Stranger in a Strange Land

[Aya]

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A Spring Bird's Song[/align]

A poem written and recited by Aya for Wayfarer's Rest: Poetry Competition

 

 

O, dear little bird!  Sit and sing now for me?

Tell me what it is like? What it is you have seen?

Just how high can you fly? Just how far can you see?

Of where you have come? And what lies between.

Of fresh breaking Spring, the fall of warm rain,

Of lifting grey fog stirred over the dale,

Of rising sun's light 'cross broad open plain,

Of winter thaw's sound in deep river vale.

Of oceans wide calm and rivers loud roar,

Of frost's nipping cold, which drove your long flight

From where you were born, learned to sing, and to soar.

Now homeward you're bound, after winter's long night

And here just to stay, to rest tired wing.

So lucky we are, to hear the bird sing.

 

 

Performance Emotes

 

Aya approaches the stage and swings around the edge, climbing up the steps with small, bouncing, energetic steps.  She crosses the stage itself with a bright grin turning back and forth across the audience.  There's a slight flush on her cheeks, but otherwise her manner is casual and graceful.  She pauses at her chosen spot, gently folding her hands together in front of her.

 

She closes her eyes as she takes in a deep breath.  First her shoulders fall gently, then her arms release to her sides.  The motion slowly moves downward as her entire body relaxes.  She casually tilts her hips, left leg placed just before her right.  With a rising breath she lifts her head; blue eyes opened wide as she greets the crowd with a soft, warm smile.  She recites the verses quietly, in her light-Ishgardian accented tones.  Gentle stress and energy upon the meter of her short poem.

 

O, dear little bird!  Sit and sing now for me?

Share what its like? What it is you have seen?

Just how high can you fly? Just how far can you see?

Of where you have come? And what lies between.

〜*〜*〜*〜

Of fresh breaking Spring, the fall of warm rain,

Of lifting grey fog stirred over the dale,

Of rising sun's light 'cross broad open plain,

Of winter thaw's sound in deep river vale.

〜*〜*〜*〜

Of oceans wide calm and rivers loud roar,

Of frost's nipping cold, which drove your long flight

From where you were born, taught to sing, and to soar.

Now homeward you're bound, after winter's long night

〜*〜*〜*〜

And here just to stay, to rest tired wing.

So lucky we are, to hear the bird sing.

〜*〜*〜*〜

 

Letting her soft voice go quiet, she adds a playful little twirl upon the stage.

 

[Aya]

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[in the Den - Das Loot Part One][/align]

 

The wood-handled knife rose into the air, cutting through the thick, visceral smoke that clung in the air of the basement room.  It turned, and turned as it slowed and then fell back into the hand that had tossed it.  It was hot.  Very hot.  The Spring sun blasted and baked the clay walls around the basement room - but the cool of the earth below left the air tolerable.

"So that's what happened, boss?" came the voice, little more than a croak from the diminutive Hyur hunched suspiciously in his chair.  

"Yeah tha's right." Came the evasive reply of the energetic, red-shocked Highlaner.  "They was 'em... you know... scaley types."

"And a Duskie." Added a female voice that was more accusatory than helpful.

 

"Yeah, yeah.  'Er too.  Thal's balls, you know I won't forget 'er!  I told ye wha' she did already, yeah?"  It was difficult to discern features in the smokey den, but no doubt Bohanon's brow furrowed at the reminder.

 

"Tha wee girl one, I sure found out who she is!" He beamed with a self-satisfied grin.

"Yeah boss? Nicely done!" Added the deep voice of the last member.

"Yeah, yeah.  I know right?  Better 'an that, I know jest who she's workin' for.  Some dealer in artifac's, name's 'Savage Kelley'"

 

"And does he have the thing?" Asked the woman.

 

"I told you, I dunnae that!" Came the quick reply of the under-boss nearly leaping out of his seat.  "They vanished, ye see?  One minute they was there, next they was gone!"

 

"You sure you weren't drinkin?" She asked, only half playfully.

 

"'Ey now!  I says sure!  So I was sure!  Right?" The other men around the table nodded.  The woman rolled her eyes.

 

"Now, 'bout that Duskie woman.  Whatever her reasons, she really wanted tha thing."  He pointed the knife at no one in particular, "And I wannae know why she wanted it so bad.  And who the blasted hells she is..."

 

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Jericho wiped his brow with a damp cloth.  As if the Thanalan sun weren't bad enough he had to spend the days in front of the open fires, and the ovens of the Quick Sand.  He stood over the rack of buffalo ribs, offering it the attentiveness of an artisan.  With careful strokes he brushed them with his home made blend of Thanalan spices that gave them their characteristic kick.  

 

The attentive spell was broken by the sudden swinging open of the door that divided the kitchen and the bar out front.  Those same attentive blue eyes swept up and around to fall upon the familiar but welcome sight of Momodi's star barmaid.

 

She burst her way in like usual, a broad grin upon carmined-red lips, and the bountiful energy that made her seem like she might just bounce away any moment.  He offered a subtle smile of his own as he watched her swing to the counter where she usually prepared mixed drinks.

 

"Another Champion Chachan, Aya?" He asked.

 

She was focused on the preparation of the drink.  She swung out a pair of metal mixers, scooping a selection of fruit into each.

 

"They're so popular!" she laughed in reply.

 

Next she poured in a measure of different juice varieties, mostly orange and a hint of tangy tropical fruits.

 

"I think its because you make them."

 

She answered with a look that denied any chance of that possibility. "What would make you say that?"

 

She added a large dose of bubbly, sweetened water from a metal keg to each.  A pull on the tap handle released it like a stream of fizz.

"Oh... I don't know.  You know you're just about the most popular thing here."

 

She laughed, "Oh, I wouldn't say that!  You know the food is what people really need out there."

She lifted one of the mixers, and then the other, shaking them vigorously while Jerico watched from his station.

 

"Oh... I wouldn't say that..." he answered quietly.

 

"Huh?" She shook the two a little longer, before carefully opening the mixers to keep the bubbling drinks from overflowing.

"Oh... nothing..." said the Highlander cook, suddenly turning his attention back to the ribs under preparation.

 

"By the way, you wouldn't happen to know any Duskwight ladies would you?"  He offered the careful, detailed description that his brother had passed onto him the day before.  Sometimes Bohanon seemed to possess a perfect memory for features and appearances--at least of ladies.

 

Aya finished pouring the drinks and dropped in the little parosols that garnished them.  "Don't tell me that brother of yours is up to something?  She's dangerous, Jericho, you'd better tell him to stay away..."

 

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Bohanon nearly boiled over in protest.  Every inch of his sinewy figure quivered with a rebellious energy.  "Your little princess said what?!"

 

"Hey... hey..." protested the elder brother.  "She knows what she's talking about, she's just trying to help."  He paused, as if that were it, before protesting, "She's not my princess!"

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...  right..." came Bohanon's reply, not being quite interested enough to make an argument out of it. "Did'je at least get a name outta Blondie?"

 

"Desert Rose..."

 

"Ai, perfect.  A bloomin' desert Duskie."

[Aya]

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[align=center][Heirloom - Part One][/align]

 

"You honestly expect me to remember somethin' from that long ago?"

 

The words were those of a deep, gravely voice.  The owner a scarred Seawolf whose best days were decades passed.  

 

The voice that whispered back, carried hints of lipstick and the exotic tones of the north.  "I do."

 

He didn't so much see her, as feel her as she pressed against his side.  Soft, rather than threatening - but with a menace about her that lead to hesitation.  In his youth things would have been different.  He would have mastered her; age had left him more careful.

 

"You can't be for real.  Comin' out here askin', hells, demandin', to know who I sold a ruttin' blade ta over a decade ago?  I've no way.  I couldn't tell ya if I wanted ta!"

 

"And you don't want to, do you?"  The red of her lips was caught momentarily in the ray of a street lamp.  Its shadowy illumination filtered into the thick air of the alley, catching the way she grinned behind his forearm.

 

"I don't know..." said the Roegadyn, his demeanor suddenly shifting with a playful smile tugging at his expression.  "You seem right delectable enough.  Maybe we could make some sort of..."

The steel point suddenly digging into the rugged flesh behind his kidney changed it right back.  

 

"Hey!" he cried in protest, "What's your trouble, lady, I ain't done nothin' wrong!"

"No... but I just might." Came the whispered reply from those feminine lips.  The press of blade point emphasizing her threat.

 

"You must have records.  Receipts.  I know your sort.  Nothing really escapes your notice when merchandise is concerned."

"Thall's balls..." He muttered under his breath - a voice of defeat.

 

"That's what this is about?  You wanna see my bleedin' receipts?"

 

He swung his head her way.  "Fine lady.  Have it your way."

 

While one slender hand slipped the stiletto away, the other proffered a small purse of gil.  

"You know this'd have done for starts?" He stated plainly as the welcome coin fell into his massive palm.

 

"You, old man, own quite the reputation for wandering hands.  Now you know just how close to keep them."

 

He let out a low groan.  In the dim of the lamp light, she smirked.

[Aya]

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[align=center][A Long Summer][/align]

 

 

The orange rays of the setting sun settled gently upon the sandy shores of Vylbrand's eastern coast.  

 

The day had been spent in such simple pleasure stretched out beneath the day's warmth, strolling, reading, and relaxing with the sound of surf and the gentle relief of the sea breeze ever in the background.

 

She felt so far from the frigid cold of the Tower-City and its prison-like grip.  The shadows of the Shroud retreated from view.  Even the bustling energy of the Desert Jewel, with the Quicksand at its heart, seemed distant and silent.

 

There lay Aya, bikini clad, mistress of little more than a towel and a small day bag.  

 

"What more could a girl want?" she asked herself in a playful hushed tone.  The rhetorical note belied the thoughtful nature that hovered just beneath the bubbly-blonde exterior.

 

What more indeed...

 

 

 

Poetess? That was one of the stranger titles among the many she had worn in her young life; but it was hard to deny when she was living off the proceeds of one of her poems.  The Alliance, too, had chipped in their own contribution.  The success of her poster series had been undeniable, and when there came a request for another recruitment poster (this to celebrate the admission of its newest member) she came away a woman of some means.

 

Besideds the gil it had made for a strange if gratifying time.  It was her first time truly feeling welcomed in Coerthas, since the flight to freedom several years before.  The cold was ever worse than she remembered, and colder yet in the scant lingerie she was asked to wear for the piece.  There was something about it, though, posing for her home country.  At least, the closest thing she had ever really felt was home.  She smiled with a genuine pride, at last: a poster girl for the home team.

 

Then, from atop the hill she spied the spires of the city in the distance: the air clear with the crystal sharpness of a cold winter day, while freshly lit lanterns heralded looming night.  It was all so close, but still so far away...

 

 

 

The gil couldn't last, and besides it just wasn't enough.  Would it ever be enough?  Her debts in Gridania had been handsomely paid back (a story for another time), but it seemed the more coin she possessed the more everything she liked decided to cost.  Her tiny room in the Quicksand, once a simple domicile, swelled with new belongings all carefully packed and cared for.  Dresses, outfits, shoes, boots, jewelry, and a growing collection of fragrances, many of the last had been offered to her free if only she would wear them in public.  

 

She loved the Quicksand.  Momodi is the one who had given her a chance when she really needed it.  It was just the opportunity she had needed, at a time when she had scarcely been so needy.  Debts had chased her from Gridania, and she arrived in the desert with little more than the clothes on her back: friendless, gil-less.  The wily proprietress had taken a deep look at the girl's smile, which strove against the forlorn and nearly desperate expression of her features, and offered her the barmaid position that had come to mean food and shelter: life itself, and the opportunity to thrive.  It might be too much to say that Momodi had believed in her then, but she had at least seen reason for hope.  

 

The hours were few now, far fewer than her old regulars would have liked, but those that she worked remained delightful.  The tell-tale swish of a little skirt, the sound of hollow heels upon the tiled floor, and an energetic laughter that filled the dome of the tavern during its most quiet hours, all told of the presence of a woman who loved the place ever, even as she saw less of it...

 

 

 

The sun filtered through a high leafy canopy to spread its gentle illumination upon the manicured clearing below.  A lattice arch, a deep mahogany crafted in a seamless, flowing fashion by the unequaled artisans of this leafy abode, provided the firmament for the growth of an ivy vine whose path wound it as if following a preconceived design.  Beneath this stood Aya Foxheart at her elegant best: adorned in high-fashion with the finest dress, jewelry and accoutrements available to the costumiers of Otto Vann's Fine Fashion's Gridania line.  Her long tresses were braided in an intricate fashion to accent the ivy latticework of the garden.  No strand dare stray upon her feminine shoulders, left bare by the dress that otherwise snugged to her figure.  The fabric was a mesh of gentle earthy tones, and natural fibers of plant and leather that defied ready description.  Deeply colored wooden heels put the finishing touch upon a look that sought to emulate the very best of the city it represented: the beauty of nature subtly harnessed and shaped by master craftsmen fully in tune with the primal woodland in which they made their home.

 

A handsomely dressed Lalafel, possessed of an outrageous mustache that accented his out-sized manner, stood beside her as they greeted the gathering guests.  This was the so-called Yoyomundi, the hand-picked designer who had done much to master and move the market for Gridanian fashion in the year since he arrived, and a regular client for Aya's modelling talents.

 

At last, with a smile that spoke of his genuine gratification, he turned to his premier model.  "My dear," he said with a twirl of his mustache, "I must say, that the dress compliments the lady.  But, not, I dare say, as much as the lady compliments the dress." He offered a brief and exaggerated bow to accentuate the compliment.

 

From a man as taciturn to his employees as he was dedicated to his craft, the words came as something between a shock and a surprise to her.  She could not hide a grin, nor the flushing of cheeks as she turned back toward the small crowd that had taken their seats in anticipation of the show.

 

It was a wonderful day...

 

 

 

As the wind picked up it struck her mostly exposed skin with an abrasive blast.  She let out a shout, as a fresh wound upon her upper arm caught the worst of this arid menace.  

