Bulletin Board

[Lady Rivienne]

The cold had been far more welcoming than the bitterness woven into his words. What started as mild curiosity, bloomed into both of them setting up their defensive barriers. Vexing words struck like daggers into her heart, and as much as her visage did little to betray her, it pained her nonetheless from within. In the end, she stood a fool before him; in his eyes, that is what he viewed her as, a woman consumed with chasing ghosts and a past left best if not pursued. But would he fault her for wanting to know about such a shrouded past? The truth came from his rancorous state and forged its way into her mind, consuming her thoughts entirely.

 

Her name, falling from his lips, was torment when their bickering came to an end. His kiss burned on her lips and she wished to smother the lingering flame he left.

 

She left Thaarus to seek solace away from his eyes and to finally let down the shields that she hastily placed around her heart. The chill in the air greeted her, the frost nipped at her cheeks and neck. She felt the frigid touch run down her spine, but none of these elements could numb her like he had.

 

When she finally arrived to her temporary establishment, no one was present to greet her, except a flickering glow. A dying light, of a candle at the entrance, wanes and caresses her features, offering a comfort that she had not found this day. Her back pressed to the door and Rivienne felt the weight of her burdens suddenly grow heavy upon her shoulders. The tears she held back, in his presence, fell without restraints, causing rivulets to run down flushed cheeks. She tilts her head back, against the grain of wood behind her, and seeks the rafters above. Her body slowly gave way, causing metal to resonate throughout the empty chambers, announcing her descend. Tiredly, she reached within her chest-piece, seeking the folded paper that he threw at her, but dared not to open it and read. She could not muster the energy, not now, not yet.

 

Her weeping was soundless, the injury caused was blind to the eye, but she felt it in the pit of her core..

 

.. and it left her paralyzed on the floor.

[Coatleque]

The cloaked figure stood silently at the door of the Quicksand. Other adventurers pushed past her to the side without a single word or even a glance. She hesitated, unsure whether to enter or not. To her left, S'honji stood having a rather annoying conversation with someone. For a brief moment she wished everyone would just disappear so she could stay unnoticed. Then she saw her target across the room standing in his usual place.

 

Coatleque breathed a sigh of relief to herself. He was there. Alive. Seemingly unphased. She had watched him take a bullet not two days prior in a scene that conjured up images of her own past once again. But there he was engaged in conversation with someone. This would not be the place to approach him. Not like this. So she waited. Withdrew and sat on a bench for a good hour or so, with cloak and cowl drawn tight for concealment.

 

Finally he left. And she trailed him from a distance. Ducking and weaving through the city crowd. Pretending to shop at various stalls when he stopped. Hiding behind corners when available. She followed him to the Goblet. He stopped at the Brimming Heart and looked off towards the distance. This would have to be it, she decided. Now or never.

 

Cautiously she approached him from behind. Reaching out slowly she touched his shoulder just as he turned to face her. Their eyes locked. His expression was one of complete shock at seeing her present. Quickly her other hand raised to her mouth in an expression of silence. He nodded in compliance. After a few more quiet and awkward moments, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around his, pressing against him.

 

Unsure of what to do he returned her embrace, leaning his head to rest against her hood. All she could do was sigh contentedly. But no, she had a purpose, a reason for this meeting. Duty must come first. She pulled herself away from him, slowly, letting her hands slide down his arm. Reaching his hand she deposited something in it. A note. An urgent message. She regarded him with a worried expression.

 

He took the note and read it quickly, then roughly crumpled it and pocketed it away with a growl. Their eyes met one last time as she turned to leave, pulling her cowl low as she disappeared into the darkness of the night.

[Oscare]

"You murdered her in cold blood," The feminine voices whispers. Sharpened black nails trickle Oscare's dark toned shoulders, the sleeves of her fur coat brushing along the shoulders as well.

 

"What do you want, Avera?" Oscare grunts out, trying so hard not to kick her ass right about now. But he knew his consequences if he did. 

 

He remains quiet as the woman continues to speak. "You know very well what I want, Oscare." Avera snickers, one of her nails moving ever so slightly up to the back of Oscare's ear. "You killed her upon my request, to get that certain object that belongs to me. I want it back."

 

"I've no idea what you're on about."

 

 

"I think you do." Avera's tone becomes more malicious with every passing word. Raising a hand and snapping her fingers once, the highlander woman falls silent. Within just a few seconds, another dark toned, masculine highlander man came to Avera's side. "-- Ah, yes, Escsire." Avera's tone suddenly becomes pleasing and satisfied.

 

Escsire's blue eyes fall upon Avera. "-- Yes, my lady?" Escsire grins, looking at Oscare, who was still facing away. "Do I get to face against my favorite man again?" Escsire followed up immediately, not allowing Avera to respond to his earlier question. To that, Avera smiles. 

 

"Mmmmn. Not to face him. No, not at all. I just need something from him." Avera snickers once more. Escsire doesn't even respond to that, walking over to Oscare and cuffing Oscare's wrist with a tight grip. Oscare nearly falls over if it weren't for Escsire's tug to get him back up. The swordsman leans in on Oscare, whispering lightly in his ears. 

 

Whatever it was said, it got Oscare panicky. Worried. "Okay, okay! I'll give it back... just, get Escsire off of me." Oscare sounds desperate. Succeeding in his task, Escsire back off from Oscare, who rolled out a satchel in Avera's general direction. Oscare falls backwards, holding his head. 

 

"Looks like the hunter isn't so fearless as he claims," Escsire taunts as Avera leaves with the satchel in her hands, very clearly pleased with the outcome of his confrontation. The room becomes completely dead silent when she does exit, leaving a helpless Oscare on the ground and a devious Escsire behind. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, but you know I do it out of love." Escsire teases, doubling over and laughing harder than any human should. "Ah, yeah right. I look foward to our next meeting." 

 

With that, Escsire leaves as well.

[Val]

"Women in general are usually fickle," the platinum blonde midlander spoke as she leaned back in her chair, "the promiscuous ones moreso than the rest."

 

"Pfft. Now yer just tellin' lies," Val replied as he eyed across the table to her. Faye looked absolutely dumbstruck by Val's response, as if someone were trying to inform her that grass wasn't actually green or that aether never existed in the first place.

 

"It's a universal truth," she replied incredulously.

 

"A'nope. Ya ain' fickle."

