Bulletin Board

[B'ren Lyrgh]

“I’ll give Iex your hellos!” B’ren called back out to Avenioas the Highlander left. A heavy sigh passed through pressed lips, the Seeker leaning himself back into the chair, B’ren looking over the papers littering the table in front of him. There were so many things to get done, to investigate, to research, to experiment on. Through the course of questioning Avenio about the odd tattoo markings on his arm, B’ren hadn’t forgotten why his curiosity was so peaked. Markings hold a lot to those who make them or those who seek them, some form complex means to cast magicks and some are used to seal them away, all this B’ren knew but none of that had happened to the blond Highlander.

 

“Not that dwelling on it will matter,” Words poured out of him slowly, B’ren gathering up the papers scattered around the room now as well. First and foremost he had to worry on Sarij, the Roegadyn that Caleb and Berrod had almost begged him and Iex to work together on. The man’s magicks had been sealed away, taken from him and his body nearly drained of all traces. It’d be a dangerous thing to suddenly reintroduce such a surge of Aether into someone’s body, the force of it could very well pop an organ. Still, Caleb and Berrod were almost desperate to have their friend’s powers back and the Miqo’te was going to do his best.

 

“Speaking of Iex, where is that man?” Turning on his heels and towards the door, hips cocked and a hand rested on his left side, B’ren shaking his head at the lateness of the Roegadyn from his endeavor. Their vacation was to begin soon, over in the City of Nym, and the sooner the two of them could have time alone the better for the Seeker. “I swear, if this is put back by another day I’m going to---“ He was cut off by rather loud noises and howls from down the hall, his ears flicking and pushing back as he recognized them all too well.

 

“Well, seems Berrod and Sarij took the news well…”

[B'ren Lyrgh]

((*DOUBLE POST* D: ))

[B'ren Lyrgh]

((Totally not a double post this time))

 

“F’the last time! I didn’ fuckin’ do it!” A voice yelled inthe dark of the prison cell, the night sky being black as ink and nothing but the street lanterns shining down on the Yellow Jacket standing in front of the bars. A scrawny Miqo’te crawled towards them, wrapping fingers around the cold, metallic prison he was trapped in. The scowl over his face was nothing short of hatred and contempt, staring up at the unblinking Midlander that stood watch. There they sat for a time, staring at each other until the Miqo’te sighed heavily. In defeat he slunk back into the depths of the dark cell, curling himself up in a tight ball until morning came.

 

Morning came, as usual; the sounds of the busy life of Aleport filled the twitchy ears of B’oakta. The usual slop of a morning breakfast was passed through the bars, each inmate there took their share and back to his corner he went. Hours upon hours had passed, certain sounds catching the Miqo’te’s attention. He knew that voice! Oh by the Twelve did he know that voice and did it ever strike fear into his heart. The Commander in charge of his case and the shrill tone of her voice cut through the crisp air.

 

“B’oakta, I’ve special news for you.” Though the voice soft and soothing, almost like a mother consoling her child, the striking figure of the Roegadyn woman did little to mask that, so much so that the Seeker tucked in the corner did little but lift his head and half-heartedly avoid eye contact. “You had visitor, two in fact. They were looking for you and your….brother?” Her tone dropped, in a questioning way to see if that word would spark a reaction from the male. When it did, the guards at her side brandished weapons faster than ever before, the Seeker slamming himself to the bars of the jail with teeth bared and lips pulled back in a tight snarl.

 

“YOU LEAVE HIM OUT OF THIS; HE’S NOT INVOLVED AT ALL. HE’S A GOOD KID.”

“I’m sure of it B’oakta. But with his relation to a StormCaptain Iono leaves room to differ. We will be doing a mild investigation unless….” Arms folded and her eyes narrowed, the guards stepping back and up the ramp. Gently she reached a hand out, going to toy at the Miqo’te’s ears through the bars. “You tell us everything that happened back with the Sahagin and why they are trying to get at you still.”

“I said everything that happened, ya just choosing tobelieve that thug over me. And like the hells I know why the fishes are comin’ for me. Prolly because I stopped them from doing much worse to that little girl?!”

 

 

“Of course, of course,” A flick and the woman stepped back,shrugging wide shoulders and beginning to fix her hair before turning on her heels. “Then I won’t worry about your cares to how we go about asking him and get a bit of information.” No time was given to listen to any reply, any plea for her to leave B’ren alone and keep it between them. All that rang out from the air of Aleport was B’oakta screaming NO over and over, until he wore himself out and the other inmates.

 

Off in the distance, a group of Sahagin rallied together,eyes set dead on the Aleport prisons.

[Oscare]

"Captain Iono," Oscare gruffs out, performing a Storm salute to his higher officer. The woman stares at the dark-toned highlander, making direct eye contact with the man's violet stone-cold gaze. Her own empty blue eyes trace his figure down to his boots, her ears perking and drooping. The miqo'te had a rapier in her hand, swinging vacantly at nothing. She walks around Oscare, studying his stiff body at every angle. She speaks nothing, nor does Oscare.

 

"You've been active lately, Captain." She finally speaks, the top of her blade lying on Oscare's shoulder. The hunter didn't budge from his saluting position. "First you kill several innocent citizens, you went asking for somnus... and now you want an investigation team? What kind of hell did you dig yourself into? An eighth?" Her tone could stab through metal, but Oscare's will was stronger than any metal found on the planet. He doesn't even sweat at her speech. "But, regardless, it seems a promotion into Second Storm Commander is in motion as we speak. What the higher ups think of you and see -- I have nary an idea. But you've been with us a little after the Calamity happened. I'd say... five and a half years? At least your allegiance and loyalty is clear... at a glance."

 

"Storm Marshal, ma'am, I don't have a clue. I'm doing this in the good name -- Jancis needs this -- I can't -- deny --" Oscare does seem to have trouble putting out his emotions. Well, not like he could anyway, since the Storm Marshal silenced him with a deft swing of her rapier. 

