Bulletin Board

[Ha'uruh Nunh]

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.

 

Lt'helo had a nasty habit of reading other people's mail.

 

She replaced the letter exactly as it was and studied it, tapping her pipe against her arm.  She hadn't been able to reach the Judge since her arrival.  Unsurprising, of course, given his nature and her own.  They had more in common than he knew.

 

She thought about the Arbor bracket, and a dark, cold kitchen that smelled now only of the remnants of one of her pipes.  She thought of the bell Warren Castille kept in the company chest.  She thought of the knife of stone she had offered the Masked One, only to be refused, and she thought of Aoi and her new child.

 

She turned away from the mantle.  He had promised to return, and one of the things that was similar about them was that they both knew they had nothing but time.

[Ruran]

“I wish to hire you, Madoc.”

 

The au ra across the table quirked a brow, meeting the masked man's determined gaze. Warm shadows cast from a nearby fireplace, forming harsh lines across the xaela’s scarred features. He slowly lowered his tankard. “...Oh, aye?” The corner of his lips twitched with some amount of amusement, and he leaned in his chair to drape an arm over the back. “Straight to the point, I like that. What for? Judgin’ by the sword, I’d say you need help cuttin’ somethin’ up.”

 

“No, nothing like that. I just…need you to keep an eye on something for me. Someone.”

 

“Ain’t much of a spy.” The au ra eyed the man, not even bothering to hide his suspicion. “Subtlety’s not my thing.”

 

“N...not spying.” Ruran shook his head with a grimace. It was spying, he knew it, though it was justified, at least in his mind. “…I just…can’t be in La Noscea as much as I prefer, and I need to know if…if they’re all right.”

 

“Gonna have to be more specific, can’t be lookin’ out for every ‘they’ out there.”

 

The knight’s hands curled into soft fists on his knees as he looked away from the au ra’s piercing dark gaze. A reluctant moment passed, until Ruran finally spoke, his voice quiet. “…The Rinannis estate. Lily Rinannis, and her children.”

 

A sly smirk crept its way to Madoc’s lips as he studied the pale knight. His barbed tail clacked against the wooden floor in a single whump, keeping his nonchalant air as he spoke. “Aye, I see. I know the place. And what do I do if I see somethin’? Got a way to reach you?”

 

Ruran was already reaching into his satchel to retrieve three items: a piece of folded paper, a linkpearl, and a small coin purse. “At this address,” he pushed the parchment toward the sellsword, followed by the others. “Or the pearl, if an emergency… I have also included payment in advance. I think you'll find it sufficient.”

 

“Oh, so prepared,” Madoc grinned, reaching for the paper and reading its contents. “…The Goblet? Been a while since I’ve gone to the mainland. I’ll pay you a visit now and then, keep you in the know and pick up my coin. Aye?”

 

“Please.”

 

“So it’s settled, then.” The linkpearl, paper, and purse—which warranted a little toss and a small whistle—were pocketed. “Good to be doin’ business with you, Alabaster.”

 

“… Alabaster?”

 

"Aye." Madoc tapped his face, indicative of the mask of Ruran’s own. “Don’t like it?”

 

“No, it’s…it’s fine. Thank you, Madoc…” Ruran picked himself up, offering a low bow of his head to the warrior xaela. His shoulders had been perpetually tense throughout their meeting.

 

Madoc smirked at the formality and offered a small, simple wave of farewell before returning to his drink and laughing with the table next to him. As if they had never spoken.

[Trigonxv]

Report to Garlean Command

 

My recent activities have been average at best, while I may bring you the occasional prisoner or two I surmise they have not been of much worth in acquiring the information needed. Finding an Ala Mhigan of high standard is more of a challenge than you may perceive, there is a river of prideful stalwart fighters but they are far from offering anything strategic in value which is why I have broadened my spectrum and have attained a rather bountiful outcome. Upon inquiring upon a local information brokerage I came across news of a meeting between Ala Mhigans and sympathizers alike and so I decided to take a look. Among the many there that I made note of there were two that caught my particular attention, one was a member of the religious sect of the Ala Mhigans and another was a so called nobility of the people. It goes without saying I will keep an eye on their movements and relay what is discovered to you. I will not however capture them, they offer more value to us continuing their operations so that we can locate other prime targets of interest. I will continue to conduct the sabotage operations as well as capture prisoners should the opportunity present itself. That is all for my report should there be any update to my contract details alleviate them the same way as always and of course with the proper payment ready at hand.

[Steel Wolf]

Thundering Castle stirred in her sleep, a low groan rumbling in her throat. It was a mixture of contentment at her surroundings and protest that she was slowly regaining consciousness, as the inn bed was the first she had felt beneath her in many moons after days on the road.

 

The dark-skinned Roegadyn woman wrenched her eyes shut and slowly opened them to look at the walls of her room at the Ul'dah establishment she bedded herself. It was already a warm, bright day as she felt the radiant heat of the sun firing in through her windows warm her skin. Mercifully, she had a simple, loose camisole on to keep her comfortable during the night.

 

Cassie stretched in the bed, her shoulders rolling back as blood flowed through her body and her senses began to clear the fog of sleep. Comfort washed over her frame...but something else came to her...some feeling within her breast...

 

She looked down at her generous cleavage just in time to see a small baby nutkin's head pop out between her breasts, its large ears unfurling like the sails of a ship. Its tiny black eyes locked with hers, its small nose wiggling rapidly as it sniffed in her direction.

 

Cassie's eyes crossed, went wide with absolute shock and her mouth slowly opened in to a rounded shape of surprise and horror. Finally, her voice came as a shrill scream issued from her. Her limbs flailed and her body writhed as she panicked, her hands clawing at her chest while her legs kicked in the air to aid her in getting out of the bed as swiftly as possible. After several moments of fruitless flailing, she leapt to her feet, her hands furiously clawing at her bosom to free itself of the obviously dangerous nutkin.

 

Cassie's voice continued to wail in terror, her knees lifting in the air as she hop-ran around the room. In her panic, she tore the camisole off of her body, freeing her breasts and the trapped creature between them. She pawed at her breastbone, wiping the imaginary ichor the beast left on her chest. The nutkin had long since thudded on the floor and darted away in to a hole between the floorboards as the giant madwoman had her tantrum.

 

She stood in the middle of her room, chest heaving as she breathed through the adrenaline and calmed her beating heart. Cassie's frightened eyes scanned the room for further danger, and they fell to the now tattered camisole laying defeated on the floor. The one comfortable piece of clothing she had brought with her from Ishgard. Ripped apart by her desperation to free the nutkin from its unintentional trap.

 

Living alone in Eorzea was going to be difficult.

[Delilah Scythewood]

"Gaston! Been ages, you bastard!"

 

The elezen gave a soft grunt, slipping off his jacket as he approached the bar. Mor Dhona wasn't his usual drinking establishment locale of choice, but he had been in the area and decided he deserved a drink. Well, what he really felt he deserved was a keg. But he never liked the choices he made when he was drunk. Or the men he decided to take in back alleyways.