 

"I was fickle. Then I found what I wanted and had no more need to be." She wasn't about to willingly lose this argument, but then again she never was very willing. The problem was that neither was Val.

 

"Chocoshit. I was yer first."

 

"Precisely. I was too fickle to settle on anyone else."

 

Val looked absolutely baffled. ..Did she actually know what fickle meant? The third in their company, poor Worren, was left to just stare at the two as they 'debated' back and forth to one another.

 

"What?" Faye continued, "You heard me. It made perfect sense."

 

"Idunno 'bout all that perfect sense stuff. How many people ya been wi' before me, eh? I'm pretty sure ya bl---er. Yer just talkin' shit."

 

Faye's eyes went wide. Was he about to say what she thought he was? "Manners!" she reprimanded aloud, "What on earth are you talking about? I haven't been with anyone else, though this is hardly the time or place for such a conversation."

 

"What'm I talkin' 'bout? What're YOU talkin' 'bout!" the Seeker called back to her, "I know ya ain' been wi' no one else an' I ain' sayin' ya was! S'why ya ain' fickle an' I was!"

 

Faye's eyes alit with sudden understanding, "I'm not entirely certain you have an accurate idea of what 'fickle' means."

 

..What if he didn't? For a split second, absolute horror stretched across the man's features. Then, he sat up from his previously slouched position in the chair and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes in a challenging manner at the woman next to him, "..Oh yeah? Well maybe YOU don't know what fickle means!"

 

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Faye stared back at Val for some time, long and hard, before leaning toward him and narrowing her own eyes in return, "Val... fickle means picky. Inconsistent. You change your mind a lot."

 

Val comically narrowed his eyes even further, now barely able to see her with his mismatched eyes through the small slits provided by his lids, "Nah. Fickle is one'f those weird Elezen words fer fuckin' alotta people an' y'didn't fuck no one but me so ya ain' fickle."

 

The lady responded in kind, leaning further with her eyes narrowing even more in a comical fashion, not unlike his own. "Val," she began, "When was the last time you've consulted a dictionary?"

 

He leaned the rest of the way, the tips of their noses touching so that he could simply state, "Th'fuck's a dictionary?"

 

Faye leaned back in her chair, arms smugly crossing over her chest as if the question itself confirmed her victory. Val mimicked the gesture. The fact that she had been the first to lean away from him thoroughly proved his victory, right? The two continued to sit and stare at each other in silence for some time, leaving the absolutely baffled Worren to continue to observe in silence. He would observe no more.

 

"Fuck this," he called out as he stood from their shared table, "If this is what marriage is like, I'm glad I'm single." He promptly left the two to their own devices, which mostly consisted of Faye sticking her tongue out at Val and he returning quips in the same childish manner he always had.

[Coatleque]

Coatleque had stayed with them for the night. The frightened mother and her daughter. Because of Jin'li, they were all now in the same situation. She had assured them as best she could that she would help them as soon as she as able. That her forced hospitality would be repaid in double to this madman.

 

Her sleep was fitful and uneasy that night. She had no dreams, but she could hear. The voices and cries of her friends, shield brothers and sisters. The clashing of steel against steel. She heard everything, but saw nothing, as if her body were hovering over the scene playing out below.

 

Waking early, she sat on the edge of the bed. She retrieved the pressed flower that had been lain on the nightstand the previous night. A tear rolled down her cheek as she felt its petals once more.

 

Her course was now clear. She would not serve two masters, and her life was already pledged to one of them. The madness must end... tonight. Yes, tonight... her oath would be fulfilled.

[Oscare]

The silent, hot winds of Thanalan blow.

"

♫The heroes march towards♫

Life continues forwards,

Is there no hope for us?

Let Nophica bless the grounds we stand on,

Or have Halone rain her rage upon.

Everyday a choice is made,

tonight, we decide our fate.

May the Twelve alleviate the lost souls of the heroes,

and banish the souls of the evil into the seventh hell."

 

 

Oscare sighs, feeling his song lost it's meaning on the empty skies. Nevertheless, he marches back to Ul'dah.

[cuideag]

(( This is crazy overdue. The conclusion to Askier and Roen's kidnapping, from Delial's perspective. With much love and apology to Itarliht's player in particular. ))

 

 

The memory would come to her at times, unbidden, redundant: a voice like silk in her ears and just as rich. Her mother's hands slid over hers, soft and cool as snakeskin. "Quick and fluid, duckling." Slender fingers would wrap around hers, still small and clumsy, and together they would hold the simple blade. Delial could hear her smile without seeing her face. "One motion. Clean, else we waste. We cannot have that, my sweet. We simply cannot have that."

 

Itarliht knelt upon the deck yet still he was gargantuan, nearly coming up to her chest even when he was on his knees. He was encased in armor just as he was the last time they had come to Crescent Cove. They called him Crimson Mountain and the heavy plate glistened like blood freshly cut from the vein. They called him a monster yet there was peace in his deep green eyes.

 

"What did you do to her?"

 

"I turned her into a dog."

 

She knew the moment that Gharen handed the knife off to her that she would have to use it. Wolfsong, for all the errors he had made in his life, was no fool. His sister knelt at the end of the pier in nearly nothing at all, shorn and trembling. Her arms were twisted behind her back and she stared hard and bitter. "He is a monster," she said. Her voice was hoarse.

 

Quick and fluid. Itarliht's lips moved. He did not look away from her, the woman who stared not at him but at the memory that came unbidden. Garren Blackstone was not kneeling when he died but he looked at her much the same: resignation. Acceptance. He knew his daughter was beyond his reach and when her small hands dragged the blade across his throat she did not look away. Only when he stopped moving did she press her fingers against his throat and marked her face just as mother had shown her. Just as the witch had shown them both.

 

The knife was warm in her hand. Itarliht was speaking. "I wanted to protect you," he said. "But all I did was hurt you." His voice was much calmer than before when the pier was still crowded by those who wanted his head. She could not tell if he regretted. His face betrayed nothing, and the rumble of his voice only made her ache in ways she had forgotten she could. "If you want my life, it's yours."

 

"Stupid. Lunatic."  The fire of her rage, the legacy of her bloodline and the name she did not wear, thrummed loud in her ears. Even as every scrap of evidence along the trail Osric had led her had pointed at Itarliht, she had refused quite blatantly to see it. Itarliht knelt before her penitent, waiting, unafraid of the fury which stood before him. He had seen the knife and Delial wondered briefly he if knew as well. "I should kill you, if you truly wish to die. My life is not worth that of any man - not ... not yours. Not even yours."