 

"Silence, I shall not hear anymore of this. I have been assigned to keep watch over you. You will refer to me as Storm Marshal 19. Do not confuse my words, Hunter, you WILL. Not may." She chuckles lightly, her tail wags to-and-fro. She still can't seem to pierce through the man's spirit. "I hope you put on a wonderful show for me during your promotion trial. It will reflect on my name, and your company's too... What do they call themselves? The Astral Agents?" He taps her temple in 'thought'.

 

"How cute."

[Berrod Armstrong]

"Mess 'im up, boys. Make sure he's pissin' blood fer a week."

 

In his daze, Berrod felt rough hands drag him out the door of the alley-side bar. His head still spun from the kick he had just collected to the side of it. The opponent had tapped with the instep, but it had still been enough to send him sprawling into a stupor. 

 

The night was cold, and the place stank significantly. It was the rougher part of Ul'Dah, down in the dank alleys he'd spent so much time in before. For some reason they comforted him -- prior to a few moons ago it was the only home he knew. Berrod coughed as his face dragged through the dust; that snapped him back to focus. He was in trouble, and had to act fast, before -- 

 

The boot to his side granted him a sharp, explosive pain that indicated to him at once, that it had broken a rib or three. He fought the sudden wave of nausea -- assisted by the savage tug at the red tail on the back of his head. The very thought of nausea vanished as a heavy fist cracked him square in the jaw. Berrod's world tumbled, rotated and heaved -- then he was sucking dust again. His mouth was warm and wet -- likely bleeding. It hurt to breathe. 

 

 Another boot came, this time to his other side. For some reason the ribs there seemed more sturdy; he felt a distinct shred of agony from just the one. 

 

Perhaps out of stubbornness alone he clapped a hand to the floor, ready to push up and face his foes, no matter how many they would be. In the haze of pain he couldn't tell whether there were two or two hundred of them. When they laughed, however, he made out at least four voices. "Help 'im up! Big man wants ta put up a fight!"

 

Three pairs of hands dragged him to his feet. Still he thrashed, swung his arms and fought the urge to vomit every time his ribs screamed at him. He couldn't see -- there was dust in his eyes. Dust and blood. The blood was new to him -- he hadn't noticed when he'd cut his head during the fall. 

 

Blinded, wounded and already beaten, Berrod set himself into a wide, low stance and raised his arms into a guard, defying the protest of his broken ribs. His very consciousness swam, his stomach was set to heave and his legs trembled violently, but he would not give up. It wasn't easy to ignore the stabs the loud laughter took to his pride, but it had to be done.

 

As long as he breathed, he would not stop fighting. It was his way, and he would live it or die in it.

[Kellach Woods]

Kellach was in his room, clutching a letter sternly, creasing the paper.

 

Dear brother,

 

Father is no more. Two months after you left, he contracted an unknown illness that the physickian could not cure. We tried teas, leeches, and all sorts of exotic remedies, but nothing worked. He died screaming in pain, claiming the Elements had forsaken him. After seeing the illness myself, I was inclined to agree with him. Both Fire and Ice were fighting over his body heat. Wind had turned foul in his wake. Water could not cleanse him. Neither could the Earth's remedies and even the very spark of life, Lightning, had vanished from his eyes. He died a broken man, brother. A shell of his former self.

 

You asked that I write to you, rather than mother this time around. Much like father, I am not one for fancy words and I would have gladly left the writing to mother once more. In her grief, however, I fear that informing you of this development would crush her even further. As I write, she has not come out of her room for a week and I fear that she has lost the will to live.

 

Father bequeathed the farm to me, but I feel as though in his last days, he wished you were at his side, and I were studying in Eorzea. I do not blame him - you were clearly the harder worker. Perhaps it was because mother would keep sheltering you from the outside. Still, I am working harder than I ever thought possible before and sincerely hope you are doing the same at the Arcanists' Guild.

 

By the time this letter makes it to you, we will have performed the usual funeral rites and father's body and soul will have returned to the Elements. However, please visit father's Tree sometimes and allow him to see just how you have grown.

 

May the Elements favor your growth,

Einrich

 

This was the first time he truly lamented coming to Eorzea. He thought of catching the first boat towards the outer continents, but decided against it. His brother was growing up to be a far better man than he was. Other than tart himself up and play up his ignorance of Eorzean customs, what had he actually done here? Study? He hadn't been able to see the inside of Mealvaan's Gate in ages. Train? He hadn't properly trained in weeks.

 

They were all right - What he needed to work on was himself.

[Lady Rivienne]

Feverish air filled her lungs, arid as it was, did little to hinder the light banter betwixt the two sharing an awning of one of the shops. The sunlight filtered through the clouds, giving some reprieve to the beams of torrid heat that lanced down upon the desert. It was here that she was sent, but not alone, the Commander had become are of how the two worked, especially when an assignment was given to the both of them. He was no fool, though not oft finding himself in the field, he had eyes in the forest, and knew just how well acquainted the two have become. It was no surprise that she stood at the side of Yvelont this day, dressed in her usual farce while watching the denizens pass them by.

 

Ruddy lips pulled into a smile while fingers curled around his arm; golden depths were set on his features now, especially as those walking the street before them dwindled in numbers. The rough pads, of her fingertips, rose to brush at his chiseled jawline, gingerly caressing at the flesh. She guides him to look down at her while her jovial expression melts away and reveals the harsh, stern demeanor, painted across her sun-touched features.

 

Whispered words spilled into the space shared between them and Rivienne's body leaned forth, allowing the dress to stretch until stressed. It was her lips that threatened to brush the shell of his ear, and if anyone saw the two, it would have appeared to be a tryst taking place.

 

“I have information that the gathering will take place tonight, a quaint dinner, where our guests will be present.” Lashes lowered, giving her eyes a hazardous appearance, “When night falls, our invitations will be waiting for us at the Sunsilk, the tailor there is also well aware of the task at hand.” Her nose brushes his cheek and she continues, even as his arm snaked around her waist, making sure her frame was molded to his. Their act did not draw the eye; people turned away and she chuckled softly before continuing.

 

“You were told not to draw your blade, yet,” the baritone came from his lips softly, gracing her ear as she pulled back so their eyes could meet. All the while, a free hand roamed over the round of her hip, dancing along her thigh, until feeling the strap she had, and more importantly, the all too familiar knife she carried on her person. His lips twist into a smirk as his nose brushed her own. "..I find that you barely separate yourself from it."