 

He made his way to the table and shook hands with both men who were seated there. One a large xaela named Genju and the other another elezen named Haurent. Both good people, both former employers of his, and the three would meet for drinks now and then to talk shit about world matters while getting drunk. Or, in Gaston's case, decently tipsy before excusing himself for the evening.

 

Judging by the tankards on the table, they got started without him. Typical.

 

"I've been rather busy. You two seem to be getting along just fine without me." His comment made Genju laugh, cheekbones already pink from the amount of alcohol he was starting to drown himself in. While Haurent was far more composed, he did let out a chuckle, "I heard one of your trips didn't go so well. Is that why your mood is so poor?"

 

Gaston scowled. "Why would that be any of your concern?"

 

"Come now!" crooned Haurent, trying to pacify the boiling male. "We like to make sure you're still alive and well. Besides! Genju here knew your client...ah, somewhat." He sounded unsure, like he wasn't getting the details right and looked to the xaela for assurance. After letting out a disgustingly loud belch (Gaston made a face with distaste), Genju nodded.

 

"Ya, I know her. Well, not exactly. Her last husband ran some shop in the Goblet that I used to walk past going to my free company's place. Seen her in the yard with some kids a few times. Haven't seen them since he got himself blown up there, though, or some shite like that." Details, smetails for Genju. He just wanted to drink.

 

Both elezen peered to one another. Typical. They weren't surprised by the lack of details but it sounded about right to Gaston. "Mm...small, blonde?" That rang a bell as Genju spoke in muffled tones against the rim of his mug, "Really big tits, too!"

 

Haurent gave him a punch to the side of the arm, well timed given how it made some of the booze slosh onto Genju's chest who let out a yelp and some laughter from the rest of the tavern at the sight of him wearing his drink. Snarling at them all, he rose up and stomped to the bar to get a rag.

 

Once he was gone to clean up, Gaston let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Fucking xaela." Haurent smirked sidelong and offered in a softer voice, "What exactly happened, any road? I wasn't able to hear any details and I haven't bothered going to Coerthas to check." He waited for Gaston to respond as the man took a moment to swig down some ale.

 

The mug hit the tabletop with a definitive thump. "She fell. Got her leg jammed into a crevice and couldn't get her out while a freeze was coming in. So she had me cut it off."

 

Haurent's brows arched up nice and high with a low whistle. "She made you cut her leg off?"

 

"Most of it. The left one. It was either that or she'd be left to die here and I told her as much. Not a moment of hesitation. Even offered to do it herself if I wasn't willing. I did it and then Livvy helped me get her down the mountain and to a medic in Ishgard since it was closer. Turns out some nobles knew her and one of her brats so they got her taken care of. She's recovering now."

 

"Well, at least she didn't die."

 

Gaston shrugged, staring vacantly forward as he sipped at his mug of ale. "No, but her screaming sounded like she wanted too."

[Kellach Woods]

Inquiry of Aleport Smuggling Activity, fourth report.

 

When I first accepted this assignment, it was believed that there were some discrepancies between the manifests and the actual shipping going on. While this was expected, what caused the discrepancies requires more explanations and I fully intend on explaining them here. Alongside this report, you will find two sets of manifests. The first are the manifests as presented to Mealvaan's Gate inspectors, and the second are copies I had them provide me that I may note down the discrepancies between amounts and content of cargo.

 

 

The first problem to mention is theft - As times grow tougher on Eorzeans, especially considering how barren the fields next to Swiftperch are, stevedores are wont to steal from the very cargo they haul. Not exactly high profile thefts - too high profile and they get caught. However, someone has been certainly doing the work of the Yellowjackets, as they have found several of the men dead, floating around a week after the disappearances were noticed. More importantly, these victims have been known to skim a little off food crates and other sustenance-related cargo. Typically, these men would be assigned to cargo they would be less tempted to steal from. Either they did not have the black market contacts to skim off the spoils of their larceny or did not see the profit in this type of cargo.

 

 

Where their assignments matter is that they were all assigned to cargo they would not ordinarily steal from - yet they did so anyway, paying the ultimate price. If you look at the crates where only a minor irregularity was noted, you will also find a list of names. These are the people that disappeared after stealing off of these crates. Similar crates that had not been tampered with did not result in the stevedores being killed, leading me to posit that the executions were performed as punishment for tampering with these crates specifically. The contents vary, but are all esoteric materials that can reportedly be used in alchemical concoctions, or dubious magical rituals.

 

 

An investigation conducted in either the sender or the receiver of this cargo did not yield anything substantial. Different providers and different recipients - and no real link between them beyond a common interest in magic and alchemy.

 

 

Mysterium has begun an investigation that is tangentially related to this one - They have noted some bizarre, symbol-laden crates that do not appear on any manifests. An inspector was able to properly identify them, and yet when he summoned the Yellowjackets to take care of them, they were unable to see the crates, nor were they able to properly operate the seizure of property. Due to my undercover status, I decided not to pursue this lead as it would require disclosing my status as an agent of Mealvaan's Gate. All I am aware is that the content of this crate are weapons. Nothing specific can be determined about these weapons.

 

 

I will keep my investigation going, but I also advise providing the Aleport Yellowjackets with this information. I would do so myself, but as you know, I cannot compromise my position.

 

 

Expect the next report in a few moons.

 

 

- Einrich

[GhostlyMaiden]

Lost and confused.

 

She's spiraling down.

 

All the way down.

 

Into the endless abyss.

 

No one will find you there and no one will chase after you.

 

Alone.

 

Marigold spoke in almost a murmur, sitting on a small bed in the inn room.

"What if I ran away from it all?"

 

Another voice spoke, a woman's voice whose words spat out like venom.

"You tried it once, it failed. If you try it again, what makes you think you'll get any better results? One way or another, you'll crawl right back into trouble. You're drawn to it, you like the thrill."

 

Marigold's hands reached for her head, her fingers combing in to her short, orange hair as she held the strands between her fingers tight. Her eyes were closed, head throbbing. The blue pendant that was always around her neck was glowing brightly as the conversation continued.

 

"No, no I don't! I want to escape it, I don't want to worry about it anymore! I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want anyone to get hurt because of me, I don't want to make things worst!"

 

The other woman laughed and her laugh sent a chill down Marigold's spine. The woman's voice sounded closer now, almost as if she was right behind her speaking into her ear.

 

"If you hated it so much, you would've left long ago. You would've dealt with the problem directly, kill Tray, then run away. Yet you stay. You don't want to admit it to yourself but you're drawn to him and the trouble that you know will come your way. You refuse to embrace it and it's leaving you in this sorry state."

 

The crying Raen shook her head, now yelling.

"JUST SHUT UP!"

 

The voice now drew quieter, as if she had now stepped away.

"It all started with that pendant, little do you know it but it serves more purposes than just that pesky aether of yours. Think about it, long and hard, Marigold. When you finally give in and accept your true fate, seek me out again."

 

Marigold finally opened her eyes and jolted up, her breathing was heavy and her eyes red with tear stained cheeks. Quickly looking around the room, the door was closed and no one was there.

