Stranger in a Strange Land

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][The Trail - Part 2 - The Scales Part Five][/align]

 

She leaned her back against the rough cut stone wall.  She swallowed between heavy breaths.  The moon had crossed nearly half of the night sky, but still cast its perilous pale shine on the city below.  The air was chill, hanging heavy with the looming threat of frost.  She forced her breathing to slow.  She swallowed again.  Slow.. slow... calm..

 

The meditative practice took hold.  Her pulse steadied.  Her breathing slowed.  Her body began to relax as she stood up from the wall.  The walk had been harrowing: how much had been due to a furtive imagination she would never be sure.  She couldn't shake the sight of threatening shadows, muffled whispers, and the sensation of leering eyes -but she had made it.

 

Black Smoke alley had been named for the forges and furnaces that once kept it humming with industrial activity.  Housing has been inexpensive, and with the arrival of the Ala Mhigans it had been overrun with those unable to afford to live elsewhere.  One by one the forges were left extinguished, and the neighborhood descended into just the sort of idleness that allowed crime to thrive.  The Brass Blades rarely patrolled the streets during daylight, and those that ventured forth during the night were certainly under the payroll of one crime lord or another. 

 

She closed her eyes again, the imagined sight of a terrified and helpless Verad reminded her of just why she was here.  Sometimes nightmares crossed paths with the real thing.  She took one more deep calming breath before drawing a small pocket mirror from a pouch.  She took a moment to check her makeup and hair in the light of one of the few functional streetlights; showing up a disheveled mess would undermine her purpose. 

 

She had cloaked herself for the journey and now carefully loosed it around her waist.  As it hung more freely it exposed long, bare legs covered  only by a mini-skirt, and her heeled shoes which had begun to grow uncomfortable as the night grew late.  With a name like Talamarito he was a Lalafel no, doubt, and they always seemed to appreciate the view afforded by such a skirt.

 

She stepped back into the avenue, and then down Black Smoke alley.  She was watched from both sides as she went, though she successfully fought the urge to look side-to-side for any sign of potential danger.  The sound of whispering voices encouraged her feet to move more quickly, eyes boring straight ahead toward her goal.  In the near distance, just a few blocks ahead, she could make out the sight of what appeared to be a busy tavern. 

 

Before she knew what was happening she had turned and barged through the door of the Pale Sands, barely having taken in the sign above the door: an hourglass filled with pale granular sand.  It gave off the distinct impression of bone dust. 

 

Dozens of eyes turned upon her immediately.  More followed as others became aware of the strange sight at the door.  The place was not altogether unfamiliar, filled to the brim with Highlanders: laborers, criminals, beggars, and ne'er-do-wells with nothing better to do.  Barmaids went about their rounds, and an altogether genial raucous saturated the establishment.

 

Aya stood there for a moment, transfixed by the sudden realization that she had exited the alley.  The very real sense of danger had not yet passed.  She scanned the place, resisting the temptation to remove her hood amidst the sudden rush of warm air that flushed her skin.  She finally laid eyes upon the barkeeper.  She remembered her purpose; found her composure.  She approached him with steps slow and confident.  The dozens of eyes, pair by pair, turned back to what they had been doing, casting only curious glances toward the newcomer.

 

She leaned across the bar, sliding a 10 gil coin beneath her palm.  "Talamarito." she said, in her soft, light voice.  The barkeeper, a mustachioed middle aged Hyur gave her a suspicious look up and down, before reaching under her hand to retrieve the coin. With a second glance he nodded, and motioned her toward a doorway off to the side of the bar.

 

She nodded, with a smile of appreciation, and with another deep, but quiet breath for courage, she pushed the door open and stepped through. She found herself in a smoke-filled room, with four figures seated around a round table littered with coin, glasses and mugs both empty and full.  Two men, a Lalafel fellow, and a woman were playing at a game of cards.  One of the men looked up at once, "Whadda you want?" he asked curtly.

 

"Talamarito." she replied.

 

"Oh yeah?  Who says he'd talk to you?"

 

She tilted her head slightly, a smile spreading over her lips.  "Huzan sent me."

 

"Harumph!" grunted the other Hyur as the Lalafel glanced over his cards at her, brandishing a grin.  "You had better make it worth his time, if you know what I mean girly.

 

The first Hyur nodded to his cohorts, before standing with a resigned shrug.  He took a moment to collect his coin from the table.  "Come with me."  He lead her into a hallway amidst jeering from the others.  As they walked down the hallway he added emphasis to what his companion had said, "You had better make it worth his time."

 

He managed the sort of quiet bellowing tone so useful in muscle, "Girl here to see you boss."  With this greeting she was ushered into the well appointed room: rich, heavy carpets adorned the floor, a fire roared comfortably in the fireplace.  The seated Lalafel within looked unassuming by comparison to his surroundings.  Dressed in the same style of practical and un-ostentatious clothing as his minions.  A carefully maintained mustache stretched from one side of his face to the other,  and seemed to balance precariously upon his upper lip.  It was grey, and his hair was greying: middle age often a sign of unusual success among criminals.

 

"What can I do for you?" he asked in a calm, pleasant voice. He canted his head slightly, his expression unexpectedly welcoming.

 

For the moment she had mastered the fear of the past hour.  A sense of foreboding trepidation still clung beneath the surface of her emotions, but her expression was one of confident calm.  Her voice steady,"Huzan sent me." she repeated with sensual Ishgardian tones.

 

He nodded, raising long thin eyebrows and offering a slight shrug of the shoulders.  "She can stay," he motioned to his guard, waving him off.  With a thunk the door closed behind her as the Hyur slipped back into the hallway.  Talamarito tilted his head toward her, without saying another word.  Fingers lay folded together, flat upon his desk.

 

She waited for a moment as his expression grew impatient.  She strode into the room, letting her long toned legs slide from her opened coat, tempting eyes to draw upon their full length.  She thought she could hear him taking in a quick breath, but his expression seemed unaffected.  She approached the desk, red lips smiled toward him.

 

"Yesssss?" intoned Talamarito, with a look now mixing inquisitiveness with impatience.

 

"I am looking for something that Huzan cannot provide.  He suggested that I try a man of greater resources, and so here I am." She held her smile as she spoke, cocking her hips to the side.

 

"Of course." he said, nearly purring with a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear.  He knew the sound of flattery, but who didn't appreciate a compliment from such a lovely young woman.  "Hozan is a good man, but he cannot acquire everything a woman may desire."  He folded his hands together upon his desk, tilting his head toward her with a raised eyebrow, "So... How may I be of service?"

 

"Dravanian artifacts." she smiled again.

 

He raised both eyebrows, not quite an expression of surprise, but one of recognition. He raised a finger, "You know, I have heard that you people have been about looking for these relics.  But I am afraid you're too late, what stock we had is long gone, by moons I'm afraid." he offered a carefree shrug. 

"You people?" she asked.

 

"Yes, Ishgadrians." he nodded, "You're not exactly quiet and subtle, you know.  I'm surprised the city hasn't thrown you a welcome parade by now."

 

She let out a soft, amused laugh.  "Just a coincidence, I fear.  My employer is most assuredly not Ishgardian."  She tilted her still hooded head toward him.

 

His expression was incredulous.  "Oh, of course, of course!  — Not that it matters to me." he said with bemusement and a dismissive wave of his hand. 

 

"I am quite serious.  It is just a coincidence."  She repeated, amusement still lingering in her voice.

 

He screwed up his lips, "Coincidence is not something I believe in!" he said, before looking her up and down once more, nearly standing up behind his desk to do so.  "Especially not when Ishgardians are involved!"

 

"Then again..." he hopped from his chair and walked around the edge of his desk with that infections grin that only Lalafel at their most disarming are capable of.  "None of those knights know how to show off their legs like that." he gestured with a nod.  Reaching up to his desk for a pipe, he used it to point toward her, "If you are with Ishgardians I at least approve of their change in messenger."

 

Pulling it to his lips he used an expensive-looking sparker to light the the bowl, while drawing through the stem.  "Of course, that doesn't change that I don't have the goods any more," he said, through half his mouth.  The pipe lit; a wisp of fragrant smoke rose from the bowl.

 

She nodded, "Maybe so.  But you could point me in the direction of the buyers?  Perhaps one of them would be willing to part with a piece for the right price?"

 

He furrowed his brow, taking a few puffs on his pipe as smoke as a thin cloud began to cling the ceiling.  "Perhaps I could." he said with an agreeable nod, "But I fail to see whats in it for me."

 

As he looked up to her she reached a gloved, feminine hand into her cloak.  Concern flashed across his features, the pipe suddenly lifting up, squeezed between tightened lips: had his men searched her? Was she drawing a weapon?  When she instead drew out a stack of  platinum coin the expression quickly faded, replaced with a look of self-assured smugness; it was as if he could dispel her memory of that moment of weakness with a sudden display of confidence.

 

He nodded, gesturing nonchalantly toward his desk as he smacked his lips and cleared his throat, "Ah, I remember now.  Besides the Ishgardians most of the relics we dealt with went to one particular buyer."  He began to amble about the room, casting long glances back toward her as if studying her from a number of angles.

 

"A Hyur with an eyepatch.  He wore all black."   Talamarito tapped the bowl of his pipe against his palm, as if thinking about how to describe the fellow.  "He acted like an adventure.  And I mean, acted.  Something about him never felt right.  He did not seem like someone capable of acquiring the vast sum of gil he was prepared to spend." the tone of his voice was vicious.  "I don't know who he was buying them for, but he had a very particular interest in a particular sort of relic."

He stopped, turning again toward her as he puffed on his pipe, drawing his eyes along her legs from her heels to the hem of her short skirt.

 

"He wanted those with a particular gem.  Yellow.  Sort of like an amber, but cloudy and hideous.  You could recognize these things a mile away.  He was willing to pay top gil for any we managed to come by."

 

"Were you just buying them to resell to him?"  She asked, as he looked up to her eye-to-eye.  "Business is business, my dear.  We have a vast array of methods to acquire just what our patrons are looking for."

 

His pleasant demeanor seemed to be broken by her question, and he turned his back toward her again, "Now .. I'm not sure that I can remember anything more."

She reached into her coat, withdrawing another stack of platinum coins, a sight he spied with a look back over his shoulder.  "You are not afraid of this man are you?  He did not sound dangerous."

"Hmph!" came the immediate reply.  He whipped his gaze back toward the wall, leaving his back to Aya indignantly.  "If you had met him you wouldn't say it like that.  foolish as he may seem, I wouldn't want to cross his ire.  Even an idiot can be dangerous if he's good with a blade."  As he spoke he drew the pipe from his mouth, fidgeting with it in his fingers.  "There's something about him."  He visibly shuddered, "You can just feel it."

 

She nodded silently, he glanced back, "There are -other- ways to convince me, by the way."  He grinned mischievously, as if trying to banish the uncomfortable topic of discussion.

 

She smiled slyly, reaching into her coat once more.  She paused her hand there, letting it slide slightly more open to reveal her low cut top, before she withdrew yet another stack of coin.

 

"He's not buying any more is he?  Your finders fee will make this worth the while."

 

The Lalafel nodded, "I don't think he was with the Ishgardians, but he refused to reveal his reasons, not that we're exactly in the business of prying.  But he took the time to warn us against the Dravanians.  He was fond of mentioning the danger of these relics, as if the importance of his cause would encourage our business."

He took a few more puffs on his pipe, moving about the room again and facing her as he spoke, "It doesn't make any sense to me, either.  Why buy so many of these relics if dragons aren't your thing?  But you can't argue with the man's success.  You could probably talk to a dozen of my competitors and they could tell you the same stories."

 

He stopped, throwing his hands into the air as if tired of the whole spectacle, "They're gone!  You're not going to find any now, at least not any of the real ones.  So good luck."

 

She nodded, adding another partial stack to the three sitting upon his desk.  She wanted to sigh: the sight of an accumulation of a moon's hard work handed over to a Lalafel who raked in more than that in a night's work.  And for the barest handful of information.   He glanced at it as well.

 

"Thank you." she said pleasantly, "I am satisfied, are you?"

 

He shook his head, "Not yet."

 

She offered him a shrug, and smiled as she walked across the room toward the exit.  He watched as she turned to open the door, hopping back onto his chair with an ear-to-ear grin.  "Now I am."

 

She closed the door behind her.  Another long walk in the cold night awaited.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Laying a Trap - The Scales Part Six][/align]

 

Thematic Music:

 

NuGjcS9EY-c

 

 

It started with a note.  It was written in Aya's usual style: upon the same pink, heart-decorated stationary she had purchased in Limsa nearly a year prior, in her flowing and flowery script.

 

 

"There's something I want - and I know you can help.

 

 

I'll be by tonight.

 

 

~Foxy"

 

 

Aya did not bother with any form of disguise or distraction.  Dressed in the simple, rugged sweater-like knit top she so often slipped on for errand-running around the city.  Her bright blonde hair, highlighted with even lighter sections bleached by sun and chamomile, was tied back into a loose ponytail; her bangs were left partially hiding her right eye. 

 

She cast a carefree wave and smile toward Momodi, not only her employer but also the proprietress of her lodging.  Then following one after another she followed with ever more cheerful waves accompanied with grins to regular patrons she passed on her way toward the door.

 

Her stride was quick and insouciant.  For a moment she had worried that the note wouldn't be received, or that he wouldn't be able to free his evening on such short notice.  But, these things seemed to have a tendency to work out—nothing seemed to bother her.

 

The sun hung low in the sky, lending a red cast to the clustered stone buildings of  Ul'dah.  These were clumped and humped together, supporting each other and lending a little airiness to the otherwise oppressive cityscape in the form of courtyards, scattered like holes in the hard cheese the city was known for.  In one of these, following clasp way from the Gold Court, a Miqo'te sat at a little metal table and waited patiently.  A bottle of wine and two glasses rested on the painted mesh top of the table, along with a plate of sliced tomatoes and a bowl of fresh yogurt.  He was slim and dark, with a lean, athletic build and a pleasant face; clad in coarse white silk and soft soled boots, he read from a little book that he balanced on his knee.

 

Walking the avenue outside Aya nodded to herself, "This is it-" she thought, reminding herself that it was what he called his "casino", an office he had once offered to lease her provided she kept an eye upon it.  She stepped into the courtyard and offered a warm, friendly smile that betrayed her excitement the moment she spied the wine and hors d'oeuvres.  She raised her right hand part way up to offer a casual wave, accompanied with an energetic but even more casual greeting, "Hi!"

 

He looked up from his book and grinned at her, delight plain in his face.  He rose, ushering her to one of the metal chairs around the table, fussing over her as he settled her in with wine and a little plate. "It's wonderful to see you, Aya! It's always too long between our visits. How are you?"

 

She gladly took the offered seat, exhaling a deep and pleasant sigh.  She leaned toward him with a coy smile, one blonde eyebrow raised playfully, "Even better now!"  She raised her wineglass, "Cheers!"

 

He poured for himself, then sat back into his own chair, raising his wine glass to match hers. "Cheers", he purred,sipping. It was a fresh young wine, one picked to match the tomatoes as well as her own carefree manner, and she gladly joined him in the libation. He selected a slice of tomato, then smiled at the woman. "I'm glad you wrote me", he said in his usual manner of purring delight. "Shall we have business before pleasure? You said something about needing something found?"

 

His question caused an interruption of her sipping: she pursed her lips, blue eyes expressing a mischievous displeasure.  "Always trying to deny my fun, C'kayah?  I think I'll enjoy myself for a few minutes first!"  she added an authoritative nod: her moments of pleasure were nothing to be trifled with.  "I'd never suggest any such thing", came his purring objection.  He happened to agree: few took their pleasure as seriously as he did. Especially when the evening sun casts such a fetching red wash over her skin.  As she took another sip of wine, and savored the tomato and cheese as a delicacy, he crossed his legs and draped an arm over the chair to, like her, simply relax and enjoy the moment.

 

She lifted her chin as she enjoyed a second serving of the tomato, and grinning, sipped wine quickly as a memory came to her.  C'kayah knew the look of a story.  The emphatic expression of her eyes, accompanied with the gesturing of hands.  She always seemed to love to share stories, especially about work.  His expectation of the timing was perfect: "Have I told you about the bard who wanted me to mix his drink by strapping it to my hip?" she exclaimed with a grin, as if on queue.

 

That grin, how he loved it.  He could paint a mental picture of it, but every time the real thing struck it was as if a masterpiece all its own.  He couldn't help but laugh, "You have not!  But you should!" he grinned with a mischievousness all his own.  "I imagine people would pay quite a bit extra just to watch you do that."  She grinned, eyes narrowing as she let out a light giggle to accompany her nod. He popped the slice of tomato  into his mouth, enjoying the rough bite of salt and sharp flavor of the fruit before chasing it with wine.

 

"It made for quite the tip!" came her excited reply.  She swirled her wine, the playful grin upon her lips lingered, hinting that she had more to add.  "I wonder how he'd have tipped if I'd shook it up with a dance."  She raised her arms over her head, hands meeting at her wine glass, lips pursed, eyes closed in feign concentration as she lifted up just enough to for her hips to provide a vigorous swaying exhibition to the delight of the singular audience.

 

He grinned wickedly at her as she moved, admiring the grace of her athletic body. "Aiming to join the wealthiest Ul'dahns on the Syndicate, are we? Either that or give the bards of the city both something to sing about as well as a cautionary tale about the dangers of Hyur women..."

 

She lowered her arms as she adopted an air of bashfulness; a demurring smile filled with a soft sweetness and warmth.  Her eyes glanced away, carmined red lips glistening in the final rays of the setting sun. "Besides, how dangerous could I really be?"  She turned her eyes back upon him, nothing now but the cheerful blonde in her expression, save one barely raised eyebrow.

 

"Now that is a conversation we've had before", he purred over the rim of his glass, holding her in his gaze."I still maintain that the answer is, of course, 'very'..." he lent and silky fullness of tone to the answer, as if daring anyone to disagree. 

 

He watched as she held him transfixed with the unchanged sweetness of her smile.  The spell only broke when she slowly glanced back to her right, as if her eyes were hunting for one last glimmer of sunshine.  "Maybe so..." she answered at last, with a near laugh, still gazing into the distance.  "'A nightmare dressed as a daydream?'" she turned back to him with a beaming grin of self-assured amusement.  "Is that the lyric I once heard?"  His grin widened.

 

This is what he always missed in the days or weeks between seeing her.  Not her beauty, though she was exceptionally beautiful.  Not her grace, though she was perhaps the most graceful woman he knew.  It was her wit: not competitive, not sharp.  Playful.  Conversation with her was like a dance, and he always relished it. 

 

"I don't know if I'd go so far as to say the word 'nightmare' in any sort of connection with you," he murmured with another sip of wine.  "A jungle Coeurl isn't a nightmare, even though its dangerous.  It's..." he paused trying to gather the right phrase to refer to both his hypothetical jungle predator, and the very real urban one sitting before him. "Worthy of respect.  Not something to be taken lightly."  He rarely liked to gesture at his own flourish, and in this case the words themselves were more than sufficient on their own.

 

His way was that of gentle rebuff as compliment—she could not help herself but grin.  She leaned forward, resting her right elbow on the mesh tabletop, swirling the last remnant of her first glass of wine before taking the final sip.  "You just have a way of always finding the right thing to say..." she sung in her most vixenish tone, her rich accent indulging each syllable with the exotic air of Ishgardian intrigue.  "Which is why I am here~ beyond the simple pleasure of your company, of course." Her lips smiled; her eyes offered a hint of mystery.

 

"If I have to take on the burden of utility in order to earn your company", he purred, refilling her glass and topping up his own, "then that is a burden I carry willingly."  He paused, this was not simply flourish, but a statement of fact.  One he knew they both well understood.  His voice became serious, "What's on your mind,dear Aya?"

 

She barely slit her lips, drawing her tongue along to wet them despite the gloss of cosmetic.  It was a sign of trepidation, if not of nervousness, that her expression otherwise refused to yield.  "Sadly, its not a matter of personal interest," she began, knowing a quest for the perfect jeweled choker, or an immaculate mythril bracelet would have suited both their desires more perfectly, "but one of public."  She raised her eyebrows slightly, as if apologetic.  It was something of a misdirection, she knew it was a purely personal interest in her friends that had pushed her over the precipice of action.  "This is probably old news to you, but several moons ago shipments of..." she paused suddenly, as if the word stuck in her throat, "of artifacts, contraband, from Coerthas were found unexpectedly in a warehouse.  They, and perhaps other shipments, vanished into the black market where, although they could be of interest to curious collectors, they have mostly been purchased by one of two parties.  These artifacts..." she paused again before lowering her voice to an air of quiet seriousness he had only heard on the rarest of occasion in the past, "are dangerous.  Perhaps incredibly dangerous.  Both to those collectors who have stumbled upon them, and more worryingly in the collective hands of those intended harm."

 

"Artifacts from Coerthas?" he mused knowingly, pursing his lips thoughtfully.  "You mean Dravanian artifacts, don't you?"  She cringed.  He thought she might, watching her as she spoke he had sensed her concern.  Perhaps she was afraid.  Even if she hadn't been borne into the snowy highlands of Coerthas, she'd lived there long enough.  How long would it take, he wondered, before the watchful paranoia that every Ishgardian seemed to carry would infect her?  Their caution was justified after all: the dragons did threaten them, and had done so since the dawn of living memory.  Yet, their caution extended far past the living things, extending to even the most innocuous of Dravanian items which they treated with the horror: as if the mere work of the dragon's hand carried the same power as the dragons themselves.

 

She offered a slow, resigned nod.  "Yes."  She leaned forward, looking at him through the tops of narrowed eyes, "They need to be found."  It was stated so matter-of-factually it almost didn't sound like her.

 

"Why?" he found himself asking.  His thin eyebrows drew together.  He'd seen her worried before, but only rarely.  Yet it was clear that these things were causing her severe concern: "What are these artifacts?  Why are they so important?"

 

She let out a sharp, petulant breath.  She knew his mind was sharp and quick, and the line of thought was not difficult to discern.  She could sense his disappointment at her superstition, and for a moment she wondered herself just how much of it she had unquestioningly swallowed.   But, that was something she wanted to ask and answer herself, not something for others to ask.  He made a sour face, draining his glass and refilling it as she spoke.  "These artifacts can be anything from trinkets to true relics containing the flesh or blood of dragons living or dead.  Only a knowledgeable Inquisitor or Heretic could discern for you which are the most dangerous."  She turned her head away.  Her voice was cold, and her eyes colder still.  "We cannot have them loose in a place like Ul'dah.  There is no telling what end of harm they could cause."

 

"And there was an Inquisitor here making a nuisance of himself not a month ago," he replied, referring to Estrelaint.  "Do you think its a coincidence?"  She did not move her gaze, her voice becoming even more quiet.  "When it comes to Ishgardians, its often difficult to believe in coincidence..." she said, echoing what had become maxim.

 

He shook his head with a wry smile.  "Never mind that.  Tell me more about these things.  Why do you fear the people buying them?"

 

She took a deep breath, and offered a resigned shrug of her shoulders as she turned her eyes back toward him.  She lifted her wineglass with loosely gripping fingers.  "The way of Dravanian magic is crafty.  They specialize in mental influence, if not outright control, but are capable of much more."  She gave her head the slightest shake, her eyes looking distracted, and expressing no interest in the wine glass she holds.  "To bring oneself into contact with the body of one is to touch a lodestone.  To invite disaster.  Perhaps it is harmless, or perhaps it becomes the source of one's own destruction, or the destruction of the people one holds close."

 

She clicked her tongue between pursed lips, en lieu of a sigh.  "Someone is gathering them.  A particular variety, especially.  The sums he is spending must be immense—wouldn't that worry you?"  She cast an inquisitive glance his way, bearing a hint of accusation.

 

He had taken a bite of tomato, turning the things she'd told him over in his mind.  He gestured with his hand as she answered, feeling the boring nature of her gaze, "I'll freely admit I'd be the first to say you were overreacting..." he wagged his pointer finger at nothing in particular, "if it weren't for some of the things I've witnessed myself over the past few months."  She was Ishgardian, certainly; yet, of the many things she might be called 'needlessly fearful' was not among them.    There was relief in her expression.  A sense of having escaped inquisition, though she wondered at what cost.  Relying upon nothing but the trust and good intentions of a friend, even a dear one, rarely came without reservation.

 

"Alright." he said, adding a nod as he took another bite of tomato.  "There are a lot of these things here: some greater, and some lesser—I actually bought one myself, though I'm sure its one of the least of the collections—and some few individuals are busily gathering the most potent of them for purposes unknown.  Do you think they're acting under their own will, their own plans?  Or do you think they've already fallen under the influence of the dragons?"

 

He had carefully slipped the aside in amidst his questions, but the words struck that chord of ingrained suspicion that lie beneath the surface of any Ishgardian.  She drew a gasp between clinched teeth.  Her thoughts raced for a moment, unbidden and unconscious fears rushed as a torrent as she found herself unable to listen to the rest of his question.  She struggled with herself, the result an expression of controlled surprise.  She breathed more quickly, her eyes focused, sharpened and alert upon him.  "You had best hope so, dearest C'kayah." came a reply of obviously forced understatement.

 

The intensity of her reply unnerved him.  For a moment he even doubted the wisdom of his purchase.  The artifact he had bought was small-a little carved dragon, harmless looking but interesting, sitting on his shelf next to a pin used by devotees of a Dry Bone based cult of Nald.  His glance was furtive, and he decided it best to return to the core topic of their discussion, "But what of these purposes?  Or whose they could be?"

 

She turned her gaze away. "It is Ul'dah.  Its hard to say.  I think we can assume Heretics are involved, but their involvement may have ended at the point of sale in Coerthas.  I would say its difficult to imagine a Heretic selling a relic, but having never known one personally all I have to rely upon are the stories."

 

"But what would Dravanians want with Ul'dah?  Their concern has always been Ishgard.  Do you think they're trying to turn Ul'dah against Ishgard?"

 

She nodded, looking back toward him, appearing less angry, though there was something new in her eyes: worry and vulnerability.  "The Dravanians themselves?  I don't know.  They seem to prefer more direct methods.  But what of Heretics?  are they not Men like you and I?  Could they not be more clever?  Seeking other routes to expand their power?  If this magic were unleashed upon Ul'dah, unsuspecting and unprepared, how many could it snare?  How much wealth and influence could it acquire?  How many armies could it purchase and equip?  With even a fraction of the wealth of Ul'dah at their disposal, could Ishgard continue to resist?  Or Ul'dah itself should the Dragons choose?"  She shrugged, her head shaking as her mind spun with the myriad of endless-seeming threats that could be posed.  Never had childhood preaching seemed so close to reality.

 

"Or," she interjected amidst her own answer, "What if someone simply wished to profit from mass confusion in Ul'dah itself?  Without regard for the potential consequences?"

 

"I don't know if I know what a Heretic really is," he replied while leaning forward.  His interest, though, was piqued.  "It sounds like, at the very least, a new player is operating in Ul'dah.  And that could have all sorts of consequences.  With the Monetarists and Sultansworn caught up in ineffectual pursuit of some Limsan pirate, and the Blades busy making sure the refugees stay miserable, I can't think of a more fertile ground for someone to cause havoc."

 

She nodded along, her lips opening to show the white teeth behind them.  "You've heard the stories of Ifrit I am sure?  Of the 'Tempered' who mindlessly serve him?"

 

"I know about tempering," he replied bitterly.

 

"Imagine the Heretics, whether by their own will or by enchantment, as the Tempered of the Dravanians." She offered a slow, diagonal nod.

 

He was lifting his glass as she spoke.  He paused with it halfway to his lips, his eyes locked with hers. "And you suggest we deal with those who've bought these things the way we deal with the Tempered?"

 

She shook her head quickly, "No... I...There may be numerous artifacts out there, but its these ones in particular that are being so energetically sought by our unknown purchaser that I am worried about.  I think we need to find out who he is, and who he is working for."  There's a look of anticipation in her eyes as they meet his.

 

He sipped his wine, mulling her story in his mind while a new suspicion took hold.  "You didn't come here just to warn me of this, did you?  You have a plan, don't you?  One that needs me help?  So... how do we go about it?"  His voice had grown quiet, and the tension in his body became obvious as he leaned on his elbows.

 

She shifted back in her seat, but leaned closer to him as he did to her.  "They call him 'the man in black'.  He behaves as an adventurer of sorts." She wet her lips again, "I've heard people say that he just acts like an adventurer.  That he may not really be one, yet, he seems to be incredibly dangerous.  Everyone who's met him seems to be viscerally afraid of him.  He's specifically after relics containing a particular, yellow gem.  I've heard it described like a cloudy, ugly amber.  He's been offering top prices across the Black Market, finding as many suppliers as he can.  But the only thing I've found out from these people is that he seems to be on some crusade against the Dravanians.  A useful story, perhaps?"

 

She let out a breath.  She lifted her head, resting her chin upon her hand.  Slowly the look of concern and worry, which had grown so tired upon her usually cheerful face began to fade.  It was replaced with a broad smile that hinted at excitement.  The mischief in her eyes returned.  It was time to get to the crux of the matter.  C'kayah waited anxiously, hooked upon her story.

 

"I thought you might know where we might find a network that deals with contraband." His lips began to match her grin.  "One which might be prepared to have act as if it has stumbled upon an undiscovered shipment of artifacts of a certain origin."  She raised an eyebrow inquisitively as she shared the plot.

 

"Do you know?" he said with a grin, "that there have been moments where I thought you really believed I dealt in only legitimate wares?"

 

She lowered the eyebrow as she gave an amused smirking shake of the head.  "Maybe I still do~" she crooned playfully, "But I know you will know where to find one." 