 

"You can cry, missy, I won't tell anyone!  Promise!"  The man laughed a grisly laugh, before taking a long drink from an ancient flask.  He was watching from a reclined position, shielded from the wind by the large rock upon which he lay.  Old and tattered clothing matched the grizzled appearance of the man.  His hair hidden beneath a ratty turban, his beard a mixture of matted gray and brown with the slow-growing stubble that came with age.

 

Aya grimaced, shielding her face with her left hand.  Her right knee rest upon the rocky ground, a beaten wooden sword rest in her right hand.

 

She fought back the urge to shout again with as the searing pain coursed through her.  "I'm... alright!" she hollered back in a less than convincing tone, before struggling back to her feet, while the observer laughed.

 

A massive highlander stood in front of her.  Fully clad in leather and cloth he was preserved from the elements in stark contrast to her.  The larger wooden instrument in his hand bore the sign of quickly drying blood.  "Uh.. I'm sorry Aya!  I didna... I mean I didna mean ta..."

 

"Shuttup, lunk!"  Hollered the old man, interrupting the stammering apology.  "You're not here to talk!  I said to make her cry, and you haven't done it yet!" His expression was one of frustration, if not outright anger toward the young swordsman.

 

Aya reached her feet, breathing heavily.  With difficulty she drew the sword back and crouched into a ready position.

 

The old man's smile returned with a laugh, "Eh!  Maybe we'll make something of her yet.  Lunk!  Make her cry and its a two-steak dinner on the old man!"

 

Lunk nodded before taking a moment to adjust the mask that guarded his face.  A precaution not, apparently, given the girl.  

 

He'd get his steak before the night were done...

 

 

 

She stood bare before her mirror.  Eyes passed from one injury to the next.  She'd never really appreciated mother's tutelage so much before.  The salves and tinctures did their job.  Even wooden blades wound, but with time and care they healed.  Cosmetic could often hide those still fresh.  In the "real game" healers stood by to aid the combatants.  But, that wasn't the way Samuel operated.  No one operated like Samuel--not any more.  She shuddered, rubbing both arms up and down as she recalled the old man's words of warning:

 

"I don't teach up-and-comers.  The sands isn't what it was."  The voice was gritty and earnest.  "We used to kill.  That was the sport.  Now?  They're not fighters.  None of 'em!  And I don't take anyone new.  I'm done.  Done!  They want to make a show, and that I can't teach."  He had waved both hands dismissively.  "Besides, what are you?  A delicate little flower of a girl?  I know where ya work!  And this is a lil' more dangerous than gettin' yer ass slapped by a handsy costumer drunk on Momodi's swill.  You just don't get it do you?!  I'm not teaching you, missy! I'm not."

 

A purse-full of gil seemed to change his mind, but not before a final warning, "You're going to regret this."  And how she did...

 

She turned from the mirror with a sigh as her eyes fell upon the open letter resting precariously upon the tiny table that doubles as her desk.  It had arrived in unusual double-monographed form. One was more than familiar, as dubious as any, the other was unfamiliar but bore the elegant design of an Ishgardian house.  This was even more dubious than the first.

 

The letter began, "You are most cordially invited..."  and ended, "Dubiously Yours, Verad Deauxbois".  An even stranger name for a strange, yet endearing man.  Who happened to have the dubious habit of stumbling into every form of honor that Aya despised.  Still... he was Verad, and she had never declined an invitation of his before.  

 

But this was in... Ishgard.  

 

She sighed again.  A deeper, remorseful sound that coursed through her.  She shook her hair, running fingers through the wetness of her freshly-cleaned locks.  

 

She pretended to think about something else, but her gaze fell upon the small ribbon-bound bundle of papers she kept more carefully than any other: the correspondence of her brothers in Ishgard.  Her eyes followed a well practiced route from the bundle: to the wrought iron weather-crow hung above her door, to the small family portrait that was the only decoration upon otherwise barren walls.  It bore an empty seat--the only sign of a missing sister, and daughter.  

 

The Inquisition had fallen.  The gates were free.  The streets were open.  Orrin Halgren, the dragoon had assured her of all this.  V'aleera had implored her.  Osvald had invited her, in his always too-gentle way.  

 

Perhaps it was time...

[Aya]

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[align=center][Homecoming - Part One][/align]

 

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Home?  They say it is where the heart is.  But, in truth, how difficult it can be to define.  To some, it is obvious.  A place of birth, of coming-of-age.  A place of loyalty and frustration - of every facet and exuberance of love.  

 

It can come naturally.  With thoughts and memories: recollections of family, of friends.  The place of timeless moments joyful and heart-breaking.  For others it is more than remembrance: it is duty, obligation, and hope.

 

What of Aya?  An Ala Mhigan washed up on the shores of Thanalan's desert expanse by way of the Tower City.  Her path unwound through the many roads and tracks of Eorzea.  

 

Could it be found at the beginning? She did not even know where to start.  Where to begin.  Opening her eyes she saw only the reflection of flickering candle-light off tile and the rippling surface of warm bathwater.  This was her place of ultimate reflection.  Of quiet solitude where only her thoughts could penetrate the steamy thickness of the air.  

 

The beginning?  She could hear the tune - echoing through the hollow chambers of aural memory.  The sounds of the manor - the family keep.  She carried only the faintest sense of the place, the land over which once flew the crow banner of her ancestors.  

 

What of that heartland city?  Ala Mhigo.  To her it meant the sound of longing pipes echoing through the mountain pass.  Could she recall the faint outline of the city's towers against the setting sun - or was that the effect of the tiny painted landscape that was the most prized possession left by Enna's doomed mother to her only daughter?

 

The bonds of nostalgia did not connect Aya to these places, too strong with the scent of strangeness.  What only infant eyes had spied could leave no strong impression.

 

What of nostalgia?  To what place could she attach such feelings?  Was it really a place that could be nostalgic, she wondered?  For her, a refugee child, the exactness stung with the certitude of loss.  There could be no return to those places she remembered with sepia-toned heart.  They were the transitory stopping-points of an itinerant family.  

 

Thanalan was grit.  Vylbrand was sea-salt and the friends whose brief fraternity seemed a life-time in hindsight.  The Shroud, the scent of pine and the gentle tones of the forest realm.  Intermingled with all: family.  Mother, father, brothers, and sister.  The feeling of their voices, and the warmth of their proximity.  While she was still too young to truly understand their hardship.

 

Was she blessed?  Others could not help but feel a longing for those places of their youth, when all still seemed fresh, warm, and whole.  Many unknowingly sought to embrace their past, to dwell in the nostalgia of a home which they had never truly left behind.  But even for them it could only be a faint facade of what once had been.  She possessed the sure knowledge that hers could never be reached: no physical place could capture those feelings.  Only a place and a time long since washed away by the intervening moons.  All they were, all they could ever be, were in her mind.  

 

She closed her eyes.  Submerged her thoughts in memory.  And touched that home that no others could love.

[Aya]

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[align=center][Homecoming - Part Two][/align]

 

The Airship always provides two things in bountiful plenty: scenery, and time for thought. While the Shroud rolled on beneath the billowing sails of the graceful wooden vessel, the Ayas thoughts were fraught with turmoil.

 

To those who know her only as Momodi's bubbly barmaid, she would have seemed unrecognizable. Or those who saw her only as a poster girl, a glamour model. To those who only knew her as the face and figure of Gridanian fashion. Even to those who had seen her dance, and thus witnessed a brief, if clear, glimpse of her heart. It would not be fair to call the smiles facade: she loved every day's simple pleasures and company. But the warmth of her outward expression could not hope to penetrate the fullness of the heart within. She was simply human, after all.

 

One sentiment had hung in the back of her mind: dereliction (manquement, trahison, she could never decide the fullest severity of it all). It had been there for more than days, more than weeks and moons. Years had passed since the fateful day of her irrevocable decision: immediate flight at all cost. It had meant freedom. Freedom to pursue her own happiness, to discover herself, and to explore the world around her: she had escaped the stone cage that was Ishgard, but at the cost of all that had been left behind.

 

It was unlike her. She always let go. She focused on the here, the now, and the future, wasn't that right? The past was a millstone around the neck of those who failed to move on and adapt. In the rapidly changing landscape of Eorzea this seemed more important than ever. But this was different, wasn't it? This was family. Downcast eyes were accompanied with a feeble grip on the side-railing. Why did it always feel like this when she thought of home?

 

She had rolled through the justifications so many times that they were now summoned forth with the summarized rapidity of a well-rehearsed argument. The dangers of her place in Ishgard seemed to be closing in around her. One too many enamored admirers, too many of whom were blessed with the very power of birthright and status that could make life for her or her family difficult, or worse. Parents insistent that she serve their familial expectations, and their concept of propriety and tradition. The deep-hewed contours of a society sculpted to prevent the rise and success of an outsider, and daughter of refugees. An endless winter that snuffed hope, happiness, and health with the same sureness with which it it smothered spring in its blanket of endless snow and frost.

 

But no matter the justification, her heart ever returned to the same conclusion: dereliction. Abandonment of family, of friends, of home. She had left behind her brothers, Kael and Osvald, and their adoptive sister Enna. Mother was left without a daughter of her own. Father left bereaved of his very joy and purpose. Uncles, aunts, and cousins to whom she owed so much felt the sting of her sudden disappearance. The friends, patrons, and fellow performers whom she had left without word or farewell.

 

To what, to whom, could she ever think herself loyal? Could there be a greater betrayal than that of blood and sororal bonds?

 

Her eyes focused on the landscape passing beneath the ship. She had been here before. In this strange, darkened mood. With eyes cast uncharacteristically backward, brimming with self-criticism and doubt. Yes, father was overbearing. He insisted that she live the life he desired, rather than that which she had desired: but was that not his right? Had he not seen them all through the gravest of danger? And what had she done with it all? Just what had she accomplished to make her family proud?

 

She let out a heavy sigh, eyes closing as she wondered whether this trip was just one more bad decision to compound the rest. Over the years this sense of betrayal had carved a hollowness in her heart. A hollowness that sought to undermine everything she loved in life. "I am happy," she would repeat to herself, as though the proof were in the words themselves. Yet, simple irresolution ever seemed to deny her peace. She could draw upon ample evidence of her failings. The violence of her days as a sell-sword, and the cowardice and cravenness that followed her departure from the Shroud. How could they even understand what life had been like for her in Ishgard, let alone Ul'dah?

 

News from the Tower City did nothing to settle her. She had first learned of father's illness from V'aleera's letters, but it was Osvald who wrote to tell her of the despair into which he had sunk upon her flight - which they had all believed was her demise.

 

Of course, she failed to reckon with her father's own story. With all the ghosts of the family history. These were not perfect men and women: all were failed in their own way. When faced with the decision to stand in brave defiance with his countrymen had he not turned and fled with his family? Just how deeply did he compromise in order to survive the reign of the King of Ruin? He had overseen the loss of everything they had once possessed. Betrayal, dereliction, it seems, runs in the family.

 

When news reached the family that she was alive and well, it lifted a heavy burden, but father had simply never been the same. Once irascible, and full of energy, he had grown tired and morose. She wondered if he would even want to see her. If mother would. Aya could not but wonder what sort of welcome awaited her in the belly of frostbitten stone.

 

The airship docked in the heights of Gridania's wood-craft skyline. Calmly, she gathered her belongings from below.

[Aya]

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[align=center][Homecoming - Part Three][/align]

 

It was only a brief stopover, but there were some things that simply had to be attended to whenever passing through Gridania.  Fortunately, Miounne is a woman who is all warmth and welcome when one does not owe her money.  That made this trip significantly less stressful than others.  The exchange of warm smiles was enough for pleasantries with her old employer.  She could not help the sigh of relief that escaped her lips as she stepped down the steps to exit the Canopy.  Gridania had become an altogether more welcome place, something to which she owed one Monsieur Otto Vann, and a handful of retired Wood Wailers.

 

She adjusted the bag she carried over her shoulder.  The long coat that adorned her lent an oppressive heat to the moment, despite hanging open in the sun of an autumn morning.  Preparing to travel through Coerthas was never easy, and it meant a coat to awkward to carry even on a sunny day.  Stepping toward the Old Town she mentally reviewed her to-do-list: visit the designer Yoyomundi, check in for her overnight stay at Lea's, and pay a quick visit to the Sleeping Boar and the Rabbit Hole.  For a moment she felt aghast at the tediousness of it all.  

 

There was a near collision as she stopped cold in her tracks, completely oblivious to the weekday foot traffic moving all about her.  She looked up, her free hand shielding her eyes from the rays of sunlight that managed their way past the overarching canopy of of buildings and trees.  She took in a slow, deep breath of the crisp autumn air.  She closed her eyes in appreciation.

 

This was the scent of freedom.  The taste of liberty.  Visiting friends was no hardship. She opened her eyes, adjusted her pack, and hurried on her way with smile restored.

 

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"Oh, Aya dear, yes he is back in the gardens.  He will be so pleased to see you."  The matronly Elezen offered a warm if sympathetic smile that Aya returned with eagerness.  

 

Madame Delannoy was the heiress of storied heritage, and the misfortunate employer of one Silas Greenthumb, a gardener.  And it was he that Aya had come to see.

 

She strode slowly out the open doors and through a cozy wood portico into the garden.  The sound of her heels against the board flooring was unmistakable, and amidst the uneven rows of shrubbery and plants, showing only the first sign of fall's tinge, a squat, hunched figure perked up.

 

Silas was the latest, and last, of a long and storied line of gardeners.  They had served the Delannoy's since his ancestor had first ploughed and contoured the plot of land into the finest garden in Gridania.  It had been renown for its sense of intimacy with nature, and the glorious palette of its spring-time hues.  But somewhere along the line the family talent had petered out, and although Silas was as much part of Madame Delannoy's inheritance as the manor itself, the garden had suffered for it.

 

The hunched-gardener looked about, eyes narrowed in the squint of the hopelessly myopic.  He couldn't see her, or at least could not quite make her out, but he already knew his guest.  "Flower girl!" he called out with child-like excitement.  "Flower girl, I'd know you anywhere!"

