Bulletin Board

[Capheira]

Coerthas. The well known saying ‘the path to hell is paved with good intentions’ certainly rung true in a less than metaphorical sense for the crunch of heeled boots in the snow. Days had passed, ripped from the calendar. From the deserts of Thanalan, through the Shroud and into frozen wasteland the Fox had trailed it’s prey with little sleep and a survivalist’s menu - enough to keep her at her near-best, yet lacking luxuries that would only slow her down.

 

Amidst the charred remains of a cluster of pine trees, it was there the highlander’s knee soaked upon frosted ground for but a beat; leather-clad fingers brushing over the blood spattered over the snow. On the latter end of fresh and chilled to harden by the elements, the heat had long since left the smear of ichor and placed it’s occurrence several hours ahead of her. A billowed breath forced it’s way through the woman’s freckled nose, effectively huffing a small cloud of foggy mist through the scarf that wrapper her lower face. She was getting closer; yet so too was the threat of blizzard.

 

Through the sting of blown, snowy assault the flicker of red fabric was visible even then; contrasting sharply against the brilliant white of the crystallized wonderland in it’s sporadic flap at wind’s behest. It was with a brisk push that the rogue found her feet with a cat-like grace, the ocean hues of a keen-eyed gaze tracking the footprints that marked the ground en route - humanoid and bestial both. The lone garment was retrieved with a lean and snatching roll of the wrist, inspection yielding it to be stained in similar hues of injury. Thumbing the jagged trim of a punctured hole with a slender digit, golden brows proceeded to crease in a frown to match the narrow of long russet lashes.

 

The destruction upon location was evident, the smoldering charcoal of trees that was clearly magical in nature - discernible even to one whom wasn’t aetherically minded. Signs of a struggle. The spill of blood and the scrape of prints that were already being filled with snowfall. Yet there remained something… off. Slinging the red leather over her shoulder, fingers delving into the folds of her own attire to dance upon the hilt of her blade, the highlander moved to carefully scour the environ; casting aside piled snow and blackened branch in search that would only turn up empty handed. Two combatants, no body, and only one set of clawed tracks departing…

 

A rogue. A scout. A thief. The Vixen’s talents were those better suited to the shaded alleys of townships and rooftops of civilization than the wilds beyond the ocean’s call. Yet it was flexibility that remained her greatest asset, and the blood of her more barbaric ancestors flowed in her veins even still. The coat, she kept, her eventual trophy folded and hidden from view within the confines of worn satchel slung over shoulder.

 

One trail, bestial or otherwise, was better than nothing.

[Kellach Woods]

"Have you finished your prayers? They're preparing the halls for a Bonding ceremony." 

 

This was not an entirely new sight, but ever since the restoration of the Sanctum and its return to celebrating Eternal Bond ceremonies, their time within the actual sanctum always fell short. Sylvie had never been "reduced" to living in the Shroud - It was her home, and all she had ever known, much like her father, and her grandfather and her great grandfather before her. All had been branded criminals, poachers or worse for simply not being Gridanian.

 

Yet the Noirets had endured, partially through thick familial ties, but mostly due to the strict application of their own tenets of virtue which could cause even the most zealous of Wood Wailers to hesitate in seriously tracking them down. Couple with the fact that they mostly lived in the East and South Shroud, areas which are less patrolled due to the Sylphs' lesser danger in comparison to the Ixal, and where bigger fish to fry tread - the Coeurlclaw poachers, who are a far bigger danger than what is merely known, these days, as a bunch of crazies throughout the generations.

 

"Nay, father - Allow me one last prayer to Azeyma before we set off. I fear without her guidance, it will not be her tears I shed, but mine." said the kneeling daughter. Hands clasped, she closed her eyes.

 

"If you are to bear the Tears, your eyes should never close. How can you seek the truth if you avert your eyes?" her father responded.

 

Sylvie audibly gulped, and slowly opened her eyes, maintaining her position. Each word was carefully mouthed. Her breathing was regular, with an errant twitch within its rhythm. She thought of the injustice her family suffered, and immediately felt her knuckles turn paler. Her father ignored the young girl's rage - It reminded him of his own youth, when his mother sought to console him as offered a prayer to Althyk, that the time of Gelmorra was returned to him. He gently caressed his mythril hatchet - a greatly diminished tool compared to the deity's greatax, but one that allowed him precise collection and clearing of runaway branches that blocked the hidden paths they often took through the Shroud. Paths forgotten to most, yet that were fresh in the Noirets' mind.

 

It fit his daughter's resolve and ideals that she chose permanent tattoos on her face instead of a golden fan, or anything material. It was the first moment where he felt that he had raised her right. Everything had prepared to the moment where she would face the Twelve, and find her path in life. None of the Noirets had chosen Azeyma in quite some time - Menphina, Oschon were common choices, as well as Althyk due to the duty of memory. 

 

She stood up, he nodded, they left.

 

Outside, a duskwight woman radiating elegance in pauper clothes waited diligently, discussing with one of the many attendants about life at the Sanctum, while exchanging good spots for flowers. Seeing her husband and her daughter exit the sanctum, she gently excused herself, and went to meet with her family.

 

"Are we ready to leave?"

 

"Yes, I believe we are. Though I fear our daughter has something else on her mind..." Sylvie nodded. A heavy breath took over her body.

 

"Mother, father. It is time I forge my path - I bear the Tears of Azeyma, I have received every boon you have granted me. How to live with the land from you, mother, and how to live a virtuous life from you, father. While I prayed that the Tears are all I would shed, my own are still falling. I... I..." her body remained composed - her tears fell, and yet she did not hold them back. Her sadness was genuine, and a commitment to the truth also meant letting her emotions get the better of her in such moments.

 

Words were no longer welcome - mother and father joined to embrace their daughter, who sought only to stand bravely in front of her parents. After hearing an attendant warning them that the ceremony's guests had been sighted on their way, all let go.

 

"Sylvie, always remember - Our nobility never came from a title, or a deed. It has always been ours from our staunch adherence to the Noiret creed of virtue above all. Remember that, and I know you will do well in all things. You will always have a family, and thanks to the paths you followed us on, you will always know where to find us."

 

"Sylvie, always remember to honor anything you take from nature, even outside of the Shroud. A noble's responsibilities do not stop outside of their domain, and neither does our responsibility to all living things. Now, come with us to the cache, that we may at least outfit you with proper armor and regalia."

 

Sylvie blushed - Even without a proper house, she once again felt like the most pampered girl of the Black Shroud.

 

And she loved her parents for it.

