Bulletin Board

[Leanne]

Her boots dragged themselves against the currents of a river while a soft sigh managed to slip between her lips. Her ears gently flutter as the ceaseless sound of the crickets and stream drowned any other noise. She was in the Shroud, midnight, time when predators went after their prey and where prey scurries about, either in search of a hideout or in a nocturnal meal hunt of their own.

 

Yet, none of that concerned or mattered to her. An adventurer she was, able to defend herself from anything that lurked in the shadows cast by the woods. Feet staunchly pressing forward against the opposition of the tide, Leanne was left to think. As the impending sun of her departure drew nearer, more thoughts invaded the young seeker's mind. Thoughts of her friends, people she loved so dearly, people that one sun, she will be forced to say goodbye...thoughts of Markus, her confidant and right hand man, a kind and hard-working individual with one too many problems finding his doorsteps. Her family, that was always within her reach, wouldn't be anymore. 

 

Chachanji.

 

Oh so much she tortured herself over the thought, the bad timing of him being left by his girlfriend a little before her own travel. She didn't want to have he who was akin to a young brother become even more crestfallen. Yet inevitably, sometime she will have to say those dreaded words, the words that she spoke already to many she trusted: "I'm going away."

 

She repeats unconsciously, ears lowering as sadness and longing settled into her heart. Stopping in her steps, she looks to the clear skies, a thousand stars forming more than a thousand jewels to the beautiful moon that was set. More anguishing than all that is the recently forged craving that was instilled within her. To find someone she could correlate with...a person that she could give her love to, not the platonic love she ready and willing to give to one and all...something beyond. She bites her lower lip, forcing herself back on track. So selfish was she, wanting to find someone analogous to a lover a moon away from her departure to northern lands. She knew best, to try would not only bring pain to herself, but also to the person she'd find...if she were ever to find. Her heart was picky, forever a foil to desires of the romantic kind, dashing away not the hopes of past and current love prospects but now also thwarting her own wishes...

 

...And once more there was her future travel, looming close, dangling from every reflection. She stops again, bringing a hand to her heart. So selfish she was, to crave for something herself made it hard to find...not that it stopped her though.

 

Of wanting to have and give love...

[Jancis]

In the city-state of Limsa and across the Vylbrand island, colorful banners and flags are put up to catch the wind, taking advantage of the breeze coming through as the summer winds kicked up.

 

Market shops were stocked with bright and feathered jewelry, charms and earrings made to look like fishing lures. Whistles made to look like fish and other novelty in theme are made to celebrate the moon of the Navigator.

 

Out of Ul'dah, ferrymen were happy for the business, though while the rate for travelling across the way was less in goodwill to the pilgrims heading to Llymlaen's stone, the amount of people crossing made up quite a profit nonetheless. Some pilgrims shared boats with family and kin, making their own way across.

 

From the Shroud, small shrines are left by those who cannot make the trip themselves. Old fishing poles, paintings of waves, and driftwood is left together with incense of sandalwood. Still, those of adventurous nature and the urge to see the bustle of Limsa pack up and make the trip south.

 

In a few suns the bells will toll, the pilgrimage complete and the Celebration of the Navigator to start.

 

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[Kage]

Kage hummed, the tone happier than usual. He had just received the shield from Miss Jara and it was perfect! It was better than what it probably was when it was new. Definitely worth the gil and he was glad to have had it re-worked by Miss Jara. Worth every gil and the pains it took to get it out of the Morbols’ wretched grasp.

 

The lalafell laid atop of the shield, a white woolen beret adorned with a feather. He wrapped the contents with a nice linen suitable to keep weapons and equipment in working condition. He included a small jar of ointment with healing properties, suitable for helping wounds close smoothly and faster for less scarring and chances of infection. He also included a small flower, dried and pressed, from the garden at Ilwe’s house.

 

On top of that he pressed a sealed envelope containing a letter. He tied around the letter and the wrapped packages, neatly for the delivery postmoogle to easily move.

 

I apologize if this finds you ill-timed or if you do not welcome a missive from myself.

 

I have thought many a time, what could I say? What to do? In my inability to grieve, I did horrible things and thought that the best thing to do was to stop tainting your life with my presence. I’ve met someone recently, a new good friend. He’s helped me move on a bit, past well…her death. Moving on with life. I hope that you are still my dear friend and should you need anything I am but a call away.

 

I sought Miss Jara the other day, hoping to have her look at this shield I have sent you. I found it in a cave while helping out on a leve in a cave near Coerthas. I remember your old shield, and how you taught me how to use shields more effectively… something I am more suited for. I hope that this new kite shield allows you to continue to mentor others and serve you well. You are a true Paladin, Roen. You were always the one I saw more deserving of the Sworn title, even if Ul’dah does not deserve you. You blessed me with your friendship, and it is something I will cherish for the rest of my life.

 

From me as well as Miss Jara, I give you this gift. I hope it serves you well.

 

By the by, Miss Jara mentioned not seeing you recently and missing you… are you doing well?

 

Kage

 

 

[Jancis]

It didn't matter that she was wounded and injuries were recovering. Her bags were light, just awkward, and she had to get to somewhere that day!

 

Jancis had two large bags, one on her back and one under her arm, including a satchel against her hip. Idle people at the airship dock watched her as she waited for the lift, insisting on others go ahead of her since she would take the entire box up. At least, until one of the guards gave her a hard time to get in and just go.

 

She waddled across the gleaming streets of Ul'dah, the shuffling swishing sounds making her a spectacle. Regardless, Jancis waved and bid everyone good sun. Laughing, one person got the door for her at the Quicksand, which rewarded him with a slew of 'thank you's.

 

At the receiving desk for the Hourglass, she stopped and asked to be let into Lady Crofte's Room. The conjurer's face wasn't as recognizable as it use to be, so after nearly a quarter bell of explaining her intent and how she knew the Sworn, someone finally relented and escorted her over.

 

The paladin would be working. Somewhere back in the unseen halls that mazed through the Jewel or even just buried under paperwork in her desk. It didn't matter where; she was going to be gone for hours. Just enough time.

 

Pulling the satchel from her side, she pulled out the biggest bundle of thread. It was thin like fishing line, but rough to catch on what it was sewn through. Threading a large curving needle and preparing her knife, she got to work.

 

Something special for Cici...

[Berrod Armstrong]

((Written while listening to

for inspiration! Have a listen while reading, if you like!))

 

 

[align=justify]The power of the fifth rushed through him. Fromhis throat it spread, down to his chest, arms, belly, legs and feet. The power was -- different. It wasn't the raw rush of aether meant to be fired through his fists in any direction he pleased. It was a careful circulation to be honed and properly distributed in the right spots, at the right time. Punching, kicking and other actions of excessive blunt force would yield nothing.

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[align=justify]Berrod Armstrong stood next to the crackling fire near the Sil'Dih ruins in Central Thanalan, surrounded by the blackness of an inky desert night. His hair was loose, and fell wildly down his back -- voided from his shoulders due to the shaved sides. All that covered him was a pair of snug, dark shorts -- likely stolen from one of the twins. The firelight splashed him with flickers of orange that highlighted well against the sweat-damped bronze. A slow pulsing swept from under his feet, slightly disturbing the sand beneath him. His eyes were closed, and his face was scarlet for reasons he did not wish to bring to mind. Priority laid upon utilizing the power of the fifth for aught other than the Voice.

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[align=justify]It was Ginny who had given him the idea, and very recently, at one of their occasional nights out. The answer of how to control a circulating flow had been in front of his face the entire time, in the form of that woman.

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[align=justify]Dancing.