 

She winked. 

 

He grinned wickedly.  

"I can't imagine a better way to lure our mark, can you?"

 

He delicately picked up a tomato slice between his fingers.  "It sounds like a good idea," he said.  "Besides, its been weeks since I've used myself as bait.  I'll do it!"

 

She gave off that sweet, pleased smile that rose irresistibly within her in such moments.  The little slide of her head back and forth, the playful lift of her eyebrows, C'kayah knew it well.  There could be no doubt about Aya's elation.  "I can't tell you how good that is to hear!" She replied in a tone that would tell him she were smiling even if he couldn't have seen it.

 

He looked away, the color rising in his face as she smiled at him.  There was little he wouldn't do for her, and placing himself in danger from mysterious Heretics scarcely registered.  "We'll need something that at least looks the part," he said , his emerald eyes returning to meet her sky blue gaze.  "I know a counterfeiter who's got a subtle hand an an extensive knowledge of Dravanian style..."

 

For her sake, there were few things that Aya loved more than hearing a suggestion that waited upon the tip of her tongue, provided instead by its intended subject.  Her open-lipped smile grew broader, lips pressing together as she tilted her head slightly toward him with a conspiratorial expression of two minds working on the same level.  "I would make a number of them, its possible that our mark shall not be the first suitor.  Remember the gems.  There must be something like them available on the seconds market."

 

She nodded as much to herself as to him, "We won't have any trouble getting word out, at least.  Rumors take to this city like fish to the sea."

 

"Especially rumors from the carmined lips of Ul'dah's favorite barmaid?" he smirked at her, though his eyes sang of truth.

 

"We should try to enlist her,whoever she is." Aya flashed a bright, amused grin.

 

A moment later her expression became more subdued.  She lowered her tone, giving earnest voice to the plot: "Remember that we could have as many as four possible customers: undesired interest from a collector or supplier, the authorities themselves, the Ishgardians, or our mark.  We must be prepared for all to come knocking."

 

"How do you propose we tell our mark from the rest of the collectors?" He popped the tomato slice into his mouth and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers.  He was interested.  He always enjoyed the thrill that came with trying to piece together a complex sting.  It was like a new puzzle, or a new piece of yarn, he just couldn't keep his hands off it.

 

In the moment, her excitement was too piqued to bother with hors d'oeuvres, though she only allowed glimmers and hints of that energy to shine through her more focused expression.  "We have a good description: a midlander adventurer-looking sort, wearing mostly black.  They call him the 'No-Eyed-Man' on account of an eyepatch, and heavy scarring around his good eye.  He won't be pawned off by the cheap trinkets you offer, instead he'll express a particular interest in a specific sort of relic, one bearing a peculiar style of gem that few would normally find desirable.  He may preach about the dangers of Dravanians."

 

"Are you saying my counterfeit relics would be cut rate?" he grinned at her again, a mischievous flash in his eyes.  "That is a good idea though.  If we make a number of them, we could say we've purchased a sizable stash.  Your average collector would look for one or two.  Your Heretic would see it as it should be seen: the least of a much larger lot."

 

She slid her head just to the side, offering a nod with a knowing smile.  "I did say stumbled upon a shipment didn't I?  Enough to raise interest, and enough counterfeit baubles to keep the rumors swirling should the wrong prey find the trap first.  IF the Ishgardians bite, a faux relic or two will be enough to satisfy them, all the moreso when they realize they're not authentic.  Whatever means they use to detect the real ones won't work on our stash."

 

"You're wasted as a barmaid," he purred silkily.  "You clearly missed your calling as a crime lord..." She smiled coyly as he took a sip of wine, then winked conspiratorially at her.  "Of course, being a barmaid would be an excellent cover for a crime lord.  You'd tell me if you were, wouldn't you?"

 

She pursed her lips, eyes demurring playfully.  "Of course, dearest C'kayah.  But why go to all that effort when I can find one to do the hard work for me?"  Her eyes moved back to his with a sparkle, her lips opening to a delighted grin.  A delight he shared with a laugh, "I think the next present I buy you is going to be a cat's collar and a leash," he purred, "We could at least make things official."

 

She lifted her blonde eyebrows, flashing the full brilliance of her cheerfulness with a happy giggle.  As it settled she let out a happy sigh, casting an admiring look his way.  Sadly, there was still one more lingering doubt on her mind, and he could see it casting a slight cloud upon her sunniness.

 

His grin slowly faded as he watched her. "There's more, isn't there, Aya?"

 

She replied with a subtle nod, before reaching across the table to grasp his wrist.  "Whatever he is up to, he does not mean well.  His pockets are deep, and his reach in the underworld is far.  People are afraid of him.  We cannot take this lightly, and I fear we cannot trust anyone."  She looked at him straight faced and earnest.  "I don't think we can afford to reveal our plan, even to your organization.  I think as few people as possible should know they're counterfeits.  Your runners and fixers should think they're as real as the sun in the sky.  I am not going to tell anyone else, either.  I don't think we can trust that the Blades or Flames don't have anyone on the take.  You know where we are."

 

His eyes locked with hers as her hand gripped his wrist.  He could read the concern in the wide blue of her eyes, the set of her mouth.  He nodded, "What about Kenthy?  I never keep secrets from her, and she'd be a valuable ally for you in this,"  For a moment she looked like a startled animal, frozen in the moment before it bolted, "But that's your call, Aya.  If you're that concerned..."

 

We know we can trust Kenthy."  She nodded, knowing there was nothing more to say about that.  "Remember when we find him what we need is information.  Who he is, what he does, who he talks to.  How he corresponds.  I'll leave the details to you."  She smiled softly, adding another little nod before taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

 

He nodded, considering her words.  "I wonder if he has allies who would miss him if we captured him.  I'm sure he does.  This will take a featherlight touch."  He smiled at her, the pleased and proud smile of a skilled craftsman faced with a problem requiring the full measure of his skill.  She nodded along with his concern, her expression softening.  "If he's a Heretic he would likely die before being captured, then we would lose everything we stand to gain."

 

"How involved do you want to be in this, Aya?  Do you want to be present when we meet buyers?"  This time she shook her head, "I stand out in a crowd, don't I?  I'm not sure that would be a good idea."

"Just a little," he agreed with a grin.  "I think we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way," he said.  "Use the counterfeits as bait to set the hook, and trail him without arousing his suspicion.  Do you know anything about him?  Tastes? Weaknesses?"

 

Her softening smile remained, growing in the admiration of watching a master at his work.  "I think so.  Lets not rush.  As for the mark... I'm afraid I don't know much.  I could try to find out more, but I do not wish to arouse suspicion.  I don't really know any more than what I have told you, though I 'll do the best to find what I can.  In terms of personal tastes, I don't have the faintest idea."  She glanced away, giving her head a shake as though distracted by thoughts about who, or what, the stranger may be.

 

"And you don't have a name," he guessed.  "So we'll just have to watch for him..."

 

She nodded, "No name.  But you'll know him when you meet him.  Of that I'm sure."

 

C'kayah gave another nod, glancing off across the little square.  It was growing dark, and the air was growing cool, offering the first bite of night.  "Are you hungry, Aya?  I've been marinating an aldgoat steak, and its easily big enough for two."

 

[Thank you C'kayah for the wonderful RP and for allowing me to post it!  It has been slightly modified to better for a story format ]

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Eyes on the No-Eyed Man - The Scales Part Seven][/align]

 

Aya had her eye on some particular jewelry.  Twice already she had visited the Goldsmiths to lay eyes upon them: a pair of golden loops, inlaid with series of tiny diamonds.  She could imagine the gasps as they twinkled upon her ears in the light of an early evening ball.  A gasp she expressed almost silently as she laid eyes upon them once more. 

 

The marketplace for jewelry she could actually afford was the Sapphire Exchange, or any of the number of smaller bazaars that operated periodically within the city walls.  There merchants and traders, sometimes operating booths with no more than a single display box of baubles, sold their cheaper, often used wares.  She loved most especially the body jewelry, the like of which one could find nowhere else in Eorzea: it was just the sort she and her sister dancers in Ishgard had longed for in dreams and fantasies in those wonderful years before her flight from the Tower City.

 

Her cheeks puffed out with the pressure of held breath.  Blue eyes sat firmly affixed upon the earrings.  They were of the sort of quality, and inlaid with valuable gems one could only find among the products of carefully groomed professionals in the Gold Smith's guild.  They were still there, the dream held on with a firm fixation.  She knew one of these visits they would be gone, and that no visit would reveal a price she could in fact afford.  She made barely a sound in their presence; the disappointed whimper welling within her chest countered by the sort of pointless hope human dreams are made of.

 

Turning back toward the outside world, she pulled her cap on tight over her braided pony-tail.  The suns rays were already becoming unbearably radiant in the desert's early spring, but a chill-bearing breeze still swept in from the north necessitating the trappings of the winter season. 

 

As she turned down Onyx Lane, met by the welcome rays of natural daylight in the early evening, the sun hanging higher in the sky than it had in weeks past, her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden sight of a large crowd gathered in the square of Milvaneth Sanctum.  For a moment she wondered what a crowd was doing in such an unlikely spot, at such an unlikely hour.  She took a few hesitant steps down the lane, her mind unconsciously considering all of the alternative routes she could take, before the reason dawned on her: the rumors of the mystery man's public appearances had made their way around.  The crowd was gathered to hear what he would have to say.

 

Her eyes opened slightly at the realization, and her pace increased.  Misgivings aside, it was an opportunity she couldn't let slip by.  The mystery man was none other than the Man-in-Black, also-known-as the No-Eyed-Man.  Just the shadowy figure she had been inquiring about, and conspiring to find.  His public appearances had been a topic of public conversation for some time, more-and-more he seemed intent to stoke public fears about the threat of Dravanian influence.  Maybe she could catch him in person.

 

Carefully she squeezed herself through the crowd. Her demeanor had changed since she had exited from the confines of Onyx Lane into the open square it abutted.  Gone was the look of anticipation and excitement, replaced instead by that of a disgruntled young woman just trying to squeeze her way through an unwelcome crowd.  On a better day she may have slid through with little trouble other than that of wandering hands, but today she took her time despite outward appearances.

 

What had been dull agitation rose slowly to a din of impatience.  The star was late.  One voice, in clear Ishgardian tones, called out lamenting his late appearance.  Aya glanced back.  She was far taller than she seemed, striding upon the three inch heels of her dress boots she stood over six feet, taller than most of the crowd, and spotting the even taller Elezen owner of that voice was no trouble: Lady Evangeline Primrose she called herself.  A regular at the Quick Sand, and an all-around trouble maker.  An Ishgardian refugee; one who left the city chasing dreams of being a political rabblerouser.  The two had shared conversation and even tea at one time, and although they would appear similar to an outsider, Aya allowed herself no comparison.  

 

For a moment Aya became worried: crowds were never her thing.  She knew what happened to unhappy crowds of refugees.  She knew what happened to the crowds of agitated commoners in Ishgard.  She knew what had happened to the crowds of Ala Mhigans in his very city not so long ago. She had been the subject of crowds herself on more than one occasion, and never did anything good seem to come of them.  What if the crowd became unruly? Worse, a riot?  She wanted nothing to do with that - she pushed a little harder, trying to work her way through to the alley ahead, leading as it did toward Pearl Lane and the welcoming route home. 

 

Her focus was interrupted by a loud bang, and a flash of smoke.  A figure leaped from a tall height above, directly into the square.  One could have thought the man a giant, but in reality he was of no more than average height.  Clad all-over in black leather, adorned with vastly more buckles than could have ever been practical.  His long white hair was haggard, loosely tied back in the style of a I-have-more-important-things-to-do adventurer.  He drew his hand over his lower face, revealing only his eyes: one covered in a leather eye path, its strap winding its way around his head, a heavy scar over the other, though his eye had seemed to escape the worse-of-wear: its steel-blue gaze fell piercing.  It was him: the No-Eyed-Man.

 

"You called?" he pronounced with a barely concealed laugh - the sort of a man who had just achieved exactly the entrance he desired.  He lowered his head to a humble bow.  Lifting his head once more, his hand dropped to reveal an amused smile.  He addressed the agitated crowd, "Ah! I see there are some who have already heard the good word!" 

 

"Truly!" he pronounced as he moved his hand to his hip, drawing himself up as if to give a speech. "Truly, I am glad that so many citizens recognize what those assigned to defend them have not!"

 

Aya stopped.  She stared, transfixed for a moment.  Something...

 

Evangeline's high, penetrating voice cut through the crowd's din, "What threat could you possibly mean?"

 

The No-Eyed-Man was not perturbed.  His right hand rose, index finger lifted with a flourish as he took a casual step, "What Threat?" he repeated the question, addressing his crowd as if a lecture hall.  "A fair question.  'Tis a subtle one, easily overlooked until the realm least expects it.  So concerned are we with the meddlings of Monetarists and the schemes of the Sultanate that we fail to recognize something more dangerous.  Something that may well have been in your own stalls.  I speak, of course, of the Dravanian threat.  Of the seeding of the city with the means to replenish their own ranks!"

 

The crowd grew deathly quiet for a moment.  It was just what they had expected to hear.  The rumors were true; and the authorities were doing nothing about it. 

 

Evangeline rose to the occasion once more, "But why, then, have you been gathering as many of the Drake Stones as possible?"

 

The No-Eyed-Man again showed no sign of hesitation, neither his manner nor speech perturbed in the slightest.  He pressed his hand to chest chest, extending the other outward in an expression of utter humility.  "I have done what I could.  Fortune put the nature of the plot in my ears, and it was my own fortune I spent gathering the relics to ensure they did not find themselves in unworthy hands. I did what I could to ensure the most dangerous of them were placed in safe care. The Thaumaturges, learned scholars, the guilds, among others I have placed the true threats among those who might best understand them, contain them." He shook his head. "All have failed. The meddlings of our own authorities have brought these actions to naught."

 

Aya pushed harder through the crowd.  She knew what it was she had recognized.  She recognized the man.  Not, exactly, she couldn't quite place him.  But the mystery was lessened, or was it deepened?  It was hard to say which, but one thing was certain: she did not care to see any more of the show.

 

Distracted, Aya could not quite make out Eva's works within the drowning crowd.  Yet, the No-Eyed-Man's voice rang loud and clear, reverberating throughout the public square.  "Calm?  I have attempted calm in the past. To remove the threat of these artifacts quietly. However, I have found that a third party was gathering them in my stead. Snapping them up when I thought they were in better hands."

 

"And so I must speak to you, dear citizens of Ul'dah - should you find someone with a certain stone of an ugly hue - a little yellow in amber - then take it upon yourself to bring the authorities to them in all due haste!"

 

"For to do otherwise invites the presence of a dragon in our very streets!"

 

His intent was obvious.  The crowd was growing louder: murmurings rising to grumblings.  There was a shift in the crowd, surging toward the Ishgardian Elezen as she continued to raise her voice.  The few words she could make out were startling: "...attacks by people turned to drakes.."  "We found these stones you are looking for..."  "Why are you doing it?"

 

Evangeline seemed to know everything Kiht had told Aya.  And she seemed intent to blurt it out in the least auspicious of manners.  Aya moved faster still, pushing against the tide and nearly fighting her way toward the alley.

 

The No-Eyed-Man's voice struck out louder yet, as he turned once more to address the crowd.  Aya could not help but turn and look over her shoulder once more.  Evangeline seemed to be protected by a fully clad and equipped Ishgardian Dragoon.  There could be no mistaking it: was he a bodyguard?

 

"You see what they do? I knew only what you knew, good people - that the thaumaturge's guild saw a voidsent escape in recent suns. And here they claim it was the doing of the artifacts? Mayhaps. But it is in the nature of the beast to turn your wills against those who seek to do naught but good and aid those who would do naught but harm."

 

The murmurings of the crowd grew violent, the No-Eyed-Man held up a hand. "Now, now, no need to get violent with them, you understand. But you see how they sow dissent. I tell you, Ishgard will not brook us involving ourselves in their affairs, even when they are hard pressed! They use their dragoons as agitators, send their own in to stop us from solving the problem of these relics! And so I cannot act alone. I turn now to you, good people, and offer you this - for every relic you find, these yellow stones especially, it is in your best interests to take them! I do not act alone in this, not anymore. One patron aids me, you see, for I have convinced at least one man of the threat, and he is of sufficient wealth that he will amply reward any such artifact handed in to the appropriate locations. A list will appear around the city, in time. Trust no one to handle these artifacts but those who would accept them here! They could be in league with these agitators."

 

The crowd now was yelling, and shaking their fists.  A wave of anti-Isghardian anger and frustration swept over them.  A chill went down Aya's spine.  Must.  Get.  Away.  Now! 

 

The crowd had no interest in her.  She broke free.  She turned around, back-peddling and slightly dazed.

 

Another voice struck out from the crowd, calm in tone and expression, "...Sir! You got me convinced. But still, one question ails me...why you didn't destroy the artifacts, instead of handing it to people? What stops you from breaking the darnable things? I admit. I'm someone investigating the issue. And I saw the horrors that it can bring to the world. Yet, as I recall! They are but a single stone! Why you didn't break it, when you had a ton of them?"

 

Aya watched as the No-Eyed-Man nodded, "A sensible question! But you see, I took the time to study the legends in great detail, the old sagas. These stones you speak of - they coalesce. Far enough away, they are hardly a threat to each other. But here, within the city? Why, when one is shattered, the others grow stronger still!"

 

"I daresay that I could shatter a dozen, but should there be a thirteenth? A risk I could not take."

 

"But I must be off. My patron is merely one among many, and the others are not to be trusted. Royalist, Monetarist - all answer to gil, and when that gil comes from Ishgard, they will answer to anything."

 

There were more murmurings, agitations. A thought occured to Aya as she glanced about, "Where are they Brass Blades?  They never let a crowd this size go unwatched..."

 

"Very well. Disperse, good people! The drop points will be ready on the morrow! Good gil for a good turn, and for doing the city a good service! 'Ware an Ishgardian accent!"

 

Aya turned and walked quickly away, pulling her coat tighter around her.  She did not hear the stones hitting pavement. She barely heard the surge of the crowd once more.  She did not see the No-Eyed-Man steer it once more, just as he desired—but she already knew it was just what he could have done, and what he would have done.

 

[And an apology to Eva, since I apparently didn't get copies of everything she said, and most of the quotes are based upon memory ]

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Ramifications for a Working Girl -The Scales Part Eight][/align]

 

That evening's shift was not so much like others - Aya usually found work pleasant, if not enjoyable.  She shared in the fun, sometimes commiserated with the sorrows, and just did her best to spread good cheer.  But tonight's cheerful smiles were met with an altogether less welcome response.  The regulars were as they usually were, to them she was not just staff but friend, but among the routine local customers things were not as well.

 

Leers were simply part of the job description, but they had never felt so malicious.  She could hear the murmurs as they conferred among themselves, casting averse glances.  It was a wonder with what rapidity and speed word and rumor spread through the Jewel of the Desert. 

 

Tips were light, at best - some customers declined service just to place their orders directly at the bar, bypassing the barmaid and her livelihood.  Others looked askance, "Better double-check your change..." suggested one to another.  Even merchants, with their regular contact with foreigners of all sorts, were not immune to the sudden air of anti-Ishgardian distrust and paranoia.

 

The worst came from a group of laborers—she approached their table with the same bright, cheerful smile she usually carried as she bounced between the bar and tables during her shift.  She hadn't let the energy in her step diminish, or the brightness of her smile fade: it was the only confrontation she could manage.  "Good evening, and welcome to the Quick Sand!  What can I get for you?" she asked in her light, Ishgardian tone.

 

One of them looked up to her, with displeased eyes.  "We know you; why don't you just hurry up and go back home?  Leave us alone—we don't want you and your dragons."  He shook his head with an air of great frustration, "Look, we want the Miqo'te lass.  Send her over."

 

The corners of Aya's smiling lips relaxed; the cheer in her eyes barley disguised the up swell of tears behind them.  She offered a quick, energetic little nod and turned on her heel.  She walked quickly back to the bar, leaning over it to draw closer to Momodi, "They'd like M'areesa to serve them, please."  

 

Momodi's little eyes flashed fierce.  She had watched all evening, and she knew what was happening.  Aya could almost see half-her-mind at work with the desire to send the offending patrons tumbling into the street, but the other-half knew only happy customers were good gil.  Aya seemed to be handling things well - Momodi nodded and waved toward the Miqo'te barmaid to hurry on up.

 

As the kitchen door swung shut, Aya threw her hips against the wall.  She was out of sight at last.  She pushed her head back.  She wanted to scream; instead she squirmed, fingers gripping inconsolately against the wooden texture.  The first few words of an Ishgardian curse slipped from her lips, but it was not in her to finish them.  For a moment she thought what a wonder it was how quickly poison of the mind took hold.

 

"Just go back home."

 

The words rung in her ears.  What, did they really think it was that easy?  Did they realize that Ishgard was a veritable prison city?  Passport required for exit was strictly controlled: those with military, political, or trade purposes could come and go under watchful eyes.  Those with influence could concoct a purpose.  The masses without simply suffered beneath towers of stone and ice so tall they blocked out the sun.  Within walls of stone and ice so thick they blocked out hope.  That was life in Ishgard.

 

That night had been the most frightful of her life; one filled with a full measure of them.  Cloak-clad, she carried almost nothing: but all that she would have to start a new life.  It was a new moon, the world was dark outside of torchlight.  At first the walls had seemed the most insurmountable obstacle, but once they had been scaled, the bridge looked more fearsome yet.  That bridge, that lone standing connection to the outside world, bore the fitting name: "The Steps of Faith".  Each and every step would require faith, but not of the sort intended.  To avoid the watchful gaze of patrolling guards she would soon find herself clinging to the sheer stone face, blasted by howling winter winds.  How many others had fallen through the unseeable distance of the Sea of Clouds to their death?  How long until she joined them?

 

Every patrol that approached was yet another occasion to stare death in the face.  Each time the calculation grew more difficult: face once more that desperate fear, to cling and hold for dear life just out-of-sight. To pray to whatever gods may be for solace, for strength, for life itself.  Or to surrender and pray for mercy.  A mercy she knew would not be delivered, but in desperate straits the mind could convince itself of anything just to avoid that return to terror.  Again, and again, she chose the struggle for freedom.  To prefer the risk of the frigid cold waste, over fear in a holding cell.  Better for her bones to succumb to frost amongst others who yearned to breath free, than within the walls of the city. 

 

Yet, crossing the bridge had not yet been the end - like the walls before, the danger of the bridge would fade as she faced that of Coerthas' frigid chill.  The manner of escape had not allowed for heavy winter travel gear, had she even been able to acquire it.  Settlements tempted with their beckoning firelight that teased at ever fainter memories of warmth.  She would never know from where she had summoned the perseverance.  Perhaps no one really knew in moments like those: frozen night upon frozen night.  Days of blowing snow so thick you could barely see the next tree before you, while watching desperately for the lights of settlement to guide the way south, and downward through the frigid highland locked under its permanent shell of frost.  A frost that drained warmth, life, and hope in equal measure.  Threatening each day, each hour, to end her escape, until the broken expanse of the Northern Shroud opened before her.  That sight she had spied so often from afar.  That distant clarion call of birdsong that sang of freedom and sunshine.  She remembered stumbling into Fallgourd Float.  She remembered having made it.  She remembered why her parents had so long thought her dead. 

 

"Just go back home."

 

In the kitchen, her cut-off curse still hung in the air.  The Ala Mhigan cook turned to look at her, a blade of lemon grass hanging loosely from his lips.  "Aya, you okay?" he asked with concern.  Aya opened her eyes and looked up, she hadn't even noticed him there, brushing marinade onto sets of Aldgoat ribs.  She summoned a faint, difficult smile.  "I'm alright Jericho, thank you."

 

"They giving you trouble out there?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he gestured with his brush-holding hand toward the door.  She hesitated for a moment - she never liked to admit trouble, especially publicly.  She nodded.

 

"I'm sorry to hear that.  You're a good girl, you know?  They shouldn't hassle ya."  She smiled a little more, with a little less difficulty.  Suddenly she felt the tears that were wet upon her cheeks. 

 

"You know, I know you're not like them other Ishgardians.  You just keep doing your thing. Them slow ones will remember soon enough."

 

Her expression softened, but her heart wanted once more to cry.  The two of them had been born just several years, and just several miles apart.  But she was still the foreigner to him—what hope did she ever have?

 

"You just come back 'ere if they give you any more trouble.  We won't let 'em do not'in, we've got your back."  He gave a nod, lips pulled into a confident smirk.  that much, was true at least.  The kitchen was always refuge.  She nodded again, a quiet, "Thank you." escaping her lips.

 

She pushed the kitchen door open with her hips. Normally when she did so her hands were filled with drinks ready to serve: sweet water, juices, or Champion Chachans she had just mixed, all chilled in the ice-shard boxes in the kitchen.  But tonight her hands were filled with something entirely different: concerns and troubles no fruity, fizzy drink would easily dispel.

 

She slipped behind Momodi, "Madame..." she said so quietly.

 

Momodi looked back over her shoulder.  She was so difficult to gauge.  Those fierce little eyes, equally capable of warmth and rebuke.  "Aya." she said, a hint of tenderness in her tone.  "May I have a break?" she asked, very quietly. 

"Take as much time as you need." nodded the Lalafel.

 

Aya slipped back to the kitchen.  She put on her long coat, and then tucked her hair once more into her cap.  She exited through the back door in the kitchen to escape the patrons in front.  As she stepped into the alley that lead to Pearl Lane she wondered for a moment why Momodi had been so quick to let her go.  The Lalafel Patroness was ever-sharp for business.  Did she prefer her Ishgardian barmaid to disappear to avoid trouble?  How long could this last, really?  She had been kind to Aya too... she wouldn't let such business get between them would she?  Would she?

 

At least Aya knew where she was going: she had news to deliver to C'kayah.  She wondered if, perhaps, she should just throw herself upon him.  Forget everything for the evening.  It was a day worth forgetting...

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][suspicions and Disappointment - The Scales Part Nine][/align]

 

The route to C'kayah's office apartment, his casino as he so fondly referred to it, was not a long one.  Aya used the short time to try to focus her mind, to push away the lingering frustration of the evening shift and remember what she had observed earlier in the day at Milvaneth Sanctum.  She had laid her own eyes upon the mysterious No-Eyed Man, and had seen, she thought, the truth behind façade.  She knew C'kayah had already begun to pull the levers, loosing wheels into motion across his city-spanning network.  Leaving him in the dark would serve no one's purpose.

 

Besides, given the trouble at the Quick Sand, his company seemed most welcome.  Momodi had given her leave, perhaps she would stay late...

 

She tried the front door; it was unlocked, a good sign.  "C'kayah!" she called as the door swung open.  There he was, standing in the entryway looking as debonair as ever.  Long hair brushed back, slightly loose with the perfect amount of carefree mess.  Loose richly embroidered tunic showing just enough of the taut form beneath.  She smiled—he was pouring wine from a bottle into two empty glasses sitting on the small table in the foyer.  "Now, you were saying something about having information fo... Aya?" his voice raised slightly in surprise; his eyes offered a confused blink as the Hyur dashed breathlessly into his room, interrupting he and his guest.

 

A lovely Miqo'te woman had quickly side-stepped away from the door.  Aya never could place Keeper and Seeker, and in the moment she really didn't care: plan B was off the table, and she was disappointed.  She turned her gaze back to C'kayah, blonde eyebrows raised in an expression of obviousness: just why wouldn't Aya be barging into his office at this hour?

 

"Busy?" a grin pulled playfully at her pursed lips as she glanced between the two.

 

C'kayah let out an amused laugh, despite the light blush rising in his cheeks: he was never one to be caught off guard for long.  With a quick flourish he produced a third wine glass, filling it from the bottle as he made introductions.  "Aya, this is an ally of mine, Vi of the Vipers.  And this is my very good friend Aya Foxheart.  Its sort of fortuitous that you came by, Aya, I was just talking to Vi about the artifacts.  And Vi, you can say almost anything in front of Aya, I trust her."

 

Aya gladly accepted the wine glass from his hand, raising it to her grinning lips for an anxious sip.  "Mmmm, oh that's just perfect~" she purred in her own pleased tone reflected in the smile that flashed across red lips, "I can only have a sip, though.  I'll have to go back on shift soon..."  One could never say Aya was incapable of making her own quick escapes, and providing her own useful fictions.

 

The look of Vi's expression had changed entirely since that first surprised instant of Aya's entry.  Her eyes were wide and bright, and she stared agape at Aya, watching as the blonde pulled her cap from her head, and shook her head to allow her ponytail fall free.  With an exhale of satisfaction Aya turned her gaze to Vi, her voice carrying in its pleasant, light, Ishgardian accented tones, "Its a pleasure to meet you Vi!"

 

C'kayah was distracted, a perturbed look on his face as he held his finger to his ear: link pearl, they'd both seen it before.  Vi took advantage of the break, "Sorry... sorry, did you say Aya, Aya Foxheart?"

 

Aya nodded in reply, with a soft laugh.  "They do call me Foxheart!  Aya it is!"

 

Vi's smile grew brighter yet, "I've been looking for you!  Its rather a wonderful coincidence that you turn up here."  She chuckled excitedly to accompany the bright, delighted note of her voice. 

 

Aya smiled sheepishly, there was a time when people had been excited to meet her, but that was long ago (or so it seemed to a woman of her youth) in a life that she barely recognized.  "Oh?  Should I be worried?"

 

The Miqo'te waved her hand dismissively, "Pish posh, don't be so ridiculous!" she took a sip of her wine, before seeming to interrupt herself in order to continue, "Not unless you are a pile of turmeric or a bit of coumerin!"  She stepped forward, offering her hand.  "Its quite a pleasure to meet you though, you oft work in the Sands, no?"

