Bulletin Board

[FreelanceWizard]

A chilly breeze whipped through Tailfeather, causing the dim candles in one of the storehouses to flicker. The orange light illuminated two faces, set on opposite sides, an invisible wall between them. To the north, a purple-haired miqo'te, clad in a black and silver robe, sat cross-legged with her palms upon her knees. Her eyes were closed, her face impassive. To the south, a bright white chocobo paced across straw, claws clacking against the wood planks below. Behind him was the form of an au ra, wrapped in white robes, lying insensate.

 

"Wark," the chocobo warned with a snap of its beak.

 

"I'm not going anywhere, bird," the wizard replied, not even sparing the chocobo a glance. "So you might as well sit down and shut up, because I'm trying to meditate."

 

The white bird huffed, fluffing its feathers, and resumed its patrol.

[111]

The cord loops neatly around them, binding as Evangeline ties a simple knot. "There." She nods in satisfaction, the three leather-bound volumes neatly stacked. She'd pulled them from the cold and moldering halls of her family estate, vacant aside from a part time custodian. They were not new, the covers and pages well worn, giving off the faint odor of Chocobo with the turn of each page. She'd used these once as a child, trying to fuss out the secrets of the strange beast known as the Chocobo.

 

Reginallian Filloustam's Encyclopedia Chocobo

 

- Volume 1: Feeding, Care, and Grooming

- Volume 2: Physiology and Breeding

- Volume 3: Training

 

Evangeline wraps the package in brown shipping paper, tying the outside with more string. "To the care of Lady Scarlett, Carline Canopy, Gridania, The Shroud." 

 

A small envelope is pasted alongside, its contents a stiff card filled with words by a cramped and enthusiastic hand. 

 

 

 

"Dear Lady Scarlett,

 

 

Whoever people may think you are, it is a question only you can decide for yourself. Regardless of what you decide, I was fond in my own way of the woman who's face you seem to wear, and I wish you success. Enclosed is a set of books I found well useful as a young woman, learning to care for her first bird. I hope they prove similarly helpful for you in your new line of work.  

 

 

Stay Safe,

Evangeline Primrose

 

 

Looking satisfied, Evangeline leaves with the parcel under her arm, and it is soon on the next Post airship to Gridania.

[Jancis]

Jancis stopped by the Chocoforge, the colorful boiler keeping the room, and the entirely of the adjoining rooms, cozy and warm.

 

Sitting at the small table, she left the curious ingot in the cloth that was left in. She looked around for parchment, taking the first blank piece she found to leave a small note.

 

Sir Gegenji,

 

One of the kin in Summerford gave this to me. He was quite insistent on it; saying the metal was important and to take care of it.

 

I know no one else who has shown such for it over you. I will come back and check on it soon.

 

Be safe and well,

 

Jancis

 

Inside the cloth was a ingot of tin. Oddly enough, it was sloppily made for it was slightly over-sized at first glance.

 

=============

 

Leaving the Hall, Jancis looked up at the sky, it was still sunny enough to travel further. She wanted to learn more about what answers Barengar might have that Deadeye was interested about. She pondered about who else she knew that had business and knowledge of the Ala Mhigan as she walked across the long stones of the Mist towards where Avery was. 

 

His nails were probably growing. Someone might be happy to trim them. Limb movement... like a coma they would have to be helped, too. Taking a deep breath, she hastened her steps. One thought at a time.

[Shas]

"HA! You really fell for it didn't you! Lilith came in and took everything from you. Your dignity, your fame, your purity.... your daughter... hmmm. You fell for her, and look where she is now! Somewhere else probably laughing at you while she is in the arms of another!" A younger woman was laughing almost hysterically as she was speaking to Sharla. "Wow...you know I really hate to say I told you so but...no, no I really don't. And now you know the full truth about Crofte, well...almost anyway. I'm actually surprised you left the little bitch live after what she told you.But...I'm guessing you have plans for her...right? So...you finally ready to take this seriously and do what you need to or what?"

 

Sharla stood silently at Oschon's Torch looking out towards the sea. She stood there for what seemed to be hours, barely moving, not saying a word. She payed a younger woman a brief glance before she looked to the gem in her left hand as it began to faintly glow. "....."

 

"Well...it's about gods damn time!!"

[Leggerless]

"Let's see here... officer discharge, replaced by a Lieutenant, no longer can formally work with other Grand Companies... quite the list indeed." Seated in a simple, wooden chair, she finishes up the flask in her hand before setting the empty container down on the table in front of her.

 

"Right... what in the seven hells was I doing?" She tilts her head, thinking for a bit. "Ah yes." She rises from her chair and grabs the sheathed blade resting against the table, attaching it to the left side of her belt.

 

"Visiting the underworld. The wolf shall be back once more." Elise smirks at the thought and grabs a small book resting in the middle of the table as well, stashing it inside of her attire. She pats down the part of her clothing holding the book twice, then heads out the door of the house into Pearl Lane.

 

"All according to plan so far."

[voidVirago]

The petite Raen pulled her beret firmly over her head and she looked herself over one final time in the mirror. The room, filled with the scent of cinnamon, was dark, save for the moon that shone its light gently through the window. Arata drew her curtains closed, and with a final tug on her coat, she turned on a heel and headed out the door. Even if the hour was late, she could hope she could find someone to speak with.

 

She realized, now, that she was lonely.

 

It wasn't until recently that people had begun making their way to her. She sat in taverns and kept quiet, drinking her tea and making herself as unknown as she could. And yet, people still spoke to her. She hadn't thought of it before, but now it would seem she needed someone's company.

 

Perhaps this is what the Miqo'te did when she gave her the blessing of Menphina.

 

She missed them. Loxus. Kamaka. Roark. All of them, she wanted to see again; now, though, she didn't know for what reason. Was it love? The feeling she hadn't felt in many, many years? Or simply a longing for the company of friends, as she'd thought before? She didn't know the answer, now, and this troubled her.

 

They say we can love who we trust. But what is love without lust?

 

The Raen looked out to the sea.

 

Perhaps the answer would come to her in time. It would be another sleepless night.

[Star Lin]

John settle on his bed in his room, touching the linkpearl at his ear to let his mom know that he would see her in the morning for the trip back to Ul'dah. He removes his gloved fingers from the pearl, before turning the visor over in his hand. Titor's mark on the magitech piece was there, how simple in design, but having full function in what he needed. "So much color," he said to himself, remembering the color and brightness of the aether he was able to see instead of feel.

 

Still, he needed a place to test it, not only that had high aether, but also void energy. He set the visor on the table near his bed before crawling into bed. "Eastern Thanalan would be the best to test the visor." He pull the light sheet up, letting his eyes close. Yes, the Invisible City would be his testing ground for the visor.

 

(ooc: little short but it's basic for a miniplot for John)

[Nero]

The Elezen lay perched upon a pyre of corpses. The occasional errant limb twitched amidst the charred remains of the heretics, their ragged chainmail scorched by the dragon's fire. Surrounding him was miles of snow and stone, and endless, blasted battlefield pockmarked with corpses and weapons.

 

It was a good scene.

 

...ourt...

 

The roar resounded in his ears again. It was closer now. His lip curled. It was time.