 

“..The Commander spoke to thee, then. My blade will not be drawn, unless it is blood they seek.” Her hand snakes down to fall over his own, curling her fingers over the back of his hand. Lashes brush at his cheek and she looks down, trailing his hand back to the swell of her hip. “Or if they draw harm to thee, I will rip their heads from their necks,” it was a promise made, for threats were never fancied to be taken lightly. Unfortunately, it would also mean that their cover would be blown if she went for their throats suddenly.

 

He took a hold of her chin and motioned her to look at him. Concern was written plainly across his countenance and he furrowed his brows. For a moment, silence enveloped them and the chattering of those walking past was all that could be heard. It was this simple look, this motion, that reeled her back to some semblance of control. Gingerly, he pushed auburn hair and tucked it neatly behind her pointed ear.

 

“Remember the words we shared, this life is not only yours,” he murmured while a finger rose to press to his lips. She began to pull away from him with a sway and a smile that rivaled that of a snake's. He found it enticing, though knew well what was behind such a serpentine look. Ruthless, cold, dangerous. Yet..

 

“..And thus, I shall be careful to not let it go to waste. I live two lives, the one shared with thee is far too precious.” Rivienne concluded while sweeping a hand to the split of her skirt, exposing gratuitous flesh, sculpted by strenuous exercise and kissed by the scars of combat. Fingers sought the sheath of the blade, where she tapped gingerly before fabric folded over and concealed her once more. With that said, she turned away from him, giving a glance past the slope of her shoulder and meeting his gaze one final time, before they had to prepare for tonight's events.

[C'kayah Polaali]

He walked past the silent house, it's gaudy collection of cannons facing outward in a crude attempt to stave off dangers they never saw. He'd wondered in the months after she'd left him what happened in that house, what new tribe they'd formed behind the thick walls and the closed doors. He'd never know now. She was gone, her body carried off by the Sultana's dogs.

 

He hitched up the collar of his coat and readjusted his pince nez. He'd seen this day coming. Hell, he'd wondered enough times if he'd have to be the one to kill her that he'd prepared an arrow especially for her. He'd burnt it this morning, though. There was no longer any reason for it to exist. For a moment he thought about knocking on the door, talking to the people inside. He shook his head, scowling. He didn't know a soul in that house save the Lalafell and the girl. Kenthy had led away the girl, and the Lalafell... He didn't really know the Lalafell anymore. The Lalafell had broken upon the same rocky coast that he had. He wondered, not for the first time, what that meant. Did she mean to betray him all along, as he'd thought? Or was it just that she didn't know any other way to exist?

 

He shook his head again. "It doesn't matter anymore", he said to himself. "Now that she's dead, the question is nothing more than academic."

 

He slipped a leather cord from around his neck. Tied to the end of it was a fiery orange and red feather. She'd given it to him long before, the down of a phoenix, meant to safeguard life. He hung the feather around one of the gaping barrels of the cannon that impotently guarded the house. He'd probably never know where she was buried, but it seemed fitting to leave a remembrance on the weapon. He turned and walked away, his soft-soled boots making no sound on the cobblestones, until all that was left was the feather turning idly on the soft breath of the wind.

[Delilah Scythewood]

Her office was quiet in the early mornings. No one was around, and everyone down the hall was asleep. Leon was tucked down in the basement some where, Liandri likely had her mate with her, Locke had Olli the mammett never too far from his side even in slumber, and she could only imagine the delicate little snores coming from her son's room. The thought brought a brief smile to her tired lips, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea while the other held a quill in the other.

 

Before her was a simple bit of paperwork. No more employment forms or anything else she had generally had to worry about. In fact, it was an official form stating that (until further notice) her company was no longer accepting new members.

 

In short? The Society had grown more popular then she realized.

 

Four or five members in the last few Suns, with one application she had to refuse due to them not quite meeting the cut-off. Liandri teased her that she always hired the handsome ones, but Lili never really noticed until after the fact. Even then, she didn't care. As long as they knew what they were doing and got along with everyone else, as a company leader that was what mattered.

 

Though it never hurt to see some of them walking around the house shirtless...

 

The little blonde let out a wistful sigh around her mug. Her life was so hard.

 

Speaking of hard lives...

 

Her mind drifted back to the encounter last night at the Quicksand. Besides meeting Alexaria and Sly and spending a little quality time with Chokho, there had been that pickpocket. She had looked younger then Lili's own children, and so cheerful at having been caught. As if that was what she wanted all along. Had she known Lili was a pushover? Scouted her long enough to think she could get away with it? She had been more then clumsy...you don't pickpocket someone's back pocket when all they're wearing are thin hempen shorts. It felt more like a grope.

 

Her full lips formed a soft frown. She wondered if she had a good place to sleep last night...

 

No. No, Lili, stop taking in strays. The last thing you need is a teenaged kleptomaniac! She gave her head a hard shake. As she did, her eyes caught sight of something on the floor. Rope, with part of it tied to the legs of her desk and the rest sprawled out against the floor.

 

Kaiten.

 

She had never seen him look...scared. Never seen him triggered in such a way that didn't have to do with his dreaming. Lili's pale green hues moved from looking down to the rope towards the partition where her modest bed lay on the other side holding her still dozing lover. Then down at her paperwork. More sleep actually sounded rather lovely.

 

Adding her scratchy signature to the parchment and taking another sip of her tea, she rose up and moved to go back to bed. The coming week boasted more jobs and employment opportunities for everyone. Helping new members get situated in their rooms, cashing in that cuddle time with Locke, teaching Ado how to cook, keeping an eye on everyone else...

 

At least things never got dull on the weekends.

[Val]

"Would she really tell you? You do not look so certain of that. Perhaps you should ask her? Ah, but it hardly matters now. You can't get too mad at her about it, right? After all, we were just about to enjoy ourselves."

 

The words echoed through his head as Val sat in his room, staring at the random articles of clothing that lay scattered about the floor. He recalled it as if it were yesterday, the raven-haired, dark-skinned Keeper lying nude in his bed.