 

Aya looked thoughtful for a moment, "Mmmmm... no... I don't think I am either of those!"  She winked while grinning, "but I do work at the Quick Sand!  I'm on break right now, Madame will expect me back before too long though."

 

"That is, if the ruffians don't chase me out... you should see the grief I am getting, C'kayah!"

 

C'kayah's distraction ended rather suddenly, "Grief?  You?

 

Vi's anxious expression brightened once more, "Yes, yes, I knew I knew you!" A brief giggle passed her lips, "You are Ser Crofte's friend, if memory serves.  Oh... she is such a dear, dear woman.  That is... I seem to recall her mentioning you."  She covered her mouth, shaking her head as if frustrated, "Oh, but sometimes my poor little brain gets so scrambled!"

 

Aya nodded with a warm smile, "Oh yes, of course!  Ser Crofte and I are good friends!"

C'kayah listened, but seemed less interested in Ser Crofte.  He cast a curious glance to Vi before addressing Aya, "Anyway, what brings you here tonight?  Business or pleasure?"

 

Aya let out an exasperated breath as she nodded back toward C'kayah. "That 'Lady' Primrose," she said through clinched teeth, "You may know her as Evangeline.  She's gone and riled the whole city against Ishgardians.  I'm surprised you haven't seen it yourself."

 

Perhaps C'kayah had seen it, or at least heard of it, but he just rolled his eyes in shared exasperation, "That woman would ask for oil to put out a fire," he scowled.  "But I don't expect much more from one of Vann's girls," the tone was as askance as the annoyed look he offered.

 

"That's exactly what she did!  And that's why I'm here!" she waved her wineglass around a bit, showing signs of agitation before taking another, calming sip. 

 

Vi smiled silently, but began fidgeting almost immediately.  A terrible storm of fidgits, hopping from one foot to the other rather anxiously as if she had more to say, but not wanting to interrupt.  She went so far as to bite her lower lip, looking from Aya to C'kayah in agony.

 

Aya seemed to regain focus upon her original train of thought: "At the same event I witnessed your man.  He was addressing an entire crowd about the dangers of Dravanian influence." 

 

"You mean the man with half an eye?" asked C'kayah with a look of serious curiosity.

 

"That's the one." Aya added with a nod.

 

"If he did it once," C'kayah purred, the plot already spinning in his mind, "He'll likely do it again..."  He glanced to Vi, "That might be a good lead to approach him about my stash of artifacts, no?"

 

Aya glanced to Vi as well.  So that was her role, though she seemed intent upon obscuring it in Aya's presence.  Aya was of similar mind: their plan relied upon secrecy and discretion.  If Vi were helping sell the word of C'kayahs artifacts she could not realize their counterfeit origin, or who C'kayah's patroness was in the scheme.  It was an easy matter to turn things around—it was a role she was used to playing.   It would be another useful fiction.  "I'm sure he will again." she added, somewhat dryly with a nod and a smile, ready to play the information broker—sometimes it seemed that her entire life were a useful fiction.

 

"It didn't take long for Evangeline to decide to rile up the crowd.  It didn't go very well.  Honestly, I'm just glad that I made it out of there."

 

C'kayah quirked an eyebrow, "Did she make it out?"

 

Both, however, turned their sudden attention to Vi who was very nearly hurting herself with the forcefulness of her lip-bite.  She was squirming with an anxious excitement: her hands clasping and unclasping as she appeared as antsy and restless as a little school girl.

 

Aya blinked slowly, her eyes-widening.  "Is everything alright, Vi?"

 

The Miqo'te leaped at the opportunity, blurting out, "No!  I mean... er..." she seemed embarrassed at her own outburst; a blush spreading anxiously over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.  She played with the hem of her tunic and looked up at Aya with an apologetic air, "I mean... it's just... I... I've heard so many rumors lately, and I...." she seemed more sheepish than ever.  "Well, I haven't been able to visit Crofte myself... you see.. I uh..." she dropped her voice as though she were ashamed to add any more.

 

"I heard she might have married her Beau and... and I wanted to wish her a congratulations but... Gods help me, I can't remember his bloody name, and if I send... send... send a gift with card... I mean, I'll look the fool if I don't know who to send it to!  What's his name again?"  She scratched her head, the question finally escaping.

 

Aya tilted her head, eyes-still wide as she blinked with some astonishment.  "Ser Crofte?  Taeros?" she blinked some more.

 

"Yes!  Jameson!  Thank you!" Vi smiled brightly and looked to C'kayah, "I am sorry for the interruption."

 

Aya shook her head with a quiet mutter, "I sure hope she didn't..."

 

Vi's sharp ears still took notice, "Oh? Well, that's a talk for another time!  And we will have to talk, I rather like you."

 

Aya grinned back to Vi, her body seeming to relax for a moment.  "It would be my pleasure!" came the pleasant and cheerful reply.  She took another sip of the deep red wine.

 

C'kayah looked back and forth between them, slowly coming to realize that he was presented with a rare opportunity: normally one did not get to see two masters playing senet with one another.

 

Vi smiled warmly as she took a seat in one of the waiting chairs, "O no, miss.  The pleasure is all mine, I assure you."  She retreated into the confines of the ghastly red velvet, "I'll leave you two to it..." she said with a quiet smile.

 

C'kayah turned back to Aya, his eyebrows raised and an amused grin still apparent on his features. "You spoke to the man?" he asked.

 

Aya gave her head a quick shake, "No, no.  I was just in the crowd while he was speaking.  But, well... I know you were interested in knowing more about him, so I took the opportunity to watch."

 

He replied with a nod, "I am.  Thank you.  I have something for you, by the way..." He grasped gently at her arm, and walked her toward a hallway that lead deeper into the apartment.  He turned  his most polite and graceful smile back toward Vi apologetically, "Please excuse us, this will take just a moment." 

 

Vi nodded, her smile still pleasant and soft, "No trouble."

 

C'kayah and Aya vanished down the hallway, the sound of her heels echoed through it as they entered one of the back chambers.  He lead her to a bookshelf, grasping something upon it with the rustle of paper.  Drawing it down he presented the parcel to her with a smile.  "I found this in Limsa last week.  I immediately thought you'd fine it interesting."

 

She lifted the parcel, grinning brightly as she turned it around in her hand.  "Should I open it now..?"

 

C'kayah merely nodded, beaming with a Cheshire-like grin.

 

Aya opened the parcel, careful not to rip or tear at the packaging.  Pulling back the edge of wrapping paper she laid eyes upon a necklace of exquisite sapphire: a hue that seemed to reflect the very blue of her eyes.  She gasped softly.  It was not the earrings she so dearly desired, but something so far out of her own reach she could not help but hold her breath.

 

As the Miqo'te watched, Aya's eyes lit up like a flash.  In that moment the sparkle of the gemstone was nothing compared to the bright blue of her eyes.  But, when lifting the necklace to look at it closer she revealed that it was there as a distraction - a rich gift though it was - to obscure an even more expensive bauble behind it.  A miniature aetheryte crystal letting off a low glow. Affixed to it was a small note in C'kayah's handwriting, "In case of danger."

 

"Oh... my..." the sight seemed to have stolen her voice.  "I...

C'kayah, you shouldn't have!"  She grinned back toward him, her eyes narrowing mischievously, "Or maybe you should have... Oh, but I can't keep you, you have company!"

 

He grinned with satisfaction, drawing his hands up to her shoulders.  "And you have to get back to work."  Useful fiction at work once more.

 

"Don't worry, I'll come bring you dinner sometime soon.  You and I have a lot to catch up about."

 

She smiled softly, letting out a happy breath, not quite a sigh, "That sounds just exquisite."  She let the pleasant note hang in the air for a moment, before she shifted her weight on her feet, and the tone of the conversation back toward the business that had brought her here.

 

"So... I remember you were trying to determine what his angle could be.  But.. I noticed something that may open up more possibilities."

 

He raised his eyebrows.

 

"I believe he is an actor," she said with a cool certainty that seemed to dispel doubt.  "An actor from Ishgard, specifically."

 

C'kayah pursed his lips, turning the thought of it over in his head.  "Now that is interesting." he said.  "I imagine he must be a very successful one..."

 

Aya shook her head, "Talented, perhaps, I am not so sure about successful.  That assumes that no one is backing him financially, which seems unlikely."  She leaned close, her voice soft, almost a whisper, "I can't place him, but there's something about his manner of speech that is so familiar.  It sounds like he belongs on the stage.  Besides that, everything just adds up:  Everyone who has dealt closely with him think she is acting the part of an adventurer, but something always seems off about it.  Consider his style: he made a flamboyant, flash powder entry.  His costume is like that of the stage: distinct, covered in buckles, all black leather.  There's nothing practical about it.  The way he draws up the crowd, speaking to drive them toward a desired end.  Its like a scene from a script.  His hair, his eyes.  All of it.  He's crafted a character to play on the grandest stage. He speaks as someone trained in Ishgardian oratory, that much I know for sure.  I am almost certain he is an actor, almost."  She nearly bit the final words off, she was far more certain than that.  To her, there was no doubt.

 

C'kayah mused, "Curious."  He wasn't sure what that would mean for their scheme, but he had rarely seen Aya so adamant about anything.  "That raises more questions than it answers, but I never thought this sort of foreign theater would be easy to grasp..."

 

She nodded along with him, "It could mean many things.  His tone was serious, he has the crowd convinced that he is trying to stop the Dravanian threat.  He has turned them against the authorities.  As far as I can tell there are three possibilities:"

 

 

"One: he is sincere, and backed by his own wealth and that of allies."

 

 

"Two: He is acting to seek some personal advantage, perhaps by sewing chaos in the city."

 

 

"Three: He is a Heretic seeking to empower his masters."

 

She drew herself up a bit, "sadly, I don't think we can draw any firm conclusions yet about who is behind him.  But I suspect he is the front for something deeper."

 

She let out a breath, "But, I suppose that is for you to figure out, isn't it..."

 

C'kayah nodded in agreement, "We don't know yet at least.  It gives me a lot to go off of, though.  Thank you, Aya."

 

She nodded, her warm smile returning.  "Thank you so much again.  I'll see you soon, maybe later tonight?" she asked with a hopeful innocence.

 

"I hope so!" he purred with a smile. "If not tonight, then in the next few days.  Its good picnic weather if the sun picks up a bit."

 

She beamed, "Perfect!  I can show myself out!"  She turned, tucking the parcel under her arm as she walked back out the way they had come, followed close behind by C'kayah.  "Any time, of course.  I can't wait to see how that necklace looks with those eyes of yours... Until next time, Menphina guide your steps."

 

Aya greeted Vi as she re-entered the foyer, "A pleasure meeting you Vi!  Take care of him tonight!"  She grinned, adding a playful wink before lifting her wine glass from the table to drain it with one more drink.

 

Vi looked slightly confused, "I doubt he needs any taking care of... be well, Aya!" 

 

Aya grinned as she set down the wine glass.  "Of course you don't..." she laughed to herself, while slipping her hair back into her cap before stepping into the night's chill. 

 

Any thought of escaping the Quick Sand for the evening stood dashed, but that was C'kayah.  He left her with a lovely, thoughtful, and luxurious gift-and the ephemeral promise of a picnic that would never happen.  As the door closed behind her she let out a quiet sigh, and walked back into the torch-lit darkness.

 

[A thank you to C'kayah and Vi! (L'vi Lyrre) for this RP, and allowing me to post it as a story ]

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][A Hidden Idea - The Scales Part 10][/align]

 

 

It was an easy matter to drop another letter in for C'kayah; he would find it waiting in his daily, or near daily round up of messages from the Quick Sand.

 

She wrote it, as she so usually did, upon the decorative pink stationary she had first used out of necessity, and now out of desire.  Her handwriting was exquisite, almost a decorative artwork in and of itself, with swooping styling she had been so carefully taught by her mother.

 

A light spritz of perfume left it smelling unmistakably of her.  He would know.

 

Dearest C,

 

Spring is here, at last!  The sun's warmth brings with it such brightness and cheer. Not yet the blaze of summer, but away with winter's chill!  It has been so long and I'm enjoying it so!  I still dream of Costa, but things are looking up.

 

Oh, did you know I am still looking for it?  I'm sure you remember what I mean~~  I think I have looked everywhere!  Wouldn't it be nice if lost things just flew home like pigeons?  Or, do you remember the fairy tale? If they left a trail of bread crumbs?  Though, I guess that didn't work for them either.  ~~ALAS~~  Someone should find a way to make the bread crumbs reappear, or else I fear I shall never find it.

 

Thank you for the loveliest time, I cannot wait to wear the necklace.  I pray to have the opportunity soon.  I hope that things have been as well for you!

 

By the way, I so admire your gift from last week.  It's given me such solace in your absence, as if I know that despite my vain search, I shall always be able to find you, and you me.  

 

You Always Know Where to Find Me,

~Foxy

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center]Reminisces of an Ishgardian Dancer[/align]

 

It was the evening before a holiday-a late night for most of the city's employed.  The theater was packed, a full house waiting in anticipation for the show to begin.  It was a newer theater, as far as new went in Ishgard.  Ensconced firmly in the lower levels, it primarily served for the entertainment of the lower class.  Those seeking a little warmth in the city of Frost.  An escape from dull boredom, with performance energetic and exciting.  They knew tonight would not disappoint—they knew who was performing.

 

The murmuring of the packed house grew quiet as lantern lights dimmed.  The quiet became silence as the curtain began to rise.  Aya had always been exotic in Ishgard: a fair-haired, blue-eyed blonde in a city where they were uncommon, if not unheard of.  Nearly as tall as an Elezen maiden, but possessed of a voluptuous attention-seeking Hyuran figure.  She stood at the base of a large stage that thrust outward into the theater's seating area.  With the balcony filled, the house was now home to several hundreds waiting anxiously to have their attention stolen.

 

She appeared in full costume of light-blue and white.  Long, heavy skirt, a rigid bodice that curved inward to snug a narrow waist.  A light-blue veil fell across her eyes, held up by a matching mesh cap, which also supported a white mesh veil enclosing long blonde locks that fell down her back.  A somewhat suggestive take upon a recognizable costume: that of a particular style of Halone's celebrant.

 

The quiet lingered a moment longer, before she began a sauntering stage-walk toward the end of the stage.  One foot crossed the other, lending an exaggerated sway to prominent hips, with the sound of skirt-hidden high heels striking the deck with each step.  The crowd became more excited: whistles joined raucous jeering.

 

A violinist from the pit struck a note; the pitch sounded languid yet solemn as it fell across the quiet hall.  Aya clasped her hands together and raised her chin.  She sung out in her high lusty mezzo-soprano voice.  The song,  paean to the goddess—a hymn sung upon the tongue of every Ishgadrian child.  She praised Halone's wisdom, her strength, and grace.  There were more playful, rowdy jeers from the crowd - this was not what they had come for, but, no doubt, they knew it could not last.

 

The second verse began as the first, torn from the well worn hymnal.  But rather than ask for Halone's grace and protection, the starlet sung, asking to whom she should turn for a little fun; an exciting evening.  Her hands unclasped.  She cocked her hips, resting her left hand upon the upward tilt.  She sung another verse:

 

And whom should I ask for a little warmth, make that a little heat.

Who will make me feel alive tonight?

To be a little frisky beneath the sheets.

Who will make me feel better than just alright?"

 

She raised her right hand to blow a kiss to the audience amidst a low cheer, before tearing the veil from her eyes and tossing it from the stage.  It was irreverent.  It was impious.  According to the See, it was illegal.  There was a staccato click of relays being thrown, followed by the low rhythmic humming to life of magitek crystals.

 

Her eyes were lined with heavy, dark stage makeup.  Long lashes begged and called for attention.  She turned her gaze, vivacious and sensual from one end of the house to the other.  In that moment hundreds focused upon naught but the charming blue eyes of the dancer before them.  Sacrilege: the sullying of the holy word, and the holy image.  Heretics and Witches would be dealt with by the state, but in that moment they could only envy the bewitching power of one performer's eyes.

 

She lifted her skirt with a high kick; her finger unhooked the quick-release, dropping the heavy, ruffled fabric aside to reveal the tight, mini-skirt of her costume below, which sparkled in the intensity of magitek lighting.  With a spin she cast aside the heavy bodice, revealing the matching bustier as the musicians brought the hall to life.  The chorus of backup dancers joined her on stage.  The audience cheered, their rapturous attention invigorated the girl: she lived for these moments.

 

What was a little irreverence, really?  Perhaps it was ignorance or laziness on the part of the city's inquisitors.  Perhaps it was just friends in the right places, or the right palm's greased.  The baudy theaters of the lower levels entertained those without hope, and those for whom those above had little care.  Perhaps it was simply no matter to them.  Of course, the private boxes that lined the sides of the theater were guarded by mesh screens to hide the identity of those who could afford it.  Tonight they were full, as they were most nights she performed: even House-members understood the value of pleasant diversion.

 

The evening continued, each act performing with an energy and passion matched only by the appreciation of an audience hungry for distraction.  Aya moved on and off stage, quickly changing costume and makeup between sets, catching quick, excited conversation with fellow cast, and members of the crew.  These moments were always among her favorite - the energy and speed with which everyone worked, the way frustrations and annoyances were so often cast aside as the focus came upon the show. 

 

At last they prepared for the show's finale: Aya always asked to be left out of the penultimate act, to ensure that everything was perfect for the finale's spotlight.  The curtain again rose in silence, followed by a growing cheer.  She wore what they referred to as Ul'dahn costume.  Crafted from silks and the finest cloth available in the city: a bare halter top, decorated with straps holding numerous tiny bells.  A second piece hung from her wide hips, more rigid and belt-like, it dove below her midriff.  Sheer silk hung from the sides of this like a partial-skirt.  Strings of beads and metal loops hung from the front.   (Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words).  In her hands she held a large, sheer, matching, silken veil, a similar smaller piece held over her eyes by a golden circlet that wrapped around her head, tight enough to not slip loose in the dance that was to come.

 

Her wrists and ankles were adorned with numerous piece of jewelry.  Some were the gifts of wealthy patrons who would want to see their baubles displayed so prominently in her performance.  She always wondered if they realized there were a dozen or so others watching carefully with the same intent.  A necklace adorned the smooth slope of her collar, falling as it did toward the proactively displayed decolletage below.  A gift from her family, she used it to hold numerous additional rings.  From the audience one young man squinted his eyes, staring at the necklace until he spied a plain steel loop hung upon it. He let out a cheer joining the others. 

 

She managed to contain her own excitement, her features expressionless as she waited for the cue.  The music had started, but only at the proper moment did she open her hands out to the side and begin the rhythmic side-to-side swing of her hips.  Every movement matched the beat and sound of the accompanying music.  The dance was mostly choreographed, with subtle improvisation and improvement from performance to performance.  Every movement of her body caused the bells, chains, anklets, rings, and bracelets, that adorned her to jingle and chime.  True Ul'dahn dancers adorned themselves in intricate body jewelry, and accompanied themselves with the play of finger cymbals.  Their emulators in the frozen tower city of Ishgard could only dream.

 

Her dance carried her out into center-stage.  In the moment she forget the crowd, despite the noise.  She forgot the stage lights, despite the heat.  She forgot her costars and the crew behind her; she forgot the musicians, her patrons, her employer.  Everything faded away except herself, and the music that filled her.  Inspired, she moved with an extraordinary grace and an easy agility that belied the difficulty, and athleticism of the display.  She spun, she leaped, she posed.  Her flowing, moving dance exhibited flexibility, nimbleness, and a deceptively lithesome strength. 

 

There could be no denying the lascivious and arousing nature of her performance: for many in the audience that was all they cared about.  But the sensual display was without crassness.  To her it was art.  Poetry: music in motion.  She imagined her body as one with the music; the rhythmic motions of shoulders and hips as the thrum of percussion; the movement of her arms and hands as the bow draws along the string; the quick shimmy of shoulders, the undulations of her mid-riff, as the strumming of strings.  This was not an irreverent song sung to amuse.  This was not a dance to thrill and titillate—this, to her, was an art she performed as much for herself, as for the audience.

 

When she dropped her body, split-leg, fully against the ground, she brought her motion to a sudden and complete stop.  She turned her body to the side, raising her legs briefly into the air, to join in the quiet peal of an oboe reed.  She came to rest on her knees, lowering her upper body to the stage.  The light went dark.  She knew silence as well as sound.

 

She rose again, triumphant, with a single motion to her feet.  She grinned as the music rose toward its climactic crescendo.  She danced with the fullness of her heart.  She danced with every last measure of strength.  She danced with a singular unity of body, spirit, and mind.  She embraced the moment.  When at last the music came to an end, the sound of her jingling costume ceased.  She stood amidst the fixated gaze of hundreds of eyes.  She breathed heavily, the only sound in that moment of near complete stillness.

 

The crowd roared to life once more.  She grinned.  She curtseyed.  She relished. She bathed in adulation, and attention.  She took it all in.

 

The fun would continue into the evening: first backstage.  She would be visited by admirer, after admirer.  There would be gifts, there would be endless praise, and hopeful, sometimes lust-filled gazes.  There would be fun, after-parties. There would be friends, there would be gossip, and there would be boys. 

 

There would also be the long walk home afterward; or more likely, not to home, but to the shop of Master Dunois, that old Duskwight smith.  She would crash with her brother, his apprentice, rather than face the wrathful scorn of her parents.  But that was a long way away yet, why worry?

 

 

 

The knife fell with a sudden chop.  Others followed slowly and lazily behind it.  "How many of these do we need?" she hollered in a voice only vaguely reminiscent of the performer upon the stage.  The reply came in the form of Jericho's Ala Mhigah brogue, "A few more dozen should do!"

 

She tried to blow a long strand of hair out of her eye.  "Why don't you work in the kitchen tonight?" she mouthed off in mock mimicry of the Lalafellan Proprietress.

 

At least she could always remember those moments, those precious moments, in that distant land, in that distant time, when she felt her true self.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][The Nightmare Cometh - The Scales Part Twelve][/align]

 

Part Eleven - The Master Forger - was written by C'kayah and can be found here.

 

It was a quiet afternoon down market.  At Madam Momodi's request, Aya had worked the morning shift.  Early visitors were mostly looking for a hearty breakfast and a cup of coffee.  It was a less rowdy shift than the evening; the patrons were distracted by thoughts of the busy day ahead, less moment for worrying themselves about the staff's accent. 

 

Besides, it bought her a free afternoon, and she used it to visit her favorite spot in Ul'dah: the bustling marketplace.  She was glancing down, admiring the rings adorning her fingers.  She'd purchased another just a few minutes earlier, and it filled her with a warm glow of satisfaction.  Her admiration was interrupted by a mellow buzzing in her ear.  A link pearl?  She thought she recognized the voice, but cupped her hand over her ear to make sure, "Enju?" she asked.

 

There was a pause before the voice of Kiht's associated resumed, "Well, it'll do..." he sounded disappointed, "I assume Kiht's already informed the pearl of Verad's disappearance..." there was more, but Aya didn't hear it.  She stopped mid-stride, the baggage born Roegadyn behind her nearly toppling her over.  She didn't hear his curses either as he pushed his way around her.

 

It couldn't be.  The last she knew Verad was bed-ridden.  Kiht had just invited her over to visit him, since he was stuck at home and unable to be about his daily business.  Kiht would have told her if anything had happened, right?  Right?  "Informed the pearl..." maybe that was it.  Aya was far from religious in keeping hers handy.  Perhaps Kiht had tried to tell her - the Keeper seemed to have her hands all too full at the moment.

 

Then again, maybe she had just misheard.  She tried to summon her voice, offering a faint stammer, "... Verad's what?" she managed to ask.

 

"He's missing." came Enju's almost immediate reply.  "And from the looks of it, certainly not beacuse of legality."

 

She was suddenly aware that she stood in the middle of the busy boulevard.  She glanced around bashfully, made a few quick apologies, and stepped aside.  She braced herself against a wall.  She closed her eyes, her voice soft though she struggled to keep it firm and steady, "Kiht told you this?"  She had to make sure, just one more time.

 

"She has, yes."

 

"For how long?" she asked.  Could he have just been misplaced?

 

"I've been informed three suns ago.  At least that long."

 

She closed her eyes, and rest her head against the wall.  She once more saw Verad's silent, scream of terror.  She was reliving the moment again, and again as Enju continued.

 

"I have questioned Ser Crofte about it..."

 

Crofte and Kiht, no doubt the Keeper would soon have Osric on the case as well.  She could once more hear their distant cries growing faint.  Verad transfixed in terror, held aloft as a sacrifice to the Dravanian Horde.  It was her nightmare: she was living it.  There could be no doubt.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Meanwhile in Ishgard][/align]

 

Rich black smoke bellowed from the tall, masonry stack of the solid stone structure.  Even in the lower levels, deep within the foundations of the Tower City, land was at a premium.  The one level shop was built of stone, covered by a sloped slate roof resistant to embers and sparks that would sometimes rise from the roaring furnace within.  Attached was a split-level home, modest, but warm and mostly dry.  It was a busy shop, passersby and neighbors could hear hammers ringing throughout the long hours of each and every day. 

 

Kael was familiar with the spot.  When he opened the door he was first greeted by the gentlemanly Duskwight owner of the property, Master Dunois.  His white hair was thin and long, covered by a handkerchief that looked rather out-of-place.  His features worn with the advance of age.  His arms and chest still bore the powerful muscles of his trade, though they too had grown stiff and drawn.  He offered a cheerful smile; the light of eyes that once bore the spark of a master smith, had long ago gone out.  Replaced by the dullness of a man worn down with the destitution of hope: his wife had passed away decades hence, and his only child, Lorraine, had vanished around the same time as Aya.  Worry and loneliness had scuffed away sheen off of the once inspiring man down, finding support in a feverish work schedule and the blissful bleariness of drink, but there seemed not an ounce of bitterness in his tired heart.

 

"Kael Tharintreu!" he exclaimed with a tone just as friendly as his smile.  He set down the tools with which he was working.  "Tell me, how is the wife?  How are your children?"

 

Kael allowed himself to smile, it was a subtle expression upon his chiseled features.  "They are well Master Dunois."  He was dressed well, well enough, at least.  Endless-winter had left linen an expensive import, and most were now reliant upon locally produced wool for every article of clothing.  Only a few could still afford linen cloth, and while his vest was worn, the dye still held.  Sign of a man of means, at least in these parts.  For this, he had his wife to thank. 

 

"Ah, wonderful, so wonderful." smiled the old man.  "Ah, ah, I am sure you are here to speak with your brother!  I'll leave you two!"  Kael nodded in gratitude, the Duskwight turned and walked through the shop toward his kitchen, and perhaps a taste of wine.

 

Within the shop a hammer fell—propelled by the burly, forceful muscle of the Highlander smith.  Osvald had always been large for his age, and had grown into a  beast of a man.  With club-like fists, fearsome arms, and a barrel chest whose muscles had developed through consistent hard work in ways that the field of battle simply could not avail.  His way was quiet: he had metal and stone upon which to take out his frustration.

 

When Kael entered his brother did not look up from his work.  Dressed in a thick blacksmith's apron, his arms were bare and dark.  Singed by embers and stained by soot, he seemed, as always, unmoved.  The hammer fell once more, a peal that tore piercingly through the shop. 

 

Kael stood for a moment, and nodded, his hands upon his hips.  "Osvald."

 

The hammer fell again, striking the red-hot spearblade against the edge of the anvil.  Tempered, shaped, formed.  What had once been raw iron would be worked, at last, into the form of a Dragoon's armament. 

 

"Osvald." he repeated somewhat louder.

 

Osvald lifted the hammer once more.  Kael flinched at the anticipated fall, but the tool had not budged.  The smith looked up.

 

"What do you want?" he asked in Ishgardian, with a tone of quiet annoyance.

 

"I just want to speak to my brother," replied the elder to the younger in the brogue of their native tongue.

 

"You could have come later," he replied in kind, using the language of their blood-kin, "Some of us must work for a living."

 

Kael, stoic, was unmoved, "And some of us must tend to our families."

 

The smith huffed.  The hammer fell.  Kael flinched, but did not move.

 

"Have you heard from Aya?"  Osvald lifted his eyes, the hammer at rest.  He looked at Kael - a look that spoke more than words between brothers.

 

He turned his eyes toward the forge.  Toward the box that hummed quietly; the gears within whirled and turned upon an endless cycle driving the bellows that fed the forge.  It was the auto-bellows that his teenager sister had repaired in the dark of the night, years ago.  A gift, a repentance, a way of making up for all of the trouble she had caused him in the early years of his apprenticeship.  It hummed, but it always ran.  He treated it like a member of the family: freshly greased and oiled.  It was something like an alter, it always reminded him of her, and sometimes he worried what it would mean if it ever broke down.

 

"I have not." came the quiet reply in his deep, heavy voice.  "What makes you ask?"

 

"I saw one of her friends earlier today, at lunch.  I could have sworn I heard her say Aya's name.  I thought perhaps she had written again."

 

Osvald looked back to his work.  He clenched his teeth together.  How badly he wished that were the case.  "Not that I know of," he said with a voice that refused to share his emotion.

 

Kael tensed.  He always seemed in-control.  In control of his surroundings, in control of the situation, but most of all, in control of himself.  He drew his hand up, fingers drawing across rough, fair stubble.  "Why doesn't she write us?  Why doesn't she tell us what is going on?  What is she even up to out there?"

 

Osvald looked up.  "She's not out there for us, Kael." 

 

Kael scowled, "Maybe not.  But she is 'of Tharin', yet.  By blood, by birth, by everything that matters.  She is our sister, she could write us at least."