[Verad]

There were three collections of books in the Dubious Distributions estate. The first and most obvious of these was directly to the right of the front entrance, and contained anything in Verad’s inventory that he considered acceptable for purchase. Misprinted books with the wrong cover, journals that had trace amounts of pornographic woodcuts on the page after a bit of confusion and strong drink at the printing press, and tomes of sufficiently useless material (e.g. The Mating Habits of Golems) comprised these rows, and they sold as well as anything in his stock. He had considered converting the books into a lending library, provided they were returned in worse-but-nevertheless-legible condition, but was still sorting out the general plan for measuring what constituted “worse.”

 

More respectable texts could be found in the numerous shelves in Verad’s employee lounge, set within the estate’s basement. There, the curious visitor could find more standard texts including general encyclopedias, listings of Ul’dahn tax code with layers of dust on their bindings thick enough to withstand a swordpoint, and tales of adventure and salacious exploits not attributable to the Duskwight himself. However, these were scattered among texts that were, upon closer inspection, anything but, revealing themselves to be cunningly painted blocks of wood with titles in fanciful Eorzean script, gilded and embossed to the point of being unreadable. Finding actual books was half the challenge of the downstairs shelves, and he took a certain pleasure in watching people distinguish the respectable-looking from the genuine article. Mayhaps there was a moral in this, but it was far more likely that he was being a shit, not that the two were contradictory positions.

 

The third set wasn’t exactly private, but as it was to be found within Verad’s office and living space, it may as well have been for narrative purposes. If pressed, Verad would admit these to be one of, if not the, sources of his persuasive powers. These were not a defining element, to be sure - he had his own persistence, winning smile, command of the language, and above all a sense of humility to thank for that - but they were crucial nevertheless.

 

These were what Verad found himself perusing in the dead of night, unable to sleep and possessed of the restless energy that often presaged a terminally bad idea on his part. He mumbled silently in the dark, lips moving as he mouthed out the titles, taking care to ensure that his words died before he left his throat. There was naught but a screen between the shelf and his bed, and he preferred not to wake its occupant.

He lit upon one string of sideways script with his index finger, and his eyes brightened in the dark. There was a slight shuffling as he pulled the text free of its space on the shelf to get a better look at the title. There, in a simple embossed gilding, were these words:

 

The Mummer’s Guide to Ishgardian Heraldry

 

Just beneath the title on the front cover, a small, similarly gilded portrait of a cartoonish Lalafell, winking at the viewer, hand on his (her?) hip, the other holding up a single finger as if to indicate something.

 

Verad exhaled in relief at finding the title. The Mummer’s Guides were some of his best-kept secrets. A key part of his trade was always knowing at least enough about a subject to pass himself off as an expert at best and a talented amateur at worst. For these, the guides were indispensible. Chocobo farming, swordfighting, poetry, armorsmithing, and metallurgy were common, amongst other, more esoteric topics, including but not limited to the book he held in his hand.

 

With a very light step, Verad crossed the few fulms to his desk, and carefully pulled his chair aside to avoid letting it scrape on the office’s tiled floor, his fingers tight around its arms, his gaze over his shoulder to check for the slightest shift in his guest’s frame. Once he had enough space to seat himself, he took a piece of parchment and a small stick of charcoal out of his desk.

 

Opening the guide and turning it to its index, he was about to begin reading when he paused. What he planned - what was going through his mind - was well beyond the usual range of his activities. It was dubious, to be certain, but he could hardly tell himself it wasn’t illicit, a common refrain in his own pitches. Far from it. This could very well have been fraud of the highest order.

 

Was the goal worth going so far?

 

With his chair so far back, he was able to crane his neck enough to peer into the section of the office that served as his living space, to see beyond it and to the edge of his bed. Even from this angle, there wasn’t much he could see; the curve of an arm, pale enough it seemed to stand out against white linens, and the ends of a few strands of deep, bloody red hair.

 

After a moment’s contemplation, he turned back to his book and fell silent, save for the turning of a page and the scratch of charcoal across parchment.

[Chip]

Victory.

 

Held a distinct taste to the salty winds that drifted through Limsa Lominsa that evening. A palate of prismatic hues splashed across the horizon, where Azeyma’s kiss had yet set. Poised against a white-washed spire, a solitary figure took to admiring the view. One hand firmly clasped a Claw lodged deep into the cracked alabaster surface, while black boots planted firmly against the aged windowsill kept the rogue steady atop his favorite perch.

 

It’d been quite some time since he’d had a recent success to ponder, and did just that while a smirk toyed against warmly-tanned lips. “Idiots didn’t e’en know wot hit’m.” He muttered to himself, and his stubbed tail wriggled in delight. The operation overall had gone smoothly and without mishap, despite the unexpected early arrival of the Swiftsure and the small window of time available before she departed. The halfbreed’s smirk widened further upon recalling that astonished look of the contact he delivered the sapphires to, having plopped the small pouch into his hands and striding off. Simple, wordless, and with a souvenir to boot.

 

The fading light of the sunrise danced off the small diamond that the rogue had procured from his belt, and oceanic eyes peered at the many colors that danced off its translucent surface. “Yer a keeper.” He said to no one in particular, grinning wide at the stolen gem before slipping it back into his belt. A gaze was offered towards the colorful horizon once more, before he pulled out his other Claw and slowly climbed down the tall spire, with each moment of purchase provided by the long-bladed daggers. A special form of the popular weapon, designed by himself. Upon reaching the bottom, he jumped down and dusted himself off with another stub-tailed wriggle of amusement. “Time fer vittles.” Proclaimed he, as he stowed his Claws against his belt and sauntered off towards the Wench. Perhaps he might even meet a familiar face there. A face, come to think of it, that had not been seen in quite a while.

 

“Girlie bett’r be keepin’ outta trouble.” The halfbreed muttered, the smirk alighting once more upon his lips as he walked across one of the many wooden bridges that connected each cluster of spires that made up Limsa Lominsa. It was time for a good drink.

[Miss Gaz]

Xha walks up to the bulletin board with a flyer and tacks it up before walking off with Asah.

 

"Looking for brother he is a Keeper Miqo'te may respond to Xha'a. He can look very different now then when he was young. Might have dark green hair and a Cactuar earring he is approximately thirty years of age. If you have seen him or know someone who can help me fing him please contact me Xha'to Lyehga."

[Kurt S.]

Allene sat and stared. Studying her open tome, there were clear marks that some of the pages had a little too many errors on them. Newer ink strokes overlapped older ink strokes. She tried, several times, to blow quite the annoying lock of hair that seemed to irritate the already irritable girl that was armed and ready with a quill and an expensive bottle of enchanted ink.

