pain! Numbness as well, but where-

 

"C...Cy..."

 

She could see him. Just around Locke's arm as he was prone on the ground. Was he dead? Locke would never forgive himself if something happened to one of them-

 

Pale green eyes flickered from Cyrus and landed over her torso. The smelled of burned flesh assaulted her nose, palpable and nauseating with its closeness. Like sickly sweet meats and something charred. Lili's vision flickered, and then she noticed it.

 

She felt picked up as she stared over herself. When did Vahl lift her up?

 

"Quickly, go!"

 

Her torso was seared. The metal and leather tunic she had worn on their way here was blackened and the lower half of it so badly burned that the leather stitching and metal plates looked like they were nearly one in the same. Her skin felt strange as well with every step the roe took as he cradled her against his chest. Was...

 

Was her skin and the armor now one in the same?

 

Was her flesh melted to the tunic?

 

Another heavy flash of pain was enough to pull her under, leaving the darkness of the rift and the upcoming light of Oakbarrow behind.

[Gegenji]

Last Saturday...

 

"FORBIDDEN: FAT. RECOMMENDED: LEAN CUTS," the Judge stated curtly to the merchant as he looked over the hunks of smoked algoat that the latter had hung up to entice customers. Customers like Jredthys, who was in the mood for something savory for dinner. He was usually in favor of such things for dinner - it was only proper, after all, to have the final meal before slumber being something filling that would sustain him until he broke fast in the morning. Given the sack of supposed foodstuffs slung over his shoulder, though, one would think he was stocking up for some oncoming disaster.

 

Something touched Jredthys' senses then, causing him to look away from the merchant as the Hellsguard bragged about the quality of his cuts and how his slaughtered beasts were raised. The heavily armored man's gaze, hidden beneath the thick visor of his helm, instead turned northward as the Roegadyn's words muted to mere background noise. He was... needed. Something was calling out to his sensibilities - a near-silent siren's call beckoning him beyond the walls of Ul'dah. Calling to him as a Judge.

 

"Hey."

 

And then it was gone, almost as quickly as it came, leaving naught but the faint feeling of missed opportunity. What was it? What had called to him so? It had vaguely familiar to a call he had heard many, many years ago; a song sung to the sensibilities of his younger, more ambitious self. Perhaps it was that familiarity that made it so troubling to him, a memory best left unremembered.

 

"Oy, you in there?"

 

However, he reminded himself, it was not proper to dwell on missed opportunities - you either took advantage of them or not. He had not, thus he could voice no complaint about the matter. That was the whole of it, written in simple black and white. Viewing the matter in such a basic division helped to temper the Judge's nerves, returning him to a less agitated state. Though, it was hard to tell any changes in emotion at all through the thick casing of steel he enclosed himself within.

 

"Look, ser," the merchant's tone cut through the remaining mists of his thoughts like a sword, the Roegadyn's trepidation at accosting the heavily armed and armored man balanced by his desire to turn a profit this sun. "I got a lotta customers waiting behind you. Are you buying or not?"

 

"YES."

 

An armored hand reached out and snatched an entire half of an aldgoat - left hanging to provide "fresh" cuts as per the customer's request - from its strained hook. The merchant reached out after it as it was slung over an armored shoulder like a second sack made of flesh, but his complaints died in his throat as a hefty sack of coin was placed atop his bloody counter. The Hellsguard busied himself with counting his new-found bounty, heedless of his aforementioned other customers, as the Judge departed from his stall.

 

While the thoughts of the sudden calling had been dismissed from Jredthys' mind, its passing was not without mark. A deep rumbling in his gut had been the cause of his sudden, massive purchase. He was hungry, so he would eat. He would take these foodstuffs back and make himself quite the meal indeed, as was proper for a hunger of this magnitude. And so, as the armored man's thoughts focused on the feast he was soon to create, the Grindstone rumbled on - the missing Overseers' roles filled by previous champions rather than by a certain Judge and his strange mannerisms.

 

Perhaps it was for the best.

[Jancis]

Across Eorzea, spring has conquered the cold to raise its face to the squinting sunlight. 

 

After the budding trees and new leaf sprouts, lilies push up from their winter slumber. Particular the light pink ones called Nymeia's Lily. Said to be beloved by the Spinner, they are passed around to children and between neighbors alike.

 

Well greetings such as "May your threads be strong." and "Make a tapestry of your life." are given. Faithful to the veiled lady can be seen walking through towns and villages. Their garb light, enough to cover from the spring winds to the shore, as they pass through to visit family and friends on their way to the lower reaches of La Noscea.

 

Small tributes have been hung on doorways and window sills, welcoming the warm pastel colors the seasons bring. 

 

A few suns hence, the bells will ring loudly through Moraby Bay as the pilgrims gather up for the final bit of their trek.

 

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[Berrod Armstrong]

“Hm. He’s handsome.”

 

[align=justify]The Hyuran woman stood upon the edge of the sun-baked ledge, yalms above an open expanse of dry Thanalan dirt. Below, a large, red-haired young Highlander trained, tearing through bare-fisted techniques against an imaginary opponent. A simple pair of dusty white slops were his wares, already soaked through with the sweat that drenched him. Every movement he made was swift, confident and backed by the strength of his powerful build.

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[align=justify]“He’s just a babe, barely out of swaddling.”

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[align=justify]The second, much deeper voice came from the Hyuran woman’s equally Hyuran partner, and was laced with abject disapproval. Two Highlanders were they, dark of skin and brown of hair. The woman was lower than the man by a head, but exuded no less of a presence. Her hair was clipped short, which in turn accentuated her broad and muscular shoulders. A modest bosom trailed down to a somewhat pinched waist and thick hips, supported by what could only be described as trunks for thighs. She was clad in a replica of the Temple Cyclas, colored in the traditional yellow. There was a dangerous, strong grace in the way she carried herself; somewhat like a dancer on the verge of aggression.

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[align=justify]Her partner seemed very much her opposite in several ways. He stood with brutish altitude, and bore age-betraying grey streaks in his back length brown hair. The man seemed hewn from the very stone his feet were planted upon, and was possessed of an obscenely solid and muscular build. The parts uncovered by his own yellow Cyclas were marked with the scars of a life steeped deep in battle. He was far from handsome, though his scarred mug presented as much shrewdness as it did oafishness.

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[align=justify]“You don’t seem to approve at all, Guntbrand,” The woman observed smoothly, “Nor do I, for that matter. He teaches truths, but allows his wards to run wild and makes no attempt to bring them into the faith. Thus, they taint our ways with trivial aims and frivolities.”

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[align=justify]“I’m impressed that he’s so knowledgeable for someone so young,” Guntbrand admitted gruffly, “Only one of the true remnants could have developed a child so thoroughly.” His brown eyes narrowed with further displeasure. “But…I agree. For all his wisdom in the art he is foolish in its distribution. In his quest to revive our ways, he has only served to corrupt them.”

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[align=justify]“And then there is his ambition,” The woman hummed. The comment was inserted with calm purpose, and and by the little hint of a smile on her lips, had achieved what she had intended. Guntbrand swiveled his head toward her.

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[align=justify]“What ambition?” He demanded. “Tell me, Gerdtrid.”

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[align=justify]Gerdtrid responded in demonstration; she stood a little taller than usual and affixed a stern countenance to her mein, effectively mimicking masculine steadfastness. When she spoke, her voice was a deep mockery. “I will rally them around me so that we can take back our home. From there, the throne will be empty, but if needs be I will fill it until such comes who is worthy.”