 

Osvald's gaze was steely.  Blue eyes, like all three of the siblings, capable of vicious piercing stares, as well as the full depth of warmth.  "Tharintreu." he said, simply stating their Ishgardian-adoptive name.  That first borne by their distant cousins settled in the city generations afore.

 

Few things were more offensive to Kael - the very name had been forced upon them by circumstance.  It robbed them of purpose, of being, of the very essence of who they were.  However; he contained the snarl that grew within his chest.  Osvald was not the object of his frustration.  They had fought before, but that was not his intention this afternoon.

 

"You've heard the news?" he quipped, rapidly moving the subject forward.  He unfolded his arms, pacing slightly, "Refugees in Ul'dah have revolted.  Mobbed against the gil-whoring Lalafelen who run the place.  She could be among them!  Maybe she was?  Why doesn't she tell us."  His voice had grown energetic.  He lifted his hands, fists clenched tight.  He wanted to scream with frustration, but he unleashed all he could in a grunt. 

 

Osvald stood silent, stone-faced. His eyes followed his brother's movement.  Kael continued, "That is our place.  That is where we belong. Not in this Twelve-forsaken pit of a city.  (Even Halone herself refuses to bless these ingrates!)"

 

"No, not here, but amongst our people, standing ready to reclaim our homeland.  Where our banner can fly once more!  Perhaps she has even laid eyes herself upon Tyr Abania."  His expression was something of a smile.  Such a note of high optimism, of hopes and dreams despite the insurmountable obstacles.  It had always been foremost in his heart. 

 

Osvald still did not budge, but he answered, "You could serve a House.  You could become the soldier you always wanted to be.  You do not need to leave for that." 

 

Now Kael snarled, his arm swung out in Osvald's direction.  "I serve a House, and you will not forget.  The only house that matters to you, or I.  The House of our Fathers.  There is none before it. Never forget our father.  Never, Osvald, forget our duty!"

 

The smith grunted with a defiant gesture of his hammer-wielding hand.  "Still stuck on the same godsdamned thing.  Always, aren't you.  Chase your dreams, Kael, but I have a life to lead and so does Aya." 

 

This, Kael was used to taking in stride. He nodded, his body relaxing somewhat.  "I will live the way for which we were born.  Father expects no less."

 

The quiet smith remained silent.  He knew how right Kael was.

 

"A living, Osvald?" Kael asked, as he began to examine the ongoing work in the shop.  Numerous practical, every-day metal objects of use in this quarter of the city, along with a handful of bladed weapons in various states: spearheads, dirks, and short-swords.  "And good work it looks to be, brother.  Perhaps someday you shall make hammers and axes that make Rhalgar smile."  He looked to his brother with a grin. 

 

Osvald glanced up, but said nothing.  Kael shrugged, turning back toward the shop's entrance.  He stopped as Osvald reached across the anvil, grasping a finished dirk.  He tossed the blade casually; Kael caught it by the handle.  "The master believed it was time I use my own trademark."

 

Kael turned the weapon over, looking down at the base of the blade just above the guard.  There, blackened and engraved was a small slightly oblong square-shaped crow, its wings spread.  Just as it flew in their memories.  Kael nodded, testing the weight of the blade as he let out a breath that approached a laugh.  He looked back to Osvald with a fraternal smile—his brother reciprocated, happily.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][To Confront a Nightmare -The Scales Part Thirteen][/align]

 

Mother kneeled next to her, gently washing away the blood from her face.  "Aya, you must know that, 'getting into a scrap' with your brothers is no way for a proper young lady to act."  The little tow-headed girl didn't seem to care.  Her eyes looked away from her mother's with a childish determination. Her fists clenched.   Father stood several feet away, but his expression was far from upset.  Instead, a mischievous pride. Pride—an expression so rarely expressed for his only daughter.  "I don't know, dear..."  he said, "she was only protecting her brothers."

 

The woman rose, turning to face her husband with a look of displeasure.  She took the few steps toward him, speaking quietly, but not so quiet that Aya could not hear, "You shouldn't encourage her."  He shrugged, "There is time for her to be a proper lady yet."  His voice grew quiet, but proud, he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes.  "Just look at those eyes of hers; she's as fierce as those boys of ours."  Mother looked at him sharply, "Fiercer.  That's what worries me."

 

Aya's eyes were locked upon the leather-and-cloth wrapped object in her closet.  Oil-lantern light lapped at the walls with its gloomy illumination.  She had kept the weapon stowed in storage since her arrival in Ul'dah. Only once had she taken it out since then, and that was in a moment of hasty panic.

 

"Aya," she could hear C'kayah's shaken voice clear through the link pearl.  "Something has happened with Natalie.  Crofte could be in trouble."  She'd been in a hurry then, of half a mind to cut the spear free of its wrappings as she'd thrown on her riding gear.  Crofte was indeed in trouble, but not of the sort C'kayah feared.  When she arrived in Vesper Bay Crofte was surrounded by officials and armed men near the docks.  She was kneeling, silently, over the lifeless body of her former sister-in-arms: Ser Natalie.  The moment could not be struck from Aya's memory—the woman she had once relied upon as her bastion in this strange and foreign city lay prostrate, her life cut short by a marksman's deadly aim.  Aya could only be thankful that they had put things right between them before the end: she would never have forgiven herself otherwise. 

 

She carefully unwrapped the twine that kept cloth tightly bound around the metal spearblade.  It was of typical Gridanian quality: simple and efficient.  No ornamentation, just the cold, practical elegance of the Shroud.  It was so unlike its wielder, yet like her all the same.  She wiped the oil from it with a rag.  It would have to wait for the whetstone, sharpening could wake those in the rooms next door.

 

The Wildwood instructor stood a good seven fulms tall.  Wiry, powerful, and bearing an expression of serene contempt only summonable by Elezen, he was the very picture of a Wood Wailer.  This most recent crop of recruits seemed a particularly feckless bunch.  "Thrust!" he spoke.  Although loud, very loud in fact, it could not be fairly described as a yell.  There was no excitement, no anxiousness, just the dullness of a long exercised routine.  "Again!  Put your backs into it." 

 

He strolled about behind the group, watching each one individually as they stepped into a lunging thrust against the practice dummies.  Each had been given a practice spear: worn but sharp, not unlike the instructor himself.  He paused, paying particular attention to the voluptuous blonde Hyur who could not have looked more out of place.  Eyes narrowed behind his mask.  He knew he recognized her.

 

"Ho!" he raised his hand, bringing the exercise to a stop.  "Blondie," he addressed the young woman as she turned around with a look of wide-eyed surprised.  "I recognize you.  I've seen you serving drinks for Miounne at the Canopy."  He lifted his eyebrows, a slight tilt to his head.  "What is it you're doing here?  This isn't a weekend party-trip, lass."  He paused upon the final word, playfully mimicking Hyur intonation and idiom.

 

She looked back at him with an expression both anxious and sheepish.  Her hands shifted upon the spear, demurring and feminine.  In that moment she looked nothing at all like a lancer.  There was not much pity in the Elezen's hardened heart, but he felt its pangs nonetheless.  "There, there.  No harm done."  He paused again, before asking in earnest, "But why are you here?"

 

Her thoughts flickered to the day before.  She was serving drinks to a group of friendly regular customers.  The mostly Miqo'te members of a band of sell-swords: they always laughed and carried on in such good cheer.  She'd known them for nearly the full two moons she had spent in Gridania.  After serving a round, one of them stopped her, the Alpha Female as she was known, Shizu.  "Say, Aya!" she asked, her cheeks red with the flush of wine.  "You didn't leave Ishgard to be a barmaid, did you?"  Aya remembered turning around, looking stumped.  Her heart beat a little faster, she knew the answer already, but would... "Why don't you come join us?" 

 

And so, she found herself at the Wailers Guild, applying to be taught the art of the Lance.  "I don't want to be just a barmaid any more!" she replied in her heavy accent, with voice bearing a sudden tinge of resistance.  The Elezen nodded, doubtingly.  He drew his long, slender fingers down the sides of his jaw.  "Very well then.  Show me why you think you can be a Lancer." 

 

She nodded, and turned back toward the dummy.  She shifted her grip upon the spear shaft, relaxing and then tightening.  She lowered her body, legs tensing like coiled springs.  For a moment she felt the spirit fill her, the spirit of blood, of family, of pride.  Of everything she had so disdained for so long.  Reflecting on the moment later she decided it was not fear of humiliation, it was not pride.  It was the sense of future, of not wanting it to be cut-off short from the destiny that awaited her.  She was ready to be more.  Wasn't that why she had escaped?  She was not just a barmaid: she knew that much.  But in that moment she found herself without thought; only the clarity of action.

 

Her legs were powerful and strong.  She was a climber, a dancer, a leaper.  She sprung from the position like the bolt of a crossbow, lunging toward the target with a sudden burst of speed and power.  She did not know what she was doing, she had never wielded a spear before.  But into the strike she emptied every last reserve of strength: a single startling high-pitched cry that screamed of a future that would not be denied.  The practice spear split the saw-dust filled bag, pierced the oaken stake behind it and imbedded itself deep within.

 

She took a quick jump backwards, looking as surprised as everyone.  Everyone, that is, except the Elezen instructor.  With an utter calm he stepped up to the dummy, gripping the shaft firmly with one hand.  He gave the spear a tug.  He grasped it with both hands, heaving upon the weapon that would not budge.  He turned his gaze upon Aya, who stood slack-jawed a few feet away.  "Very good." he said with a nod, before moving on to the next in line.

 

In the distance a group of Miqo'te spectators tittered and laughed.  One of them nudged Shizu playfully with his elbow, "What's that you said?  'Couldn't hurt to have a gorgeous blonde in the company?'"  They all snickered; they'd make something of the girl yet.

She carefully untied the leather thongs that held the wrapping around the spear's shaft.  The intense dryness of Ul'dah's climate was rough on wooden weapons.  The wood would dry out, crack, and eventually split.  If not cared for they could become a mortal liability.  She understood the stakes, didn't she?  A layer of oil, regularly applied, kept the moisture out.  The leather wrapping ensured that the oil itself would stay in place.  She began to clean off the oil, preparing the weapon for use.

 

The bright silver light of the full moon filtered through the Shroud's high canopy creating shadowy illumination on the forest floor.  For accustomed eyes it was enough to see by, barely.  The sound of numerous fleet footed runners moved along at a quick, steady pace.  They leapt obstacles, ducked branches, and watched their footing with an almost ethereal ease.  It was a pack activity, the most sacred and honored in the company: the Moon Run.  The leaders howled as they jogged, the new members struggled to keep their pace.  They could move no faster than the slowest, encouraged and bolstered by the presence and pacing of the others. 

 

The rascal Jack Swift liked to move in the trees.  He was true to his name: none were faster, especially in the wood.  He took to the trees like a squirrel bounding from branch to branch, where he would sit and wait with wise cracks and jibes for those who passed.  Just his way of offering encouragement.

 

Somehow these were the moments Aya always remembered.  The exertion, the rush of the hunt, and the sense of belonging with the other members of the Pack.  She had seen the Shroud only once as a child: and she had stared in bewildered amazement.  For years she had dreamed of seeing it again, of living in it, of learning its ways.  Now, with nothing but the moon to light her way, she scrambled through the depths of the forest at a pace few could imagine.  She was fast; quick and graceful.  She had taken to nothing else the Hungry Wolf did with quite so much ease.  Sometimes it seemed the undergrowth shifted out of her way, as if the forest wished to get to know her, just as badly as she wished to get to know it.  She was easier to out run on flat ground, but only a few of the forest-born Miqo'te could outpace her in this environment: Jack was among them.

 

They were, perhaps, not the quietest.  They were not the most numerous.  They were not the most skilled in arms.  But they moved with a swiftness no one could match.  They approached, struck, and vanished with a swiftness that terrified their quarry.  That was the way of the Hungry Wolf.

 

She set the weapon aside, along with a leather thong to tie it with for the ride.  She turned her attention to her armor: steel stud reinforced leather.  It was recently purchased, an update upon the leathers she had worn as a Hungry Wolf.  Really, she had just wanted something that would look better on her.  The sort of impulse buy that she never seemed to regret no matter how poor her finances.  She applied a little fresh oil, some of the leather was still being broken in.  It had not seen much use.

 

She had not been idle in the wake of Natalie's death.  She'd felt the call to ready herself, to return to the form she had left behind with the collapse of the Hungry Wolf.  Her sessions under the hot Thanalan sun were part practice, part performance, and part meditation.  Mental focus and clarity were impressed upon every Hungry Wolf fighter.  To clear the mind of distractions, to banish thought which tempted hesitation.  To act with decisiveness and reflex.  The heat of battle provided a simple choice: kill or be killed.  It felt all too natural to her.

 

She finished donning her riding clothes, and packed her armor for carrying.  She was just to visit Forgotten Springs to see if the Heretics holding Verad and his sellsword as prisoners had come that way.  They had reason to believe it was the case, but they did not yet know for sure.  It was just a fact-finding mission, but Aya knew there was more to it than that.  If, and when, they found Verad his life would hang on the balance of hours if not minutes.  There would be no time to waste, no moment for hesitation.  She would have to be ready.  She was ready.

 

Verad laughed; that deep joyous laugh of his.  She had listened to him regaling one person after another with his pitch: fine, indeed the finest, dubious goods to be found this side of Gyr Abania!  She had tried to hide her laughs and her giggles as she walked by carrying drink after drink for other patrons.  But, at last, the white-maned Duskwight had taken a seat, and it was her turn to be regaled.

 

She grinned to him, the amusement in her eyes impossible to hide.  "Madame!  Your very worst drink, in your very smallest serving!"  He raised his finger as a flourish, as if this were a well and practiced routine (which indeed it was).  She had laughed all the more, giggling her entire way back to the bar.  When she returned she offered a tiny shot glass intended for Lalafel, filled with Qiqirn Firewater.  He took stock of the drink, served without a hint of hesitation: this was unexpected.  For a moment he must have wondered just what he'd gotten himself into.  One swig later he knew all too well.

 

He gagged and she laughed: a friendship had been born.  Sometimes it seemed to her, that he never really knew her.  But she knew him, and worse, she cared about him.  He simply had that effect on people: a truly endearing man.

 

"Recklessness doesn't really suit you," that's what she remembered saying to Kiht just the day before.  The words had carried a warning barb, and one that seemed to wound the pride of the Keeper Huntress.  She and Aya had been friends for nearly a year, but only real associates for a short while.  Kiht had not much reason to trust her judgement: the bubbly barmaid suddenly turned serious, deadly serious in a moment of high drama.  Kiht paused, and then assented to caution. 

 

Now what would Kiht think?  Aya packed her Chocobo, freshly rented from a Porter, for the solo night-time ride to the edge of the Sagoli.  She was taking spear and armor, ready for whatever would come, whatever would pass.  Who was being reckless now?

 

She had reflected upon the stakes.  Staring at the spear as she held it in her hands.  The flicker of lamplight reflected off the hardened steel blade.  She wondered for a moment about her options.  She was under no obligation.  She was under no danger, no threat.  There was reason for caution.  But... she could not banish the nightmare from her memory.

 

The vision of Verad; his silent, terrified scream.  She could recall each scale and claw upon the drake rising before the sun, preparing to take its sacrifice.  She shuttered at the sensation.  The feeling of helplessness.  Verad was surrounded by so many who would come to his aid: from every side they had hacked, and slashed.  Sultan Sworn, Brass Blades, Moon Keepers, but something had not been right, none had been close enough, none were there in his moment of need.  Now, as the nightmare seemed to unfold in the reality before her, she could not banish the thought: he needs me. 

 

She had seemed to know this would happen from the very beginning.  It was why she was willing to help Kiht, why she was willing to risk her own safety.  She could not let a friend down in his moment of need.  She would face her nightmare.

 

There was no other way.  There was no choice to be made.  She breathed a little easier.

 

She mounted the Chococo, taking in a deep breath.  She was startled by a sudden voice behind her, Jericho the cook.  "Aya what in the hells are you doing?"  She turned in the saddle to look back upon him.  Her eyes were serious, "Tell Madame I shall not be making my shift tomorrow."

 

"But.. Aya..." he said, pleadingly.  "When will you be back?"

 

"As soon as I can," she replied curtly, before offering a warm smile. 

 

With a nudge of her heels she spurred the Chocobo forward.  Towards the Gates of Thal.  Towards the Sagoli.  Towards her nightmare.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][The Nightmare Ends - The Scales Part Fourteen][/align]

 

OOC Comment:

 

((These events occurred months ago, near the end of Verad's Scales of the Sands plot.  I've been waiting to write it up for a very long time, sorry for the delay!  There was a lot more material and V'aleera, Anstarra, and especially Orrin I'm sorry your characters actions and dialogue are mostly cut or generalized, but its already way too long and I am telling it from Aya's perspective.))

 

 

Theme Music!

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0PvZGVPiJU

 

 

The long ride gave the young woman more than enough room for reflection.  She watched the sight of a high moon rising, and then drifting steadily overhead as the minutes turned to hours upon the desert road as it wound its way through the heat of a Thanalan night.  Clouds on the far horizon flashed with the intense light and energy high in the atmosphere.  The image of dragons swooping through the cloudy heights, unleashing torrents of bright, searing breath lit her imagination. 

 

She passed within sight of Little Ala Mhigo's silhouette.  That refuge for her former countrymen, the camp where they had spent several moons so many years ago.  She had never been back.  She preferred not to. 

 

There was irony in the predicament.  How far had she come to escape the obsessions of the Tower City?  How much had she sacrificed upon the altar of freedom: to make of her life what she wished, and where she wished--far from the zealots of Halone and their willingness to sacrifice everything good in the pursuit of their mindless quest for victory in an endless war.  Yet, here that very war had found its way to her new threshold.  She kept the company of Dragoons.  She beheld the spectacle of Heretics preaching to the crowds of her adoptive home.  And now, what?  She rode, alone, through a desert night.  Armed to the teeth, prepared to bare steel against what?  The Dravanians and their faithful.

 

How far she had come. How little had changed.

 

Yet, she knew her cause was different.  She understood the stakes of the struggle in its whole.  The real, true dangers of the Horde that had been impressed upon her throughout her youth, and firsthand knowledge of what they were capable.  Still, that was not her battle.  Every time she closed her eyes all she could see was him.  Her Duskwight friend, lashed by chains to to a high stone tower.  Bearing him to the heavens, a sacrifice to the scaled gods of Heresy.  That nightmare that had haunted her for a moon, and driven her to action otherwise incomprehensible.

 

She wondered, at times, if Verad ever thought of her.  She figured in his mind she was little more than a simple, pleasant smile.  But every stride of her Chocobo through the waning night air revealed a further truth.  The jingle not of jewelry, but of armor.  The sound of a woman prepared for battle—for war.

 

There was resolve.  A bounty of courage sprung from the understanding that she had no choice.  Step by further step she drew closer to her nightmare.  To the visage of all she feared. 

 

[align=center][/align]

 

The last time she had approached Forgotten Springs had been under such different circumstances.  She had been part of a small party, riding in a Chocobo-drawn caravan.  Every need had been taken care of; she was there on the behest of the Grand Companies, engaged as a model in a series of morale and recruiting promotions.  All she'd had to do was smile and look good for the artists and their equipment.  It had been a wonderful time, despite the heat, and despite the sand.  The work hadn't been as easy as she'd hoped, but at least she had been paid for it!

 

Now she approached in altogether different circumstances.  A sentry posted to the gate hailed her.  The sun had just begun to rise over the distant mountains.  Long rays giving hint to the sand of the scorching heat that awaited. There was no gil or fun in the offing this visit.

 

"Aya Foxheart." she answered, "I visited a month ago, I am sure someone can vouch for me."

 

The sentry nodded, raising a curious eyebrow.  She recognized the Hyur, it would be difficult not to.  She was waved on through.

 

"Appeal to their pride, but do not overly flatter them."

 

She tried to remember Kiht's words of advice.  She knew so little of dealing with tribal Miqo'te - and without the protection of an entourage and gil she knew not what could avail her if she made offense.

"Reference Azeyma a few times, and ask if they have any recent kills.  Ask for details of the hunt."

 

She hitched her Chocobo to an empty post.  She looked out across toward the quickly rising sun.

 

"Tis like any social setting, but with different cultural values."

 

The words were meant as comfort and encouragement.  But how very different, indeed, were those values.

 

She glanced about.  The entire night had passed during her ride.  She had a lot more to accomplish.  Verad's life could very well depend on it.

 

[align=center][/align]

 

It had not been an easy matter to engage the U'ranika and her huntresses in the search, but Aya knew that if anyone could find Verad and the Heretics it would be they.  U'ranika had already confirmed that a party matching their description had been spotted entering the Sagoli suns afore, and it was now only a matter of locating where in the desert they could now be found.

 

U'ranika lead a small team of huntresses; she'd met Aya on her previous trip when they were engaged to provide protection for the project.  She'd thought the blonde a fun, if trifling woman at the time.  She wasn't all that convinced that her first apprehensions were wrong, but the young woman's concern seemed sincere, and she'd appealed to the pride of the tribe.  They couldn't just allow something like this to go down in their territory, could they? 

 

Aya tried to do her part, holed up within the Immortal Flames outpost in the small settlement with a map of the desert. She'd gone over it and over it again, searching for clues as to where the heretics could be found: near water, she told herself, and plentiful shade from the midday heat.

 

Speaking of the heat, she had discarded most of her armor which lay in a somewhat neat pile in the corner of the room.  Sweat evaporated quickly in the dry air, but the oppressive oven-like atmosphere of the outpost was still preferable to the bare sun of the exterior.

 

She leaned her head back against the chair.  The fatigue of a day and a half of activity washed over her at once.  She wanted nothing more than a bath, and a comfortable bed.  For this all to be over.  For the nightmare to end.

 

[align=center][/align]

 

A white-haired Miqo'te stepped into the room, boots echoing against the solid wood floor.  Not of the U'tribe, a "civilized" Miqo'te.  Aya blinked with blank, confused expression: one that was something of an automatic defense mechanism.  She could never know what to expect.

 

"The Immortal Flames outpost, of course..." she muttered to herself in obvious displeasure.  Her eyes flicked toward the seated figure of the fair-haired Aya, her Miqo'te ears twitched slightly with surprise.

 

"Ummm..." the Ishgardian girl stammered, "Are you a friend of Kiht's?" 

 

The Miqo'te's lips quirked into a smile as she offered the slightest nod.  "Aya, we've met."  She removed her hat and approached the table with a soft step.  "In the shroud, at that old Keeper manse; after the time Verad got beaten senseless."

 

How the hapless Duskwight seemed to bring people together in the most reliable of ways.  Aya let out a relieved sigh and a soft smile.  In other moments she might have laughed, or shrugged away the display of blonde forgetfulness.  But she was full of tired and the weight of responsibility.  "Oh.. I remember now!  Anstarra!"

 

V'aleera's entrance was less subtle.  The Ishgardian dragoon, well known to Aya since their childhoods, crashed through the door in an obvious hurry as her heavy boots beat the floor.  Her eyes filled with annoyance and a concern shared by her furrowed brow.  The expression softened for a moment as she too spied the unlikely woman at the center of it all. "Aya?  For what purpose are you here?"

 

She was less here for Verad than his fellow hostage: Kyrael.  But her presence was more than welcome.  Aya noticed that her unexpected allies were not those struggling vainly in the visions her nightmare: Kiht, Osric, Crofte, Immortal Flames, Brass Blades, Sultansworn.  These very protectors were nowhere to be found.. Verad's fate was instead in the hands of a myriad assortment: Ishgardians, and a Miqo'te bard.  Perhaps there was hope yet.

 

Aya stood, gesturing toward the map as she spoke in her heavy Ishgardian accent, "Several suns ago, huntresses spotted a group of strangers moving from the north, through the pass into the Sagoli."  She moved her finger along the route the huntresses had indicated.  "The travelers were careful to avoid Forgotten Springs.  And U'ranika was certain they were not adventurers.  She estimated that there were eight of them total, in addition to a heavy load of baggage.  I don't know if Verad and Ky were among those eight they counted."

 

She nodded slightly as she let the other two women take in the news.  At least the Heretics had been seen.  Her hunch about the Sagoli had been astute.

 

"So there are, at worst, eight of them.  Perhaps six." observed Anstarra.

 

"Right..." Aya again nodded slightly, while with her left hand she gestured toward some of the areas of the desert map.  "Several of the huntresses are out right now searching for them.  They're covering areas they thought the party was most likely to have headed.  There aren't that many areas of the desert with sufficient cover for several days, let alone water if they did not bring enough with them."

 

V'aleera narrowed her gaze toward the map.  She had been quiet, her attention intense.  At last she lent the quiet confidence of her voice, "I know little of hunting in this barren wasteland.  But a paltry eight heretics shall pose no threat when found."

 

She continued, "When their location is confirmed, the attack must be immediate and ruthless.  No mercy or hesitation can be suffered; heretics have been known to kill prisoners when rescue appears imminent."

 

Aya simple looked back toward her with tired blue eyes.  The confidence of her childhood friend stirred her own.  She nodded in agreement.

 

The discussion continued as the women thought about the merits of conducting their own search, before the sudden interruption of a U tribeswoman bursting into the outpost.  They'd spotted a group of eight in the southwestern outskirts of the Sagoli.  Two, who had been bound, had been observed to be digging something in the desert.

 

Aya swept her unclasped armor from the ground, quickly pulling the jacket on and working the buckles to tighten it around her upper body.

"Can you lead us there?"  The huntress nodded. 

 

Anstarra flipped her hat up, her expression sharp.  "We'd best hurry if they're digging their own graves."

 

V'aleera grit her teeth.  Eyes narrowed as if she could already see the prey.  "At last, the quarry are cornered.  those vermin have scurried in the shadows long enough.  We shall end their miserable heathenous existence."

 

Anstarra flashed a toothy grin, "Spoken like a true Ishardian.  With a little luck, and Twelve willing, the sand shall drink their blood by day's end."

 

Aya pulled the metal mask over her lower face, and lifted the spear from the wall.  Once again her concerns where warranted: there was no time to wait.  No hesitation could be conscionable.  This had been more than a hunch and a search from the start.  It is why she had come with spear in hand. 

 

[align=center][/align]

 

The party could not have seemed more strange, the three mounted figures cut entirely different forms as they hurried across the desert.  The Ishgardian Dragoon, in full control of her well-disciplined war mount.  The Shroud Miqo'te Bard and her mostly un-tamed Chocobo, off chasing the wild life as soon as she dismounted.  And the Ishgardian barmaid and her rented Chocobo, wheezing fitfully from the sand-filled air thankful just to have reached a stopping point in the desert's early evening.

 

The trio quickly joined the huntresses, and were joined by yet another Ishgardian Dragoon: Orrin Halgren.  In the distance they spied the Heretics' shelter.  There were eight of them, in addition to the two prisoners who laid bound and unmoving in the distance.  Out of the sand dunes rose a leather-looking wing, fixed and immobile.  Aya shuddered deep.

 

The group grew busy discussing their options.  Aya watched the movement of the enemy in the distance.  Her eyes fell upon the longer of the two forms laying motionless in the sand.  The white-haired Duskwight. Her friend, and reason for being there.  The others were professional soldiers, and a professional adventurer.  But still, she knew, she'd have her eye on what mattered.  She steadied her breath.  Measured the pace.  Conscious, slow, meaningful.  She summoned her inner calm, focused the inner reserve.  Silently she summoned the lines of the song of war.  Of the Crow's flight.

 

One of the Heretics' lookouts spotted the group, letting out a cry.  In an instant all thought of a plan was moot.  The man who looked in charged turned his gaze upon the tall sand dune over which they emerged.  With spears and bow at the ready they descended toward the heretics and their prisoners.  The Dragoons belted out their war cries.  The leader directed his followers.

 

Aya's eyes were steely, fixed with intensity upon the leader as he tugged Verad into the air by the white strands of his hair.  Now was the moment.  Her trance-like breathing swallowed emotion.  Her attention focused upon naught but the target.  She took quick steps with long strides upon tall legs.  Speed, decisive speed.  Gravity propelled her down the slope of the dune in silence; a stark contrast to the war cry of the Miqo'te dragoon to her side. 

 

The two Dragoons fell behind the surprising quickness of the sprinting blonde, while the Heretics quickly formed a defensive line athwart their leader and the hostages.  Two of the harriers stepped toward Aya, intent upon blocking her approach. 

 

Her eyes remained fixed through the line, and upon the leader.  She carried her momentum forawrd as she suddenly set her heeled boots into a controlled crouching slide.  The leader watched the pair of Dragoons as he prepared to carry out the ritual.  A dragoon could cover a lot of ground, they were threats—but she was clearly no dragoon.  From the coiled position of the crouch she sprung forward, leaping above and beyond the pair of set defenders, with a graceful forward flip.  She rolled smoothly into a landing that preserved as much of her momentum as possible.  Redirecting the power of her charging leap, she emerged from the roll with a lunge toward the figure of the leader.  There was no hesitation; she was set upon her course. Decisive, precise, and sudden she struck with the full power of her leaping, rolling charge.  Bare spear point was driven where the man's neck met his collar, with a frightful and determined silence that matched the suddenness of the motion. 

 

His eyes were wide with shock, but he had caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, and managed to barely lean back in time to avoid the fatal strike.  He dropped the hostage to keep his balance, nearly stumbled backwards as blood began to flow from a deep gash the spear blade opened in a line from his neck to his shoulder. 