 

Geometries of the same structure but with slight alterations to them produced the same outcome with various 'complications' in each instance of the structured code. All of them labeled 'half working' by the owner.

 

Her brown gaze narrowed at the yellow aetherical marmot across her. Lips turning into a slight frown as the simple creature simply stared at the wall. Drooling.

 

That got her attention. It wasn't the first time it's happened but she couldn't help but groan each time.

 

"Dogbuncle..."

 

The yellow marmot turned its vacant expression toward her. Aether dripping out of its stupid simple grin. Dissipating into wherever.

 

"Well at least your respond to your name now..." 

 

She beckoned the construct over, cradling it in her arms. It behaved like a dog too. The massive tail wagging and making a nice little breeze while it tried to lick her face. She squashed his head away trying to keep the affection to a minimum.

 

"You're also less annoying when you can't talk. Seriously. Don't just blurt out my thoughts to strangers. I don't care if he was hot or that I really wanted to talk to him or even that his smile makes me melt a little. You don't just blurt out, with your aetherical whatever, in my voice, or a bastardization of it 'hey you're hot' then run over to me. That is not cool, Dogbuncle."

 

She shook her head firmly. It just tilted its head before finally disappearing from the insufficiency of aether.

 

Allene sighed and got back to work. Dogbuncle was far from a success.

[Jancis]

Jancis thanked the retainer once more as she was escorted out of the warded manor, the door closing behind her without another word as she turned away. Viewing over the violet linkpearl she held in her hand, she took a deep breath. 

 

Whatever concoction Nathaniel prepared for her to cleanse these wounds was potent. The conjurer realized that she hadn't eaten since early on, a small breakfast after washing up and wrapping her wounds, before the rest of the day was spent escorting back a corrupt alchemist that tried to make a dear friend a test subject.

 

The details of the day whirled in her head alongside the instructions of how to prepare for this treatment. Sleep most of the day, might experience the sensation of emotion, anger, depression, stomach aches, arousal, vivid dreams, irritation. The urge to drink skin after skin of water was palpable already. 

 

Looking around the Goblet, staying there instead of heading back to her own quarters was a far better idea. Thoughts wandered to the halls she knew, faces and buildings where she could possibly rest the night into midday.

 

Long as this one stone road lead to at least one of them.

[Star Lin]

The aetheric shadow pass by the last of the Yellow Jackets, slipping into the sun, and disappearing into the crowd.  Once the shadow had found a shadow to hide in, the aether around it drop, revealing a green/yellow hair seawolf.  She remain in the shadow, staring at the unbloody dagger in her hand, and thinking over what new information she had learned.  Riven had been right, about finding him what Khyran wanted and yet, she had not been able to give him peace.  The thin man had not known what he had wanted once he realize what she was truely ask him.

 

"Looka like you got a bit on ye mind," Jacke said, lips flickering into a smile as she jump.  "Ah, ya stabbers aren't bloody."

 

"Ah, Uncle Jacke," Kest said.  "He doesn't know what he wants."

 

"Ifna he broke the code..."

 

"Ah know, he needs ta pay."  Kestlona hides her daggers.  "He wants peace but he doesn't know how he wants it."

 

"Ye said his name is Khyran Oisin?"  He watch Kest nod.  "Name sound familiar, though Ah don't know whata code he coulda have broken."

 

Kestlona sigh.  "Well, in a few bells, he either be pay the code or he be clear of it."  She push away from the shadow.  "Ah be needing to report this.  Then, Ah think Ah be paying a visit to his group."  She turn back to the shadow.  "Sorry for pulling..." and the blond rouge was gone.  She shakes her head.  "Ye never change, Uncle Jacke."

 

She arrive at Ul'dah, stopping long enough to leave a quick note to Riven about what had taken place in the cell and that she had not been able to give the man peace as he didn't know if he wanted it of not.  Next was to ride up to the place that her old Captain's friend had been going to.  Cutting through Central into riding east.  She made her way up to the Golden Bazaarr, not as Lona, not as Kest, but by her Dagger Unit name...Slipstream.

[Star Lin]

Once the guard had taken the Jacket the boy had handle soundly, he had slip away, before any could thank him, even though he had been one of the loud ones calling for blood. He made it far enough that aetherical travel could not be seen from Lisma court. He arrive at Blackbrush station, mixing quickly with the other adventurers and trades men/women. He grab a bucket, dipping to fill it from the water trough that the Chocobos drank from. He slip into the brushes, washing the dye out as quickly as he could, washing the tears to ran down his face, the stench as his stomach lost what little he had eaten. He could never wash away what he said about his friend, the blood he call for, even as he try to help and keep his family name out of the trial business.

 

It took him a moment to wrap the daggers, hiding them back into the robe after he pull in back on. He had already free his tail from where he had bind it with ropes, hiding the hat he had used to hide his ears in the pack. He wish he had time to completely wash the black dye from his hair and to change robes. He could only hope that none would be the wiser and connect him to 'him'. John arrive late to the Stone, quickly hiding the daggers in his pack, and pulling out Kit's book, telling her in whispers not to speak about what had happen at the trial. He push away the memories of the trail, what he had said to the Jacket guarding the door so that he would be ignore. He pushed away the memories of the weight of the dagger as it easily slips from it's hiding place, to cut the bowstring when the Jacket had try to kill Fabebe when the verdict clear her and Khyran of the charges. He pushed away the turning in his stomach as he realize that if he hadn't turn the dagger to the handle, he could have easily kill the man.

 

He wanted to be sick again as Khyran's exhausted voice came over the Pearl, reminding him that he had to keep playing the part or the concern but in the dark friend. That 'John' had been in Ul'dah and did not know that Khyran and Fabebe had almost died at Khy's own brother's hand.

 

He hated himself for what he had to do in the name of family.

[111]

She was having the dream again.

 

The dream. 

 

As always she woke up on that beach, as always it was in a body that was not quite hers. It was was not hers entirely, because she was not her entirely. Part of her had been ripped away, and like water, other things rushed in to take its place. 

 

The surf lapped at her bare feet, as always.

 

Her body lay in the morning sun, aching as body and soul each fought to reject the other. 

 

As always.

 

As always the old fisherman dropped his rod.

 

As always he carried her to his cottage.

 

As always she screamed at her reflection, banishing it with a fist.

 

As always the blood made her retch.

 

As always...

 

As always...

 

As always she awoke, rolling off the bed to her nightstand. 

 

Deftly she replaces the cloth mask of sleep with the carved wooden mask of day, and, as always, prepares to face the world.