 

She could not help but grin.  There was something about the fellow that always made her smile.  "Oh Silas, it is me!" she let out an excited laugh.

 

He moved with a fitful little start, working his way to one of the cobbled paths that wound its way through the lawn and garden that were his charge.  The ornamental plants never bloomed with the radiant plumage of generations past.  The hedge-trims were largely neat, but lacked the remarkable natural feel that the Madame remembered from her childhood.  But, there was one phenomenal thing Silas achieved every year.  From spring through autumn the garden was blessed with a sweet, complex perfume of varied fragrance that ever varied but never waned until the winter frosts first struck.  

 

This fragrant bouquet Aya absorbed with a happy sigh, meeting the giddy little gardener upon his path.  

 

"You've brought me some flowers I hope?" He asked with an irrepressible anticipation.

 

Aya laughed, drawing her bangs back with a free hand.  A little motion that escaped the fellows near-useless vision.  "Silas," she said with playful disappointment as her hand came to rest on a cocked hip.  "You know that I only worked that job for a week, and that was cycles ago now."  The gardener grinned with a nod.  He could not see her smile, but he could hear it, despite her best effort to obscure it.  "But!" he insisted irresistibly, "you're still the 'Flower Girl'!"

 

She laughed along with him, opening the small package of flowers she was carrying and offering them to him.  They were just what he wanted. In fact, he had just ordered them.  Aya, as she always did, had stopped by her former employer, offering to make the next delivery for them.  They gladly obliged.

 

Silas poked his face over the bag, stubby fingers pulling it open while she held it toward him.  "Perfect!  Just perfect!  You always bring the best, Flower Girl!" he laughed excitedly while accepting the package.  He unceremoniously plopped it on the ground by the path, "I really cannot thank you enough...!"

 

She interrupted him, retrieving in an unseen flourish a small box from her purse.  "And...".  He fell silent, useless eyes opened wide in surprise as he stared at the unexpected object.

 

"What is...?" he began to ask as she abruptly flipped the lid open.  A tinkling tune began to play, while the figure of a dancing girl made a slow pirouetting circle atop.  It was another of Verad's Dubious oddities, finding new life with the help of deft fingers and a little ingenuity.

 

Silas' wide eyes were joined by a mouth opened wider with delightful surprise.  He stammered for a moment, "But - But Flower Girl w - why?  Is this - is this for me?"

 

Her voice flowed in reply like the sweet current of a summer stream, "It is yours, my friend.  A gift to a most loyal customer, and a fine friend."  

 

He embraced it suddenly, pulling the still playing music-box tight to his chest.  "It sings!" he shouted in happiness.  

 

She laughed, "It does..!"

 

He did not know the dancing figure was meant to remind him of her.  He didn't know anything about her except that she always brought flowers, and somehow - somehow always made him feel better than he had before she'd been there.  

 

"Tell me about what you've got planted right now..." she asked softly, gently nudging him back into the garden that was his life's work...

 

 

 

Madame Delannoy personally opened the front door for Aya as she left.  "I thank you." she said, with a bow far more humble than Aya deserved.  "You are welcome.  And: Merci, Madame.  Thank you."  She bowed her head deeply, hand held to her chest in a sign of gratitude. The Mistress knew exactly what the young woman meant.  They exchanged smiles one more time, and then she stepped out into the evening cold.

 

 

Aya knew this road all too well.  The sun was already rising late this time of year, leaving a short day for the walk to Fallgourd Float.  It had been many moons since her last time upon the path, but she remembered it like the patrols were yesterday.  Airship service to Ishgard had already been renewed, and she could have saved herself a wealth of trouble by using it.  But something about that just wouldn't be right.  

 

There were too many steps to retrace.  Too many memories to relive.  The greatest trial of her life to see again with fresh eyes.  The miracle of her survival to appreciate.  The charity that had been her savior to repay.

 

She adjusted her coat, and embraced the chill.  She flexed her grip around the spear that completed her guise as an adventurer.  She took in the scent of the wood, and the sound of the breeze rustling dry leaves.  Tonight she would sleep in the all-too-familiar quarters of Fallgourd Float's inn.  

 

And tomorrow--tomorrow she would return to Coerthas and its frozen expanse.  She would be well on her way home.

[Aya]

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[align=center][Homecoming - Part Four][/align]

 

The wind roared with primal might and whipped freshly fallen snow into a whistling cloak of biting fury.  Sturdy trees shuttered in the face of a Coerthas blizzard that tested the strength of roots-massive anchors dug deep within frostbitten earth.  The brief hours of winter daylight were cut shorter yet by the long enveloping shadows cast by the threatening peaks that loomed menacingly above the highland hinterlands which the storm relentlessly gripped.  The chill of death descended upon the land on the heels of the retreating sun, smothering everything within its creeping expanse.  

 

This was never the plan.  There had been a plan hadn't there?  Three days in the open country with a week's worth of provisions, just in case.  Heavy fur-lined trappings, the bounty of gil spent with an unusual foresight by the happy-go-lucky girl.  She peered through the narrow slits of snow goggles that protected her eyes during the brief hours of daylight, but banks of thick coniferous trees vanished into the gray-soupy cloud of white-out mere feet before her.  Each step forward bore the weight of snow and frost accumulating in the furs that had so far preserved her against the season's even harsher cold.

 

This was never the plan.  There had been a plan hadn't there?  The sky had been clear on the night of her flight.  A new moon was the key to success, and there had been no sign of approaching storm.  But the expanse of Coerthas' forest could trap the most experienced woodsmen, let alone a woman who had never before set foot in them.  A woman had known nothing but stone, cobble, brick, and shingle for a decade or more.  Three days passed, and she seemed no closer to her goal.  The roads were hostile, patrolled by those who would carry her back to the prison-city from which she had fled.  There was no comfort, and no path but to move forward.

 

This was never the plan.  There had been a plan hadn't there?  It seemed like everything was coming and going in circles.  Each step forward felt like the last.  Her thoughts trapped in a cycle of a confused searching.  How many nights had she spent in that makeshift shelter?  She'd lost count.  The storm arrived with such merciless haste that she had been caught unprepared.  Only quick thinking had spared her - it had, hadn't it?  But the food was gone.  

 

This was never the plan.  There had been a plan hadn't there?  The weight was intense.  Her muscles strained. Her flesh long ago had gone numb from the wet chill, but she pressed forward despite all.  Just another step.  Another step forward.  She didn't think about where she was going - she had no idea.  The forest closed in around her.  Long-shadowed trees were enveloped in life-quenching darkness.  

 

This was never the... hadn't she been over this already?  She struggled to stand upright.  Her feet paused momentarily.  What is the plan?  She wondered, confused.  Tired.  Exhausted.  Her stomach was empty.  Her blood grew cold.  Senses that had been sharpened by the demands of necessity now grew weak and faint under its strain.  She pulled the protective goggles from her eyes, searching hopelessly for a path in the endless expanse of snow-covered forest.  A mittenned hand fished into a pouch, retrieving her magitek-beacon.  With a click it hummed to life.  A blue-white light shone in every direction, but still she could not find a way out or a path forward.  If she even knew where forward were, her tracks rapidly filling in behind her.      

 

There had been a plan hadn't there?  She looked in confusion as she stared at the light emanating from the device in her hand.  What was she looking for again?  She felt the strange warmth in her palm.  She smiled against a blast of wind, and wondered if this was what the end felt like.

 

It is said that one's life flashes before one's eyes as you are about to die.  She stumbled forward, and fell face-down in the fresh snow.  There was no flash, only the dull-numbness of the frozen air encroaching all-around.  It seeped into every pore, cut through every garment.  She thought of the fires of home.  Of smiles and laughter.  A sense of warmth overcame her, then of peace.  The struggle was over.  She felt her body no more.

 

 

 

She was as if floating.  Gliding, sliding along.  She could still hear the wind.  It howled around her.  How strange, she thought, that death could sound so much like life.  But everything was so restful, carried aloft by these currents.  

 

 

 

She felt a bump, and a thud.  Then the gliding, the floating returned.  The peace that had overwhelmed her had been interrupted.  Eyes strained to open.  Dark tree-shapes slid past her.  The shapes grew broader, and darker once more, until she saw no more.

 

 

 

Warmth.  Warmth.  Warmth.  This is better -  warmth in the darkness.  The cold was gone.  Or maybe it had never been.

 

 

 

A rush of sensation forced her awake.  A pressure against lips, a sense of touch as if the broken connection to her body were suddenly restored.  A feeling of heat filled her mouth, her throat, and flowed deep within.  

 

 

 

She exerted every once of strength to force her eyes open.  Bare slits saw the reflection of fire covering whatever space she was in.  A moment later she felt the sensation again, as she took in another mouth-full of hot broth.  

 

 

 

It seemed as if an eternity passed as she tried to open her eyes.  Slowly the scene emerged within the hut.  A gray-haired Elezen carefully, and slowly offered her spoon-fulls of the life-giving soup.

 

 

 

Her throat was too hoarse to speak, and the old man never broke the silence.  How long she was there - only he could know.  At some point he ushered her back into the elements, and seated her on his hand-built wooden sledge.  He looped a yoke over his shoulders and began the task of bodily pulling her along the still-fresh snow.  The storm had passed.  The sun returned.  

 

At last he stopped, and helped her stand.  He set her pack upon her shoulders, stocked and full.  He placed her beacon within her palm, gripped her shoulders with a broad smile, and turned her around.  He gestured toward an obvious path, and then turned back the way he had come, drawing the yoke upon his shoulders as he took up the weight of the now-empty sledge.  She tried to call to him, but no voice escaped.  At last, she started down the path.  Within minutes the wood opened up before her, forming a broad snowy plain.  But the fresh snow was receding.  In the distance it became patchy, interspersed with bare ground.  On the horizon stood the black, enormous trunks of the Black Shroud...

 

 

 

Slender fingers of a gloved, feminine hand pushed away the flakes of frost from a small slab of gleaming white granite that was embedded in the soil.  She traced the outline of the inscription, which read simply, "Du Bois" (of the woods).  As she gazed at the memorial she imagined her own name upon it, "Aya Tharintreu".  As it would have been, but for the man memorialized.  

 

With a careful, slow motion she lowered a token of her affection onto the small slab.  A single White Rose, carefully dried to preserve against the ravages of frost.  She knelt before the nondescript grave, thoughts and memories washing over her. Tears flowed free--sadness mellowed by a sense of overwhelming gratitude.

[Aya]

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[align=center][slowing the Wheels of Justice One - Merchant, Marine Part One][/align]

 

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(Several of the characters referred to here, originally appeared in the story: One Late Summer Limsan Afternoon)

 

Theme Music

 

1roa3S_PbMw

 

 

Aya closed her eyes against the damp, chill wind.  It was just what one should have expected on an early winter evening by the Lominsan wharves - not that she had expected it.  She pulled the cloak tighter around her form, swirling winds whirling around uncovered legs while the wet frigidness of the air cut through every layer of clothing she did wear, biting the skin beneath.  

 

Lominsan sailors and their land-bound longshoreman cousins are a hearty breed.  Bound in leathers and coated canvas better suited to the atmosphere in which they made their living, they went about their business around-the-clock.  At the moment an exchange of shifts was underway, and Aya watched carefully as one crew exchanged with the next.  She noted each on its way, eyes carefully inspecting each male Roegadyn who passed her by.  

 

Beginning to doubt her purpose, she at least spied the visage she had sought.  It had seared its way into childhood memories, under the name of 'Masters'.  Her eyes followed him as he walked with a small group of co-workers focused, no doubt, on their quest for after-work refreshment.  It wasn't long before they spotted her too, and she became subject to a long second-look, but one of appreciation rather than recognition on the part of the Roegadyn she had once known as a foe.

"Wonder what she's doin' all th' way dun here?" Asked one.  "Why don't you ask her how much she charges?"  Joked another to a hearty laugh.

 

The information was good.  Here was Masters, once a teenage gang-leader, now a common dock worker.  She wouldn't have believed it had she not seen it for her own eyes.

 

...

"He couldn't cut it.  It was one thing stealin' food and bullyin' kids.  When it came to the real work he just wasn't cut fer it.  Washed out, never initiat'd, not even the north siders were take'n him"

...

 

She let out a huff, before pulling the cloak tighter about her figure.  A futile effort to stave off the cold, while her mind became distracted by thoughts of warm fire.

 

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The dark room wasn't quite an open fire, but it was indoors, and it would do.  Why was it those in the information trade always seemed to like to work in the dark?  She'd have a thing or two to say about the benefits of working in the wide open of the Quick Sand...

 

But, her mind was focused on the task at-hand.  This was no normal meeting.  The Miqo'te who stood before her was both stranger, and something far closer.  His figure was contorted, powerful legs bent and mis-shapen, leaning to the left where he maintained his balance with a simple carved stick of sturdy Shroud dark-wood.  The left side of his face was scarred to an unrecognizable degree, barely human, his mouth twisted into a permanent half-grimace.  An eyepatch covered the eye, while the other, still-good, offered a penetrating gaze that seemed to ever hover somewhere between insight and malice.  

 

"You found 'im, I'm presumin'." The voice, soft and calm, belied his appearance.  

 

This wasn't how she remembered him.  The sprightly kid Miqo'te who could climb a sheer storefront with an easy scamper.  He was as always as quick-witted as he was fleet-footed, with a cheerful sense of mischief that saw him leap into danger time-after-time if it meant a little excitement, and the chance to help friends out of a jam.

 

She'd wished what she'd heard hadn't been true.  That he had kept up, just like always, as he grew up.  An urchin--son of the streets--he'd known nothing else.  Just as he'd helped keep kids out of trouble, soon he was coming to the rescue of his gang and their cohorts.  He was always their "ace-in-the-hole".

 

She nodded.  "I did."  The good half of his face smiled.  When joined with the scarred grimace, the effect was unsettling.

