Stranger in a Strange Land

[Warren Castille]

"Mm." He groaned affirmative and nodded, furrowing his brow in mock-seriousness and resting his hand back on the bottle. He lifted it and examined the label for a moment, then smiled and tilted it over her glass to fill it with a generous pour.

 

"To health? To... friends? Those seem generic and hardly worth the occasion." He watched closely to not spill any and then darted his eyes back up to the woman's, smiling and then topped off his own. He knew that would make the last pour in the bottle not level but he would worry about that later.

 

"To Ul'dah, maybe? To the Jewel? The Sultana?" He made sure his own cup leveled off then placed the bottle gingerly back down between them and shook his head. "No, not specific enough. Those are all fine things to drink to, but... not quite right for our purposes here."

 

He smiled, wearily and more than a touch tipsy, then raised his glass in her honor. "To Aya, then. For her selfless service of thankless thugs, and for her unending kindness and smile."

[Aya]

Aya nodded along, grinning a little more at each successive suggestion, while she slowly lifted her glass.  As he arrived at his final toast, she laughed lightly, her mouth an open grin, showing off the white teeth behind her red lips.

 

"To that! And to Ma'am Momodi!" she grinned a little further, clinking her glass against his, before taking a drink of the warm liquor. 

 

She felt the taste of the luxurious alcohol linger a moment upon her tongue,  and the trace of its burn as she swallowed.  She closed her eyes, and let out a soft "mmm~" in delight, her lips opening for just a moment as she savored the sensation. 

 

It was a literal taste of the high life, of the finer things that loved to dance just out of the girl's reach. 

 

She brought forth that bright smile once more, her eyes opened slowly.  She looked happy: it was a good night after all~

[Aya]

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[align=center]What is it a Dancer Does?[/align]

 

It seemed so strange:  suddenly everyone wanted to know what Miss Foxheart did in her spare time.  The realization stuck her with a silly grin, as she stood before a small locker.  Really, more of a narrow wooden closet, and just one of over a dozen lining a room that smelled of sweat and perfume.  She shook her head a little more, smiling with the thought, wondering just why people were suddenly so interested. 

 

She had toyed with an answer as playful as it were true: what she did in her spare time was barmaid, for it was only here that she really lived.  And where was here?  Tucked away in the depths of Ul'dah, amidst the curving avenues, and narrow alleys, away from the glitz and glamor of the Golden Court, away from the business and commerce of the bazaar and the shops that lined bustling avenues.  Here in the dour, dark areas of Ul'dah, buried alongside ancient homes, now modest, or poor.  The basement had once been a storeroom, refinished with wooden planking, one long wall lined with mirrors, and all the trappings of a dance studio.  It was a hidden jewel, humming with activity in the daylight hours, filled with the energies of practice and rehearsal.  At night its occupants worked, or escaped from the neighborhood before treacherous darkness befell it.

 

She never really liked to talk about it.  Everyone seemed to notice her energy, and her spirit, but few really seemed to wonder where they came from.  Perhaps it was better that way.  Looking at the locker's label, "Foxy", she could not help but grin.  She pulled the straps tight against her hand.  She was too excited to actually wait for her project to be complete, and she was already preparing: tonight was finally going to be the night!  She turned her body to the side, holding her hands up toward the changing-room mirror, grinning at herself with excitement.

 

After all, was it not why she had run away?  What would they think?  Many of her friends would not care, but what of the others that would? What of Madame Momodi?  Her parents had forbid her, even her closest brother had scorned her.  She besmirched her family name, trampled upon a once-noble heritage, and squandered her own honor.  And for what?

 

The little studio, quiet in the early twilight hours, held a cherished place in the heart of those who knew it.  It was not right to call the girls a troupe, they never performed as a whole, but they were friends, the dearest of friends.  Many were like the trio who owned it: having grown up, trained, and performed together most of their lives.

 

The dancers of Ul'dah are almost universally Miqo'te, Seekers in particular, and their presence nearly ubiquitous.  Most have trained since childhood, all live similar lives of practice, performance, and the nurturing the faint hope of success..  The work is more grueling than glamorous, with long often-thankless hours, accompanied by the social costs and expectations of their profession.  Still, they love it, they must, for they often have little else.  To her, it was the best thing in life: the reason for everything, the passion behind the energy.

 

She turned out of the room, bare feet sliding against the smooth wooden floor.  Earlier in the day the girls had filled the studio, practicing routines and preparing for their evening performances.  It had been a fun day, accompanied with smiles, laughter, hard work and new ideas.  She had been so fortunate to find  kindred spirits who welcomed her: embracing and sharing her love of dance and of life.  It was what she had dreamed of since arriving in Ul'dah filled with hope that she might experience, and learn the art of Ul'dahn dance from those who knew it best. 

 

But what would her friends think if they knew?  Would some dismiss the innocence of her smile?  Would others question the intention of her bright eyes?  Would others yet distance themselves from the guttersnipe of a girl?  Some would embrace her, she knew, but still she had seen it all before, and would see it again, why take the risk?

 

She walked back to the site of her project, kneeling and lifting the wrench once more.  She tested the fasteners, giving them a hard turn.  She glanced upward at the assembly she had spent a week preparing, the polished metal cylinder rose from its firm footing, mounted far above against the vaulted ceiling. 

 

She stood out from the other girls: Hyur, tall, and foreign.  She had practiced Ul'dahn dancing in Ishgard, learned the rhythmic motion of hips and shoulders, how to shape and give life to music with the movement of her form.  It had been one of her specialties, but even her expertise in the Ishgardian style was little more than an introduction to the dance as performed in Ul'dah.  Despite her talent, she had not yet performed publicly, and was not sure if she would want to, "who in Ul'dah would want a Hyur dancer anyway?" 

It didn't really matter - things were still so much better than they could have been.  She stood up slowly, an anxious smile upon her lips.   Energy in her eyes reflected back in the mirror, the lamp-lit studio left otherwise vacant and empty in the quiet of the night.  She reached upward, grasping the pole with strong fingers, pulling her body high into the air, securing her position with her feet.  It had been over a year since she had escaped Ishgard, almost six moons since she had arrived in Ul'dah.  So much had changed, so many things had happened, so many friends had already come and gone.  She had learned of an entirely new world, one unlike any of those she had experienced in the past.  But this was the same: the same thrill, the same energy, the same wonderful sensation winding, tingling through her muscles, breathing a wave of passionate energy throughout her body.  The new and the old met for the briefest of electrifying moments.

 

She had wanted to be famous.  Wanted to be known, and adored.  She had wanted to show the world the beauty she could create, and the art of her body in motion.  To see excited, hopeful eyes every time she smiled, to see the delight of her fans, and to know what it was to love, and be loved.  Now she was a barmaid, still drawing smiles, and laughter, but little beyond--thankful for the simple happiness brought by each and every day.

 

Holding firm she pushed her body away from the pole, drawing her legs up over her head, where she wrapped first calves, and then thighs around the pole.  Facing into the room she arched her back with her body inverted, elongated.  With an effortless-looking grace she lifted her upper body up, holding firm with her legs, shoulders drawing even with hips, an arm extending near the ceiling where her hand found firm grasp, before pulling the other along.  Sitting upright, she paused for a moment, eyes glancing down at the height she had gained from the floor.  She leaned back, stretching her body out straight, extending her arms out over her head, testing the grip, strength of her thighs.  She smiled with delight.

 

There was no music to accompany her, no snapping finger cymbals, no strings, or drums.  Only the sound of the pole straining against its mounts, and the slightest squeak of flesh and cloth against the polished metal.  The cheer of the crowd was memory, not reality, and not hope.  Still, she smiled, that heart-warming bright-eyed smile of hers, extolling in simple pleasure.  She arched her back, hands grasping the pole as she inverted once more.  She visualized the curve of her body, the lines drawn by her legs, and arms.  She imagined her figure as a work of art in motion, letting herself spin slowly to test the balance and strength of both the mounting, and the dancer.  She had only meant to test its stability, but she found that once in the air again, her dance had a seductive lure all its own.

 

Every concern, every worry flitted away.  Her heart raced with excitement.  Her muscles burned with the strain of her movements.  She pushed herself into the routine, using the pole, and the space of the air itself as her stage. Her body as the instrument and the canvas. 