 

My l...lancourt...

 

He stood upon the cadavers, violet armour streaked with blood and spikes. The wings of the Gae Bolg unfolded with a clank. There it was, in the sky, beating wings and a maw filled with a thousand razors.

 

The Elezen pulled the visor over his eyes, and jumped.

 

"My lord Valencourt!"

 

He was shaken out of his reverie. Maximilien blinked several times, spots fluttering in front of his eyes as his vision adjusted to the light of the ballroom. Ah, that's right. He was, unfortunately, not on a war-torn landscape about to engage a hated foe with equal parts vigor and might. The dragoon shook his head, clearing the spots from his vision, and was greeted with the beautiful yet cold gaze of a platinum-haired Wildwood female staring at him sternly. She was dressed in an immaculate azure gown, trimmed with gold. Maximilien, in turn, wore a form-fitting doublet with buttons of silver and a cravat that was entirely too puffy.

 

She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Have you returned to us, my lord?"

 

Ah, yes, the soirée. That was where he was. An utterly dull and boring affair filled with posturing nobles, simpering clergymen and other inconsequential elements of politics. House Durendaire was quite proud in its sizable expansion of the western front in Coerthas, and in what was both an honest gesture and a rather insipid act of sycophancy, the lesser House Rienois saw fit to honour the efforts of their knights and dragoons by conveniently creating an excuse for them to become intoxicated on wine. Maximilien's father had insisted that a dragoon attend, and unfortunately, Maximilien himself lacked a creative enough excuse to refuse beyond "fighting a tornado".

 

He was certain that one would work, though his father knew better.

 

Maximilien responded by lightly slapping the Elezen woman's insistent hand away like a fly. "I have, unfortunately. I was having a wonderful day dream, too. Now, Lady Auzenne, was there something in particular you wished to argue about, or would you prefer that we begin squealing at one another and make it up as we go along?"

 

"Squealing?"

 

"How about yowling?"

 

Lady Auzenne's frown deepened into a scowl. "Yowling!?""

 

"Screeching? Caterwauling? The Fury forbid, even ululating?"

 

"My lord, you are an accomplished knight and a most skilled wielder of the lance, but once again I recognise that you are utterly devoid of anything resembling a comprehensible thought." She turned away from him in a huff.

 

"Believe me, my dear Audrielle, I am not unpleased to leave the comprehensible thoughts to those who care for these distractions," Maximilien said lightly. He brushed a hand through his own champagne-coloured hair, wincing as the shoulders of the doublet tightened with the motion.

 

"And your...manservant. Is there a reason why he is acting like that?" Lady Auzenne tugged at the dragoon's sleeve, gesturing to a flustered Hyur repeatedly bowing like a flag in the wind. An amused Duskwight lady held a hand over her pursed lips, and Maximilien could not tell if the gesture was indicative of genuine amusement or polite refusal.

 

He waved an idle hand. "Does Baldred require a reason to act a certain way?"

 

"Do you mean to imply that your squire is always like that?" Lady Auzenne sniffed derisively. The Hyur in question had begun attempting to juggle a handful of fruit, and by his performance appeared to be about as coordinated as a drunk chocobo in an avalanche.

 

Maximilien folded his arms, one hand resting against his chin. "Baldred is...very enthusiastic about his duties and the people with which he is enamoured with."

 

"He is a Hyur. I know of Hyur. And your squire is the most Hyurish Hyur I have ever had the misfortune of meeting."

 

The dragoon glanced at his date with feigned shock. "Come now, Baldred is not that bad.

 

"Are you quite certain? He is choosing to flirt with Lady Braicaird, of all people. She is a respected chirurgeon, but I have seen more intellectual thought come out of...well, out of you."

 

Maximilien shrugged, ignoring the pointed barbs of Audrielle's words. "I am not one to stand in the way of love. If Baldred and Lady Braicaird are meant to be, then it is the will of Menphina that it be so."

 

His partner looked at him in equal parts disgust and suspicion. "What has Menphina to do with this?"

 

He waved his hand again, even less interested than before. "You know, Menphina's will. Love. Tends to knock holes in one's judgment and such. Supposedly is responsible for making life worth all of its trials and tribulations, though the scholars have yet to confirm or deny that particular aspect."

 

Audrielle's gaze and tone both became what could only be described as venomous. "That is a fascinating viewpoint, my lord Valencourt. Do go on."

 

He either ignored or failed to notice the sarcasm. "Well, my dear, as you may know, when one falls in love, the wits and rational thinking both evacuate the head by way of a...I believe the correct term is a dribble."

 

Her scowl deepened. "Your talent for eloquence does not go wasted."

 

Maximilien smiled at her cheerfully. "Yes, dribbles, like a diseased pustule."

 

His next sight was of Audrielle Auzenne haughtily walking away from him, handily repulsed by the description. The dragoon shrugged.

 

I wonder if it was something I said.

[Leggerless]

Elise yawned as she got out of her bed, opening her eyes to the ceiling of a guest room. The rumours of a rundown mansion in the Lavender Beds proved fruitful and she found a place to go into hiding. Despite being considered rundown in the past, as she soon learned shortly upon arrival, a new mistress took to remodeling the battered down building into a business estate.

 

"Ye gods... haven't slept in a bed like that for at least a moon."

 

She moves around the room and gets ready for the day; a somewhat elaborate jacket coupled with simple pants and boots in addition to small knives hidden in the jacket. It was a day of relaxation afterall; no need to carry around the typical weapons in such a safe location.

 

On the nearby nightstand, a plate with freshly made toast and butter as the centerpiece was surrounded by a ring of rolanberries. To the left, a small cup of Gridanian Black tea. Once dressed, she sat on the side of the bed and ate the meal properly, rotating between the toast, rolanberries, and tea until the plate and cup were empty. She set the items back on the nightstand and made her way outside of the room, proceeding outside into the foyer. Grabbing a new issue of the Lantern, she soon made her way out into the courtyard, took a seat in one of the benches, and started reading to herself.

 

A few minutes passed before she looked up at the clear sky above if only but for a moment.

 

"A nice place, indeed." She starts monologuing to herself. "Haven't been attacked, not lying starved and parched on the cold, stone floor, and yet..." She turns her head to look at the mansion. "I haven't bared my teeth since coming here." A small smirk shows on her face as she glances up in front of her.

 

"Let's change that."

[Unnamed Mercenary]

[align=center]http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/finalfantasy/images/2/21/Guildleves_plate_final.png[/img][/align]

 

A stack of leve plates clinked at they were placed onto the levemete’s table. He made a nice-looking smile. “I would like to collect my payment for these. You’ll find all have been addressed appropriately.” The air in Mor Dhona felt heavy. Thick. As if he were walking through a film or through water. But it was distance from the other cities. And it wasn’t as cold as Coerthas would have been. If anything, the aetherial gloam was at least keeping him together.

 

What had started out as a trip outside of Ul’dah had become a temporary relocation to Revenant’s Toll. There was no shortage of work to be found around the settlement. And there were plenty of people willing to pay the “adventurer” plenty of gil to do their chores. Franz found it easier to simply say he was a travelling adventurer in the land. Fewer questions.