 

His luck finally ran out.  He made fools of one-too-many, and a trap was laid.  This time there would be no fanciful story-book escape.  No hijinks or witty retorts tossed over a fleeing shoulder.  Only pain and suffering.  He was hobbled, and maimed under intense torture.  His tail amputated at the base, and hung as a grizzly trophy by the rival gang leader.  He was left hobbled; legs broken were not allowed to set properly.  Muscles rent by imprecise blade-work never healed correctly.  They plucked an eye, and branded the side of his head, scorching his face with a sadistic glee.  

 

This was not what he had deserved, a young man so full of life and cheer.  He had done his own lot of ill in life, and perhaps no story book ending was ever in his cards, but he'd done nothing deserving what he got.

 

"That," he said coolly, the smile becoming a smirk of satisfaction, "Was a favor fer an old friend.  Now, though, you had somethin' else you wished to discuss?"

 

In the end they dropped him off with the Yellow Jackets.  He was still a wanted criminal, and they'd let the law handle the rest.  Maiming was one thing, but killing altogether different under the gangland code of Limsa.  No need for a streetwar, just a little sweet retribution.

 

"There are two sailors accused of mutiny awaiting judgement by the Board.  I am sure you already know I helped the last so-accused to defend himself, and now he is acclaimed as a hero of the Maelstom."

 

The disfigured Miqo'te nodded.  "Funny tha'.  Aya.  Funny tha'," he rasped. "Wherever you go they seem to be make'n 'eroes of somebody."

 

She canted her head gently, the dim light betraying a smirk escaping beneath her hood.

 

In, the end, there was one more lesson to be learned: a clever Miqo'te with a photographic memory is no man to trifle with.  Dole, for that was his name, settled his business with the Jackets by providing evidence against every single member of the gang that had tortured him.  Each one faced their own judgement, round up and dealt with according to their crimes.  Save one, whom the wily cat preserved as evidence of his power over them.

 

"I want their hearing delayed," she answered matter-of-factually.  "And the street is against them, calling for their hanging.  I want to change that, and I think you're just the man to help me."

 

The Miqo'te drew his free hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully.  "Well, you've made 'ero of one mutineer already.  It is not too much of a stretch to claim these men may be as well."  

 

She nodded.  "The Captains have little precedent to guide them in there matters.  They will be guided by the street."

 

He concurred, "True 'nuff.  Though it won't be enough.  The Captains all 'ave their own agendas."

 

"I know." She answered shortly, leaving the rest unspoken.

 

Crippled, and having made a good return on his incarceration, the Jackets quickly released their sympathetic prisoner.  The days of adventure were over.  There would be no more escapades.  But the man, now simply know as 'Ace', made the decision to go into work for himself: a trader of information.

"Who are you friends?" he asked perceptively, the gaze of his good eye waxing penatrative.  

 

"What do you mean?" She asked with weakly feigned surprise.

 

"The Jewel of the Desert does not just come to Limsa Lominsa to save the lives of mutineers."  He observed, signaling that the game was on.

 

"There must be someone interested in it.  Interested 'nuff to engage you."  He paused for effect, drawing his cane before him, and leaning against it with both hands.

 

"And, Thanalan's Ishgardian Belle does not trade in information for gil.  Pose for posters, aye.  Serve swill, aye.  Dance fer all ta see it all, aye.  But exchange information, nay.  That she won't do, 'cept fer cause."

 

She feigned surprise at the man's insight, all accurate as far as it goes.  

 

"Theretofore," he stated with a little triumph, "she is actin' on behalf of friends." He purred with a tenor made all the more disturbing by the scarred grimace.  "Now, she is an old friend.  And I am willin' to do what she asks.  All I ask in return is to know on whose behalf she acts, so that I can know who I am workin' for."  His eyes narrowed, his price set, every piece carefully maneuvered to pin his target down.

 

She listened, the feigned surprise fading from her features as he named his price.  She held his one-eyed gaze for a moment that stretched beyond suspense.  Her eyes slowly narrowed, revealing a look of confidence and mischief that the Miqo'te couldn't help but recognize from their childhood days.

 

At last she reached carefully into her bodice, sliding out a folded parchment which she duly offered to him.

 

Surprise was now his to offer as he suspiciously accepted the parchment.  It was warm to the touch, and smelled of her fragrance as he unfolded it.  

 

It was an official letter to one "Aya Foxheart, Quicksand, Ul'dah" bearing the letter head of "Escrow and Sons, Limsa Lominsa".

 

Ace knotted his brow.  "What's the meaning of this?"

 

"If you read, you'll see they are offering thanks to a loyal customer."  It was her turn to pause for effect, her lips drawing back into a pursed-lip grin.

 

"I understand that you have been in a little... mmm... difficulty with them, owing to your previous life.  And that this has made certain desired transactions fraught with difficulty, even through your subsidiaries."

 

He folded the paper carefully.  The slow methodical motion gave him an opportunity to hide the surprise that emerged only partly upon his voice, "How did..."

 

He sighed, steadying himself.  "And you, I s'pose.  Could make these acquisitions for me, without the least suspicion."

 

Her lips pouted, her entire body shifting its expression, "Suspect me?"  She asked plaintively above suspicion, "What could you suspect me of?"

 

He grinned, nearly laughing at the girl's game.  He slipped the paper away.  "Very well then.  A favor from one old friend to another."

 

She smiled and added a slight nod.  "From one old friend to another."

 

 

As Ace slipped back into the shaded corridor he was joined by his Hyur assistant.  "Well, boss, seems she wasn't goin' ta give up 'er friends."

 

"No... that she's not.  She not only passed, but she's proven even more wily than expected.  I should 'ave know not to underestimate her."

 

"Passed?" asked the Hyur, "Was that a test?"

 

The Miqo'te turned to him with seriousness, "Is it really a test if you know someone is going to pass?  I want you to draw up a list of everything we might want from Escrow and Sons.  We may not get another opportunity this good."

[Aya]

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[align=center][slowing the Wheels of Justice Two - Merchant, Marine Part Two]

 

[align=left][With Leggerless as W'chaza Yheli]

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The sound of high-tide swells crashing against the white-stone bulwarks hundreds of feet below was a steady accompaniment to life in Limsa Lominsa.  This late morning was no different, the location a tiny cafe ensconced in the upper reaches of the labyrinthine city.  It was a literal hole in the wall - or nearly so - with a small staff of energetic servers and barristas catering to a mostly foreign clientele.  Although the Captains and maritime officers of Limsa Lominsa had begun to assimilate the more civilized traits of the great Eorzean cities, coffee-houses had not yet made their way into the Limsan mainstream.

 

The matter on Aya's mind was rather similar.  The morning had been a rather lazy one, and she found herself reading local papers, thinking, and writing notes upon a few pieces of scattered parchment while sipping hot, black coffee and waiting for her appointment to arrive.

 

The bulk of her effort was dedicated to a few stanza of verse, scribbled together with numerous adjustments and edits.

 

Wind roars while cables snap and sing,

Doused in the dank of chop sea spray.

The few who dare, to battens cling,

Gritting into wind; too proud to pray.

 

These were the first to ply the sea,

Charting their way they searched, and strayed

Wild as the surf: damned, rough, and free.

They risked it all, to raid or trade.

 

More would follow, in their wake.

Then softening ways, and routes begin,

The waves were claimed for living's sake,

Organized, to be but merchantmen.

 

So the wild, raging, waters tamed

Leave men behind, unsure of what to make,

Without their place or name, now shamed,

By this strange new world, in which they wake.

 

The rules of conduct now are named,

All brought tight, strict and uniform.

What once was theirs, cannot be claimed,

The calm has settled violent storm.

 

And now, in anger, rage, and grief

They look to search and find once more,

For shred of peace, and sweet relief,

For what was theirs in youth or yore.

 

Accompanying the verse were a few stray thoughts made tangible with the aid of her ink pen.  

 

"The Maelstrom are an attempt to bring order to pirates."

 

"Pirates have always operated by a code, but one that was flexible and adaptive to the needs of the moment, and to the desires of the most powerful, and popular pirate captains."

 

She'd never been fond of pirates.  Those who gleefully take from others; disrupting and destroying lives for the sake of pillage: the taking of what is not rightfully theirs.  Criminals were criminals, but pirates a breed a part.  So apart that when deciding between city-states she had settled in the almost entirely unknown Ul'dah, rather than the Limsa Lominsa in which she had a history.

 

She touched the pen to her tongue.  A thought lingered, not quite fully formed, looking for a place upon the parchment.  After another moment she lowered the pen, quickly tracing the letters as if without haste the thought would flitter away:

 

"Piracy is a way of life that escapes other bonds.  To pirates it does not mean glory or gold.  It means freedom."  In this, at least, she could relate.

 

Then stepped in a character from central-casting.  The Miqo'te woman was incredibly tall for her people, patches of gray speckling the dark hair that framed a pair of active silver-blue bespectacled eyes.  She wore the uniform of a Maelstrom Officer.

 

Descended from the Sun Seeker's of the Sagoli, she could not have seemed more strange at first-blush, but she could have stood in for everything the Maelstrom intended for the future of Limsa Lominsa.  Despite appearing an outsider she had been raised within the city, and learned the ways of life upon its elevated streets and alleys.  She was well learned, a natural scholar and voracious reader.  She'd come to sailing late in life, and earned her Commission more for the capability of her intellect than her knowledge of the sea.

 

Beyond this, there was the less obvious: being possessed of the fitness of a naval officer in the prime of her life, there was nonetheless a slight plumpness to the young woman.  A lover of life, as well of knowledge, she'd embraced the ways of modern Limsa Lominsa, founding a cafe of her own and catering to customers who came from far and away for the taste of the finest pastries in Vylbrand, or so they claimed.

 

Lieutenant W'chaza Yheli was everything that the Maelstrom hoped to become.  Handsome, stylish, learned, cosmopolitan, and decidedly modern.  Everything about her suggested a professional, without a whiff of piracy.  

 

It would be hard for Aya to claim that the current case pitted these two opposing forces of Limsan politics against one another.  If anything, the swirling conflict took the form of a gripping undercurrent that rippled below waters that appeared far calmer on the surface.  But, to her mind, the lack of any actual political conflict in the city was not so much a matter of an actual political consensus on the matter of the Maelstrom's far-reaching reforms, but instead a testament to the Admiral's unquestioned supremacy within the city and the fleet.  Few dared to question her intentions, whether they agreed with them or not.

 

W'chaza smiled with a sly confidence.  After all, it was Aya who had summoned her  with a note left earlier in the morning.  The trip to W'chaza's cafe had actually proven most profitable, the remains of a delectable cup-cake were still sitting on the table as she arrived.

 

"Ah, Miss Foxheart. Hope I'm not too late." She paused, glanced over at Aya and the cup-cake quickly, and put away the small book in her hands into her clothes. "Worry not, I set the staff on a supply run so the cafe's closed now. Anyways. I take it this isn't about a culinary pleasure."

 

Aya smiled brightly, an amused little smirk tugging upon her lips as well as the Officer took a seat at the little table.

 

"Mademoiselle Yheli, please allow me to get you a cup of coffee for coming all the way up here, on what I am sure is still a busy day for you."

 

The Miqo'te offered a surrendering shrug of her shoulders, "If you insist. I'll take it black." she demurred with a smile.

 

"You're right, its not entirely pleasure that brings me here this morning," stated Aya to un-surprised ears, "I am sure you remember that just a few weeks ago we appeared before the Captain's board together, and advised against the punishment of a certain Mister Leeds."

 

W'chaza nodded, raising the freshly poured coffee up to her lips before taking a sip.  "Aye, that we did. Something related to that now?"

 

Aya nodded, "There are two more sailors accused of mutiny under similar circumstances." She paused for a moment, as if to add gravity to what followed, "I have friends who believe these sailors to, perhaps, be innocent of any actual wrong doing.  All they are seeking is a delay in the judgement of the matter."

 

W'chaza's eyes opened slightly at the statement.  "A delay? Well." She stopped to think for a moment. "If it's similar to the last case, we have a precedent established already. Problem, though, is the case against these two is solid unlike Mister Leeds." Sighing, she takes another sip of her coffee. "Opponents far more prepared to counter any attempts we'll make now. This time, they'll want the noose on their necks even if it means getting dirty."

 

Aya nodded, "I can agree with all of that.  The only good news is that the goal is not the same.  Not at the moment: a simple delay in the hearing, rather than a suspended sentence."

 

The Miqo'te peered at Aya for a moment, slightly piqued by the accusation before moving on.  "Said something about friends knowing they're innocent, correct? Who might they be?"

 

Aya shook her head slightly, "An adventurer from the Black Shroud, and an Immortal Flames Soldier.  I do not know what they know, except that I trust their judgement."

 

W'chaza's eyed flicked to Aya's with a glimmer of recognition at the description of the two familiar characters.  

 

"'Trust their judgment' isn't going to work this time around." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, both hands wrapped around the mug as she glanced inquisitively at the collection of papers and notes lying on the table.  "It helps you have proof on the public's opinion, but a judgment call only goes so far."

 

"This time around?" She asked with an inquisitiveness before smoothly moving on.  "They may be guilty.  In all honesty I cannot tell you.  Only that a delay in their hearing could provide evidence that exonerates them.  Now, I've seen your knowledge of the Maelstrom Code first-hand, and I could think of no one better to help me in this effort."

 

W'chaza pursed her lips, staring at Aya for a moment with a mixture of curiosity and calculation.  

 

"No secret it was drilled into me at a young age, that's for sure." she said, "Presuming I help you in the matter, what do you need from me?"

 

Aya looked at W'chaza with an earnest expression, her voice softening, "To employ your knowledge of Maelstrom Law to find reason for this judgment to be delayed. And, if necessary, to appear before the Board and argue for that."

 

The Miqo'te certainly didn't seem pleased about the thought of appearing before another Board.  But few things interested her as much as a puzzle to solve, especially when it meant diving into books, and trying to tease meaning from the vagaries of Limsa Lominsa's newly minted legal canon, even if her every instinct at the moment was pulling her away from the commission.