 

"I don't want to die," Itarliht said evenly. Her knuckles ached. "But I'd rather die than have you hate me."

 

Westor did not beg either and he fought with every last breath, foolish in his conviction that betrayal was worth his life. She shook her head as if to shake the memory away, ignoring the foul taste that was rising in her throat. His eyes had been clear though he moved as if with the grace of Rhalgr himself up until the knife sunk into his gut. Even then he stared, hawk-like. He made no sound even as he died and for the first time Delial Blackstone thought to wonder if she had been wrong.

 

Hatred and disdain had made the air heavy. As the suns since Roen's disappearance stretched on and the blame piled up, she had adamantly denied that her knight could be responsible. He swore his loyalty and his sword to her, a woman whose crimes he never knew though it stained her plain as day, and he believed in what she could be more so than what she was. The first time she called him her White Knight she had thought it a joke, but he had smiled as though it were the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him in all his life.

 

"I love you." She said it as if the very words offended her, made her skin crawl.  Inside her gut she ached and in the moments she took stepping closer to him, bending down to rest her brow against his, her body felt like fire. His eyes did not stray from hers and even when she shut hers away she could feel him watching her with all the calm of a quiet sea. "But this...."

 

"I know. I'm sorry. Just... make it quick, okay? And... I love you, too." His forehead pressed back against hers and clunky, armored arms reached up to embrace her in blood-colored steel.

 

She kissed him once upon his brow, and once upon his lips: a chaste, brief affair, hasty and... lost, somehow, as if resigned. Delial's nose touched to his and she murmured, quietly, "I cannot forgive. I cannot regret." 

 

He returned the quick kiss, nuzzling her nose as though nothing were amiss. Even as the hand that held the knife white-knuckled rose to press against his throat he did not quake nor quiver. There was a pressure around her hand and she realized then that his strong, armored fingers had wrapped around hers. It would have been no challenge to stop her had he desired. He held her hand and he waited.

 

"Live a better life than I did, my love."

 

Quick and fluid. Her hand jerked through the practiced slash of a woman raised spilling blood and she could not tell then who it was that gave the hard, choked gasp she heard, just as she could not tell if the way his hand twisted with hers inside was a reaction to the pain or if he had done so intentionally, ruining flesh and artery alike. Itarliht's heavy, armored form twitched and he began to slump against her as blood rushed free from his body.

 

She did not let go of the blade. She did not fight him. There were a many things Delial did not do. She steeled herself, bracing herself with the fury that came with betrayal, steeled herself with the knowledge of history repeating. Her jaw tightened as she braced herself against him, painfully aware of hot blood spurting from the ugly tear in his throat. She made not a sound as she held him up as best she could manage, until he was indeed still and silent. She did not say a word.

 

Tracing fingers through the waning tide of red, she marked her face just as mother and witch had shown her, just as she had every time. His eyes were still open when at last she opened hers, blind and glassy as they stared across the water. Her fingers pressed them closed and she wondered, briefly, if it was the peaceful gaze that bothered her more than his torn skin. 

 

Knowing not what else to do, she finally gave him to the sea.

[Melkire]

He was gasping for breath now, bleeding profusely from his left side. So close... so ruttin' close. A few dozen more fulms, and he would have been through. Would have gotten to her. Would have given her the salute and the loyalty she deserved, and taken his own life. 

 

But for this gods-damned man. 

 

Warren Castille followed him up the royal promenade, eyes locked squarely on his opponent. He swung for the fences, bringing the flat edge of the blade to bear in the direction of Melkire's head.

 

The man threw his patas up in a desperate attempt to catch the blade, or at the very least to parry... but the strength, momentum, and justice in Warren's swing proved true: the flat caught Osric over the head and sent him sprawling across the hall into the stone railing.

 

The darkness came for him, and he welcomed oblivion.

[Warren Castille]

He turned to the woman and pressed a finger to his lips, urging silence. He kept eye contact with her with an unwavering gaze and quietly removed his gauntlets, setting them aside on the ground and removing a small set of tools. He held spread them like cards in his hand and showed a small screwdriver, a set of tiny shears and a strange, wand-like device. He nodded once, then turned wordlessly to the Sultansworn huddled on the ground beside him.

 

He knelt, giving a small smile with kind eyes. He held up the small tubular device first, pressing it to the collar with a small click of a switch. He nodded to her, insistingly, then sought out her hand and pressed the instrument into it. He didn't say anything and she looked away, eyes pained before closing. He set his jaw and collected himself, then raised the screwdriver.

 

His time with Askier had been short but he'd gone over the movements in his mind over and over. Screws first. That removed the panel and gave him access to the more delicate parts. The wires awaited him, a tangle of nerves that each threatened to leave a crater the size of the hole in his heart. He brought the shears in, sorting connections before severing them. Each clip of the tool stopped his heart but he couldn't allow that to reflect outwardly. Her eyes were still squeezed shut, her face away.

 

He took a deep breath and placed his fingers on the hourglass-shaped fragment. This was the moment of truth. He pulled, fingertips working, and snapped something out of place. Everyone's breath held but nothing happened.

 

The rest of the process was a blur. Screws. Panels. Latches and hitches. The dull throbbing in his leg and the side of his face were distant memories, his entire body was disconnected from the task at hand and when he finally popped the last shred of security and knelt back on his heels, device in hand, he uttered out loud. "Gods."

 

She seemed to notice what happened at once and dropped the wand, scuttling and crawling away as tears and emotion overtook her. He couldn't watch. Others gathered around her, helped to soothe and comfort. Warren looked at the black collar in his hand, the detonator in the other and listened to the woman weep.

[Kage]

The raspy breathing changed as he jerked awake. He coughed as he slowly sat up, groaning in pain as his wounds were jarred. Both he and Natalie had collapsed of sorts onto their bed after some more tender care of his wounds.

 

He winced as he fingered the mostly clean but crusting wound. They might have forgot about the debris inside from the gunblade shots but at least the wounds had essentially cauterized. Kage let out a shaky exhale as he smiled down fondly at Natalie. She had collapsed while tending to his own wounds. Jin'li's assassin must have kicked her pretty hard but her breathing seemed stable. For good measure though Kage had tried to tend to her tender head but he too had collapsed.