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[align=justify]The look on Guntbrand’s face rendered even his hardened and scarred features to something akin to an affronted child’s. His mouth hung open and both his eyes were as wide as Gerdtrid had ever seen them. “King?” He wheezed incredulously. Again his head rotated upon his thick neck, as his expression compressed into share outrage. The training Highlander below became the target of a blazing glare.  “He would dare make such a claim? Lounging and strutting about, buggering a pair of Gridanian blood traitors and handing out our ways to the undeserving – while we spill blood fighting for our land! King! I would sooner see Gyr Abania brought to the sea before one such as he sits upon the throne. I care not how symbolic or sentimental his claim may be. Real or hypothetical, I won’t stand for it.”

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[align=justify]Gerdtrid remained quiet while he ranted, and took a moment to admire the prominent veins along his neck. In his ire they looked like they would burst – but fortunately for him they did not. “It would never come to pass,” She assured him – as if it was necessary, “They would never accept him, even with what he knows of the arts. He’s just a child who plays in the sand while we fight and die to retake what is ours.”

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[align=justify]“I would be the first to demonstrate my disapproval.”Guntbrand’s words bore a heavy weight to them, from the very tone, to the rasping snort that came afterward. He did not see the wry smile that tipped at his partner’s face.

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[align=justify]“I’ll leave that to you,” She indicated with a light flourish.“I, in the meantime, must make haste to Vylbrand. There has been a lead on the Bybel of Fire.”

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[align=justify]Whatever the Bybel of Fire was, it held enough significance to draw Guntbrand’s seething gaze away from the red haired man below. “So they’ve found it then? If you retrieve it, that would place two of them in our possession. You’d best make haste.”

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[align=justify]Gerdtrid nodded. “Yes – so don’t spend too much time on him today.” Her chin jerked down. “Master will be expecting us both anon, with Bybel in hand.”

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[align=justify]Guntbrand mirrored her nod, then turned to curl his thin lips into a malicious sneer. “I won’t. For all the knowledge he possesses, it won’t take me long at all.”

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[align=justify]“Don’t kill him, Gunt.”

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“I won’t, Gerd. I’ll just bring him to his knees. Go ahead and claim the Bybel. I’m eager for Master to read us the scriptures within.”

[Warren Castille]

Jubini Carabini was eager. The diminutive plainsfolk had only recently arrived in Ul'dah with his life savings hidden away on his person (a pool of gil scaled to match the stature of the short fellow) and he'd gotten lost on the way to the Ossuary and maybe he shouldn't have eaten two fishes for lunch, but he was finally there!

 

The lalafell's eyes went wide as he stepped through those looming doors. Everything in Ul'dah was so big! It was a far cry form the roughly-but-expertly carved stones that made up Limsa Lominsa's architecture but there was something exotic about being in a foreign nation on his own! The wonder of the trip stuck to him, the wonder of an awestruck child.

 

"You're sure? Thanalan's not like Vylbrand, you know..." The boy's doting mother was always so careful with him. When he'd first decided he wanted to pursue the same path his grandfather did she'd been completely against the idea! Thaumaturgy wasn't for him, no. He would continue to work with her in their small but cozy home. Though she had rented out one of the rooms for roaming adventurers, she seemed to be ever a servant there. Washing floors, cooking meals.

 

Jubini didn't want to leave her, but he also didn't quite feel... full. He didn't have it in him to wield a weapon like the heroic types who stopped for a night's rest did. One time, this giant roegadyn had stayed and he wondered how he was even going to fit through the doorway! He had to bend down and walk sideways, which Jubini thought looked very funny for such a serious person. Less funny was the friendly roe's axe, of which Jubini could completely hide behind the head.

 

No time to remember home! He wasn't here to reminisce about what he'd left, he was here to chase the future! The lalafell had no idea what sorts of things awaited him.

[Warren Castille]

Jubini Carabini almost didn't notice how quickly the moons passed by. He had taken on as a student inside the Ossuary shortly after his nameday, during the festival of All Saint's Wake. Like many others who began the path of a thaumaturge, Jubini had started with book-learning. His mind took to the premises easily enough - channeling one's internal aether through a gemstone to control the elements of the natural world. He was hungry for knowledge and the Ossuary had granted him plenty of room to sate that hunger. He would totter from his studies to his room and back again lugging tomes older and nearly larger than he was, and he was often lost in thoughts; If he wasn't attempting to remember the lessons of his study he was thinking about how proud he was to follow in his grandfather's footsteps.

 

Jubini had never know his father, but he found that didn't affect him much. His mother was there to fend for him, and in his early childhood so was his grandfather. His memories of the man now were faded, but in the pasture of his memories the man yet lived. The very image of a classic sorcerer, Jubini remembered him with a stern yet loving demeanor, and he would often delight the boy when he was sick in bed at home with lightshows of thunder and flame. It made some of the more difficult times pass easier, and while Jubini never knew the depth of what was going on, he was always grateful and smiled fondly on the memories.

 

It was with those memories that he had wanted to learn how to do the same things, and he did his best to absorb and learn and memorize and practice. Jubini Carabini was eager.

[Berrod Armstrong]

Berrod Armstrong had not seen when the Highlander landed on his right flank. Rather, he'd felt it; the way the hair on his face and body prickled with the slight disturbance in the air about him. It was only a split-tick afterward that the yellow of the other Highlander's cyclas registered in his peripheral vision -- though the familiar garb did not at all mitigate his alarm. 

 

He had simply been practicing -- no, not quite practicing, that was just a fringe benefit. He had been working off the recent frustration that  plagued him for the past few suns. The fiasco had started with a Lalafell client, and ended up in an ambush from which he and Athe barely escaped. The very memory of having to run away fretted him greatly, and so he opted to pour his anger into something constructive. His visitor however, had managed to erase the entire affair from his mind in an instant.

 

Berrod wasn't particularly proud of the manner in which he darted away from the other Highlander, but he knew full well that it was perhaps very wise. One ambush was more than what he had tolerance for in such a short space of time; two would be downright unacceptable.

 

With some distance between them he was able to get a good look at the man. Even for a Highlander the fellow was huge, and towered over Berrod by half a fulm. His skin was dark brown and littered with scars of various sizes. He seem crafted more of stone than born of flesh, from the stiff appearance of his skin to his statuesque, gargantuan build. The cyclas upon his body was well kept but clearly worn from battle. Scratches and dents showed even through the polish on his gloves and boots, though the feather on his headdress was new. He was the very image of a member of the Fists.

 

It was for that reason Berrod addressed him in an almost reverent fashion. The redhead clasped his left fist into his right palm at chest level, then bowed slightly at the waist. "Brother."

 

In comparison to the other, Berrod was a far sight less elegant. In his dusty white slops with a lack of shoes he seemed quite like a vagrant -- and that did not even take into account the ruddy, unshaven scruff of a few days along his jaw. The neatest thing about his appearance was the tied tail at the back of his head that kept his hair in check, though that was soaked with sweat just like the rest of him. A horizontal purple bruise marked his bare chest almost from nipple to nipple-- the sore prize he had received from the recent ambush. Regardless of it all, he stood proudly and presented himself as best as he could.

 

The other monk inclined his head slightly to the left, and a hint of intrigue shone in his eyes. "You bowed to me," he observed. His voice was as deep a reverberation as  Berrod's, though the speech was slower. "An odd thing for a self-crowned King."

 

The monk's words set off resounding warning klaxons in Berrod's head. He made no effort to keep the wariness out of his body language; tension seized his frame. The demand that followed was very direct. "Who are you?"