[Trigonxv]

Report to Garlean Intelligence

 

I have continued my surveillance on the resistance meetings here and upon inquiring about certain peculiarities regarding the garb some individuals wear I was told that they represented the religious sect of their people. I know not greatly their history but they alleviated that the empire made great efforts to make people forget. These members will greatly increase the motivation and unity of the people, I can say this with certainty upon the last meeting I attended. As my contract entails I am required to sabotage the resistance and by removing these religious figure it will create quite the demoralizing effect, however it could also adversely kindle their rage even further and result in unprecedented action that even I can not hinder no matter what skill and resources I have available. I would ask you to advise me on how to handle these religious members, I will continue my surveillance on these meetings and hindering the resistance in any means possible until I am further notified. Do note that resistance activity has increased despite my efforts recently and seem to grow more intensive as time passes, if this continues I could become compromised and suggest my contract be updated with new directives to account for any sudden changes.

[Verad]

Offices of the Genealogical Investigation and Restitution Committee, House of Commons, Ishgard:

 

Chaitivelle was used to the smell of brandy, liberally applied in great quantities, emanating from the region of Launval's desk in the committee offices. He had always been known as a tippler among the Crozier's gossipmongers, and though she had never seen it herself, naught but a moon was required for her to see the engraver-turned-assayer of Ishgardian futures lived up to his reputation. 

 

What was unusual, she thought as she settled into a desk arranged just so, blotter perfectly aligned and quill resting in its inkpot at just the right angle to appear jaunty without being thought impertinent by a member of the Lords come by to browbeat his supposed inferiors, was for the smell to be so obvious so early in the day. That, and for it to be accompanied by groans of despair and anguish not unlike several of the more sanguine mummeries she had witnessed in the Brume, all while Launval lay draped in his chair as if his suicide was a truly forgone conclusion, despite his body had found a way to trap his soul and keep it out of Halone's halls. Yet there he was, and there was his bottle, already half-full, and there was his glass, half-full as well.

 

She ignored the obvious existential crisis for as long as she could manage. Chaitivelle checked her post, politely responded to a letter from a member of her district asking about rising tax rates, warmly replied to a crude scrawl from a Brume urchin asking if he too could be a Commons someday that of course he could, and reviewed a proposal from a Convictory knight asking if a severed dragon's head was not proof enough of nobility to be considered for application (not when any such head had yet to be produced, she decided, after two moons of requests for the trophy in question) before pausing for morning tea. Then, and only then, while the yak milk was not yet boiling in its pot, did she ask, in the gentle manner of someone inquiring about the man's family for idle conversation, "Why, representative Launval, whatever is the matter?"

 

A set of parchments was not so much tossed as sprayed at her, as if Launval sought to obfuscate his exit in the manner of a frightened wavekin. Yet through the brief flurry of paper, he remained, waiting for Chaitivelle to snatch some of the papers out of the air lest they land too close to the stove. "That, good madam. That right there. Such an application as we have received this morning shall be the end of us, and yet I cannot ignore it." His position in his chair shifted from supine to crouched, curling up into as much of a ball as his desk would allow.

 

"Surely it cannot be as bad as all that," remarked Chaitivelle, her words interspersed with the crackle of paper caught from the air before it caught flame. It was another Brume bastard, no doubt, taking the opportunity of the war's end to reclaim his due from the father, mother, or whomever who denied him. Common enough, and often enough a claim with such merit as bore serious consideration. Yet every such request that had crossed their desks had led Launval to fits of apoplexy before they were even sure if it was worthy of placing it before the Houses. And yet he had come highly recommended by Lords who had helped create the committee. There were several thoughts Chaitivelle had about that, and she had yet to determine which of them were true.

 

Setting the matter aside, she found the application's first page and settled in to read. At least a skim before the milk developed skin would be no imposition.

 

Time passed. The milk congealed, and only a mournful blorp of a sound as it boiled reminded her it existed. One of her hands curled up into a ball around the papers. "An Ul'dahn?!"  

 

"Aye, madam representative."

 

"Do - Is there even such a thing as an elezen in Ul'dah? I had thought it all those small popoto-shaped people and Hyur."

 

"Apparently it is so, madam representative."

 

Casting a glance at the spoiled tea, Chaitivelle's eyes, already prone to squint, narrowed further. She cast out the milk from its pot with a frustrated huff and stepped aside from the stove, kneeling down to pick up the papers that had reached the floor. "Surely this is some mummer's farce. Surely, Launval." Hair fell into her face as she bent low, and she had to pause to shake it out of her head. "Why not simply deny it? The man is foreign, if he even exists. Were he Gridanian I might see fit to give it consideration, but this!"

 

When Launval spoke, it was a mumble. He had contrived to place his head between his knees while keeping the former at the level of his desk. Chaitivelle grimaced and swatted him at the side with her papers. "Do compose yourself!"

 

"Madam, would that I could cast this aside, yet if you will read, his research is quite thorough." He spoke after unbending himself and twisting his face to rest on his desk. "He traces his line back to a dead house, cast out after that . . . whatever it was." He waved his hand. "Where the forest decided to stop eating its inhabitants."

 

"Still a rather absurd claim, is it not? Naught of any house gone that long remains, taken up by those who carried on." Returning to her seat, Chaitivelle set about sorting the papers, arranging them and carefully smoothing out any unnecessary wrinkles. "What house, pray?"

 

"Deauxbois, madam representative."

 

Her hand paused on at the corner of one sheet. "Mayhaps I do not quite recall. Were they not cast out for putting their own servants to the sword to the last man?"

 

"Nay, madam. That was how they earned the title. Heretics, every one of their kitchen staff, or so the records claimed. The casting out is on the tenth page."

 

Finding the indicated page, she read further. "Oh." There was silence. "Oh." She continued reading. Launval pressed his brandy bottle to the edge of his desk, within reach of her hand. She accepted it without complaint. Her teacup sufficed.

 

"It is thorough," she said once she had poured herself a pair of fingers. "Not impossible for a bastard to have survived all that."

 

"Aye, it is." Launval finished the last of his glass. "And yet."

 

And yet. And yet allowing it would mean allowing foreigners to claim titles. It meant little that this applicant wanted nothing more than acknowledgement and the title for himself, forswearing even the chance of a seat in the houses. There would be others, all vying for wealth and land in a realm now so cold there was little of both to spare. And yet it would mean risking swelling the ranks of the Lords and filling their coffers with foreign coin rather than the honest folks of the Foundation and the Brume. And yet, it would mean one day, some waddling little popoto requiring a stool as he stood before the two houses and declared their shared lineage. The thought of it made her teacup shake in her hand.

 

And yet for all that, it was thorough.

 

"A test," she said, the thought not so much unbidden as desperately sought within the less-organized corners of her mind. "Hm? A test." She held up the one paper. "It could all be naught but mummery and fabrication. A test is the thing, surely."

 

Launval groped in feeble fashion for his brandy until it was returned to him. "What could be tested?" he asked after foregoing the decency of his glass and tippling from the bottle. "His claims are paper, not blood."