 

With a new collection of leves in his hands, he walked out of the settlement towards Silvertear Lake. He was cautious not to stare at the magitek scraps of fallen airships along the way. There was work to be done. Or rather, time to waste. The leves were simply the easiest way to pass it.

[Virella]

[align=center][/align]

 

"Because what else would you call this relationship? Or are you unaware that everything about this is complicated?"

 

She hated that word, and every time he used it she wanted to scream. She hated the idea of belonging to someone. She'd done it in the past. In several forms and shapes, and every time it had ended up shattering apart for one reason or the other. No, she'd sooner kept denying they had anything going on. She knew it was far from true, but she could continue to try to deny it.

"Of course whatever we have goin' on be complicated. I be a Fist. Yer be a pureblood. We couldn't be more stupid, yet we continue makin' th' same swivin' mistake over 'nd over again, whether we like it or not."

 

The argument continued and soon enough he had walked out onto her as usual.

 

It had no use to follow him. He'd probably would tell her to leave him alone again. Or worse. He threatened he would leave for the Shroud if she dared to seek him out again, even if she didn't do it on purpose this time.

 

Making her way to the spot she had intended to go to in the first place, she seated herself. "Destroyer smite me for my sins." she mumbled quietly to herself before she shut her eyes close and started to drift away from her troubles.

[Star Lin]

(Part of a monthly challenge on Aethertide's site.  This month is "Please Don't Go!" and this is what I wrote for it.  Set about a few days before and after the Battle of Carteneau.)

 

 

"Please don't Go..." she heard just before a not so little blue and purple hair Miqo'te grab onto her. "Please... don't go to war, Tanya." The miqo'te held on tighter, burying his face to hide his tears from the rest of her 'crew' as Pick like to call themselves. 'Though crew wasn't right,' she thought, looking to the empty spot that would have had Micky on his chocobo. 'A month now since we lost him and all of us still feel that aching lost... especially John.'

 

"Oh, little brother...John, I wish I didn't have to go either..." she said, looking up at her parents, as she wrap her arms around the miqo'te. She could feel the others acting like they weren't listening in but she knew they were. "But we have to try and stop what is about to happen..." Though looking up at the red moon, hanging so, so very close, she wonder if this was the last battle for any of them.

 

"Then take me with you..."

 

"I can't do that, John," she said, burying her face into his hair. "You don't have the training." Yet her own thoughts were more on how she couldn't bare the future if something happen to him. 'You have so much ahead of you,' she thought. 'It's why I have to go...so you can see that bright, bright future that's ahead of you.'

 

"Johny," Pick voice, calm and soft, their brains of the group. He was the only one that had pick a nickname for her brother. "We'll make sure to come back...all of us."

 

"You promise."

 

"Of course." Bless Pick, even if they thought it was a lie. She then reach out, 'touching' that part of herself that John held, a part of her aether that she had used to bring him back from the edge when that damnable hearer made her sick brother think that the world didn't need him and his curse/blessing. She felt him finally let go and their dad finally drew him away, allowing her to mounted Ruth. She took in the sight, all of Ul'dah come to say goodbye to those soldiers that were going off to Carteneau. She only hope that Pick's words have a ring of truth to it.

 

 

*****

 

"PLEASE DON'T GO!" John scream, clutching onto the bloody form of his sister's body. The pain in his chest, where his sister's aether had been only became more painful. One glove hand closed on the crack sunstone chocker, even as he let his head bury itself into the bloody robes. "You promise...Pick promise. PLEASE COME BACK!" All he was meet with was a good body and his parents and the others in grief. She couldn't be dead...she promise to come back.

 

He could bring her back. She would come back if she felt his aether. It was slow at first, pouring his aether into his sister's body...no into his sister. John's world narrow down to just the vibration of his own aether flowing outward and into her body. His arms shook and his heart falter as he pour more of his aether. "please...come bac..." He wobble before falling over onto his side. Everything was so far away, so distant, and there was a darkness creeping up along the edge of his vision.

 

"John...Oh gods... he's going to..." Different voices and then distant feel of hands try to pull him away. He tried to fight, he was so close...so very close... and the clasp of the chocker gave way and he was finally pull from his sister. Warm arms wrap around his cold body, his mom voice whispering far away. His dad was knelling over him but he couldn't make out the words. He could see the others ring around him as if they were keeping the darkness that was roaring up into his vision from taking him.

 

He saw her, standing outside the circle, looking sad. Her red hair blowing in an unseen breeze. 'Tanya...'

 

'You can't go with me, little brother.'

 

'Stay...'

 

'I can't stay either. Live, John, live for me.' She began to turn even as he felt aether flowing back into him.

 

'Don't go...please...' But she was gone, disappearing into the light as the darkness won it's battle and wrap around him. 'don't g...sist...' He slip from the waking world, his Dad's sleep spell allowing him to slip into a healing sleep.

[cuideag]

When first she came to the Shroud years ago, it made Delial uneasy. Even with the Conjurer's blessing, she could not help but feel as though there were a presence mere ilms above her shoulders, waiting to press around her throat the moment her guard was let down. The stories of the wood and the things that lorded over it did little to ease her worries. Not once did Delial ever think she was anything but an intruder, and she was sure she stank of the blood spilled by Ala Mhigans who had come before her.

 

Not that she was innocent, of course: Marcineux was left for the birds and the boars. Sometimes, she thought she could smell him. Sometimes, she thought she might choke.

 

Her every step was as loud as a gunshot, muted as they were in the soft ground beneath. If the birds remained they did not sing, nor did they flit or flutter. It was as quiet save for the steady trudge of boots ill-suited for travel through the forest. Surely it was the Wolf they feared, especially now that he was loosed from his bed of chains. She wondered if he hunted them like he had hunted men. She wondered if they would be sporting at all.

 

She did not know where she walked. Somewhere to her left was a thin stream that snaked through the underbrush, and somewhere behind her waited the Wolf. Her things had been gathered, what little there was: a bag bounced against her thigh as she walked and the butt of her staff (no, no, not hers) left tiny craters in the the earth, breadcrumbs in negative that may or may not remain should Delial decide to turn herself around. The thought of it did not concern her for she did not think of it at all. Every dozen yalms or so, she paused and raised her head a little higher to listen hard before she inevitably decided to continue. The shadows continued to crawl, chasing away the shifting sun.

 

It was as silent as silent could be when Delial was finally satisfied. The canopy was low and thick and the wind touched not a single leaf. Somehow it felt cold, though not quite as cold as the staff in her hand. It was too still. It was just still enough. With a nod, she began to work.

 

Moving stiffly, she cleared away loose roots and stones to open up a circle of raw earth just wider than the span of her arms. She planted the staff outside its perimeter, dropped her bag beside it, and with soft words and a softer gesture called forth a pair of witch-lights small and faint enough to barely cast their pale gold glow across the circle. She sat herself in its center, tugging and folding her legs beneath her. Then, gently, she set each light down: one at her right hand and one at her left.

 

The little lizard girl seemed so proud of herself when she made her offer. It was just some little trinket, Delial convinced herself, a pretty trinket bearing false promise. That the girl knew her name was not important; that the girl knew her weakness was just a lucky guess. Even after she waved her hands and her cards, it was the word that stuck with her, one final festering sting. “Powerless,” Sarangerel said and knew she hit her mark, just as it was meant to.