 

This, this is what she did. 

 

What she wanted to do.  What she lived for, even when the fires of the night burned low.  Friends, fun, and pleasure had their place, but hidden away in the dark alleyways of Ul'dah, obscured by twists of fate, she danced to her heart's content-- for the only audience that mattered.

 

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[Antain]

It had been quite a while since Vaughn stepped foot in that studio, tucked away in the undercity of Ul'dah. In his younger years, he practised every day, then once a week when he started working. As it was, twelve cycles have passed, and this was the first time in the seven moons he's been back that he found himself wandering that way. He needed to practise again. It was more important now than ever, as he was no longer obligated to dance, but wanted to. He wanted to show himself off, the way he could make his body move with his once effortless grace, to please his love.

 

He walked down the stonework hallways, taking in the facility. Nothing had changed, and he was grateful. He didn't have to pretend to know where he was going for once. He knew. And with the building in night-mode and the classes out, he could find that room that would allow him to see his form as he practised.

 

He turned the corner to the mirrored room and hesitated as he saw the blonde woman outstretched on the newly erected pole. Well, that was something he hadn't done in over ten cycles. Not for the dance in any case. For climbing the masts of the ship, but not to entertain. He missed it, suddenly longing to refresh those skills as well. Would his love like it? Or would it be too strange?

 

He watched the woman move, taking analytical mental notes. It should be easy once muscle memory takes over, right? He tilted his head as she moved further up the pole, leaving the doorway to enter the mirrored room and stand to the left of the jamb.

[Aya]

The tall blonde Hyur girl, maneuvered her way around the pole with a seeming ease.  Muscle memory guided her through the motions, eliciting feelings and sensations both exhilarating and nostalgic: memories of performances past.  It was not the dance that had marked beginning, nor that which had earned her fleeting moments of fame in that final year in Ishgard.  But it was the dance where she had first truly found herself, and the peace, energy, and all-encompassing serenity of performance.

 

It was the dance that had thrust her into womanhood, divided her from family, and set her upon the long road of independence that wound from the murky shadows of lower-Ishgard, across the snow-covered highlands of Coerthas, through the dewy autumn hues of the Shroud, at last to the sand-blasted sun-baked back alleys of Ul'dah.  

 

She found herself stronger now and filled with a confidence that pushed her performance toward its limits.  Unaccompanied, and performed for no audience but herself, she moved through motions designed and learned to meld grace with form, motion with figure.  To make of the already pleasing form of her feminine figure not just a work of art in the abstract, but voluptuous and mesmerizing, in the visceral moments of physical performance. 

 

She had trained for years, honing form and technique to excel at the very height of her craft.  She was a natural, talented and gifted with a highlander build perfectly suited to the rigors of the art, both strenuous and sensual.  The temporary adaption of her training to the martial arts had only pushed her fitness further toward the limits, bounds from which she had not retreated despite the relative comfort of her barmaid's occupation. 

 

As her fingers released, the grip of her legs was sure.  Her point of security moved continually with seamless, endless motions, while she seemed to hang suspended in air.  She flew with the power of momentum, gliding through supple maneuvers that dared to defy the bounds of gravity itself.

 

Minutes passed as her performance unfolded in the nearly silent and empty hall.  Utterly unaware that any had observed her, she twirled through the aerial conclusion, sliding head-first toward the wooden floor, catching herself upon her hands she spun and flipped herself back upright, legs split fully against the floor, before lowering her upper body flat against it, face down, arms reaching out before her.  She took in the serenity of the moment, her lips near the wooden planking, parted, drawing in deep measured breaths as her muscles relaxed. 

 

The serenity was broken by the sudden realization of what she had seen as she dismounted.  With a start, she leapt to her feet, blue eyes open wide in surprise, her body shifting with obvious agitation that seemed spurred by the sight of a man; she struggled yet to catch her breath. 

 

"Who the hells are you?" she asked with an accusatory and slightly alarmed tone.

[Antain]

Vaughn jumped almost ass mug as the woman did, looking toward the door to escape. No, that would be even more rude than the near quarter bell he'd been watching her. He looked back to her, brushing a few stray golden hairs from his face.

 

"I-I'm sorry... I just... This place was..." He took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. He should have expected an outburst, but the sharp tone still made him nervous. He tried to smile, speaking softly. "That was well done, miss. I...was a bit worried a bit back. You pointed your toes too much. I thought you were going to slip."

 

He furrowed his brows. He thought about leaving now that he made a fool of himself, but he stayed in place, glancing about the mirrors. He avoided eye contact; it was too awkward. Shifting, he pushed off the wall, a faint smile toward her, but still not at her.

[Aya]

Aya was still breathing heavily, recovering from the exertion of her performance, combined now with some alarm at the intrusion.  She watched him carefully, her eyes narrowing, her body-language tense.

 

He seemed to shrink before her.  The Elezen stood half a fulm taller than her, but was waif-thin, hardly an imposing presence.  His eyes seemed to flit away, tossing furtive glances toward the mirrors.  His timid body language seemed to let her relax, ever-so-slightly.

 

At his comment she canted her head, wondering again about the fellow.

 

She spoke, her voice forceful and laden with her Ishgardian accent, "That doesn't answer my question: who are you?  And  I'll add: what are you doing here?"

[Antain]

Vaughn gave her a shallow bow. "Ah! My apologies. I'm Vaughn, miss. I used to come here cycles ago, before..." He shook his head, rethinking his thought. "I...thought this was a public studio. Is it no longer?"

 

He looked over the place once more, looking at the pole with a faint smile "I truely didn't mean to disturb you, Miss...?"

[Aya]

She was watching him carefully, and at his question she gave her head a little shake, her expression making it clear she thought it were obviously not public.

 

"No, never as far as I've been aware.  Cirli must have left the door open when she left...  Besides, I've never heard of any men coming here.  Are you sure you have the right place?" she lets out a breath, pulling her lips tight.

 

She slid her hands down to her hips, her expression softening a little.  "So, you used to dance?"

[Antain]

He smiled slightly, lowering his head at her denial. "I see. Maybe...it was my mistake." He nodded at her question. "Yes. I learned to dance here about...twenty-five cycles ago? It was a long time, and I stopped coming about thirteen cycles past when I...had to move. I've only been back the last seven moons." He finally looked at her with a smile. "I'm more impressed it's even still here. How long have you studied? And, if you don't mind me asking, who do you dance for?"

[Aya]

She watched for a moment, raising an eyebrow quizzically.  If the fellow was telling the truth he certainly didn't show his age; could he really have been dancing here before she was even born?

 

"About ten years."  she replied, still looking at him as if he were from another world entirely.  She takes a couple of steps toward the lockers, letting her gaze move away from him.  "You've been back longer than I've been here." she added, almost defensively, as if she had mentally swapped their places, making herself the intruder in his city.  "Its been even longer since I danced for anyone." 

 

She mentally traced her steps backward.  She had been in the city for almost six moons herself, and her last performances had been moons before that.  Tucked away in Fallgourd Float, she had performed at the inn for the merchants and traveler on their way to and from Coerthas.  She had tried to supplement the meager pay the Hungry Wolf company had provided, which soon dried up entirely.  It had been fun, but trivial compared to the stage she had left behind. 

She stopped, bending over to pick pick up a towel before wiping off her face and arms, letting her thoughts wonder a little further, had it really been so long?

[Antain]

"Oh, so you don't have a Master..." The thought was spoken louder than intended. In fact, the thought was said. He sighed lightly as he covered his forehead with his hand. "I...ah. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed..." He was messing up again. The only thing he was good at lately.

 

Vaughn tried to turn the conversation around before she became too angry or offended. "I mean...the way you handled that dance... I would have thought...your teacher. Who taught you, if it wasn't someone here?" Smooth. Smooth like a cactuar. He tried to maintain his smile, though was growing increasingly nervous.

[Aya]

Aya had wrapped the towel around the back of her neck, her hands pulling on either side.  She narrowed her eyes at him, her lips pulled tight into a displeased smirk.