[Kellach Woods]

"Aye, he's been like this for a while. Can't get up, his body's twistin' in his sleep - he'll be dead before a fortnight, way this looks like. Now I'm not one to ask for favors, much less from you people but... Gave a chance to the little lady over there, and she got the right idea eventually. Our remedies just can't fix him, y'see. Please... please help him."

 

The teenage highander could only groan in pain. A cursory look showed discoloration of the face, heavy breathing, right shoulder dislocated, likely from the unconscious contortions the man had just described.

 

The cloaked figure merely held her hand out, a simple gesture to soothe the child psychologically. Feeling the sudden appearance of something warm, his left hand reached for the source - Both tiny hands cupped gently, conveying compassion.

 

"Do not worry. I will save you." she gently said, smile on her face - A face that the harshest winds of the desert could not blemish.

 

With that declared, she stood. The people watching her stared, wondering where she was going. She dared not answer - Little Ala Mhigo was not the kind of place you stood idly by. It was a place of action, and the less who knew what she set out to accomplish, the better.

 

There had been corruption in the air surrounding the boy, and she needed to cleanse it before cleansing the boy. While she could have merely healed him and left, this would not solve the problem. It would merely delay the inevitable, and chances are if he got that, others would follow. Especially once he recovered.

 

Sensing the taint grow as she approached, she began preparations. Sword at her side - this time, faith would be her shield. "Protect!" she chanted. "Stoneskin!" Another one.

 

Her predictions were twofold - Indeed, the land surrounding this area had a dose of corruption - Corpses unceremoniously thrown in an underground river had floated along the current, which soon went overground. This was the second prediction - The populace would want to come here. Hence, the taint needed cleansing.

 

The hooded figure calmly began reciting a prayer, or an incantation, or simple words. The corruption took form, and lashed at her. A simple blast of miasma came from the blackened cloud. It was expertly dodged - Blade at the ready, she went through the same maneuvers she had practiced so long ago in anticipation of the Bloodsands. The corruption attempted more and more to attack the little hero, and she endured, until it was tamed.

 

Sheathing her sword, she reached inside her robe, pulling out a cane. A few waves of the purified wooden instrument later, the corruption was gone. Yet, her job was not yet over. Each body, whether mere bones bleached by the sun, or disease-ridden waterlogged corpses that had finally surfaced, she pulled them out, one by one. Counting seven, she fabricated a makeshift tool to dig graves for the deceased. Only three feet below the sands - she cursed her body's limitations, but it would have to do. Each corpse given a simple epitaph. "May you return to Aether, where the Mothercrystal welcomes you."

 

She picked up her sword, and walked back to Little Ala Mhigo. A shadow that had merely drifted into town before, to avoid complications, she did the same, using a different entrance. She walked towards the diseased boy, with the same characteristic smile she had given him before. Cane in hand, she finally cast the spell that could cure him, and then, and only then, was her work over.

 

The man that pleaded for her, seeing the boy start to recover, was shocked that not only the hooded figure did something, but actually succeeded. As though she never saw him, she picked up her equipment, and started walking out of town. He tried to stop her, invite her for dinner, give her Gil for her services. The hooded figure never stopped walking until she was outside the city limits, once she realized the man had followed her.

 

"Why won't you stop!? I just want to thank you for all you've done!" he pleaded, it wasn't in an Ala Mhigan's philosophy to just give up.

 

"I do not need thanks. Save them for the boy - He has found a source of water a few malms southwest from here, outside of the U tribe's territory." her smile was genuine. "If you wish to thank me, honor the graves that are near the water source. They did not deserve such cruel a death. Implore Thal to watch over them in his realm, for Nald traded them too soon." she stated in a calm voice.

 

"I'll, uh, I'll do that. But what should I call you if I need to call you?" the man simply asked.

 

"Do not call me anything - The less people know of me, the more I will be able to help."

 

Then, with a gust of wind, the hooded figure left.

 

"Now, if only all Lalafell were as saintly as that one..." he mused, before returning to his post.

[Askier]

Twice as dark and three times the night. Blackness is churning and in the essence of nothing is a void of madness.

 

In this chaos of nothing was freedom of the never-created.  The masses of the many, the souls of the none. Definitions?  Here? 

 

Impossible.

 

This was the essence of the immaterial. The never born and the never dead.

 

Except.

 

It was not.

 

Containment. Limitations.  Structures at the limits. 

 

Someone had been a deceiver. Liar. Trickster.

 

Survivor.

 

In the mass of nothing, two eyes opened.  One black as the abyss, one as golden as the sun.

 

Someone had been very naughty.

 

Hojo jerked up from his nightmare, cold sweat running down his brow as he breathed frantically, his white, alabaster eyes wide.

 

He placed his head in his hands and moaned.

 

"Just a drrream." the miqo'te whispered softly as the bell in his left ear trembled softy. The ringing soothed him and he turned to look at the moon through the window of his room.

 

"Just a nightmarrre."

[GhostlyMaiden]

One. Two. Three.

Three times had she escaped from death.

 

One.

One close friend.

 

Two.

Two enemies.

 

Three.

Three Deaths.

 

It was all numbers. These numbers added to the big picture of Nanagi's life. In the twenty-four years of her life, never did she expect it all to come at her so quickly. Multiple times has she made a fool of herself, multiple times has she made a terrible mistake.

 

This was her chance to fix it all, to get things back to the way they should be.

 

Alone.

Only speak to the people she had already befriended and don't allow herself to get so close, prevent the same mistakes from happening. Focus on her Aether research only. With her research, she can help her friends she does have. Right?

 

Two blood samples.

Valen Stalhart and Kanako Moonweaver. The Void and pure Aether. Both cases were very specific and with each discovery, more possibilities were put on the table. It was hard to narrow everything down, would she actually be able to figure it all out?

 

The poor Raen has too much Aether and it'll eventually make her ill. The stoic Magitek Knight has a being of the Void, and it'll eventually consume him.

 

So much to do, such little time. The countdown until it all falls apart begins.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

 

Perhaps there is a way to make the countdown feel like it's going slower? Discover a way to make things not as rushed.

 

The Sharlayans had so much knowledge, but are too stubborn to share. Perhaps if they saw her accomplishments, they would help her? With the Sharlayans, the time she has increases.

 

But what if they get too close -- too curious? What if they put her research in jeopardy?

Then the time she did have is suddenly taken away, and she then has even less time to reach her goals.

[Jancis]

Jancis shifted the satchel strap on her shoulder, the clinking of unused elixirs as they jostled within.

 

She had been mistaken.

 

Moons past when the three of them spoke about training solo and wanting to spar, the conjurer received the wrong impression. Or her own upbringing had molded her, for the woman was certain she would be recovering after a brutal session. Yet all she had was stinging arms.