 

"Seven hells, the Board again... I'm trying to ease out of that life, not get into the thick of it." she replied, setting her coffee down with one hand, the index finger of her other hand pressed firmly down against the table. She lets out a light sigh before she speaks again. "I can play their game while I'm still around. Just understand if this all fails, I won't be the only one facing trouble with the outcome. These sailors, myself, you... maybe even these friends of yours and others to come. It's like challenging the Admiral's supremacy with this particular case; you know that, right?"

 

Aya knit her brow for a moment.  The statement seemed far less obviously true to her.  Losing a legal decision didn't come at grave personal cost even in the more barbaric sectors of Thanalan Law Practices.  Was there something about Limsa she'd missed?

 

"Sheez... believe it or not, there's still supposed to be rules to this shite..." The Miqo'te glanced to her right, took another sip of her coffee, mulled for a moment, then looked back at Aya. "Alright. Fine. I have one condition, though. For one evening of my time, I want one evening of your time. A dinner date works, if that's fine with you." The Miqo'te nodded again, with a smile of mischief suddenly drawing over her features.

 

Aya managed to swallow a sigh, instead she just cocked a blonde eyebrow.  She took in a breath, before answering with a charming softness drenched in the color of her Ishgard-laced voice, "Of course."

[Aya]

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[align=center][Homecoming - Part Five][/align]

 

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Just how long had it been.  A couple of years?  But, it felt like a lifetime.  So much then had been uncertain.  Not, "so much", really, but just about everything.  There was only one thing she'd known for sure in those long moments: she would either escape Ishgard, or die trying. 

 

An escape is really what it were.  The Sealed Gates not only protected the city from infiltration, but also kept the working people of the city from fleeing the endless winter that left the stone towers encased in a permanent layer of frost.  It had been a convenient policy: power had never before been so centralized in the hands of the Clericy and their willing accomplices amidst the Houses.  The statutory trade monopolies that resulted from the limited number of passage permits allocated to merchants, only encouraged the concentration of wealth and political influence among the favored few.  While the rest, those whose blood, sweat, and toil kept the city running day-to-day, were offered the tossed down scraps of a whithering economy at the sharpened point of a lancer's spear. 

 

Of course, there was a war on.  The only thing worse than the enemy we knew, was that we could never understand.  The Dravanians, and their Heretic Allies who's machinations and assaults could mean the end of the city itself if not for the Fury's blessing, and the ceaseless toil of her flawed Church and the soldiers they inspired.

 

Such was the lot of Ishgard's Blessed Holy See.  One could wonder why anyone bothered asking why she'd left.

 

Today only a gentle flurry darkened the sky.  It felt strange to regard the Gates of Judgement from this angle: outside looking in.  They were a monumental piece of stonework, nearly as intimidating as the sealed gates that had once locked her in the city.  The last time she had set foot here had been a clear night, during a new moon when the sky was darkened to a pitch black.  Crossing the bridge itself had been the most terrifying ordeal of her life: in her troubled imagination the structure spanned some ten miles or more, every foot patrolled by guardsmen angling to send her off to Witchdrop for a final test of her righteousness as an accused blasphemer. 

 

How she had clung to shadow, and dangled amidst the superstructure that supports the span from below.  There, there was nothing solid between her and the gaping chasm that opened like an inky black maw below.  How the ferocious winter wind had howled and roared around her.  It was as if a hungry beast: ready to consume everything that came its way.  For years that chasm had been believed to be her grave: another foolish would-be fugitive who'd met her judgement.  Her friends and family had thought it her sad fate; her father blamed himself all the while, for having set his daughter upon a path of such desperation.

 

Somehow, she now believed it would be different.  That the years, and the passing circumstances would have softened the emotional power of the lifeless stone structure.  But standing before it now, she know just how wrong she had been.  Her concerns about passing the gates had been overblown: the passport restrictions had become so loose that the mere suspicion of her being an adventurer was enough to earn hand-waved passage.  The cloak and adventurer's kit she wore draped over her head and body had likely been unnecessary, still the better to avoid scrutiny.

 

But having passed beneath the arches she now stood paralyzed before the span.  How she struggled with that first step.  To set foot upon the bridge that had once been the threshold between life and death.  Old life and new.  She tried to remember what it was like to cross as a child, entering the city for the first time: with so much ease and hopefulness.  At last, she had dreamed, a proper home, even family of their own!

 

Now she stood motionless, imagining the faces of Uncle and Aunt, of their children, and other relatives.  She imagined the faces of her brothers, to whom she had been so close, and to whom she now stood so near.  She imagined her mother and father: young, and then old.  She thought of her father: ailing and in bed. Wondering if he would ever see his daughter again. 

 

"That stupid Verad..." she spoke aloud, as if she could really blame the Duskwight's invitation for forcing her return to the city.  Her return home.

 

She leaned forward, drawing a foot along the way.  One foot followed the next.  The wind swept hard across the open span, roaring through the chasm like a hungry beast.  Every moment relived that night of terror.  Every step forward recalled the fear, the frostbite, the brutal, gnawing regret. 

 

She girded herself as she had that lifetime ago:  This was her decision.  She'd come this far. Nothing could stop her.

 

And so, Aya Tharintreu, returned, at last, to her Tower City home.

 

 

(Screen shot by @kiskiphelone via tumblr, and used with grateful permission!)

[Aya]

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[align=center][Homecoming - Part Six][/align]

 

[align=center]The final installment of Aya’s return home.

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It was neither the first, nor the last.  Years ago in the depths of the Tower City:[/align]

 

Music!

 

Clanaad (anime not band) - Snowfield - always sounds like Ishgard to me.

o6BgI6IVnQU

 

 

The hinges squeaked as the worn door cracked open, marking the late-night end of a guilty sojourn.

 

Feet, bared for silence, were too quiet to announce her return.  She pressed the door gently closed—every sign pointed to the success of her deception.

She turned toward the stair, but a faint flow of lantern light from the inn's main sitting room, caught her attention.  The room now served as a tavern in the long, harsh days of Ishgard's imposed isolation, and the sign of habitation gave lie to the flickers of her hope.

 

Grimacing, the young girl momentarily halted in her tracks.  There was no easy route of escape.  Maybe the sentry had fallen asleep at watch?  She made a furtive break for the stair, mounting just a few steps before being brought to a sudden halt by the sound of a match strike.

 

Dare not look.  Dare not look.  Dare not... 

 

She turned her eyes hesitantly toward the faint illumination. There she saw through the stair's banister, through the open door to the sitting room, and through to a familiar figure seated in shadowy illumination.

 

With a slow, intentional motion he brought the lit match to the pipe upon his lips.  Watching, it felt an eternity, he lit the bowl, cupping his fingers around it before the embers began to add their own amber to that of the lantern.  She was still - frozen - motionless - trapped.

 

He shook the match out before opening his eyes, directing the full intensity of his harsh blue gaze at his teenage daughter.

 

It was a practiced glare.  Formed over more than a half century of preparation.  No longer did these eyes demand loyalty of retainers, peasants and soldiers.  No more did they lord over battlefields, hunting grounds, and feast halls.  No longer did they dictate with the force of authority and blood. 

 

The forceful personality behind the glare had withered but never wilted.  Ruin had befallen everything he held dear.  Only the family remained, and from them he still demanded loyalty.  That was the insistence of the hardened glare: the iron will that demanded obeisance from the only ones it still governed far from the mountains and forests of Ala Mhigo.

 

He had said nothing, but still her body refused to move.  It was her spirit that flinched: her heart pounded in her ears—her nerves tingled with the touch of fresh panic. 

 

No words were necessary, but he chose to employ them regardless.

 

He slipped the pipe from his lips, his voice low and even, with the burr of his mother tongue. 

 

"We had a visitor yesterday."  She stood, motionless, as under the effect of a terrible magic.

 

"Do you know what he said?"  His tone was rhetorical.

 

"He told us, again, about these so-called 'friends' of yours."  He set the pipe down, freeing her momentarily from the harsh fixation of his gaze.

 

"You remember, I am sure, what I told you before?"  She did.  She needed no reminder.

 

He repeated the commandments for her, his voice rising with authority.  "You will not see those hooligans.  You will not spend time with them.  They will be the ruin of you.  The ruin of us.  You know that your actions reflect upon, and effect this entire family."  

 

He paused to tap the bowl of his pipe upon the table.  "I doubt you will deny that you were with them again tonight..."  She wanted to deny with every fiber of self-preservation, but quickly found herself shaking her head against every better judgement - such was the power of his compulsion.

 

With this answer the man rose like a beast from his throne, his voice roared with the fire of righteous anger, "And yet you defy me!  You defy your mother!  Do you have any regard for you family?"  The question, asked with a furious snarl, permitted no answer.

 

"My -daughter- will not behave like a common harlot.  My -daughter- will not deprave herself with obscenity!"  He emphasized the word as if it dripped with venom, while advancing upon the frozen girl with quick and powerful steps. Anger, frustration, worry and fear that had simmered for hours burst forth in a torrent as he gripped at the at the posts of the banister with barely contained rage.  His face, rugged and strong shook with the power of his will. 

 

The sudden show of emotion snapped the spell he had held over her.  She nearly fell backward away from him, flattening momentarily against the wall of the stair as she felt the fullness of dread he instilled.

 

"You understand, don't you?"  He asked, with a hint of pleading in his anger.

 

"You're the one who doesn't understand!" She shot back with a rising surge of resistance.  "You never have!"  The retort was that of every teenage girl angry at her father.  She nearly leaped down the stairs as she raced for the front door.

Their shouting had woken the entire family - the rooms above stirred with commotion.

 

Father turned, indignation burning in his eyes.  "Don't you run from me!"

 

She tore the door open, turning back at him one more time, "Maybe I am no daughter of yours!" she shouted in pure resentment.  That was his line.  He'd used it before, and its impact was all the greater for its return. 

 

[align=left]He started for the door, but he no longer had the strength of his young self.  His late night vigil had exhausted him.  He grasped at the door frame, bracing.  Out he shouted into the street, watching the vision of his barefoot daughter retreating into the darkness.

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[align=left]Not so long ago, Ishgard

 

"He's been feeling stronger, but he still needs his rest."  Mother's voice could be as gentle as a spring breeze.  "He's... well, its been hard, as you know..."  Aya nodded.  She held her mother's hands.  The two of them had not always looked at things the same way: mother always seemed to take father's side.  But, they had shared so much of life together.  They had endured, they had persevered.  No one had taught Aya more, and the two women both understood what it was to be a woman in father's family.  The bad.  The good.  The hard.[/align]

 

Aya took a deep breath.  She nodded, and whispered, "Thank you..."

 

 

The hinges squeaked as the worn door cracked open, marking the welcome end of an arduous sojourn.  She stepped into the room.  It was kept warmer than the others with a well-attended coal fire that cast its illumination on the features of her father reclining in his bed.

 

She took a step toward him, her heeled boots loud against the wooden floor of the chamber.  He turned his head toward her, eyes opening slowly to reveal the blue-eyed gaze that she had not seen for so such a very long time. 

 

She covered the distance between with a few quick steps, kneeling at his side.  His eyes were tired, but shone with an emotion as indescribable as it was indecipherable. 

 

She gazed back, struggling for words.  A thousand times she had rehearsed this reunion: what a waste.  To see him so tired - so defeated.  Her lips hung open, trembling for want of the will to know what to say.  Only one soft word escaped, barely voiced, "Father..." 

 

A faint smile appeared on his lips.  An upward tug upon the corners that showed no sign of resistance.  "Shh..." he replied, while his hand grasped for hers.  Cold fingers wrapped around the tender, softness of his daughter's hand. 

 

She gasped at the touch of his hand: those strong hands... she remembered.  She remembered so very much- tears fell from her cheeks.

 

"I am very tired..." he said, with a weak voice before taking in a deep breath that spoke of immense relief. 

 

She nodded and wrapped her hands around his...

 

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Osvald and Aya stepped out from the inn, walking the familiar streets and avenues of their youth, levels below the surface of Ishgard in the depths of the city's base. 

 

"Were you able to talk to him?" He asked with the sort of gentle curiosity he was so capable.

 

She shook her head, forcing her hands into the pockets of her coat, suddenly intimately conscious of feeling her own hands.

 

"I... no, we didn't."

 

Her brother let out a loud sigh of thorough disappointment.  He turned his gaze toward her as they continued to walk, "Aya... I'm so sorry... I really thought that by now..."

 

 

She interrupted him with the shake of her head, "No.. no... it was good."  She didn't quite smile.  Neither did he.  Everywhere there seemed to be a little relief.

 

 

 

(Screen shot by

@kiskiphelone, and used with grateful permission!)

[Aya]

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[align=center][bløød and Sand][/align]

 

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Music -

 

4s3b5OR2YhE

 

 

What does it mean to be an Ala Mhigan?

 

It's rarely an academic question.  Rather, it seems to cut to the bare bone in a way few others are capable.

 

Big, dumb, trouble, vagrant, lazy. Refugee.

 

Tough, strong, iron-willed.  Dangerous.

 

Every Ala Mhigan to be found in free land has abandoned his homeland in one way or another.  That seems to be the rub.  The salt in the wound.  Its left a mark that doesn't want to rub off.  And every Ala Mhigan know is, whether they'll admit it or not.  

 

Some its never seemed to bother.

 

Minding his shop, the smithy Osvald is as happy and satisfied as he will be.  As Ishgardian as he is Ala Mhigan, he was young enough to adjust, adapt, and start over.  He found his life's calling in a trade.  He'll be happy as long as he practices.  Wherever that may be.

 

To others it meant opportunity; a fresh start without all the strictures of established society.

 

Raubhan, the mighty warrior become General.  Never could he have found such power and influence in the land of his birth.

 

The red-haired Bohanon, wild and free as he roams the streets of Ul'dah ruling the city a block at a time with the gang.

 

But for some it means a past that can never be forgotten.  One to be clung to, and whose recovery brings all other priorities into question.

 

Kael has never forgotten the family estate.  Never relinquished the claim to that which would be his.  Entering middle-age he dreams of abandoning his young Ishgardian family to strive for glory and revenge in the homeland.  To restore honor to their name, and return to their rightful place where their ancestors fought and died.