 

But now he was in for more pain. Kage moved slowly, finding some sterile tweezers and some clean cloth. He situated himself in front of a mirror, eyeing the two holes in his chest before taking in a deep breath. Small whimpers of pain escaped as he took one... then the other pieces of debris out of his chest. A soft, practically inaudible gurgle escaped his lips at the pain as beads of sweat started to gather on his head. He brought a shaking hand to his chest once more. Conjury at least, did not require him to use aether like thaumaturgy once did. It wouldn't cause the same backlash he'd experienced since his transformation. The soft glowy hue spread from his hand over the wounds on his chest. As his arm fell limp at his side with a relieved sigh, his bare chest showed pink, tender and sore skin. He slumped in his chair, thinking of what had laid him in the state he had been in.

 

They might have caught Jin'li if they had figured out a way to disable the Black mage. Damned white haired Garlean Miqo'te. Damned mage. Now Kage knew why Gharen kept hating on him when he was still able to practice thaumaturgy. Really. He had been able to successfully sneak around and come up behind Jin'li through the Gate but he had quickly taken both of Jin'li's gunblade shots as well as one of the two fireballs the black mage had shot at him. He'd passed out and during the time the mage had teleported away with Jin'li when both had been nearly incapacitated. Merc had been able to follow and Natalie was left to see him. But both Kage and Natalie knew what was best done. Kage had urged her to leave him to chase after them as Merc had called to them over their pearl.

 

... and then Towering Falcon appeared.

 

By the Twelve, Kage wondered what he might owe her for her using her hands to help stop the bleeding of his chest as she kept him company before he had his chocobo drag him home.

 

What did he -owe-?

 

But at least... at least one of Jin'li's assassins was in custody. At least there is that.

[Unnamed Mercenary]

Kage and Natalie were hurt. Probably the only two people that may have had an onze of care for his well-being. Well, maybe a half-onze. It shouldn't have bothered him. 

 

The previous encounter had left Kage knocked out, with multiple wounds. He'd managed to follow Jin'li and a damned mage through the aether to Black Brush, where another assassin had joined them. "Damn that mage!" He may have been alone in his room, but the fist hitting his desk would be audible in the entire house. If he'd had better control. If they had not focused solely on Jin'li. The words that Auturmax Laforet had said, "we'll hunt you down," didn't sit well with him. Sure, nobody knew who we was, himself included, so tracking by name was pointless. But this was someone involved in the void. Someone who chose to protect a twisted, rapid dog of a former slave.

 

And what came of it? As the mage teleported once again, Merc ran after Jin'li's blood trail, only to find it end abruptly. It was fairly obvious the miqo'te wasn't in a state to teleport himself. It would have needed to be Laforet's work. The residual aether from the teleport was easy to sense. He knew the theory, had the knowledge, but not the practice to reopen the gate. Someone else would have to track it. Merc needed only to find someone equally well-versed in study of the aether. Like any other energy, there would be...traceable remnants for a while. He could only hope the captured assassin would either divulge the location, or they would find someone who could apply his theories.

 

He send a letter to the Weaver's Guild in Ul'dah with a few lines.

 

"The dog couldn't be put down. He is protected by an elezen named Austurmax. I know not if this is a pseudonym. The mage threatens to speak, location unknown." The letter was not signed. It need not be trackable.

 

He was certain that the receiver of this letter, a hyuran woman, would not be pleased. Letter sent, he departed to the world of dreams, only to be awoken if any in the house actually wanted his help. His methods may be rough, but they were thorough.

[Aya]

Aya turned around, leaning her hips against the bar.  A small smile embraced her lips as she watched the late-night scene of the Quick Sand unfolding before her.  It had been a long couple of weeks.  What just had happened she figured she'd never quite know for sure.  Confusion, panic, and mayhem had been the order of the day. 

 

An attack on the city, a panic over water supplies.  She had seen the hooded man surrounded by drawn weapons, and seen the empty barrels.  She'd warned Momodi, who sounded the alarm.  The city had been a hum of activity since then, a flurry of efforts, rumors, and stories which seemed impossible to tease apart to anything resembling a cohesive narrative.  Momodi assured her, and customers, that the Quick Sand's cistern was safe, though she fretted for days about how much longer it would last. 

 

A week later it had been announced that all water in the city were safe, but this was quickly followed by rumors of an attempt on the Sultana.  More chaos in the city, with rumors of dark magic and assassins moving in the shadows.  The scene quieted more quickly this time, though whispers and rumors moved apace, weaving tales of their own too fantastic to believe about a battle against voidsent within the palace itself.  Still, the Blades went about their duty, the Sultan Sworn returned to the streets.  Tension hung in the sweltering sun, but the public air was muted.

 

Then, as if transported back in time, Crofte and Warren returned to patrol the streets of Ul'dah, and to keep their watchful eyes on the Quick Sand.  Aya grinned as she remembered the scene upon first seeing the two of them together again: refreshing tea, happy smiles, and a warm welcome home.  No matter the trouble they and the city had been through, things couldn't be too bad now that they were home.

 

Crofte had asked Aya about Osric - she had let the question slip by unanswered.  For weeks her heart had been broken for the man she viewed as hero and protector.  She knew of the collars, his and others; what role had they had in all of this?  She'd heard he was the one who set the bomb that blew the hole in the city wall, through which wind born sand had briefly poured into the courtyard outside the Quick Sand.  She'd heard far worse, too; whatever Crofte had to add Aya would rather not know.  If, like Crofte, the collar had been removed, he was now in the hands of fate, one way or another, firmly ripped from the fingers of the common-folk who had adored him.  Aya remembered the reassuring voice behind the masked eyes, the comforting squeeze of her hand, and the feeling of quiet confidence that surrounded him.  He had lent her a badly needed sense of hope, when her own comfortable little world had come crashing down.  This was how she wanted to know him, no matter what may have followed.

 

Her smile softened as she lowered her gaze to the stones of the tavern floor, covered with the sand of dust of Thanalan and her jewel-like city.  A gust of wind burst in from an opened door, sweeping the grit along the stones in a snaking pattern.  Such seemed to be the way of Ul'dah; built as it were upon the shifting sands. Nothing was certain.  Nothing was sure.  Nothing could be counted on, except memories.