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[align=justify]Among many things that the Highlander wished for nigh no one to find out was his talent with dancing. The act of dancing itself bore no shame, but rather the sort of dance he excelled at. It was quite responsible for the flush at his cheeks -- but it was not the time to be embarrassed. He was alone, after all.

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[align=justify]He put one foot forward and let his toes onto the sand. Immediately he felt the energy rush to them -- but the circulating nature of it would only cause him pain if he tried to discharge it; he knew this from experience. He needed to make it flow back up his leg, and provided the motion for it to do so. The rock of his hips was slight, controlled, and almost seductive. It set a tightening in his large thighs and shifted his balance to the other foot. It worked well enough; he felt the rush up his leg and under his groin. Yet, it could not remain there. His waist rotated with the aid of corded obliques, and sent the flow down his other leg.

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[align=justify]The throat recognized the flow and opted t provide more. It was both a blessing and a curse; more power was always good, but the control he required to direct it attained a steeper requirement. A pulse of aether shot down from his neck -- he had to act fast. A repeat of the roll of his hips sent the flow from his leg up to meet it at his waist, and a lascivious rotation of his waist mixed the two. It was rough at first, but with a few more slow, steady rotations combined them into a new, smooth, and powerful flow. The action in itself stirred thoughts that awakened the sacral, which leaked its own power that threatened to destabilize his efforts. The prospect of all that energy discharging in his waist was not at all appealing. From just below his navel the sacral aether poured, already muddying what he had worked to refine.

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[align=justify]Yet, it was all of him. It was all compatible; a solution, not a suspension. All of it could be mixed. Berrod took control and raised his arms above his head. With careful control of his abdomen he performed several bucking, rolling undulations, slow and focused. His feet kept him well balanced, and his thighs served as excellent suspension for the manouevre. Sure enough, it all blended, molding into something potent. Sweat rivered down his frame, gleaming in the firelight as streaks upon his skin. Through every motion, tautening and stretching of his muscles it glimmered, rendering him as a fluid dancer drenched in liquid, glowing heat.

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[align=justify]The energy migrated very quickly up to his arms-- it was an odd sensation; he felt as if a giant was about to tug him from the ground between a pinched finger and thumb. While it was safe to discharge the aether above him, it would be useless to do so. He wanted to use it, not waste it. Berrod found that motions of his arms could not make it flow downward -- it was focused on leaving his palms. Creativity was definitely required. His solution was to arc his arms downwards and plant his palms on his thighs. From there he slid them up his hips, his waist, then to his stomach. When the aether left his palms it simply deposited into his own body, nigh smeared throughout his form, well distributed thanks to the path he made along himself, marked with a disturbance of the sweat that now poured from him. The palms slid up his chest and up to his throat -- and the circle completed.

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[align=justify]He did not feel the outward blast of power -- he only saw the flame slowly disturbed, moving like a lazily flowing curtain of bright orange. The waves in the sand crept, and the little pebbles he had sent flying drifted. like leaves in the wind. Water in the stream nearby slopped like thick syrup. It stoked his curiosity, and he took a step toward it.

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[align=justify]When his foot set down on the dirt, a moment of disorientation took him. Something -- was off. The stream was nowhere to be seen and the gorge's walls were quite too close. It was dark, too -- had the fire gone out?

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[align=justify]No...there were still orange flickers about, and he felt the distant heat on his back. Slowly, he turned around. The stream was behind him, and the fire crackled on the other side of it. The distance was about ten yalms. The energy in him pulsed gently as well, nearly spent for the moment -- he would have to call upon more if he needed. This was the power of the fifth –outside of the Voice. The throat produced wind and sound...and now he had just moved with the grace and speed of both. Two people instantly came to mind -- both already annoyingly too fast for him in their own right; Galliford and Melkire. What would they be capable of with this power? It was frightening to think about.

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Yet, he was full eager to pass it onto them when the time came.

 

 

 

Even if it meant…dancing.

[Dogberry]

She had read about the art in books. Seen it on the arms, chests, and backs of sailors and other unsavory sorts in Limsa Lominsa. She had heard that Domans were particularly adept at the art, and searched Mor Dhona for someone who could teach her. Some were forthcoming, for a price. She gave them gil, food, and medicine. They taught her to make the implements she needed. The ink and the needles. She was even able to borrow an heirloom ink stone. They let her sit in and watch the art performed. They even let her try on animal hides. She had the basics down.

 

It came from an idle thought, but soon became an obsession. It was the only way to free herself from the mask. It was the only way she could reclaim the face that was taken from her.

 

Iskierka drew the design in face paint first, and looking in the mirror, she brought the tebori needle to her face. It had already been dipped in black ink. She pressed the needle to her skin and rocked it forward and back in a steady rhythm. She felt the pain immediately, but continued on. The pain was part of the point. Transformation should never be comfortable. After so much had been done, she wiped the blood away with a rag.

 

They had advised her not to do it herself. The idea of lying idly while the process took place made her uncomfortable. It was too much like the act that led her here in the first place. No, she had to do it. Another had taken her face, but she would make a new one for herself. She would finally get to decide how the world saw her. It took her an entire day to do this. She worked tirelessly, breaking only for her bodily needs, and even then she ignored them for as long as possible.

 

Finally, she was done. She washed her face in a basin kept beside her, and looked at herself in the mirror. The lines were clearly drawn, maybe a few touch ups needed here and there. Her skin was red and stinging in pain as the network of pinpricks bled and scabbed over. For all its bloody crudeness, her face was hers again. She smiled through the pain.

 

Her Doman hosts were most gracious. They fed her and tended to her wounds from the tattoo process. Her rent for the week was more gil than they had seen since coming to Eorzea. It was odd to Iskierka, who had never been rich by any means, to suddenly be the richest person in the room. She knew the life of a refugee well, but being there made her feel like an interloper.

 

When her week was done she took the chocobo porter to Camp Dragonhead, and as the chocobo ran, she felt the cold, bitter wind against her new face for the very first time.

[Leggerless]

She made her way to the Bismarck, checked in with one of the waiters to confirm her reservation, and was promptly escorted to a table topped with elegant linen seated next to a seaside view. Lynx made a small smile as she looked at the tableware prepared ever so neatly. A young, Miqo'te waitress soon made her way to the table, giving a bow and handing out a menu to the woman in red at the table.

 

"Miss Wolfe, 'tis a pleasure to serve you here again. We've just received a shipment of fine wines from Wineport; shall I get you a glass?"

 

Lynx turned her head towards the waitress, looking briefing into the Miqo'te's eyes and offering a faint smile. "One of the finer reds. I trust your judgment on which one shall suit my tastes."

 

The waitress gave a small nod and a cheery expression as Lynx offered her answer. "Of course!" She left Lynx alone for a moment, tending to a second and third table before retreating inside. Within a few minutes, she appeared with a small bottle and a wine glass. She set the wine glass down, uncorked the bottle, and grabbed the glass to tilt it at an angle to seamlessly pour the dark liquid in. She set the glass back down in front of Lynx, with the bottle and cork at the side. The waitress beamed at Lynx once more.

 

"Cabernet Sauvignon; a fine red like you requested. Shall we move onto the meal, Miss Wolfe?" ((Have no idea if IRL wine types also apply in Eorzea))

 

"Ah. The meal." Lynx glanced at the island on her right from her table before answering. "Chef Lyngsath is not busy now, is he?"

 

The Miqo'te hestitated a moment before responding. "He is currently servicing one other patron's meal, but should be ready for the next within half a bell."

 

Lynx let out a small chuckle as she took hold of her wine glass. "Sauteed coeurl with a black truffle risotto please."

 

The waitress gave a bow before turning her attention towards the other guests at the Bismarck. Lynx held up the wine glass in her hand, lightly swirling the contents inside before taking a generous sip.