 

And for others?  It is a duty that demands nothing short of a zealous self-sacrifice.  No greater cause could exist than revenge for the crime inflicted upon the nation and people.  There is no chip too big for their shoulders.  No excuse for a life outside the resistance; for the direction of any effort that is not targeted against the Garlean occupiers.

 

Eva, red-haired and fierce.  She has trained all her life for but one purpose: to return Ala Mhigo to its people.  To expel, and destroy the Garleans.  Prepared to die, there could be no more righteous cause in life.

 

Then, there are those who wish they were like them.  

 

Heji, is her name.  'Hellion' more commonly.  An Ala Mhigan in the classic mold:  tall, powerful, fierce as the wind that batters that highland realm.  She's known on the Sands for her strength and body--for her war cry, and ruggedness.  But there's more to her than that: honed technique, experience, and a certain grace that under girds the ferocity.    

 

She's been a friend of mine for a long time.  We were rivals once upon a time.  When my career was ending, and hers just beginning.  We won't discuss the record.  We don't mention it any more.

 

Vision stirring.  Everything is...

 

I've taken a new student some while back.  And when she asked about unarmed training I knew there was no one better to engage for instruction.  That's when I introduced the Hellion to the Fox.  

 

There was the Hellion, well over six foot of sculpted muscle.  One side of her head shaved. Covered with menacing tattoos.  And the Fox - with her manicured nails, and figure fit for sculpture.  

 

Red. Is that blood? My blood? Its all over the sand...

 

I won't admit to being wrong.  No, there was no better education I could have offered.  The Fox is a quick student, though I'd have never believed it when I first met her.  Neither as dainty nor as foolish as she seems.

 

Numb... numb... bleary...

 

But as the Hellion landed another blow I knew it had gone too far.  An instructor doesn't land a punishing blow against a helpless student.  Not with this sort of viciousness.

 

Not long into this session she'd taken the Fox down with a quick sweep.  It wasn't exactly a fair strike, from a professional with hundreds of bouts worth of experience, against a student focused on learning.  And then she'd shifted gears, using the woman's momentary helplessness to force her into a blind submission with her fist.  

 

........

 

"Enough!"  I leapt from the stone where I'd been observing and strode out toward the pair.  "Enough!" I hollered again.  But the woman responded with yet another blow, this one directly to the face.

 

This, you must understand, was strictly against the terms of our employment.  The Fox makes her living with her face, more than anything, and she hadn't wanted to risk her living for this.  Not yet, at least.  

 

Sure, I threatened her about it all the time.  She didn't wear any protection.  It raised the stakes.  Kept her on her toes, as it were.  But my threats were for show.  To make her worry.  To make her work harder.  To keep her on edge.  This was altogether different.  This was punishment.

 

"Damnit, Heji!  Enough already, you know she's the one paying you!"

 

The woman did stop.  In a sense.  She turned her attention to me.  Rage burning in fierce eyes.  "I'd do this for free, old man.  Its what this bitch deserves!"

 

For Twelve's sake.  There's not enough gil in Lolorito's vaults for this.

 

"What the hells are you on about, woman!?  Get off her already!"

 

By now Lunk had started up too.  The big guy was always a little slow to get on his feet.  I knew I might need the reinforcement.

 

"Thinking she should just dance around the desert, looking pretty for all these gods-damned money-bags while we're fighting;  DYING! for our homeland!" The Hellion had raised her voice to a shout.  Just short of the war cry that had made her famous.  

 

I raised my oaken stick - what sort of weapon is that against a mistress of the unarmed arts you might ask? Lets not discuss the record of our past matches, okay? - and then I slammed it into the ground as hard as I could.   That finally startled her into jumping to her feet.

 

What was... that... sound... why can't I see?

 

This was just fantastic, really.  Why am I always surrounded by Ala Mhigans with all the damned chips on their shoulders?  Everywhere I go it seems to be Ala Mhigans everywhere, and not a one of them seems to have any sense!

 

"What sort of stupid shit is this?" I asked, incredulous.  "Why aren't you out at Baelsar's Wall if its so important to you?"

 

With that she took a mighty swing my way.  I won't say that it was unexpected. Well, not entirely.  The breeze that brushed against my cheek told me everything I had to know about her earnestness.

 

"My brother just died up there, you son of a bitch!"

 

Well.  This didn't seem like it was going to end well.  Where the hell was Lunk any... the sound of his mailed fist smashing into the Hellion gave me some joy, I'll freely admit.

 

I... can...

 

For a moment she sprawled onto the ground, and the big fella recoiled at what he'd done.  It wasn't his style to gang up on someone, especially not a woman.

 

The Hellion spit blood.  She'd have it no other way.  Rising to her feet she wiped her forearm along her lips.  "Oh so now you want to fight, huh, fuck head?  Going to defend your fairy princess, is that it?"  She snarled.  It wasn't a pleasant look, that one.

 

"You know, there's one thing you just don't seem to understand."  I said, as calmly as I could muster.  "Oh, what's that old man?" she glared at me.  I rested on my oaken stick.  "She may look a might weak.  But she likes nothing more than being underestimated. And..."

 

"She's a spoiled bitch..."

 

"She doesn't give up," I finished.

 

"... just a bitch who's forgotten where she came! And I'm going to fuckin' give her a reminder she'll never forget!"  The Hellion turned to look for the princess.  But she never quite found her.  

 

The form of the kick was, I must say, perfect.  She'd been taking her lessons well.  The snap of her lower leg was directed precisely into tho back of the Hellion's knee.  The larger woman crumpled in a surprised instant.

 

But its not the initial strike that is the most important.  The Hellion always stresses this.  First you disrupt balance.  You create the opening that allows you to get inside their defenses.  Once inside it was the next move that was the most important.  It must be aimed for victory, whatever the goal of the bout.  From a pin, to a deathblow.  It really didn't matter what the end result was, this was always the moment to strike for it.  The lesson always seemed to sit well with the Fox.  She'd told me once upon a time she'd lived among Wolves, and they taught her the same lesson.  I had an inkling of what she meant.

 

As the Hellions back touched the sand her assailant had already pounced.  Her entire body was in the air.  One arm locked the other in place.  It was a fore-arm drop, aimed to the momentarily helpless woman's throat.  With her full weigh behind it, it could have been the end.  A crushed wind pipe and a painful death.

 

The strike was pulled at the last moment.  Instead the Fox locked her arm around the woman's neck.  As the Hellion struggled against the sleep-hold a terrifying grin took hold of her curled lips.

 

"So.. she has fight in her..." she rasped before passing out.  

 

 

We walked back toward the city in some silence.  Lunk helped the Fox along, with that gentle concern of his.  The price for the day's lesson had been steep.  No poultice would handle this.  No mere cosmetic could disguise the punishment suffered by her usually smiling features.  We'd thrown her cloak over her as best we could.  Not that anyone likely would have recognized her in this state.

 

"You're going to need a healer..." I suggested, hoping she already knew of one to visit.

 

"I know who..." she replied.  And off we went.

 

 

 

For some, to be Ala Mhigan is little more than an accident of fate.  To others, it is the very meaning of life itself.  But none who bear that name can fail to consider its importance.  To them.  To others.  

 

What of the Fox?  Politics where never her game, as much a I could gather.  She cares about people.  A smile means more to her than an army.  A satisfied life: in Ishgard, in Ul'dah, in Ala Mhigo, more than any ancient banner or name.  The future more than history.  

 

That's my take, at least.  But maybe you should just try asking her.

[Aya]

[The Mark - Blood Moon Rising - Part One]

 

Quote

In those, long past, distant days of yore.
When we learned our songs of love, and lore
Of Misty wood, and ancient timber,
Of mighty boughs, untouched by cinder.
Where heroes, beyond our ken,  once stood,
Within that dark, that black, that Mirk Wood.
-Excerpt from Gyr-Abanian Folk Song

 

Aya shuddered in her sleep.  She was wrapped in a light blanket on a simple berth of an evening airship.  It was the last leg of the long journey home from Gyr Abania for the unlikely adventurer, and it had been anything but restful.  Her adventures into the marshy woods of the Gyr Abanian fringe had left her mid-section wrapped in bandages, and her trusty poncho ripped by claws.  The bandages had stanched the flow of blood, and the torn poncho could be patched.  It was the wounds that gripped her spirit that ran far deeper.  

 

She tossed and turned amidst a nightmare.  She'd been warned of the dangers of the deep forests of her homeland since childhood.  All those who entered, so the stories went, would emerge as someone different.  This could mean passage to a new phase of life, but more often it meant death itself.  Had she ignored these warnings to her own peril?

Never had the forest, long the scene of her idyllic dreams of freedom, seemed so dangerous and unsettling.

 

Her mind's eye struggled to relieve itself of the visions of the day before: bodies hung from and nailed to trees in ways too unnatural to describe, a chilling pall that seemed to cut to the very bone, the gray-skinned devil festooned and markings and bone who assumed the form of an owl, and perched high in his tree manipulating the bodies of others like so many puppets.  

 

The warnings swam through her delirious sleep, seeming to come from every direction as she relived every hellish moment of horrible discovery - of the sallow-faced wolves who lunged from the shadows - and the crying wailing voices of the still living victims of the wood's treacherous villainy.  The bodies of the hallow-wolves as they transformed into tribal Miqo'te upon death, bearing the obvious signs of punishment.

 

"What are you doing?  You should never have gone there...!" the words repeated in voice after voice from her memory.  Loved ones, mentors, and friends.  It was less a question, more an accusation of foolishness.

 

At last her mother and father, both threatening to burst forth screaming, seemed to cry into each ear.  With a start she shot straight up in her berth, nearly striking her head on the low ceiling.  Hands clapped over her ears to ward away the phantasmal voices.  The silence was immediate, but her hands now burned against the sides of her head.  With a gasp of fright she pulled them away.  She stared wide-eye at her palms, upon the left of which a blood-red crescent had appeared during her brief sleep.

 

Her feet pressed against the cushions, as if she could squirm away from her own flesh; wide blue eyes transfixed upon the mark in utter terror.  

 

She could only imagine what terrible fate now marked her...

 

It was late at night when Aya pushed open the swinging door to the Quicksand's kitchen.  She had just passed through the tavern without a hint of her usual cheer: the wave of several familiar patrons went unreturned.  Her eyes never lifted from the floor, while her red lips held a forced stoic expression.  She announced her arrival within with the loud drop of heavy gear bags onto the floor.  The sound reverberated across the stone floor of the kitchen and its back rooms.  Her shoulders fell.  Her head bowed.  At last escaped from the public eye, she openly sobbed in fear.

 

Jericho, one of the Quicksand's cooks, dropped his attention from his mid-night preparations and hurried to her.  Despite his characteristic shyness, he grasped the highland woman by the shoulders helping to prop her up under the weight of her obvious distress.

 

"Aya..." he said in the calmest voice he could muster.  The unmistakable burr of his voice an undeniable reminder of the land she had just returned from.  "Where have you been?  What is the matter?"

 

"Gyr Abania..." she managed through sobbing breaths.  

 

"But what's the matter..?"

 

"I've... terrible things..." she couldn't quite spell it out.

 

The look in his eyes became ever more concerned by the moment.  "I'll get Madame Momodi, just wait here..." he offered, in an effort to be helpful.

 

Aya managed a forceful, "No!"  She lifted her left hand, turning it over to expose her marked palm, before beginning to cry again.  All she could think about was the danger she now posed to others, and just what terrible things the skin walkers could have in store for those they marked.

 

He grasped her hand, trying in vain to wipe the mark away.  

 

His eyes stared longly at her delicate, feminine hand and the other-worldly mark cast so sorely upon it.  For a long moment no other words passed between them.  Only the sound of suppressed sobbing broke the quiet roar of the cooking fires across the room.

 

Finally he asked, concern consuming him, "What are you going to do..?"

 

She looked up at him, eyes and cheeks reddened by the exertion of dismay, and answered his question with a disheartened shrug.  "I don't know..."

 

 

Edited February 27, 2018 by Aya

[Aya]

[An Evening Surveillance - Verad Bellveil Versus the World, Part 1]
 

It was a fuzzy sort of chamber music that filled the room.  As if being played somewhere in the distance, or being half-remembered.  It was the opulence of the dress that stood out most starkly: handsome men, and lovely ladies. All proper, glowing, and radiant in the splendly warm lighting of an evening soiree high atop the pillars of Ishgard.
 

The Ladies and Men moved to and fro in the carefully orchestrated motions of polite, formal dance, while chilled sparkling, served bubbling, crisp, and dry made its way around on glittering trays of polished sterling.
 

 Aya could feel the tight, tugging sensation of a happy grin that refused every urge to be held-back.  She knew she beamed forth, a vision of unfashionably delighted mirth.  

 Well - one couldn't fault her for dreaming, could they?
 

The day dream vanished into the dark of the nighttime cold.  This time of year, especially, Ishgard's frost bit hard even during the hours of warm daylight.  As it set the claws of cold dug deep to the bone, blasting forth with the insistent gusting winds that scoured the highland landscape.
 

She pulled her hood tighter around her partly exposed face - as if she could ward off the frost with such a gesture.  Her clouding breath formed irregular crystals along the strands of wool and fur.  Fur - at least she was fortunate enough now for this.
 

Her eyes came back into focus on the circles of lamplight painted on the cobblestone boulevard that stretched before her.  The shops were long closed, but not far before her stood one last establishment open for business.  The Caged Bird opened late, and stayed open even later.  Their shady reputation was well known to the rest of the block in their vicinity, but the quality of their patrons shielded the neighboring businesses from the negative effects one may otherwise have expected.
 

Still, there were those not entirely pleased with the presence of such a venue on their proverbial steps.  That was one of the few, mostly obvious, things Aya had managed to pick up through her several days of effort.
 

It was Verad Bellveil née Deaxbois who had an interest with this place. Not as a potential patron, thank the twelve, his interest lay in the women who were its attraction.  He was not alone in the interest, with the usual host of well-intentioned allies plotting, planning, and otherwise preparing for trouble.  Some of the women, circumstantial evidence suggested, were there against their will.  Worse, House Severidenne may be using such women in some form of dark sorcery.  
 