 

It sat in her possession ever since with hardly a thought given to why and how it was in her hands. Then Roen asked after it, posing warnings of untrustworthy scaled men and schemes. Then the Sergeant summoned them and plead for their aid. Then the Wolf spoke of power to be bestowed. Delial could feel where it burned cold in her pockets, and she could feel the hole where it occupied her thoughts.

 

She reached out to draw a knife from her pack and sliced neatly across the face of a palm, not so much as flinching as the steel cut through her skin. With practiced delicacy, she dabbed her thumb in the rising blood and marked once, twice across her cheeks, and then three times over her dead eye. A wary part of her thought, for a moment, that the stone was not quite as cold as before when she drew it out of her pockets. A foolish part thought she felt it throb when she laid it over her bloodied palm. Yet another worried of the trees she caught sight of in the corner of her eye when she cradled her hands together and bowed her head: of how they seemed to bow with her, looming so close and so low that they might smother her where she sat.

 

She ignored them all. She shut into herself, grasping for threads of aether and whispered to the black stone in her hands.

 

Later, after the lights were long gone and her blood had gone dry, when the staff that was the witch’s legacy glimmered in her hands and her heels dug cracked grooves in the drying earth beneath, did Delial know that it finally whispered back.

[111]

 

 

It was strange, seeing the place again. Surreal even.

 

The small manse lay huddled against the cliff face, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. To her of course, it wasn’t. The house was like a ghost, a spectre. Some remnant of the past that somehow persisted into the present.

 

She clutches her burden under one arm, and steps out into the lake, boots finding purchase on cobblestone a few inches beneath the surface. There was a dry path, of course, but this felt appropriate. A small current brushes against her, propelled by the small waterfall bordering the house.

 

She steps back onto land, her boots leaving wet tracks as she heads to the gate. A low wall protected by a row of rusting cannon, a garden overgrown with weeds, a fish pond long since dry. Even though she expected this, some small part of her still grieved that time had taken such a toll on the place.

 

The door is chained and locked, loops of iron binding the doors. The wooden sign nailed nearby says ‘NO ENTRY’, but the broken windows show that it was ignored by at least one person. She takes the heavy object from under her arm, a squat pair of bolt cutters. She places the sharp beak of the device over the hasp of the lock, and hesitates.

 

Laughter, drinking.

 

Friendly faces and warm fires.

 

Harsh words, and harsher partings.

 

Did she truly wish to go through such things again? Did she even deserve to?

 

The miqo’te takes a deep breath, adjusting the carved mask that covers her face.

 

No.

 

She didn’t. Her muscles bulge for a moment, and the lock falls to the ground.

 

But others, others did.

 

She wouldn’t fail again.

[GhostlyMaiden]

Nanagi had re-awoken from her restless sleep, feeling her head throbbing. It didn't stop, even with the potion Valen had given her, she could still feel the terrible pain, it made it hard for her to focus. Instead of trying to fight it and force herself back to sleep, she instead laid there with her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling that she couldn't see.

 

She was in an unfamiliar place, Arcadeus. Rihxo had offered Nanagi to stay in her room for the night, considering she couldn't go back. Not yet. Every passing minute, Nanagi continued to question herself.

 

"Why?"

"Was it worth it?"

"What will I do now?"

"Why did it fail?"

"Why?"

 

In the few minutes that she stood outside, holding her weapon towards Stroud, she was hellsbent on killing him.

 

"DO IT!"

 

He had yelled at her, goading her to do it. She didn't hesitate, she attacked him without thinking of the repercussions of her actions. Now look where she is.

Laying in a bed that wasn't her's, her crystal taken by the elezen woman who held her in her arms, dealing with a concussion and now feeling the regret.

 

Constantly did she tell herself that she did it to help the Wayfarer's. All she wanted was him gone so that no one would ever have to worry about his manipulation or mental state.

 

"Was it really for them? Yes, of course it was! Right?

 

Time after time was Nanagi always there for him, willing to fight by his side. Time and time again, he refused. Yet, she always dealt with it. She stayed by his side, hoping that she could help guide him, so he wouldn't ave to carry a burden alone. But it was not to be. For too long did she deal with his harsh words, his manipulation. No longer did she want part of it. But she couldn't just walk away, not after the conversation they had the night before.

 

He would kill her and everyone in the Wayfarer's if it meant it would further his agenda. She didn't like that. L'rinhi, the one who provided him shelter, he would be all but willing to kill her. Knowing that he was around, she saw it as a threat. Perhaps if he kept his mouth shut, all of this could've been avoided.

 

And now? Now Nanagi had to face the repercussions. She was to speak to L'rinhi, and answer for her actions. Even if it means she is to be kicked out, she will answer truthfully.

[Coatleque]

"Where there is sin..."

 

Wooden steaks driven into the ice and leaned against each other for support.  The body of an aevis suspended beneath them to appear as if it were lunging forward.  Its wings outstretched and piked.  She stared at the fruit of her labors splayed before her, torch in hand.  Cold gaze met dead eyes.  Her lips twitched at the corner.

 

"... we bring atonement."

 

Slowly the torch was guided along the length of the wood.  Kindling shriveled and charred while flames caught, danced then lept over the timbers to consume the effigy.  Scales may blunt the sharpest steel, but no flesh is safe from cleansing fire.  She sniffed, inhaled the scent of the redeemed, then turned slowly to face the valley below.  No vapor accompanied her breath as she sneered.

 

"These people... they are rife with it.  Come, Besten.  It is time."

 

A grunt of approval followed before the two began their decent from the cliff side.

[Telluride]

He had taken an empty table in the little tavern in Drybone, and nobody seemed interested in challenging him for it. Perhaps it was his appearance.

 

The tall Hyur was clad in a dirty grey vest and dusty leather pants and boots; an instrument case hung by a strap from the chair upon which he sat, and his hat was wide of brim and decorated by feathers, which were torn and hung limply. He looked as if he had walked in from a dust storm, grimed with a mix of sand and sweat, but more than sand. The grime itself seemed to glitter, as if bits of glass or crystal had been thrown over him.

 

He had a tankard of dark ale to his right on the table, and was sniffing while poring over a map. It was of no place in Thanalan, but of the Coerthas Highlands, the region around Dragonhead.

 

A grimy finger slid down the map's right edge, marking with glittering dust a bit of territory inhabited only by wolves and beaked invaders from the Twelveswood.

[Ha'uruh Nunh]

Lt'helo sat and smoked in utter silence. The harsh rasp of her incense-like, stupefying leaf against her throat and lungs served several purposes, but for the moment, she wanted its aid in concentration, its press down upon her mind.

 

She didn't need the pipe smoke to call up the vision with crystal clarity. It was Warren Castille's vision, Warren Castille's fears, and as he was a man of great purpose, his fears were equally great. The destructive monster slaughtering the Grindstone. The smiling woman who was once his wife, her mind shattered. The despairing Mage flinging herself from a cliff. The herbs of the children of the Mountain Aldgoat tribe had crisply illuminated what was not yet inevitable. Lt'helo was all too aware Warren Castille continued to fear what he had seen, what could still come to pass, and for that reason had taken the Mage girl into his home.