 

Such a beautiful red. I expect the coeurl and risotto to pair nicely with it. 

 

Lynx turned her body slightly towards the right to take in more of the seaside view the Bismarck provided. She continued to gingerly sip and think to herself.

 

When I first discovered you, my dear Red, I developed quite the interest. I examined your precious values. From these values, however, I found you to be... passionate, yet far too trusting. You are an asset whose loyalty I did not have to buy. First... I think I shall refine your taste. Improve your versatility. What comes next is yet to be decided.

 

Lynx turned her head as the waitress came back with the requested dishes. The combined smells of both the risotto and coeurl permeated her as she took a small sniff of the plates. There is a certain type of elegance found only in fine cooking, and Lynx is willing to pay well for such a treat.

 

"Miss Wolfe, here is the sauteed coeurl and black truffle risotto you requested. I trust it is to your liking?"

 

Lynx picked up a fork and knife, cutting into the coeurl meat to check the inside. It was cooked well, it seemed, much to her delight. "Very much so." She says, giving a nod towards the waitress. She pulls out a large amount of gil from her satchel, setting it on the table for the waitress to take.

 

"Excellent! Please let me know if you need anything else." The waitress said gleefully, before giving a small bow and taking the gil for the meal. She retreated back into the building for a moment, but was soon back out and servicing the other guests. Lynx cut up the meal into small parts, taking in the meal bite after savory bite. She alternated every few bites with a sip of her wine, careful not to break from the routine she established. Slowly but surely, the meal and the wine bottle whittled down to where only a tinge of wine remained within the bottle and the glass. At the conclusion of her meal, she carefully set the tableware into piles for the waitress to carry away, so that she may waste less time at her table. She lingered a little longer in her chair to take in the view once more before setting off from the Bismarck. A few steps outside from the Bismarck, she put her hand up to her ear to speak into a pearl.

 

"The packages have made their way into the Moraby Drydocks? Sooner than I expected. Take them through Oschon's Embrace; you should have no trouble getting past the Yellowjackets there." She pauses to listen to the other side speak. "It isn't illegal what you're carrying around; it's just valuable. Upon successful delivery, you'll earn three months wage as a bonus."

 

With a click of her pearl, she turned off her end and made her way towards the ferry in the city.

 

I think I shall do as I please now.

[Star Lin]

As soon as he walk into the Quicksand to get dinner, Momodi caught his attention.  When she mention that Chachan might need help, he didn't wait for the details, only asking where the group might be at that moment.  When she mention that they were probably at Toll, he didn't wait for the rest, catching aether in the air, and allowing himself to be pull along to the aetherite at Toll.  There he waited on the path into town until he saw Sir Cyneler leading the group from Castrum.  For one brief moment, seeing the green hair Lalafell being carried, he thought Chachan hand been hurt, but then he saw the rabbit ear helmet and he almost drop to his knees in relief.

 

Yet, sitting at the strange table, soup going cold, John's mind play back what took place in Jancis room.  Lady Ann, finally falling to sleep and then dealing with the injuries that Chachan had.  Cha had his brother back but not completely.  The stones that had been on Gogon, now dead, drain of whatever had made them Soulstones.  He stir the soup once more, barely listening to the others talking.  The memories had to have went somewhere.  Could they now be resting in Gogon's own head?  It would explain why he seem to be in a coma, lost in those memories.  Could his curse be used to help, even just a little?  Risk losing Cha's friendship for tainting his brother.

 

Jancis question startle him out of his thoughts.  He told her that he wanted to check on Lady Ann, make sure she was comfortable.  He mutter an apology to Cha, slipping out the door and missing the look of confusion on Chachan's face.  He enter Jancis' room, moving first to Ann.  She was sound asleep, which was good.  One less person that may hate him once this was over with.  He blush as he remember what she had said earlier.  'Girlfriends?  They would run away screaming, if they knew about this curse.'  He shook the thought from his head, he knew what his life would be like.  He moved over to the bed where Gogon 'slept'.

 

He look so much like Cha.  His ears drops a little, knowing that after this, he wouldn't be allow to call Sir Chachanji by that name.  Taking a breath, he reach down, removing his glove for only the second time in eleven years.  Even as he sat the glove at the head of the bed, he felt Howl's absents more keenly than ever before.  'I wish you were here now, Howl.  Or even Warren, to keep watch on me and break contact if I stay in the 'Dreaming' for too long,' he thought.  There was no time to call Warren though.  He had to do this now before the others in Sir Chachanji's room began to worry.

 

'I know that you and your brother will hate me after this, Sir Gogonji,' he thinks, even as he reach a trembling hand out to the Lalafell's face.  'But if this means that he gets his brother back, then I'll happily accept it, knowing that he at least will have you back completely with him.'  His hand came to rest on Gogon's eyes, John's own glazing over, and his body slumping, even as 'he' fell into the chaos of Gogon's mind.

[Ha'uruh Nunh]

A tool is an item built to serve a specific purpose or function.

 

Annunu only rarely left the medbay in what Chachanji had called "Coralhaus" - she supposed "Coral" or Coral-something was the name of his company, but such details had been filed away as momentarily irrelevant when she'd first arrived in this place - since Gogonji had been brought in and laid on the bed.  She left briefly once to bathe and change, since her clothes were hanging off of her in tatters; she returned within a bell, haunting Gogonji's bedside, saying little in the presence of others, making herself quietly useful by cleaning sheets and utensils, turning him as necessary, checking vitals, and generally functioning as a healer's extra pair of hands.  She only had to be told to do something once; she only made mistakes once; she was quiet, polite, and effective, but rarely moved more than a yalm or so away from the prone Gogonji.

 

 

You are just a tool, he'd told her, and don't you forget it.

 

She napped fitfully on the bench by the bed when she had to have sleep, but in general she did not sleep.  Bells spent alone with the patient, she brewed tea constantly, in anticipation of a waking that did not happen.  She knew the strength Gogonji liked it; it would be hot and fresh for him when he awoke, whenever that happened.  That which was left to cool, she drank herself.  She subsided on little else, for she only ate that which was brought to her and never requested else or additional.  She watched Gogonji.

 

"I understand."

 

When no one else was in the room, she spoke to him.  Perhaps it was because she thought that the sound of her voice would help him somehow, or perhaps it was for herself.  She told him every story she'd ever heard from Chuta, even the ones she knew would elicit rolled eyes and a "hmpf!" were he awake.  She told him about herself, her past, her training, her skills, her likes and dislikes.  She described to him the room, Chachanji, and everyone she had met in the Coralhaus in minute detail, with the exacting eye of one trained to observe subtleties.  She even read to him from the medical dictionary shoved in the back of the room, though she stopped after a while as if she couldn't continue.  She shared what little she knew of his history, what he'd shared and what others had let slip, reminding him constantly of who he was, where he was, and the fateful events that had brought him here.  She rarely touched him, but often smoothed his blankets, wiped his forehead, touched a damp cloth to his lips to keep them from drying.  When her voice gave out, she drank tea.

 

 

She would not, could not forget it.

[Gharen]

The sun’s light had begun to fade as the day passed into dusk, a cool breeze accompanying the growing shade of the forest canopy as the first stars started appearing in the sky. Gharen Wolfsong wearily looked skyward and gauged his heading, hefting his satchel slightly on his shoulder and adjusting the sword that hung at his side. He had been following game trails in the lesser-known areas of the shroud for the last day and a half, looking for signs of the huntress Khit Jakkya. Despite his dogged persistence, he hadn’t held much hope of actually finding his quarry, much less her clan.