With an altogether too-quick assent Aya had, of course, given her offer of assistance to Verad. She, Verad, and Madamoiselle Eglantine would serve as a distraction by visiting the Club, to help the more quiet entry of Nihka and Kiht go unnoticed.  And that, is how she found herself freezing in the dark of an Ishgard evening, watching a mostly empty street.  It wasn't quite the evening in the Pillars she usually imagined; then again, the ball Verad had so graciously invited her to at House Severidenne did not turn out much like those she'd dreamed of either.  
 

As she watched, another unmarked carriage rolled by the street, while the shadows of her perch clung tightly enough to her figure to obscure sight of such an observer. The yoked chocobo came to a slow stop before the grand front entrance of the Caged bird, before disgorging an obscured but clearly wealthy man.  With just a hint of apprehension in his otherwise purposeful stride he mounted the steps into the Club, and disappeared into the delights that awaited him.
 

Outside, Aya struggled futilely against another blast of cold air, reflecting on her effort of the past couple of days:
 

Speaking to one of the local shop keepers had provided the only real nugget of value for all her effort.  Monsieur Lestride, with a ring of wildly roused gray hair and wire spectacles that rest upon a long narrow nose, was the proprietor of a shop selling the finest of imported porcelain. The storefront happened to be located almost directly across the boulevard from the Caged Bird.  For a few dozen minutes of pleasant discussion and feigned interest in significant purchases --she, at least, could appear able to afford such luxuries-- she'd earned his trust, if not his affection.
 

When asked, in innocent fashion, of the Club across the way, his bushy eyebrows had furrowed, giving hint to deep-set frustration.  Most of what he had to say on the matter she already knew: "Nothing more than an upscale cat-house", "They come and go at all hours of the night", "You'd think -someone- would have done -something- by now!"  

At last, she'd played the only real card she'd had in her pocket, "Caged Bird.. Caged Bird..." she'd mused, as if perplexed, "Have I heard of this before, didn't I hear a rumor that House Severidenne was involved there somehow?"
 

The fellow grumbled with an undisguised "harumph", and nearly stormed out of her sight.  He turned toward her at the last moment, "You know," he pronounced with the uncertainty of a man who'd just realized something.  "Madame Severidenne, Nephaera I believe is her name, is a regular visitor. I've seen her coming and going. This has always struck me as most unusual, but perhaps it could make some sense..."
 

The porcelain dealer revealed himself to be a man of detail, reciting numerous occasions of the woman's visit.  Aya committed the dates to her log book as soon as she'd departed - being not as great with details as he. Looking them over, they quickly revealed a mostly regular pattern of visitation.
 

This, at least, was something useful. She couldn't have Verad stumbling into the place only to be immediately recognized.

[Aya]

 

[City of Sadness - Verad Bellveil Versus the World, Part 2]

 

How long had it been?

 

Cloaked in heavy cloth for warmth, Aya stood in the dark of a late winter evening.  Beneath the falling snow, high in the pillars where she did not belong.  The bitter cold clawed at her body, but in that moment she barely noticed.

 

What was it with this city of sadness?  Grey walls beneath gray skies.  Grey stone protecting gray hearts.  She stretched her hand out.  Manicured nails graced slender fingers that slid gently through the carved grooves of a name upon the stone memorial.

 

How long had it been?  how many years since she had held the man who had borne this name?  This was all that was left of him: memories recalled by gray stone.

 

The canvas bag she carried slipped from her loosening fingers and dropped quietly upon the snow-covered pavement.  Tears flowed freely.  

"Char..." she cried pleadingly.

 

Earlier that day:

 

The kitchen of the Rising Gryphon was one of the most familiar places in the entire world to Aya Foxheart.  She had been raised there, literally. It was where her aunt and uncle had taught her to bake.  It was a place of joy and fond memories, and of great warmth against the shuddering cold of Ishgard's permanent winter.

 

The smell of freshly baked cookies wafted pleasantly through the front of the tavern where several neighborhood locals joined a familiar dubious Duskwight, and her Uncle Theo, proprietor of the establishment.  Chocolate Chip cookies were a specialty she developed in Ul'dah where chocolate was more plentiful than in the barricaded Ishgard of her youth.  Today she was baking them to share with family and friends for the first time.

 

The kitchen door swung freely open, pressed upon by a wide, muscular hand. "Aya!" boomed the familiar voice of her brother Osvald, a smith by trade.  The excitement in his voice matched that of his manner and he strode quickly within, while energetic blue eyes smiled upon the baker and her work. "I could nearly smell those all the way at my shop!" He offered a hearty laugh, "I can't wait to try one...!"  As he reached toward the tray of cooling treats, she cocked her hips and offered him a disproving look.  "You should at least let those finish cooling..." she pursed her lips, eyes narrowing before she let out an amused laugh and waved him off, "Nah, take one! Enjooooooy!" She beamed at him with a grin.

 

As the hungry fellow gladly grabbed the treat he radiated a joyful excitement. He admired the strange cookie for a moment before taking a large bite, the wonderful mix of sweetness and richness a welcome delight. "Ah..! These are amazing! You've out done yourself!"  It took mere seconds for the entire large cookie to vanish from sight.

 

While licking his fingers clean his eyes fell upon the counter top where she was stirring a new mixing bowl.  A bottle of pink-hued rosewater, an expensive fragrance for most denizens of the city stood nearby. The bottle stood atop a piece of paper bearing what appeared to be a freshly written recipe.  

 

His eyes furrowed as he watched her for a moment, "What this? Those aren't more of these fantastic cookies are they?"

 

She shook her head, pausing for a moment to draw the bangs back out of her eyes, they always loved to fall out of the kerchief as she worked.  "No, I'm afraid not.  I don't think these will taste as good either."  

 

He raised a curious eyebrow, stepping a little closer so as to peer into the mixing bowl in which she worked, "What's it then?  If its not as good?"

 

She pulled her lips tight for a moment, slowing but not pausing her mixing.  Something was clearly weighing on her.  He peered at the rosewater, then back to her, then to the rosewater, and back again.

 

"Ah!" He drew his big hands to his belly and grinned broadly - hopefully, "A man is it?! Someone stole my little sister's heart?"

 

She paused, turning her eyes toward him with a teasing grin to match.

 

"Yes, dearest brother.  His name is Erimmont and he's in the Inquisition gaol awaiting death."

 

The color quickly drained from Osval'd face; his eyes opened wide in momentary horror. Only slowly did he begin to recover his senses.

 

"I... goodness..." he drew a hand slowly down his face.

 

She let out a light laugh along with a flick of her hips, "I'm not in love with him!" She tossed Osvald a teasing look, "But he is a man who could use a little attention right now.  I think anyone could in his circumstances."

 

The massive highlander quickly nodded, managing to muffle a sigh of relief.  "Say no more, dearest!" With a quick motion he snatched an apron from a wall peg, and began to pull it on. The image of the barrel-chested fellow in his undersized apron could have melted the hardest of hearts. She simple grinned in admiration.

 

He looked back, shaking his head as if to ask what the fuss was about. "If he's good enough for my sister. He's good enough for me. I'm going to help."

 

He stepped up beside her, and together they continued to follow the recipe for the unusual rose-flavored treat.

 

At last, sliding the tray into the oven to bake, she stepped back and admired him all the more.

 

"There..." he declared, in triumph, dusting together his large, flour-covered hands.  "I bet they're going to taste better than you expect!"

 

She settled back, leaning against the counter they'd been working upon and offered him a softened smile. "Perhaps you are right..."  She took in a sighing breath, before asking him the question that had been on her mind, "Do you remember Char?"

 

The smile quickly vanished from his features as he turned to look back at her with a serious expression hinting at sadness.  

 

"Of course, how could I forget?"

 

She let out an audible little breath, shaking her head with a bare smile.  "Erimmont lost the love of his life.  'Char' he called her, 'Charlotte'.  I nearly lost it when he told me that."  

 

"..." Osvald didn't quite know what to say.

 

Aya turned her eyes back upon him, "Have you ever visited the memorial?"

 

He offered a slow and wide nod before crossing his arms grimly, "We were there the day it opened. Mother and I. They rained honor upon those Knights. There were no dry eyes, I assure you."

 

"Mother too...?" she asked, both touched and surprised.  She closed her eyes, letting out another audible breath, this one filled with sadness.

 

"I am sorry, Aya. We never did forget. We know how much he meant to you. He died a hero, that is the least we can say."

 

She didn't say anything for a moment, the silence lingering uncomfortably.  At last she looked up again, "Do you think he died alone? Lonely?"

 

Osvald bit his lip.  "A man like him..?" He faked a laugh, "I bet he was surrounded by..." he stopped, sighed, and hung his head. "I doubt he ever got over you, Aya.  I don't think he had it in him."

 

Before the Memorial to Fallen Temple Knights:

 

Tears streamed down red cheeks as she fell to her knees before the cold, stone slab of the memorial.  What good was it to die in the defense of one's city? To die so miserably just so that others could be miserable too?

 

She cried the tears of a thousand lonely nights. Of a thousand broken promises. She'd broken his heart on the behest of his own father. And then she'd run away. What more did she deserve? For what had turned out to be the rest of his life she had never spoken to him, never written. His family had denied him the memento she had tried to leave him with.  What more did she deserve?

 

As she mourned, the rose-water sweets grew cold within the canvas bag as it sat in the snow.  She couldn't know what Erimmont was going through. He would never know her loss.  But for a moment, she knew, the city' sadness could be lifted by the bittersweet.  For the both of them.

 

(Screen shot by @kiskiphelone via tumblr, and used with grateful permission!)

Edited March 16, 2018 by Aya

[Aya]

[Plus ça Change - Verad Bellveil Versus the World, Part 3]

 

Spoiler

 

 

Past Story Background: Homecoming Part Six

 

 

How many times had she been here before? It was another evening of excitement and trouble. Neither of which her parents would approve. It ended in a dive bar, followed by a walk home filled with dread and perhaps, a hint of shame. There she stood, just outside the front door, head bowed, heart resigned.  There she pulled off her thigh-high boots, knowing that their steep heels would too-loudly announce her late-night return home.  It was already well past midnight.  She wiped the tears from her cheek with the un-torn sleeve of the leather jacket that clung tight to the sides of her figure.  

 

The break-in at the Caged Bird had gone both well and horribly wrong. In the short term Aya’s place in the Tower City would be a dangerous one.  She couldn’t say here and couldn’t risk endangering her family. By necessity this would be a brief visit: recover her things, say another silent goodbye, and vanish into the shadow of the Ishgardian under-city.  

 

But she couldn’t wipe the haunting events of that night away with the mere brush of a sleeve. She’d agreed to help Verad because she believed in him. But in the moment of danger, within the house of the enemy, he had seemed to snap: he abandoned the plan, he endangered her and the others, and then when she’d moved to slap some sense into him he had deflected her with a slash of his knife.

 

She could fault herself: she had intended to strike him with the palm, but in his madness he’d shown no hesitation to drawing her blood.  Even as he’d recovered his senses, she’d recoiled from his reach.  Who could blame her?  The confusion of the night still clung thick, but she knew she’d never forget that moment of terror in the dark alley behind the Caged Bird where she faced an ill-tempered Verad and his flashing knife.

 

In the present, she pushed the front door open as quietly as she should. Light feet stepped inside. She moved slow and careful as she mounted the stairs. This was was virtually indistinguishable from those not-so-distant teenage evenings: dressed for a night out on the town in a flirtatious little skirt, a cute leather jacket, and an array of glittering jewelry all intended to draw the eye.  Only the blood-soaked bandage tied tight around her upper right arm revealed anything untoward. The jacket had been sliced open, the flesh beneath gouged and still bleeding.

 

She had not expected the old sentry to still be at his station.

 

Thule Lord Tharin: warrior, master of his house, father.  The old man had nearly wasted away under the crushing weight of failure and advancing age. His rule over his children had faltered and failed. The family of which he dreamed seemed to disperse and scatter. Only his eldest son had become that for which he’d hoped - and that one true son grew to detest a father who had abandoned all that had mattered to their Ala Mhigan forebears. He was a father who could never convince himself that he had done his best, but the return of his daughter, and the opening of the city’s long-sealed gates had still breathed a fresh sense of life into his tired body. In recent days he had cut his long, matted hair - trimmed his gray beard.  

 

Now he had returned to the lonely post where he had sat many long vigils. His aim was always to catch his daughter upon her return from late night sojourns. There he would impress upon her the full seriousness of her transgressions. Their yelling argument would wake the family. Their conflict would tear them apart. He would never admit how deeply he worried for her safety. How the long hours of waiting were filled with the dread of her absence.

 

And what now? He found himself seated far across the main room of the inn. With the flick of his finger the low-beam of his lantern flared brighter into a dim spot-light that caught his daughter by surprise.

 

She flinched, the breath caught deep in her throat. Reflexively she steeled herself for his powerful, practiced glare, her heart pounded in her ears. In an instant she was again the rebellious, terrified teenager terrified of her father’s reproach. The years that had passed, the freedom she had won, the name she had made for herself vanished in the sudden realization that he was there.

 

He knew all this. He knew the role he had played. He lifted his pipe and cupped the bowl with his fingers.  Striking a match, he puffed softly as the embers burned a soft amber within.  She did not move, frozen in place as if stunned.

 

He lowered the pipe and exhaled a deep sigh of relief.  His voice, when he spoke, was softened with age and wear.  It carried to the stairs with just enough force to be heard, but no longer held the authority to shake.  

 

“Thank the Twelve.  I thought I’d have to go out there and find you…”

 

The gentleness of his tone broke the spell. She turned her eyes toward him and offered a long stare.  He returned it silently, just watching her from his ruined throne. She nearly leapt from the stair, and hurried to him with an anxiousness that threatened the quietness of her mission.

 

He coughed, ever-so-slightly. “I’d over-heard just enough,” he couldn’t quite make eye-contact, but he seemed  to catch sight of the blood-soaked bandage.  “I knew you were up to something dangerous tonight, and I had to make sure you got home alright.”  He turned relieved eyes back upon her, and pulled the pipe quickly to his mouth to seek its calm.