 

She shook her head, trying to banish conjecture.   With an exhale she pushed herself away from the bar, adopting her playful sauntering gait, and the warmth of her welcoming smile.  For now, at least, she had her own job to do; her own role to play, until the shifting sands came for her too.

[Warren Castille]

He stood facing the pool in the center of the Goblet. The sun was just slipping away over the mountains and he tossed another rock sidearmed towards the pond. It bounced once, twice, three times before sinking.

 

That's everyone, then. No better than you deserve.

[Whittledown]

Hornet sat in her room in the Grim's house in the Goblet. Her room. It felt strange not to be staying in an inn. Strange, but welcome. She looked around and found herself smiling. There were all ready wonderful memories here. Kaylie had just left to go do whatever work she had found for herself.

 

Kaylie. The girl was at a crossroads. Hornet frowned slightly, hoping she had done the right thing with what she had said to her. For a moment she worried that if Kaylie left her Company, that Hornet would be blamed. Then she smirked, thinking of Renaud. Of course she would be blamed. And she found herself not caring.

 

Hornet thought of the people she lost, and of the few that she may still count as friends. Kaylie. Jancis perhaps. Sigurd? Possible. Vashi of course. She ticked off other names in the 'no' column. Alveo? Not likely given what happened. Tau? Whatever. She couldn't even muster up a good anger about him. She just didn't care. Renaud? A laugh. After he had shown his true colors, there would never be friendship there. Rinilda? Well she was sleeping with Renaud wasn't she? Cross her off the list.

 

Dhemgeim. Hornet felt her jaw clench without realizing it. Dhemgeim who stood there, silent, while Tau accosted her. Dhemgeim who stood their, silent, while Renaud called Hornet a bloodthirsty monster and a whore. Dhemgeim, who when she did speak, offered only the suggestion of bloodsport to settle the issue between Tau and Hornet. Dhemgeim who said NOTHING to support her. Dhemgeim who never reached out. Dhemgeim who didn't trust her. Dhemgeim who didn't care.

 

Hornet felt something cool on her face and was startled to find herself crying. She wiped her cheeks and took a few breaths. She didn't feel sad, exactly. She just felt a bit empty. A friend she thought she'd have forever. A woman she'd made a promise to.

 

"Oaths are only worth the people they are made to." She said to herself, echoing a sentiment she'd said to Roen. Whatever promise she made didn't matter any more. She had more important things to worry about. She had an axe to sharpen. A lance to hone.

 

Hornet thought of the conversation with Sindl. It had been a relief to express herself to him and to find him so receptive and non-judgmental. She found herself appreciating him for his silence more than his words. He was a good listener. And he had alerted her to a situation she would have to resolve. He didn't have to. But he did. He was a good leader. She would focus on that.

 

The past was past. Time to move forward.

[Berrod Armstrong]

The soldier hurried into the house. It was warm, well decorated and furnished with the most modern amenities technology had to offer. He was a handsome man with somewhat rough features and golden hair that was chopped short upon his head. His blue eyes possessed an almost effeminate fairness, but the square cut of his jaw and his harsh cheekbones eliminated any possibility of him being mistaken for a woman. The look on his face however, suggested nothing short of torture.

 

"Gem," He called. "Gem, come to me, quickly, please."

 

A beautiful -- though harried-looking -- woman emerged from one of the rooms inside. Rich, red hair spilled down all the way to her waist, framing teary eyes as green as precious stones. "Is it time?" She asked thickly. The soldier responded with a nod. "My superiors have agreed to surrender, but the men of my unit want to fight. I don't think we have any chance, but we need to show people that they can still fight."

 

"Let me fight with you, Engheimr, please. You know I've bested even some of your own men." Gem's plea was heartfelt, and only increased the spill of tears down her pale face. Engheimr the soldier would not have it. "As much as I want to die with you beside me, someone needs to see our child to safety. Someone needs to make sure that he doesn't become a part of -- them. They'll take the children and brainwash them, you know it. Where is he? Inside?"

 

Gem nodded once. "Sleeping. I didn't want him to be awake to see if anything went wrong. If you want to see him -- now's the time."

 

Engheimr nodded and quickly moved to one of the inner rooms. Gem went with him, shamelessly allowing her emotion to pour and drip from her pointed chin. 

 

The room was simple -- a few implements for the change of a diaper, a small station to mix formula and prepare food, and a great deal of toys. Against the wall, a small bed stood, with a smaller figure upon it. Like his mother, his hair was as red as the blood in his veins. He was a little large for his age -- something that his father had been loudly proud of. Very quickly Engheimr crossed the room to the bed and gently scooped the boy up. He slept soundly, and only stirred in slumbering protest. Engheimr clutched him, and kissed his head. The moment Gem held on to his waist and pressed her head into his shoulder, however, he broke down into quiet, hitching sobs, refusing to stop the kisses to the mop of wild red hair.

 

"I love you, my son. I love you so much. Please remember at least a little of me. Grow to be a better man than I, a man that your mother can be proud of. You're already so strong, and everyone sees greatness in you. Grow well, and return to this place. Seize it back for us, and make my spirit smile."

 

Gem's sobs joined Engheimr's as they held on for their last precious moments together. 

 

"My sweet boy. My sweet baby boy," the soldier sobbed. "I leave you now. Travel with your mother and take care of her. Be safe in the lands beyond our own."

 

Gem took the child, who had not awakened. His hair was even more of a mess than before on account of all the kisses. Through her tears, she managed her husband a promise. "I'll make sure Berrod never forgets you, Engheimr. I shan't let that happen. Now go; our time is short."

[Oscare]

"Big brother isn't playing fair!" A childish yell echoes across the hall. A bulky kid for his age with a younger looking girl were chasing after each other, the boy clutching a bow in his hand. "Give me that back! That's my bow!" The girl flails as she trips over on a tile and lands on her nose, which bleeds a little. She doesn't cry though -- in fact -- she seems even more encouraged to chase the boy.

 

Two tall highlanders stand a short distance away from them. The taller, stronger man of the two who hones dark red hair and purple eyes laughs. "Wow, isn't Grace tough? She just fell flat on her face and didn't even budge about it." 

 

"Oh, Tohan. You know they're both very strong. Grace doesn't like to complain." The woman replies, holding a baby in both arms. "I just hope Kanah is a little bit more... sensitive. It's great to see two very tough kids, but sometimes a little humanity is good too!" 