 

He’d taken a roundabout path to Gridania, specifically for the calming effect the forest usually had upon his mind. Normally in this place where one could seemingly become lost forever, swallowed whole by the forest itself, he felt most at home—at  peace.

 

He turned from the game trail and began walking west, his tired mind wandering to thoughts of his sister, their fight, and his failures to impede Nero and the destruction left in his wake. They had taken their toll upon him. Sleep had become an elusive thing, and when he was able to, it was plagued with nightmares, the false memories given to him by Raelisanne Banurein seemed stronger as a result of his sleeplessness, replaying in his mind and further stripping him of his ability to rest, not unlike what she had inflicted upon him a cycle ago now.

 

Since returning to the shroud, he could not shake the feeling that he was being followed, yet despite all of his efforts, he had seen no signs to verify his suspicions. He approached the river that acted as a natural barrier to separate the Sylphlands from the rest of the Shroud, the roar of the river rapids below nearly drowning out the creaking of the bridge’s assembly. Each step seemed to add a weight upon him. When he was at the bridge’s mid-point, he stopped, gripping one of the ropes that assisted in suspending the bridge as he looked at the segmented footing beneath him, tiredly rubbing at weighty eyelids.

 

That feeling of encumbrance spread to the rest of him, and he was overcome by a sudden feeling of disembodiment. Looking up toward his destination, he spied a faceless figure in the shade standing at the end of the bridge. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and, out of a fugitive’s habit, he looked over his shoulder at the other end of the bridge, where another shadowed figure now blocked his retreat. Knowing instantly his peril, an equally knowing but leaden hand drew his sword, turning his attention back to the first-spotted figure.

 

Sheer surprise and martial force struck him in tandem, the first figure having bridged the several yalm gap in mere seconds; it grabbed his sword arm in a vise grip and leaned in, easily beginning to twist Gharen’s arm and blade toward himself. Unable to move his feet, Gharen struggled vainly, attempting to deprive his blade of the taste of his own flesh. The shadow proved too much, however, and the blade began to pierce his flesh. Gritting his teeth and stalling his breath, he became aware of the heady scent of iron as his tunic became matted with spreading crimson, droplets of the same splattering upon the bridge’s uneven planks.

 

Waves of pain spread through him, his muscles convulsing, brow gleaming with sweat as he strained to counter this sudden assault. It was not until he felt the blade emerge from his back that his held breath broke with a gasp, gravity immediately claiming victory as he collapsed to his knees. The assailant’s grip withdrew in that moment, its head cocking aside as it simply watched him, no doubt satisfied with the outcome. Gharen wavered upon the bridge for what felt like an eternity as his lifeblood spilled upon the bridge. He looked up past the mass of shadows into the evening sky, trying to utter final words, as if the wind might carry his apology to her, but no words came forth. Instead, he slumped to the side, and gravity completed what it had started, carrying him hastily, headfirst into the rapids below.

[Cliodhna Eoghan]

Cliodhna curled on her side, pulling the bedding into a tighter cocoon around her. Her hair loose and spilling partly over her face, as she pulled the blanket over her head. She had blacked out again, that's twice in one week. Nuzzling the pillow, she sighed into it gently.

 

Kurt had found her this time and had thankfully put up less of a fuss than the others had. Though having it happen so soon after the last fainting spell worried Cliodhna. He had promised to work on her unfinished projects but if it was getting this bad...Squeezing her eyes shut, she blocked out the rest of that thought.

 

It was terrifying to imagine her being unable to handle her precious machines or use her abilities. Even if it was a farfetched fear, Cliodhna was afraid of it. Already she couldn't remember what it felt like to use her chakra without some varying degree of pain. Same for when she needed to hide her appearance.

 

There was also the matter of Erik knowing. He sensed something was off and had been for awhile now. Though she had requested he let the matter drop and that it was under control; Erik was finally running out of patience with her. Had they not been (thankfully) interrupted the other evening, he would have pressed her about it.

 

Heaving another soft sigh, Cliodhna brushed the hair from her face. She was suppose to be napping, but was too concerned on Kurt's progress in the hanger. That new suit needed to be finished quickly and though she had faith in hi abilities, he would be unable to read her notes given the simple fact they weren't in the common script. Rolling out of bed, she threw her clothes back on and headed towards the hanger; pulling her hair up as she went.

[Steel Wolf]

It was a test of endurance and stamina that she had never known before.

 

Steel gritted her teeth, a bead of sweat running down her brow as her face wrinkled in a combination of pain and determination. She had been challenged, so of course had to accept. However, she was ill-prepared for the feat that was placed before her, and now she was both regretting the decision and hell-bent not to falter.

 

It was the heat that was the worst part. Anything referred to as "Ifrit's Kiss" would involve fire of some measure, but it was beyond anything that Steel had ever experienced before. And all she could see through tear-stained eyes was the Miqo'te standing before her, arms folded across his narrow but toned and taut chest, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

 

And those eyes...they never seemed to move. As if they were issuing the will to fail.

 

Steel slammed her fist onto the table and picked up another small wing. The food item was innocuous enough, save for the bright red color that coated the flesh. Several cleaned bones lay spread about the bowl before her. It was the last one....just three, maybe four more bites, and victory would be hers, and the Miqo'te who called himself Snarl would be defeated.

 

Steel wrenched her eyes shut as she took several hurried bites, pulling the chicken meat from the bones. Again, her senses were assailed by a torrent of firey spices. It tasted the same every time--initially delightful, perfectly seasoned and cooked...but then the wing would bite back, throwing torrents of comet-level heat into her mouth and down her throat.

 

She doubled over and coughed, her fist banging the table another few times as if the food would relent with her tapping out. It didn't. Each wing had compounded the agony, but victory was so close. So tantalizingly close....

 

She looked up at the small bone between her fingers pleadingly, looking at the final bite of poultry meat hanging off of a tendon. A rivulet of the red sauce ran down the meat, dripping into the bowl. She growled and took the last bite, chewing and swallowing as fast as her muscles would allow.

 

"You've still got sauce on your fingers."

 

Steel glared angrily at the tanned, shirtless Miqo'te, then at her fingers. The sauce, indeed, coated her left hand tauntingly. She fiercely jammed each finger into her mouth, whimpering around the firey lightning that coated her tongue as she sucked each digit clean.

 

Snarl grinned broadly, his tail swishing in delight at the victor. He reached to his hip and placed a sizeable bag of gil. Two lithe female Miqo'te, wearing things that barely qualified for clothing, framed the Roegadyn, one presenting a tall glass of milk. The crowd before her erupted in raucous cheering as the other female raised Steel's hand into the air victoriously.

 

She was too busy chugging the milk to acknowledge, but success--and the drink--tasted sweet.

[111]

You're a big girl Evangeline, you can do this.

 

The Elezen bites her lip as she looks down, a sick feeling rising unbidden from her stomach as she does so.

 

You asked for this, remember? This is what you wanted.

 

It had finally hit her. All at once, as she looked down at the embroidered unit insignia and packet of orders on the bed. She was chained. Her vision swims and she breathes heavily for a moment, not sure if she wants to vomit or cry.

 

You asked for this! The voice in her head keeps assisting You left the Rose!

 

She braces herself against the bed and waits, her breath slowing and vision clearing as the panic subsides. She was chained, yes, but not domesticated. Releasing a breath in a long shuddering exhale, she forces herself to pick up one of the patches, running her fingers over the stitching.

 

"Well... as dogs of the state go, they at least don't seem so bad." Taking the patch she pins it to the shoulder of her robe. Later on she'll have to speak to that tailor about getting it sewn on. Standing up she heads out of the cramped barracks room.

 

"Time to see what sort of breakfast a dog eats."