 

"Afraid you're going to enjoy yourself for once? Or are you afraid she's going to scold you? Yes, my master will certainly be displeased, too. But why should they not let us have our fun? You and I, we are very much alike... and so are they. A match made for each other. Should we not enjoy true pleasure together, and leave those two snobs to each other? They deserve each other... why, just a couple days ago, they nearly had each other... But she probably did not tell you that, did she? Who knows how long this affair of theirs has been happening... Do you have any idea what your lover does in her office?"

 

He didn't. Often times, the Seeker was with her, but when he had to go assist one of his soldiers or take care of business elsewhere, she was left alone. The voidsent woman had seen the expression of shock, confusion, and betrayal on his face and only sought to taunt him further.

 

"Because I wanted to accomplish something. Maybe I wanted to do you a favor? There is no such thing as love, no such thing as happiness. While you two parade around with smiles, you are only deceiving yourselves, living a delusion. I opened your eyes. You can thank me later. But for now... my job here is done." 

 

And just like that she was gone, swallowed by the shadows that covered the bedroom. It had taken Val some time to gather himself amidst the uncontrollable rage and shaking. Part of him believed what the woman had said. He'd never thought 'love' to be anything other than a silly emotion that those with their head too high in the clouds believed in. It kept him from doing anything he really wanted. It often times made him feel like a caged animal, and the woman's revelation suddenly made him realize that he had been a fool all this time.

 

The Seeker stood and clothed himself as quickly as his shaking, fumbling fingers would allow. He settled for a pair of jeans and wrapped a blue robe about his upper half, then made his way outside. It would be a long walk to their Company house, but he needed the time to think before he confronted her about the information he'd been given.

[Aldotsk]

It's been shocking to her that she just couldn't accept Natalie's death.  Anelia sits down in her office, holding her tears from Western Thanalan to Mist. She bursts out into tears, unable to handle the fact that her former friend and comrade has passed away.

 

Somehow she always felt that this would happen. She felt that with Natalie running into troubles with politics, crimes and other hidden secrets she had, someday everything will come right back at her. Anelia felt that it was herself to blame because she couldn't stop the girl from falling into more troubles.

 

She just wishes that she could have done more to stop Natalie. But apparently to Anelia's thought, she felt that she was a useless person. Not a friend, or even a comrade. 

 

She stares at her old photos of her Sultansworn squad from many cycles before, and she smiled faintly and realizes that she can't shed any more tears because nothing will bring the girl back alive. The case went cold, and more corrupted people like Jameson Taeros  are still free to corrupt Ul'dah. She started asking herself if even her abilities or even Crofte can stop the political corruption caused by Syndicates.

 

She decided to leave the political matter out of her hands. She takes a whiskey and started drinking it heavily to forget the matters tha has happened.

[cuideag]

A sheaf of paper lay before her, marked only by the slow bleed of the quill in her hand. At least it had stopped shaking, some errant tremor that was no doubt caused by that idiot and his idiot bombs. Delial had only noticed it when she had finally made a retreat into her hideaway and thought to have herself a glass of wine to calm the oncoming headache. It did her little good, of course.

 

She did not see what it was that would ultimately kill Natalie McBeef but it did not change the fact that the woman was still dead and, as far as she knew, there was little to be salvaged of the warehouse. A grenade? No, no, she was not that stupid. Others had been there: another Maelstrom girl, a man with an axe, the two guards they (or rather, she) decided to drag along on their escape. One of them must have done something. One of them must have...

 

It matters not, she chided herself. Her quill tapped upon the paper. Despite what others might have thought of her, she did not enjoy death. It was far too easy, far too kind, and for all the wrongs McBeef had done, she deserved something more. The Gods would not give her that satisfaction, of course. There was nothing she could take from her demise but annoyance. Truly, they mock me. Is this my punishment? Her pulse thudded in her ears and little by little the nails of pain at the backs of her eyes dug in deeper.

 

Growling, she balled up the stained page and tossed it aside. Taeros would be cross but the mishap might have bought them some time. The Sultansworn, the Sergeant, the Pirate, and the Snake; they all still had their parts to play, as did Delial herself. She forced out a long breath, clawing for focus, and began to write. "We do what we must," she muttered to herself. "We do what we must."

[Unnamed Mercenary]

Franz awoke in the morning feeling the same as any other: tired, unamused, slightly grumpy. The sun would be rising soon enough, and if he were to get any kind of exercise done before the heat of the desert caught up, it would be now. Putting on a loose shirt and some slops, the Garlean inspected himself for any noticeable bruises from the sparring he was in the day prior. 

 

 

"None again, as usual."

 

With that, he began a jog on the borders of the city to warm up, and then his daily training regimen, forever carved into his memory from the time he must have been a Garlean soldier. A couple bells later, he would return,  body aching from the hell it had endured. He may not have needed to go to that extent, but what worth would there be in a man who had already lost everything else, if he left himself go? Keeping himself fit was for himself alone. Afterwords, he would treat himself to a bath of cold water and another lackluster Eorzean breakfast, completing the morning.

 

 

In his mind, he was sure if he made a proper meal, Natalie would likely burst through some door of the house and ridicule him for eating too much. Still, as much as she poked fun at him, he didn't particularly mind it. Natalie had been one of the first people he'd really met in Eorzea and he was thankful of that. The lively miqo'te had seen him not as a Garlean, not as an enemy, but as a some sort of friend, and he never understood why. He wouldn't have been surprised to see her saunter in to the house, drunk, the very instant he sat down to eat. It was both relieving and unsettling. A strange calmness, as if the people who lived there were all away. It was still. He paid it little mind, however, and proceeded to go about the day. 

 

 

He would start with perusing through the Arrzaneth Ossuary for anything interesting to read. While the little thaumaturges held high value for their countless books of magic, they did still have have a few on other topics. Perhaps he would find one on the Allags, Amdaporeans, or Nymians, his favorite three destroyed people. Their magic, interesting. Their destruction, beautiful. It gave his view of Eorzea balance. One that showed despite the land's best attempts to rule itself, its own forces would bring its undoing. Besides, a stack of book next to a Highlander-sized man would certainly give the people something to talk about in hushed whispers. A small smile crept on his face from the thought of it. After all, he may not be fighting for the Garleans, but there was still an odd humor in seeing people look at him in fear or confusion.