 

[align=center][/align]

 

She raised an eyebrow at his dodge, shifting her hands to her hips, which cock to the side, leaving her in a sassy, "are-you-kidding-me" pose.  Sensing the sudden change of footing as he tried to talk himself around the insinuation, she replied with an even, but annoyed tone in her light, Ishgardian-accented, voice "I actually just put the pole up myself--I was hoping to just practice again, and maybe show my friends.  Or, you know, random strange men wandering into the studio."

 

[Antain]

Vaughn hung his head. Her tone made it clear: she was not interested in conversation. He nods slowly. "I'm sorry, Miss. I shouldn't... I thought..." He shakes his head. Nothing he could say would make this situation better. He was clearly out of his element.

 

He bowed low, hopefully showing his sincerity and humility. "I'll go. I'm sorry to make you displeased. It was not my intention." He turned to leave the studio, never making eye contact with the woman.

[Aya]

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A Recall to Arms

 

    A warm glow breached closed eyelids, while unseen rays warmed the seated woman and the barren ground beneath her.  Aya had never liked Thanalan; gritty wind bit her skin, while the heat of the sun threatened to burn all it touched.  "Searing", "inhospitable", "hostile", were the words she would choose for it.  Seated in this land of tormenting distraction she struggled to clear her mind.  She furrowed her brow, feeling the wind ripping at her pony tail, and tearing at the braids that strained to keep her long hair in order. 

 

    The Hungry Wolf taught how to clear one's mind, and push distractions away.  That in the moment one's focus must be centered fully upon only what mattered, without distraction, without care.  The way of war required a manner of thinking so apart from herself.  One could almost call it unnatural, but it came far more naturally than she would ever care to admit.  Born to a line of warriors, and steeped in the blood of heroes, she stepped with discomforting ease into the echoes of the past.  She recalled seeing the family's Crow Banner waving high upon the rampart: a last, fleeting glimpse of a child's proud homestead.  In her mind she had seen visions of battles long passed, glorious dead and legendary feats of arms. "Ridiculous," "pointless", "wasteful", she would say, and yet all too comfortable.

 

Over hills and over meadows, see the crow fly, feel its shadow.

Over woods, and over mountains, searching for a war.

Her wings embrace each strife and battle,

Where swords they clash, and chariots rattle,

Seeking out the one whose time has come to take the blade.

 

    Opening her eyes, she rose slowly, lifting the long wooden pole from her lap, raising it with both hands.  She recalled the premonition from the week before, a sudden intuition of dark things to come.   She had taken spear and shaft from deep storage.  She had known the day would come when she felt the need, but she had always assumed she would know why.

 

    She moved slowly, a ritualized motion of the long staff simulating a full spear.  Today it felt lighter in her grasp, her slender fingers wheeling it with a balance more fine than the week before.  As she spun the shaft about her body, lifting it over head in a routine, constant motion that appeared more a dance than a drill, she remembered the worry, no the fear, in C'kayah's voice that night.  Worse was yet to come. She was a daughter of Ala Mhigo, if far removed.  She had struggled against everything she was meant to be, yet at times the pull of blood fell stronger than reason: could she bear to see another friend die, while she stood helpless?

 

    She brought the shaft to a violent halt, drawing the butt-end forward with barely checked force, exhaling a cry from her lungs to push the practice strike along.  A second and third followed in rapid succession, carrying out the series just as she had been taught.  The cries of her high voice carried into the desert valley around her.  She had never been orthodox, but continued to carry out the core practice strikes just as she had been taught beneath the towering canopy of the shroud, during those days that now seemed an age ago.

 

    Her grace and strength lent an air of performance to the practice as she carried on beneath the early-afternoon sun. The minutes wore slow as she practiced technique, struggling to recover, and remember, what had been reflex not so long ago.  She embraced the effort as she did dancing itself: her mind focusing upon the movement and form of her body, dispelling rogue thoughts and distractions far more effectively than meditation.  Gritty wind tore at her skin.  The sun burned all it touched.  And for the moment, she cared not.[/align]

[Aya]

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[align=center]Astroscope[/align]

 

She was walking with a quick step along the sun-burned stone streets.  Boot heels struck stone with the repeated hollow tone that seemed to announce her wherever she went, but today the hurry was nothing more than an attempt to keep her job. 

 

The offer had been worth being late for, hadn't it?  Raka, the Lalafel fellow ahead of her had been similarly struck: how often is one given the opportunity to see an Astroscope, let alone to peer through the lenses at the heavens above?

 

An Astroscope! She had not anticipated just how the sight of such a device, wondrous and devilish in the same instant, would effect her.  How long had the predictions made with the aid of the instrument, combined with the lusty tones of Halone's clerics, determined the fate of her, and everyone she had grown up knowing?  They had sealed the gates, and turned men and women into paupers all in the divine goal of securing the city as a fortress against the Dravinian Horde.

 

Of course, those most effected by the decisions wrought by the Astroscopes would never share the luxury of peering through the eyepiece and tracking the movement of the heavenly bodies that determined their fate.  Such liberties were the sole province of those who lived in the towers above.

 

There was little doubt that this Ul'dahn Astroscope was of Ishgardian origin, the lenses at least must have been cut by House craftsman.  What price had it fetched in export?  What luxuries had it been exchanged for?  Just how much food would it have purchased for people who have by now forgotten the taste of fresh meat?  

 

She had convinced herself that it had all been left behind her; that she had moved beyond it; that she would never end up like her parents clinging to the past, rather than seizing the future.  She clenched her fists, gesturing in the air with an impossible frustration.

 

She let out a breath, eyes glancing skyward once more just before she passed into one of the many tunnels that cut across the Jewel of the Desert.  The stars winked, and twinkled to her from their lofty places high above the sodden earth below.  

 

"So beautiful..."

 

It was beautiful.  So beautiful.  She loved star-filled nights beneath an otherwise dark sky, and to trace their movement and imagine the meaning of their unknowable light.  Each mile placed between her and the shuttered city was a liberation, a promise of the freedom to simply enjoy the beauty that had once seemed so sinister.

 

Only in the Jewel of the Desert could an Ishgardian gutter-snipe peer through an Astroscope.  Only in this land of gold, spice, and sand could a barmaid be given the opportunity to peruse the stars above, as if she were a princeling. 

 

She smiled.  It was delightful.

[Aya]

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[align=center]A Limsan Sunrise[/align]

 

Her blue eyes looked out toward the horizon, savoring the orange, pink, and violet hues summoned across the distant sea by the rise of that day's sun.  Though the evening had been late, Aya never liked to miss a chance to catch a Limsan sunrise.  Eyes that could have strained with tired fatigue, instead reveled in the sight.

 

The balcony made for the perfect vantage point: high above the inner waters of the port, above a quay that hummed with activity below.  She glanced down at the sailors and longshoreman loading a trade ship for its next voyage.   For what distant shore was it bound?  The opportunities seemed endless.  A soft smile crept upon an expression both serious and reflective.  She took a moment to take the last sip of hot coffee, the aroma and taste of Ul'dah upon her lips.

 

As she set the cup back down she glanced upward again, the smile softening as she took in the sight of the distant sea.  She drew his pipe to her lips; with a couple of puffs she released the fragrant, wispy smoke into the air.  It was his balcony, afterall, where she lounged in the early morning.  His silk robe she wore, strained taut by a figure it was not designed to contain. It was his guest room in which she had spent the night, like most nights she found herself in the distant port city.

 

It was the Harbinger's Tavern night that so often drew her here.  Always a pleasure--she reveled in every eve she could make.  They were a moment away from Ul'dah, a moment of enjoyment, a moment of pleasure away from daily travails.  Lady Covington and Val, her beau, always offered far more hospitality than Aya had ever deserved.  She welcomed it without hesitation.

 

She drew from the pipe, pulling the long, dark, lipstick stained stem from her lips she released a ring of smoke, holding its form as it rose, before slowly dissipating.  "Things never stop changing..." she thought to herself.  The conversation of the evening before had only served to remind her: surrounded by old friends, and new friends, she could not help but notice how life seemed to change so quickly.  Raik had talked of one man's life lost, and another's in shambles, both acquaintances of hers who would never be the same as she had last seen them.  While the Dubious Duskwight's life had turned upside down over the past week.  Whatever the real source of his new found wealth, he had not put it to use for liberation, but instead double-downed on responsibilities that seemed to grow faster than he imagined they could.