[Jancis]

Around Eorzea, folks are having their own wanderings. Village hills and mountains have small gatherings of yew and footprints, the ground covered in water to make footprints noticeable through the mud.

 

Friends and those relating to Oschon send little keepsake boxes and trinkets made of yew to celebrate the Wanderer's moon.

 

 

Camp Bronze Lake is a bustle! Springs have attendants in abundance, helpful staff around to offer another towel or drink. Bottles of Warmwine are prepared in advance for the many pilgrims expected at the healing waters.

 

With the Wanderer's Palace and ruins against the sky, there has never been a more restful pilgrimage.

 

The bell tolls soon for Oschon.

[DoomsdayClock]

Waking up somewhere unfamiliar was an unsettling feeling. When Lho’s eyes shot open he was instantly aware he was not upon his canopy bed, nor in his room at Morbolvine’s manor. Pink eyes darted about the room, adjusting to the dark as he took in the outlines of the small guest bed, the white sheets, and the privacy wall and partition that kept this little nook separate from the rest of the room. His breathe caught in his chest as his head turned to take in every detail, as memories rushed back through his mind of the previous two days. His hands came to rest on his knees as he pushed himself to a seated position, trembling as he wondered if maybe this could have been some bad dream. Vision adjusted to the darkness, details became more clear with a layer of acceptance…and Lho’a confirmed that indeed, it had all happened just as he recalled.

 

“Ankou…what will we do? We got so used to being amongst them…” He spoke softly, and was greeted with another wave of dread as he received no reply.

 

The inner voice that had been with him since childhood was gone. He was completely and utterly alone.

 

“Everything I’ve done…all for that woman. And here I am….what have I to show for it? “He sighed, looking down at his ash colored palms as he shook his head. “ Nothing. “

 

His legs felt like lead, prying himself from the bed to rise up and drape the sheet about his shoulders like a makeshift cloak. The Keeper’s features peeking out as he slid open the door to wander out into the main portion of the room. In the corner he spied the heavy burlap bags, the faint hint of leaves and shoots emerging. His plants, his children. Dug up from the earth outside of Bentbranch and carried along on his journey, it was only fitting they should follow him here as well. Other than that he feared touching anything, it was not his room…..the words lingered in his mind “ It’s not my room.” With little concern of acknowledgement for permission, he then moved to the entrance to were Evangeline slept, the elezen who’d stepped into his corner when sharp arrows, and sharper words had been drawn upon him. He’d barely known her, and yet since that point she’d afforded him far more kindness than he deserved, and he knew it. Pink eyes honed in on her sleeping form a moment longer, as a finger raised to tap against his chin. Why? She’d been ready to bring weaponry, to fight for his cause…a cause he was rapidly realizing he may have been wrong in.

 

“I was wrong..” He repeated, replaying the events in his head. He’d tried to take a life. He’d tried to make put an exclamation mark on what he saw as the degradation of his Matron by making an example of what he saw as a constant point of stress in his clan. But when action became reality, and he was visited with the image of the red haired Seeker bleeding out, he’d hardly even felt it as real. It took days, and a trial to make him even reflect on the severity of such an action. It took consideration of his own near death, for him to realize that J’sahr had likely felt the exact same pain, and fear as he committed his most foul deed.

 

“I’m hardly better than that rabid mongrel Ronin….I may speak well, think more highly of myself, but really we are not so different at all.” He added softly, slipping out of the room and moving through the main area of Evangeline’s private chambers. There he traced fingers over the spines of the myriad of books that lined the shelves, stacked on the desks and populated just about every field of vision. This was reality now.....and this would have to do.

[Leggerless]

"Are you in need of assistance, Miss?"

 

Lynx jerked her head at the voice she heard. She tried frowning, yet the goggles on her face did not show much. “…That’s a rhetorical question, yes?” With her arms still free, she pushed up on the head of the beast pinning her to the ground. The head rises a few ilms, but not anywhere near enough space to maneuver out. She glanced up at the woman once more; her silent gaze as her next response to the question.

 

The paladin look at Lynx covered in snow and goggles over her eyes. Letting out an exhale in a puff of steam, she dug her feet into the ground and placed her shoulder against that of the dead Aevis' neck and trunk. She nodded to the woman. "On three. One. Two. Three!" She heaved and pushed up and away the fallen lizard's body to allow her room to slide out.

 

Lynx rolled out away from her, the assistance gave her enough room to make it out before she would drop the beast down. She pulled herself up off of the ground and walked towards the dead beast, pulling out both of the blades stuck in its oversized head. She glanced down at the blades once to verify their condition before sheathing them away. The now free Midlander steps away from the Aevis then looks towards the woman once more with a small smile on her face. “Elise Wolfe is what you may call me.”

 

The paladin nodded to her once in greeting, her voice just loud enough to carry over the winds of Coerthas. "Well Miss Wolfe, Coerthas is not a place that is friendly to solitary travelers." She was already eyeing the wounds upon the fallen beasts: the three dead Aevis lying in the snow. A small arch of the brow her only indication of any impression made. "...Although I suspect you are used to fending for yourself." The paladin about turns, but there was a pause and an exhale, as if she gave something a second thought. She glanced over her shoulder at Lynx. "Where were you headed? Will you be alright?"

 

Lynx glances up at the darkening sky before returning to face the paladin. “Where I was headed is—“ She stops mid-sentence to cough once before continuing. “Ahem. Whitebrim.” The woman tilts her head to the right to examine the paladin’s figure once more for a few moments. Her tone becomes more serious as she speaks. “Your accent is not of this land, and… that hair...” She raises her left hand to point at the paladin while her right hand begins to dig inside of her coat. A small grin forms on her face as she speaks. “Red.”

 

The paladin does not seem to take any note to the word as she tucks a forelock away against the winds. She glances down the road, eyes squinted against the snowfall that was getting heavier. "You best hurry then, the weather seems to be taking a turn for the worse. You do not want to be caught out here in a blizzard." She does not meet Lynx's eyes for long even when they exchange words, it is apparent that the paladin does not want to linger long and her words are somewhat hurried and distant. "But you should be able to make it to Whitebrim before nightfall." She glances up at the sky, a frown lingering upon her brows. She too could see that the sky was darkening.

 

“Before nightfall? Good, I gauged the travel distance correctly. Ah, right!” She walks towards the paladin, pulling out a small book with her right hand that was in the coat. Lynx holds the object out for her to grasp it, looking her square in the eyes. “There’s a person I meant to deliver this to back in Camp Dragonhead. Yet, they could... not accept it. I offer this now to you; the woman who helped me.” Lynx raised the book a few ilms closer to the paladin's face.

 

She blinked, surprise clear on her face as the offering was made. Her grey eyes looked to the book for a moment, regarding it, before her own hand rose to accept the gift. "I need no recompense, Miss. You had already dispatched the beasts before I even saw you." The paladin turned the book over in her hand as if to give it a cursory glance. "Perhaps I can deliver it to another, if you leave me a name. I will be passing through Dragonhead soon, I imagine." Her tone remained neutral and her face without warmth. Her words were polite but her voice was hoarse from the conditions. She gave another glance over her shoulder to where she had come from, as if scanning the area for the rest of her company.

 

Lynx smiles at her, yet her tone remains flat. "No need. I have--" she stops midway to put a hand up to her ear, listening into a pearl. She bows her head down, with a scowl across her face. "Hmph. C is willing to fund it? I'll adjust my schedule then to meet him." She sets her hand down at her side and looks up at the sky before facing the paladin. "Time we part, R--" She stops herself mid-sentence, feigning a smile, and grants the woman a quick bow. Turning her body around, she wanders towards Whitebrim Front. A final wave of her hand is given before returning her arms underneath her cloak.