[Jancis]

Jancis sat in the little room provided to her in Thanalan and bathed with a bucket and cloth. Once the last of the pilgrims had moved on to their places of rest for the night and the grounds cleaned, she had the chance to heal, peeling off the bandages from her shoulder and arm.

 

The wounds stun almost as much they did the day before, the potent aether energy digging in to burn and destroy flesh still tenderly healing. 

And that didn't account for the other bruises and cuts that result from a large plate-armored man being hurled through the air then landing on top of on the stone street below. Jancis' skin was an artful display of yellow and green bruises spotted with purple spots.

 

Moraby Bay Docks were, luckily, not as bad off as the warning bells called. The locals and citizens of the dock were tough souls and were quick to deal with the fire and rubble on their own before more Maelstrom and Yellow Jackets arrived. Beyond the warehouse building, that was a burnt pile now, only the adjoining wall behind it had been damaged, crumbling along the length of it a few yalms.

 

Injuries were mostly minor, mostly cuts and scraps, though one woman had a broken arm and shoulder from the initial explosion. Jancis had stayed in the town all night tended to the wounded and reporting to the officers who came with questions. 

 

She had never seen an explosion like that before. Quite different from Master Chuchukepa's abilities or any other caster. She didn't recognize the miqo'te "mage" (as she thought), but she knew Lady McBeef with her surefire grin. She recognized Cici's tone, the woman she ordered to lay down her arms. The two arcanists that attacked Jancis she did not know, but their words and their books were vivid memories.

 

Now one she recognized was departed, Jancis recalling the squall of tears that rained down from Sir Iron's eyes. Had Lady McBeef been injured? She had trotted out of the warehouse office quickly enough. The only other, her dear friend and kin, had answers that Jancis wanted to hear.

 

It wasn't fair. Cici had mentioned something about enemies and protection. What had they been there for? Surely not the same confiscated wares that Jancis sought, a painting and some old china, at least not for Ul'dah's sake. What had Cici been dragged into? What of Sir Iron and the house he spoke of? The Sworn and their reputation? What of the Maelstrom and their required response?

 

How could one woman cause so much to go so wrong, and yet not be the reason for her own demise? Only Thaliak knew the truth; it would be a dishonor to fathom other doubts and thoughts.

[Avenio Naemig]

(( Part one of two ))

 

“By the Spinner… what is that thing anyway, Father?”

 

The boy had seen hints of it before, but its location made is easy enough hide under most clothing and, though he did not realize it, his father took pains to ensure it rarely saw the light of day.  But a man had to bathe, and the child had been thoughtful enough to bring him a towel, freshly off the clothesline and still warm from the sun’s rays.

 

The adult highlander started at the sound of the small voice, and turned to glance over his shoulder.  He sighed.  It was no use hiding the boy’s own destiny from him, though stubbornness and hope had coalesced into some kind of makeshift bulwark.  Yet a sharp young mind and ample curiousity could pry apart such defenses with hardly a thought.

 

The man was absurdly tall – possibly well near if not past seven feet – but a rankling self-consciousness suffused deeply within the man’s bones gave him something of a perpetual slouch.  Even this did not detract from the highlander’s massive bulk.

 

An obvious warrior, the thirty-four year-old blond looked like he could munch on pebbles for breakfast, with a rumbling, rocky voice to imply that he did just that – though he seemed to have a penchant for keeping his silence.

 

The boy’s gaze was arrested by the strange and archaic lines transgressing over his father’s right shoulder.  Made of some kind of mystic ink so black it sucked the light in from around it, the lines formed a geometric pattern of boxes, rectangles, and other shapes that meant nothing to a casual observer.  Yet there could be no denying that this was not the work of man.  On close inspection, the pattern perpetuated into obscurity; the lines far too small to have been tattooed, let alone fully observed.  Not that the heavy highlander allowed any such observation.

 

Turning around, the fighter took the towel from his son’s hands and padded himself off in a silence that resonated with emotion.

 

“Do you still not trust me?” asked the child.

 

The question shore through his defenses like an arrowhead through flesh, and the quiet man physically winced.  Now dried, the fighter pulled his shirt back over his head with a sigh, obfuscating the mark from view once more.

 

“Veny, my son…”

 

Looking at his progeny, the fighter’s jaw clenched to keep the emotion from his face.  Barely pushing twelve, the lad was growing into a fine young man.  Hair of flaxen gold like his father’s, gaze of the deepest ocean like his mother, and a broad back upon which to carry the world’s weight. He was deft, clever, and absurdly curious – something his father had wholeheartedly encouraged throughout his upbringing.

 

The lad squirmed under the inspection, his twisted body language procuring a soft chuckle from the fighter.  Likely he thought himself in trouble.  Again.

 

The words he spoke then would carry the lad into adulthood, though he would not know it for quite some time.

 

“There will come a day,” he rasped gently as he knelt before the lad, “When you may feel your hand forced.  There is no excuse, no matter how just, that will rationalize full and absolute release.”

 

The boy’s lips pursed as he digested his father’s words, his adolescent mien bunching at the brow in equal parts confusion and irritation, “I . . . I don’t understand, Father.  What do you mean?”

 

“Promise me, Veny,” his father’s hands shot up and gripped his shoulders squarely, preventing him from moving or looking away, and the sudden direness of his voice quickened trepidation subtly onto the lad’s face, “Promise me you will heed these words.”

 

“I promise,” said the boy with neither hesitation nor reservation.  Such was the trust he had in the man.

 

“Good,” satisfied, the highlander stood with a grunt, and flashed a rare smile at the young man before raising to his feet once more, “Is that fish I smell?”

 

“Mmhm.  Mother is cooking perch,” confided the boy with secret glee, knowing the reaction it would glean.

 

“Oh-ho!  My favourite!” the man’s eyes lit up, and he bounded for the exit of the baths, “You’d better hurry before I eat yours!”