 

And yet, Lt'helo mused, greater and stranger works were sometimes requires to stave off inevitability coming to flower.

 

In that service, she had committed sins, great sins. Already, the Masked One sensed those sins, smelled them on her skin like a stench that only another who had committed great sins could perceive. The Masked One, the very definition of a loose cannon knocking holes in the rocking ship that was the Grindstone family, thought himself soiled beyond redemption, and therefore free to do as he pleased. But Lt'helo knew the twin forces of inevitability and duty held them all lashed as prisoners tied by either arm. She suspected he would try to kill her someday. She was certain he would not be the first to try, nor the last.

 

Toward that end, the end of staving off the inevitable, she had reached out her hand to save the corrupted, granted succor to murderers, healed the unrepentant, spared the conniving. Toward that end, she had condemned the innocent, destroyed pure-hearted love, twisted fate, and bereaved an entire household. She had spoken to Warren Castille frequently of the poisonous cloud of smoke-like grief choking his household. What he did not know was that it was her hand on the bellows, fanning the smoke into the house.

 

Utter despair lay so close. It was a constant temptation, lurking just over her shoulder, whispering of an end at last. She clung to her anchors, which slipped from her grasp, one by one. Aoi acted the spoiled teenager, petulant one moment and pleading the next, oblivious and uncaring of the forces tearing Lt'helo asunder. Ha'uruh feared her, his own blood, and he was too tamed by city life and weak liquor to put his faith in the movements of stars, the formation of ants on a branch, or the pattern of intestines as they spill from the belly of a freshly slaughtered goat. These were the things that whispered the inevitable. Why would he not learn to hear?

 

Only Warren Castille and Sudden Impact remained to anchor her to the tumult of the present. Warren Castille of course surrendered nothing he considered his, an admirable quality save when it meant utter refusal to succumb to the inevitable. Sometimes, that could rend fate apart and turn even inevitability aside; but most of the time, it meant being ground within the teeth of turning, inexorable gears.

 

As for Impact... At first, simply an amusement, a diversion. She has sought him as a woman sought a man, utilizing her arts carelessly, and the more fool she, ignoring some of the strongest indications of fate she had ever seen. She could not afford to be merely a woman - not with him, or anyone else, though he made it easy for her to feel that way. He was as much a puppet of the inevitable as any of them. When she thought of Impact, and then of the future, she felt afraid. That was unusual. Fearing what would happen was foolish.

 

A reckoning was coming. She could feel it when she breathed, exhaling smoke, and as a knot in the deepest part of her belly. Everyone paid a price for their deeds. But she couldn't afford to lose any more anchors. She couldn't keep holding on then. If only she could talk to the Judge about it, and make him see... make him somehow understand how important it was for him to either return, or move forward. His mind was so alien, it fascinated her as a bird was fascinated by a snake. He could become an anchor as well. If she could only find the right words, could only convince him to let her walk beside him for a time - whether forward, or back.

 

Would any of them understand? Her choices, her sins, how hard it had been for her, how hard it still was? She didn't need forgiveness, but with no one to follow after her, there were none who could understand, and she found she craved that with the intensity of hunger and thirst.

 

And yet, on came the reckoning. The Masked One might truly kill her when her sins came to light. Perhaps Aoi would join him, savoring in her mate's righteous bloodlust. John Waterstrike would hide his face and weep for what was lost; Warren Castille would not turn his face from what must be done. Only the Judge's face escaped her mind. Would it be satisfied at justice served? Grieved? Angered? Or blank, as a mask?

 

Lt'helo could not turn from her path. Inevitability dictated all which would happen now. She filled the room with smoke as she sat alone, and concealed herself within its heart.

[Capheira]

"Khyran," greeted the woman quietly anew, slowly making her way toward the chair only to stop as he lifted himself from it’s wooden foundation. The man looked a mess; blood splattered over his thin, corpse-like frame, noticeable even upon the darker fabric that hung from his gaunt frame as he moved to embrace her. "...B-been meaning to c-catch up with you... s-sorry you always catch me on a bad day... I... kind of want to hug you, but... I've got blood on me... " he apologized, even with the shake of her head and the draw of his person to her. Odette’s lips curled into a faint smile, chin resting briefly on the scrawny shoulder of her raven-haired friend. "Since when has that e'er mattered in the past...?"

 

The embrace was short, yet spoke volumes for the time that had passed them by, as time was want to do. Unavoidable down to the last second at the behest of commitments and lifestyle choices. It had been a long time. Too long.

"Y-yeah, I guess ... it hasn't." He admitted, wrapping his arms around her back and squeezing for a small, measured beat before the inevitable withdrawal; stepping back to stand once more at arm's length to offer the sincerity of a forlorn smile. "...I miss you." He spoke, honestly. "J-just ... been thinking about how we killed Hunter together, and now we're in two different worlds." There was a sigh that chased the Vulture’s words, penetrating the silence alongside the quiet whir of magitek limb as he lifted a spindly hand to the back of his neck. In a similar manner, Odette’s own scarred thumb brushed against the freckled point of her nose, a mirthless chuckle leaving her lips in quiet accompaniment. "Aye."

 

"A lot has changed, an' even more has continued on as it always does. Yet, it's been on my mind too. There's so much..." the words trailed off to silence with the slow huff of an exhaled breath, marking the truth of just how long it had been since the exchange of private words in the past. "I've missed you too." With the click of the man’s magitek leg accompanied by the double-step of her own heeled boots, vixen followed vulture toward the table and chairs that cast eerie shadows upon stone wall and floor with the flickering light of the waning candle atop the table. First and foremost the inquiry to the greasy-haired midlander’s current state found itself the topic of discussion, turning then to recent matters and the follow up to prior conversation - one marked by the blonde’s retrieval of flask from shapely hip and the quiet screech of metal on metal thread for cap’s removal.

 

"I don't know. . ." Odette admitted quietly with opened canister sat before her, scarred thumb brushed over equally scarred knuckle in idle sweep back and forth. "There's just a lot goin' on, or not enough. I'm nae sure which, t'be perfectly honest." Lifting her eyes from their ocean-hued dance upon wooden surface, the highlander unthreaded the lace of her fingers to habitually reach for the flask, lifting it to hover against her lower lip in paused consideration. Oh how she despised that feeling of vulnerability, enough to back away from it entirely. "I didnae come here t'burden you more than y'already are, however. I know things have been busy, hells. . . th'place is thrivin' on walk up."

 

Khyran Oisin knew better than that, however, and the vulture gave a small nod in response to her words. When he spoke, it was with an exhausted but undeniably honest tone for the ties they shared. "Well... if you ever need a break from things, or just to talk... I'm almost always here." He gave her a weak smile, lips parting just a sliver to expose the gaps of a toothy maw. Hardly the most aesthetically pleasing of men, with too boney features and a long nose that hooked downward like a beak, he cut an intimidating figure for most. Most, but not she - strange as their friendship seemed to be. "Or I could come to you, for a change. I know you don't like aether travel. I hate doing that to you." He said. He trailed for a moment, then, he too, found a great interest in the wood grains on the table; single brown eye weaving about the various nicks and scratches that carved their own stories.