 

"Mayhaps...in most cases." Chaitivelle tried to smile. "But this merchant claims to be Deauxbois, and their claims are steeped in blood. Do you suppose he can handle overmuch?"

[Berrod Armstrong]

Berrod was the first to stir, as usual. He felt the soft sheets beneath him, the cozy, warm, somewhat musky air of the room about him, and the weight of assorted limbs upon his bare body. The Highlander was in the midst of quite the tangle; one that he knew he would not be able to extract himself from unless he woke one of the others – particularly Sarij, whose heavy arm was locked around his waist. Berrod’s head was also captured by the cleave of his chest. It was pushed sideways two ilms every time the Sea Wolf breathed. Given that the red-headed Highlander was on his back in the dim before dawn, he could not tell whether the hand that cradled his scruffy jaw was Caleb’s or Caden’s – he suspected the one on his stomach was Caleb’s, for he knew the Agron enjoyed resting it there. Berrod took a deep breath that spread his chest then exhaled. His prison of lovers afforded him time to think – something he both dreaded and was grateful for.

 

 

Perhaps it had been serendipity that Caleb had found him mulling things over outside of the Pugilist’s guild in Ul’Dah. That line of thought was reinforced when Sarij happened upon them both not too long afterward. Berrod had been sitting on a bench, thinking desperately on how to move forward with what he wanted to do, as opposed to what he felt he had to do. When Caleb approached him he decided to ask advice of the man, against the dissenting roar of his pride.  “I wanna start teachin’ an’ trainin’ more. Almost full time,”He’d disclosed, “But if I do that, I’ll be bringin’ less money in the household. In fact, I’ll probably be losin’ more gil than makin’, fer the first few moons.”

 

 

Caleb, having been the kind man he was, had gently reminded Berrod that the household wasn’t hurting for money, and that the other three would be happy to help support him. Even remembering the way he smiled, and how ready the man was to help him achieve his goal – the redhead momentarily surfaced from the recollection and felt his face grow hot. He lifted his one available hand – the other was firmly trapped under the nearer of the Agrons – to rub at his nose and forehead. There was never any mistaking what love felt like when it came to those three, and every reminder was as much torture as it was joy. Once he had finished his squirming, the Highlander returned to his train of thought.

 

 

Caleb’s answer had riled instant protest – Berrod did not want to be the only one in the house without a substantial income, even for a while. Despite himself, he expressed to Caleb that he felt that he wouldn’t be much of a man if he didn’t put his equal part into the household’s finances. Fortunately for Caleb, Sarij had happened upon them, and was able to help the Agron get Berrod to understand that it was alright for him to lean on them.

 

 

Again he became aware of his face heating – but instead of rubbing it, he simply exhaled. Almost two years bonded, more than three years together, and he still struggled with the prospect of allowing himself to depend on them entirely for a time. He knew progress with that stubborn bit of his personality would be slow, but this was maddening.

 

 

 

 

In the end he had relented, and allowed himself to rely on them. Together they sat at that bench for almost a bell to simply discuss things that came to mind, at the forefront of which was the starlight celebrations. Berrod personally despised the season; he much preferred the customs of Winter’s Knell – even if he had to travel to snowy climes to build his own Father Frost. Caleb however, was in love with the Starlight celebration, and so Berrod resolved not to let his own grumpy view on it douse the Agron’s flame (originally he had conspired to hide the Starlight decorations, but aside from him being the obvious culprit, his adoration for Caleb won him over).

 

 

Another prime topic was the camping trip they had kept putting off. It had been far too long since their last one; those trips had always proven to be bonding experiences that traversed simple conversations or activities in a city. It would be the first time Sarij joined them as well, so Berrod had been adamant that they get that going as soon as possible.

 

 

After the talk  they  had traveled back home, where Caleb and Sarij arranged dinner. Caden arrived home from work only a tenth-bell later, and joined Berrod in the bath. At the table they rehashed everything for Caden, and solidified plans to go camping – at last, after moons of delay. Cleaning, decorating (Berrod tried not to look as aghast as he felt) and lounging followed, and when Sarij and Caleb had their bath, Berrod took the trio upstairs to express his appreciation in the most enthusiastic manner he knew how. So did it lead to their current tangle; a symphony of light snores, warm skin and the weight of draped limbs.

 

 

Sunlight began to stream in through the spaces in the curtains – the redhead had missed his opportunity for some training before dawn. Nevertheless, as it illuminated the men he loved and the cover of security they provided him with, he was willing to let that pass, just for today. The future was bright, after all, and in their embrace, he had the time and comfort to finish thinking on exactly what he needed to do.

[Berrod Armstrong]

Berrod sat in Caleb’s office behind the Agron’s desk, begrudgingly framed by the large portrait of the Gridanian Seedseer in the background. He admired the twins’ patriotism, but for the life of him could not understand why even the office had to be loaded with Twin Adder miscellany. The Highlander found himself experiencing a smear of envy; his own homeland and heritage was too diluted to show much more of than a faded banner or two. Aside from that, it was difficult to be patriotic to a place he barely knew – no matter how much he wanted to be. He suddenly became aware that he was mired in distracting thoughts, and shook his head with a grunt. There was a task at hand.

 

He’d been sitting there for over a bell, freshly bathed and placed snugly in a pair of Caden’s shorts. Several sheets and rolls of parchment were scattered on the desk before him; some hand-written, some having been printed by press. They all contained the same sort of information; spaces for rent. The rates were not all unreasonable, but were still steep enough for him to be concerned with the amount of gil they would be pulling from the family coffers. Berrod had spent most of his time seated bouncing back and forth between the idea of using one of the properties listed, or just using their own basement – or perhaps his company room. The latter would prove to be a bit of an awkward affair, since he had offered it for use as a guest room. Still, he needed some sort of indoor training space.

 

A shadow in the corner of his eye caught the redhead’s attention. Sarij was up and about. He gave a slight wave at the still sleepy-looking Sea Wolf and indicated, “There’s bread’n ham on the table downstairs.”

 

That information seemed to be enough for the other, who shuffled down with a grunt of thanks. It wasn’t long before the identical Agrons came shambling behind, their own scowls and squints of grogginess firmly set. It entertained Berrod greatly – he was the only real morning person in the house. As he had done with Sarij, the Highlander pointed them in the direction of sustenance.

 

It only took a moment or two after they had all gone down for Berrod to get to his feet and follow. Training space arrangements were important, yes – but right then, family and food awaited.

 

[ExAtomos]

After the fight; Before the fight

 

Brinn stomped inside his room in Ul’dah, fighting back the urge to slam the door behind him. He turned, closed it carefully, then started cursing under his breath. Once he realized he was being childish about the loss of the last bout at the Fight Club, he began chuckling, laughter bubbling up til it echoed warmly throughout the room. Going 3-1 after not fighting for quite some time was still pretty good.