 

The dark-skinned monk smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile by any account. "Let us first examine who you are," he countered, "Berrod Armstrong. Refugee, taken in at some point by a remnant of the fist...whose heart you must have broken terribly when you became a damned bandit no better than the ones you grew up struggling against. You survived the Calamity and continued your ways, which eventually landed you in a life of destitution in Ul'Dah. Thus came your rise from rags to riches, which saw you cavorting about with your buggering-mates on each arm, a pretense of caring for my people and my homeland, and a claim to something no sensible member of the resistance will allow."

 

Berrod had meanwhile done his best to keep his composure; the knowledge the other man had demonstrated regarding him was not something gained overnight. He kept his face even, though quite a bit of color left it. "I wish only to work with the resistance toward a common goal, not undermine them."

 

"Do you, Berrod Armstrong?" The monk contested, "Is that what you believe? Is that what your paltry alms to my brothers in the streets of Ul'Dah have convinced you of? Do you think that your blood or your knowledge make that a thing to take for granted? Is that why you feel content to return to your lavish home, eat heartily, drink merrily and then retire to gargle the balls of your pet Gridanians?"

 

The words cut through Berrod like a hot blade, with each slash removing a chunk of his pride and purpose. Nevertheless, the other monk continued, "Because those who fight and die every day in the name of my homeland and my people may not share the same view."

 

Berrod found himself at a momentary loss for words. What the other monk spoke of -- it had occasionally niggled at him, but it was just a doubt in the back of his mind that his own arrogance had become very effective at crushing. He was accustomed to being a man who was followed, and if the path he chose offered hope, why would they not follow? Having his efforts to help aid the refugees on the streets called paltry had a severe effect on him. Were the care packages not enough? Were the food hampers insufficient? Was the employment he offered through retainership no good? Doubt near suffocated him, and the other monk began to appear to him as an avatar of terrible truth. 

 

Yet...something was amiss. Berrod knew himself, and he knew that he usually took great pride in his efforts, even if they were a little. When he lived on the streets he did what he could for his fellow refugees. When he terrorized the sands of the desert he had done it for their sake. He knew that he would not allow his life's passion to be so casually belittled, and was very accustomed to feeling anger before doubt and despair. His ambition to claim the throne was only intended if no one worthy was willing and the people needed it of him, otherwise he would dedicate his life to serving the one who would ascend. Why then, did he feel so crushed by a few words from a stranger?

 

Words...

 

Words. Voice. Sound. Air. Throat.

 

The realization hit him like a charging Aurochs; the other monk was using the power of the fifth against him! Through his voice he had sought to lay Berrod's will low. Berrod reeled; he had never witnessed this application of it before. There was a point of further confusion, however. An open, active chakra was something that always shone like a beacon in the night to him. He sensed nothing from this man.

 

His thoughts must have registered plainly upon his face, for the other monk offered him a mildly astonished look. It was odd how the man's worn and solid features seemed capable of such child-like wonder. "Ohh? You sense it?" his eyes narrowed in further scrutiny. "Ah, no...you're guessing. I can see it in your eyes. How accurately, I wonder?"

 

"How are you doing that without me seeing it?" Berrod demanded. It took considerable willpower to even speak in the voice's wake.

 

The other monk levelled a stare at him that may have usually been reserved for a dullard of a child. "A man tends to be unable to see when his eye is closed," he offered thoughtfully. "Though some men remain blind anyway."

 

Berrod comprehended the statement at once, and suddenly knew what he had to do. Already he had begun directing his aether between his eyes, and prepared to open the sixth with it, he would surely see through the other's trickery, and show the bastard some tricks of his own.

 

The dark skinned monk continued to observe him; an arrangement of pitying scorn folded his face. Then he vanished.

 

No more tricks. Open the sixth, the mi--

 

Berrod was not exactly sure if he saw the monk before the great, dark hand grasped his face into its palm. He felt the activation violently interrupted, then saw brilliant explosions of color behind his own obscured vision. Agony ripped through the entire back side of his body; he had been slammed down onto the ground, and savagely so. 

 

"I have heard your praises among a few," the monk murmured. The disappointment in his voice was palpable. Berrod had not yet regained his senses enough to properly realize that he laid sprawled on his back beneath the yellow clad man, bleeding from the back of his head with the monk's palm still gripping his face. "But...you could not even sense my chakras, much less resonate with them. The time it took for you to open yours, why the delay? Knowledgeable you may be, but your execution is shoddy. Your master would be ashamed to see this."

 

The mention of Berrod's master incensed him. Though he could not see, the Highlander's fist raised to deliver retibution, aiming at a guess with intent to snap his assailant's arm at the elbow.

 

He did not get the chance. Before  his fist could even connect, he felt a very gentle palm upon his stomach...followed by the maddeningly excruciating ordeal of having nigh every bone in his body shattered. Thankfully he only had to endure it for a moment before darkness took him. 

 

Those nearby, however, reported a tremendous and concussive upheaval that pelted dust and rocks several yalms into the air, though it was mostly dismissed as a mining detonation or yet another overly eager thaumaturge initiate.

[cuideag]

A figure staggered into the night.

 

She should have known better. The letters were suspicious from the start, reeking of conspiracy. That she would be met with silence in return for her inquiries was even more suspicious, and that same suspicion was only punctuated by two final words: Thal's Respite. Had they not come from Ser Crofte, she might not have chosen to show up at all.

 

She should have known. She should have known.

 

It took everything to keep as silent as she edged out of the cavern that housed the shrine and hobbled alongside the cliff face. Her right leg had been rendered near useless courtesy of Shaelen's damned gunblade and the rest of her was racked in pain as well. "You didn't make it easy for him," the smuggler said. "It was hard. Painful. Painstakingly long."

 

"You deserve the same."

 

Yet again Delial had allowed herself to be caught off guard and she paid the price for it. Yet again it was Wolfsong who spared her from certain death. The scenario rewound itself in her head over and over as she picked out every mistake, dwelled on every blow and kick, and every drop of her blood. Yet with every turn of her thoughts, it always came back to Wolfsong.

 

She grit her teeth and told it herself it was because of her leg. Her footing swayed and she blamed the blood loss. He had stood between her and those who would have her head for so long, so long she could hardly believe him herself. Ever since she joined the hunt for Itarliht, she had returned the favor: blood for blood, life for life, her knight for his sister, her loyalty for his forgiveness, her love--

 

Something twisted and she could not tell what for the all the ache that was her body. Her limping gait reeled abruptly and she buckled, tumbled onto her hands and knees and into the blinding shock of pain. Wolfsong pushed a small medical kit into her hands and it had helped with the bleeding, but she was still so very tired. The ground swam before her eye and every prick of stone burned like hot needles in her palms.

 

"Bleed out or nae... I don' care anymore."

 

"I did not want this," Delial blurted stupidly, desperately, staring at Gharen's back as he walked away. "I only wanted to see you safe. Your sister... and you."

 

"Ye could have fooled me lass, but I suppose tha's what yer best at."

 

As the black started to cloud her eye she thought bitterly that she should have known. It did not matter. What she wanted stopped mattering years and years ago. It washed over her, a swell of rage so overwhelming that she did not feel herself succumbing to unconsciousness. Nor could she tell, in those last bleary moments, what exactly it was that enraged her so.

[TheLastCandle]

The dark silhouette made an imposing figure even among the tall trees of the Black Shroud, yet not a single man among the Wood Wailers stationed at the White Wolf gate so much as shot a glance in his direction. He was swathed in an encompassing cloak of ebon cameline, but his step carried with it the telltale jangle of mail and plate beneath the garment. If his presence was noted by any person’s senses this night, they did not show it but allowed him to pass onto the cobbled path that would lead him, he knew, to the Carline Canopy.