 

By the time the lad turned, his father was already out the door, “W-wait up, Dad!”

 

Though those dour words were swiftly forgotten, their portentous nature would see them cycle back into the lad’s life much sooner than either of them would have expected.

 

 

(( Part two has been written!  But, due to its length, I've separated it into its own post.  Part two here! ))

[Berrod Armstrong]

 

 

 

Berrod raised the quill off of the bleached parchment and set it back into the ink pot. The spelling was perfect, and the words all made sense to him. It was...liberating, and a point of pride. Yet, it was also expected. What he had written was not the most crucial of documents, but the need burned in him to put it to parchment. Carefully, he set it aside to dry and pulled another from the pile. 

 

There was a lot of work to do.

[Kage]

The small, lone form made its way out in the Sagoli slowly, trudging ever closer to Byregot’s Spike. The location of a time long ago… the memories taking the breath away from the one whose tears have long since dried from the bloodshot, crusted eyes.

 

He stood on the dune, watching and seeing nothing. The sun over the horizon not at all blinding the downcast eyes. He collapsed to his knees, dry-heaving as he hadn’t eaten or slept in days. He grabbed his beret, covering his face with it before screaming. His hoarse voice as he’d screamed his throat raw already.

 

He had moved to another room, unable to watch as they had executed her will. Moving things out of their, no, -his- room. As the items he’d seen her wear and use slowly disappeared as they found their new homes.

 

With shaky hands, he unsheathed his sword. Pausing, he looked at it before raising it. With an angry growl he flung it with all his might over the dune. He didn’t watch as it flew through the air. He didn’t watch as it buried itself deep into the sands when it landed. He clutched the chain around his neck. Attached to it was the ring he had made before he had found himself a new in Limsa. The one he’d made for -them-.

 

Bowing his head, he started his trek back towards the Forgotten Springs. Putting the thoughts of that one trip out of his mind, he left the sword in the sands.

[Delilah Scythewood]

While the death of Natalie haunted many of the people from Ul'dah to Limsa, Lili had another death to worry about.

 

The run in with Paradyme, Ella, and little Dawn had been unexpected out in Gridania, and the news of Liliana's death even moreso. Lili ran her fingers through her hair as Ado continued to sleep besides her in their rented bed, letting out the occasional little snore before curling up further against the side of his mother. At the hand of Lanza no less? He seemed volatile, but not exactly violent. Or had she just misread him?

 

Lowly she cursed to herself. If only she hadn't gone home after all of that. If only she had stayed perhaps her look alike would still be alive. If only...

 

Well. It didn't matter anymore. She promised Paradyme she'd get him answers so he could focus on his daughter.

 

With that in mind, Lili slipped out of bed and slipped on some pants and a shirt. Glancing towards the door, she could see the light coming from beneath it that signaled Kaiten's aether. The poor man stood guard all night, bless him. He truly was owning up to being a 'personal knight', nonofficial title or no. As she scooped up Ado, the sleepy Lalachild grumbled against Lili's shoulder as she strode to the door.

 

"Mommy?"

 

"Yes, baby?"

 

"Where are we going?"

 

She opened the door and stepped out into the hall. "Home to the Society, little love. There's work to do."

[Elysia]

"You know, Avis, you're remarkably cheerful for someone all in black for an ex-boyfriend's death anniversary," the merchant Kokoniku Papaniku said, watching his Hyur companion, Ul'dahn exile Avis Inkwood, making tiny noises of glee while running her fingers through a mound of glittering purple. She didn't look up.

 

"I'm not the one who shows up today, of all days, with a girl's favorite dresses from the weavers." Avis lifted the cloth and breathed in its lace. "A girl's favorite dresses, all wrapped and packaged with a bow to boot, as though it's her birthday."

 

It was a cool night at Limsa Lominsa, the breezes strong, but the touch of lamplight from near them was warm and light - the pair sat out in the open but felt the setting curiously cosy, as though the night held them snug. It befit the reunion of two long-estranged best friends well. 

 

"I bought them, by the way," Kokoniku grumbled. "Your parents had them selling at the Sapphire for the most bewildering prices. I think they comfort themselves for their loss of you by aspiring to make as much money from it as they possibly can." 

 

"That," Avis declared, surprised at how little bitterness she felt towards them after everything that had happened, "comforts me. You see, mourning is wasteful. Learning to smell the roses - and the cesspits - is the only way we do justice to the dead. Or the good as dead." She was beginning to realize that this, this relative contentment, was the magic of Limsa Lominsa: the changing winds, the crash and solemnity of the sea that both anchored and drove; she could move lightly, lightly. "We live on their behalf."

 

She could almost see Kokoniku roll his eyes. "And I was worried about you. I came all the way here because I was worried about you. Anyway, in other more important news, your sister Alexis has come to terms with hair loss and is now sporting an insufferable wig." 

 

Avis smiled. If she closed her eyes, did her best, the strains of gruff chatter and clatter from the Drowning Wench, some distance away, could sound like what she was used to and loved at the Quicksand. In an alternate universe, Avis's desires melded into one; he would be here, Jasper, one arm around her waist and a leg up on the ledge, which she would snidely chide off; Jasper, giving a shout of jubilation at his first sight of the sea. Yes, today she would choose to remember and imagine him this way, in his adventure-struck prime, cresting the wind and the waves in his mind - as though he had not really gone under these forces larger than he was. 

 

Without warning, Avis pulled the Lalafell into a brief embrace. "Thank you," she told him, "for crossing the skies for me today." Kokoniku gave a squeak, unaccustomed, for Avis was rarely physically affectionate towards her friends. She sensed his embarrassment, saw the faint flush on his face, and felt a deep chuckle of amusement bubbling up from within.

[Kage]

THWACK!

 

The large, almost unwieldy blade hit the training dummy. It embedded itself into the lower half before the hand on the hilt brought the blade out. Once more, the broadsword struck the dummy until the dummy gave way to the ground. Destroyed by the blunt damage it received.