 

Seeing Leanne always brightened her mood, the bright shining eyes hinting with mischief and humor. The expression had changed in subtle ways: the humor had gotten more witty, there was some guarding in the warmth, and the carefree spirit was experienced. If there was still pain, Jancis hadn't seen it; it seemed more or less content.

 

Why had it been so surprising that she, the conjurer, expected to spar? Wasn't that part of the offer to keep her from just training alone? The reason had been forgotten and it was going to be more friendly. Reconnecting with people close regardless of distance and time. They seemed happily surprised, at least.

 

Drawing straws, Jancis was matched up with Barengar. He asked if she had done unarmed before. A little; she hadn't lied. It wasn't really her forte or tactic to stand there and be punched and stay close enough to deliver one herself. Very rarely had she been forced into a position she couldn't retreat and call for more help. This was a friendly spar though.

It was definitely her upbringing, an unconscious biased that clashed with another, fighting as much as she was holding her forearms up defensively and shuffling about fist to fist with the Ala Mhigan. He was Ala Mhigan, like the guardian that wouldn't stop until she didn't move in their "training", but completely unlike him. And he had shed his armor and weapon, the conjurer's heart-rate increasing from more than the savage adrenaline of battle. The perception of an unstoppable machine was shifting to one that could choose to stop. More man than machine; more than heritage.

 

She thought back on the images in her mind. Did she see any scars? Nothing new, but it'd been some time since she'd seen him without armor on. There was no attempt the smile that came to her face as she made way to the ferry. He had called it a friendly fight and hadn't even considered breaking her arm or dislocating her shoulder to stop the pin. Even the way he grunted at her comment of it was chiding and she took is as sweet (particularly when his fond memory of his first match was getting beaten down by his father - though probably not broken) and chided her own assumptions.

 

All the more reason she wished he'd come along with her on the errands she was doing for Nathaniel. What had he meant by his terms. He felt like a tool to be used? No, he had been a soldier - he had to look out for himself. Like she had, her first years in Gridania as the conjurers rehabilitated her attitude.

 

Mayhaps Leanne would help with the gathering tasks; maybe that would have to have terms. Jancis couldn't simply ask without giving in return. Some kind of trade. The list was fairly long... maybe more would be needed. With their terms?

 

She could do that.

 

Name the terms, and I shall do more than meet them.

[Star Lin]

(ooc: Just a bit of a set up for John and Paul Desmond meeting tonight.)

 

John enter his room in the Dusk.  "Well, that went well," he said with a sigh, dropping the pack on his bed.  He had been able to find the area but hadn't been able to get close to it with investigator still around the area.  He wasn't even sure which one of them might have been Investigator Desmond.  "I need to get this to Sir Paul."

 

'He could already know...' Kit said.

 

Kit was probably right.  He could have figure out there was another person there.  'But what if he doesn't realize.'  It would not be the first time that he had told something and found out that it was already known.  'But how to get him to meet me.'

 

"Mom said that the Adders had been offer his services to try and find me while I was being held by the Garleans," he mutter, reaching for some paper and his quill on his desk.  "Maybe a letter of proper thanks will bring him by here."  He wish that Pick had been here as he wrote, but the spirit was watching the site of the last death, to see if any amoung them might be acting out of character.  Pick had been the one that had pointed out that some of the information seem to point to an insider, perhaps helping Viper when Justice did fail.

 

To Investigator Desmond,

 

My mother made mention the other night that you had offer to help find me while I was missing a month or so ago.  I wish to convey my thanks for wishing to help.  If there is a possibility for us to meet in person?

 

John Waterstrike

Son of House Waterstrike

[Kellach Woods]

A nightmare, only a nightmare... just a nightmare.

 

Of course, it was far less convincing to do so when the wood pressing up against him was not separated by a mattress he'd just repaired, his head resting on a bag filled with books and clothes, and the gentle waves of nightly sailing were cradling the boat. He'd bawl if it served any purpose. The Seven Hells take him if there was any purpose to life other than reciprocating this atrocity on the very people who unconsciously caused it.

 

* * *

 

There'd been reports that Garleans had been sighted across the shore, but they never docked. He wondered why - They'd already established that the nation had nothing for them. Perhaps they were waiting to fully absorb the city into the Garlean Empire proper, perhaps they were simply using the waters nearby to stage an assault. None of them knew.

 

Five more cases of the Surge of Aether, spread out throughout the island. Add to those seven a few days ago, and it felt like something inevitable had finally been set into motion. Dread covered the young man's brow. His responsibilities to the council no longer mattered - this situation required an explanation, and he would get one come hell or high water.

 

He knew where to go - he'd studied the rarest tomes of the island, listened to the legends. All signs pointed to the cavern he'd discovered so long ago.

 

* * *

 

The inside was dank, as always, the remnants of long lost ships still floating after millennia of abandon. The caverns littered with graffiti of a forgotten age. None of this mattered anymore. With an elegant dive, the young man went under the largest ship, finding a box that had been discovered in the early days where the island's inhabitants styled themselves explorers, but were unable to open. Another book that detailed the legend of a key that could open the secrets of life itself held the solution to this puzzle.

 

Bringing the box to the surface, the ancient alphabet dictating the code would be impossible to decipher. Yet he had a talent for such, and soon saw the box open. Within it, a stone radiating with faint power. Pocketing the stone, he rushed to a pedestal that seemed out of place from both the unnatural color of the rock when compared to the rest of the cavern, with the craftsmanship being much higher than any of the stone cutters he knew. The pedestal, as he surmised, had a groove to set the stone on. Turquoise lines formed from the pedestal, heading towards the ships. The cavern heading towards the sea closed, and water poured in from its side, tiny imperceptible holes forced the water up. The mast itself, a bit off place even assuming the ships themselves had crashed here, soon hit the ceiling, a groove made just for it.

 

Behind him, a newfound staircase.

 

At the end of the staircase, the heart of the mountain... nothing.

 

* * *

 

"Private, secure the artifact and escape. I don't want anyone to know we've been here." The language spoken was off - Not Eorzean, nowhere near the ancient language he could inexplicably decipher.

 

The outfits were Garlean, no doubt - He'd seen them enough. How did they make it here? The vision did not show. Still, they soon nabbed the artifact and left.

 

* * *

 

"The Negaether will regulate the area's aether. This is how we'll be able to thrive, leaving the past behind." Black robes and masks he'd seen before. The very founders of this land.

 

"No more. We will die on our own terms, as our master did."

 

They all silently nodded, leaving the machine to hum.

 

The next step will be forgetting this ever happened, their master had ordered such.