 

Passing through the shade of one of Gridania’s many awnings, he whispered a single word to unravel the glamour. Guards at gates asked questions, an aggravating ritual that the elezen had no time to entertain at the present time. The hood was thrown back, revealing a stern visage marred with a long, jagged scar that left his right eye white and filmy. Cropped, dark hair covered his head, razor-cut to a mere ilm’s length with little thought given to style. This, too, he had no use for.

 

The only thing on his mind at this present time was a single name:

 

Yvelont Navarre.

[Brynhilde]

It was a cruelly dark Iceday dawn when Brynhilde approached the Twelves’ Sanctum with a silver kris at her hip and a squirming linen sack tied to the saddle she sat upon. Her captive had fought the entire journey, and seemed now no nearer to exhaustion than when they had set out.

 

The Highlander urged her Chocobo onwards, the three of them proceeding through the iron gates toward the towering building at a slow pace. The air was bitterly cold and they were alone; the rest of the world had not yet awoken.

 

A light pull on the reins brought them to a stop. On either side of the steps leading to the temple door were the stones of the Gods, one for each of them rising up out of the cobbled ground like long-forsaken tombstones. Brynhilde slid from Astridr’s back and gave the bird a soft pat as she retrieved the bag, which wriggled vigorously upon being lifted. Above the woman, the spires of the Sanctum loomed in judgement.

 

“I know that it has been a great many cycles since last we spoke.” She paused, searching. “I saw little point in conversation, in the knowledge that you were always watching.”

 

Stepping over a small brick wall brought her to a line of stones. She stopped before one; it bore the symbol of a descending, fire-consumed meteor. Brynhilde set the sack down beside her leg and prostrated herself before the headstone, pressing her brow hard to the cold ground between her flattened palms. The cobbles smelt of moss, abandonment and age.

 

“I love him.” She whispered to the ground. “It is not his fault. Please do not punish him for my selfishness.”

 

Beside her, the sack bleated.

 

“Rhalgr. Father.” She reached for the sack to undo the cord and snatch the Aldgoat kid as it made a last, squealing bid for freedom. The fine silver kris sat now in her free hand.

 

“Not once have I asked anything of you since my youth, but I ask you now as one who would be your loyal servant for the rest of her suns, however many or few they be; please have mercy upon those fools who love me in return.”

 

She pulled the head of the kid back. The kris waited at it’s throat, gleaming wanly in the cool morning light.

 

“Lord of the meteor and breaker of worlds, I beg of you; there must be something in this life that does not die at my touch.”

 

The torrent of hot blood coated the dawn-chilled stone, misting instantly on contact in fine white wisps. Brynhilde held the body of the beast firmly in her hands as it’s kicks became languid twitches and finally it stilled, glass-eyed. She placed the sacrifice beneath the headstone along with two shining, golden gil coins. A spattering of her own blood, drawn from a cut across her palm, completed the offering.

 

She stood and turned back to her waiting Chocobo. The two departed the Sanctum as the sun began to rise over the Shroud’s canopies. The birds began to sing then, but the stones stood ever-silent in the growing light.

[Star Lin]

Margret Waterstrike look her son over.  He was still far to pale and that include Kit beside him.  As a mother, she wants to bundle him back into bed and let him sleep off the rest of the healing that he had done at the Grindstone.  Her hand tighten on her staff...Grindstone....the name was becoming a hated word to her because she could see now that it was killing her little boy.  As a teacher, she had to put her foot down to this.  "I talk to the Guildmaster and he said that he will gladly take you in as a student of Conjurery..."

 

John's head snapped up.  "NO!"

 

Margret blink at her son shout of no.  She turn startle eye to her husband, who was frown at their son.  Then she realize that he had probably was worry about the clinic.  "You don't have to worry about helping at the clinic.  Mimi has come along nicely in her studies.  She can help out while you're in Gridania..."

 

"I said no, Mom.  I'm not going to learn Conjurery."  John point down at Kit.  "We're been able to heal just fine without it..."

 

"Heal...Heal..." Margret said.  "You only killing yourself with this...ability of your," she said.  She couldn't understand why he was acting this way.  "At least with conjurery, the elementals will allow you to tap into the elements  That will keep you from burning yourself out."

 

"And what then, Mom," he said, pointing out the window.  "I'll be beholden to the elementals.  I can't...won't let let someone, especially the elementals, tell me who I can and can't heal.  And if it means I die from healing then so be it."

 

"Please be reasonable..."

 

"I am being reasonable," he said, ears forward in anger through his voice still was quiet.  "And to the hells with the elementals over their hold on who lives and dies..."  His head snap to the side as a sharp pain flash across his cheek.

 

Margret hand stinging snap her out of the anger that had well up in her at John's words.  Horror rose up in her and she reach out to him, "john..."

 

His ears and tail hung low as he turn back to her.  His head hanging down to not meet her eyes.  "I'll go and learn Conjurery...Mother...so it will make 'you' happy."  He turn from her and made his way to the door of their apartment.  "But know that 'I'm' not happy about it."

 

"No wait John..." she began to protest but the door close with a soft click that sounded more like a bomb going off to her.  Her staff drop from her hand and she buried her face into them  "What have I done?" she sob.  Then she felt herself pull into soft robs and strong chest.  "We already lost Tanya...I can't lose him as well."  She felt Thomas' lips touch the top of her head.  "It's all 'their' fault...and it's yours for introducing him to 'those' people."

 

"It's not..." Thomas reply.  "He's growing up and finding his own way."  He ran his fingers through her hair.  "Just give him time...like you did with Tanya when she protest as well."

[Telluride]

La Noscea wasn't particularly noted for trees. The land was rocky and sandy; the most arable areas of the island were given to cultivation and agriculture, too precious to be left for the wilds, and there were no looming elementals to lord over either the inhabitants or the flora. The civilized inhabitants of the island, for whom "civilized" was still tenuously defined at times, likely would not have tolerated such a mystical presence telling them what to do, not after having fought armies, kobolds, sahagin and the like; an elemental trying to settle in the few wooded areas of the region would likely have been chased off by cannons and fiercely grim arcanists alike pouring spite, magic and firepower upon it.

 

The relatively few species of trees that did flourish on the island, though, were hardy, persistent things, growing thick and solid in their copses, tough like the Roegadyn who had made La Noscea their home. It took a strong axe and a tough swing to fell them, two things that were unusually common in the region, and which were possessed as well by a particular member of the race who now worked them in a thicket of oak trees near the collection of windmills, called the Grey Fleet, in the island's lower region.

 

The thunk of each axe blow into the trunk echoed through the area, audible enough to be heard from the windmills for certain, and possibly enough for the kobolds in the nearby hills, but if the furry beastmen heard it, they lacked either courage or curiosity enough to do anything about it. Perhaps it was also self preservation, for the hand and form swinging the axe were anything but scrawny.

 

The echoing strikes became a rhythm, and if one were close enough, one could hear a gruff voice chanting between blows, using them to set a tempo:

 

"Where, where..." *thunk* "...are you tonight?" *thunk* "Where have you gone..." *thunk* "...to leave me alone?" *thunk* "When you come back, dear..." *thunk* "...you'll see what you're missin'..." *thunk* "I hope you like kissin'..." *thunk* " 'Cause you'll be my own" *thunk*

 

He set the friction-warmed head of the axe in the soil, next to the half-severed tree, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The weather was not particularly warm, for the season; seawinds rising above the cliff cooled him off as efficiently as they drove the blades of the fleet of windmills in the near distance. Still, the red and white tunic he wore, which was all the rage in Limsa this cycle, was stained under his arms and upon his chest with sweat, leaving it translucent in spots, showing his ash-dark skin through the fabric. He leaned on the axe-handle, supporting his left arm on it, and reached for something in the pocket of his dun-colored trousers - a smooth-worn wooden pipe.