 

She didn’t seem to know how to respond. A long moment passed as she just stared at him with wide-eyed surprised.  At last she leaned down to him, wrapping her arms around him in an affectionate embrace. “Father…” she sighed softly, tears welling within her eyes as conflicting emotions overwhelmed her.

 

He hesitantly wrapped one arm around her as best he could to return the gesture, “You’re hurt.” He commented as she leaned back from the hug. “Don’t tell me that Duskwight friend of yours had anything to to with this?”

 

Verad had been staying at the inn for some time. Though her family had initially regarded him with suspicion, his charming manner had a way of softening the hardest of hearts with the warmth of affection. She flinched at the question, daring not to answer it honestly. Her eyes grew more worried as she hesitated; she’d never been able to lie to him, and he’d see right through her at a time like this.

 

“I see…” the old man sighed. “Well, I am sure he protected you as best he could.” He nodded to himself, as if confirming the comforting truth for his own sake. “I know you’ve found loyal friends.”

 

Her heart cried out, but she struggled to hold back the truth that ached inside. Verad’s own knife had been responsible, but she’d never admit it: not to her father, not to her friends.

Struggling, she offered only a meek nod in reply, “I have…”

 

The old man turned his head as he regarded his daughter. Old instincts die hard. He could offer a thousand words of rebuke and advice, knowing full well that her behavior would put her in danger (of which he did not know the half). That she could be safe, secure, and surrounded by family if she just listened to what he said. But that wasn’t why he was here. He’d convinced himself of that, hadn’t he? He did his best to suppress the accusatory look that came so naturally to his features at this hour.  

 

Instead, he changed the subject. “Kael stopped by earlier this evening, looking for you.”  

 

She swallowed hard at the mention of her eldest brother, guilt swelling within her breast.

 

“He had hopes of speaking to you alone, today.  He said it was wonderful that you’d been to visit the children, and they were loving the toys you gave them. But, he said, he had something he wanted to talk to you about privately.”  He narrowed his eyes somewhat, as if trying to guess a hidden truth. He slipped the pipe stem back into his mouth, “I’m supposing it had something to do with Gyr Abania.”

 

She deflected her eyes as her expression fell with guilt. “I’m sorry that I didn’t get to see him again.”  She shook her head before looking back, “But I can’t help him with that. My concern is far closer to home right now.”

 

“Ala Mhigo is your home.” Replied the father reflexively, his voice rising in volume and sternness.

 

Her eyes locked on his as she pulled her lips tight. She slipped easily into practiced defiance, “My home is where you are.”

 

He tensed his jaw. Old habits die hard. An expression of contrition briefly crossing his features, but he didn’t speak.

 

It was enough. Maybe he wouldn’t press her this time. Her voice softened, “I’m sorry,” she said with a breath of regret, “But I have to leave.  There’s just no other way.”

 

“I know that.” He answered flatly. “You’ve had the look of a frightened fox since you came through the door.”

 

His eyes turned to the bandage on her arm, “But you can’t leave this untreated. It is a long journey to Ul'dah.  Let me get your mother…” He moved to start the difficult rise from his seat.

 

“No,” she interrupted emphatically, “this is hard enough already, don’t wake her.”

 

He paused mid-way and looked back at her with concern. Buried deep within that look was an implicit threat to overrule her. To do what he thought best regardless of the consequences. But he had come to know better by now, at least for the night.

 

“Very, well. Then allow me.” He finished the struggle to stand.

 

She hesitated, but knew he was right. Verad’s darting knife had cut into the flesh of her bicep, the pain was at times excruciating and she continued to bleed through the make-shift bandage that had been applied.  She nodded to him.

 

He reached for her arm, carefully untying the cloth wound around it.  He cringed at the sight of what was beneath. It was only a flesh wound, but the cut had sliced straight-through the leather of her jacket, and had gouged her arm and muscle.  It hurt him deeply to see his daughter so wounded. How much had he given during his life to protect her? Why did he always seem to fail when it mattered most.

 

He struggled for a moment but managed, “We must stitch this closed. If we don’t, it could become infected or worse. I hope you know someone who can heal this properly soon, but we can’t let it wait for you to get there.”  

 

He moved with considerable effort, supporting himself against the bar as he moved around it. “Your mother keeps a kit under the bar for this.  Just in case someone gets out of hand down here…”

 

While he fetched the first-aid kit, Aya struggled to pull her right arm free of the tight-fitting jacket. She cringed in pain with the motions before resting the elbow of her now bare arm on the table.  She looked away, trying to hide the full nature of her wound from her own eyes. She could still see Verad, and that casual flick of his blade.

 

Her father returned to his chair, letting out a breath of exertion as he settled back down.  He set the kit upon the table, and thumbed it open.  He knew what he was doing, he’d dressed numerous such wounds in his lifetime, and many far worse.  But this is one he’d have much preferred to never have seen. Still, he knew, with effort he could close it. And in time it would heal.

 

He girded his thoughts, trying to focus purely on the matter at hand. She’d want tight stitching to prevent scarring.  Even if she may seek magical healing soon, if he botched this it could be too late. An open wound was too dangerous, and someone had to treat it.  Piece by piece he extracted the elements of the kit, setting those unnecessary to the side, while preparing those he would need.

 

“Still fighting to protect your friends, are you?” He commented without looking at her, while picking from a small selection of needles.  “Some things never change.”

 

She flicked her eyes quickly towards him.  “I suppose…”  she answered meekly, afraid to fully meet his gaze.

 

“It always worried your mother, you know.”  He open the lid a small cylinder.  He’d been shown how to use this unusual device. It would heat the needle without the use of a flame.  

His daughter continued to watch his eyes, glancing only momentarily at his preparations. She’d overheard them talking about her fighting as a child. It wasn’t often, but it always seemed to end with somebody hurt. “And you?”

 

He paused at the question, taking in an audible breath as he set the cylinder aside to do its work.  His fingers opened a container of salve, prepared by her mother.

 

“It made me proud.”  He admitted, earnestly.  She looked at him wide-eyed and astonished.  He dipped his finger into the medicinal ointment, “This is going to sting.” He stated matter-of-factually.  He began to apply it, as gently as he could manage. Warm and joyful memories of his cheerful little girl clouded his mind as he treated the grown-up version.  She cringed and bit down hard to avoid crying out at the intensity of the stinging pain.

 

“Though, I think if I’d known you’d still be up to it at this age I’d have been more worried.”

 

He looked up at her, but she’d turned away.  She was trying her best to not think about something else.

 

He carried on, “How did you ever get that name, anyway?” He extracted the sterilized needle, and threaded it. His aged fingers, once so strong and powerful, still moved with careful precision.

 

“What name?” She asked innocently, though she knew full well to what he was referring.

 

“Foxheart.” He answered, his eyes sharply focused as he carefully tied the thread off.  It was the first time she’d heard him use that name- and it sounded beyond strange from his lips.

 

She gave him time to finish before answering. “For a while, in the Shroud, I ran with a pack of wolves.  They came to trust me, but knew I was neither as brave nor as strong as they were.”

 

Her father nodded at the answer. “Well, I certainly can’t imagine you as a wolf.” He set the needle down, taking another look at her with eyes filled with memory.

 

She swallowed, wondering just what her father would think of her if he knew it all.  Then again, he had lived his life on the battlefield, and navigated the treacheries and terror of the King of Ruin.  Only the Twelve knew what compromises he had made in his time.

 

He poured brandy from an open bottle into an empty tumbler that rest on the table.  “At least the Ishgardians make a decent brandy.” He slid the glass to her, “Trust me when I say you’re going to want that.”

 

She accepted the glass, drinking its contents in one quick shot before continuing. “Though I wasn’t as strong, I did find my place there. They came to see me as clever, quick, and careful. I think they thought it was amusing: like a fox among wolves.”

 

He nodded thoughtfully, while dabbing a cloth in the brandy. “Truly?” He asked rhetorically, “Well, I happen to think the fox suits you well.”

 

She’d have sworn he smirked, “You’ve your mother’s beauty, and my foolishness I fear.” Taking the spirit-soaked cloth he began to rub the wound and the area around it.  

 

She took in a sharp breath, cringing at the words and the sting of alcohol. She had no idea how to respond to his speaking like this. Once upon a time he had shown her such affection, but that was so long ago. Had she really only known harshness and regret? Memories of their closeness came pouring forth in a fountain of sentimental yearning.

 

“Here,” he offered her a wooden peg from the kit. “You’re going to want to bite down on this.  If you don’t, you’ll wake the entire house.” The gesture and statement hurt the man far more than he’d ever admit. He hated this. But someone had to do it, and better him than anyone else.  With effort he could close the wound, but he knew only time could heal it.

The father steeled himself for that which he was dreading. It had been hard enough to look upon his daughter’s wound. Harder still to steady himself to pierce her tender skin again and again with the painful steel of the needle. Every fiber of him rebelled at the thought.

 

She took the pin of wood, and set it between her teeth. She bit down.  Her chest began to rise further and faster with deep, worried breaths of anticipation. He tried to ignore her fear. His eyes focused. He’d use the best technique he had learned. It would take longer, but the result would be more reliable, and heal cleaner. Every stitch independent, close together. This had to be done right. Never had it seemed to matter more.

 

A moment later the needle first pierced her sensitive flesh. Reflexively her teeth bore down on the softer wood between them. It was more than the needle. Tears began to stream from her eyes.

 

He paid careful mind to his work. It had been a long time since he had treated such a wound, but clever fingers still retained their muscle memory. Each stitch individually tied off, was made close to the one before.  It was intricate, grueling work that seemed to stretch for an eternity under the dim lantern light of the quickly vanishing night.

 

Neither spoke, and both were exhausted as he finished tying off the final stitch.  He set the needle aside, and returned to the balm which he applied to the now-closed wound.  Her jaw finally relaxed. She set aside the wooden pin, now indelibly marked by her teeth.

 

“I’m sorry…” he said, “I know how terribly this must have hurt.”

 

What he could never know was how much more painful it had been knowing who was responsible, and how much worse that memory would remain.

 

She breathed deep and tired. Long, deep, and exhausted breaths that seemed to sum the entire evening. “Thank you.”

 

He nodded, biting his lower lip in an expression she often mimicked when stressed. But he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

 

“Fierce and tough. That’s my daughter.”  He stated with a nod, before moving to reassemble the kit, putting the pieces away one at a time.  

 

She lifted her eyes, staring off into the distance.  He poured himself a drought of brandy, and took it stiffly.  

 

“If I ever find the bastard who did this to you, I’m going to give them the drubbing of a lifetime.” He announced in a fatherly manner.

 

She turned toward him, silent for a moment.  She knew exactly who it was, and hoped he would never find out. “I know you will…” she said at long last, “You’ve always protected me. Even when you haven’t realized it.  But, I’m afraid its worse this time…”

 

“What do you mean?” He snapped the kit shut.

 

“Voidsent.”  She answered with a single word full of foreboding menace.

 

“Those monsters in children’s stories?” He asked, incredulously.

 

“As real as dragons.” She answered flatly.  “And there’s one after my friends and I.”

 

His expression fell grimly.  “Aya…”

 

She turned her eyes quickly toward him, “You’ve protected me my whole life.  You’ve protected all of us.” She had quickly drawn a long, cylindrical device from a small pouch on her belt. “Right now you have to think about the entire family, and not just me. Protect everyone.  Mother, uncle, all of the children here. They’re counting on you. I have to help my friends stop these people.”  

 

He nodded, eyeing the object curiously. It was a magitek beacon, one she’d acquired long ago. It had aided her escape from the city and on many adventures since. “At the press of this switch it will shine with bright light.  If you -ever- think there may be something dangerous nearby, you shine this at it.  The monster we’ve encountered seems to be afraid of light, and it may be enough to buy you and others the time to get away.”

 

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Do you understand?” She asked.  Running away was never a style he’d admit to, even if he had done just that again, and again over his life.  “Shine this light at the monster… got it.” He said, as though he understood more fully than he did.

 

She took out a card, with a couple of names written on it.  “These are two Dragoons, one a former Dragoon, to contact if there is -any- sign of trouble.” Her tone had become quicker, she struggled to remain calm at the thought of the danger she could have already brought upon her own family.

 

Her father nodded, regarding the card carefully, “Orrin Halgren, and V'aleera…” he paused at the second name, “V'aleera?” he repeated, “Why does that sound so familiar?”

 

“You knew her when she was a child, she grew up right here.”

 

“Ah… the Miqo'te girl,” a hint of a smile crept across his lips as he remembered, “and she rose all the way to Dragoon?”  

 

Aya nodded, “The finest.” He smiled. The city seemed a little brighter at the thought.

 

“I have to get my things and leave. I can’t stay here, I’ll put you all of you in danger.”

 

Her father nodded. He was still looking at the card. His expression grew resigned. All her life he had wanted nothing more than to protect her. To keep her close and safe. There was nothing he wouldn’t do, nothing he would flinch at, nothing that could stand in his way, save death itself. Now helplessness gripped him.

 

He didn’t look up. She slipped quietly upstairs, visiting her own room and that recently used by one Verad. She gathered their remaining belongings she could, hefting a pair of small packs over her left shoulder. By the time she returned to the entry-way her father had risen, and stood to greet her, supported by the heavy walking stick at his side.

 

His gaze followed her down the stairs, “Promise me you’ll come back.”  She put her arm around him, embracing him again.  "I will, and sooner than you think…“

 

She slipped out the door and grabbed her boots without putting them on. He watched as she moved swiftly into the darkness of their underground avenue. Barefoot and still wearing that skirt he’d have never allowed. His late night vigil had exhausted him. He grasped at the door frame, bracing. Silently he watched the vision of his daughter retreat into the darkness. He’d been here many times before. So many times. Too many times. The sadness was as powerful as ever. 

 

But he was not angry. Not at her. Not this time. Rather than shouts, tears were all that was left in the darkness he faced. He’d closed the wound. With time, he hoped, it will heal.