 

Tohan sneers. "Ah, would you like me to not raise her to be a hunter, then?" Tohan taunts, prompting a laugh from Ysabel. "Yeah, maybe we shouldn't. Two roughhousing kids are bad enough. We don't need a third one." Tohan looks back to Oscare and Grace, who were still fighting.

 

"You can't even use this bow! Watch a professional, sis." Oscare raises the bow like some sort of champion. The younger sister merely makes a rude gesture at Oscare. 

 

"You can hardly use it either!" Grace pouts, trying to take the bow back. However, Oscare was tall enough to make the bow out of reach. 

 

Tohan and Ysabel laugh again.

[Warren Castille]

Months ago.

 

"I'm sorry she never showed up, Warren." There was a sad expression on the diminutive lalafell before him, standing behind the bar as the man slid onto a stool in front of her.

 

"You, uh, noticed that huh?" He looked a bit embarrassed, gesturing to a bottle behind the shelf.

 

"Of course I did. It's my place to notice these things!" She smiled, speaking matter-of-factly and beaming with pride. " 'Sides, it's dead in here these hours and you're not exactly easy to miss. Even if you are dressed like a proper gentleman for once and not a gleaming ivory tower helping support my pillars. Easy on the eyes regardless, but a girl can't complain." A grin followed.

 

"Please, Momodi, I'm not sure if I have it in me to rebuke someone on that again-"

 

"How many's it been?" She cut him off, picking up the bottle he gestured to and raising it, withholding the pour until he spills first.

 

"How many what?" He set his head in his hands wearily, looking at his empty glass.

 

"I've got eyes, you know. Ears, too. There was the chocobo girl, there's that flower-seller, I'm not sure if you saw the miqo'te with the handlebars and the book, but that's not what she was reading. You wouldn't believe the rumors you've got going around about you."

 

"There's rumors now?" The words dragged out of him incredulously. "I never even said anything to anyone! I deny everyone anything."

 

"Oh, honey, you don't know how it works, do you?" She looked at him with a pitying expression, dark brown liquid sloshing into the glass in front of him. "We women have a sense about these things. You never said anything about what happened with you and the missus but... You've got a way about you, Warren. And these women who've been looking after you, well, they're all adventurers. Got that second sense you all seem to possess. You didn't say anything, no, but it was written plainly across your face."

 

"So that means that they just throw themselves at me?" He picked up the glass, still voicing in disbelief before taking a generous drink.

 

"You go easy now. And it didn't start that way. I don't know how things went with that girl with the accent but she seemed nice enough, for sure. Haven't seen her around much, though. And the flower girl? She's a healer, Warren. And you've got a bad case of something broken, so she's going to try and fix that. Of course, you won't let anyone, so I guess Menphina's just sending heavier hammers."

 

"Well that's not going to work. Would you believe the other night I had a duskwight just baldly offer herself to me? Without so much as a name or a hello? Just a 'You're big, let's spend time together.'" He shakes his head, looking at his gracious hostess. She just grinned up at him salaciously.

 

"You ARE big, Warren. Big and stoic and noble. You tell anyone who listens that you're out to protect The People, whatever that means. Now I'm not making fun, but you talk in grand terms about these things. It's just so damn... Romantic! You can see that, right? You're just a big, lovable sad Warren who wants to protect. You're sending out all kinds of signals whether you know it or not. You're catnip. A fixer-upper with great returns. Not to mention incredibly wealthy."

 

"I'm not incredibly wealthy, Momodi, you know that."

 

"And those other things...?" She smirks at him wisely. His eyes meet hers and he gawks for a moment before averting his gaze back to his drink, then nursing it.

 

"I don't want that kind of attention. I'll try to be more mindful about how I present-"

 

"No, see, there you go again! You're doing it right now and don't even realize it. You stuff yourself down into your armor even when you're not wearing it, you know that? You hide behind that shield and we can tell! The harder you push back, the heavier that hammer's gonna be."

 

"...I'll endure it. I know what I want. I'm not going to be broken."

 

Momodi looks on him, setting her mouth and nodding. "Alright. If you ever want to talk, Warren, I'm always here. Just don't go breaking yourself now, you hear me?"

 

He nodded but was already gone in his mind. There was a sun high overhead, a pang of hunger deep inside of him and lots of street left to run.

[111]

Natalie browsed through the selection of cards at the stationary store, pre made convenience in the city where money could buy anything. There were invitations to weddings, funerals, celebrations. Cards that gave thanks to others, and cards that expressed one's condolences. Cards of pithy poetry, full of warmth for friends, family, lovers. Cards of concern, cards of congratulations, cards of sorrow, and cards of forgiveness, however...

 

She clears her throat and approaches the shopkeeper, "I can't find exactly what I'm looking for."

 

The elderly lalafell adjusts his glasses, "Ah, perhaps you're not looking in the right place? A card yes? What is it for?"

 

Natalie looks side to side before blushing slightly, "I'm sorry you were tortured when I had you kidnapped..." She says in a low voice. "Oh, and I'm sorry I had your brother captured and put in a death prison." She nods, "It's ok if there are two cards, I doubt you make a combo with those two things."

 

The Lalafell laughs, "Ha, you're quite the kidder." but then his eyes slowly widen as he sees that she isn't laughing, "Ah......" He backs away nervously, "L-let me check the back..."

 

Natalie crosses her arms and sighs, "Don't bother, this is the third place I checked."

 

She walks out dejectedly, before her eyes widen and she grins, "Ah! Perhaps they can write it on a cake."

[Unnamed Mercenary]

He knew where Jin'li was, what he wanted, and what he planned to do.

 

The Unnamed Mercenary was now in a state of moral question. Would he go to the authorities and simply tell them everything? Would he be the middle man in a deathly trade? Or would he assist Jin'li, and deliver a man named 'Osric' to the twisted miqo'te.

 

He'd gained trust. Something not many people gave out lately. He'd also been allowed to speak, and had most of his words heard. The was a nagging at his conscience. "Don't involve yourself. Let the authorities determine what they will do about the situation."

 

Having lived in Ul'dah for a couple moons now, he didn't want the mostly peaceful life he had to break down. It was nice. Even with a certain...fog over his memories, the new would eventually be more important than the old. He would have to come to accept he may never see the people who loved him again, despite no longer knowing them.