 

"In all honesty, Khy, I've been tryin' t'catch a break fer weeks an' just. . . I dunnae. You ever get that feeling that somethin's just. . . missing? Feeling like y'want t'run. Just run an' nae look back. Nae knowin' where yer goin'. Just th'need t'be an' do somethin'... to fix somethin', or break it." Atop the table’s surface, Odette’s slender fingers slowly curled into a tight, but passive fist; knuckles threaded with the tracking scars of an undisclosed past and a far more curious present. “Just that desire t'feel a little more. . . alive?" the soft words spilled from her lips like the rushed current of a broken dam that eased to trickle and then, stillness. A shortly huffed note left her maw as she leaned back against the chair's rest and partook of the flask’s contents, the familiar burn that warmed her throat a comfort. "I need somethin’ t’sink my teeth into, rather than make do with scraps thrown from th’table. Th'travel is inconvenient, but fine. . . I can manage."

 

Listening to the bardess in silence, Khyran’s claw-like fingers idly traced along the wood-grain of the table, tacking each sporadic line that was, in itself, unique. "...It... sounds to me like..." he spoke quietly, offered words trailing off almost as quickly as they’d began; dying on thin lips before picking up anew. "...You want a family. M-maybe I'm wrong, though." He sighed, boney fingers falling still atop the table where a dark eye stared for but a single moment before weaving upward to the freckled countenance of the familiar blonde. "...You're alone in a crowd... a sea of faces... a world of two faces and backstabbing. At least, that's... how I felt, back when I was... there." He trailed a little, meeting the depths of ocean pools that was the aquamarine hue of the highlander’s keen gaze. "...But maybe.. maybe I'm wrong. C-correct me if I"m wrong, anyway." He drew in a deep breath, adding quietly. "I just... think you're really lonely, Ode. I guess that's why I wanted to learn more about you. Back then, I asked... if you've ever loved someone before."

 

"I dunnae what I want... or if I want anythin’ at all." Odette mused honestly, a dry chuckle sounding from her lips to echo within the rim of the flask. A pause followed as she partook of the contents, feeling the comfort of the burn at the back of her throat. "Lonely..." she murmured, tasting the whiskey-tainted word on her lips with a slow shake of her head. "We all make sacrifices, Khyran." was the only reply given, perhaps the only reply she had at such a time; brows creased in a small frown. "We all do what we must."

[desmond28]

Finding himself at a tavern, Paul sat quietly by himself and observed the patrons from a dimly lit corner. The day was hard on him. Of course, it was nothing compared to what he had seen over his span of time in this world. Yet, it was just one more day to add to his already taxed mind.

While he was good at what he did, there were always several more criminals to appear who felt the need to abuse women or children. Can one man make a difference; can several?

 

The questions weighed on Paul’s mind as the spiced alcohol presently known as rum washed down his throat. Despite his best efforts, it never washed away the pain. Nothing did and nothing probably ever would. And who could he confide in? Who would be able to sympathize with his decades of pain, suffering, and loss? Who would understand his struggle with reasoning on the ‘why’ of his journey?

 

Why am I here?

 

What can I do in this dying world?

 

Why do I continue to live while all other things die?

 

The rum continued to wash down his throat. Maybe, just maybe this one time it would actually make him forget about the unimaginable sorrow that continues to crush his insides.

[Gegenji]

"... Whaddya think, Gran?"

 

The baby behemoth unwillingly looked up from his rather comfortable spot on the sheep-pattern rug that was the staple of Chachanji's bedroom, chewing idly on the piece of antelope jerky that had been given to him not long before. The aforementioned Lalafell was sitting on his little Tonberry-themed couch, eyes on a strange bottle that he held betwixt his stout little fingers. Its contents were somewhat obscured by the smoky amber glass, leaving little more than its label to discern its contents.

 

~GIGAS JUICE - Be as big as a Gigas!~

 

It had been an impromptu purchase suns ago. After a stop by the Quicksand had quietly hurt the little Lalafell's pride. A meal interrupted by a - of course rather large - Highlander turning to him and asking if he wasn't a bit too young to be there. Such seemed to oft be the case: time and time again he was dismissed as being "too young" or mistaken as a child. Even Virara, one of his closest friends, frequently poked fun - in her own deadpan way - at his height... and he didn't even want to think about his brother's steadfast belief that he was still too young to be the family heir.

 

He had kept it hidden well enough, talking to the man at some length before his interests turned to another Highlander - one who had tried to pretty little Chachan up like a doll not half a moon prior. The Doman had slipped away then, a smile hiding the new nettling added to the pile, as he escaped to Pearl Lane and the markets beyond. And it was there that he ran into the strange man, draped in an almost haphazard assortments of cloth that hid all but his deeply sun-kissed head with its short fuzz of ebony hair.

 

As merchants oft do, he immediately latched onto the quelled depression within the Lalafell. Chachanji had been cautious at first, checking for crimson earrings - he had been nearly poisoned once before by the rogues who bore such accessories - before even deigning to speak to the man. The figure, whose ears were overfull of hoops of metal with no spot of ruby to be found, apparently took the teenager's concern for trepidation and continued his spiel. And, perhaps finding appeal in venting to someone, Chachanji has spoke his worries.

 

To be a little taller, more recognizable for the young adult he was. And the man, in a flurry of jingling jewelry and colorful cloth, had presented him the bottle he now held. Chachanji had been uncertain, worried, as he oft was with matters of medicine. That is when the man said it to him, lips curled into a toothy smile:

 

"'Twould take a man to take a bitter medicine, no?"

 

Perhaps it was that little barb, perhaps it had been all the other pokes at his height and supposed childishness. Whatever the reason, Chachanji had given the man his coin and shoved the bottle into a pouch. Then he had gone to attend the Grindstone and forgotten all about it while cheering on for his friend Tiroro. He only rediscovered it upon returning home, feeling quite foolish indeed for falling for the man's words and leaving it on his bookshelf.

 

The Lalafell held it now, having just returned from Gridania and the festival of fortune. Next to him were the fortunes he had received, and his thoughts on what had been done and said flitting through his head. Again he had been deemed too young - this time to have "getting lucky" explained to him in the context of Nathan's grandiose presentation - and had even reacted a bit overmuch when Jancis offered a "handkerchief" for him to avoid sitting on the damp forest ground. This was followed by a performance on seeking one's dreams, and Jancis' suggestion to seek other, smaller ones beyond his old standby of "protecting his friends."

 

He had countered with seeking to be equal to his father's skill in smithing, but a little nagging thought brought back that childish little wish of his. One of the fortunes had told him to stop hiding and tell "her" how he felt, a confusing thing indeed. Had it been a moon or so prior, he would've assumed this mention the nebulous certainty of his relationship with the delightful Aya Foxheart. However, that had be resolved rather handily, so he had been left with the fortune as a mere curiosity.

 

Another told him to hold fast to his dreams, and the Miqo'te woman who had presented to him had stated it was an important thing indeed. Again, he had assumed it in context of his usual dreams - protecting his friends and others, either by his own hand or through his craft. However, as he started at the bottle again, he had to wonder. Jancis had been one of the few there who had stood by his adulthood - perhaps he should have told her of this strange insecurity of his? Or perhaps spoke of that childish dream to be taller to her instead of improving his craft.