 

The battle engaged around them around them, while the other hostage cut his bonds to escape, and joined the fray, slashing at the leader's exposed back.  His focus remained intent upon the lancer who had bested him with the charge.  His wounds were a hindrance, and the two entered into a posturing exchange, neither able to land a telling blow.  He thrust and moved around her with his blade, testing her balance and poise.  She kept her feet again, and again, but found herself unable to beat his expert defenses.  She was buying time.  Buying time, and little more.

 

He was no poacher or bandit caught in the wrong place at the wrong time—he would have his way given enough time.  But still she fought.  With tenacity and determination.  She held her ground.  There Verad lay, where he would be at the Heretics' mercy; at the mercy of the wyrm lying moribund in deep desert sand.  The nightmare ended here, one way or another.  The battle that raged around them soon turned against the Heretic and his men.  One by one the Ishgardian Dragoons put his defenders to an end, while Anstarra focused disrupted the progress of the ritual itself.  The end approached, victory was in sight.

 

Still, the leader fought on, deftly avoiding Aya's spear thrust.  He countered countered with his sword-arm passing parallel to Aya's own weapon.  It was a sudden and nearly unavoidable strike; she managed the slightest deflection with the haft of her spear, enough to save her life.  She did not feel the slice of the blade, or the heat of blood upon her neck. 

 

Behind her, Sellaine, the Leader's lieutenant staggered near defeat. His men collapsed all around him.  With is forces clearly defeated, the ritual at an end, leader cried for a halt, an end, a surrender.  Aya stepped backwards.  The beat of her heart finally caught up with her—the sensation of rushing blood, and the pounding in her breast. 

 

The Heretics had yielded.  She eyed Verad.  V'aleera finished the lieutenant with a coup de grace: a settlement of unfinished business. 

 

Only the leader remained alive.  Surrounded.  Anstarra fell to Verad's side, attending to his injuries.  Aya continued to stagger backwards.  She had held; it was over, it was over, it was over.

 

The weight of the moment was heavy.  She heard the Dragoon, Orrin, giving her orders.  She shook her head.  She knew how Dragoons would deal with Heretics.  It was no longer her battle.  Verad was safe, all was well.

 

She turned her back on the group and struggled back up the dune from which she had embarked upon her long heedless charge.  She closed her eyes, struggling with the moment.  She felt the sting of her wound, superficial as it was.  She swallowed hard.  All was well.

 

The drake would be buried beneath the sand from which it came.  The Heretic threat was at an end.  Verad was safe.  Verad was safe.  All was well.

 

She pulled herself atop the porter's Chocobo, and offered an expression of exhausted gratitude to the U-tribe huntresses. 

 

She spurred the bird onward, onward to Ul'dah.

 

Onward to a perfumed bath.  Onward to the taste of mulled wine, and Shroud honey.  Onward to another day of work, serving drinks and casting smiles.

 

Away, away, away from all of this.

 

Verad was safe.  All was well.  The nightmare was no more.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Return to the Shroud - Crimes Against Nature Part One][/align]

 

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 frow a Gyr Abanian Folk Song

 

The legends of the Gyr Abanians are steeped in the depths of the great valley forests of their highland home.  They speak of nearly impenetrable interiors the haunt of terrible other-worldly dangers, and sights of breath-taking beauty.  The great forests are said to be home of mystcial creatures beynd the reckoning of man, and jealously protective of their mystery. 

 

Passage through these legendary wood for many stands as an allegory for the transition from this world to the next.  The final steps of a life well lived, or one filled with contrition and fear of damnation.  For others it marked the passage from one life to another: a great milestone from which they emerged forever altered.  For all, it was to be touched by the unknowable.

 

The ancient lyricists who put these tales to song may have been aware of that greatest Mirk-wood: the Black Shroud of Eorzea.  There the depths of the wood stretch deeper than imagination.  The shadows darker than night.  The secrets more terrible and fantastic.  A forest alive, and possessed of an unknowable will. 

 

So, was Aya born into this tradition.  She heard the songs, and clung raptly to the stories she heard as a child.  She passed through the great wood as her family trod the path of refugees.  And as a teenager she dreamed of the great expanse of the forest as a realm of freedom; she heard the call and gazed longingly upon the distant green canopy from trespassed rooftops of far-away spires. 

 

And so, as she made her great escape, giving up all she all she had known, she sought to make her own journey through this Mirk-wood.  She embraced the howling call, and, like those before, she emerged forever changed. 

 

Those days she spent wrapped within the forest as a wandering home stayed with her in undeniable ways.  And, though the ways of the world had conspired to flush her from it and back out into open spaces, she still felt that same longing for the full lushness of its enrapturing green that had entranced her teenage dreams. 

 

The rather sudden offer of work in Gridania seemed as though it could not have come at a more opportune time.  Monsieur Vann's (as she called him) assistant had surprised her near the end of an evening shift at the Quicksand.  She had been tasked, the diminutive Au Ra woman stated, with hiring a model for a new line of Vann clothing marketed specifically to the forest city of Gridania.  It seemed an offer tha Aya simply could not refuse.

 

Due to her growing Freelance work, Madam Momodi had kindly extended her some flexibility in her scheduling.  And, the next thing she knew, she found herself leaning over the railing of an airship as it made it's way effortlessly and serenely over the edge of the Shroud.  She let out a quiet breath.  Her mind wondered over those memories of the not-too-distant past.  Of the paths and ways that she had learned.  Of the faces of the friends she had made—and of some she had lost.  Of the good times and the bad.  And those one could not tell from the other.  Of those she sometimes wished she had never known.  Those moments that forever change a person.  And of regret.

 

She leaned a little further over scanning the sights below.  The Sun was setting; the fiery hue of its departing rays illuminated the fading wild flowers of a forest meadow below.  She remembered some of the stories she had been told.  The forest Miqo'te seemed to know the wood better than all others and they told stories of equal wonder and terror.  They told of such splendor and trickery that one came away convinced only that a life-time was not enough to learn the full ways of the Shroud.

 

She sighed softly as the day's last rays lapped high clouds a brilliant shade of pink.  She remembered those forest gatherings.  Friends, comrades, pitched in a circle.  Those times had slipped away: forever gone, as surely as the light of the sun would too.

 

A porter met her at the hanger, and with considerable swiftness she made her way from the lower-level platform out onto the cobblestone pathways of what counted for avenues in the forest city.  The Carline Canopy held memories of its own: her first workplace outside of Ishgard.  The site of so many friendships and of her eventual recruitment.  But, there was still the issue with Miounne and some six months of long past-due rent.  The matronly Elezen was known for her kindness, but underneath it all Aya knew she was a business woman well aware of the bottom-line.  It was the sort of trouble that Aya took no chances with.

 

No, their destination was a small boarding house in the northern neighborhood of the city.  A spot where those who wished for more personal attention than the Canopy could offer often chose to stay.  A quiet spot to stay while she waited for word from her employer, Monsieur Vann, or his retainer.  And that is what she told all who asked her about her reason for visiting Gridania.  Unspoken, in her heart, she knew it was otherwise.

 

That first night she carefully slipped off the clothing of a fashionable Ul'dahn.  She looked, with a smirk upon the freshly manicured fingers that would serve her well as a fashion model.  She strapped on a pair of what she considered to be more practical forest boots (of the heeled and buckled sort they used to tease her for during her days in the Shroud—perhaps she had not changed as much as she thought). 

 

She escaped quietly out of the house and skirted the lit street lamps in town.  She passed through the gate, within the disbelieving sight of the posted guards.  She stepped into the woods, and with a confidence born of experience, she took off at a run into the moonlit forest.

 

She was stronger than she had been.  And soon she found, faster too.  Years of additional training had seen to that.  The rigors of training and rehearsing amongst Ul'dah's Miqo'te dancing girls had done its share too. 

 

She beamed a silent, brilliant grin that none but the forest itself could appreciate.

 

Home at last.  Free again.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Wild Chocobo Chase - Crimes Against Nature Part Two][/align]

 

Now I kow 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.

 

The light notes of Aya's voice drifted into a quiet in which only the sound of babbling water and singing birds penetrated.  Light blue eyes lingered on the sight of spring-fed stream falling into the distant pool below.  The sight was loveliness, the very representative of the beauty that Shroud-memory meant to her.  But her mind was elsewhere.  Hundreds of miles apart, where distant mountains rose behind the snow-covered spires of the Tower City.  Neither her birth home, nor her adoptive home.  But her heart's home nonetheless: Ishgard. 

 

The conversation within the Morbolvine Clan's lair had drawn her thoughts there.  Reminded her of home.  Miah never did understand Aya. Maybe she'd never had the chance.  Maybe she never would.  Heart strings played upon by one who never even knew they were there. 

 

She let out a deep sigh.  A slow, steady push of air upon which she hoped would carry every thought of home upon it.  Away, away, and away.

 

But C'kayah was already concerned.  A gentle look was upon his green eyes, a look he seemed to reserve for the quiet of private company. 

 

"You're homesick" he observed adroitly.  "The gate is open..." he left the suggestion unfinished, allowing the thought to simply float upon the air.

 

Aya lowered her gaze, leaning forward to rest her arms upon the ornately carved railing of the observation deck.  "More or less, you mean," she corrected with that note of cynicism that always seemed to accompany her thoughts of Ishgard.

 

"I wouldn't exactly stake my life on the good fortune of just strolling in again."

 

C'kayah thought for a moment, his fingers upon the cut of his masculine jaw.  "No," he agreed, "But, at the same time, you'd be able to see them again.  You don't require a forged seal, either.  You could, literally if you wished, stroll right in."  C'kayah, was right, and knew just of whom she thought, of course.  But Aya knew that no matter how sympathetic he was, he could not see the fullness of her plight.

 

So focused were her thoughts upon Ishgard that she could almost feel the chill; see the snow.  A looming sense of dread crept through her heart, as did a sense of the powerful little seizures of anxiety that had once gripped her every time she cast eyes upon an agent of the Ishgardian Church and State.  The fear that every Knight, every Inquisitor, every Priest or Adjunct could be preparing to steal her away to face mortal charges.  The same fear for for her friends, her family, for everyone whom she had known.  That daily terror that had slowly eroded every sense of normalcy.

 

"Are you so sure?"  There was a barb in her tone, a sense of harshness at his own naivety.  "They have opened their gates for their own reasons.  To allow in the foreigners who bear with them goods, gil, arms.  Who will aid in their Crusade, and help safekeep the city from foes Dravanian and Garlean.  The Church does not rule with benevolence; Halone is a hard goddess.  Her will is ice. Her faithful..." she cut her voice off mid-sentence, allowing words she may have later regretted to linger unspoken.  Her fingers clutched tightly against the railing, her heart pounded with a sudden emotion of trepidation, of worry, and fear.  "I do... I do miss.. I do worry about them.  And, sometimes," she said with the voice of someone admitting her darkest secret, "I miss what we had, despite it all."

 

C'kayah took a deep breath.  He wanted nothing but the best for her. Had he not risked his own life to deliver word to her family that she still lived?  It was difficult to see her like this.  It was always, so difficult. What could he say to comfort her?  How could he encourage her to take that leap of faith: the only leap that would quiet her struggling heart.  "Aya... I know I'm not the best source of wisdom on this..." he leaned against the railing, drawing himself nearer to her; his eyes casting their soft, caring gaze close upon her.  "I haven't visited my own family since I was but seventeen summers of age.  Still... you could Aya.  It wouldn't mean that you have to remain..." he tried to assuage her, hoping her understood just what it was that had so inflamed the negativity she so rarely allowed to breach her unruffled exterior.

 

He watched as she closed her eyes.  A look of such seriousness upon her features.  Never did she seem so sad, never did she seem so serious, and so bereft of hope as when she spoke of home.  "There are those who won't have forgotten me.  Unsettled scores, unreturned debts."   She paused, "Unrequitted advances.  Or simply, new amorous longings."  She opened her eyes, light blue's unfocused as they looked out upon the splendor of the Shroud.  "These are the things of Inquisition in Ishgard.  The personal disputes that drive persecution by those able.  Against those... well, my voice, it would mean nothing.  Even less than it once did."

 

She let out a huff, half-amused, half-dejected; her eyes glanced briefly to his.  "Besides; if they remember my performances they may even have a real case."

 

C'kayah watched, his own expression serene; his concern apparent.  "A case?  You mean heresy?"

 

She closed her eyes again and nodded.  "Of course.  It really doesn't take much when you're an 'Ala Mhigan Trollop.'"  Those words rolled off her tongue with more than venom: an outright hostility that rose from a deep-seated anger.  It was almost enough to take her Miqo'te friend aback, so rarely did she speak with such a forceful negativity.

 

He laughed... Aya glanced at him again, wondering at the inappropriate, awkward moment.  "Well," he offered, "I would be your proxy once again, but I fear my own enemies have been making sure that I would receive a welcome of chains and a long drop should I ever set foot there again."

 

He seemed to sense that his laughter had been out of place.  How difficult she was to judge in these moments, all he wanted was to calm her... "Aya, I'm sure there are ways.  If you wish to see your family, or even just get word to them, we can find a way." 

 

She nodded, closing her eyes again as she let out a deep sigh from upon the railing.  "Maybe... someday... but I can't just stroll..."

 

C'kayah let out a breath of his own.  That very real sense of disappointment upon it.  "V'aleera sent me a letter.  She mentioned concern for my family, and... well... the attack."  Her voice trembled just slightly.  Worry clutched again upon her heart, "I... it's..." for a moment her expression hovered on the verge of tears.  Her cheeks reddened, her breath came ragged. 

 

"The Dragoon...?" he asked, perplexed.

 

She tried to force herself to concentrate.  This had never been supposed to be about Ishgard.  There were important matters afoot.  She focused... she forced her breaths deeper, slower.  She calmed, as best she could, and then she changed the subject, "...there's something else for us to discuss."

 

"Business?" he asked, somewhat perplexed himself on the sudden turn of thought.

 

"Business?  I don't even know what to call it any more... trouble seems to just have a way of finding us.  But, I suppose this isn't so much our trouble unless we really wish to make it so."

 

C'kayah cast half a smirk, "Well, we could be selfish and ignore it.  Open another bottle of wine, and just wile away the evening.  But, lets here what the trouble is, first."

 

Aya watched the smirk, one that reflected suddenly as a very slight smile upon her own, red-carmined lips.  "Trouble in the Shroud.  And... its serious.  I'm not sure that anyone who cares about it can afford to ignore it."

 

C'kayah narrowed his eyes, his smiling-smirk quickly fading at the mention of such a problem.  He craned his head to look at her, "What sort of trouble?"

 

"Sinister things," she said in a soft, quiet voice that failed to betray the stake of it all.  "Undead, Void-sent, a strange blood-like substance that seems to provoke the plants of the Shroud against others.  Accusations against the Wailers.  Murder.  Intentional fires and destruction within the Shroud.  Its as if someone is tempting fate.  Testing, probing to gauge whether the Elemental threat, Greenwrath, still is."

 

"Greenwrath..." he murmured softly.  "You know, after the Calamity, people thought the Elementals had forsaken the Shroud.  It no longer provided the protection it once did.  At the same time, it became a much easier place for those not in Gridania's good graces to live."  He drew his fingers gently against his jaw, watching her, "It would be foolish to think that change was permanent, but it does mean the Shroud may be vulnerable..."

 

Aya nodded slightly, turned her gaze back up toward the waterfall and the coursing stream that fed it.  "Either way, I don't think either of us feel that Void-sent are welcome within the Shroud."

 

C'kayah shook his head in emphatic agreement, "No!" for a moment he pondered the possibility of a connection.  The Morbolvine had been dealing with their own  Void-sent infestation, "I wonder if there may be a connection..." he mused quietly.

 

Her eyes followed his.  Blonde eyebrows lifted at the suggestion of a connection, before her gaze moved back to the flowing water.  "Does Kiht know of this?" he asked pointedly of the Keeper Huntress, his one-part nemesis, one-part dear friend.

 

Aya nodded, "She does, and she even asked after you."  He couldn't suppress a grin at the thought.  "Did she...?" he purred in that deep, luxuriant tone of which he was infuriatingly capable.  "Well, perhaps the three of us should meet and discuss what best to do."

 

The blonde shook her head in disagreement.  "I'd... well, I'd rather have some better idea of what's going on first.  Kiht is best when she has a plan to carry out.  Right now..." she hesitates about how just to put it, "She seems rather adrift.  And I think we may do more harm than good until we can provide more exact direction."

 

C'kayah's eyes opened wide at the suggestion. "Adrift?  I have never seen that woman adrift.  Is she alright?"

 

Aya's cheeks reddened slightly, her expression flustered.  "I hadn't meant it quite like that.  She's always grounded, especially by her loyalty.  But, when she doesn't know what she should be doing, she kind of flails about, trying to figure it out.  She is always doing her best, and once she has a plan of action to follow she follows it to the very end, but... when she doesn't..."

 

C'kayah chuckled, nodding his agreement.  "Yes, she does like action doesn't she?  And she'll prefer any action over waiting.  Alright, so we have some sleuthing to do, is that right?  Who all knows about this?"

 

He had asked a question that she couldn't even venture a question on.  She herself had only really learned about anything the day before, and Edda, from whom she had learned about it from, didn't really know her.  Her conversation with Kiht had been so incomplete. There was so much still unknown.

 

"I don't know." she answered rather matter-of-factly.  "Though, I first head about it a few weeks past, I really didn't know it.  I think we should focus on what it is we know, rather than on who knows."

 

C'kayah furrowed his brow slightly, before gracefully stepping from the unknown and into the known. 

 

"Very well then, what do we know?"

 

Aya turned her eyes away, concentrating for a moment as if trying to imagine how to present it all at once.  "There is a common theme in these otherwise disparate events.  It seems to be some effort to harm the Shroud itself.  It started with the undead, raised from recently deceased by some force or individual.  They were contained by Wailers with the help of a Leve, and defeated, but the Wailers seemed reluctant to allow any follow-up investigation."

"I learned of this from a Maelstrom Lieutenant who had been part of the Leve.  She was rather insistent that she lacked the authority to investigate further, something that it sounded like she had been told by the Wailers themselves."

 

C'kayah seemed quite confused, "Maelstrom?  Why the Maelstrom?"

 

Aya shrugged, "Happenstance, it seems.  She must be a member of the Foreign Levy.  There was another attack, the one in which Kiht was present.  There was a woman, seemingly mad, accusing a group of Wailers she had attacked of something, 'They did it!' she shouted again and again.  A blood-like substance had been spread in the area, bringing the wildlife alive, and encouraging it to attack the Wailers.  All were slain, before the woman seemed to vanish into the very firmament itself."

 

C'kayah pressed his lips into a tight line.  This didn't sound good.

 

"Some of Kiht's companions collected samples of the substance.  They're being studied in Ul'dah as we speak.  More than that, one of them was actually affected by the blood herself.  She claimed it made her feel a very powerful sense of rage."

 

C'kayah turned all of this over in his head, remaining silent for a moment.  "Do you know what the alchemists found, Aya?  When they analyzed it?"

 

She shook her head, "As far as I know there are no results as of yet.  They're still working on it.  Hopefully we'll hear from Kiht if she learns anything.  Now, both of these events seem to share the common theme of defiling the Shrould don't they?  There's more still.  A fire that was set upon a sacred tree of the Shroud, one that took a great deal of effort to bring under control.  Another: a Chocobo-keeper has been murdered, and daily Chocobo are found missing from Bent Branch.  When a group of adventurer's attempted to locate the missing Chocobo, they were met by a powerful force: individuals who overpowered them and forced their retreat, empty handed."

 

C'kayah nodded with puzzlement.  It just seemed to keep getting worse.  "And what was this about the Wailers?"

 

Aya's eyes widened for a moment before she nodded, "It was a hunch of Kiht's.  She seemed very concerned about the way the woman was accusing the slain Wailers of misdeeds.  Concerned enough that she is trying to investigate the Wailers herself to see if she can find any evidence of what they might be up to. Now, when she told me this I thought of two other things: One, that the Wailers had seemed to stymie further investigation into the first group of void sent, and secondly that in Bentbranch they are not following up with any real investigation of the missing Chocobo."

 

C'kayah fell into deep thought, offering only a slight nod.  After a few silent moments he conjectured, "You want to look into the Chocobo, don't you Aya.  You want us to look into it?"  He cast his perceptive eyes upon her, she nodded.

 

"That," she couldn't help but smile at his power of deduction, "is where I would like to begin.  Not so much, us, perhaps, but there are many Shroud Miqo'te about.  Mistresses of the wood.  Some of the best are even available for hire.  Far quieter than a trampling team of adventurers, don't you think?"

 

C'kayah agreed, "There's a lot of truth in what you're saying."

 

She nodded, nearly lost in her own thoughts, "Something is telling me the Chocobo are important.  It seems too strange an act to be random.  There must be purpose, and whoever they are they killed to achieve it, and have fought to hide their tracks.  That seems like the best place to start."

 

"Then that is where we shall begin!  Or, at least, where the Huntresses we employ shall begin!"

 

He turned his eyes reflective upon the waterfall, lifting his body straight as he looked upon it, "The Shroud has always been important to me.  To my livelihood, of course, but also... it was a refuge for me when I had nothing else.  It may seem sappy, but I'll defend that."

 

She watched, smiling softly.  "I thought you would.  In its one peculiar way, the Shroud itself is Freedom.  At least, that is what it has always meant to me.  Especially when I spied it from the distance of Ishgard.  Perched upon a tower.. dreaming.."

 

He watched her, a knowing smirk upon her lips.  He had heard these stories before, and he had a feeling he was one of the only ones who had.

 

 

"Well, when the two of us are on the case..."

 

She flashed a grin his way.  "A pretty unlikely pair of saviors, don't you think?"

 

She grinned playfully, "The unlikeliest!"

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][A Model's Reflections - Crimes Against Nature Part Three][/align]

 

The Boarding House Beneath Lea's Branches.  It was a quiet spot, serene almost.  The sort of lodgings one just expects when staying in Gridania.  Away from the hustle and bustle of all the adventurers at the Canopy.  Ensconced amidst nature's beauty with the sound of a babbling brook meandering its way behind the carefully landscaped property.  The eponymous Lea is a gentle and attendant hostess.  Tea was served every afternoon, and the meals were ever as delicious and fresh as they were memorable. 

 

So far everything had been as near perfect as a girl could hope for.  Monsieur Vann had hired Aya, but her work so far had consisted of little beyond enjoying herself in the peace-and-quiet of Gridania at her employer's expense.  So, it came as something between disappointment and exciting shock when a visitor arrived for her at near 9 bells one morning. 

 

She had asked Lea to attempt delay, but the gentleman's was both polite and clear: "Whatever the miss' state, it behooves her to speak with me promptly."

 

And so she did, wrapped in a hastily donned dressing gown within the small lobby of the Boarding House.  "Very good, Miss Foxheart.  Our apologies, we understand that Miss Kai has been unavailable for some time, and haste has now become urgent. So if it shall please you Miss, Master Vann will brook no further delay in the roll-out of his line.  He wishes to remind his lovely model, and representative, that her employment is not limited strictly to showing the clothing, but at all times representing the Vann line of fashions, clothing, and accessories.  She shall appear at her beautiful best, at all times, so that all who catch sight of her shall know the beauty of Vann Fashions."

 

The well-appointed Hyur bowed his head with an apologetic authority.  Without a glance to the befuddled blonde in her state of undress, he drew a polished watch from his coat pocket to confirm the exact time.  "Two women shall arrive here in exactly one hour.  They shall attend to your manicure, styling, and makeup.  In exactly two hours, your porter shall be waiting here at the door to escort you to the fitting.  Please do be on time.  Master Vann has the highest expectations."

 

Musical Accompaniement

 

3PuV0pN1qFg

 

 

Thank goodness for that cup of tea...

 

Standing just outside the door she took a moment to adjust her hair, buying time for a few deep settling breaths while the Porter stood with the door opened for her. Stepping within, she was greeted by the sound of strumming mandolin to accompany the echo of her heels against the wooden floor of the well-appointed space.  She had never been inside the building before, a small domed structure near the main Gridanian market.  The porter closed the door behind her, leaving her alone as she entered the unknown.

 

She moved tentatively forward, across the rich carpet of the small foyer, covering the gold-hued wooden floor.  She crossed beneath the ornately trimmed octagonal ceiling, decorated with carved wood-work of a rich mahogany tone.  The large chamber doors matched the dark trim, equipped with wood latch and handles of the sort nearly unique to Gridania.  The moderately sized room within radiated with a natural sunlight that lilted in through the gently green-hued glass-covered dome above.  The player of the mandolin looked up upon her entrance, peering from his perch upon a built-in couch that ran the length of the room's circumference.  He cast a friendly smile, and with a nudge to the smaller hammered dulcimer player next to him, the two began a light, relaxing tune that easily filled the area's volume with that warm emotion.

 

As if on queue a sharply-dressed Lalafellan gentleman entered from a side room.  Without a greeting he paced toward the center of the chamber, motioning toward Master Vann's model to follow.  She hesitated, lifting blonde eyebrows as she let out a soft "huh〜" upon an even softer gasp. 

 

"Well, come on—you're late already," commanded the Lalafel with an imperative but gentle tone. He waved toward her once more, followed by a finger-whistle.

 

This must be...

 

As she stepped forward a tall, slender Elezen man wheeled a multi-stepped stool toward the Lalafel who at last introduced himself.  "I am Yuyumondi.  Since, ahem, Miss Kai is otherwise occupied, I have been sent to direct the fitting myself."

 

The look of surprise upon the blonde's face was in no measure reduced as Yuyumondi circled around her.  She followed him with her eyes around toward the left, then whipping it back to the right.  He 'hmmmm'ed quietly, a perturbed look upon his features as he appeared to be examining every minor detail of figure from his modest height. 

 

After completing the circuit he ascended the stool which brought him almost to eye-level with the woman.  Again he peered over her with an attentive detail that brought a flush to her cheeks.

 

Come on Aya... you're a professional now, don't be bashful! 

 

With his eyes offering an undisguised fixation upon the bountiful features of her chest; he let out a frustrated huff, drawing his diminutive fingers to mustachioed lip.

 

"Well, it is obvious why Master Vann is so fond of her.  But this will require adjustments.  ADJUSTMENTS!" he nearly yelled in a flustered frustration as he lifted a tensed hand into the air.  With a quick turn he descended the stepped-stool, snapping his fingers.

 

At the signal several more people entered the room pushing wheeled contrivances: clothing racks, a counter with boxes of jewelry and assorted fashion accessories, and a large circular curtain rack that was pushed until she was centered within the metal lattice, at once two young Hyur women stepped within the ring and then pulled the modesty curtain closed around her before beginning the process of undressing her.

 

Somewhat to her surprise, this felt familiar.  Although Monsieur Vann had taken the entire process to a level of exquisite excess that she could never have expected, the process of being measured and fitted for costumes and clothing was one with which she had become familiar.

 

As she felt the women's hands unhook, unlatch, and pull the dress from her body, her thoughts drifted to the rather serious matters that had come to so engross her idle hours over the past two weeks.

 

This Wolfedge fellow - could he really be?  I mean, I know I told Kiht: he may be a relic of the past.  A figure preserved from, or pulled from years ago, when 'Young King Theodric' first ascended the throne.  Before... before the Ruin, before the madness, before everything.  He 'knows' and supports Theodric, but he is a Fist of Rhalgar, voicing a boisterous fealty to the Destroyer. He does not know what Theodric became: how could that be? 

 

Could this be simple madness?  A manufactured persona?  Or could it be one trapped in time.  What if he had been such a man.  An Ala Mhigan supporter of Theodric, before the Ruin.  Imprisoned by the Wailers beneath the Shroud in Toto-Rak.  What tortures might he have endured?  What legacy might he have left for the Void.  A foul spirit filled with anger and vengeance to rise again from the mists of time?  Or, maybe a victim thrust forward into a time not-of-his choosing.  This sounds of madness!

 

The middle-aged Elezen man stepped into the curtain.  Without a hint of emotion on his features he unwound a length of measuring tape and began to move with a professional swiftness.  Every portion of her figure was to be cataloged.  A series of predetermined measurements that together would account for every curve and length for which the tailors would have to account.  He whipped the tape along, first along the back from shoulder-to-shoulder, following each arm: shoulder-to-elbow, elbow-to-wrist, wrist to finger-tip.  Each accompanied by a small, careful, adjustment of her pose with the most gentle touch of his fingertips.  Then around her forehead.  Neck, circumference and height.  Collar, chest, above, at the prominence of, and below the bust.  With every measure he announced in an unemotional tone the result of the measure, along with the cryptic term that labeled just what-it-was he was measuring, at least to the ear of another trained tailor. 

 

The experience could be called invasive and embarrassing, but, such is sometimes the necessity of one's profession.

And why did the Wailers seem to want him to escape.  Even now they offer no pursuit, either because they are unable, or uninterested.  Why do the Wailers also seem unable to protect Bentbranch.  There are two theories there: either the voidsent take advantage of the Wailer guard's waning attentiveness, or else someone involved in scheduling the shifts knows when the voidsent are coming and removes his men from the watch to safeguard them.  Either way, there too, they seem to have not pursued any investigation.  Even the most basic information: the rumor that the Chocobo are being devoured on site rather than stolen, was either not uncovered by the Wailers, or else not communicated to Edda. 

 

No, its not a rumor.  The look in that poor boy's eyes... I know children are more capable actors than adults tend to give credit (not that we ever took advantage of that - right Aya?), But he was upset, so terribly, terribly upset.  All I wanted to do was comfort him, the poor child.  But still, that means the Wailers are either not trying or not sharing...