 

She recalled the furrow of his brow, the look of tired, almost withdrawn concern.  How different it was from the look of the friendly, if eccentric, fellow she had first met moons ago.  Where destitution had made him jovial and pleasant, if desperate, success now made him seem worn, and frayed around the edges. 

 

She tapped the bowl of his pipe against the arm of his chair, checking for the sign of embers still burning.  "How long has it been?"  Every week she returned to the flat, hoping to find him, or at least some sign he had been there.  But every week it was obvious: no one had entered the rooms since she had last left.  It was disappointment; and left her with a certain sense of loneliness that she could not quite pin down.

 

The breath of sea-air transported her in time, reminding her of a a childhood touched by the city.  In that moment it all seemed so relevant, so close, as if she could reach out and live it again.  The very streets upon which she had first grown up, where family became loyalty, and friends, allies.

 

What of that pirate woman from the night before? Maybe it was the taste of Ishgardian vodka, but the conversation had only served to remind her of bitter memories.  The blithe manner in which she spoke of her "work", the notes of celebration of successful pillage--it was exactly what Aya disliked most about Limsa, and the people who called the city home.  They could always offer rationalization: "it is our way of life", "we only take from those who deserve it", "its just the way the world is", but each sounded more of an excuse than the last.  In the end, it was always the same: the strong take from the weak.  A vicious cycle she had seen repeated again, and again through her young life.

 

She drew in once more, shaping this time a pair of rings rising together.  Her breath productive, if exasperated.  The woman had been having such fun, and who was a silly barmaid to dampen it with a dose of reality?  She allowed her thoughts to escape again, crossing her legs as she set them upon the balcony's railing.  Lounging beneath the sun as it rose higher into the sky, feeling the warmth of its rays against her skin.

 

The evening's finale had been something to remember: out upon the beach, a bit of sparring between Berrod and Val.  It was not so much a contest, as if the highlander being something of a living statue weren't enough, his martial skill, and talent in channeling aether were to be put on full display not to pummel, but to test.  Val could not help but seem outmatched: the smaller Miqo'te was a man who could own the streets with fist and bottle, but it was was obvious who was schooling whom.

 

She smiled softly as she remembered the unfolding scene: there was a trepidation in Val's step, but a revelry in the opportunity.  Berrod had avoided his early attempts to connect, drawing on the very power of the elements, and daring Val to do the same.  He thrust the Miqo'te into a desperate position, moving fast, with a determination for victory if Val did not stop him.  But the opening in his defense was intentional: he would give the student the opportunity, but the student would have to seize it on his own.

 

When the ocean moved at Val's command, the sand-covered highlander went down in an undignified heap.  Val had been pushed to the edge, and had found the will.  For Berrod, it was success in defeat.  The thrill of that moment rushed through her as she recalled the almost child-like look that had come across the tough's features in that moment of success.  She had been so happy for him, and never more fond of both. 

 

She let out a soft laugh, the smile reappearing on her lips as she drew on the pipe one last time.  There was an airship ticket, waiting to bear her back to Ul'dah for another night's work in the hustle-and-bustle of the Jewel of the Desert.  She had to leave soon if she were to catch it.

 

Maybe next time he would be here.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center]A Sunny Daydream[/align]

 

(Written on the occasion of my being away for a month on Holiday)

 

Her eyes were closed, but she felt the sensation of sun-heated sand beneath her feet, and wiggling between her toes.  A giggling-pleased expression snuck upon her lips, while luminous rays soaked her skin. She opened her eyes to the view of white sand beach extending before her, as far as the eye could see, lapped by lush green fields on one side, and the slow, steady roll of blue-green white-topped waves upon the other.  Breathing deep of the sea-air, she leaned forward drawing her feet along into quick, long strides, each finishing with a soft landing in the endless sand.  She took off with a motion as graceful as beautiful, leaving long golden locks trailing behind her, being tossed ever so gently in the breeze.  

 

In the distance she heard friends calling her name, "Ayaaaa!"  She closed her eyes again, never slowing her stride, embracing the moment of carefree fun beneath the sun's warmth.  Again she heard her name called, this time with the sound of shortness, "Aya!"

 

The third call was accompanied with the tap of a small foot upon tile, "Aya, you'd better stop day dreaming this instant."  Aya blinked, the warmth of the sun, and the feel of the beach instantly dispelled.  "Aya, are you listening to me?" came Momodi's clear, agitated voice.

 

Aya blinked again, turning her attention to the diminutive proprietress. "I...?" she blinked again as Momodi tapped her feet, furrowing her brow in frustration, "I am sorry, but you're going to have to stay on late tonight.  And tomorrow."

 

Still looking slightly befuddled, Aya stammered in reply, "But.. tomorrow's my day off...!" she implored, eyes widened with dissappointment.

 

"No buts!" stated Momodi, raising her index finger as flourish.  "You know we're short-handed, and I need you tomorrow night."

 

"I..." she stammered again, a sense of resignation coming over her, "Of course, madam." she gave her head a little, polite, bow.

 

The Lalafel turned and  withdrew back to her stool in the center of the bar, while Aya turned her attention back to the overhead rail into which she was sliding the glasses and cups she had just finished cleaning and drying.  As she pushed the next pint into place, golden strands of her bangs fell across her eyes. She blew them away, with an expression of frustration.  It had been just that sort of day, no week (or more).  Her hair was a mess. The straps of her top strained and stung her sensitive skin. The top had seemed like such a good idea earlier in the day: cute and flirty, perfect for the light evening she had expected. But long hours had a way of ruining many a terrific idea.  Her feet, accustomed as they were to heels, ached with tired soreness that begged, along with the rest of her body, for a warm bath.

 

She sighed softly, turning her attention back out to the bar, full of the usual suspects and patrons.  She smiled softly, with that pleasant and sweet look that usually made her attention so welcome.  Her bangs fell, covering her eye again.  A few watched and smiled in appreciation of the unintentional cuteness. Aya sighed softly under her breath, and turned her attention back to filling the racks. She closed her eyes.  She felt the sun's warmth upon her cheeks.  She sighed softly once more, feeling the sand beneath her feet, and she smiled happily to herself.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center]A Blonde Tinker, a Toy, and a Smile[/align]

 

The table was small enough to almost seem overburdened by its bare load.  The only furnishing in the room beyond a single bed.  A tea pot had been set aside—its contents long ago ceasing to steam.  It was unlikely that any warmth yet lingered.  A small toolkit rest upon the table, unrolled to reveal slender pockets containing the long metal tools of a delicate trade.  Tools and kit rest upon bare ragged cloth: a worn cover to protect the rough, worn, table beneath.

 

The unlikely tinker sat precariously balanced upon a stool designed for Lalafel.  Hooked over her ears, probing between strands of long golden blonde hair, was a bare wire frame upon which were mounted loops to hold the inexpensive magnifying lenses she had once struggled to acquire.  A gentle puf fof air was expelled between carmine-moistened lips, before scattering the small accumulated shavings of her careful filing.

 

For the briefest moment her brow furrowed above focused blue eyes.  Their usual brightness had given way to a look of concentrated attentiveness rarely, if ever observed by others.  She pondered if she had been too careless with the shavings.  But as she withdrew the fine, tapered file she reminded herself that it was a toy, and not an instrument.

 

She straightened her body, balancing precariously still on the stool as she pushed her shoulders back, and arched the curve of her spine, stretching out muscles that felt cramped and idle.  A finger deftly flicked the lens away from her eye, as she looked upon the toy aldgoat with a soft, pleased smile.  She had laid open the access panel, revealing the little animal’s mechanical guts.  Now it lay as if on a miniature operating table surrounded by the tools that in proper hands could restore it to life (or likeness thereof).

 

It was a smile of contentment; of one making the world a slightly better place.  She tried to imagine the look on the boy’s face when his starlight toy had quit with a sudden grinding groan.  His mother had purchased it from a second-hand shop, thinking she had struck starlight gold: a real gift for her son, at a price she could afford on her dancer's income.  There was a double devastation of disappointment in the small family.  The tinker did not have to imagine, but could recall that look upon her friend’s face when she had offered to fix the son's broken toy.  Confusion and disbelief mixed with hope, what after all did she have to lose?