 

As the blade was thrown haphazardly to the floor, spiked knuckles were taken out from where they were attached at the belt. They struck another intact dummy. Over and over they hit the dummy. What would be the shins and chest of the dummy were struck over and over. Eventually they too were cast away as cloth covered fists took to the training dummy. Blood slowly started to appear on both the training dummy and on the cloth covering fisted knuckles. Finally, the fists fell, limp and at the sides of the lalafell.

 

It was high time he started to get work on gathering up his band for the work at hand. The lalafell grabbed a flask of water and a towel, wrapping it over his sweaty face and head. He thought about Shadow and how she would not stop calling him 'young' or 'small' master to his chagrin. While he placing a lot of his trust into her, he would still like to see how she would act with him in some sort of role over her. Iron Sea was off on his own since that night. No matter.

 

The lalafell paused on his way to the bathtub, glancing at the surcoat that once was a bright white. The cloth had been dyed and the metals reworked. He turned back to take his time to rest and feel clean.

 

He wasn't going to chase after anyone. That time had long since past. The remnants of which were thrown into the Sagoli.

[Berrod Armstrong]

 

 

 

The Root. It is survival made flesh, one's right to be, one's longing to live, and one's urge to continue one's existence. It will not stand for threats against one's well being, and will always respond more quickly to a mind set along the same path. Earth is the element within which it is steeped, and from it, one may attain its strength, resilience and endurance. 

 

Nestled at the base of the spine, it is the foundation upon which one's power is built; one who has not mastered the root will not be as effective as one who has. It is the strongest connection to the world, and the seat of power through which the worldly energy given to one's spirit flows. None is wasted lest one bid it released, and doing so bids a period of recovery and meditation. 

 

Red is its color, bold as blood, for it is what it seeks to protect; what it covets to flow within one's own veins and will not allow to spill without severe jealousy. 

 

Thus wrote Berrod Armstrong, Son of the Fist, regarding the first chakra.

 

 

 

The Second Chakra

The Third Chakra

The Fourth Chakra

The Fifth Chakra

The Sixth Chakra

Grasping the Chakras

Monkhood and Balance

[ZindelloTarantella]

"Please tell it again! Please!"

 

Bright eyes, one gold the other blue, looked up at their owner's beloved pappa. Leaning forward on his hands, the small boy gave a smile that could melt hearts as he pleaded for a story, one of his favorites, to be recounted again. It was a tradition, every year, though he asked for it every now and then when he really wanted to hear it but his father was just so good at telling it that the boy made it a special Namesday wish of his. He loved the way his pappa told it because of all the funny voices and the little magic tricks and just--it was just the best, it really, really was!

 

"Are you sure? You ask every year! It's not getting too old for you, kupo?"

 

"No! No!" the small boy cheered, shaking his head emphatically. "It's tradition! And tradition is important because otherwise it wouldn't be traditional!" His tone was very grave on this point--it was both sound and legit logic to him. "So we have to follow tradition! Traditionally!"

 

"Alright, alright!" Koopin Kop nodded, raising his little paw to calm the child. "If you want it so much then I suppose it's alright to tell you again." This was met with another cheer of glee from the small boy who had settled down, leaning back on his hands as he sat on the carpet of leaves within the small house that served as the Moogles' home--and his.

 

"Once upon a time, long, long before any Moogles that are alive today were in Eorzea, all the Moogles lived high in the sky, amongst the stars." Koopin Kop raised his hand creating a bright burst of tiny, glamoured stars over head. "And all the Moogles lived as servants to the gods and they were happy. Above them all reigned Good King Moogle Mog XII who was the biggest, bravest and kindest of all Moogle-Kind." At this, the various insignias of the Twelve were formed from the tiny stars. Beneath them, the image of a tiny, crowned Moogle floated, looking very regal (and yet cuddly) at the same time.

 

"The Moogles liked being servants to the gods?" the child asked curiously, tilting his head. That was one thing he had never understood--how someone could be happy serving another for their whole lives.

 

"Of course. The gods were good to the moogles, and the moogles, in turn, enjoyed serving the gods who protected them. There is notihng wrong with a simple and humble life, kupo!" This didn't clear up the boy's confusion but he didn't interrupt again.

 

"As I was saying, the Moogles lived very happily, eating and drinking and serving...until the great war in the heavens began. It was very dangerous and the moogles were in danger since they were simply servants and not gods. And so, Good King Moogle Mog XII--"

 

"Wanted to help them be free!"

 

"Wanted to help them escape the danger, kupo--" Koopin Kop corrected. At his words and a few motions, the stars turned slightly red and the signs of the gods became clouded and distorted, twisting into uncanny shapes. "And so he determined that the only place they would be safe was upon the land below. And that meant escaping down to Eorzea."

 

"So they made a loooong rope, right?" the child grinned, seeming to like this part. "And they all climbed down!" The boy loved climbing trees--it only stood to reason this part was his favorite part. To think about such a long rope that could go all the way from the heavens to the ground below...that would be an amazing rope to climb! "Because moogles have wings but they can't fly that far so they had to climb down, right? Right?"

 

"Yes! But sadly, there was no way to tie off the rope in the heavens and so one moogle would have to stay behind to hold the lifeline so that all the other moogles could escape, kupo. And the only moogle strong enough was--"

 

"Good King Moogle Mog XII!" The boy was completely enamored with the story, his mis-matched eyes watching as the large moogle in the glamoured story lowered a long tether and tiny moogles began their long scury and slide down to the 'earth' below. He was leaning forward again, eyes following the show with glee, counting the moogles in his head as they descended one after the other--every year it was a different number. Last year it was six...the year before it had been five and this year it was...seven!

 

"That is just so. And so Good King Moogle Mog XII remained in the heavens because he had no way down. And all the Moogles safely escaped the war in the heaven to lead happy lives here on Eorzea; though they were very sad to lose their kind and benevolent king."

 

"What does that mean?"

 

"What does what mean, kupo?"

 

"Be--ne--ve--lant?"

 

"Benevolent means 'someone known for doing good things', kupo. And it is why all moogles should try to be just like Good King Moogle Mog XII. No matter what, we must always be good and kind so that even though our king is not here with us in person, he is with us in spirit, kupo."