 

He made a face - he hated medicine. Leanne had chased him around Coralhaus when he caught a cold with a bottle and spoon. But again the sun-kissed man's words crept into his head, goading him on. Along with other suggestions - taking it with something sweet, for example. He still had Tiroro's picnic basket - which had a thermos of the mix of fruit juices and sweetwater Aya had coined as a "Champion Chachan" - from the cut-short date they had out at the Bazaar. A little bit of fun interrupted by a flung fireball.

 

He had managed to block some of it, but Tiroro had still lost her bow in the attack and suffered burns on her back. Burns that took far longer to treat due to new procedures being instituted at her Free Company. The little worrywart's thoughts turned fanciful: if he had been taller, he could've covered the gap faster; taken more of the hit. He was a smith, he could - and did - handle a few burns. He looked to Gran again for guidance, and the purple porker just gave a succinct snort before going back to gnawing on his jerky.

 

Hold tight to your dreams.

Seek out smaller dreams to fulfill.

Prove that he was an adult.

A man takes bitter medicine.

 

The cork came off with an audible pop that caught Gran's attention, his little ears standing and swiveling at attention. From the vial came an odd smell, of grease and oil, that caused both pet and owner to recoil a bit. Steeling himself, however, Chachanji poured it into the thermos and swished it about. He hesitated for only a moment afterward before draining the contents, and then made a face afterward. The suns-old juice tasted more tart than fruity, and he could still make out a rubbery flavor that he assumed was the "Gigas Juice."

 

He immediately felt worrisome - what if it didn't work? What if it just made him sick? What if folks found out and laughed at him for having such a childish concern? His cheeks burned at the thought, before a refreshing thought blew through his mind - a song he had echoed earlier that day, along with memories of rainbows. The lyrics spilled from his lips, even as he sought to quell his concerns.

 

"And I'm doin' jus' fine... 'm always landin' on me feet. In th' nick'a time 'n by th' skin'a me teeth... I ain't gonna stress 'cuz th' worst ain't happ'n'd yet..."

 

He bobbed back and forth as he hummed more of the song. And thought on the positives - even if it did nothing, at least he tried. And if he got sick from this impulse purchase, he had friends who'd help him. The tension drained from him and he yawned, stretching his little arms into the air. He rubbed at a cheek as he tucked the thermos away into the basket and made his way to his bed.

 

And as he fell into slumber, he left the fortunes from the event sitting on the couch in a neat little stack. A fortune that told him to hold fast to his dreams. A fortune to speak up about his feelings. And a third fortune that had confused him just as much then and slipped his mind in his wild romp through a strange tangent of thoughts now.

 

To be wary of tricks.

[GhostlyMaiden]

"...And so, the hunt begins again."

 

Pirates.

A dead captain.

A bounty.

 

In order to grasp onto the freedom she desperately wanted, to see her sister once again, she had to do it. It was a swift and painless death, she was kind enough to give him that. Did he deserve worse? Certainly, but Kanako wasn't the one to mutilate someone. Despite her behavior, she had some sort of class.

 

"What's an Arrow doin' 'ere in Gridania?"

 

Pirates.

A symbol.

Poisons.

 

If the boy hadn't flaunted his ship's symbol, Kanako would've been left completely unaware that the boy was there. The Arrows were known for their poisons. Hiding it in someone's food. Having their weapons tipped in it. Creating it and selling it. It was their specialty, it was what made them feared. For every deal made with these pirates, people were left afraid, as if the food they were provided could not be trusted.

 

Now, knowing that these pirates were out hunting her again, it left herself and even her sister in great danger. The best thing to do was to stay away from Limsa Lominsa, but what was Kanako not doing? Staying away from Limsa. Instead, she would go to the Wench and enjoy the company of anyone who wished to entertain her for that evening.

 

Perhaps it was simple luck that one of their members, or their new captain, didn't walk in while she was there. Perhaps it helped that she was one of them, and knows when to stay out of Limsa.

 

"They'll come lookin' in Gridania."

 

Mamiko was Kanako's twin sister, the most innocent person she knows. Knowing that these pirates would likely begin looking in the Shroud because of the boy she met there and allowed to live another sun, she knew it wasn't safe to stay. At least for a few suns.

 

Perhaps it was coincidence that she found Yumi after being away for ten cycles?

 

For the next few days, Kanako and Mamiko would stay in Thanalan to travel with their old family. The family had grown, and it brought a great warmth in Kanako's heart to know this. It was unfortunate that they couldn't stay.

 

"And 'ere I thought, they actually fergot about me..."

 

The morning when the pirates found their dead captain and missing woman, they knew exactly what happened. Kanako knew what would come for the next cycles, and possibly the rest of her life. A bounty was placed - wanted dead or alive. However, as the Arrows began to rebuild and gain new members, Kanako and her bounty was almost forgotten.

 

She was able to walk freely in Limsa without ever having to worry about one of them coming from behind and slitting her throat. She went three cycles without ever having to worry. But now? Now the bounty is starting to rise up from the surface again, and she must tread ever so carefully.

 

Who knows what the new and improved Arrows are like.

[Kurt S.]

The highlander had placed a crate on the table between him and the robed midlander. The cloth of her robes decorated by spare bits of metal here and there, clinging onto linen that shrouded her. A sword was slung on one side of her hip, a grimoire on the other, both looking a little worn. The hood of her robes were drawn back. 

 

Grunting with effort he reached for the lid of the hardwood crate and swung it open for the midlander. In turn, a small smile danced on her lips. She reached over and grabbed one of the vials held by the crate, a sickly green liquid swirling inside the glass that she turned over and examined. All of the vials held within were arrayed neatly, kept in tidy little clusters of color that made it an organized listing of swatches, four colors in all, instead of a kaleidoscope of hues.

 

"I'm honestly impressed, Roland. I thought it'd take a little while longer to assemble what I asked for." 

 

"Well, Allene, when you've got a wee little pup who thinks she can take the world on and not one whit of sense to dissuade her from her course. There's little and less that can stop a passionate woman like you."

 

She had brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear as the weathered and rugged highlander spoke. Crow's feet wrinkling the corner of his eyes, grey streaks upon a black messy nest of hair. He had spoken in fatherly tone. Allene slipped the vial back into the crate. He shut the lid over the crate. She placed a sack of gil over the box.

 

"And you, wee pup, can keep the gil. I got me a windfall and just used the excess to make yer order. Diluted banemite poison, now what could you possibly need this for?"

 

"My reasons are my own, old man."

 

"My my and you almost sounded like me daughter too. Thinkin she knows what's best. An' I know there are other methods to stop yer belly from growing. Ya don't need to chug any of this poison an' slowly kill yerself in the process."

 

She fell silent, slumping back against the rickety oak chair. Her lips pressed into a thin line, arms crossed. Her gaze turning away from the worried highlander across the table. He scoffed and shook his head, the ratty greying nest dancing from side to side. Her attention was caught when she heard the heavy thud of her gil landing on the desk. It was almost thunderous.

 

"If'n yer that worried about a wee one intrudin on yer fun, there's always some alchemist who could 'ave a solution to yer problem. Ya don't need a retired poisoner to 'elp ya. An' more to the point, that other solution probably won't have ya dancin with death every time."