 

He paused for a moment, thinking. It was getting late, but he was far from sleep. He walked over to the closet and wrestled a wooden striking dummy out of the depths within. “Don’t need this thing gathering dust.” Making sure he had enough floor space, Brinn began slowly to go through his forms, striking the wooden arms with dull thuds. Progressively he got faster, striking at what would be pressure points on living opponents. His mouth thinned out into a determined frown, eyes narrowing with focus. He felt the warmth and thrill of precise attacks flooding his senses and reveled in it.

 

“Brother!” That harsh voice jerked him out of his trance like a bucket of ice water being dashed upon him.

 

He looked up at the unwelcome guest who had just let herself in the room. His eyes narrowed with suspicion; he had definitely locked that door behind him. Or was he getting lazy, allowing the soft life in the city to get to him? “Yeah?”

 

“Ugh. It stinks in here.” Valia pinched her nose between two thin fingers.

 

“I’ve been fightin’, course it’s gonna stink.” He grabbed a towel he’d tossed onto his nightstand and began drying off his face and neck. “Why’re ya in here bitchin’ at me anyways?”

 

“You were making so much noise, I’d wondered if you had found a woman for once.” She brought her brattiest voice to bear on him it seemed. Brinn was ready to pitch his sister out the window behind him. He just grit his teeth instead.

 

“Why. are. you. here. Valia?” His hands clenched into fists at his side as he fought back the urge to strangle her.

 

“The noise, dummy… oh, and I need you to deliver a package for me.”

 

He practically roared at her. “RHALGR’S ANGER, VALIA!! DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKIN’ MESSENGER BOY?

 

Her pale eyes widened. “B-but I need your help…”

 

Ooh, she was lying through her teeth this time, Brinn was sure of it. But he wasn’t sure he could take the chance she wasn’t. “What is it you need help with this fuckin’ time?” He bit off every word as he spoke them.

[Trigonxv]

Transmission from Garlean Officer

 

"Asset Crow your proposed plan has been approved and command will provide you with the minor resources requested, however you have asked for soldiers and therefore aside from the implementation and enabling of the plan it will be at the behest of the officer in command to direct the soldiers during the operation. You can act separately from the soldiers but should you find yourself in a precarious position they will have no obligation to aid you as your usefulness will have been spent."

 

A laugh comes in response "You Garleans are quite crude in your idea of cooperation and aid but it only makes it all the more greater when it is a job well done. As long as your troops preform as needed I will preform as needed to get the job done. The weapons have been procured and distribution will begin in time, what is the word regarding if a so called monk or priestess happens to join the hapless fools? Is it to my understanding they would want to be captured alive?"

 

"Those are prizes of convenience, if the opportunity presents itself you will be paid the bonus you proposed upon capture of such individuals otherwise you are to carry out the basis of the operation. Do not let coin jeopardize the assignment Crow, should it be shown that your greed placed unnecessary risk it will be grounds for permanent termination keep that in mind."

 

"Of course of course only should the opportunity present itself since the job itself pays quite handsomely. I will emphasize once more that after this assignment it may put me under quite the amount of exposure therefore my ability to carry out more assignments will be reduced until things have calmed."

 

"We are aware and given your performance once this assignment is complete you will be reassigned in time to Ala Mhigo to concern yourself in more direct matters."

 

"Sounds great to me, the Mhigans here seem like a tough lot but nothing to worry about. I look forward to trying my hand at the ones out on the front."

 

"Contact us once the prerequisites have been met and provide us with any information obtained as usual."

 

"I will be sure to earn my pay as usual." He said with another laugh.

[Kellach Woods]

Journal of War

 

Prelude:

My people have never known, and never will know war. Skirmishes, perhaps. Treason, assuredly so. War? Never. They were annihilated before war could even arrive at their doorstep. Even our first brush with the concept was peaceful - The blockade was never challenged, even as I did my best to undermine it. One day, they left, and it was over. The possibility of war gone from our shores.

 

A single, unassuming theft, and my people were annihilated. Victims of a war that had never concerned them - A genocide.

 

Were I a warrior, I would swear vengeance, and die a warrior’s death, attempting to avenge my homeland. I, however, am a man of the land who has studied the hidden history of our people. I am now a student of tactics, strategies and planning in order to guide the world forward.

 

Why, then, a journal of war? Unfortunately, war is inevitable. The story of these Eorzean lands show countless wars - From its inception, to the Allagan Empire’s attempt at expansion beyond the continent of Aldenard to the more modern wars of Mhach, Nym and Amdapor, the splintering of Belah’diah into Sil’dih and Ul’dah as well as the Ala Mhigan offensive on Gridania. Today, we face the Garlean Empire, an empire that only exists for destroying other lands and cultures. A force that has to be stopped, and then annihilated in turn.

 

This journal is merely my experiences in these troubling times. An attempt at making sense of the world around me. Of course, the world can never make sense - Knowing why my people were annihilated does not remove the fact that they were.

 

Within it, you will find a record of battles that were fought by men braver than I, for the sake of securing a future for them and theirs. Unless otherwise specified, I intend to annotate each battle with which stratagem as well as which tactic was used prior, during and after the battles. As a personal journal, it will be dry. As a historical document, it will be biased. So be it. Even if I die on the first time I oversee a skirmish, I will write to my last breath of why you should not follow my example.

 

Respectfully yours,

Einrich Woods

[Verad]

The day was unseasonably warm for Ishgard, which meant that the chill was brisk enough to lightly scratch at exposed limbs rather than cut straight to the bone. That and a warm sun ensured that people were waiting out at the airship platform in anticipation of their next trip rather than huddled inside their homes or nearby businesses until their flight’s appointed arrival.

 

Auroux Doufard had expected colder weather today, and had dressed accordingly. This meant he was forced to undress at least a little to avoid sweating to death, and had removed one of his jackets. He blamed his Gridanian upbringing, and his misunderstanding of the vagaries of the new Coerthan climate, but beyond that he saw the incident as nothing more than a minor nuisance.

 

His business in Ishgard had long since been completed; a botanist by trade, he had come on behalf of the Guild to negotiate the purchase of some new seeds in the hopes of crossbreeding popotoes more able to resist a sudden frost. All things considered, the results were more than adequate, and he could leave the city in the knowledge that his work had been satisfactory. He was in so fine a mood that he indulged and, with a little of his pocket money, had purchased a bundle of roses to bring to his sister. She had always been fond of the flower, and there were subtle differences in the Ishgardian variants that well-rewarded their gardeners’ efforts to keep them alive through the unending winter.

 

“My, but those are lovely, are they not?” Auroux turned his head to espy an older gentleman with graying hair and a fine dark beard, a noble from the look of his dress, admiring the bouquet. The deep blue-grey of his skin suggested a duskwight, and Auroux had to hold back his immediate sense of distaste. It was too lovely a day to sour by being rude to a local, especially someone in the upper crust.

 

“These?” He lifted the roses. “Yes. I saw them in the Crozier and I had to have them for the trip home. Couldn’t do without them.”

 

“Yes, they certainly look to be of a fine quality.” Auroux was sure he mistook the sound of disdain in the man’s voice for something else. After all, who could possibly mock the concept of quality? “Do they stand the cold well?”