[Ha'uruh Nunh]

Annunu studied the blank parchment in front of her, quill in hand, sorting through her thoughts with a precision that had eluded her in the time since the failed raid on Castrum Centri, since Master Gogonji was laid low by the soul fragments that still struggled within him for supremacy.

 

In some ways, much had happened since then - he was now slowly recovering, having mastered two of the fragments and brought them under his control, and he was waking up more frequently, speaking more easily.  But in other ways, she had ignored the passage of time outside of the medbay in Coralhaus and had ignored what must be percolating outside of those walls.  Their discovered surveillance the one time they had exited the house was just one indication that ignoring the outside world was not an option.  And Master Gogonji's gentle chiding at her lack of a plan for dealing with the inevitable repercussions of her own impending arrest weighed heavily on her mind.

 

She had never considered herself to be a martyr, and yet as he had pointed out, that was her tactic, her plan for dealing with threats that came his way.  Instead of defeating them, she absorbed them - hurling herself bodily in front of problems and sacrificing bits and pieces of herself along the way.  Her carefully crafted persona of the "Cherry Blossom Socialite," armor that had served her well for the years since her father's death, her wealth, her reputation, her position in society, her relationship with her fiance, her home, and then, finally, even her own life, her body, her well-being.  Had Master Gogonji come to dominate her thoughts so utterly that she would continue to whittle away her very self to serve him?

 

And it wasn't even as if he'd demanded such sacrifice - he'd never asked her for it.  He rarely asked her for anything, in fact.  And the other day, he had urged her to reclaim some of that which she'd lost.

 

Still, the knotty conundrum remained of why she had allowed things to devolve to this extent.  She held the unsullied quill under her nose, frowning slightly in concentration, the long feather making it seem as if she had a very unusual mustache.  The only answer she could think of was that, even before the raid on the Castrum, she had permitted her service to Master Gogonji to take each piece of her in turn, ignoring the consequences just as she was now ignoring the way time continued to move outside of this house.  He loomed so large in her mind and in her life at present that she had neglected every other facet of her life - even her own sleep and food at one point.  And given his stable of enemies and her own, to ignore was to be vanquished.

 

So now what?  Move her eyes from him to reclaim her life?  So he had asked her to do, but she felt herself strangely hesitant, reluctant.  Perhaps it was because, other than her estrangement from Chuta, none of the rest felt very important or worth reclaiming.  Her wealth, partially inherited and grown by her own efforts, felt like little more than token chips to count how many jobs she'd taken, how red her hands ran.  It kept score and maintained the cover persona of the rich, airheaded socialite.  And yet... was it ceding too much of her own agency to neglect herself to the point where she would lose absolutely everything?  Was she even a person anymore if she did so?  Was this some sort of strange ritual of self-loathing, self-punishment, to allow herself to be unpersoned by her own actions?

 

Impatiently, she shoved those thoughts away.  Sometimes it felt as if Master Gogonji had made a tangled skein of her inner workings, bringing long-buried thoughts and feelings to the fore.  But in the end, she knew she had only herself to blame if she faltered.  It wasn't his fault.  But if she succeeded... Perhaps Chachanji and his attitude that a support system made you stronger had some merit.  Even Master Gogonji had acknowledged that they needed others.

 

She dipped the quill in the inkpot.  She had maintained armor, cover, and wealth before she had met Chuta or Master Gogonji.  Even if it was simply in obedience to his order to retake what was hers, this was a good first step.  She felt her lips tug into a small smile.  And the first step was to make herself worthless for anyone to marry.  Who in Ul'dah wanted a broke bride, after all?

 

She began to write the authenticating words to her customary money launderer, and felt some of the weight lift off of her mind.  It turned out that funding a failed mercenary organization was quite the expensive endeavor for an airheaded heiress.

[Kage]

Kage stared at Arturius with apprehension. This was now the last of the litter. Heh... litter. The lalafell had had no idea that the fat cat was actually FEMALE. He'd never picked her up or looked at her while she did her business. He'd never known that the calico fur pattern was a female genetic trait. HOW WAS HE TO KNOW?? Right when she needed to birth some kittens.

 

That's when. After nursing them for a few weeks away from the clan home Kage had decided it was time to let the kittens leave their mom. Gosh could he keep calling her Arturius? She didn't seem to mind...

 

Carefully keeping the last kitten warm and bundled, he'd put some gifts in the care basket and handed it to the Deputy Delivery Postmoogle alongside the letter that he'd sent to his dear friends who were given a kitten.

 

So... Hi! I hope the postmoogle has kept this bundle safe.

Ye might have known I have a really fat cat as one of my many pets now. I'd thought the fat cat was a male; I'd named him Arturius! Well... turns out I was wrong and he's actually a she. I found out when she started to birth a litter of kittens. You are a dear friend. I hope her child helps you as her mother helped me. Please let me know ye are well friend!

 

-Kage Kiryuu

 

[Cliodhna Eoghan]

just a small story for aftermath of jancis' event today. ]]

 

Stepping from the adjoining washroom with her hair bundled in a towel and clothed in one of Erik's shirts, Cliodhna sat on the couch with a glass of wine. It was a long day but a fun one, she did love helping Jancis or at least going to watch the performances. It was also a fun extra to help out now and again.

 

Snuggling further into the couch in their bedroom; she looked at the two disks she had taken with her. Bundled with her things in the changing room; they had thankfully stayed dry at the spring after a group of them decided to stay and soak for a bit. Picking on up, she turned it over in her hand, nail lightly tracing the words carved onto it. "What do you want your life to look like in five years?" The tiny script read.

 

It was a good question to be sure. So long she's spent life on a day to day standard never planning further than a month in advance. But now, things were different - had been different - for awhile now. Cliodhna was gaining a family in both the literal and metaphoric sense. Quite the change from what she had envisioned this point of her life would be five years prior.

 

Replacing it on the coffee table, she picked up the other one. "What impact do you want to leave in the world?" Though it wasn't intentional; this one would definitely strike a cord with Erik. His thoughts were so focused but on so many things lately. It was a wonder he was able to keep his composure.

 

Placing the small piece of carved wood with the other, Cliodhna stared at the fire; the twisting and dancing flames making her eyes go heavy. Thankfully she had enough sense to place the wineglass down before falling into a light sleep.

 

Nearly a bell passed before the door to their bedroom slowly opened. A small face with pixie features peeking into the darkened room. Seeing Cliodhna asleep on the couch; the silence was broken by the soft sound of footfalls as the young girl slowly snuck into the room. Slowly she closed the door behind her; wincing at the click the latch made before creeping to the bed and taking the pillow belonging to Erik. Clutching it in her small arms, Lenna then climbed onto the couch and curled up as close as she could next to Cliodhna before falling asleep herself.

[Asmodean]

Sitting in his darken room at the Mizzenmant Inn, Asmodean thought back both on the evening he had as well as yesterday. His gear, save for his pant, and weapon rest on the chairs close to the door. He's chest was bound in fresh bandages, covering an injure from the aid he give in Coerthas. He had tried to lay for a few bells now, but nothing could make him sleep in spite of how much he wanted to finally rest. 

 

Part of him, the loner, cursed him for having following up on his promise to speak at the Celebration of the Wanderer. That time could been spent resting or traveling the land looking for his next job. More so this half of him cursed more at the gathering at Bronze Lake afterwords.

 

He still didn't know why accepted Jancis' offer to join her with a number of other of the performers for a night of drinking and enjoyment, but he was glad, happy even.  While he didn't remove the bulk of his armor, he still felt like he was part of the group. No judging, no questioning, just a group of friends being welcoming to him. Asmodean for once sense the Calamity felt wanted, not as a faceless body to work, but a friend.