 

He held a finger over to her before she even spoke. A gesture so powerful in her contemplative state she had silenced herself rather easily.

 

"An' I know, yer not doin it fer the fun. No' completely anyway. Fer the gil. Scared that monetarist lackey ain't gon' be done with yer family even tho' ya paid. But ye've met the quota, ya paid the debt against all odds. Yer father's got both his legs back and yer mother's decided to sleep more. 'ells yer favorite little brother looks up to ye and the twins too."

 

He leaned over and reached for the sack, dropping it on her lap.

 

"Ya don't need to be so desperate this time. Look, yer not me daughter but it kills me to see ya come here bruised and wounded because the gil was good but the man was all flavors a cruel. Ya get a little more leeway to choose who you sell yer body to and what ya do with the earnins. 'Ells with yer father back at Nanawa Mines like nuthin ever happened, ya could let go of sellin yer body fer 'owever long it takes for another tragedy ta hit."

 

"And that's how I cope. Look, the only reason I haven't gone bald of the stress is because of that. A little outlet, a slave to my desires, and I get gil out of it too. My vice saved my family."

 

"And yer vice isn't masochism innit?"

 

"No."

 

"Thought so. I won't tell ya to stop, though I would like nothing more than to. Ye've yer mind set on it but at least leave summodat gil for better purposes. Not ones that get ya killed. I dun mind at all that you come to me for all manner of nasty things to shower yer blade in for that edge ya need, but when ya use it on yerself it's nuthin short of bafflin really. 

 

H-hey. Allene? Allene!"

 

The highlander had stopped. He found it odd that the midlander was so uncharacteristically quiet as went about lecturing her. He found it odd that even with the tent flap open she was sweating like it was in the middle of the hottest day. He caught her just before her cheek decided it was a good idea to kiss the wood of the table. 

 

Her body was almost limp in his arms and he'd feel the heat just seeping through the linen of her robe. He quickly moved her to the sole hammock within the confines of the tent he lived in. Quickly taking the sweat stained robe and shirt off her leaving her with her sleeveless hempen shirt and the leather skirt that hugged her waist after he had taken her boots off as well. 

 

Just as he turned to leave the tent, he stopped when he'd hear her chuckling on the hammock, rushing over to see if the midlander needed anything he knelt down beside her on one knee. 

 

"W-well didn't expect myself to collapse so easily after finding it so hard to sleep for the past...oh three days. Y'know how hard it is to find people to just...revel with you in your little victories. Odd how..no one, literally no one in Ul'dah was interested in the prospect of free drinks. Three day celebration of my triumph over the forces of debt collectors!"

 

She began to rant sooner or later. Allene was vaguely aware of another voice, female this time. Probably Roland's wife. She was aware how everything was inexplicably wet and hot and uncomfortable. Then it started to feel cooler and drier, a little more comfy, a little less scratchy.

 

A great lull that just felt like her worries evaporated. 

 

Morning came, she pushed aside the flap of the tent and was greeted by blinding light, her clothes neatly folded ontop of highlander woman's arms, the woman who was walking in her direction. A man waving at her perched in front of a crude cook fire. 

 

"Mornin' pup, or rather, good middle o the day. Now dintcha have a leve you said you wanted to get done? Get dressed and go put me products ta use!"

[desmond28]

The following is a family hearing for case number 43812 involving a child adoption gone awry.

 

Inspector Desmond’s voice was professional but grim as he spoke. “Baby Girl Smith was found in the custody of two known criminals. These two also were in possession of four other children at the time.”

 

“What happened to the other four children?” asked the chairman of the hearing.

 

A lawyer speaking on behalf of family services answers. “Cecil was reunited with his parents. The three rescued girls are in the system until they are claimed.”

 

“And despite all the coverage in the heralds no one has come forth to claim Baby Girl Smith who was also found with the others?”

 

“No, they have not,” the Inspector answers. “My team has checked infirmary records, adoption records… I have personally been through all reports on missing children. No matches have been found.”

 

“It’s why we are here today with this motion.”

 

“Very well,” the chairman responds. “It pains me to think that in a world where so many desire a child a beautiful and healthy child like this goes unclaimed. Tragic… very tragic. Since this baby is declared as lacking she will remain with child services until all efforts have been exhausted. She will be placed with a temporary couple until a final ruling is filed.”

 

Paul sat in his chair. He lost it to himself.

 

Children are lost every day without choice, and people willfully abandon four? This is beyond tragic. It’s disgusting...

[Capheira]

The front door to the company building slammed shut with the mutter made into linkpearl’s channel. “I’m takin’ off fer a few weeks.” the highlander stated in a solemn tone, words as clipped as the steps that took her from the building. Tugging the fabric of her tunic down over hidden blades, the worn leather satchel at her side rustled in the background for the draw of leather strap over slender shoulder. “I’ll send you Redwall’s head.”

 

“You’ll get yourself killed Odet–” the pearl clicked off before the garlean could finish his words. Long russet lashes drew shut for several long beats as the siren stood her ground upon the front porch and exhaled a slow lungful of breath that billowed outward in the coolness of eve. “You will replace me.” came the unheard utterance from the woman’s lips as her hand pulled away from the pearl and dragged down the contours of her freckled features. Simple truth.

 

With ocean hues peeking out from parting lids anew, scarred digits tugged the leather gloves from belt’s hugged embrace of a taut, tapered waist to wriggle them over the threaded maps of her slender knuckles. Footsteps marking the woman’s departure from the premises one cobblestone at a time, there remained only one thing that mattered: the task at hand.

 

This would be her last hurrah for Ebonbrand, lest the company’s Spymistress live through the ordeal and go through with intended resignation. Course set and final thoughts on the matter pertaining the absence of their excitable trademaster, the highlander set off for Thanalan.

 

Target Identified as: Redwall. Midlander Hyur. Male. Void-Touched(?).

Hair: Mid-length, Raven. Complexion: Pale. Eye Colour: Green. Build: Stocky.

Last Known Location: The Outer Ruins of Qarn, Thanalan.

 

An abomination of speed and strength enhanced by energies of the void would not be an easy target to track, despite the man’s flair for the poetic and tendency for the elaborate. As an instigator within the realms of child-trafficking, the slaver’s fate had been sealed from first moments regardless of whatever anonymous ‘tip’ had brought it about. Yet Redwall’s abilities had been underestimated countless times before, the madman breaking from capture to infect several she knew with a sickness.

 

Regardless, for all his power - retained or not with the Ahriman’s expiration, he was still a man and men left their mark on the work around them as reliably as any other mammal. An imprint on parchment, a loose thread upon linen’s edge; eating, sleeping, defecating, sweating, even breathing… each one the tangible strand of a larger web. Those whom knew what they sought, looked hard enough and managed combination of knowledge and training, found their efforts rewarded more often than not.

 

So it was that the careful track of information, the scraps of pinpointed disturbances and the sightings of a man fitting description given drew the vixen away from the ruins where the midlander had last been sighted and onto dirt trail, leaving behind the red dust of Thanalan’s deserts for the transition into the groaning, living depths of Gridania’s forests. It would only be a matter of time until she had found her mark.