 

The moment his measurement-taking was complete, the Elezen exited as swiftly as he had entered.  Moments later the two women dressers re-entered with articles of clothing, and quickly helped dress the model in a rather poorly-fit dress that no doubt was due for adjustment.  Meanwhile a team of tailors was already to work outside of the curtain, and the musicians happily strummed-and-tapped-away at their strings filling the chamber with a happy mood that contrasted sharply with the efficient attitude of the Lalafel in charge.

 

How is this all tied to the mad woman?  Was she an ally of the same force behind Wolfedge?  Or was she something else entirely: perhaps a demon or witch riled by the very Wailers Kiht and the others were dispatched to aid.  C'kayah is right: you cannot trust the wailing of a mad woman, but Kiht certainly seems to be worried by what she was saying.  Didn't Kiht say none of the Wailers survived?  I don't really remember... I thought that's what she said, maybe I should...

 

A sharp pull upon the strings of the too-tight corset sent a shriek from Aya that rudely interrupted her thought.  With a soft apology on her lips, the dresser loosened the bind while Yuyumondi partially opened the modesty curtain from upon his stepped-stool, peering within.  "I hope everything is alright, my dear."  Aya pressed her lips together and nodded energetically with a worried-look as the women tried to adjust her figure within the dress. 

"Very well." he quirked one eyebrow, "We want no torture here, but remember: in Fashion there can be no gain without pain!"  He lent a flourish to the expression and exited the curtain as quickly as he had poked within, quietly confiding to his Elezen assistant, "Master Vann assured me she was a Professional.  Let us pray he was correct in that assessment."

 

Now, Edda mentioned a 'War' Council.  There must be many others involved. More than Kiht, and Edda, since neither mentioned this as their idea.  Let us hope the others can keep a calm head.  That Sarnai and Wolfe may well have cost us our best chance to find out what's going on before its too late.  What were they thinking?  Oh, I know, we have a resistant prisoner lets throw knives at him rather than ask useful questions.

 

She sighed and rolled her eyes at the memory, just as the curtain was pulled open.  Suddenly remembering where she was she strode a few steps forward, doing the best runway walk she could in such limited space, swaying her hips to either side drawing one foot before the other with long-legged strides.  Yuyumondi nodded appreciatively, "Yes, yes, very good.  We'll need to adjust that bodice," he commented as if she had any doubt.  "I feel like we could add a little something more in way of a belt, too.  What do you think Malachai?  Something in a dark brown to match the trim." he looked to the Elezen who nodded silently.  She returned to the curtain.

Lets see, where are things.  Well: I still haven't been able to get back in touch with C'kayah.  I have sent him on a wild goose chase for Chocobo that do not exist.  At least C'kayah enjoys goose chases; better him than Kiht.  Speaking of Kiht, she'll find Wolfedge, one way or another, I'm sure.  and I've told her everything I know.  She is the most capable huntress I could have found, and the most reliable: she won't kill him unless she feels she must.  Now Edda, Edda and the Chocobo.  I made sure she knew they were being devoured. But, what more can we do?  I offered her that hare-brained scheme: feed the Chocobo ground Aetheric crystal.  Allow the Voidsent to devour them.  Then find where their lair is from a distance, rather than tracking them directly.  That's crazy is that really the best you can do Aya?

 

She shook her head in frustration, ready in time for another appearance beyond the curtain.  The tailors offered tight-lipped nods of approval, and after a quick discussion returned her to behind curtain where she quietly prayed to be relieved from the constricting bodice already.  "The next!" came the order from without, and her wish was soon granted as the dressers began to help her change into the next outfit.

Now what of Toto-rak... what of this Wolfedge. How could we find out more about him?  Would it help - well we don't have many leads to go on do we?  Was he actually kept there?  Could we identify why - or when?  Without a better base to return to might he return there?  It may be worth a look...

 

She emerged again from the curtain.  The outfit was so Gridanian, it almost didn't seem Vann-like.  But he had cut a large window in the tunic, enough to highlight the ample cleavage on offer within the bodice.  The back of the tunic was cut with a line both fresh and slightly risque to the conservative taste of the Shroud.  Aya stepped out with confidence upon the high-heeled boots that sealed the desired look of confident, racy femininity that dared to defy, but not to obliterate the locally demure aesthetic.

There's been so much activity in the forest, between the voidsent, the starting of fires, and the thefts: the deep forest dwellers must be aware that something is afoot. They must have spied suspicious activities, or heard rumors about them.  Hunters, trappers, scouts, and hermits.  What about the poachers? The bandits? The Redbellies?  If they claimed to have heard nothing that alone would be reason to suspect pay-offs or threats - no the Redbellies do not respond well to threats.  What would it mean if these... vandals, whoever they are, had managed to bribe the Redbellies?  From where would the acquire the gil or goods? It could tell us -something- at least.

 

Now, and Stout, Stout... Kiht will come through for you Stout, I'm sure of it.  Its the best I could do, I pray it is enough.

The next outfit was similar, the tight leather trousers replaced with leggings, carefully slit along the slide to reveal hints of silky thigh.  The adjustable jacket was comfortable: she was settling in.  The tailors took their notes.  Made their adjustments.  The musicians played, part of an ensemble that busied itself in the well-choreographed hum of activity.  Master Vann would be pleased, things were at last moving again.

 

Toto-rak.  Wailer survivors. Deep Shroud Dwellers.  Wolfedge.  And, if the crazy bet pays off, perhaps wherever it is the Voidsent return to.  I wonder what the War Council will come up with?

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][The Sleeping Boar - Crimes Against Nature Part Four][/align]

 

"Ah Gridania..."

 

It wasn't the first time the thought had crossed Aya's mind over her past few weeks in the Shroud, but it was rather different this time.  The downward leading stairs had the look of those that had once been stone, still just visible in spots not yet dominated by the green moss that grew like a velvet cover over every nook and cranny. 

 

She gazed at the short staircase and its crooked contours for a long moment.  She shuffled slightly on her feet, glancing at the strappy high heels she'd chosen that morning to wear for her day out.  They were "work" shoes in the sense that in her work for Ul'dah's own Otto Vann, she was expected to exemplify the look of his fashionable lines of clothing—though in this case it was little his fault, her taste in footwear running toward the notorious and impractical.  Still, the descent gave her sudden pause.  She slipped the strap of her purse over her arm, and with a careful hand on her short skirt she began the adventurous trek with a slow and determined care.

 

She now found herself at the entrance to a rickety old Gridanian tavern dug amongst the roots of an ancient stump whose mighty tree must have once commanded impressive heights.  How had this happened?    Something about an escaped madman, the King of Ruin, and Toto-Rak.  Kiht, it can be said, never gets herself involved in simple fun. Aya seems to like to follow her: just sauntering right in with stiletto heels and a carefree dress.

 

She recalled the scene just within Quarry Mill's defensive foundation—it had been a trying one.  The respectable seeming Ala Mhigan Captain, Stout he was called, allowed a few adventurers in to see a strange prisoner.  A young man, fury in his eyes, sat chained under watchful guard.  He had attempted to cause trouble among the refugees: encouraging them to take up arms for the cause of "Young King Theodric".  The passion with which he had espoused the cause of the King of Ruin in one hand and Rhalgar the Destroyer n the other was enough to jar anyone as familiar with the War of Ruin as Aya.  The look in his eyes, and the conviction in his voice belied simple madness. 

 

It had struck her just how much he had seemed a figment of the past.  The product of a very specific and curious moment in time.  She had shared her concern with Kiht, the Shroud Huntress she had hoped would help her locate him after his dramatic and sudden escape from Quarrymill.  "I believe he may be a man from the past.  Brought back either as if kept in another world, or as a spirit out from the void."  She had scarcely believed her own words at the time, but since that moment she had only become more convinced.  There was already a similar case: a mad woman of the woods who had slain Wood Wailers including the son of the man who had once arrested her.   The two pulled through the waves of time were even linked through one common thread:  Toto-rak. 

 

Wolfedge had claimed it as his prison in the custody of the Wailers.  This link had left Aya curious, and with a free afternoon she had decided to investigate.  Armed with a few copies of Twin Adder Pin-Up posters she had modeled for the past Spring, the cutest of Monsieur Vann's outfits, and the charming smile she loved to employ, Aya made her way into the city on the hunt for veteran Wood Wailers who may have heard of Wolfedge. 

 

Sheprovided herself a convenient cover: asking after an elderly veteran who had assisted in the modeling shoots, as if she were trying to find and thank him.  It was an easy excuse, and one she half- wished were true.  To begin the search she approached Wailer guards who seemed most eager to assist and especially happy with the signed posters they received in exchange for their help.

 

Their advice had led her here, where her heels sunk into soft mossy steps of crumbling stone amidst the dank feel of a forest ditch.  A small wooden sign was nailed firmly to the remains of the stump above: the faded but still distinguishable drawing of a Sleeping Boar.  The descent was slow, and its treacherousness exaggerated in the mind of the blonde who was terrified at the thought of tearing or staining the property of her employer upon the stairs of a decrepit Wailer bar.  There was a soft sigh of relief as she at last reached the bottom as she took a moment to straighten her skirt and clothing.  At midday, she guessed, business would be slow and the customers more likely to be of the retired than active duty sort. 

 

It took more than a firm press to open the old door, swollen with age and moisture, to gain its opening.  The air inside was not much better: stale and warm, mixed with the fragrance of old ale and dank musk.  Still, she stepped slowly within.  The structure and decor were wood, possessing a hint of the old elegance that is the hallmark of Gridanian architecture but buried under decades of benign neglect.   The rotund, bearded Hyur barkeep was busy wiping glasses.  Several other men sat at the bar, others scattered about in pairs and small groups at the handful of tables, all either Hyur or Wldwood. The sound of the groaning door was a common one: only the tender looked up taking a welcome pause from his drudgery, but offering an expressionless face that held no hint of curiosity.  The sound of heels echoing on the rough bare wood floor was altogether less common, and soon she had caught the attention of a numerous eyes from young to old. 

 

She wore a short skirt of white beneath a belted tunic reminiscent of those worn by hunters and archers.  The cut was short and trim, creating a mostly continuous line along the contour of her hips.  The chest was open, despite the closed collar that created a "window" effect that her figure took full advantage of.  Her hair fell in long, wavy, platinum locks over her shoulders, with a cute, if rather silly, hunter's cap upon her head.  The Gridanian style does not favor jewelry and beyond her numerous stud earrings she wore none save that of her navel, hidden beneath her tunic, and the intricate woven leather that substituted for bracelets and rings.  She clutched her purse in both hands before her, casting a warm if unsure smile about the room.

 

The conversations had quieted, the still near-silence holding for a long pause before she thought it best to break it: lifting blonde eyebrows and looking as friendly as possible she spoke, "I am Aya Foxheart~" in her bright and Ishgardian accented voice.  "I'm looking for someone" she added, unrolling the last of her signed posters.  "He helped me when we were workind on this this..." she asked with a purse-lipped smile that bordered between bashful and hopeful.

 

A number of the patrons crowded closer, their voices rising to her aid.  Old and a few young, most obviously Wailers in their manner or appearance.  For some time she held court, offering her bright cheer upon the conversation despite her apparent disappointment at not being able to identify the retired Wailer she had hoped to find.  The early afternoon rolled by, the numbers thinned as one cause or another pulled the fellows away. 

 

At last she maneuvered herself to a table with an elderly Elezen, proudly displaying a Wood Wailer patch upon the jacket he wore despite the heat. 

 

"Aya was it?" he smiled with a tired warmth.  His fingers clutching a pint of warm ale, hardly the first since she had come by.  She nodded, smiling softly.  "It is.  And I heard that your name is Trillent?" she asked, pronouncing his name in the usual Ishgardian manner. 

"Trillent" he politely but firmly corrected. 

 

"I heard that you served for sixty years?"

 

He nodded, pulling his lips somewhat tightly at the touchy subject.  "Sixty Six.  I'd be servin' still if it weren't for that wretch of a captain!" He slammed his mug onto the table to emphasize the point.  She jumped at the sudden thud of sound, and he turned a look of intoxicated contrition her way, "Sorry, sorry missum.  That just gets me every durned time."

 

She reached her hand toward his, gently covering it as he rest it on a table.  "Its okay..." she tried to comfort him softly, "You must have so many stories..."

He looked for a moment upon her hand and then nodded with satisfaction.  "Enough to fill a small book.  But I'm not sure a lass like you would find them too interestin'..."

 

She smiled warmly, and encouraged him.  She heard of his bravery before a force of Garleans.  How his platoon had held its line against a rain of gunpowder death.  How he had once confronted a Morbol in quite unexpected circumstances, and lived to tell the tale.  How he had helped build Camp Tranquil and rebuild Gridania after the Calamity.  He steadily slipped deeper and deeper into the pint as he went.  At last it was finished and he set it down with disappointment.

 

He let out a deeply aged sigh, "I suppose I should be getting 'ome before my grandson starts-a-worryin' 'bout me." 

 

Aya clasped at his arm, "Oh not so soon!" she exclaimed plaintively, expressing an almost suspicious interest in the old man's stories.  She waved to the barkeeper, who looked at her curiously as he approached the table. 

 

"Another for the Monsieur," she requested with a bright hopeful smile of which there was no return by the stoic barkeep.

 

The old Wailer smiled happily, if a little perplexed.  She glanced over her shoulder toward the barkeep as he poured a fresh pint.  He seemed the suspicious sort.  The old man would not be here for long, and by now she had earned his trust.  It was time to press her hopeful question.

 

The keeper served the beer, and as he retired Aya leaned a little closer.  She whispered in almost conspiratorial tones, "Have you ever heard of a man named Wolfedge?"

 

The old Wailer lifted bushy eyebrows, his eyes glassy and blank.  "Hmmm... not sure I know that name..."

 

She repeated it quietly, "Hamond Wolfedge.  He is all the talk down in Quarrymill..."  The old man sunk into thought.  The long moment polled longer.  Had all of her effort gone to waste? 

 

"...oh.... Oh!  Wolfedge!" His eyes suddenly perked up with an energy she had not seen so far, and he answered her with a sudden stroke of recall in a voice all too boisterous for her preference.

 

"Yes, yes.  That was quite the event!  Who could have imagined an Aler Mhigan agent in the Shroud!  Not like this was the Autumnnwwar... Yes it was most strange.  I remember now, 'e was trying to recruit..." his voice lowered, "Duskies... to 'is cause against Gridania.  We couldn't have that of course.  So we put a stop to it, and arrested 'im."

 

Her eyes grew wider at the realization that her most wild theory had been correct.  "You arrested him?" she asked in a voice that was almost a stammer at the shock of having actually met a ghost of the past.

 

He took a deep drought of his ale, grinning merrily.  "That... that I did!  As a noble, brave, Wood Wailer ought!  Strapping fellow.  Like so many Aler Mhighans, theys the big ones.  All that... fighten' with the hands... I don't deg it."  He let out a yawn, the excitement clearly passing.

 

She watched from beside him with eyes grown wider, hesitating for a moment before she could ask him more, "What happened to him...?"

 

He lowered and then lifted his head again, brow furrowed and perplexed.  "Who?" he asked as Aya blinked, dumbfounded herself.  As she opened her mouth to remind him he suddenly stirred, "Oh. right!  Toto-Rak.  The poor Aler Mhigan bastard."  He grinned a bit as he managed another drink before taking on a satirical air, "Pending investigation", he blurted out a laugh.  "Got what 'e deserved 'e did."  He uttered as if a curse, lowering his head back toward the table.  

 

She leaned closer to him trying to keep him roused, "What happened to him...?  He was killed?"

 

"Ayup..." he muttered.  "All of 'em bastards.  All got what they deser..." he took in a deep snore-lke breath through his nose. 

 

"They killed them...?  In Toto-rak?" she asked with something approaching horror on her features.

 

"We closed its alls off.  Nevers sees the sigtts again... weredn't the jailersssss... nop.  No..." he slurred wearily.  They werez bad.... trufth.  But.... werezn't them."  The old man let out a loud snore that filled the tavern.

 

Aya leaned back against her chair and barely stifled a sigh.  She covered her eyes with her hand and took slow steady breaths.

 

A few moments passed and she rose with a fresh smile, leaving plenty of coin from her purse on the table to cover the old Wailer's tab.  She smiled and waved on her way out, ascending the stairs much more quickly than she had traversed them on the way down, leaving behind an old man, and a signed poster of hers already hung upon the tavern wall.

 

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Of the Flight of Birds - Crimes Against Nature Part Five][/align]

 

Not Plot Related

 

The steady flow of the little brook filled the air with a quiet babble.  The banks had once been steep, but the slope had evened somewhat in recent years.  Another guest had speculated that the brook must be spring-fed on account of the clean clarity of the water, but that evolving bank told a very different story.  A story of Spring melts in the highlands to the north.  Of the low faint sun of the Northern winter, and the annual return of longer sun-filled Spring days that seared away snow and sent lowland streams bursting their banks.  An annual return of warmth that had been on hold since the calamity; replaced by the bitterness of endless winter and the dearth of hope that every Spring had once held forth.

 

Nearby, beneath the shade of picturesque trees rested a comfortable-looking lounge chair.  It was of just the sort one would imagine in Gridania: dark wood and reed detailed with such intricacy that it would seem to have been crafted by nature itself.  It was a comfortable chair—dangerously comfortable.  Aya's eyes had long since closed, locking away the visible world, allowing her to embrace the world of sound.  To open her mind to the delicate, pleasant sound of a forest brook.  To the wind rustled leaves, drying already but still clinging to summer green with the desperation of early Autumn.  And to the boisterous and energetic songs of dozens of birds that flitted about the branches. 

 

A familiar song caught her attention; eyes lazily opened, casting about in the direction of the chirpy-little voice.  She scanned the branches of a nearby bush, hearing again that lilting little song.  A voice she knew from childhood.  A song that had meant hope, and the essence of nature to a girl trapped within the stone cage of the Tower City.  A hardy little breed of sparrow that liked to roost along the walls of the city in those better times long since gone by.  He sang once more, a drab colored little ball of downy feathers that finally caught her sight.  She watched as he turned his head about, dark little eyes scanning her and their surroundings.

 

How many years had it been?  She thought back, remembering the smiles of yesteryear.  In migration already?  She thought: he lives to the north, there food must already be growing scarce with the arrival of cool winds.

 

She canted her head slightly, in unconscious mimicry of the little bird. Dangling earrings jingled with the slightest movement of her head.  Could he have toughed it out in Coerthas?  It seemed so unlikely.  Where had he been?  Had he too escaped that land?  Had he flown from home to find succor?  To escape the endless life-and-hope-swallowing snow?  A slight smile pulled upon plush, carmined lips.  

 

She wondered: could he have found a new home?  Gyr Abania perhaps?  She smiled somewhat more broadly, the thought of this little bird having reversed her own course in life brought an excited glimmer her eyes. 

 

"If I were as free as a bird..." she voicelessly mouthed.  Wondering still.

 

He was gone.  The quick little rustle of tiny wings and he was out of sight into the denser foliage just beyond the edge of the landscaped clearing that was the boarding house's garden. 

 

The more terrestrial bird closed her eyes.  Her wings were limited to her imagination, which briefly flew to the hillsides and open spaces of her birthplace.  To the Highland forests of Gyr Abania of which she could only dream. 

 

The dream could not long last, though, and soon she rose from the comfort of the forest chair.  She drew a pocket mirror to check that her hair was still all in place, that her makeup was still perfect.  She was worried about the show that evening, but, on her way back inside she turned back to take one long look back to where she had been lounging.  To the bushes where the birds sang.  To the spot the little sparrow had perched.  She closed her eyes and heard his song.  She closed her eyes and imagined his flight.  She closed her eyes and saw her home as she'd have seen them as a bird free flying amidst the clouds.  She saw both of her homes; no, there had been so many more in her own long migration: all of them.  Unfolding beneath her as she soared upon the winds of memory, through the breadths of time and distance

 

She opened her eyes slowly.  And with a soft, genuine, smile she tuned about once more.  Her eyes were upon the evening that awaited her.  But her mind still thought of home, of memory, and of the little bird who reminded her of it all.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Meeting Weylan - Crimes Against Nature Part Six][/align]

 

Another day... it was like purgatory.  For a soldier of his ability an assignment to patrol the city was anything but satisfying.  He let out a sigh, slightly ruddy cheeks puffing beneath the wooden carved mask that covered his eyes.  His free hand pulled back through strands of dirty blonde, kept just kempt enough to avoid the attention of his temporary superiors.  Temporary was right, he reflected for a moment, they wouldn't long keep a soldier of his caliber down, no, no. 

 

He stopped by a still puddle, a remnant of the torrent that had fallen that morning.  In the full brightness of the afternoon sun he glimpsed his reflection.  That combination of soldierly wear upon his features, with that hint of devil-may-care decorum.  "Now that," he thought to himself, "is an elite soldier."  The wood wailer turned back toward the route of his patrol with the morose manner of the habitual underachiever, metaphorical hands stuffed firmly in his pockets.  He ambled with an unconcerned air, leaving the amphitheater behind as he approached and then passed the grinding rumble of the millers industry. 

 

The suddenness of the sight was what seemed to catch the breath in his throat.  Of course, Weylan was not unaccustomed to the sight of lovely women.  But, that sight of the shapely blonde poised against the railing of the small bridge ahead wasn't just just a pretty girl.  He'd been staring at this girl over lunch nearly every day.  That lovely, smiling blonde from the poster.  It didn't  really take much to bring Weylan's lackadaisical stride to a halt, and this certainly qualified. 

 

He peered a bit closer, squinting behind the mask.  From this vantage he could only see her from behind, but that figure, the long light, blonde hair that fell across her back.  He sucked in a breath through pursed lips before pulling them back into a grin, an unnerving expression, as he regarded the girl from a distance.  It was her, he was as near to certain, the girl from the poster in the Sleeping Boar.

 

He pushed his shoulders back as he started again for the bridge.  Now there was a purpose to his step, but no hint of the usual Wailer cadence.  He sauntered onto the first few planks of the slightly arched wooden span.  It was her, no doubt about it now.  She seemed preoccupied, gazing out into the flowing stream without a care in the world. 

 

He paused for just a moment to take in the outline of her figure once more.  She was wearing something of a huntress' outfit: tight forest green leggings, and a white tunic belted near her waist.  A leather hunters harness, or a facsimile of one, looped its straps around her far shoulder.  But, the cut was altogether more risque: the tunic hugged her feminine curves below the shoulders, holding fast to narrow waist and then the curve of her side as it widened toward her hips.  And then the boots, high and dark leather with steep heels that screamed of the provocative wenches of Limsa rather than the quiet forest paths of Gridania.

 

He stepped to the right side of her, setting his spear against the railing as his eyes turned their attention upon her.  There opened before him another pleasant surprise: where a shroud huntress would have tightly cinched the bodice of her tunic, this one stood loose.  Not just loose, but open, seeming like it must have beet cut for the purpose of exposing the form of the decolletage that seemed so barely contained within its confines.  He watched as it seemed to swell, rising against the fabric as the woman took in an audible breath of surprise.

 

He slowly pulled his eyes up, not wanting to allow them to waste a moment of this opportunity.  Up and up they drew scanning further than he'd anticipated to take in her full height.  At last his eyes settled on her eyes, nearly at his own height.  Oh, but there they were: those lovely blue eyes wide, and looking right at him.  For a moment he imagined that poster and the way she seemed to smile right at him as he gazed longingly at her for minutes on end from the bar, "Hello miss."  He greeted her politely, a light but amused smirk on his features.  

 

She smiled softly, there it was, he thought, and then looked him over, eyes quickly scanning up and down, seeming to pause for a moment upon the mask he wore over his eyes which lead to a little  hesitation upon her carmine lips.  Slender feminine fingers tapped gently against the wood railing, until after a moments pause she shifted her hips, and offered a warm smile his way.  "its just a perfect day isn't it?  Nothing quite like a little sunshine is the afternoon." 

 

That voice!!  He liked it even more than he had imagined: the light silky tone, and the play of her delectable Ishgardian accent upon every word!  He nodded, "Good spot."  He turned toward the railing and leaned heavily against it, elbows resting there as he hung his hands out over the water.  "Good company too..."

 

She let out a soft laugh, comfortable sounding he thought, as she gazed back out toward the water wheel that turned majestically over and over on the other the small pool.  With her right hand she pulled stray strands of her bangs back behind her ear, unable to contain a little smirk of her own, though it was not directed his way.  "Well, that's as good a reason as any to take a break on a busy day, right?"  She grinned a bit at the suggestion, glancing his way as she released her hand, a flicker of playful mischievousness in her expression and voice.

 

He barked a laugh, showing her his broad grin. "Aye, that it is!" His gaze appraised her again.  Appreciative of that little smirk and the curve of her face, now exposed.  He felt a little flush of pride, "These day's it's just patrol the city. Just waitin' for a new assignment, of course. New elite group to have an opening."  His voice was confidence, and he puffed up his chest a bit, turning slightly toward her to emphasize the broadness of his muscular shoulders.

 

The brightness of the smile she turned his way was just what he had hoped to see.  And then there was the way she raised those blonde eyebrows with an impressed curiosity, signalling just how badly she wanted to know more about him, he though.  "Elite?" she asked with fascination.

 

He grinned back, proudly, and stood up to his full height to offer an authoritative nod. "One of the sixteenth. Well, was anyway. Unit's gone so I'm waiting for a new assignment." He grimaced, "'Pending review' they say. Troubled times like this, you need people out in the field protecting the city. Protecting people like you."

 

She took in another breath, listening and watching his display looking all the more impressed for the telling.  "The Sixteen?" she asked mistakenly in her innocent, fascinated way, "That does sound elite!"

He puffed up even more, grinning with the broad intensity of a man who sees everything going according to plan. That said, despite his best efforts, he hardly looked old enough to be elite. "Yeah. Best of the best. Gotta be, to hunt the poachers that risk the deepest parts of the Shroud."

 

"Yeaaaah...?" came the dazzled reply of her light feminine voice.  She leaned closer toward him, eyes widened with those blonde eyebrows still raised as she seemed to hang upon his every word.  There was a taste of her perfume... vanilla, peaches...  "You've hunted in the deep shroud?".

 

He nodded a bit, slowly.  His gaze drifted downward.  The combined effect of her fragrance and the enticing view offered by her bodice, especially as she leaned his way, was enough to momentarily bring a stop to his train of thought.  He couldn't really help it, after all, They were right there.  He wasn't even quite sure just how long the savoring moment lasted, but he was brought back out of it by the sound of her voice.  "Are you okay?" she was asking with concern.

 

He whipped his eyes back to hers, followed by a quick downward double-take, before nodding emphatically. "Oh, aye, aye. As I was... sayin' I plan to go back to the deep shroud again. 'ventually. Once the higher ups get outa their own asses. Just tryin' to make the best of this lull.  He paused for a moment, his eyes glancing downward for a moment again as he resisted the urge to stare.  Then he tilted his head just a bit, returning  her quizzical gaze as he gestured slightly toward her, "How about we go get some drinks? I'll tell you 'bout how I got into the Sixteenth." 

 

The woman lifted her head back up, while the fingers of her hands crossed on the railing.  She seemed to be considering his offer for a moment before she offered an energetic little nod, "Oh that does sound interesting!  I'd love to hear!"  She beamed that bright grin of hers right towards him, "Where did you have in mind?" she turned toward him for the first time giving his eyes the sudden pause of distraction once more.

"The Canopy is nice, but it's so full of adventurers these days." he said with derision.  "Nothing but trouble for the Twelveswood if you ask me." He paused for a moment, drawing a hand along his jaw before speaking thoughtfully, "I know a few better places, but they're a bit rough for a fine woman like yourself."

 

She giggled softly at his last comment.  And with a glance away she bit her lower lip and thought for a moment herself, while Her right hand idly played with the cinch string that tied (or didn't) her bodice.  "Well..." she cocked her hips a bit, before looking back, "There is a nice spot for tea nearby."

"For you? he announced with an air of chivalry, "I'll drink tea."

 

She laughed, looking terribly excited in the way that she moved, "Perfect!"

 

He seemed to puff up even more, casting an immensely proud grin her way as he drew his hands up towards his face, "Ah, just lemme take this off." His fingers unhooked the mask, and drew it off. Freshly revealed blue eyes scanned up and down the body of the woman in front of him with admiration. "Much better. Let's go find this spot of yours."

 

She grinned with a nod, "Oh!" she stopped suddenly in the middle of her turn to leave, "I'm Aya! she smiled brightly back toward him.

 

"Weylan," he grinned back.

 

[Credit to Nihka for the RP scene this was drawn from!]

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][The Rabbit Hole - Crimes Against Nature Part Seven][/align]

 

While the pair strolled casually through Old Gridania, the young women was given a moment to collect her thoughts.  If she had known her date better she would have recognized the change in how he carried himself.  The swagger, the air of superiority and success.  As it was, she tried not to fidget with her small purse as her mind wandered through the possibilities of the afternoon.  For weeks she had suspected that an unseen hnd in the Wailers was moving things behind the scene to cover up the events at Toto-Rak. In this opportunity there was a hint of hope, accompanied by the ever-present whiff of danger. Her recognition of the stakes was something she did her best to conceal behind the cheerful confidence that so often seemed a blissful lack of awareness to others.

 

It was the charms of her feminine allure that had found her in this situation; the manners of which came more than naturally to her.  Some were learned: the natural hip-swaying motion of her walk had been perfected in the tunnel-like streets of Ishgard's deep Foundation, and was emphasized further by the steep heels she always favored.  The selection of sweet and simple fragrance was one borne of experience as well as preference.  The natural shapeliness of her form only provided the core of a figure shaped by the rigors of conditioning and the demanding life of a dancer.  The character and manner were all her own: the natural girlishness that seemed to draw those of a certain persuasion toward her without the need of ever casting a hook. 