 

Of course she had doubt, what sort of dancer could fix the toy?  What sort of dancer knows how to do that?

 

It had been a quiet Starlight.  The few gifts she received were sweet nothings in the pleasant, crisp, winter air that bit playfully at exposed skin.  The chief, prized above all else, her own little aldgoat.  For a moment she had thought to replace the one, with the other, but she knew a child would know his own.  That provided by mother’s love, could not be as easily replaced as repaired.

 

Her eyes lingered upon her own little fellow, who sat silent and idle upon a slender shelf that ran along the bare, cracked wall of her own room.  It was a symbol of thoughtfulness, of friendship, and of welcome in this distant home.

 

She had found her usual pleasure in the season: descending upon the markets in the days that followed and enjoying the occasion to purchase whatever met her fancy as the merchants and traders sought to unload the last of their merchandise: perfumes, cosmetics, and baubles that still brought a flutter of excitement to her heart.  But none would be quite the same as the gift she hoped to give to a boy she has never met nor whose smile she expects to ever see.

 

[align=center][/align]

 

Another Day

 

Stylus lay as if absentmindedly left behind—slow-blotting the last of ink.  The door sounded shut a short distance away.  It was time for work: time once more to be the smiling, ever-cheerful blonde.  The parchment bore a different shade of reflection.

 

 

 

Cold spring gives way to colder summer.

The seasons having lost their way.

‘Twas not that sun chose to slumber,

But that the frost preferred to stay.

 

Whatever spell was cast upon it,

On that remembered fateful day,

Could not be fled, except by permit,

Sooner some escape, than to obey.

To find the world, than to submit.

 

I once was one that longed to see

To hear, to feel, to learn, and know,

What it meant to be a woman free.

To leave it all behind, and let it go.

 

Now I know, the taste and feel of sun.

Beach-hot white sand beneath my feet,

In salt-sweet air, and carefree fun,

And endless smiles for all I meet.

 

But I cannot forget, or cease to care,

From where I came, and who I am.

Embittered cold, that all must bear,

From where I came, and who I am.

The howling gale, hope, despair.

 

Where cold-capped snow peaks linger still,

Where frost strong-clings to all it sees.

Where hearth and home bring warm goodwill,

Where love exists beneath the freeze.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Once Upon a Curious Shoppe -The Curious Curio Part One][/align]

 

"Only, the most dubious of goods, mademoiselle, I assure you." came the reply in its deep,  sonorous tone.  The Dukswight merchant stood back to his full height while pulling idly at the lapels of his coat with thumbs and forefingers.  For a moment the blonde's blue eyes focused upon the luxuriant threads of his apparel, Ul'dahn no doubt, spun of silk and embroidered linen.  Gone were the old threadbare garments of the itinerant.

 

She gasped softly as he beckoned for her attention with a nod of his high head, "Is everything well, my dear?  You seem a touch preoccupied." His voice lingered low upon the final syllable, drawing it out as if to tease a secret from her.  Aya's bright eyes looked upward to meet his, a cheerful smile spreading across her features, as sweet and disarming as ever.

 

Verad deftly maneuvered his fingers to press back into place the loose lock of his bangs that had sprung forth into just the sort of amusing curl that could set a charming young woman giggling.  He returned to the pitch, the tone of his voice one of exquisite pride.  "As I was saying, you have nothing to worry about, my dear.  You shall find only goods of that rigorous quality that attracts my keen eye.  Neither nefarious, nor pretentious; only, perfectly, flawlessly, dubious.."  Fingers and hands added a confident air-borne flourish to this climactic finish, before once more pulling upon his coat, now about mid-torso.

 

Behind demure eyes Aya's giggle intermingled with her voice, "I was hoping you might have some trinkets or baubles I could look through!  You know, things that are simple but pretty to look at."

 

With his deep knowledge and experience Verad was certain that he had already augured the purpose of Aya's visit.  His fingers had deftly drawn one of several misprinted copies of a certain volume of Val's self-authored tales of sensual adventure.  The stories had an, ahem, certain tone that appealed to a young woman of Aya's nature and age.  No doubt her curiosity had been piqued when she overheard the discussion Leanne's party the week before, and that had brought her...

 

Without change in expression Verad let the book fall from his hands.  He raised his index finger in an embellishment of inspiration, as if there were no sound of dropped-book striking ground. "Ah-hah, of course!  Mademoiselle, I have only the most dubious of baubles, trinkets, bibelots, ornaments, jewelry, and assorted objets d'art." 

 

He turned half-around, before raising his index finger once more begging her to wait.  He offered such pleased countenance, with a smile that hinted at barely suppressed excitement.  He turned, taking several steps toward the back of his stand to the open merchandise-bearing cart behind.  With the deftness of a man who knew exactly where everything was, he wasted no time in identifying the desired box on just the eighth effort.  He lifted it with great showmanship, before setting it down upon counter at the front of the stand, watched the entire way by Aya and the curious expectation of her eyes.

 

From the box he withdrew what had once been a fine wooden display case, now worn with the wear of years.  The hinges sang their high whining tune as he swung the doors open, beckoning Aya to draw open the drawers and peruse to her heart's content.  "Here we are, my dear Mademoiselle, dearest Aya.  The most dubious baubles, doodads, and curios to be found anywhere in Eorzea, or her five seas.  Indeed, you would have to search all Hydelaen far-and-wide to gather even a fraction of the bounty I present to you here."

 

Aya tried her best to resist the urge of grin and laugh of amusement that always seemed to lie just beneath her warm, smiling exterior.  Only partially successful, she covered her lips with the long, slender fingers of her hand.  "May I look?"  She cast glancing looks between her friendly merchant, and the box of wondrous dubiousness placed before her.

 

"Of course, of course, by all means, my dearest!  Look, peruse, and shop to your heart's content!  I am quite confident you shall find just what you are looking for"

She nodded, her smile now breaking out unbidden, and tamed only by the gentle bite of her front teeth into her lower lip.  She pulled at one drawer, taking in the sight of so many items and objects in one place.  There was jewelry with broken clasps, rings, earrings, and bracelets that were mere fixtures without benefit of gems, lockets bearing deep inscriptions that must once have bore the deepest meaning to loved ones and family long lost to the memories of time.  Some were lovely, others gave pause in their uncomeliness. 

 

Eying a particularly fine-appearing time piece, designed with a metal band to fit around wrist or arm, Aya lifted itfrom the drawer with an expression of wonder.  "Is this dubious?" she asked eyes fixed upon the Duskwight, her blonde eyebrows lifted in wide-eyed astonishment.

 

"Can't be fixed!" came his reply, quick and proud, as he slicked back his loose lock once more.  "Dubious, indeed!" he added, as if the affirmation were a necessity of duty, "Right twice a day, of course!  And if you look carefully you'll find that it also has a feature for tracking the moon phases.  Right..." he paused, suddenly unsure of just how often the moon phases were the same, "Some of the time!" he blurted out with the anxious surety of someone who has just stumbled upon the correct answer.

 

Aya laughed, flashing an amused grin, before returning the watch to its place in the drawer, and continuing her search through the second drawer and then the final.  Her fingers rummaged about looking through the curious collection that seemed to bring the value of precious metals into an unusually direct contact with the worthlessness of items no longer of use: an exercise of unique and distinct dubiousness.

 

Several times she paused, asking about one item or another.  After rummaging in the third drawer her eyes paused upon another locket, this one bearing the dark and smokey grime of tarnished silver.  The exterior was a fine filigree, intricate and subtly ornate.  With the careful attention of searching eyes the pattern revealed a deeper complexity, weaving themes that never seemed to repeat, but instead changed as if by phases as the eyes moved around the locket in clock-wise order. 

 

"Ah, yes... a fine piece is it not?" grinned Verad, in a delighted manner. "Here, let me show you the catch!" he reached across the railing of the kiosk, his fingers momentarily joining hers upon the locket.  With a gentle urging push he guided her finger along the edge of the locket until it pressed against the nearly hidden catch.  With a slight push the locket soundlessly unlocked.  She opened it with some trepidation, wondering what sort of ancient personal inscription she would find within... still, she thought, it was so lovely it might do as a gift anyway.