 

* * *

 

The memories flooded in the young man's mind. Things he suspected, things he knew from the amount of researched he'd poured in the island's history. The discovery of an era and unfortunately, the instrument of his people's demise.

 

* * *

 

The town had been set on fire - Father had been set against mother, brother against brother, gleefully murdering one another to satisfy a thirst for vengeance against a slight they had done against themselves at the beginning of their history. Each claiming they stole the other's part of themselves they had allegedly lost.

 

He was too late.

 

Others, strangers, unaffected by the illness of the isle, soon began preparations to set sail. Unaffected by the overarching insanity, the man asked for safe passage to the only city he knew - Limsa Lominsa.

 

He stared at the flames, barely even drenched by the blood of his countrymen. Even throughout the farms, men and women had slaughtered livestock, each other, trees. He took to writing a simple sentence :

 

"Today, my people committed suicide."

 

The rest was better left unsaid.

 

With barely a few books to his name, knowledge that amounted to nothing in Eorzea, and the strength of conviction - he set out to find his brother, or at least, anyone who knew him.

 

Einrich Woods had a genocide to plan.

[Anai]

(Expired)

[Verad]

“You promised scrap and salvage, Bellveil. This is quite a lot of scrap and not a lot of salvage.”

 

“My apologies for that, Miss Uro. Much of the salvageable material from the cache was given to a friend of mine for study. I could hardly say no. But I think you’ll find that everything in there is more than worthwhile for someone keen to study goblin engineering.”

 

“Huh! You say that about everything you try to fob my way, but this is good enough just by the quality of the gears, I suppose. Usual trade? Just got a load of things in fell off the back of an airship.”

 

“Did they actually fall?”

 

“I suppose in a sense they did, yes. Lucky some of those sky pirates were in place to catch them, isn’t it? Go on and have a look.”

 

“But of course, Miss Uro. Let’s see … ah, I like the cracked vase, that could be quite popular with some free companies I know who seek that ‘run-down and dilapidated look’. Oh, and - what’s the origin of that statue there?”

 

“The totem? Said it was Vanu make. Supposed to be a warrior from ages past.”

 

“My word, to think they used to look like paissa! It would be quite a find for the budding beastfolk historian. And - Oschon’s bunions, Miss Uro, what is that?”

 

“What, that thing? Bit morbid, isn’t it? Said it was ancient technology or whatever, but you know how it is. Paint a few glowing lines on something and suddenly it’s an authentic wooden coin from ancient Allag or Amdapor or wherever.”

 

“But I don’t see any glowing lines.”

 

“Yeah, this one’s subtle, you just touch it here and - “

 

“Oh! My word! Very interesting. Do you know what it does?”

 

“Mostly it upsets my customers when they look at it, is what it does, and you can see why. Haven’t tried using it. The people brought it in said it was a rejuvenation device, or preservation, or similar.”

 

“Preservation? On what?”

 

“People I suppose, but to use it you’d have to get in it, and you won’t catch me doing - “

 

“I’ll take it.”

 

“What, that? It’s a mite large to sell at the Quicksand isn’t it?”

 

“Quite so, Miss Uro. But this is for me. Just this. I think that’s a fair trade.”

 

“Your - hah - your funeral, I suppose. I’ll have it crated and sent to your estate How d’you plan on using it?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. I could always stand to shave a few years off of my life.”

[Tali]

[align=center]A Small Announcement in the Harbor Herald

 

[/align]

[align=center][/align]

 

 

---

 

Translation:

 

J’Inarah Marad & J‘Kilid Tia

 

We add our wishes of joy and delight to their own at the news of the birth of their daughter, J’dimah Kilid on the 20th Sun, Third Umbral Moon, weighing 7 ponze 2 onz.  Congratulations to the pair of you!

 

---

 

The very same Sun, Kilid can be found engaging in very animated, very one-way conversation with a passing Maelstrom guard, and a post Moogle, both of whom appear to be on the verge of slipping into a very deep sleep; the Maelstrom Miqo’s head drooping and snapping up, eyes glazed, and the Moogle’s entire fluffy form occasionally veering off to one side before coming to with a startled ‘Kupo!’

 

“So, aye, as ah were sayin’, she’s got both our eyes, can ye believe that?  Ah couldn’t!  Ah really couldn’t’ah wished f’ anythin’ more fittin’!  ‘course, she’s already got ‘er mother’s good looks!”

 

And, in a hushed subtone, raising a hand theatrically to cover his mouth he adds, with a wink

 

“’though ‘avin’ a few’ve mine ain’t gonna ‘old ‘er back any, eh?“

 

Oblivious to the plight of his audience, the muscled Miqo lowers his hand and continues on, waving, pointing, and gesturing with more energy than is altogether healthy for any one man!

 

“Left eye, that’s ‘narah’s.  S’ a gold brighter’n Azeyma’s sun, ah’d swear! The right’s the kind’ve pure, perfect blue ye could only find in someone like yours truly ‘ere ‘til Dimah were born!  She’s got me own ‘air colour, ah think.  Looks it at the moment, anyways!  But she’s deffo got ‘er mothers skin, the lucky lass.  Oh aye, she’s the prettiest damn thing ye’ve ever seen, ah promise ye!  Or, well, ye ain’t seen ‘er, but ye wishes ye could, ah know.  Ah wish ye could see ‘er an’ all, but she an’ ‘narah are nappin’ right now.”

 

Glancing back towards the house, the shirtless Seeker sighs wistfully, a beaming grin dominating his features.  Sadly for the captives, Kilid’s attention is back on the pair of them before either realise that his attention had ever wandered, giving them only the briefest glimpse of tantilising freedom.

 

“Ah gotta say, the circumstances weren’t what ah’d’ve called ideal.  Ah mean... we ‘ad Velhi ‘url up in the silverware crate right afore ‘narah’s eyes, the silly sod.  She ain’t never gonna forgive ‘im f’ that, but she were already overdue, an’ ah think the shock, an’ that ol’ Inarah rage were enough t’ let Dimah know it were ‘er time.  ‘narah went int’ labor on the spot near enough, an’ a few Bells later, she’s a mummy an’ ah’m a daddy!"

 

Chest swelling, Kilid’s attention wandered once more, this time to follow the gaze of both the Maelstrom soldier and the Moogle over his shoulder. Turning his back on the pair, the Seekers smile blooms brighter, blossoming into the expression of a man who first found peace, then found something unquestionably more precious.  Setting off at a hurried pace away from the already forgotten pair without further word, Kilid meets Inarah, and the tiny, wrapped bundle of blanket that hid Dimah half-way across the sun-kissed garden path, embracing the ladies (And lights) of his life in tanned, toned arms.