 

And so it was that she now found herself in the company of one enamored Wood Wailer: Weylan, the last surviving member of the crack unit known as the Sixteenth Spear.  She had heard of their grim end: met out by the hands of a mad woman— void-touched ghost of an innocent woman framed for the heinous slaughter of children.  She had met the father of one of Weylan's fellow soldiers.  She had heard more of the tale than she wished.  And  now she wondered why this man had survived.  By what miracle or design he had escaped the fate of the others.  And by what fortune he had fallen into her lap, firmly caught on one of those unintentional hooks. 

 

As they walked his mind was similarly occupied, but by a very different character of musing.  His eyes focused rather intently, and unbashfully upon the sight of her exposed cleavage, bared in such un-Gridanian fashion.  The challenges he pondered were how to keep his step, and not trip, while maximizing his time for ogling.

 

The name of the open-air cafe that Aya guided them toward was "The Rabbit Hole."  It could be found tucked away beneath young trees in what was once a forest clearing along the northern end of the Old Town.  Charming and rather quaint despite its recent vintage. there was always a quiet energy about the place as patrons gathered under the branches and at tables and benches sipping the tea and other warm drinks or sampling the chocolaty confections that are their specialty.  As the pair entered the space, Aya slowed their walk and announced their arrival, "We're here!"

 

Her companion only temporarily drew his eyes away from the objects of his fixation so as to nod along with her, "You're right.  Perfect spot."

 

She turned toward him, swiveling side to side on her hips in an expression of pent up energy as she turned that bright grin upon him.  "What about something to drink?  I think I'll have some honey-tea, its their specialty!"

 

Weylan nodded, regarding that grin with a chuckle as he drew his hand up to his face, pulling fingers down both sides of his jaw  he seemed to think about it.

 

"Yeah, guess I'll have one too.  See if they'll throw in a shot of whiskey for me."  He cast a glance around her at the small covered pavilion that was the center of the 'Hole.  It was built around a large trunk, the rafters of its crafted roof taking on the look of large boughs, the entire structure looking perfectly at home  in the forest.  The sight did not fill him with optimism, but worth a shot, right? 

 

The blonde let out a cheerful laugh, as if he'd been joking with her.  She covered her lips with her fingers as she turned away from him and walked slowly toward the pavilion.  Though she wore a bright smile, there was as internal chagrin: "He's going to make me pay for the drinks?  Some date!"

 

Weylan took a few steps, choosing a spot with a particularly fine vantage point.  He relieved himself of the burden of his spear, leaning it against the back of the bench before taking a seat.  His eyes had never let go, their focus shifting side to side as he watched the curvy sway of hips. 

 

As she reached the counter she pushed her left toes near against the bottom of the counter and leaned forward, bent at the waist as she offered a friendly grin to the young woman behind the counter.  The motion was most intentional, a favorite from evenings as a barmaid, and one made all the more effective by the snug fit of her leggings upon the shapeliness of the form outlined by her hips. 

 

Her companion hadn't missed a moment, and once more drew his hands along his jaw once more as she seemed to so nonchalantly lean across the counter.  It really was his day wasn't it!

 

 

 

 

 

The pause at the counter gave her a moment to collect her thoughts.  She had a good idea who he was, but he seemed to have no idea who she was beyond a pretty face.  This gave her an advantage.  Few men ever suspected her of an ounce of cleverness, but fewer still who were so infatuated upon just meeting her.  She would just keep this up to see if she could learn anything... besides, she glanced back at the young man with his confident features and his shock of dirty-blonde hair, he was kind of cute!  It could be worse.

 

It was a few moments before she joined him at the bench, his smile greeting her grin as she approached him.  "Ah, take a seat!" He gestured to the spot beside him, before taking a wincing taste of the tea.

 

She straightened the skirt of her tunic under her as she took a seat, crossing her legs and slipping her free hand between them.  "Now where was I..." he continued.  "Ah, yes!  The Sixteenth.  They only took the very best, so getting in wasn't easy."

 

She turned awestruck blue-eyes upon him again, "I just can't imagine!  There were only sixteen of you?" she asked with all the intentional manner of innocent curiosity.

 

He looked back with an eyebrow cocked before letting out a hearty laugh as he shook his head.  "The Sixteenth," he repeated with extra emphasis, "The Sixteenth Spear."  He reached to his side drawing out a leather-covered metal flask.  Meanwhile a look of wide-eyed realization came ever her; soft lips hanging open for a moment before she seemed to flush in embarrassment. 

 

He chuckled lightly and then nodded along as if helpfully walking her through something that she already knew, "You know, the First Spear, they stay at home and sit on their asses.  But the sixteenth?"  He swelled up with pride, "The Sixteenth takes the fight to where it belongs.  To the poachers and criminals who're ruining the Twelveswood!"

 

She nodded along, keeping up her well honed part as the clueless blonde.  She looked downward toward her lap as she drew her free hand up, thumb touching to her lips, "So there are more than sixteen of you..." she said with a voice just above a whisper.

 

Weylan cast his blue eyes toward her again, giving an amused smirk that was endearing in its own way.  He unstoppered the flask, pouring some amount of the liquor within into his tea.  "Aye, so you see, to get into the Sixteenth you have to prove your skill in the line of duty.  No easy feat, as they've got strict requirements."

 

She sipped from her tea, regarding him through the tops of her eyes as she looked over the rim of her cup. 

 

"Right, so you see, we were out in the Near Shroud, when we saw some tracks.  Bird tracks." He leaned toward her, "Now the other lads wanted to return to base and report the tracks, instead of doing anything about it.  Not me though."  He sat back up, lips pulled partly to the side. chin lifted with a stern pride.  "No, not me.  See?  Me 'an the Ixal we've got a history.  Attacked my home.  Killed a few of my friends.  I don't run from any chance to fight Ixal, and I wasn't about to let them get away that easy."

 

He continued with his story.  How he had followed them, alone braving the hostile wilderness to track down an enemy camp and surprise them. "I came across a group of about five of 'em, with two of those wolves they like to train. Savage things..."  She listened intently.  Eyes often widened, looking at him with some intensity.  It wan not entirely feigned, "Lousy squad left me on my own. What else was I supposed to do?"

 

She knew that he might have exaggerated.  Perhaps he wasn't as brazen as in his telling.  But, as she looked at him she saw a young man not much older than herself.  He had been through much.  The Sixteenth would not have taken on such a young soldier without good reason.  "Aye, I found the Ixal. Cutting down trees! They had one of their balloons there, loading it up with poached timber."

 

As the telling continued she found herself unwittingly enthralled by the tale.  By the thought of this young man and the danger he faced that day in the wood.  Of the valor he mush have shown, even if he put the old solider spin on it now.  "I made chase! These were Ixal, remember? Savage beasts, worse than poachers, if anything could be. What sort of protector would I be if I suffered even a single one of them to live?"

 

He slipped his hand to her thigh, giving it a good squeeze.  The sensation brought her back to reality.  The valiant warrior gave way to the bore.  She tried not to gasp.  She squirmed slightly but he seemed not to notice.  He continued to regale her, working his way through his tea faster than she did her own.  She wondered if there really was anything in his tale quite worth it after all.

 

 

 

 

 

As he finished the story of his adventure, she brought her hand up to her chest, laying it flat above her heart.  He gave her a delighted smirk, "Got a commendation for that. Proactive justice. That's when the Sixteenth started asking about me. They need good trackers, people who can work independently." His hand lifted from her thigh and she almost breathed a silent sigh of relief, but it soon slipped around her back and settled upon her opposite hip. "So aye, I was a perfect fit."

 

Rather than relief, it was a surprised gasp that escaped freely from her lips and for a moment she tried to wriggle free.  But, Weylan either didn't notice, or didn't care.  His hand pulled her tighter, drawing her hips against his.  She looked to him for a moment, almost aghast, but she she was still curious just what he might know.  She took a soft, deep breath and recovered her composure. She regained her smile, softly tuning it toward him more of her curiosity, "They came and recruited you after that?"

 

"Yep," he nodded with a huge grin.  "Came to visit me at the barracks.  Whole host of interviews with the new squad captain.  Damn fine man.  Fuckin' shame.

 

She lifted her blonde eyebrows, leaning slightly toward him as she cast an inquisitive gaze.  She knew, but tried to give him the opposite impression. 

 

"Such a shame that he had to die, and some lousy fuckin' adventurers can't even be bothered to get him a proper burial.  If it weren't for them— wouldn't have this mess in the Shroud to begin with."

 

She canted her head, taking on her most confused expression. 

 

"You haven't heard?"  He looked at her more closely, keeping his snug hold upon her hips as if to comfort her.  "The whole Shroud is full of void-corrupted criminals.  And half the damn adventurers are helping them, not that the authorities won't stop denying it."  He looks at her more intently yet, his hand wandering slowly up her side.  "But let me tell you.  I'm doing something about it."

 

She did her very best in that instant to hide her surprise.  There it was... her intuition had been right.  But, just what had he been up to?  She pressed him further, in her own manner.

 

"But..." she stammered in a light, but concerned voice, her blue eyes looking at him filled with a mixture of worry and impressed curiosity, "That sounds dangerous!"

 

That's just what Weylan liked to hear and he sat up tall, gently stroking her side with a firm hand.  "It is.  But I would do anything for the Shroud."

 

She leaned a bit closer, curiosity winning the struggle over her expression, "What are you going to do abut it...?"

 

 

 

 

 

He lowered his voice, a tone of seriousness coming over it.  "Corruption spreads even to the highest levels.  I can't tell you much.  But we're cutting out the rot right at the core."  His hand continued its rough embrace, pulling the fabric of her tunic all out of place.  He seemed to gaze off into the distance as if contemplating the enormity of the task before him.

 

Aya seemed somewhat taken aback, feigning the same irritation he had already shown to nudge him into revealing if he were working with anyone, "You're not working with adventurers are you?"

 

He retorted, sneering, "No, of course not.  Its just us Wailers.  We're the real protectors.  And don't you worry, we're taking care of it.  Right to the very top."

 

"Oh?"  She turned toward him, drawing her hand to his shoulder.  "Like the ones you're patrolling for, or is it one of those elite units you were talking about joining?"

 

He nodded slowly with his chin proudly out-thrust.  "The most elite.  Veterans who still remember what it was like before."  He smirked with an undisguised pride, as if he already counted himself among their number.  "Not like these others.  The ones've got me patrolling? They're part of the problem, too. All their bureaucracy gets in the way of real justice." 

 

Aya drew in a deep breath, offering those wide-eyed impressed eyes up to him like bait upon a hook.  They glanced downward, as if she were thinking, and then back toward him as he gave her side another squeeze.  "They're such a special unit of the Wailers... and they want you?"

 

She thought of the old wailer:  Arden Wood.  He had lost his son in the Sixteenth.  Could his son have been the Captain?  He knew something of what happened it Toto'Rak, could he be one of these veterans?

 

He nodded, with delight in his eyes, "Aye. They know what's what, but they're old and they need someone young and strong to help. That's where I come in." He smirked, "And with my history of taking on rough jobs? Yeah."

 

So there were more... she made mental note of everything he said.  She focused on keeping her demeanor relaxed, amused.  Her eyes stayed wide and flirtatious, her movements playful.

 

She pursed her lips, giving a soft little giggle as she adopted a teasing tone, "So do you have any help with this or are you too worried about competition for joining the unit?"

 

He glanced a bit side-to-side as if scanning the area.  "Yeah, yeah.  Mmm, a few others.  Just a few.  Have to be careful, though.  Never know who might be listening.  Hey— just stick with me and I might introduce you."  He emphasized the offer with a suggestive grin and a possessive squeeze of her side.

 

Hey eyes shone with an unfeigned excitement. 

 

"Yeah...you mean it? Really?!" she leaned closer, fighting to keep her voice quiet in her excitement.  "You'd introduce me to the most elite Wood Wailers in all of the Shroud?"   She narrowed her eyes, conspiratorially, "They're not like... the Grey Lances, or anything like that are they?  I can only imagine what sort of secret code name they must go by!"

 

He grinned back, but there was a hint of something different in his expression: trepidation. "Yeah, really. I gotta make sure, though, y'know?"

 

She looked back, blonde eyebrows lifted with with a baffled disappointment lifts those blonde eyebrows, "Make sure of what?"

 

He grew slightly defensive.  "Check with my friends. You know.  Make sure they're okay with you stopping by."

 

She had to convince him to let her meet them, how could she let an opportunity like this slip her by?

 

She pursed her lips, pushing her head away from him and tilting it back his way and looked at him out of the side of her eyes.  Clearly not impressed, "Where's that brave Lancer you've been telling me all about?"

 

He looked at her, his lips pulled taut for a moment before they drew back into a smirk.  "You're right. Hah. He's right here."  He nodded to himself and gave her another squeeze. "I'll take you to meet my friend. I'm supposed to meet him in a week or so at the Boar." He chuckled lightly, "He'll be happy to see you."

 

Aya's pursed-lip teasing gaze erupted into a radiant, ebullient grin. "Oooooh, I just can't wait!" she squealed excitedly.  Her heart skipped a beat within her breast.  She stood at the edge of a precipice, but she did not know how deep.

 

 

 

 

 

Weylan grinned broadly at hep excitement, giving her another gentle squeeze. "Aye. I'm lookin' forward to it, too. Though, think I need to get back to work. How about we meet for dinner sometime?"

 

She nodded in agreement, keeping the full begrudgingness of the request to herself, "That sounds nice!  Monsieur Weylan, Brave Shroud Lancer!" she settled back into the seat and  grinned at him.

 

 

"Lady Aya, beautiful flower of the Shroud. Fear not, we will keep you safe." He leaned toward her, his romantic offering no doubt deserving of a kiss, right?

 

Rather deftly, the girl slipped her finger before his lips.  She canted her head and grinned brightly at him, "Oh Monsieur, not on the first date!  It is a saying of ours!"

 

She girded herself, knowing that the charade must for now be maintained; clever improvisation would only get her so far.  On the cheek, she thought, but make it good.

 

She leaned forward to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek.  She allowed herself to linger for a moment, before opening her eyes slowly, long dark lashes moving before his eyes.  At last she looked at him with own bright blues and slowly withdrew, a warm, purse-lipped smile upon her lips and a hint of her lipstick left behind upon ruddy cheek. 

 

Weylan grinned like a boy, seeming to overcome his disappointment for now.  He released her, stood, and finish.e the last of his tea in a single drought. "Aye, aye, fair enough. I'll come find you for our date!."  He unhooked his mask from his belt.

 

Aya nodded, grinning as she watched him don the mask, and then waved to him as he returned to his patrol.

 

One bullet dodged.  For Now.  But just how deep can this all go?

 

[Credit to Nihka for the RP scene and her creepy character, Weylan!]

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][Meeting on the Pier - Crimes Against Nature Part Eight][/align]

 

 

Music:

 

xHP2GgxYddY

 

 

It was one of those Gridanian days that are found in catalogs across Eorzea.  The sun hung high in the cloud-free sky all afternoon, filtering through the leafy canopies of the city that so naturally made its home within the high forestf.  Despite the brightness of the sun, the air was warm, but not overbearing.  The crisp of autumn hanging faint upon the horizon, but as of yet, just out of mind.  It was the sort of day that made one forget the discomfort of other weather: past bitter winter and scorching summer days could not resist its lusty perfection; nor could those ever-present damp, rainy Shroud days that had seemed to be the norm as of late.

 

It was just the sort of day that the old rogue remembered from his youth in the forest.  He drew in a deep breath, glancing either way upon the stream that the pier he stood upon over-looked.  For a moment he regretted that he was not there to fish, before reminding himself that he did not actually much enjoy fishing.  "Its just the thing you're supposed to want to do on a day like this..."

 

He'd made his way to the city earlier that day, leaving behind the young twin wards at his modest villa by the sea on the Vylbrand coast.  On other occasions it may have been difficult to convince him tto swap the scenery of the beach for that of the Shroud, but he just couldn't wipe the Cheshire-like grin from his lips 

 

Drawing in another deep breath he tasted the arrival of his friend, that welcome scent of vanilla, cream and peaches, and of course, of her beneath it all.  Facing away from her, his cat-like eyes lit up with the glee of mischief as he correctly anticipated the loud sound of heels stepping upon the wooden planks of the pier. 

 

Few things could have brought him so far and in such a hurry, but here was one of those things:  Aya Foxheart.  The alluring friend of his who never quite seemed to escape his mind.  They knew each other far better than there all-too infrequent conversations should have allowed.  There was simply a bond between them: it had caused him to risk his life for her before; and he had swiftly answered her call for help.

 

 

 

 

"I can always tell you're coming", he said as he  turned his body slowly around.  His grin had grown only more confounding as he turned his eyes upon her.  He began with her shoes, as he always liked to.  They often spoke more about her than any words she might choose to use: those dangerous heels, strappy shoes that suggested there was no outdoor adventure planned that evening.  His eyes trailed slowly upward, admiring the toned legs that so well hid her power and strength, the yellow dress that matched the vivacious energy of her usual cheer, and the figure that made the dress so worthy of his appreciation.  At last his green hunters eyes settled upon her own, and her smirking pursed lip grin greeted. "It's your perfume. No one else smells quite so good."

 

"C'kayah, C'kayah" she said with a slow shake of her head, "Never change.  Please." She shone a radiant grin as she took the last few steps toward him, more that accustomed to his admiring gaze.

 

He beamed an amused, cheerful grin back toward her, his arms outstretched as she approached.  Her heels left her somewhat taller, and she gladly wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he embraced her.  He gave her an affectionate kiss upon her cheek, "I never thought you'd stay in Gridania this long", he said remembering the last time they had spoke. "Especially after that chocobo lead petered out." 

 

She found an immense comfort in the embrace of his masculine form.  She just held him tight, closing her eyes at the greeting of his affectionate kiss.  With a slow exhale she leaned back, "One part Monsieur Vann, and another part the sort of curiosity that always gets a girl in trouble."

 

With his hands resting upon the outer-curves of her shoulders he just laughed, "Have you looked in a mirror lately", he drew his hand from her shoulder, brushing a lock of her blonde hair away from her perfect cheek. "You're the sort of woman that just exudes trouble. But you know I'll always watch your back, don't you?"

 

He watched her eyes glancing at him with a hint of bashful disbelief. 

 

"And no," he added with a warm smirk, "that is not a euphemism..."  He leaned his head toward her slightly, as if to emphasize the sincerity of his words.

 

She blushed, a hint of crimson warming behind cheeks already reddened with light makeup.  Here she was a performer, accustomed to compliments of all sorts, having appeared on posters across the land of Eorzea: but somehow he always seemed to find a way to reduce her to a bashful schoolgirl, and he reveled in it. 

 

Despite her best effort, she just couldn't hold back an expression of genuine shyness--that girlish demureness.   A warm smile tugged upon her lips.  "I know..." she replied with a soft hint of delight, "That's why I've asked you here."

 

His eyes sharpened a bit as he apprised her expression.  "I'm retired now, you know.  I didn't think that I'd be able to stay out of the game, but fortune smiled upon me and gave me higher priorities to attend to.  I have others to take care of now.  Daughters."

 

"Well", he chuckled, "foster daughters. I don't think you've met Kia and Zyia yet, but you'll have to come when you get the chance. They're not old enough to travel easily yet."

 

He looked out over the stream, his thoughts firmly focused on the future, and his expression a hopeful, even satisfied smile.  His sudden shift to his new quiet life seemed a rejoinder on whatever business she may have had for him.  But that smile caused her to smile as well: rarely had he seemed so excited by something that wasn't a woman, or the game itself.

 

He noticed her apprehension, and with a quick little scratch of his nose continued.  "Retirement is a funny thing, though."  He furrowed his brow a bit, still looking away, "On the one hand, I have far fewer contacts."  He turned his eyes upon her, that smirk of his returning in all of its glory, "On the other hand, I've got a lot more time.  And sometimes I find myself bored and want to dip my finger into something exciting."

 

He leaned back a bit, exuding a welcome confidence, "So tell me, Aya.  What is it you have on your mind?"

 

She canted her head in a mixture of confusion and amusement.  At his final offer she just let out a little laugh, pursing her lips as she tried to contain a broader grin.  "Retirement just doesn't suite you C'kayah..." she unleashed her playful grin upon him, "But I trust that you will enjoy your vacation.  And the time with your family."

 

"I am.  So tell me about it." he encouraged with a grin.

 

She seemed to hesitate, most of the playfulness going out of her expression as she glanced away, fingers fidgeting with the straps of her gloves.  "You know I wouldn't have bothered you, C'kayah, if I thought you would forgive we if I hadn't".

 

There was a little flash in his eyes as he smiled mischievously, "I remember the first time you asked me for a big favor. Bringing a letter to your family in Ishgard. You almost couldn't do it. You've always wanted to ride on top of life, without making a deep impression. Like a water strider in a pond."

 

"I'm glad you've come to your senses and recognized that you're no ordinary friend, no ordinary acquaintance. I could no more not help you than I could not help myself."

 

Her fingers continued to play with gloves, worried eyes looking at them momentarily. "You are too kind, C'kayah, and you always have done so much for me.  I won't say I can quite understand, but I will always appreciate our friendship more than anything else." 

 

She returned her eyes to his.  "C'kayah." she said, rather matter-of-factually, "I'm hoping to meet with some dangerous men. They do not know who I am. And I do not know if I will be safe."

 

His expression grow more serious to match hers, as he offered a slow nod.  "Tell me about these men", he said. "Tell me everything."

 

 

 

 

"They're old Wood Wailers." she continued, with a bit of serenity finally coming over her troubled expression. "They've something to do with the events in Toto-Rak forty years ago. Or some things more recent..." she paused if thinking about something, "they're a danger to our friends and I am hoping to be able to learn something about them."

 

"Retired wood wailers?" He stressed the term as he turned her words over in his mind. "Wailers who were on active duty when whatever was unleashed happened, and when the dungeon was sealed?"

 

His eyes darkened and he furrowed his brow.  "I read a book about it once. Terrible thing, that." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You think they'll see your interest as a threat? That they'll see you as someone trying to reopen that which they're trying to forget?"

 

"They're..." she paused as if thinking about how to express herself. "Its not just passive. They're up to something. They've recruited this young Wailer, his name is Weylan. He was a member of the Sixteenth, the unit that was all but wiped out by one of the Ghosts released from Toto-Rak. Do you remember the mad woman I spoke of before?"

 

He nodded, his eyes growing distant. "That's not the sort of thing you just forget", he said with eyes narrowing. He seemed to be lost in thought, the story mixing with his own recollections in a haunting brew.  He blinked, and he seemed to return: back into the present with her. "I've heard some stories about those wailers. About what happened. Probably ninety percent fabrication, but it sounds like the wailers weren't simply reacting..."

 

She nodded along with him, "I don't know, what it all means, but I fear that it goes even deeper.  They're trying to cover something up. The Toto-Rak records for that entire year are simply missing. And they're filling this Wailer's head with nonsense about adventurer's being the enemies of Gridania, and how they must be stopped. That is what has me worried most.  That they will try to use him to inflict violence of one kind or another against our friends."

 

He paused, cocking an eyebrow as a question suddenly struck him.  "How did you come to find out about these old Wailers, Aya?" He drew nearer to the woman, lowering his voice, his eyes flicking around as if he were afraid of listening ears. "What put you on their trail?"

 

"Weylan..." she blushed a bit while a playful pursed-lip smile drew across her carmined lips. "He seems to have found my posters rather fetching. That, or it was just the sight of me upon a bridge on a lonely afternoon."

 

C'kayah smirked.  Then that smirk became a smile.  Then that smile split as he began to laugh. "If I ever underestimate you, my friend, I'll deserve everything that happens to me."

 

she tried her best to fight off a grin, pursing her lips while drawing blonde bangs back behind her ear, one side at a time.  She looked toward the water that flowed beneath the pi.er they stood upon.  "He's invited me to meet these men. The Old Veterans whom he hopes will make him an elite soldier once more.  After he helps them stop the adventurers, of course."

 

"Stop the adventurers", he repeated, sucking in a breath through his teeth. "I remember what Gridania was like.  Before the Garleans came. Before they decided to welcome adventurers into the city. I lived in the shroud for years before the Calamity. Gridania was a closed door. Hostile to any who lived in the forest. You and I, we couldn't have stood here on this dock within the city. I don't want to see it go that way again."

 

Without looking back up, Aya offered a quick couple of nods.  "So," she drew back another strand of blonde that had fallen forward with her downward cast gaze, "I'm supposed to have a date with him, sometime-I'm not sure when. At the Sleeping Boar, if you've heard of it. And he'll introduce me to these gentlemen."

 

"And you want protection," he astutely guessed.

 

She nodded, pulling her lips tight for a moment as her eyes moved back to his, "Don't you think that would be wise?"

 

"Oh, absolutely", he agreed. "But what form should that protection take? I can't exactly perch outside with a bow and a quiver of arrows. The Boar is a basement bar, is it not? A very shut-in place?"

 

She nodded along. "Mmhmm..." she blinked a bit as if trying to obscure that she had already thought this through a hundred times--as if there were any point in trying to hide that from C'kayah. "I had thought either indoors in disguise, or else just outside on a link-pearl."

 

"I can do better than that", he said with a sly grin. "How about both? Too many wailers recognize me, so I'll be outside on a link pearl, but I've got a reliable man in the area. I hired him to help out my cousins in the Shroud. Good fighter. Likes a close-in fight. He could come in as a wine merchant, bringing an assorted case for the bartender to try. That would give him an excuse to be there, just in case..."

 

She sighed quietly, shoulders relaxing as she tilted her head a bit with her eyes softening; looking thoroughly relieved.

 

"When is this meeting taking place?"

 

She shrugged by way of reply, adding a little shake of her head, "That's something that I do not know yet.  I'll, of course, let you know when I do."

 

 

 

 

He grinned with a nod of his own. "That will give me another excuse to come back to see you. Though you really should pay a visit to me in La Noscea, too. I'm sure the girls would love you."

 

She grinned, all worry seeming to evaporate at the brightness of the expression. "Oh you know it doesn't take much of an excuse to find me at the beach!" she giggled excitedly, folding her hands together.

 

He brought his right arm out to rest on one of her slim shoulders. "My house is right on the beach.  A perfect little cove. The tide goes out and you can just walk out for malms..."

 

She let out an audible breath, the lips of her grin slightly parted. She cocked her hips, canting her head tauntingly. "Are you going to make me beg?"

 

"The thought does have its appeal", he grinned teasingly. "But I love you too much for that."

 

"Do you have an overnight bag? You could come back with me until it's time for you to set up this 'date' of yours."

 

"I do..." she paused, letting out a soft sigh, "But I've just returned from Ul'dah.  I have a show this very evening.  Perhaps, once this job for Monsieur Vann is over, I think I know where my first stop will be."

 

"A show tonight?" His grin widened, his eyes flashing, and his tone becoming quick and excited. "Is it open to the public? I'm very public now, you know..." he purred jokingly.

 

She pursed her lips, shifting her cocked hips to the other side, "I cannot imagine that Monsieur Vann would abide your being turned away, would he? Still on friendly terms with the Syndicate, are you not?"

 

C'kayah grinned with a shrug. "Friendly enough", he said. "Though I think Vann still hates me. Blames me for some robbery of one of his gold caravans. As if I'd do something like that..."  He leaned toward her, with a plaintive plea of innocence.

 

Blonde eyebrows rose and rose-red lips pursed, before she gave an amused little side-to-side head shake, "Mmmhmmm, as if."

 

She moved her hand to her stylish little purse, withdrawing from it and then slipping into his hand a firm piece of paper several ilms square. "Just in case they give you any trouble."  She grinned as she used her fingers to close his hand around the guest pass.

 

He smiled at the feel of the paper, and the warm touch of her hands. "I'll be the very image of discretion, on my very best behavior."

 

"You'd best not get me into any trouble!" she laughed.  Narrowing her eyes a bit she gently teased him, "I never took you much for a lover of fashion."  She leaned in a bit closer, "Its almost as if you might have an ulterior interest." She leaned a bit closer yet, so that he could feel her body press gently against his, and then added a gentle soft-lipped kiss against his cheek.

 

As she leaned into him he firmly pressed his fingers against her feminine waist. And the kiss summoned forth a smile and a blush; blushing in a way that he did for no one else. "It's been far too long, Aya", he said with a soft earnestness. "I'll take any excuse to see you. Especially", he smirked, "to see you wearing the things Vann will likely dress you in. And if I can sweep you away after the show? How can I not?"

 

She grinned warmly, drawing her bangs back again after they'd slipped free of her ear, "Oh I think you'll find the outfits most enjoyable.  Maybe even ravishing." She giggled as she lifted her eyebrows suggestively, and her front teeth come down slightly against the fullness of her lower lip.

 

She turned part-way away from him, but close enough still that it allowed his fingers to rest comfortably on the delicate narrowness of her waist. "I'll see you tonight then."  She pursed her lips, and offered a close-eyed kiss in the air toward him.

 

"Count on it", he purred, his eyes drinking in the heart-aching loveliness of her face. "I'd say Menphina guide you, but there's little else she could do to improve you..."

 

Aya took a step away, causing his hand to slide down the widening curve of her hips as they swayed.  His compliment brought forth a radiant open-lipped grin in reply, "Oh C'kayah!"  She just let out an amused laugh, "I have no answer for that one!"

 

He returned tho laugh, offering no break from his cleverness, "You can have a few days to think of one!  I hear good wine and home-cooked meals are excellent for the wit!"

 

She continued to giggle, "I'll do the best I can!"  She turned and stepped away, his hand slipping free from her side.  She raised her own to offer a little wave of her fingers.  "I'll look for you at the show. Enjoy it!"