 

Yet, what her eyes found within was not a locket bearing an old engraving, picture, or inscription, but instead the face of a watch.  The face itself was simple, but around the edge it was as intricate within as it was without.  Divided into twelve sections, each bearing an inscription of the Twelve integrated with the ever-changing theme of the locket's filigree.  Along with the decoration was a special hand sliding through an almost hidden slot, it seemed to indicate the current moon by reference to its relevant god.

 

Aya stared, transfixed in astonishment at the locket-watch.  A quiet gasp followed a hard swallow, it was even better than what she had expected to find.  Verad beamed a grin that would more typically have followed a successful sale, "My dearest Aya, you should not worry so.  Broken, irreparably!  As dubious as everything else in the chest." He laughed and thumped his hand upon the chest for emphasis.

 

She continued to stare, astonished, at the watch.  Only slowly did her surprise become a smile, and she looked up to Verad excitedly, "How much for this?" she asked with the energetic enthusiasm that long ago endeared him to the girl. 

 

Of course, no merchant could afford to let his merchandise walk away without a price, even to a dearest friend.  Nonetheless, how could his Duskwight heart bear to squeeze the girl for her hard-earned tips?  "For you, dearest Mademoiselle, a mere trifling."  He furrowed his brow, as if struggling to think of just what he should ask, gesturing continuously with his hands as if the price were on the tip of his tongue.  "How... mmmm.." he stuttered, before stumbling upon a moment of inspiration.  "How much was that first drink you served me?  And perhaps a cookie too."  He loosed his broad, teeth-baring, showman's grin upon her as she let out another happy laugh.  "Ten gil shall we say?" he added as her laughter seemed to serve as a ready answer to his question.

 

She fished a 10 gil piece from her purse, setting it upon the counter.  "A pleasure doing business with you, as always, mademoiselle." he grinned, lifting the coin between two fingers.

 

[[A Thank you to Verad for allowing me to use his character ]]

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][A Disturbing Turn - The Scales Part One][/align]

 

The evening air was pleasant, even warm—though the Quick Sand had been abuzz with the threat of a looming chill.  A thin sliver moon cast its pale silver across the sandblown landscape spread out before her.  The dark silhouettes of distant hills rose against the horizon.  Aya pursed her lips letting the breath of air escape slowly.  She wondered how long had it been since she had last been "climbing"? 

 

When she first arrived in Ul'dah the thought simply seemed too dangerous: a recently arrived immigrant, penniless and friendless, wouldn't survive a potential trespassing charge.  Fortunately, the passage of time had changed things.  Either the city had grown less strange, or she had grown less a stranger.  Maybe both.

 

It was an old diversion, one first inspired by the daring of her brothers who used it to avoid and escape trouble during their months in Limsa Lominsa.  In Ishgard it had become something of a lifeline: like most of the city's poorer denizens, Aya's neighborhood only saw the light of the sun and moon as indirectly filtered through the towering structure in the upper levels.  A prisoner, literally and figuratively, the young Aya resisted the bonds of her confinement by acrobatically climbing and leaping as high as she could upon the towers and parapets of the city skyline.  Sometimes she would move quietly through the interior walkways, dodging between guard patrols, or scale sheer exterior surfaces in her quest for an ever better vantage point from which to gaze upon the forbidden, open world.

 

When endless winter descended upon the city she refused to give up the game, even as her brothers grew up and moved on.  Following some night's performances, flush with energy and the biding anxiety that never seemed to leave her, she slipped away and made her way bit-by-bit to the roof of one of the higher towers.  There, robed in worn fur, and draped in a blanket she came to truly know the sound of howling wind, and the sight of snowstorm.  Every trip breathed fresh life into proscribed desires: to feel the sun's warmth, to be free amidst the world, and to be alone in solitude. 

 

Ul'dah presented little challenge by comparison.  The guards were unprofessional; the methods of construction presented plentiful opportunities for foot and finger holds.  At times it seemed it wasn't even worth the effort, but when the moment called for meditation and the warm comfort of nostalgia, nothing else would do.

 

As the slow exhale ended she opened her eyes once more, vision drifting aimlessly through the palely-lit expanse spreading from the city in every direction.  Her thoughts returned to the conversation the evening before.  Kiht never seemed to worry, and this had been no different.  The lissome and fearless Keeper Huntress was as unassuming as she was slight; an unmoved exterior hid the heart of a valiant hero.  So, her concern, no matter how coolly expressed, was far from trifling.

 

Dravanian artifacts are far from trifling: anyone raised in Ishgard is acutely aware of this.  The all-too-subtle danger of the Horde is drilled into their imaginations.  The mere possession of a trinket, a relic, or any object associated with dragon-kind could open someone to the pernicious effects of direct contact, and all the dangers that entails.  The slightest touch of such a relic could mean the loss of control and employment as an agent of destruction. 

   

While children whisper ridiculous rumors, parents, preachers, and headmasters frighten them with stories and warnings.  Not only is contact with such artifacts forbidden, but it can be easily detected by those specially trained in the Inquisitor's arts.  Punishment for heresy would follow swiftly.  As far from trifling as a child of Ishgard can imagine.

 

She turned idea over in her head: exporting such artifacts outside of Coerthas seemed such an obvious ploy, why had it not happened before?  Perhaps it had - the Holy See certainly would not have allowed word of such malfeasance to spread.  Not only did this ploy bring individuals entirely unaware of the danger of such objects into contact with them, but it posed the potential to spread Dravanian influence.  Of course, the Horde itself seemed to have no interest in any city but Ishgard: the dragons were ever devious, but never clever.  She was certain that heretics would be the ones responsible.

 

The matter seemed so much less academic when she considered her friends who were involved.  She squeezed her fists, lips held tight together as her eyes stared blankly at the crescent moon.  Why was Verad involved in this?  The Duskwight trader always seemed to be at the center of trouble he had no business in.  His lanky, perplexing manner was better suited to befuddling the unassuming, rather than dallying in matters of state and consequence.  She still couldn't help but see him as she had first met him: a drifting pauper, threadbare, with long shaggy hair and a beard that seemed disheveled despite his every attentiveness.  The sight of him wealthy, dapper, and kempt was both jarring and unsettling.  She had a nagging suspicion that no matter the status it had brought him, that the manner and nature of his wealth had left him unsatisfied.  Sometimes his trouble seemed just an effort to fill the hole left by his lost pursuit of the Dubious goods market.  If he could not sell material dubious, he could at least cast himself about in manner dubious.

 

Anyway, she comforted herself, how dangerous could it really be?  She had always felt the danger of the Horde was overblown: a useful excuse for the See's complete control of every aspect of life in Ishgard.  A husk of fabrication built around a kernel of truth for the purpose of power.  That was the Dravanian Crusade in its whole.  But, the kernel of truth was difficult to deny.  The power of Dravanian Relics could not be wholly fabricated, or else the chase for them would not consume the efforts of so many people.  Ul'dah was, and would be, entirely unprepared.  For all its faults, Ishgard's resistance against the Dravanians relied upon centuries of experience, and a firm resolve girded with a religious zealotry that inspired routine heroics. Ul'dah, wealthy beyond measure, would find no recourse to buy herself out of this particular threat.

 

[align=center]

Aya and Kiht parting ways after tea[/align]

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][second Thoughts - The Scales Part Two][/align]

 

As Aya sat beneath the warm moon-lit sky of late winter, her mind returned again and again to the memory of one evening earlier that season. The Quick Sand had been filled with its usual weeknight atmosphere: the heady scent of tea and herbs mixed with perfume, spice, and ale to create that particular fragrance both exotic and comforting.  The tones of a bard quietly performing his art lingered over the hum of numerous conversations within.  Aya was about her usual evening business, moving from table to table with her bright, cheerful demeanor, and the skirt that seemed to grow shorter with every ale consumed.  Her hands were ever-filled with ale, peanuts, and every assortment of libation as she move to-and-fro with her energetic, almost bouncing manner from group to group and patron to patron. 