 

Sensing their moment has come, the private and the post Moogle cast the briefest of glances at one another, share a nod, and flee in opposite directions.

[Delilah Scythewood]

Over the years, Lili had come to adapt a philosophy of life that had grown far less cheery then when she was younger. It was simply: "life goes on". However true it was did nothing to subtract from the bleak undertones when applied to certain situations. When her eldest daughter, Dei, was found dead and nailed to the door of one of her former employees? She kept a strong face for her children...but shattered on the inside. It was as if time stopped. Like this searing, red hot pain that gripped her organs and squeezed would just render her insides into a pulp. She would simply drop and the pain would be over.

 

But it didn't.

 

Life goes on. Elonwea continued to grow inside of her belly. Ado and Mikh'a continued to play together, not fully grasping the magnitude of the situation being ones so young and innocent to the dark realities of the world. Locke was there to comfort her until the shop needed him. Sara, while quietly grieving, would slowly pick up the fragments and shuffle along. Life didn't stop because of Lili's pain, the pain of losing a child.

 

Life goes on.

 

When Locke died and the body was found? Numbness came first. An all encompassing numbness to everything and everyone, even her children. Even her close friends. Nothing helped in those first few days. Not even Elli crying out of hunger broke her as she sat in the darkness of her bedroom, clutching a age worn blanket to her chest that had once belonged to her husband. Olli would flutter around her head, as if checking for injuries that he could assist with. But she looked fine. Healthy. For her age, Lili was in her prime at thirty six summers and likely had a few more years left before she truly began to decline into the signs of aging.

 

She didn't remember how many days she had been in that room, curtains drawn and darkness prevailing. She didn't remember how much she did or didn't eat or if she did or didn't sleep. It wasn't until her son came home with his bonded and was told what was happen did his booming steps echo up the stairs two or three at a time. The door to her bedroom was slammed open and she almost recoiled from the light that came in from the hallway.

 

"Get up." He looked so much like his father. Tall, dark skinned. Blonde hair.

 

She didn't move.

 

He stepped closer into the room and kneeled in front of her on the bed. She was still clutching the blanket to her chest. He tried to nudge it out of the way but she shook her head fiercely. Clutching it more tightly to her chest like he meant to take it away forever. His large hands rubbed over her arms but she couldn't stomach looking at her son.

 

"Ma...look at me."

 

Her head shook quickly from side to side.

 

But...life goes on.

 

He eventually coaxed her out of letting go of the blanket. For the first time in days, he got her to cry. She slumped into him and sobbed, dry heaving with snot dribbling and far from a vision of grace. Then he helped her up, arm around her waist, and helped get her to the tub across the hall. Sara was already there like he asked her to be and she helped their mother bathe. Helped her slowly come back into herself again. A few days after that? Lili managed to smile.

 

While life goes on, it doesn't always bring the people we love with it.

[Star Lin]

John finish packing, figuring that a day or two of clothes would be enough while he stay at Aethertide's house to have the siren's memories removed.  He place a book on medical herbs on top, in case anyone wanted to read over it while he was there.  Then he pick up the lidded box, which was heavily warded on the outside of it.  The moment he place Salacea's memories in it.  The wards would seal the box, only allowing him to actually open it.  He just hope that they could find a way to destroy it and soon.  He would have prefer one of them being with him but he didn't know how long it would take to remove all of her memories from his mind and how many times they would have to do it.

 

"I'll have to make sure that Khyran also gets rid of them from his own," he said to Kit.

 

'Not good, if get rid from you but she finds a way to use him instead.'

 

"Yeah, I don't want him hurt by her."  He sat down at his desk, writing out a short note for the others.  He folded it, putting down 'From John' on it.  Slinging the pack over his shoulders, he step out of the room.  He move over to the desk in the small room, placing the note on it, then setting a crystal on it so it didn't get blown off when he left.  He closed the door behind him, letting his fingers linger on it before he gather aether around him, finding the point that was Lisma and letting himself be pull to the citystate.

 

Warren, Howl, Sei, or whoever finds this.

 

 

I'll be gone for a couple of days, I hope, to have Sir Khyran help me with something.  Howl, you already know what it's about and probably you as well Warren.  If nothing unforeseen happens, then I should be bring a certain object home soon.  I hope by then we can work out something to deal with the object, permanently.  Until then, I'll be careful and please look out for each other.

 

 

I have my linkpearl with me if you need to contact me.  I'm also will be staying at Aethertide's house while Khyran is helping me.  Their place is Mist ward 12, plot 45 if you need to see me.  I hope to be home by next Grindstone.

 

 

May Thaliak's wisdom guide you,

John Waterstike

[Jancis]

“Just as I enjoy your smiles, your spirit soaring, carefree, greater than any dragon’s flight. Tribulations upon your shoulders do little good for you.” 

 

The key turned easily, opening the door where Jancis had expected a dark cluttered room. 

 

The scant couple times she had stayed in the Forgotten Knight were the same: dark room, low fire, and many leftover bottles and trash as the room was suppose to be cleaned by the previous occupant.

 

This room was different. Brow furrowed, she called out with a curious greeting. An oil lamp had a low glow, perhaps she had the wrong key? No the rooms were empty, and there were rooms! Two bedrooms and a small common area with a worktable, unlike any of the others!

She must have been given the wrong key! Exiting and returning to the front desk, she was practically ignored by the innkeep, only told that keys weren’t just given out (and how absurd to claim it). 

 

With fervent apologies, she returned to the hall, looking about the other doors. Which one was Denz’s? Perhaps he could notice her presence. Her hand grazed over the walls, practically pressing her body to one as she paused, “Denz?” Came the quiet call, she didn’t want to disturb the other patrons.

 

Looking about, she returned to the extravagant room, sinking before the hearth, overtaken as to what to do at the late hour.

 

“Menphina, be not so cold to me.”

[Trigonxv]

In a cave located somewhere in the Thanalan region one man sits bound to a chair blindfolded clearly injured and beaten. Another man sits across from him with the utmost air of indifference and speaks.

 

"Now now friend I believe you and I have been acquainted long enough that we can openly share one anothers feelings" The man said with smile although the blindfolded man had no way of knowing.

 

"You can shove it you damned hound! I ain't telling you anything, torture me all you want but I am ready to die before I tell you anything that wreak harm upon my people and nation" the blindfolded man said gritting his teeth through the pain the other man simply laughed at him and began clapping.