 

Ah, now this was Auroux’s bailiwick. “Very well, sir. Fascinating properties in Ishgardian roses.”

“They don’t just wither and die all of a sudden?”

 

Auroux pursed his lips. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“The roses. They’re very hardy, yes? They don’t just, I don’t know, suddenly wither and die when exposed to a sudden blast of chill.” The duskwight seemed keenly interested in an answer to this question. Hopeful, almost, by the expression on his face, the lift of his eyebrows and the widening of jade-green eyes.

 

“No, they’ll wither in a frost, all right. A sudden freeze without precautions and their bloom will fade. But much less so than with, say, a Gridanian rose.”

 

“Yes, yes, of course, of course, but I mean, right away, they won’t wither and die? As if one moment the rose looked perfectly healthy, and then the next.” He snapped his fingers. “The next it’s nothing more than a dried-out husk?”

 

“…No, sir, I don’t think Coerthan varietals do that. Or Gridanian ones, for that matter.”

 

“Hm. Mmhm.” The duskwight folded his hands into the pockets of his coat - a very fine one, very well furred, and yet Auroux could swear it was lined with the fur of something less than fine.

Marmot, perhaps. “So if, say, one were to see a rose do that - “

 

“Roses don’t do that, sir.”

 

“But if they did that,” the duskwight pressed. “If they did that, then that would not be a typical behavior of a rose, and instead the product of some other phenomena?”

 

“Surely, sir. I’m no mage, but I would imagine it must have been quite a blast of ice aether. Mayhaps a frost sprite.” Unconsciously, Auroux had started to edge back from the platform.

 

“I see. I see.” The duskwight folded his arms and seemed to mutter to himself. Auroux briefly picked up “didn’t look like a spirte, though.” Perhaps that was the end of the conversation, he thought with some relief. The nobility here could be quite odd.

 

“Supposing you were about to be wed.” The hypothetical, and the vehemence with which the duskwight posed it, snuck up on Auroux and metaphorically clubbed him so hard that he nearly dropped his bouquet off the edge of the Pillars. “And your betrothed, well, her family - she didn’t talk much about her family, but then you met her family, and they were capable of such phenomena as I described?”

 

“I - what - “ Auroux struggled to keep his grip on his flowers. “Excuse me?”

 

“It’s a simple question!”

 

“You have me at an advantage, sir, for I don’t understand the question. What about those circumstances?”

 

“Well, do you think - I mean, surely there must be some reasonable explanation for suddenly dying roses. A sudden swarm of vilekin, mayhaps, or an unexpected quintuple eclipse. Surely the family of your beloved wouldn’t be responsible for such phenomena?”

 

“That seems a rather dubious proposition, sir.”

 

For whatever reason, the duskwight took severe umbrage at Auroux’s statement. His beard bristled up in a way that he supposed must have been natural of all cave-clan dwellers. “Dubious? No! No, this isn’t dubious at all! I wouldn’t dare sully the term with such a circumstance as this! Nefarious, surely, or mysterious! But dubious?! I take offense on behalf of the vocabulary!”

 

There was silence between the two of them for the moment. Several other passengers were now staring at the exchange.

 

“Ah,” said Auroux. “My flight has arrived. If you will excuse me.” He turned on his heel and marched away from the airship platform, towards the Crozier. He would wait there until the man went away or was arrested.

 

He damned his hearing in his final steps off of the platform, for it was better than most Wildwoods, and he was treated to one last confused rumble from the duskwight.

 

“Surely she must know her grandmother can do that…”

[Star Lin]

(ooc: I'm going to be transferring Tanya next week to Balamung but I wanted to get something to set her up for the transfer.)

 

Fire rain down on them, even as they ran for the shield that was forming.  Blindrage yelling for the group to move it.  "Go, go..." the red head yell, shoving her little brother into Seraphis waiting arms.  The miqo'te turn reaching out for her but she smile at him, knowing that he would live.  "I love you, John.  Tell Mom and Dad I'm sorry I wasn't able to come home."

 

"NO, TANYA!" She turn from the group, even as the shield closed over them.  She slam her staff in front of her, calling on the protect spell, and reinforcing the shield.  Then fire and light wash through her, burning her, and releasing her from this realm.

 

The spirit drifted, holding onto as much of itself as it could, and search for something...someone.  Did they survive?  It couldn't let go of itself until it knew what became of the others.

 

'Hey, Sister.'  The spirit turn to the voice, knowing it but it could feel the aching sadness in those words.  'Dad had your staff fix though you probably already probably broke it over Raging's Head by now, if there are Aldgoats in Thal's Realm.'  It move closer, not knowing who Raging was but think of the Seawolf that thought Aldgoats were evil.  'I hope I'm making you proud.  I wish you could meet the others.  Warren could probably have show you more on using sword and shield then what Sam was teaching you.'  There was a quiet but sad laugh.  'Though I fear you might have scare Howl off, especially when you probably found out we are dating.'

 

It...no, she could see him, her little brother.  Someone was dating her brother?  'Though, you probably would like Sei, Warren's wife.  She's a lot like you in a way.'

 

He talk about so many people, Ruran, Sizha'to, Khyran, Grandfather, Grandmother, Chachan, Erik, Connor, and so many more.  She could feel herself drawing closer to her brother's voice.  'I miss you everyday but I'm becoming stronger.  I hope that when I see you again, that you'll be proud."  The voice was so close.  "I should head back to Dusk and see if Howl might want to go and check out that Pizzeria that open."  A pause.  "Please continue to watch over me, Tanya." 

 

Wait...don't go.  I want to see what you have become.  Tanya reach for the voice, trying to stop it from leaving...

 

The body grasp, clutching at the hole in the chest, jerking out a red shard, and other hand closing with force on the staff.  The staff glow, healing the hole, and lighting up the 'box' that she found herself in.  "where..." she whisper, voice horse from disuse.  She fought down the panic as she realize what the box was, reaching up to try and force the lid, moving it a little at a time.  It was bells later when she pull/fell out of the coffin, laying there, and trying to gather strength up, trying to get the body to work out the stiffness.

 

The lalafell paused at the door, watching the red hair hyuran woman leave the tomb area.  Tilting his head, as the woman slowly move down the stairs, leaning heavily on the staff.  'Poor woman...wonder who she lost to put her in that state.'  Putting the woman out of his mind, he move on to the aethernet, so he could meet with Master Waterstrike for his next Thaumaturgy lesson.

[FreelanceWizard]

"She doesn't like what I've become."

 

"Someone... with really good taste in clothes?"

 

L'yhta dropped her head back on the pillow of her bed -- well, not her bed, exactly, but the bed of the inn room she'd rented for the night at Camp Bronze Lake, as a way to just be alone -- and groaned as that particular exchange replayed in her head. The trip here had been a respite, after a fashion. Heal this cut, cancel that spell, purge that poison: the usual little requests that were made of her by the Foreign Levy and that she agreed to, sometimes for fun, other times (especially lately) to simply escape her mind with rote routine, insofar as any magic is truly "rote." Work is the best distraction, after all.