 

HIs mind then drifted to the fight in Coerthas and the group he was fight along with. A pair of Dragoons, Orrin Halgren and Noel Vautie, and a highly skilled healer, Myath Sochen along with him and his always trusty ax. They wore cover the area of Monument Tower and they had taken care of the area well, however due to the skill of the Dragoons, he had a hard time earning his keep. After a time, they along with everyone who had answered the call for aid, wore sent to Steel Vigil to fell a elder dragon. They did just that before falling back to the Observatorium. Asmodean had been left alone with Myath for a time, which the pair chatted for a while.

 

The last leg of traveling in Coerthas had been walking from the Observatorium to the Gates of Judgement then Whitebrim  Front before taking the Daniffen Pass once more to the tower. The travel to the gates had been quite and easy and it wasn't until they came to the pass a problem happened. They had came across a massive blast in the pass, and it had wounded a number adventurers who not ready for such a beast to be in the pass. While his group avoid and major damage from the beast the came could not be said for when Steropes appear.

 

The Cyclops fell a great number of adventurers with easy before Asmodean and his group even had a chance to join the fray. Once they had, along with a number of other Dragoons and other fighters traveling the land, Steropes was brought under control. However, the midlander suffered his chest wound as the cyclops hammered at the warrior, cause the heavy chest-plate he wore to cave in on him. The beast was fell shortly after, but the damage had been done already. Myath, lucky for Asmodean, has a large chococo which could easily carry the pair. Thankfully the rest of the trip was uneventful.

 

Asmodean wake up from his trance, his gaze looking a the broken and caved in plate at the side of the room. The pain was still there... but even before the warmwine, it had dull greatly from when he first gained the wound. But even know... he sat there awake for bells, he could still not sleep.

 

It's going to be a fun few days. Asmodean thought to himself annoyed. Right bloody fun.

 

((Aftermath from the back to back events Coerthas Defense and Celebration of the Wanderer.))

[cuideag]

It took Delial far less than the bell she budgeted for her to gather and pack her things. On one hand, it was a relief: the fewer things she had to carry on her way the better, especially with her leg still aching from her last encounter with Stormchild. On the other, it gave her a feeling she could have called longing had she been feeling sentimental. In a way, she had been.

 

She turned in her key and departed from the Wench without a look back. Limsa Lominsa had served as the closest thing she had to a home in years, and even then she spent more time away from it than not. It was just the other night that she was able to return thanks to Melkire and his company. A call for some time on the beach was something she could not refuse even with the search for answers weighing heavy on her shoulder.

 

The ferry would not set to depart for another two bells at least and so Delial found herself lacking distraction. There were no more letters to write: Saxon had been attended to, Gharen would not respond, Roen could not be reached, and anyone else of immediate importance already knew of her plans.

 

Such an odd moon it had been. Such an odd year. Those Grimsong would have once considered enemies now ranked among… Friends? Could she call them friends? A few of them, mayhap: she and the Sergeant were on fair terms, and Wolfsong had surprised many by standing by her side those few times. Whatever hostility she felt towards Crofte and Kiryuu, even, had been tempered away. They had their use, she told herself, but a part of her she ignored suggested that empathy may have had something to do with it, too.

 

When she actually looked up and drew her consciousness out from automatic, Delial found herself stepping out of the market strip and onto the walkway over the baked wooden planks near the Fisherman’s Guild. The last time she had gone there to think, she had been interrupted by the titter of lovers (probably) thinking themselves invisible from the happenings in the city. It was quiet then, so quiet that Delial nearly startled herself with her own sigh. How loud it seemed when the tide was low and quiet, and when Limsa Lominsa was still a long way to waking.

 

In the past moon she had seen herself hunting Lambs and felling Voidsent alongside strangers and clearing out scalekin infestations alongside men and women she had opposed long ago. What Melkire suggested was a long shot she was sure, but she would reach no resolution in the south. Nor would she find peace in knowing Wolfsong had vanished, not when she also knew that Banurein was also on the move.

 

No rest for the wicked, she mused darkly. And no peace for the clever.

 

Not that voluntarily relocating herself to Coerthas was something that seemed very clever at all. The last time she had been called there, it was to discover Itarliht’s treachery; the time before, she was meant to die. The very thought of it made her uneasy but she steeled herself, dug her heels in the stone that was her resolution. She had not gotten to where she was in life by cowing away from life’s challenges, and she would go no further by settling for complacency.

 

There was nowhere to go but north.

[Unnamed Mercenary]

There were screams coming from the forest. Pained. Panicked. Not of man or beast. Even though they’d been sent to bed after supper, Ester was unable to sleep like her brother. He never heard them. Even her parents never heard them. The other conjurer’s all said she was special. A ‘Hearer’, they said. Being one let her hear nature and the Elementals better. And she hated it.

 

Yes, being a hearer had its benefits. She was able to progress in her training as a skilled conjurer much faster than her brother had. But it came at a cost. Day after day, she heard the pleading whispers of the forest. Knew the feelings of the spirits that lived around her. And on this night, she heard screams. Something had upset one of the Elementals to an unbearable state.Something needed to be done, and she could stand the screams no longer.

 

Donning a dark blue robe and clutching her staff, Ester snuck out from her home as quietly as she could, running in the direction of the noise. She could sense the Elemental. It was upset that something had covered its tree in blood, likely some hurt animal of the forest. But she’d never heard such sounds of distress before. No, this was different. She wasn’t skilled enough to better understand the wants and desires of the Elementals. Her abilities only gave enough understanding to feel an impression of the emotions. As she passed through the forest, the screams became louder, as if the Elemental were under attack from some unknown enemy. Ester ran faster. She weaved through the vines and trees in her path, rushing as quickly as she could so that she might help calm the Elemental down. As she turned slightly to head closer, there was a sudden silence.

 

The screams had stopped, the air completely still. It was an odd quietness. Something still seemed amiss. If another Hearer had provided comfort, the feeling would have slowly subsided. Instead, she was left with a still air, much like when one holds their breath. She walked slowly up to the tree she’d sensed the Elemental had inhabited. There was a small clearing with a cottage on the other side. She assumed someone must have lived in the area. Walking around the large trunk of the tree, she saw it. Or, what remained of the Elemental, but soon there was nothing left. She stared in fright at the bloodied creature responsible. Its three eyes looking right at her. She couldn’t make out any of the other features, assuming it to be voidsent. Ester could only remember falling as it approached her, consciousness fading.

 

She would later tell the story of the horrifying creature to all in her conjury classes.

[cuideag]

They left the ruins in ruin with not a soul to attend to what remained. Axe and fist and spell tore at the evil things that had risen bidden but unbidden, curiosities summoned by hubris and made monstrous by blood. Ten children laid slaughtered on their side alone: ten bodies, Steel Wolf swore, that would be given rest somehow.

 

They departed the place unsettled and beaten. They were too late to save anyone. Zarek, the young man with sharp eyes and an eager grin, walked away with his fists clenched. Mistalv was as stoic as one might expect a Fist to be: a stone standing solid in a current of tragedy. Vengeance would come to them sure and swift, even if it would have to be saved for another day.

 

And then there was Delial.

 

They did not move without reason and did not risk exposure when it could be helped. Windsoul had found them somehow but he did not know what it was he had interrupted. Even when he fled the first den, leaving the writhing, howling, hungry mass behind him, he did not understand. But how many, Delial wondered, knew their work? How many could have felt the weight of the amulets he had pilfered and known that they were heavy beyond what could be held? They stunk of poisoned aether, and their very presence made her itch just beneath her skin. They were familiar to her and they did not ask how.