 

"I see this is the grand Ala Mhigan pride I always hear about! truly a sight to behold my friend you certainly represent your people in the greatest of lights in even this dimmest of places." His tone grows slightly more serious but also holds an air of mockery "Listen friend that pride caused the downfall of your own people and that pride has made your people nothing more than bottom feeders in this land who will do anything to rise to the top. My offer still stands friend, tell me about supply routes, caches, bases, informants everything and I will not turn you over to the empire, in fact I will line your pockets with enough gil to live a life of pride and luxury free from the empire. Despite the terrible circumstances that brought us together I am a man of my word and this will give you the opportunity to raise the alarm about my presence to help protect your people... you know as well as I do that compared to what the empire will do to you I am a god damn saint." He said laughing once more

 

The blindfolded man spit towards the sound of the laughter and yelled "You dog of the empire I will take no such demonic offer, my people will smoke you out soon enough and then the fury of my people will rain down upon your pathetic soul condemning it to an eternal hell, the Ala Mhigan will never fall to men of such small existences such as yourself-" his voice was cut off as the other mans hand was gripped around his throat.

 

In a complete flat tone while squeezing tightly around the the mans throat he speaks "There is always someone friend, and I make it a habit to find them. Know this friend I am very good at the jobs I am given and your people will experience that firsthand for many moons" he lets go of the mans throat and pushes as to make him fall over while still bound "This will be the last time we talk friend do enjoy your stay with the empire... and another thing I am no dog I am a crow" With that the man exits the cave and shortly after a small popping sound is heard outside.

 

The man gasps for breath and tries to break his binding but to no avail, soon the cave grows quiet and nothing but his shallow breathing could be heard. For the time the man had left he continuously prayed until he was gagged by the garlean troops that arrived to retrieve him.

[Ruran]

Ruran lay very still in an inn room at Fallgourd Float. His suit of armor had been removed and stowed to the side, though those who had brought him respected the mask and kept it upon his face. A stranger or two had come and gone for the past day, bandaging the wound at his right arm and adjusting his blankets.

 

He had not responded to any of them.

 

When not asleep, distant eyes stared at the ceiling. He felt nothing. He had no thoughts, no emotions, no voice. For him, time stood still, locked in a single moment of absolute emptiness. Numbness seeped down to his bones. Like a puppet with no strings, he was broken.

 

Finally, at the end of a two full days of silence, a familiar resounding tone spoke into his drifting mind. The stone beneath the folds of his shirt brightened.

 

“Ruran… Thou art not yet finished with thy task.”

 

There was no reply. Ruran's dull, half-lidded eyes stared toward the ceiling, his mouth slightly agape with shallow breaths behind his polished mask.

 

“I have given thee rest. Go and do what thou hast agreed.”

 

Still nothing.

 

The stone gently thrummed, patient for a time and lingering in the silence. When it spoke again, each word held purpose.

 

“…Dost thou not wish to protect thy family?”

 

Memories flashed across Ruran’s vision. Pale hair. Eyes like the springtime. A child’s laughter of ‘daddy!’ A warm embrace. Sunlight. The smell of oranges. Fingertips on old wood. The taste of a woman’s mouth.

 

His left hand twitched. The barest hint of sorrow veiled across his eyes as his breath hitched with sudden longing.

 

“Then rise.”

 

Still distant and unfocused, he obeyed. His body tried to move on its own, driven by the determination to protect the ones he loved, but to no avail. He had no strength to lift himself. The stone at his chest was quiet…and then it flashed brightly. A vivid light pulsed from its center, like a shock to Ruran’s very soul.

 

It all came rushing back at once: Coerthas. A battle on the road. His eyes widened, and he lurched forward with a loud wheeze. Time finally caught up to him; it hit like a bag of bricks. He took large, shuddering gulps of air, as if he had been holding his breath for two days.

 

Panicked eyes darted about the room, until they stared at the faded yellow blanket that covered his legs. He could still feel the heat on his arms. The deafening crack of a gunshot ringing between his ears. The weight of his armor. His feet felt frozen, though he was no longer standing in snow.

 

He was awake...but was he whole?

[Gegenji]

It wasn't the sort of letter Jredthys had been expecting - mostly due to his family not being the sort to do such things. However, in the fuzzy paw of the Postmoogle had been exactly such a thing. Sent by his sister, formerly and properly requesting the Judge's return home for a proper visit. The way it was written, the armored behemoth believed another had a hand in both the idea and how it was composed.

 

Marisaie.

 

The last time he had seen the grandmotherly Elezen, it was at their usual posts at the Grindstone, though she possessed no recollection of their time spent together. Whether it had been purposeful or accidental, the Judge knew not. However, it and the travel that had come before it followed the conflict of interests that had resulting in the two going their separate ways. The old lizard was still too ingrained by the past, and the similarities betwixt Mari and Auflonne had resulted in expectations and interactions similar to his previous mate. It had caused a discordance, though Jredthys - in an uncharacteristic moment of candor - had hoped the split had gone smoothly and properly enough.

 

However, many still expected the Elezen at the Judge's side and showed confusion when they were not. Even the letter suggested that she be brought with, should their fates still be entwined. That simple request had brought a downward crease to narrow lips then, and did again now as Jredthys sat at the dinner table of the Duskbreak. At his fingertips was a letter of his own - one destined to not travel quite as far.

 

Upon the parchment, he had scribed that he was going to fulfill his sibling's request - properly made as it was. The time apart had been quite lengthy indeed, and the ending of the conflicts about their home provided the optimal opportunity for such a rejoinder. How long he would be away was purposely left vague - the old man's grasp on time having always been rather tenuous, but such was the norm for one such as he. Following it were a small cadre of individuals already a part of the Grindstone staff that could serve as suitable replacement until his return, though he also made mention that it would ultimately be up to the discretion of the Arbiter. And at its end was a vow to return once his trip was over, to return to his place beneath the branches of the mighty tree that marked the battlefield of the Arbor Bracket.

 

He looked it over once, twice, thrice. Checking for any spelling errors or incorrect sentence structure and syntax. There were none, but it would have been improper not to make certain. A light dusting of pounce to speed the drying process and prevent any unsightly smudges to his very exacting and firm handwriting, followed by a shaking off the excess to be returned to the pot from which the powder came. A final, cursory glance of his handiwork resulted in a self-reaffirming nod.

 

Folding the message up and leaving it where the Arbiter would most easily find it, the Judge gathered up the saddlebag that held the required items for his travel. Food, water, and other such necessities would be lashed to the saddle of his stalwart warhorse Bench in within short order. He certainly had faster means to get there, should such a thing be needed, but it had been cycles since he had ventured beyond the grasp of the three city-states of the Alliance for any measurable length of time. It would be improper not to stretch his wings a little bit.