 

The miqo'te rolled on her side, her short dyed locks falling around her face. When she'd spotted The Girl in the crowd, she couldn't quite get up the nerve to go over there. Too many people around her, the show was already on, she'd just be getting in the way. And then, a cold brush of The Girl's hand -- Ice-aspected, as they found long ago, by candles, on tatami, amidst shadows -- and they were by the stage, the music washing over them like a Rhotano wave.

 

I'm going to go talk to them.

 

A friend of the band. Of course; you're loud. People actually like her. In the space between sets, rather than working up the nerve to ask the right questions, to say what needed to be said the way it needed to be said, L'yhta instead mulled over a geometry to deaden sound. Work is the best distraction, after all.

 

The miqo'te rolled back onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, noting reflexively the patterns in the wood, the slight offset of one of the bolts in a joint. She closed her eyes and the smile of The Girl looked right back at her, a smile she found herself once more missing, despite a hug and a promise of another meeting. It recalled a night of tea until the midnight bell, with secrets exchanged and an intimate closeness in a confused space between clear lines that she'd never knew existed.

 

L'yhta took a deep breath and sat up. Four bells since she laid down pronounced the chronometer. She crawled across the linens to her notebook and began to scan through a set of geometries for an upcoming experiment. Work is the best distraction, after all.

[cuideag]

A letter found folded beneath a pillow in an abandoned apartment in Ul'dah:

 

You,

 

These words will matter to no one but me and even then I have my doubts. My thoughts, love, have become clouded by so many things and there, too, have I find my hand stayed: with doubts that have kept their distance all these years now come rushing to my feet that they might make me stumble. I could not have been wrong. No, and if these rumors are true, I was not.

 

But I was wrong to abandon you. I wonder with every breath if I will get to tell you that in person. If I am afraid to find out I will not.

 

I miss you so dearly. I love you so much.

 

I will not find your forgiveness but I will find you if it is the last thing I do upon this world.

 

D.

[Ruran]

The malicious greatsword, Malcontent, lay on Madoc’s lap as he stared across the dimly lit room. Battle-calloused fingers of his right hand grazed over the blade, though his focus lay ahead on nothing. The quiet sounds of Arshtat preparing food behind a nearby partition barely reached him through his muddled haze.

 

On occasion, his dark eyes twitched, or his nose wrinkled with a scowl. The smirk had been long-forgotten on the Xaela’s lips. He could no longer tell if the anger he felt was his or Malcontent’s. It had all begun to bleed together into one, unified, barely-contained fury.

 

Breaking the silence, a smug voice rolled. “A͞nd̶ h̶e͝re̡ y̨’͢th͘ou͠g̡h̸t ͟I w̨as̶ ḑèa̡d,”͝ the vision of Stanton grinned as he leaned against the far wall.

 

“Piece of shite,” Madoc’s low voice grumbled, sleep-deprived eyes blinking blearily. “Can’t even…die properly…”

 

The man appeared before him, leaning in to stare, mere ilms from Madoc’s horned face. “O̶h̢, I̸'l͟l alwa͡y̨s ͠be̢ ͘h̢er̸e͡.̛ ҉‘̛O͞w̕'s͢ i͢t ̛f͘eel͝…̢k̨no͏ẃin͘’ ͘ye̕’͡re p̛ow͡e͏rle͞s͝s? H̕a̛viǹ’ noth͡ín’̷ ͏to҉ do ̴b̢uţ ͟wa̴iţ, l̀i͘k͝e ̨t͠he͜ we͢ąk̢ w̨hęlp y’͜a̵r̢e?”

 

Madoc’s right hand twitched. He met the man’s gaze. Black eyes glowered, but words stayed locked in his throat.

 

“S̛t̛ill̕ ͝t͞h͠i̷n̶k̷ ͞ye’̢rę b̧e͏tter ҉t͡h́a͞n m̡e?͡”̶

 

“Aye.” Madoc only offered a shaking whisper in reply. Unconvincing. Losing.

 

“̵N̛ay͠," Stanton corrected with a laugh, “͝You ͡a̶n̴’ m͝è a͏in̨'̢t͞ ͡s͡ǫ ͢diffe̛r̶ent.̸ ́Kil͝l̡in͢'̵s in ye’ ͟blo͠o̵d́.͏ …̶Alwa҉ýs h̢as̵ ͜b͡ee͏n.͞”

 

The rage in Madoc burned red-hot, and the symbol on his palm felt as if it could burst into flame. Each bone and tendon in his right hand tightened and flinched against metal, eager to grip the hilt of the brutal, whispering blade. His breathing was heavy as he struggled to remain in control of himself.

 

“̸Śo,͞” Stanton smirked, then reached and touched the back of Madoc’s hand with his fingertips. “͘Thin͞k it’s̸ tìm͜e͝ to҉ do wha͢t ҉y̡e’̧r̕e͞ g̶o͘od͜ a̷t…҉”

 

At the touch, the palm’s mark pulsed. And then, Madoc saw red. The sword’s aether. Blood. The ring.

 

The ring.

 

The crimson band snapped into Madoc’s mind with a catch of his breath. The thought then burned like a strong drink. Lingered like a good kiss. His heart raced. He stood despite not willing it, and his chest tightened with a low rumble. Old habits, old desires, surfaced. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. He’d given the ring to Oyuu for safekeeping. To stop him from doing something he'd regret. But now, he needed it.

 

“Go̢ g̸et it,”̷ the voice of Stanton whispered.

 

Hearing him rise, Arshtat peeked behind the wall. Grey eyes widened as she saw the greatsword in his hand, accompanying the darkened expression on his face. “Madoc..?”

 

The scarred Xaela did not reply. He stormed out the door and into the main hall of the Order of Ouroboros, leaving a trail of scarlet aether in his wake.

 

Stanton smiled and followed.

---

 

(Art by me, animation by Hithren!)

[Star Lin]

Tanya Waterstrike was reunited with her family, thanks to Ruran Vas help.  After her first meeting with the Grindstone staff, her father came for her so that she could be present to Master Cocobuki to decide her fate.

 

 

Cocobuki look up in sympathy at the young woman.  “You understand why you are here, do you not?”

 

Tanya Waterstrike nods.  “There is a fear that I am nothing but a voidsent using the body of Tanya Waterstrike to wreak havoc on Ul’dah.”  She bury her fury at being treated in such a way, understanding Ser Warren’s fear for his staff and the fighters but also in wishing to protect her brother.  “As much as I wish to protest this, I only have my own words and my Father to speak for me.”

 

“Lady Waterstrike,” one of the other Thumaturge said and she turn a look on him at the tone he used, as if he didn’t believe on who she was.  “You have been dead for eight summers now.  Yet you do not ‘look’ any different from the day that you left for the Flats.  Perhaps it was something your Father did.”

 

The room temperature drop and the other turn in fear at Thomas.  “It is only a suggestion.  After all, I know that the miqo’te that you have been teaching is still not very good at the fire spells.”