 

The tips were good, and the work fun.  It had been a wonderful evening like many others - but one moment stuck in her memory, disturbing the pleasantness of it.  Amongst the patrons that evening, amongst the adventurers, regulars, professionals and a handful of successful traders, was a group of black marketeers paying a routine visit to the tavern.  Petty criminals at worst, and quasi-legal traders at best, they seemed to make a tidy living in contraband while staying just on the right side of the Syndicate. 

 

In the past she had overheard bits and pieces of their conversation, often smattered with rumors and gossip.  When they wandered in with a mood of celebration, and settled around their table, she let her paths through the tavern move near their table time-and-time again to better hear what it was they would discuss.  It was one of these topics that now seemed so crucial: Dravanian artifacts moving on the black market. 

 

Why had she not thought more of it at that moment?  Moons ago when such prescience could have proved valuable.  The very words had sent a shiver upon her spine then, and she felt another creeping along her now.  Perhaps she had just hoped they were mistaken: even forgeries could go for a fair amount to unfamiliar Ul'dahns.  Besides, who had ever heard of something so fantastic as Dravanian relics making the long journey to Ul'dah?  Who would have bothered with such a thing - nothing to worry about, she assured herself in that manner with which unwelcome news is so often met.  Why worry?

 

Until, of course, it becomes time to worry. 

 

Kiht had laid out the efforts of so many already on the search for the Relics: Brass Blades, Sultansworn, Knights from Ishgard.  None had the combination of knowledge, experience, and presence to find what they were looking for, nor had they the ability to combine their efforts.  Ishgard would act without regard for others, knowing full well the very real danger and threat posed by the relics.  Ishgard takes nothing Dravanian lightly, and that very intensity would be reflected in an unwillingness to cooperate or moderate.  The Brass Blades would draw a line in the sand where their authority began, and violently defend it against all transgression.  Ambitious and avaricious, the Blades always view Authority is a commodity: never to be relinquished without proper recompense.  They would be as feckless and oblivious in the pursuit of Dravanians as they were vigorous and tested in their defense of privilege.  The Sultan Sworn, Her Grace's Finest, would pursue every lead without any hope of unraveling the whole before it mattered.  Such is the way of the brave, conscientious, and plodding. 

 

She lay back atop the domed parapet, resting her head in folded hands as she stared up toward the sky, gazing at wisps of grey cloud faintly illuminated by pale moon-silver.  Her thoughts turned the question over and over again: can I? Should I?  While Verad tried to untangle the knot of competing interests, Kiht, Osric, and the Flames would look to cut through the fog and drive to the core of the problem.  Was it worth taking a risk if she might aid them in their cause?  It was just the sort of thing she always told herself to avoid. 

 

Avoid.  Avoid.  A fox must never allow herself to be caught in the open.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[Cause - The Scales Part Three]

 

The world was dark.  She could see nothing.  She could feel nothing.  Except—the heavy beat of her heart?  Its pace seemed to slowly increase.  Trepidation?  Then a subtle vibration.  All was the embrace of darkness: had she fallen asleep? 

 

Verad looked worried: the expression on his face, the furrowed brow, lips pulled tight with concern.  His eyes were tired and sullen, weary, perhaps exhausted.  His white hair was long, unkempt.   How long had it been since she'd last talked to him?  He looked right, and then left with a characteristic forlorn expectation.  "Does he see me?" she wondered; aloud she thought.  He looked back ahead at nothing in particular, eyes utterly unfocused and resigned.  His gaze seemed to pass right over her shoulder, as if she were invisible.  She felt another vibration: it seemed to well up beneath her feet before slowly working through the rest of her body.

 

"Verad!" she felt startled by a yell in the distance.  "Verad!" it repeated.  She looked to her left, Verad matching her curiosity.  Both seemed to spy a familiar figure in the distance, it was Kiht and she was coming this way. "Hold on Verad!" she yelled again.

 

Soon came more voices from the opposite direction, "Hold on!  We're coming for you!" more vibration.  More voices.  Now from above and below.  She could see them all at once, somehow: Ser Crofte of the Sworn, Flame Sergeant Melkire, among others she recognized.  Heroes of Ul'dah: Brass Blades, Sultansworn, and Immortal Flames approaching from every direction.

 

She watched as they worked closer, all seemed to struggle with all their might to fight their way to the pair with an expeditious hurry.  Yet the more they struggled the further away they seemed to be.  Their voices trailed off, growing fainter as they became more urgent.  Suddenly the look of resignation in Verad's eyes became one of fear: an expression of his she could not remember seeing before.  The steady vibration grew powerful.

 

Seconds must have passed in what seemed like long minutes. Her trepidation grew more potent, the steady crescendo of suspense rising to fear.  Strands of sinewy silk began to glimmer around Verad, and then all about her.  The web in which they had been caught became visible, the vibration the tell-tale approach of long, quick arachnid legs.  She turned over her shoulder in the direction that held Verad's gaze affixed in terror: the imagined spider vanished.  A large-winged drake swooped from above.

 

She whipped her head back toward her friend as quickly as she could: the entire city of Ishgard seemed to rise suddenly behind him, webbing suspended him to the sheer stonework of a high tower.  In her peripheral she could just see the drake as it began to dive.   He screamed voicelessly; silently. 

 

She shot up in bed, ripping the silk sleeping mask from her eyes.  She threw it forcefully across the quiet little room.  Her body glistened with sweat.  It was cold.  She caught her breath.  She caught her breath.

[Aya]

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[align=center][The Trail - Part 1 - The Scales part Four][/align]

 

Huzan had staked out his usual alley off of Pearl Lane.  This time of evening the Blades rarely made their presence known, even this close to the city center.  Regardless, he was a facilitator, a fixer: he rarely dealt with the immediate exchange of goods.  Instead he served as the front man of a fencing and smuggling machine that ran considerably deeper than a nondescript, lantern-lit alley in which the Blades would find nothing incriminating on the rare chance they might stop by.  He was one among the contacts that Aya had quietly enlisted over the past year.  The rumor-mill that was the Quick Sand provided ample opportunity to acquire names, descriptions, and methods of contact: a veritable who's who of Ul'dah from the highest towers, to the thugs just above the level of street scum. 

 

Despite appearances Aya often felt herself quite at home in the presence of such felonry.  Though she would gladly exchange the risks of street life for sweet comfort, she had been raised in the gutters of Ishgard, and a half dozen other stops on the route of a refugee.  She knew her way around dark streets and back alleys better than she dared admit.

 

"Its a lady, boss." announced the Roegadyn bruiser from his spot at the entrance of the alley.  "I think she wants to see you."  The Highlander opposite the entrance from him remained silent, eyes firmly affixed upon the partially cloaked figure with an undisguised oogle.  The sound of heels on cobblestone had announced her arrival, draped in a cloak with hood pulled over her head.  Red lips glistened in the street light, long, slightly curled blonde locks falling from her hood over the front of her shoulders.  She had opened the cloak enough to reveal bountiful décolletage, and as she had come to a stop she had pressed her weight back forcefully into her heels to generate the sort of captivating motion that seemed to hypnotize unfocused men.  The disarming nature of such distraction was difficult to overstate: what portion of her face was visible beneath her hood, was unlikely to be what stuck in either of the brutes' memories.

 

From further back in the alley the Hyur master of the operation looked up, unimpressed, before offering a wave for his sentries to allow her through.  The Roegadyn first turned to him, and then back to the feminine visitor, "Should we disarm her first?" he asked, with a hint of anticipation.  "I don't think she can take those off." came the leering reply of the happily gawking highlander.

 

"Will you.. Thal's balls!" came the irritated voice of Huzan.  "What the hells do I pay you two for?  Let her in, and let us be."

 

Red lips smiled.  Two grumbling guards parted and turned from the alley entrance. She stepped slowly, and confidently within.

 

"Evening, my lady" pronounced Huzan, with an impish tone and a bow of feigned respect.  "The boss want something?"

 

Moons ago she had first approached Huzan as if acting as an agent for a wealthy, and anonymous, employer.  It had proven a useful fiction.  The smile upon red lips became coy as she approached with care and purpose.  One foot stepping just before the other with proper, practiced, swaying gait—her mother's lessons had not gone entirely to waste.  Having drawn near enough she extended her left hand, gloved in black silk and leather.  "Not even a 'good evening'?" she asked with a wryness of her own.  Despite her light voice her tone was rich, cloaked with the velvet of her heavy Ishgardian accent.  Inflection that provided a lilting tone to her more playful mood, lent an air of intrigue when more serene.