 

He set the mouthpiece between his teeth, and fished around in his other pocket; there was a wrapped fire shard in there, somewhere. He looked at the tree, and the deep cuts that were quite close to taking it down. "Oh, don't you worry. I'll have you down and in these arms soon enough."

 

A faint sound caught his ears, as if it were a reply - the distant crunch of leaves and a scuffling in the sandy path - and at a sudden, his hand had seized upon the axe handle again, eyes narrowed and hunting for the source.

 

The source, apparently, came from about 50 yalms away: another burly Roegadyn male had apparently ambled off the road enough to come within visible contact. The woodsman made an effort to relax, still keeping his hand on the axe, and peered closely at the newcomer, eye rapidly taking in details: the sea-green skin of a Sea Wolf... tattered straw hat... blue harness, leaving the chest open, sunlight glinting off the buckles... axe strapped to his back... and a hint of some printed fabric, coeurlskin maybe, under the outfit top. The approaching form was tall, but not AS tall as the viewer. The pipe shifted from one side of his mouth to the other as the mind chewed on the details.

 

The newcomer apparently had spotted him, though, and was nearly trotting up the path, waving, something like a belly laugh coming from him, followed by a greeting. "Haw haw, 'ey there! Givin' that tree a good drubbin', ey?"

 

The pipe shifted up and down as it was chewed on. "Yeah, what of it?"

 

The other set his hand on his straw hat, defying the breeze, and continued a slow trot up the path. "Aw, nothing, 'cept I betcha I could get those trees down for ya, all fast like, fer a little working consideration. I got the best hands and axe fer chopping, and for an honest bit of gil, ye can get yer work done by one of the slayers o' Chitin himself! Whadda ya think?"

 

A massive, dark hand took the pipe from the mouth. "Chitin? Who the... wait, who're you?" The ash-colored Hellsgarde took a loose grip on his axe, and plodded a few solid steps towards the Sea Wolf.

 

"Ye don't know the great Trachtoum when ye see him? One o' the heroes of the land, that's me, scourge of primals, personally chopped off one of Chitin's toes with the rest of the Company of Heroes!" The green figure continued taking large, but casual, steps forward. "But even a hero's got to eat, and I've done cleared out most of the kobolds and dangerous beasts around here, so I'm needing a quick bit of work for a meal and a drink to make it back to Limsa for a more proper welcome. What do ye say I chop these down for ye, and ye put some gil in my hands for the trouble, and to tell everybody how ye met one of the Eorzea's heroes?"

 

The taller male also continued striding forward, stopping but a pair of yalms away; he rested the axe head on the ground, and supported his hand on its handle. "Trachtoum." The word came out as if it were a declaration of intent. "Yeah, actually, I heard of you. I'm thinkin' I don't need any heroes around here, so maybe you oughta take that Titan-sized flapper of yours and bugger off."

 

Trachtoum stopped, face looking as if something had bitten his arse, for a moment, which brought his chocobo tattoo into stark relief. "What? Friend, ye don't know what yer talking about! Don't ye want to hear it said 'round the taverns how you got to know a real Company Hero and shared yer brew with him?"

 

"I'm thinkin' it's you that ought to consider whether he wants to get to know me." The Hellsgarde peered at Trachtoum through black and purple-tinged bangs. "I ain't really the kinda guy a hero like you wants to Titan up with."

 

The Sea Wolf spread his hands. "Aw, everybody ought to know a guy like me! Why, just last week, I beat the Warrior of Light in a rock-breaking contest! I think that I can do to those trees here..."

 

The deep voice came down like a portcullis. "Shut it, you git, before I give you a little kiss on that pretty bird you've got on your cheek." The taller Roegadyn stood straight, bringing himself to his full height, glaring at Trachtoum, knuckles cracking.

 

"Now, ye wait just a..."

 

Another echo could be heard in the valley but a moment later: it was a solid, but dull sound, something not unlike a brick impacting a ripe melon. The taller male had charged the two steps between them, with a speed belying his size, and had driven a hammering punch right upon, and nearly through, Trachtoum's cheek tattoo; if the little chocobo there had not finished hatching before, its egg was surely broken now, and the greenskinned male was sent to the ground, stirring up sand and dirt as if, indeed, he had been himself a falling tree. Dust rose around Trachtoum's body, and the Hellsgarde's feet, as both skidded to a halt.

 

The burly victor broke the sudden silence. "Titan, you idiot! It's Titan! I heard o' you hangin' about the Fleet before, I but woulda never thought you'd be stupid enough to keep stayin' around!" He stood over the fallen figure, rubbing knuckles.

 

The grounded one moaned, flexed his fingers, and opened his eyes; his words were slurred by the sore jaw. "Wait, don't hurt me no more, I'm goin', I'm goin' I swear..." A green hand slipped inside the harness, fingers working at something inside it.

 

A massive, black leather boot came down on those fingers, hard and fast. There was another crack. A small black sphere, with a fuse, rolled from Trachtoum's chest, as well as a handful of playing cards, decorated with heads and faces of monsters and legendary heroes, which spilled out from the Sea Wolf's harness and into the dirt.

 

The ashen-skinned male leaned forward onto his foot, and ground the bootheel into his victim, eliciting a trio of whimpers and several groans. "Now, lemme introduce my self!" the phrase was punctuated by another painful stomp upon the felled Trachtoum. "You can call me Obsidian Obelisk, and you're gonna remember it..." The bootheel ground down, smudging dirt into the bruised green skin. "...because I'm gonna pound it into ya! Listen up, trash. When I catch heroes like you, I always gotta clean my boots after puttin' a steel toe up some arseholes!" The last word triggered another resounding stomp, this time to the downed man's gut.

 

Trachtoum groaned and coughed, wetly, and his assailant stepped a pace away, and kneeled, picking up the little sphere, and a few of the cards. "A firesand bomb. You really are a dirty little qiqirn's son, aintcha, hero?" Obelisk stuffed the ball into his pocket, and peered at the cards, turning them in his hand. "Triad cards? Aw, how cute." He flipped them in turn. "Behemoth, which you ain't. And there's your little buddy Chitin, and a sweet little moogle. I bet your mama would be so proud o' you right now, boy, just a-twitchin' her whiskers."

 

Obelisk squeezed the cards in his hand, letting their crumpled remains fall to the dirt, and stepped another pace away, his hand closing on the hilt of his axe.

 

The fallen male, teeth clenched in pain, was slowly dipping his hand towards a belt pouch. "Please.." He coughed. "Lemme go! I swear, swear..." A groan followed. "...I'll leave!"

 

Obelisk turned his head, eyes falling on the pouch. A vein pulsed in his forehead. "Oh, hells, no."

 

Trachtoum began to rise, and the green hand snatched at the pouch, but the ashen-skinned male spun in place, his axe swinging in a flashing, rising arc. The flat of the axe impacted the green forehead with a resounding clang, and the Sea Wolf's eyes rolled, and the rest of him went limp, breathing laboriously, unconscious. The straw hat came to rest several ilms away.

 

-----------------------------

 

Orange eyes blinked, fighting a headache. He tried to sit, but a grinding pain in his gut halted him, and he could only look up, into a purple blur. The blur only gradually unfuzzed, showing first a darker blob, then cleared further. Pain, but.. a purple twilight sky. Faint stars... he was alive! He hurt... gods, his chest was sore... head throbbed... but he breathed!