 

“MY Son has always been a better healer.  He is far too light to be anything else,” Thomas said.  The room temperature rose to normal.  “Master Cocobuki, I’m sorry I did not bring her to you before but…” he pause as the Lalafell raise his hand.

 

“Madam Waterstrike, you understand what has to be done to prove that you no longer have a voidsent within you?”

 

“I understand, Master Cocobuki.  Whatever must be done to clear my Family’s name and allow me to return to my family again.  As for why I’m alive, I can only guess that Thal has more for me to do.”  She would not get Micky, or Ser Ruran involve in this.  She was a Waterstrike and would face what had to be done without anyone else being involve in it.  She turn to her father, handing over her staff to him.  “Please hold on to this for me, Father.  Please see that John knows I’ll be home soon.”

 

There is pride and regret within Cocobuki’s eyes.  One of his brothers came over to lead her away.  Thomas embrace her, whispering in her ear.  “Stay strong, my little firecraker and do not be afraid of your own darkness.”  He watch her being lead away, before turning from the group, allowing his tears to flow.

 

“Do not give up yet, Master Waterstrike.  She is of your blood so she will return to you soon.”  Cocobuki said.

[Ligardian Dreamer]

Been a while since I came here... Eorzea's a bit different but it's still the same through it's core... The sights and the people, including the ladies, are just as lovely as always. It may sound creepy but I really don't mean it that way...

 

 

Anyway, doesn't seem like I'm remembered but it's been years. I've probably forgotten people too and how to fight. Thankfully, upon returning to Ul'dath, I've heard of a hall that allows new and returning adventurer's to enlist for combat training. Felt good to get a bit of my bearings back.

 

 

Right then... Deep breaths... Moving forward. You can do this Alexander... Stay calm.

[Ligardian Dreamer]

I arrived at the Wayfarer's rest thinking today was the event...

 

Nope.

 

My genius self was a day too early for the event. Instead, I ended up interacting with the nice people who resided at the Rest. Apparently, they're known not only for the event they're having but also as a place for people to take a respite at or to stay over for the night or have a drink or two. I took up their offer for the respite since I was rushing thinking I was running late and had to find something to dye my clothes with (Not really a fan of red but it's the way to indicate whom I'm seeking).... So I was a little flustered and winded basically.

 

Can't say it was all bad at least. I built up familiarity with both the place and the wayfarer members. I didn't get to talk much with the Miqo'te there since he had to take care of some business... The other two were sisters.... Mm, half sisters really. One was a pirate and the other was...raised by Slyphs I believe.... I still can't believe I manage to keep calm without fighting with myself not to stare at their chest due to the clothes they were wearing. Their clothes wasn't the problem, it's not that they were skimpy but... it has a particular jacket and top combination that exposes off the cleavage.... That's all I'll write about that...

 

Least now I just gotta make sure to make it to the event on time...

[Amnesic]

The forests of the Northern Shroud were pleasingly warm for the time of the year, but it did nothing for growing pangs of hunger in the girl’s stomach. She was currently dressed in a homespun tunic and skirt in the butternut color of undyed linen, alongside her overused and shabby pair of thighboots that were beginning to go beyond the point of further repair. Ironically, this clothing was not yet even despondent enough to reflect her current finances.

 

Myrrh was completely broke.

 

The knowledge of her lack of money and as result, sustenance, was burning its way into her conscious thought and destroying her willpower’s current grasp of self-control preventing her from doing something foolish. The fierce internal skirmish was showing in her grey eyes, renewing the gleam of life in them and simultaneously imbuing them with the ferocity of a wild animal while her overlong brunette ponytail lied on the ground beside her as if it was the beast's tail. She knew what she looked like right now, and the thought of it was alarming even to her.

 

She gritted her teeth together as she remained hiding in the brush, either the thoughts or the hunger causing her to shiver uncontrollably until she lost her balance. Nothing was startled as she fell forward out of her low crouch and intp the dried leaves; there was not anything to frighten aside from her. She pushed herself up from the ground and back up to standing height, letting her ponytail fall back down to her waist where it usually was.

 

Myrrh begun to realize something in her mind as she looked around; she was not intending to wait around for animals, she was honestly waiting for a person with a loaded gilpurse to come by. She might as well head “home” and get as well dressed as she could for heading into Gridania. A few people today were about to lose some money and she could worry about it later when she was not starving.

 

But, nobody but Myrrh would know she would be the one to cause their loss: they would hopefully only see a sweet-hearted little Hyur youth in all of her childish charm while she filched what she could in any manner she could.

[Jancis]

Jancis poured over another journal, one she had spent her last gil on in order to keep, stuffing papers of notes into it for the last of her preparations.

 

The problem really wasn’t so much the operation itself, but what could be found within. She had to know every part of the shoulder without feeling it, because as far as feelings were concerned, something was just off. It fooled her before. Many times.

https://68.media.tumblr.com/23ac717c79d04ab3d799074f5738bf4b/tumblr_inline_onca1i86EO1tr3ucc_1280.jpg[/img]

 

 

“If you do not expect the unexpected you will not find it, for it is not to be reached by search or trail.”

 

Jancis frowned thoughtfully as the quote passed her lips, coming up to mind immediately as she pondered. It was something that would not be thought of. The biggest thing she could not figure out was who to ask for help. Who would understand the need and also be able to provide assistance.

Denz, surely, for presence sake alone. But for consolation and advice, she was struggling.

 

Shaking her head, the quil met fresh paper, deciding to simply write her close kin just what she planned. Even without questions, someone would ask something she did not have a question for. And she needed questions to find answers.

 

“Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.”

[Askier]

(The following is the contents of a letter scribed in flowing, artistic hand in the Garlean tongue.)

 

To whom it concerns,

 

The hand writing alone should reveal unto you the sender of this document. No further identification shall I place upon paper. While I am confident that your networks will see this parchment to your door, I am forced to entertain the rather real possibility that those Eorzean plebians might somehow conjure up a spark of intelligence and intercept it by accident.

 

After all, those cattle do seem to be enforcing a large degree of influence over you and your intended objectives in the region. Based on the reports I have been handed, one might think you've gone soft even, infected by their stupidity. Relishing in their coin. Really, when I was approached about this matter, I could scarce believe that you had come so low and were now sporting such a abyssnal rate of operational success. Honestly, I've seen peasants conjure up more skills in sabotage then you, yourself, seem capable.

 

Now, because of our joined past services, those whom consider themselves my better through rank alone have tasked upon my shoulders the efforts of assisting your labors. And, without choice given to me, I shall be joining you shortly. My skills are to be made available to you as they once were. Do see to it you begin gathering a collection of targets. I will not sit idle by, forced to inhale the scents of those primitives, because you were lax in preperation.

 

So be with good cheer. Soon you shall have the honor and pleasure of beholding my talents once more. Relish in it. And know that your fortunes shall change upon my arrival; as well the fortunes of your networks. Until we meet in the stinking wastes of Eorzea, stay well and stay vigilant as you serve the Empire.

 

Respectfully,

-Redacted-