 

"So...that means that I should be good and kind too, right?"

 

"That it does, kupo. It's important that you always do your best to be kind to everyone. It is the 'Right' thing to do."

 

"The 'Right' thing to do..." the boy nodded again, going deep into thought. He liked doing the right thing--and if being like Good King Moogle Mog XII was the Right thing then he would do it too. "Then I'll be a good moogle just like Good King Moogle Mog XII. I promise!"

 

Koopin Kop nodded sagely and twitched his whiskers. One of these days they would have to tell the boy he wasn't a Moogle. He was certain that the child already knew--he had always been very clever and observant and so the moogle and his wife had trouble determining if the boy was simply playing along for their sake or if he really believed it--for being a small Hyur child, Tarot was astoundingly good at sarcasm and even better at being more than a bit cheeky and patronizing.

 

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

 

 

"Might I ask, then, when you figured it out, kupo?" Koopin Kop asked, cracking open a nut and nibbling on the meat inside, looking at Tarot from across the way. It was his Namesday, after all, and Tarot had wanted his traditionally traditional story. Afterwards though, the older moogle decided to finally ask the question.

 

"What do you mean?" Tarot replied, sitting at the counter and looking very smug and pleased with himself, as he always did.

 

"When did you figure out that you weren't one of us? That you weren't a moogle?"

 

"I'm not a moogle!?" Tarot feigned shock and horror before making a little grin and chuckling in his throat at the frown his adopted father gave him. "I figured it out my seventh year--the year I figured out that the number of moogles descending down the rope matched my current Namesday--I suddenly realized that a lack of wings, pom-pom, fur, whiskers, paws and that I had to force myself to say 'Kupo' were all indicators that maybe, just maybe, I was a Lalafell and not a moogle. Still didn't keep me from imagining myself to be the second coming of Good King Moogle Mog--Good King Tarot Mog XIII. Has a nice ring to it, no?" He gave his father a wink and took a drink from his coffee.

 

"You still have your cheekiness, that's for sure, kupo. But I don't think that will be going anywhere any time soon." The Moogle got up and drifted over to Tarot, giving him a fond pat on the head with his paw. "You're still my boy, even if you're ten times my size, kupo. Don't you forget that. Happy Namesday, kupo."

 

"Heh, thanks." Tarot paused and then carefully pulled his pa into a hug. "Thanks, papa."

[Coatleque]

There was no warmth in his eyes. Tonight, like most, was strictly business. "A favor for a favor..."

 

Sunlight streamed through the large glass windows of the penthouse suite of the Mizzenmanst and bathed the bed in warmth. Coatleque stirred and slowly opened her eyes. She looked around briefly before panic began to set in. This was not her room.

 

His hands caressed her body, and she caved. His touch, rough and calloused - a surprise which only added to the thrill of this moment."

 

She sat up, clutching the sheets to her bare chest then groaned in pain as she clutched her temples. How much had she drank last night? It could not have been more than two or three flutes. The taste of the wine had certainly hid its potency.

 

They had spoken for most of the night in hushed yet gentile tones. "Tell me what you truly desire, my dear."

 

What had she done? She remembered making some off-handed remark about how things could be so much easier. Shady back room deals did not need to be made. The security of Ul'dah was at stake here, after all.

 

She was lead to the inn shortly after dinner. "A pleasant evening, miss, and a restful morning."

 

Standing, she all but dragged the sheet with her from the bed to keep covered. She called out, but the suite was empty. The drink that Mister North said he would provide was left on a table just inside the balcony. For that she was suddenly very grateful.

 

Negotiations has been made far too quickly. "Make certain that she is provided for with the finest silks."

 

After making herself proper, she did her best to be sure the room was in a likewise state before making her way back to the Drowning Wench. "This was a mistake... What have you done?", were the thoughts that haunted her the rest of the morning. Stepping off the airship back in Ul'dah she felt as if all eyes were on her with disapproving glares. Of course nobody else knew yet, but she did. That alone was enough.

[Berrod Armstrong]

 

 

 

 

 

The Sacral. Here lies all the bodily desires of man, mainly of food, drink and the flesh. It works in tandem with the Root, for in order to survive, one must eat. One must drink. One must procreate. The basic will to live on feeds into the desire to do what is necessary, and so does the desire feed back into that will. The Chakra is the fulcrum upon which the third and the first teeter. It is beholden to no element, steeped in potent and unaspected Aether. 

 

The Sacral responds to a mind in one of two opposing states: Indulgence and Abstinence. Indulging in the desires of the flesh excites and pleases it. In anticipation and preparation, it stores aether to be unleashed when one requires stamina and drive. Similarly, abstinence prompts it to conserve and stay ready, storing aether until a moment when it can hold no more and release is inevitable. 

 

The power in this chakra lies in the control of its release. One may flood oneself with aether, but to what purpose that aether is put -- that is important. Given that the will of the chakra is to provide stamina, one may find oneself with a second wind after near exhaustion. Extensive training leads to greater control, to a point where one may heal wounds at a rate the naked eye can see.

 

Orange is its color, mixed of red and yellow. Will and survival mix to become desire. Desire serves as a driving force for both. Such is the cycle. Thus flows the worldly energy up from the root into the Sacral. Thus lies where the spirit keeps and molds it, until such a time when it is called. Such is the Sacral.

 

So writes Berrod Armstrong, Son of the Fist, regarding the second chakra.

 

 

The First Chakra

The Third Chakra

The Fourth Chakra

The Fifth Chakra

The Sixth Chakra

Grasping the Chakras

Monkhood and Balance

[Kage]

The lalafell kicked back his chair, only using the two hind pegs as he steadied the weight with his feet on top of the desk.

 

His desk.

 

Now...

 

He glared at the paperwork that lay under his feet and at the front door. All four chair legs crashed onto the floor as he took a quill and threw it at the door.

 

Things weren't the same. They never would be... but "The bombards" didn't sound all that great anymore. Bombardiers didn't work. Perhaps janissary. Landsknecht?

 

The lalafell jumped down, hollering throughout the house. "Oy Shadow! I need your opinion! ALSO FIND ME A SECRETARY!"