 

While they returned to their lives disquieted and forlorn, Delial waited. Three suns and four nights passed without so much as a peiste drifting by, but on the fourth sun her patience was rewarded. A figure came, alone at first but soon to be joined by two more, gaunt and clad in dark robes. They moved quickly, silently, disquieted in their own way. Their blasphemies were a matter of course, as vital as the need for food and water; their failures, however, were not, especially not to such a catastrophic scale.

 

The stones wore streaks of blood and ichor and there was little enough, flesh or otherwise, to be recovered. They marched melancholy, muttering at how the very vines that draped the high walls seemed to twitch when they were not looking. In one chamber they toed around the crushed remains of black, chitinous things that bristled with wings and talons. As they passed and as she passed after them, she knelt and peeled what she supposed must have once been a scythe-clawed limb of one such creature off the floor. It was light in her hands and she ignored the soft buzz that dug into her nerves where ever her skin touched its surface. It was in the following chamber, the round chamber littered with scraps of torn cloth and aether-scorched bone that was surely their destination, that she drew near enough to listen closely.

 

"How could this be? They had all the resources they could have needed."

 

"We cannot stand for this. We risked too much."

 

"The glyphs were perfect. They had to have been. Checked a dozen times at least."

 

"Sabotage? Do you think this was sabotage?"

 

Three hooded heads turned and gauged one another, tense and disbelieving. Then something whispered and went crack! and three then found itself short one, which had somehow ended up rolling upon the ground, trailing a heavy dribble of crimson.

 

Delial very nearly took another before they turned and saw her stepping forward. That head crunched sickly instead as the stiff blackened claws dug and tore through the side of its skull, sending the rest of its body falling bonelessly to join its fallen comrade. She did not bother to retrieve her makeshift weapon. The one that remained stared, raising its - no, his hands as though he intended to fight back. He would have a knife upon his person, she knew, but he hesitated for far, far too long. Her hands met his chest and she pushed outwards with raw aether, blasting the wind from his lungs and his feet off the ground. His body tumbled to a halt little more than a yalm away but before he could rise, his chest was met with a none-too-gentle boot that pinned him down hard. Delial relented only when she felt cleats scrape bone, locking her gaze to wide, young eyes.

 

"Now," she said, "I think we ought have some words."

[Kellach Woods]

How long has it been since Kellach had received a letter from his brother?

 

He'd lost count of the months - he figured him too busy with managing the farm, mounting an archaeological expedition in caverns even he did not know existed on Toegisil, securing a seat on the council and trying the hardest to manage the Garleans' expectations of the island.

 

Of course, he had his own worries - getting infected by void taint, escorting caravans, somehow stumbling onto leading an expedition into some Nymian ruins hoping to negociate with Tonberries, immediately reacting when the Tonberries attacked the expedition due to being filled with Rancor (and confirming that Rancor even exists!) among other things.

 

Now that everything seemed to have calmed down, he soon found that his brother hadn't written him in months. Even the Postmoogle'd not heard anything, and beyond a swift kick in the pom to start delivering that package he tasked him to deliver, he had no other message for Kellach.

 

Which made it all the more bizarre when a letter was deposited into his belongings bearing his brother's name. Scrambling over himself to read it, he pored over every word.

 

How fare you, Brother?

 

Never did I think I would stumble onto the very origins of our people while walking around the island, and yet this is exactly what happened. Imagine this, Brother - a cove with a ship with a design closer to Garlemald's than Eorzea's. Remnants of discarded robes and masks, as well as a language that is nigh incomprehensible written on the walls, notes and books found that none can read. How I wish I could send them to you, but I am afraid that the Garleans would find it suspicious if I were to leave a book in the middle of nowhere, much less one written in a language none here can read.

 

Speaking of that, I now know how these letters find their way to you. Ever since I've been in the cavern, I've been able to see the very letter carrier that you've employed. To think that such a creature could exist, much less lend its aid to mere men. More importantly, the Garleans are none the wiser, which suits our purposes of brotherly contact.

 

The council is still bending over the Garleans' every whim, and letting them do as they please. You know us, Brother, we are not fighters. That you even managed to become one actually blows my mind. What I wouldn't give to see you in action in Eorzea, slaying monsters, defending the populace... If only to find out how you do it.

 

Our sisters bonded themselves to another, so now Mother and I are truly alone at the farm. It's a loss of hands on the farm, but we're still fortunate that Mother can work as she does the work of a hundred men, and probably faster. She seems appreciative of the work I've done at the council. Father was never one for public affairs, and she feels my future would be better assured if I were to take up a charge full time, while becoming an Officiate on the side.

 

I have to admit, the idea tempts me, but my responsibilities is to her and to the farm. I gave my word to Father. By the way, his Tree is still growing well. This soothes my heart, considering the violent way in which he expired, and how he cursed the Elements that make up everything on his deathbed. The sickness had taken great root in him at that point, as we both know. Still, I'm glad I no longer need to worry about this. Anayah often takes care of the tree, even if she no longer has any obligation to the family. As far as Ketra is concerned, we've heard nothing of her, but her new home is on the other side of the island - We do not much have an occasion to see her, even when I am in town.

 

With love,

Brother

 

P.S. nwonk siht ekam ot tnaw ton od I dna sgnitirw tneicna eht daer nac I sa deil I taht wonk siht daer nac uoy fI

[Asmodean]

The Roost was quite, much to the enjoyment of Asmodean. His hand still flared up in pain from the other day, and had caused him to be unable to do any form of training. The midlander sat, relaxed near the entrance, watching the comings and goings of other adventurer. A pair of tomes sat on the table, with an extra in his lap. When not watching other travelers, Asmo eyes dropped to the book in his lap before looking up to one of the tomes on the table. He then wrote down notes on the third empty tome.

 

As countless travelers came thought the inn, Asmodean always made sure to look up for to make sure he wasn't being watched by anyone. He had after all made a bit of a name from himself over the past few years as a man willing to take just about any job. However his glances wore more about making sure no one was trying to sneak a peek at what he was writing. A few hours pasted, more glaces about the inn and a few mugs of ale helped him lose himself for a time. Night came quickly to the Shroud. 

 

Asmodean looked towards the entrance only to see the dark night greeting him. He sighed before closing all three tomes and packing them away, leaving a pair of letters having been hidden by the tomes on the table. He garbed the first and pulled a knife from his belt and carefully cut the seal open. He skimmed the letter quickly, a simple thank you for speaking at the Celebration of the Wanderer from Janics Milburga. He hadn't expected to receive a note fro what he had added but it brought a small smile to the worn traveler's face. He set it a side for the moment before taking the other letter and quickly skimmed it as well.

 

 

 

Dear Asmodean Gaindin,

 

[align=center]         Much has been spoken about you as of late in Ishgard due to your recent aid from the request of House Fortemps. The stories of your own as well of other in the culling of the local beast of the highlands as well as aiding when dragons attacked. They have become a favorite tale at the Forgotten Knight tavern. I send this letter in hopes to offer another line of word for a wander like yourself to once more offer some aid to Ishgard.

 

       You will find a note granting you entrance to the city should you feel inclined to take me up on this offer. [/align]

 

[align=right]                                                    A friend,                                   

                                                               Ardolain of Clan Centurio.[/align]

 

 

 

 

Asmodean placed the letter aside, deep in thought.

 

 

 

At worst I waste a few days heading to the city, not like there is a lot of work around these parts. He thought to himself before stand and sliding the letters in to his traveling pouch. He now traveled to the far north, something he thought he might never be able to do.

 

 

Fate.... always a strange mistress.