 

He'd used a linkpearl to communicate some of this to Natalie, who he knew was in law enforcement. "It doesn't have to be now." "Jin'li said he'd turn himself in, if he can have Osric." "I can't tell you the location."

 

The thoughts swirled around his head as he returned home. These weren't details Kage needed to know. If he'd heard on the linkshell, the mercenary would answer. That man had already gone through enough. Kage would eventually break from the stress if this continued.

 

 He'd wait to speak with Natalie in person. Maybe they would simply find whoever this Osric was, and deliver him. Maybe they'd formulate a plan together, and lure Jin'li out. Maybe he would simply tell her where Jin'li was, and what they could expect. Or perhaps, he'd do nothing at all. Watch as Ul'dah plunged into chaos one last time. A farewell gift from Jin'li.

 

He said some words to himself before the day ended, going to sleep. "I'm not a good person, but am I really that bad?" Only the following days would tell. He drifted off to sleep, hoping to be greeted by more visions of his past. Visions showing the virtue and humanity he no longer felt he had anymore.

[Whittledown]

It was perfect moment. All the reason the in the world to act. The sea air, the rocks below. The drop. One hundred yalms easy. She had the tabard in her hand. Just let go. Let go. Let go. Let go.

 

Hornet did not let go. A woman who deserved death lived and Hornet already regretted her decision. Despite the regret, the act would not have been worth the promise broken.

 

A promise is only worth the person it was made to. And the person Hornet made that promise to was worth more than the life she wished she had taken.

[Berrod Armstrong]

Vesper Bay flickered with orange firelight as the beat of drums rose into the night. The music in the square was sweet, and the shadows of the dancers flitted over the statue of Lord Lolorito like fleeting hands. Lively festivities filled the small seaside settlement, and revelry was the order of the evening. 

 

Berrod had arrived on invitation, lured by the promise of free food and drink. He wore his usual leather trousers, boots and harness, not quite willing to be caught without them in the desert at night. His host stood waiting for him, silhouetted against the blazing bonfire -- an hourglass in Midlander's form. 

 

"'Ey, Gins."

 

Ginny stepped forward and brought her features into sharp relief; her black hair tied back in one, her blue eyes that shone gold in the light of the flame, and those lips that looked like they may have killed as much as they had kissed. The Midlander woman was dressed in a rather short top that exposed her pinched midriff, connected to a low pair of hip-hugging silk pants that spared no effort in complementing her shape. "Berrod! You came!"

 

It took considerable effort for Berrod not to choke on his own saliva. She looked gorgeous. Several glittering bangles shook along her smooth bare and milk-pale arms. "Gods save m'loins right now," Berrod muttered.

 

"What was that?" She asked. Fortunately, his remark had been genuinely missed. 

 

"Eh, nothin'. Y'been here long?"

 

"Only a quarter-bell! I'm glad you came so soon, this music's got me itching to dance." She wasted no time in gripping his thick wrist.

 

"Ginny -- uh --"

 

"Don't even try, Berrod, I've seen you dance, you know what you're doing. Come on!"

 

For all his bulk he was tugged along and cast into the scattering of moving bodies as though he weighed nothing. There were a few couples -- and a sprinkling of Miqo'te dancers, all splashed in the sticky orange light. Ginny had clearly been impatient about getting the opportunity to dance,  she wasted no time. Her body became liquid flesh that personified the rhythm, each limb moving in expressive tandem with the beat. Her eyes closed and a smile of sheer enjoyment took her lips in an almost sultry quality -- but all her intimacy was reserved for the music. 

 

Berrod found himself far too weak in the knees to begin dancing along with her at first, and the reaction shocked him. The Highlander was no stranger to jumping onto a dance floor and keeping close to the most tantalizing female figure he could find, so why did Ginny make him feel like a peach-fuzzed youth?

 

Ginny moved against him, possessed of a tone both teasing and foreboding. He could feel the heat of her body through his leathers and it set a primal fire within him that he knew she would not quell. Her hands brushed the exposed portion of his chest, her hips ground against his and  her thighs snaked alongside his own. With every turn she made her hair brushed his neck and the sweet smell of it filled his nostrils. He ached with a sudden troublesome hunger -- a need he knew he could not satisfy. Not with her. 

 

He finally managed to begin moving along with her -- he wasn't bad at it at all, his training had taught him to move his body on the command of an internal beat; with an actual, audible beat to guide him along, it was child's play. Just as Ginny had grown bold with her hands (quite often they ran along his jaw, shoulders and arms) so too did he seek to do so, planting his hands on her hips. It was all she allowed, for when he slipped his palm onto her stomach she moved in brilliantly timed evasion. At those moments she opened those blue eyes of hers and gave him a smoldering denial. The line was drawn. No matter how sensuously the writhed and gyrated, she remained firmly on the other side of it. Far was it from Berrod's discretion to actually cross that line with her, at any rate. Friends and nothing else. That agreement had been made a long time ago. 

 

And so they danced, releasing their worries and woes into the embers that floated into the night's sky.

[Kage]

Kage blinked.

 

He blinked again.

 

"Aye, I am in Ul'Dah. In the Sultansworn gaols."

 

Was he really reading this correctly?

 

"I turned myself into Ser Crofte and Natalie yesterday.

 

He couldn't stop blinking. Was it the drug or was it real? Kage poked himself, yes, it was real.

 

He read the last lines with wide eyes before he clenched the paper in one fist. He yelled out, hoarse, as the fist gripping the letter shook in the air, "NATALIE! NAT! WHAT'S THIS ABOUT ROEN IN THE GAOLS?"

[Kage]

The lalafell blinked up at him. Though it was covered by the red turban, Kage's eyes caught the movement through the visor just he same. Kage watched him with trepidation before the lalafell gave a small grin. It was Kage's turn to blink as the lalafell said, "Ser, we're glad to have ye again, even if it is to skin that furball."

 

The miqo'te received the bundle into his arms, almost a little dumbfounded as he realized that he wasn't being mocked or ridiculed being addressed as 'ser'. He furrowed his brows as the lalafell saluted him.

 

"Ye help catch the cur, ser! Just don't get shot by dem Garlean magitek thingies Lieutenant," the lalafell grinned.

 

Kage saluted the lalafell and responded, "Thank you....?"

 

"Kakaru."