 

Its what Huzan liked about her - she gave as good as she got.  Rarely did he find an attractive woman who enjoyed a little wit and repartee.  That they were in similar positions: both handling transactions for employers behind the scenes, added to a sense of rapport.  That her employer was wealthy and discerning didn't hurt.  

 

"Of course, my lady", the word again escaping with a satirical, but friendly intonation, "It is always a pleasant evening when you come to visit."

 

She pursed her lips as he gently grasped her hand and bowed his head to apply a kiss.  When he lifted his head once more she shifted her shoulders, subtly tugging at her cloak to ensure it displayed just the picture of provocation she desired.  Huzan seemed an honest broker, but any distraction played to her advantage.

 

"He is shopping for something in particular.  Something of which rumors have been flitting about so freely as of late." she gave an unimpressed shrug.

 

"And what would that be?" came the inquisitive reply, as if he did not already anticipate what was desired.

 

"The latest fad amongst collectors," came the dry answer, "Dravanian artifacts."

 

"Ah!", he replied with a mischievous grin, "And you would know all about those, I am sure.  A little taste of home, hmm?" he added suggestively.  She grinned with those slightly pursed lips, a look of composed amusement, "As sand and coin, for you my friend."

 

He gave a little laugh, "I'm afraid you're too late.  I'm surprised you've moved so slowly this time.  They were on the market for moons, and collectors swarmed around them as flies to fruit.  They're gone.  All, most probably.  I may be able to scrounge something for you, but it wouldn't be easy."

 

Her composure seemed threatened for a moment as a pout of disappointment crossed her lips.  "That is most unfortunate.  He will be... disappointed."

 

"What's he going to do if you come back empty handed?" asked Huzan, leaning toward her with his leading eye narrowed, prying and suspicious.  "Don't tell me..."

 

She huffed, arms pulling at her cloak outward and then back in, causing it to billow momentarily while she offered a slight and sudden shake of her head.  It fell upon Huzan as a rebuff, the first hint of vulnerability he had seen the woman express.

 

He stepped back up, drawing his hand behind his head as if stumped over a difficult question.  Aya's hidden eyes glanced around nervously, though her lips relaxed as she forced a calm back upon her expression.

 

"I'll tell you what: if anyone can find them now it would be Talamarito.  You can find him at the Pale Sands, on Black Smoke alley.  You know where its at?"

 

She nodded, masking the dread that particular address filled her with.  "Thank you.  So much." came her reply, smooth and gracious.  She bowed, his eyes followed.  Her right hand slipped within her cloak, drawing coins from a hidden belt purse.  As she proffered them Huzan drew up his left hand to refuse. "Not this time," he insisted, "Its on me."

 

Three sets of eyes followed her closely as she left the alley and turned toward the Sapphire exchange.  The markets were not but the silent dead of night at this hour, and beyond lay the long lonely walk through the ever worsening neighborhoods of the city.  Black Smoke alley was one of the last places she wanted to be going, especially beneath the suddenly perilous moonlight.

[Aya]

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[align=center][A Curious Trinket - The Curious Curio Part Two][/align]

 

Delicate, feminine fingers slid along the fine mithril filigree.  Aya's eye was amateur, but the craftsmanship of the piece was simply undeniable.  The room was cool in the early winter evening, warmed by a fire in the tiny fireplace along the adjacent wall.  Firelight contributed to several candles about the room, and a lantern sitting near the small table at which she sat perched upon her Lalafel sized stool.  It was far from a fine workspace, but its what she had available.

 

Her effort was dedicated to the search for the locket's catch, which Verad had so defly pointed out to her the day before.  It was hard to find, her fingers failed to take note of any edge or protrusion upon which to press. 

 

She drew up the flat bladed spatula from the set of delicate-looking tools.  Fingers were replaced by metal on the surface, accompanied with the sound of scraping as she continued the search with the more sensitive instrument.  She turned the locket in her hand, keeping the blade firmly pressed against the metal surface along the long circumference.  She moved slowly, waiting for her fingers to feel the slightest change of the blade's elevation.  Having nearly turned it the full 360 degrees she at last felt a slight fall and rise: an edge.  She turned the locket back and forth to manually confirm her find.  Turning the location so that she could view it through her lens, she found it invisible still, or near enough.

 

She reached for the spot, applying firm pressure with her finger.  The result was an  immediate "click" as the locking mechanism released.  She blinked for a moment, wide-eyed in surprise.  She wondered how Verad had ever found it, of course a man of his trade could not be without his own surprises.

 

She lifted the front surface of the locket with the spatula, separating the two halves as it folded open to reveal the watch face.  She studied again the intricate, ever-changing theme of the ornate filigree.  It wound its way the full circle around the clock face.  Each duodenary displayed a distinct theme, which shifted flawlessly from boundary to boundary.   Halone, Menphina, Thaliak and so on represented in turn.  The hand that pointed to the time-of-year looked simple compared to the ornateness surrounding it, but it was of obviously unusual material, though Aya could not place it.

 

She turned it over in her hand several more times, drawing the once inexpensive and now worn magnification lens over her eye once more.  She peered closely, searching for the means by which to remove the cover and glimpse the inner-workings of her dubious purchase.  She first removed the watch hands, a feat easier to accomplish than anticipated, and then took resort to other tools: carefully probing and gliding along the watch face identifying one by one the heads of miniature screw that secured the face to the bulk of the locket's body. 

 

They came out easily, as if they had been installed just the day before.  With careful, painstaking care she removed tiny screw after tiny screw, then carefully lifting a latch near the top, grasped the face with forceps and slid it out of place.  The fire was nothing more than embers.  The room grew cold. 

 

She gasped, holding the breath for the moment.  She had anticipated the sight of gearwork—the sort of intricate mechanical workings that she knew she would never be able to decipher, but the sight of them still struck her with disappointing shock.  Still, she leaned closer taking her time to let the sight of the inner workings sink in despite her misgivings.  The gearwork was intricate and miniature, the sort one expects to find in a timepiece. 

 

She probed carefully looking for the spring that would be the piece's source of tension-energy.  A spring to slowly drive the clockwork in its preset pattern, at its preset pace.  There was no sign.  She furrowed her brow, the search continued.

 

The two lit candles burned low.  The evening had worn on into night.  The howl of a chill wind blasted the exterior wall.  Lantern light still held strong, the room's occupant having long grown accustomed to its pungent perfume.  She continued to trace the gear work part by part, finding each individual piece making more sense when returned to on the second and third occasion. 

 

Yet, the spring, the coil, or tension bar that provided power was nowhere to be found.  She had her suspicions, held firmly beneath anticipatory breaths.  A glimmer of hope.  The watch was broken, it had no obvious mechanical problems.  Yet, would she dare to begin disassembly to test her hypothesis?  What if she could never reassemble it?  What if an actual watchsmith could have repaired it?

 

She bet not - and set to work.

 

Night became midnight, and midnight became small hours.  Piece by intricate piece the unlikely tinker continued to focus upon her prize.  Each piece and gear categorized and labelled by order and location within the watch where it was removed.  She wasn't working randomly, but searching for something hidden in the case behind the gearwork.  She knew it must be there, if her guess was true.

 

She held her breath.  She drew the blade across the area again.  Once more she felt the slightness of an edge in the flat.  She was tired.  She had wanted to stop, but curiosity had kept her alert and awake.  She tested the section again, finding with certainty the edge she was looking for.  Within a few moments of trial and error she had the small cover loose.  She held it in place for just a moment, catching her breath. 

 

She watched, riveted, as she pulled the smooth rectangular cover away, revealing the box-shaped cut out in the body of the watch beneath the clockwork.  There they were: crystal fragments.  In that moment she knew she had been right.

 

One by one she withdrew the fragments: broken shards of the crystal that had both powered the timepiece and kept it accurate.  With each piece removed the design of the receptacle and its connection to the gearwork became more clear.  It wasn't pure clockwork: a resonance power crystal lie at its heart.  Magitek.  Not quite as irreparable as Verad had thought.