 

And... vision kept clearing... the blob became something else. It was... a face. A beautiful, lovely face, an angel, just for him, with full lips, wavy hair of black and purple, skin the color of an ashen dusk, such pretty eyes...

 

"Can you walk?" The voice, too, was melodious, a beacon within the haze of pain and muddy thought.

 

Trachtoum felt a pair of gentle fingertips touch his forehead, and struggled against the ache in his chest to get the words out.

 

"I..." He coughed. "I think so... oh, thank you, thank you... I got attacked by a..." Another cough. "Goobbue! Hit me right on the head."

 

"Can you run?" The voice was still feminine, but it had acquired an edge. Trachtoum peered up, his senses finally clearing to get a strong view of her.

 

"Can I... what?" he felt a new sensation in his gut. Not pain, but a squirming.

 

"Can you run?" The face seemed to move a fulm away. "Let me introduce myself, hero. I am Obsidian Glimmer, and I am not here to help you. You met my brother, but, unluckily for you, he's the nice one." She raised her hand in front of his face, and he could see and feel a cold, crackling mist forming around it.

 

Orange eyes widened.

 

Moments later, a sound like shattering ice resounded around the Grey Fleet.

[Lady Rivienne]

Smoke slithered from pipes long forgotten and settled upon the wooden tabletops. Candle-light splashed shadows across the walls as their sinful dance toyed with the eyes. Music filled the incense filled ambient; the aroma of exotic oils gave this den a most sketchy feel, one she found herself rather enjoyment. Soft murmurs melted in the space she shared with various men and women of all shapes and sizes. Each one was here to see the entertainment of the evening, that of the most succulent flesh.

 

A variety of dancers would be on display, mostly Miqo'te, that were quite skilled at enticing those present. The harps and flutes played to announce the woman to charm the senses, one with bells adorning her lithe ankles, with sheers scarfs hanging off the swell of their rounded hips. Her pale skin was embellished in jewelry that chimed when she moved across the stage and swayed provocatively to draw the gaze to the curvature of her frame.

 

Among the shadows, where the flames of candles dared not to reach, Rivienne sat. She was in elegant garb meant for an evening of dinner and perhaps dancing. But, she found herself doing neither. Scarlet was taut against her frame, hugging her features down to her ankles, though a slit allowed a leg to be seen, halting her thigh. Gold spilled around her bare shoulders, brushing at her warm skin and framing her features. Gloved fingers held the stem of the wine glass, rotating it languidly as her gaze penetrated the dark and focused on the display of flesh on stage. The woman was graceful, gliding easily on the floor with ease. Her body bends like a leaf in the wind, beautifully arched so that one could see the muscles stretch.

 

Her predatory gaze softened when the dance came to an end with a bow while the young lady took a hold of her tail and wrapped it around her waist. The audience voiced how pleased they were, whispering the woman's name in excitement, asking for her again to make a re-appearance. Rivienne, noticed the reaction and knew well she had found her target for the evening. This dancer was not going to make a re-appearance for them this evening.

 

The wine glass was settled down the moment a server came into view. Rivienne's hand extended out and fell to his abdomen to halt him immediately. A light gasp escaped his lips as the startled man nearly dropped his serving tray. His eyes searched for the Elezen's face and, when she met his gaze, he smiled. She was gentle in expression; a warmth radiates from her own smile, which is reflected also in her eyes.

 

"I wish for an audience, with her, in private, may I arrange such?" Silken words spilled from crimson-glossed lips as lashes lowered to suggest particular interest. He looked around and to the stage before bending at the waist and whispering to her. Rivienne, who only carried what she needed, sought her coin purse at her lap and brushed her lips to the hyur's ear, causing him to feel the rush of heat meet his cheeks, which dimmed only by the sound of gil falling into his coat's pocket.

[cuideag]

They said little. He was always a quiet man, a softer man than what some believed. They saw the scars on his face and the way he carried himself, poised as ever like the wolf he carried in his heart. They saw a simple man given to unfortunate circumstances and barbaric nature.

 

(He fought back fiercely when they came, snarling like a beast, snarling words she had never heard him utter before, until he saw his darling girl standing there, watching him.

 

But it wasn’t him that had his skin torn apart, circles and circles wound round and round, filled with blood, filled with poison.)

 

She had little enough to say. She had spoken enough, and he obliged her in her discomfort. There was a twist in her spine that clawed well into her gut and she found no relief in words. Wolfsong camped as he had before beside a waterfall near the edge of the La Noscean grassland. It was not exactly quiet for the roar of water was constant, and it was peaceful despite Delial’s presence. The white noise, at least, provided some respite. Her thoughts drifted and wandered but they always returned to him.

 

Gharen worked with the single minded efficiency she expected from a man who had purportedly lived much of his life on his own. A stewpot was rigged over the campfire and she did not ask him where he had found the meats and vegetables that he sliced and cooked in it. In another pot he brewed a tea with a gentle aroma and warm, earthy flavor. She wondered, watching him, if he treated himself so well when he was alone.

 

She wondered why he treated her so well.

 

(A woman in white: white hair, white clothes, white mask. Black shapes and red stains. Chains and the stench of ruin.

 

It was you. Pale eyes bored into her as he spoke those words around a mouthful of blood. It was you.)

 

“Lass?”

 

She shut her eyes and opened them again and Gharen was gently nudging a bowl of steaming strew her way. There was a rise to his brow but she could not meet his gaze long enough to see if she could read concern. It was absurd. He had left her the last time they spoke, left her to deal with Crofte’s betrayal. Shaelen did the talking then: she spoke of Aylard and the way he was torn apart, of Hroch and the innocence that had been torn from his hand, of a woman undeserving of forgiveness. Worst of all, she spoke truths that Delial could not deny.

 

The bowl passed hands. He had his own which he, once satisfied that she would not drop it on her lap, set back and began to nurse. Grudgingly, she began to eat as well, staring deep into brief ripple of vacancy the stew would swallow after every spoonful. At least there, she mused, she could not mistake the glint of water for the shine of a blade.

 

(Spirals over his shoulders and down his chest. A deeper gash, too deep, into his side.

 

A quick jerk of his hand, a gurgle, a stream pouring from a white throat.

 

Gharen howled at nothing but it was a nothing only he could see.

 

You did this. You did this.)

 

The fire crackled and the water rushed and her eye returned to him. He said little of her admission. It was absurd, absolutely absurd, but he said little of it. Gharen was a kinder thing than what they had tried to make him. They called him mad but he stood his ground, strong and stubborn as any good son of Ala Mhigo.

 

It was easier to hate, Delial knew, and call it righteousness. Once, the very sight of him had filled her with the disdain of a lineage she knew to be poisoned with treachery. It was easier to hate, just as it was much easier when he hated her.

[Jancis]

Jancis waved farewell to the student group and to Ojune, walking back down to the Hustling Strip. Much as she wished to join the others for gathering and food, the time was perfect.

 

There had been enough sunny and warm days of the spring to bring about little budding blooms and tiny petals. The trees would only be flowered for a short while and the sky danced with the last of pink and white petals. She had to gather up enough for the book he wanted.

 

Beforehand as she promised by Thaliak’s stone, the oath was a difficult one. Corruption, poison, voidsent influences ran in her veins and in her mind. While she didn’t lie about the flowers being available, it became clear that the battle within nearly ruined her window of time to fulfill the sincere request. It left her weak and nearly shattered in her mind.