 

"Thank you, Kakaru." Kage left with a nod. As he walked back home he realized that while he might be an alcoholic he didn't need the moko grass. He'd left it where it belonged. Outside of his home. Away... from him and Natalie.

[Berrod Armstrong]

The Root.

 

The effect was instant; Berrod felt three times as heavy as he had been, but his movement slowed none. As he moved through the desert dust, the particles that rose did not fall back to the floor -- instead they settled onto him, replacing the sweaty gloss of his skin with a dirty matte. A fist fired onto the boulder nearby with knuckle-breaking force, but his knuckles remained intact. He barely felt it. The punch itself seemed to do no more damage than usual, but he took no damage either. The ground beneath him felt like home, it embraced him, it was his shield and his retreat. It was his ally, and every puff of dust that rose from it was a bountiful boon.

 

The Sacral.

 

The sensation that flooded him could best be described as invigorating; among other things. Berrod found himself energized, ready to move, ready to work, ready to play. Desires and urges nagged at him for some reason -- a sudden need for good food, good drink, and good company in a bed. He compartmentalized it all and focused on the rush that deluged each limb. There were no injuries on his form, but he knew if there had been any, they would have healed before his eyes. Without anything to attend to, the energy returned to his core.

 

The Solar Plexus.

 

A new energy surged through him -- this time quite more visible than the last. He felt it from just under his chest, flowing through every muscle, activating them to move faster, to strike harder. Berrod saw the white-blue sparks along his arms at first, then took a risky peek down to see the cackling pop of the lightning aspected aether about his legs as well. It did not hurt at all -- quite the opposite, really. The lightning may as well have been the blood through his veins, and he welcomed it. Once more he unleashed his fist upon the rock -- this time to a splitting crack. Chips of the boulder shore off as the small area near the Sil'Dih ruins strobed. The lash seemed to excite the aether, intensifying the arcs of brilliant blue about the Highlander's form. 

 

The time had come to take the risk, to see how far he had come.

 

The Heart.

 

It was if an unstable crystal had exploded within him; from the center of Berrod's chest sprung a roiling, heated power that seemed far too much for his own body to contain. In only a moment he was filled with it, and it threatened to rip him apart. The Lightning that wreathed him was joined with flickers of flame -- each tongue competing for space within his limited capacity. It suddenly quieted the blue, reducing the flickering sparks to naught.The Monk knew the danger of letting such power linger in him for too long. He had to get it out. His fist was the doorway; one final time he set it to the stone. It took every ounce of his will to force the explosion of aether into that one arm. 

 

The only thing that hit the rock was his own blood. Great spatters of it, dark and glistening dripped down from the surface as Berrod roared in agony and frustration. Along his arm several shallow slits had formed, paths through his flesh where the aether had flowed -- and ultimately forced itself out. Blood filled the paths now, seeping out amidst the agonizing sting.

 

He swore loudly and bitterly at everything within range. 

 

Another failure. The fourth was opened, but it refused to obey.

[Berrod Armstrong]

The impact upon his chest sent a horrible concussion through his form and pitched him back several fulms. Berrod hit the dusty ground with a series of thuds, rolling roughly before he came to a stop with a crunching skid. Dust covered him, and he was almost sure that his chest had caved in from the blow. Agonizing coughs pressed from his diaphragm, each one repeating the shock of the strike. It would be sure to leave a vivid bruise. Still, he held on to his only weapon against his opponent, who saw it fit to release a joyful ululation of his victory. 

 

"KWEH."

 

"Gods...damned...shite-headed bird..." The Highlander grunted as he got to his feet. With his free hand he held onto his aching chest, while the other clutched a somewhat wilted bunch of Gysahl greens. "Yer damned useless! Hold still so I can ride ya back ta town." It hurt to breathe, and that propelled him into further irritation. Boldly, he began another approach toward the large, yellow Chocobo. Thunder was its name -- appropriate enough. The mount had been given to him by the Maelstrom as a reward for his services and good behavior. The more Berrod thought about it, however, the more it seemed like they wanted to palm the damned hellsspawn off on him. 

 

"Reward my arse," He grumbled. A few fulms closer he drew to his ward, which decided to stand its ground. The Chocobo planted its talons firmly in the hot dirt, craned it's neck toward him and hissed. 

 

Berrod was unable to help himself from recoiling; did the stinking bugger just hiss at him? It did! He didn't even know the damned things could hiss. Unfortunately Thunder noticed his hesitation and took it as another mark of victory. The beaked, feathery head reared to proclaim another assertive "KWEH."

 

For some reason that was the thing to render Berrod's temper to nothingness. He would not have some bird rule him, not at all. In a fit of anger he hurled the wad of greens at the thing's head with all the force his arm could manage -- a significant amount. Thunder reflexively tried to snap at it, but it had been flung too violently. Though it managed to catch the greens in its beak, it lurched backward and had to flap desperately for balance. 

 

Never before had a feeding been such a declaration of war. After taking the time to make sure that the greens did not go to waste, the affronted Chocobo leveled a beady eye on the Highlander with gormishly savage intent. "Kwuh." 

 

No further warning than that was given, the fearsome mass of yellow feathers and scaly talons burst forward, ready to engage the man in a battle to submission. Berrod barely had time to react -- instinct and reflexes guided him. With a loud cry and a kweh they met; Thunder with a lunging peck...and Berrod with a reactive wheel kick. His heel came down hard on the top of the poor bird's head, augmented with his considerable body weight. They both went down in a plume of dust...but only Berrod stood up again.

 

Thunder, it seemed, had been knocked out cold -- there was a brief moment when Berrod feared that he had killed the dirty great thing, but that was dispelled when he saw it stir. Dusting himself off, the Highlander stood victoriously over the crumpled mass of feathers and talons. "Take that, y'lil bugger."

 

It took him only four ragged breaths to realize what he had done. He aimed a slow squint downward at the wretched thing and nudged it with his foot. "'Ey. 'Ey, wake up, ya gotta carry me back ta town."

 

Thunder breathed, but did not wake.

 

"...damnit. Wake up, ya sack o'bird shite, c'mon."

 

No response. The sour irony had begun to sink in, and already embarrassed anger reddened the edges of Berrod's ears.

 

"...I'm...gonna have ta carry ya back ta town. I'm. Gonna have ta carry a bleedin' chocobo. Bugger me."