 

Leaving Ul'dah for the groves of the Twelveswood, her thoughts drifted to the lalafel. By chance she had answered Ojune’s request for help in an unburied ruin. He was curious yet careful, diligent yet easy to work with. The original concern of his limp in such a dangerous place and thoughts of how to pick him up should things turn for the worse faded from her mind as over and over he dealt with it well and showed no embarrassing pride to his handicap.

 

It was impactful to the healer who was use to many stoic forms who refused treatment and therapy. To elders that insisted their bodies could run themselves into the ground. He had accepted what had come to pass and those around him. That giving and receiving were a pair; pride coming from the amount of trust instead of from pushing people away. Which, of late, Jancis had all too strong of a push from many people she considered close.

 

The curious delightful man she re-met in Gridania, vibrant as the colors of the season under Nophica’s moon. Though most had eyes for Xenedra and Oscare up on the stage, Jancis checked through the crowd and kept her eye on the storyteller.

 

Walking through the trees, she climbed up to the brightest petals, as pressing them their color would fade into the softer tones Jancis desired. 

 

Ojune was quite creative and she tried to compensate for it. Pinks, whites, yellows were her color palette. Quietly in her ear he shared his plan; but would these blossoms match the colors he had in his mind for two little girls?

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[Jancis]

The amount of little tree blossoms was immense and there were still many bright petals to gather despite the steady fall of them from the branches. Deeper and deeper Jancis traveled into the Shroud, past where the Wailers would go to the colder northern reaches of the Black Shroud.

 

Where what little light peeked through and reflected into the ground was the elusive and lovely lily of the valley, the little bell-shaped white flowers dangling in strings.

 

She had told Leanne about her plans to go gather the flower previously, thanking the fancy hat lady for offering to pick up any her adventuring feet would come close to. As if by habit, Jancis had reminded the miqo'te that the plant itself was poisonous.

 

Cutting off the little blossoms she came across, the conjurer was not concerned if the the sappy toxin. It was one of the first she had been subject to over and over in her training. She recalled the nights sitting in great pain, her body trying to expel the toxin ingested and the slowed heartbeat. 

 

What had Master Ojune done? He certainly wasn't like this flower. He was strong and smart, not poisonous or noxious, even though he had a subtle beauty to him. The vivid green of his eyes and highlights in his braids came to mind briefly with a fond smile. The man was quite the opposite; he was invigorating and wholesome. What knowledge he had was shared as if Thaliak was speaking through the man. He wanted to write down stories. Spirits. For two little girls to help them have hope as well as cope with the hardships life was bound to give, but didn't have to.

 

Why Jancis had chosen these flowers to add to it, to carefully press the entire stem to highlight it on the cover of the book Master Ojune had asked for and detail the title, was for the return of happiness they symbolized. As the nightingale would return from the darkness and death of night to the warmth of day, this flower covered the welcoming archways.

 

Had he been upset when he was injured? Though he bore his limp with no malice or pity now, and the reason why it had happened wasn't important, but she couldn't help but wonder. More she thought about Master Ojune, the more she wanted to know about his life. The dark and light parts of it. She could not imagine not having feel the disappointment of dreams he mentioned to her before, to travel the land to places unseen and map them. To find the secrets folded into the earth of Eorzea and scale the heights of the world. But to what depth was the pain? She could not see the vision of his face in tears. To Jancis' best guess as she finished gathering the last stems, Master Ojune must have sat recovering in his bed and came to peace with the future. Even more so, gathering allies and kin would still be able to in varying degrees.

 

Picking up her supplies, she trudged out of the deep forest, the wilds loud in the morning dawn as hunts began. She had one more place to go to before returning to the Mist.

[Jancis]

In the dank edges by Tam Tara, Jancis made her final stop by the barrows that covered the land. Ancient dead, unknown souls and faces buried deep within the soil, person after person.

 

It was here that she found the subtle and soft colored lichen. The texture, the softness of it would add to the paper. The curves and angles of the edges she would try and preserve to give the cover more depth. For the title she was given for this commission, it seemed proper.

 

Her thoughts wandered to  Master Lelerano Sasarano, Ojune’s mentor, and what the lalafel had told her. How he walked off to his possible death and the world changed; as the world died in a way. She didn’t know a lot about loss herself; had Ojune known more than this mentor?

 

The thoughts of family rolled into her mind and she wished he had some. For the stories and clear thought he shared about Ul’dah, she would love his voice to speak of family. To help her understand more than what books gave her and what people took as a given.

 

A rumble happened, the grave mounds still dark and damp though the morning came. Jancis stood up slowly, buckling her satchel closed and fixing it to the middle of her back for balance. A large diremite was close, drawn by the fresh scent of broken sap and dew from her gathering. Keeping her calm, she walked by it, despite its warnings. She was smaller than the creature; her confidence making her appear bigger to more senses than just the eyes.

 

Size was only so important. Heading back to her quarters, she prepared the books and papers. Strings bound books together to press the flowers. Strings handed from her walls to let the other items dry. She smiled, if everything turned out well, hopefully Master Ojune would smile, too.

[Melodia]

Melodia stumbled into the doorframe of her small Free Company home. No one was there at this hour and she fumbled for her keys, eyes blurred and the poor lighting not helping at this hour.

 

"Gods damn it....f'ckin' keys..." She slurred the words, drunk and clearly inebriated. She finally managed to get the key into the lock and entered, the well lit main floor causing her to wince as she stumbled to the hall where her lone room resided, the main door kicked closed behind her. She let the keys fall to the floor and as she entered her bedroom/office she let out a grunt that was a combination of mockery and exhaustion. Stripping down to her basic hempen camise and underwear she slid the partition door to the back side of the room open, mumbling.

 

"Ha...ther'pist me arse...jus' a damn thief..an' ye know....it..." Melodia collapsed onto the bed, face first, passing out almost instantly, the last thing coming from her mouth a whispered,  "..'lone..."

 

The snore came next as she went into a deep alcohol induced sleep.

[Stormwind]

((A lead in before the Allagan Ruins event here))

 

[align=center]Worth the Cost

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The Thanalan sun sat high overhead, baking anything that would dare to sit under it for too long. The air rang with the sound of pickaxe against stone, shovels moving aside dirt and rock, men and woman toiling in the hot sun either grunting from their physical exertion or talking to try to forget their fatigue.

 

The flaps to a nearby tent pulled to the side and Alexander stepped out to survey the fruits of his labors. The months of searching, of wracking his brain over every small scrap of information he could find. Months of coordinating his information gathering attacks on the primals. Even the creation of the TIC-TAC, a functioning albeit temporary and experimental anti-tempering device, were all pieces of a grander plan that would hopefully start to come to completion here. The ruins would hopefully expose tech and information yet untouched since the fall of the Allag so long ago, and in doing so, validate his theories and work.

 

His calm was broken by the sound of the foreman stepping out behind him, parchment in hand with a list of the losses they had accrued the previous day.

 

"Three more workers, and another camp guard." Alexander sighed, looking up from the parchment out over the miners who were working hard to bring his dream to a reality, "It's so hard to find good help these days." he muttered, "Do these people think that their replacements are just growing on trees?" The ruins were, not surprisingly, trapped. He had to raise wages once already when the miners threatened to walk off after the first dozen of them had died, and then hire a group of mercenaries to deal with the traps.

 

"What happened to giving your life in the name of progress?" he sighed heavily. It reminded him of that boy from the Ifrit excursion. Unwitting though he was, the boy's tempering and subsequent death would go on to save more lives than he probably could have as a healer. He would have a statue by the time Alexander was done.

 

He signed the bottom then handed the parchment back to the foreman. The cost was worth it, the lives would be worth it. Everything that would come out of the ground here was going to be his and there were more than a few Academies and research institutions that would pay for what they were going to pull up here, never mind the governments of the Alliance themselves. This might finally get the Malestrom out of his business so he could have his pirate captain back.

 

 Pulling out his chronometer he checked the time now, thinking about how long ago he had sent Rhianna to bring the others here. He expected Dogberry would have pulled from his extensive list of contacts to bring in competent individuals to survive what laid ahead; the Captain had not failed him before and Alexander did not expect he would now. He stuffed the timepiece back into its place and looked out over the dust and rock. It was here that everything would come together. It was here that the Little Ala Mhigo Project would find its lynch-pin.

[Jancis]

Jancis laid back and stared at the ceiling in the barracks on the Flame cot. She was in the eye of the storm, a calm amidst the whirl of emotions and feelings that had been invoked in less than a bell.

 

She would have offered to follow in his haste to the call he had, whatever it had been about, if there wasn't the nagging tug that she had already taken so much hospitality. The wound on her leg throbbed which made her more of a liability; the bandage was clean but holding her balance in the moment had aggravated it.

 

The stab of guilt was also in her mind; she did not know of the war beyond what people would talk about and tell her. Some annoyed at her inquiries; some prattling on throughout the night and morning. She didn't know anyone lost; in a strange twist that era ending event had ensured her freedom. Who could blame Zachary for feeling alone and bitter.

 

Master Behemoth missed that important fact in his wise words. He said his ward hadn't loved with the storybook display. But Jancis' mind wandered to the point that it wasn't possible. Not here or now. Maybe not ever. It wasn't overly selfish and to be able to smile one night did not seem that foolish anymore.

 

The memory of the Starlight Ball drifted back. Ease of dancing and following his lead was comforting, talking about singing and how she could be helpful. A night she felt so lost there was an anchor of a honest man with at least direction. She had been clueless to how much then.

 

The pain in his voice, the shine in his hazel eyes she barely caught glimpse of as he slapped himself to keep from crying. She didn't even mind offering herself; maybe because she knew he'd refuse to treat her as she had been raised to be as a tool. There was an ache within as the beauty of his family shown as much from his manner as his explanation and in a strange twist of her empathy he ended up holding her in comfort...

 

Jancis sat up straight from her thoughts, not knowing how much time had past. Her hand went straight to her face, covering a blush she felt warm on her palm. Menphina's Innocence, that was a foolish thought. She got out of the cot, too imbued with that comforting musk and walked barefoot on the cold tile to make herself more aware.

 

He had a family, he was going to fight and do whatever it took to keep it and bring it back home. This chapter of his life would close and a better one would open. And be far better than anything here. She was going to do everything to make that happen and wave farewell in great fanfare.

 

Looking about the hallway, she stayed in the barracks and went back to the window to look out at the moon. Sitting down she trained instead, bidding herself deep into meditation. The scars of voidsent possession remained and she focused on them. The Nether and all of its horrors of the void she had fought before she practiced with again all behind a peaceful trance.

 

There would be flowers at the farewell. And corn. To send him off back home. Zachary. Sir Evans. To send Sir Evans back home.

[Steel Wolf]

It was humid. The sort of humidity that one could practically taste in their mouth. The birds of the endless canopy of the Shroud chirped their delight at the just-finished rain and the sunlight, but all Steel could think about was the damnable humidity, and how it caused her sweat to soak the undershirt and leggings she wore beneath plate and chain.

 

She had completed her most recent leve--a solo strike against the poachers of the forest. As proof of the deed, she hoisted along her back three spears and three bows. The fight had been predictable, but coin was coin, and so the Roegadyn would ignore boredom for filling up her gil pouch.

 

Her golden chocobo, Guldblyss, seemed to languish and wither under the misty heat as well, as her pace had slowed down. There was little point to hurrying--the walls of a nearby settlement began to peer through the trees, and soon Steel could return to someplace where at least there was a slight breeze blowing. Her time in the Shroud made her miss the constant wind that covered Limsa Lominsa. It was murder to her hair, but then, sweat and humidity were worse.

 

Her thoughts were snapped in half by the angry buzzing sound of an arrow's flight. A dull thump and a pained wark signaled the end of reverie, as Guldblyss reared up, throwing Steel onto her back as the mount fell onto its side.

 

Steel groaned as she picked herself up, scurrying across the loamy earth as another two shafts thumped into the ground nearby. Her axe was hitched on her baldric, but so too were the additional weapons. She cried out as she managed to scramble to a tree, looking around the edge of its trunk helplessly as she watched her prized bird squirm, yellow feathers staining red with the blood from its throat.

 

Steel began to untie the bundle from around her chest, messily setting the wooden weapons clattering onto the ground. The signal of where she was did not go unnoticed, as another shaft zipped by past her hiding place. Steel shimmied herself up the tree trunk, her shoulders walking her up the bark's surface into a standing position. A few angry calls echoed through the trees as the poachers began to close in. The sound of steel freeing from a scabbard. Another arrow, this time thumping into the tree.

 

Steel rushed out from behind the tree, dashing forward to find her next hiding spot, as well as to perhaps sight her quarry. The run provided bare information--three, probably. One with a lance, the others obviously with sword and bow respectively. She dodged as the shooter let fly another arrow, diving behind another heavy tree. She heard the heavy footsteps of one closing the distance, holding her breath as the attacker closed.

 

When the poacher rounded the tree, his sword blade led, chopping into the bark as Steel timed her duck. In the same motion, her gauntleted fist thudded into the man's chest, sending all of his breath out of him with a loud whoomf. The blade had caught in the tree, and Steel was able to free it first, then in the same motion gashed across the man's chest. He screamed out in agony as he fell backwards. Steel tossed the pitiful blade aside and freed her axe from its baldric.

 

"Alrick!" ,cried one of the poachers--female. Steel allowed herself a grim smirk. This one had a name. The woman would avenge. Be sloppy. Soon enough, the Miqo'te poacher roared out, leaping forward with her lance thrusting in a furious attack. Steel brought up her axe, the haft parrying the thrust away easily. Her body moved onward as the weight of the axe blade brought her to shift to her right. She spun to with the momentum, bringing her weapon to bear in a sideways strike. The axe blade thumped wetly into the Miqo'te's back, caushing her pained roar to change to a grunt as her lithe body folded backwards onto the weapon. Steel halted the weapon with a lock of her elbow, and the body fell off her axe, crumpling onto the forest floor. Just at that moment, another arrow whizzed by, pinging loudly off of the large pauldron that sat just in front of Steel's head.

 

Steel saw where the shaft came from.

 

She roared out like a feral beast, metallic footsteps thudding like a charging boar. The bowman, to his credit, stood firm as he calmly reached to his quiver to nock another bow to his string. He would not move fast enough, however, as Steel crashed into him with her shoulder, sending the two sprawling to the ground. The Elezen bowman thumped beneath Steel, looking up in time to see the Roegadyn drop her axe downwards to burst the man's head into an explosive, red pulp.

 

Steel panted as she ran back to her mount, her axe dropping nearby as she slid on her knees on the loamy earth towards her friend. The pool of blood was immense. Steel ripped the shaft from Guldblyss' neck and tried desperately to cover the wound with her hands, not noticing that the ferocity of the bloodflow had all but halted. Panicked, she looked over the chocobo, her panting heightening as realization took hold. The bird's eyes were misted over, its beak hanging open limply.

 

Steel reared back, shrilly crying out her mourning rage to the canopy above, setting several birds to flight in terror.