 

He gave a little bow, smiling with open affection. "Thank you.  I'll see you there, Aya."

[Aya]

[align=center]

[interlude - Crimes Against Nature Part Nine][/align]

 

Long fingers of sunlight seemed to stretch across the horizon, and played menacingly with the sharp mountain peaks rising imposingly in the distance—the final gasping attempt of the waning day to keep its grip upon the parched deserts of Thanalan.  The dark of night would soon swallow the landscape, quenching the heat of the solar-scorched landscape and basking it in the looming chill of silver moonlight, the herald of onrushing winter.

 

High above the landscape, perched upon the cresting crown of one of Ul'dahs high towers a spark flashed against the backdrop of falling night.  Encouraged by several determined puffs, and shielded by the cupped fingers of a feminine hand, the ephemeral flicker gave life to a dull glow.  A wispy string of smoke began to rise from the bowl of a long and slender pipe.  Itself perched unnaturally upon the outstretched hand, and pursed lips of a young woman, who herself kneeled precipitously upon the curved surface of the turret.  

 

A drawn hood partially shielded her tender features from the howling early-winter gusts, that bore up great clouds of sand and grit.  Exposed finger tips had no such protection, and she tried not to wince as she carefully controlled the puffs of breath through the pipe stem, encouraging the embers within the bowl to light its contents.

 

She couldn't remember the last time she'd freed the pipe from its simple hiding place.  It had been at least a year since she withdraw it from its quiet case, tucked beneath the intimate attire of her small chest of drawers.  The tobacco itself had been surreptitiously pinched, all the better to avoid any suspicion of the vice.

 

She tilted her head back, forming her lips into a wide ring, breathing out a ring of smoke that drifted lazily upward for a merest moment before being blasted away by the fierceness of Thanalan wind.

 

Bright blue eyes scanned the horizon from behind the protective edges of the canvas hood.  How long had she been gone?  Moons, it seemed - and moons it was.  She couldn't deny that something in her had missed the sight of that empty, barren desert wasteland.  Missed the scorching sun, and the chill frigid nights that it left behind as it hurried on its daily cycle each evening.  She tightened her lips around the pipe; even the Shroud was no longer enough for her to forget her adoptive home.

 

Despite the length of her absence, everything had seemed to quickly return to normal:  Madame Momodi acted as if not a step had been missed, not a beat gone unnoticed in her barmaid's absence.  She was already working shifts again nearly every evening, and making the rounds on market days.  Routine, that's all it was: only her dancer friends seemed to make more of it, welcoming her home with a weeknight party on the town.  That said: they seldom needed much of a reason for a good celebration.

 

She closed her eyes, lending focus to the feel and taste of the fine smoke.  She allowed the fragrance to wash over her and felt the mild exhilaration of its touch upon her lips.  

 

Despite these appearances, she knew things were far from normal.  The trouble of the Shroud still upset the tranquility of her private moments.  The horror of what she had seen: the way the Earth swallowed the most elite of Gridania's soldiery, the white-clad Twin Serpents, at the behest of a renegade Conjurer was too much to banish.  A renegade, yes, what other term could there be?  But a renegade with just cause: an impossible to forget truth that had been shared with her that unexpected evening upon the Float.  What is a Padjal gone bad?  A master of Succor and Void.  A looming terror, a menace waiting to unleash itself upon the Shroud, as he already had his innocent, and not-so-innocent victims from Toto-Rak.  

 

She opened her eyes, scanning the barren landscape as the last moments of sunset played out upon it.  The conjurer, Liadan, seemed prepared to give up everything to deal with the threat posed by the villainous Padjal.  But, her attention had its flaws.  Compassion directed her every effort toward the impossible goal of saving the damned.  Void-touched souls who were beyond the redemption of mortal hands.

 

No emotion played upon her features as she contemplated the situation.  Her blue eyes were unusually cool as they surveyed the fresh nightscape.  Her fingers now strained to clutch the pipe against the force of blasting wind, which whipped the aroma of pipeweed swiftly away from her perch.

 

No amount of effort to save the ghosts, as the pipe-smoking blonde referred to them, would bear fruit - and certainly it would not aid in the grand struggle unfolding in the deep shroud.  No, Liadan's effort was compassionate, but misplaced, as was that of the Ishgardian Dragoon (as should be expected).  There were mysteries to unravel, but more than that, there was a threat to stop - a threat to defeat.  Vulnerabilities to seek out, plans to uncover, and plots to foil.  While Liadan and her allies darted from symptom to symptom, the wily serpent worked his coils tighter around the Shroud itself.  Keeping secret his darkest venom, which he would prepare and unleash at a time of his own choosing.

 

She clutched the pipe tighter.  Lips tensed as her entire body clenched, while her free hand drew her coat tighter around her to ward off the chill that now hung in the star-lit night.

 

The Serpents protected him.  What of the Adders?  What of Hadrian, what of Arden Wood?  The old wailer whose son was killed when Weylan's unit, the 16th Spear, was nearly annihilated.  The old man had known something, something he was loathe to admit.  Whatever they were up to: it seemed to escape others' notice.  How deep their plotting went, or how much it mattered, she couldn't know.  But, if not her, then who would look into it?  Their knowledge was deep: perhaps deeper than any non-Padjal in the Shroud.  They had been there.  They had known. Now what?

 

She closed her eyes.  When she slowly opened them, they were directed downward at the high rampart wall whose top was dozens of feet below her.  She was no Hearer.  No void-master, or studied arcanist.  Neither a Dragoon, nor a Shroud hunter.  Not even a bard, whose stories and songs could inspire others.  But, she knew there was still more she could do.  Would have to do, if conscience was to be her guide.  It was a precarious position, like her perch, and similarly it would not be dangerous, provided she kept her poise.  

 

She slowly drew the pipe away from her lips, letting out an audible sigh.  At last she had to admit to herself what she already knew: this quiet return to Ul'dah was a mere interlude.  

 

She would not stay away from the Shroud for long, even if her return would be more circumspect.  She drew the pipe in once more, savoring deep as it worked like an energizing balm, calming her, while setting her mind free for contemplation.

 

"Just an interlude..." she repeated out-loud, speaking around the stem that perched on her lips, to no one in particular.

[Aya]

OOC!

I am working on another story post, but first I took some time to build a table of contents for all of my RP posts and threads!  In some sense I like having most of my writing focused in two threads (this one and my One Late Summer Limsan Afternoon thread), but this thread especially is also filled with some forum RP so I suspect it is more than a little confusing to find anything, or to "follow"!

 

Anyway, if anyone is ever interested in perusing my RP writings for Aya there's now a handy resource yay!

 

Its in the first post of this thread or: Click Here.

 

Thank you to anyone reading!

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][A Curious Delivery - The Curious Curio Part Three][/align]

 

Ul'dah, mid-winter.  This time of year Thanalan greets traveler and resident alike with its own brand of teasing disdain.  One day the sun shines bright, dispelling the chill of night and blanketing the region with a winter warmth that makes the rest of the continent, locked in frost or mist, jealous of it radiant clime.  Yet, others remind the weary that it is yet the desert's wet season.  When the gray heavens break open in rampant, soaking downpours that fill aqueducts that flow rapidly to refill reservoirs that threaten toward overflowing.  It was one of these later days that greeted Aya on her latest return from Gridania.  

 

Despite being wrapped in a heavy waterproof over coat, there was no denying the sight of the young women as she disembarked the airship with her steeply heeled boots, and soaked locks of golden blonde hair falling down her shoulders and chest from the front of her hood.  Her red lips stood out like a beacon from the gray and brown background, but her expression was not the cheerful smile most are acquainted with, but the downcast look of the drearily exhausted.  Not that anyone was there to greet her and take note.

 

With neither sound nor sigh she lifted the single bag of her light luggage and trudged across the dry landing toward the stairs that descended the tall hangar tower.  If any of the porters called to see if she wanted her luggage carried, she did not notice.  The sight of the rain-filled square at the bottom of the tower was just what she had expected; still it seemed daunting nonetheless.  

 

She know why she continued to make the trips north despite all the trouble they were: it was for more than M. Vann's shows.  More than the pretty clothes, shared smiles, and handsome pay.  It would probably take more than that to find her trudging too and fro in the middle of an Eorzean winter.  But something was afoot - this much she knew.  Between tho Ghosts and the villain who was loose, she had felt compelled to keep her eye on things.

 

The welcome sight of the Quicksand as she turned the corner drew from her a deep breath of relief.  There it was! That scent of Ul'dah.  Heady spice, ale, spirits, and warm food.  It was home, but more than home still.  As she pushed the door open with her slender shoulder she could not help but smile.  That subtle little upturn of the lips that spoke of the girl's easy but genuine good cheer even under the such dreary circumstances.  It was a little expression; one that she could not resist offering no matter the cloud that hung over her drenched head.

 

Her thoughts turned to a warm bath, and the taste of chocolate and chamomile.  The door swung quietly closed behind her.  A handful of regular patrons turned toward her, raising their cups in an excited and teasing greeting to the rain-soaked barmaid.  She waved back with her free hand, offering that little smile, and declining a fellow's offer to carry her bag.  

 

The Lalafel proprietess nodded to her prize employee with a mischievous little smile of her own.  But the blonde had no interest in chit-chat this wet evening, and made her way to the stairs that climbed up to the rooms of the Hourglass.  As she mounted the first few steps, the call of her name brought her to a halt.

 

"Oi! Miss Foxheart, I've got a package 'ere for you." Exclaimed a Hyur Bellhop.  Otopa Pottopa stood quietly behind his desk and addressed the two of them just slightly turning toward Aya, "Ah, yes, thank you.  I had forgotten.  Yance, if you would do me a favor would you fetch the Miss's mail?"  The Highlander had already started on his way to the back room, and answered the request with a wave of the hand completely out of the view of the Lalafel who had not bothered to turn around.

 

"Merry Starlight, I presume, miss." Yance said with a doff of his cap, offering the small package to Aya who had waited in quiet, drenched confusion at the bottom of the stair.  "Thank you..." she answered with an unsure tenor in her voice as she accepted the small package.  

 

She examined the box, turning it over in her hand as she made the long way to her room.  It was not much larger than an envelope, perhaps ten ilm by six, and only half an ilm in thickness.  Fishing her key out of her purse, which itself was under her coat, proved a bit of a struggle, she slipped inside to the comfort of her own little room.  She set the bag and box aside and let out an audible breath, almost a sigh, as she tiredly removed the wet overcoat one arm at a time.  Drops of water splash against the floor with a regular cadence: she'd really gotten into it this time.

 

With a tired hand she pulled wet strands of her hair out of her eyes and began the slow walk through her little apartment that was her home.  So badly she had wished for a pot of chamomile tea, but she did not care for any further delay in that warm bath she had envisioned for what felt like hours.  She cast a momentary look toward the lonely little bed, and the tiny desk that were the furniture of the room, before turning her attention to her bath.  The one great comfort of the entire space: she sat upon its edge, and turned a valve to start the flow of heated water.  Into the running water she sprinkled bath salts, then a pearl of oil, and a scoop of soap for bubbles.

 

As the warmth of the bath water filled the room with fresh steam, made fragrant by the oils and salts, she slipped the wet clothing from her drenched figure.  She'd been looking forward to this for how long?  She returned to her main room as the bath continued to fill - laughing as she took a moment to examine the middle of the mostly bare space of the room.  She thought back to the dance of the First Snowfall that she had performed a few weeks prior and she swayed her body to and fro in several of the motions of that dance bringing back such recent fond memories.  

 

Almost an afterthought, she grabbed the box and took it with her as she entered the bath. She lowered in first one foot and then the other as she sucked in a breath between grit teeth, her body slowly acclimating to the heat of the water.  She allowed herself to slide in up to her chin, her whole form vanishing beneath the silky bubbly, fragrant warmth of the bath.

 

There she lay for whole minutes.  Barely a thought in her mind.  The troubles and pains of the day slip, slipping away amid a sea of comfort and warmth.  

 

Letting out a deep, relieved sigh she finally reached out of the bath to lift up the unexpected package and slipped out the packing label for examination.

 

To: Aya Foxheart, Quicksand, Ul'dah

From: Escrow and Sons, Limsa Lominsa

 

She shot up in the bath, the quick motion causing a back and forth wave that sent water pouring over the edge and down onto the tiled floor.  She leaned over the edge of the bath, holding the package away from the edge so that it could not fall into the water.  She tore at it with her fingers, eyes fixed upon it like an excited child with a Starlight Gift.  

 

"They mailed it?"  She thought to herself, "They risked mailing it?"  

 

In a flurried moment she had it open: there it was.  A delicate piece of rock-like crystal.  It seemed to shift almost imperceptible from blue to pink - dull hues that refused to shimmer, but were unmistakable to the eyes nonetheless.  She gasped, and her body lurched.  She extended both arms straight out ahead of her, upper arms resting on the edge of the bath as her head fell lower and lower into the water until just her eyes remained above water: staring intently upon the crystal that seemed to hum silently with an innate power.

 

How long had it been?  How many months?  Had she given up hope or just forgotten?  Escrow was just the sort of man that  Limsa was famous for.  A sailor, in his youth it was rumored that he had been a pirate.  The stories went that he had been marooned for sleeping with the captain's woman, but that he was picked up by a passing ship and charmed the crew into making him their own captain.  

 

Regardless of his origins, his specialty now was acquiring whatever it was you wanted.  The rare, exotic and esoteric.  From the goods of the East, to rare forms of art, and any variety of specialized commodity: if it could be found, he would find it—For the right price.  And what had the price been?  She couldn't even remember, all she could remember was that sly smile and the shake of hands.  Who had charmed whom?  Regardless: here it was.  Here it was!  

 

She scrambled out of the bath, spilling buckets worth of water over the edge as she shot out in an excited hurry.  She was even more drenched now than earlier, and the floor of her floor became akin to a shallow pool.  She grabbed a cigar box from the shelf over her work desk, and set it down with a forced gentleness that resisted the energetic rush of her excitement.  Opening the lid she was greeted by the myriad parts of the watch-locket she had disassembled almost a year ago.  She restrained her hand which wanted to lash out and seize the object of her attention.  Instead, she reached in with a very controlled, and cautious care.  Delicately she withdrew the main body of the watch from amidst the labeled and bagged components.  It had been left open and bare all this time.  She blew away the very thin layer of dust that had accumulated on its exposed surfaces and pressed the crystal into the slot she had opened beneath all of the clockwork.  It fit exactly.  The dimensions were just right.  

 

For a moment she stared in wide-eyed disbelief.  A quiet had fallen over her excitement, punctuated only by the steady dripping of water.  A silence, broken at last, when she jumped into the air, letting out a squeal of excitement.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center][A Curious Night at Work - The Curious Curio Part Four][/align]

 

Long run the nights of an Ul'dah winter.  Where could anyone find time?  Some days had passed in the quiet activity of the season: work, play, and perhaps a bit of pleasure mixed together to occupy the time.  At last she closed the door of her dark room one evening, knowing that the hours ahead were her own.  The early shift had begun in the markets that morning, one of her favorite errands, and ended just after the supper rush.  It was near nine bells before she slipped away into the quiet dark, but none now would bother her.

 

Approaching the small, worn table that served in the stead of a workbench, she struck a match and lit a small oil lantern on the nearby shelf.  She took in a soft, deep breath as its gentle illumination settled over the area.  A pleased, anxious little smile crossed her lips as she took in her workshop, Lalafellan stool and all.  The expression slipped away as she began her preparation: she tied her hair back, covering it with a scarf, unrolled her small set of heavily used tools, set her miniature crystal work-light above her ear, and donned the wire framed lens holders and lenses that would expose the smallest details of the miniature parts which she would be working.

 

She covered the work surface with a cloth, and at last brought the cigar box whose contents resembled a veritable pile of miniature gears, cranks, and fasteners down to the work surface.  Each was individually bagged and labeled, and she set about sorting them placing them in the order they would be added back to the reassembled mechanism.  She had noted many of the part when it had first been disassembled, and now thanked goodness for the detailed nature of her notes and drawings.

 

She settled in upon her stool, having to carefully manage her balance so that she could never quite relax.  Gear work came as naturally to her as the graceful lightness of her step, still the miniature nature of such watchworks pressed her finesse to its very limits.  Slender tools worked beneath the intense but shadowy light of the work light, every otherwise indiscernible little motion of her fingers wildly exaggerated by the tiny scale of the parts as viewed through a magnifying lens.  

 

Blue eyes strained and focused.  It had been months since each part had been carefully disassembled, but the memories were still sharp.  Still, she was thankful for her notes as no fullness of detail could stand the test of so much time.  Though, even that did not prevent mishaps: the ordinary mistakes that mark every tradesman's day.  The slightest error in assembly would not be uncovered until several later steps, necessitating backtracking through a half-hours' tedious work.  The spring that found its way free of her grasp, located again only after a quarter hours relentless, maddening search on the floor.  

 

She set the most important tool aside.  A crystal oscillator; it appeared little more than a fancy tuning fork, but the crystals embedded within its design could either set a crystal in motion, or if properly used, bring it to a stop.  It would be the only way to restart the watch once reassembled, or, with luck, to stop it if something were not working correctly and more work were required.

 

The hours stretched from evening into night.  The lantern burned low, the flame dimming as the supply of fuel was supped away.  Still, she was consumed in her purpose and engrossed by the task at hand.  As the inner workings of the piece began to take shape, she was reminded of past work.  Most of what she had done had been larger in scale, excepting some control systems that had sought to rival this watch's complexity.  Some of those had seemed complex beyond need, as if designed as a tribute to the craftsman's ingenuity and cleverness.  Making them even more challenging, many of those could only be worked on in place. Often in cramped, awkward space that made the work all the more difficult even with her lithe frame and dexterous fingers.  Still, in this case she found herself far from her old suppliers and their supply of replacement parts.  If, indeed, replacements could even be made for this piece.  

 

Every project presents its own challenges.

 

And that was the way of it: challenge after challenge as the night grew late and passed into the early hours.  The lamp wick flickered out, hastening the darkness of the shadows that plagued the overworked little crystal-lamp that was now her only illumination.  Still, there was no thought of pausing, stopping, or halting.  She worked on, enshrouded by darkness as the pile of parts began to take the form of a watch.  

 

This piece was different from those control mechanisms and their overly-convoluted arrays of inputs and calculations.  This was no practical equipment, but instead a work of art in its own merit.  In that sense the craftsman's cleverness and artfulness became a thing of beauty.  The intricate gear-work, the perfect notching and threading.  The careful weaving throughout the mechanism that left one to wonder how any portion could have been conceived outside the whole.  

 

But what was the purpose of it all?  The appreciation she held for the inner workings were never meant to grace the owner of the locket itself.  It must be there for some more meaningful purpose, rather than to impress a future tinker utterly unworthy of the locket's intricacy. Whatever it was, she hoped she would know soon enough as each additional piece left precious few and fewer remaining for the reassembly.

 

She would know soon, very soon, despite the lateness of the hour that seemed to stretch and stretch. Her eyes strained for focus.  Her fingers were long ago sore, but now her whole body ached in the clutches of a tiredness that was resisted by every nerve of her frenetic energy.  

 

Almost there... almost there.

 

So cold... so very, very cold.  The young girl shivered against the rush of a gale that forced its muscular way deep within the tunnels and wide-open caverns that cut their way through the stone foundation beneath the city.  She was a young woman, barely more than a girl, and that frigid Coerthan wind cut right through the meager cloth of her cloak.

 

Where was she again?  She turned around in her spot trying to take in the surroundings.  Oh, right, right... she knew. It was her loft.  In reality no more than a hollow between the roof of the smithy and the ceiling of the office below her.  It was almost completely unprotected from the outside winds.  Why is it still so cold?  She wondered for a moment.  It seemed like the Spring was now months behind schedule.  

 

She let out a huffy sigh and flopped her head back against the wooden planks that made for a bed in the loft.  There must have been a party last night; she'd have told her friends she was headed home, that was always the way.  Late nights galavanting, drinking cheap wine, and often worse.  It was all there was for exciting life on these streets.  Sometimes it was different: an arranged evening with a gentleman.  Fan, potential patron, or admirer the suitors were themselves of every stripe and suit.  Sometimes it was for fun, other times because she simply thought it best.  She always teased, sometimes they had their way, more often she left them dancing at the tip of her fingers. But always, always, came the moment to return home.  And the wrath of the parents.  Especially father.  

 

Here she had found an alternative to, at least, delay the inevitable: her brother's shop.  Not his, really, he was just an apprentice.  But it was safety, shelter, and a warm bed without father's thundering.  The parent's had found out at some point, of course, and she'd brought the weight of the seven hells down upon Osvald's head.  What now after that little falling out?  Why not the loft: he need not even know.

 

She pulled herself up to peek outside, only to be greeted with the the dull red glow of these inner halls, and the near perfect quiet of night.  Down here the sun was not around to offer its evidence, the time of day had to be discerned from more subtle clues.  With a quick arm-hanging dismount she found herself silently on the floor of the smithy.  

 

Suddenly everything seemed familiar, her eyes were caught by a rusted and worn-looking piece of equipment that occupied a large space nearby the forge.  It was as if she could still hear the angry word's of her shouting father echoing in her ears: "and you are helping her!"  What exactly with she knew well enough without having caught it in time, "Its bad enough that you have abandoned your duty, but I will not allow you to aid you sister in betraying hers!"

 

The next time she set eyes upon her brother, his were not friendly.  They bore the anger and frustration of father: the sentiment having been transmitted from father to son.   What more could she do?  

 

And what did father say?

 

"Trollop!"

 

"Harlot!"

 

The anger rose from father's eyes like fire.  The words crashed viscerally against her flesh as she stood, she felt, bare and exposed against the lashings of the storm.  "We had but one expectation of you: how can you disobey us!"

 

She was never one to cow.  Obeisance was not in her blood: she always did what she would.  But she was one to cry.  How many tears had been shed in that shrouded space between the rafters and the metal shingles?

 

She turned her face into the gale.  She let the words wash over her, joining with tears of defiance.

 

"No daughter of mine would behave such as this!  No daughter of mine would so defile her name!  No daughter of mine would engage in such scandal!"

 

No daughter of mine!  No daughter of mine!  No daughter of mine!

 

No Daughter Of Mine!

 

Eyes shot open above tear-stained cheeks.  They gazed upon that worn out, broken down piece of junk.  The auto-bellows that decades afore had served to fire the metal-working forge.  A task that now fell to the Master's apprentice, and his day's endless toil.  

 

Perhaps...  it was as standard model, I've seen the type before haven't I?  I'm in good with Belincourt.  He'd be willing to spare a few parts... my performances are paying now, well enough to scrape enough coin together I think.

 

Then he could focus on learning the trade instead.  He never liked to complain, but I've seen the disappointment wrote on his eyes.  They would both be so much more productive if they didn't have to pump the forge by hand!

 

And maybe... maybe Oswald... maybe he will forgive me.  Maybe... he will...

 

KNOCK KNOCK

 

What is that yelling?  Father again?

 

KNOCK KNOCK

"Oi now, lass, you'd better be a'right in there!  Now speak up right this instant! I don't really wannae bash this door downae, ye 'ear?"

 

Her head was filled with the thick miasma of interrupted dream.  The heavy grogginess of an unexpected awakening.  She lifted her eyes, glancing in confusion about at the soft daylight intruding upon the curtains of her room. The voice seemed disembodied, muffled by the door as her friend called to her from just the other side.

"Jeh... Jericho?" she barely managed.

 

"Aye, 'course lass.  The Madame, that is Momodo, is sent me tae look in on ye.  Says yer shift started half-a-bell ago.  Yer alright in there?"

 

With another shake of her head she suddenly caught sight of her desk.  The locket was open, the watch face exposed, the hands reading half-past-eleven.  A second hand hummed quietly along its way.  

 

It was what surrounded the watch face that truly astounded her.  There in the intricate filigree that seemed to flow in its ever-changing character around the watch, was the image of Althyk, in whose month the calendar hand was set, illuminated by the pink-blue glow of the crystal buried within.  The figure seemed to leap from the mithril-work: A stern countenance, great axe in one hand, and hourglass in the other.  He scanned from side to side, while the sand of the hourglass steadily emptied in an endless cycle.

 

"By the Twelve..." she gasped in delight.

[Aya]

[align=center]

[Research - Crimes Against Nature Part Ten][/align]

 

Just who is Batholomew Quisby?  What sort of name is Quisby?  Just the sort to attach to an eccentric.  His forbears were not Ul'dahn originally, and just how they made their fortune is not well known.  But, a fortune they made, and after several generations enough remained to support a middle aged bachelor and his habits.

 

And eccentric he is: his love for the curious sent him abroad in the pursuit of arcane knowledge.  Rumors are what they are, but in his case they speak of a talented magician who turned his pursuits toward the esoteric and unusual.  He eventually opened small storefront, moving into the apartments above.  The store itself serves primarily as a repository for his collection--his pieces priced just outside the reach of reason.

 

Regular customers know the man's trade is conversation, and at times knowledge.  And it was just such a purpose that drew Aya Foxheart once more into his establishment.

 

"Oh I see," said the rather rotund fellow draped in finery too extravagant to be fashionable.  Fat fingers shook the crumbs from his graying beard, as he smiled in appreciation of one of the offered treats.  "How could I refuse Momodi's own Aya? Hmmm? Especially when she comes bearing a plate of such famously delicious cookies!"  He grinned amiably before reaching for another of the morsels.

 

Aya smiled brightly; her blue eyes twinkling with that almost irresistible curiosity of which she was capable.  

 

"Such a man would be a danger, my dear.  And no run-of-the-mill villain."  He stopped and peered back to her with the proud look of a man sharing his immense knowledge, "You do understand, I hope, that succor is not intrinsically benevolent.  Though the Magicians who mastered the art are known to us as 'White Mages'; there are no moral restrictions upon its use.  It is a primal force!" He raised his hands in a flourish, before quickly drawing his hand back down to finish the cookie it grasped.  

 

"Someone versed in its power, as well as that of the void, would truly be a destructive force of untold potential!"  He let out a laugh, fingers stroking his long beard.  "It is a well thing, indeed, that we have no such dangers today.  Now dear, why would you even have such ideas?"

 

Aya's expression had darkened considerably, but her soft smile returned at the question; her eyes demurred as a sheepish bashfulness came over her for having posed such an inquiry.  "I have just overheard some people discussing it.  Are you sure there aren't any  examples that you know of?"

 

He let out another guffaw, "Of course not!  I very well doubt that the city would be standing still if there were! "  He turned an excited smile her way, "But how about magical earrings.  They positively gleam with radiance, the perfect accompaniment to a young woman's smile.  Don't you think?"

Aya struggled to feign an interest that at any another time would have been genuine...

 

[align=center][/align]

 

She worked the pipe stem over in her mouth with an unusually ferocious energy.  A warm winter breeze made for a more comfortable evening than usual out-of-doors, but her mind was anything if at ease.  "Just what are we dealing with?" She wondered.  "There must be more to it!  But if Quisby doesn't know, who would?"

 

She turned the quandary over in her mind with for some time until the solution presented itself with the clarity of the mid-day sun: Zaheela.  Rhea Zaheela.  The circumspect merchant who had let slip her obsession with rare books and esoteric knowledge on more than one occasion.  

 

She proved easier to engage on the problem than Aya could have ever guessed: like a hound bored without quarry she was ready to leap upon the quest almost before their interview were over.  

 

It was just a week later when Aya found herself once more in the woman's Ul'dah based business.  

 

Rhea lead her downstairs into the cool, dry basement chambers.  To say that she was book obsessed would seem to place it mildly.  The walls were lined floor to ceiling with case after case of shelves stuffed thick with books of every discernible age and nature.  Just what method of organization lent order to the collection escaped the girl, whose exposure to such sights was rare indeed.  But she harbored no doubt that her reserved hostess could recall and place each and every volume.  

 

The private chamber took the theme a level beyond: in addition to the reams upon reams of book-lined shelves, was a series of head-high stacked piles upon the floor.  "Recent acquisitions?", she wondered silently.  Not yet sorted, or perhaps of special character, or simply an unanticipated overstock.  Whatever their purpose the piles added to the overall impact: the woman must possess near every tome ever authored, or so it would appear to someone who had never set foot within the grand libraries of Sharlayan or Ishgard.  

 

"I have found exactly what you asked for."  Stated the Miqo'te with an even and unexcited tone.  Her tail did not swish freely as so many others did, nor did an unearned smile grace her lips.  "I have found record of such cases in the past.  Magicians who mastered both the power of Succor, and the corruption of the Void"

 

There was a business-as-usual sense to the woman as she moved to the back wall of her chamber and knelt down.  She slipped a ring free from her finger and pressed it against a hidden recess in the wall, a keyplate.  There was a muffled sound of turning gears, while Aya watched with wide-eyed wonder.  Within the safe was the plain sight of gems, bars of bullion, and an aged wooden box.  Rhea slipped on a pair of silk gloves before carefully removing the box.

 

"Its even worse that you feared.  Much worse." She added as she set the box down upon a small table. "I located an Ampadoran Tome that mentions several examples of the danger these magicians pose.  The account is unfortunately vague on many details, but a few of interest are made plainly clear through careful analysis."

 

Aya stood astonished. Her lips parted, eyes unblinking for a moment.  She grasped for some hint of good news, "They must speak of some ways to stop them?" She asked, in a clearly plaintive tone.

 

The book was carefully retrieved from the box, the cover ancient and marred by signs of deep wear and tear.  "Yes.  The suggested method seems to be to stab the Magician until they stop twitching."  She had opened the book, but paused as if trying to recall something important.  "And then stab even more to make sure." With her suggested method finished she looked back to the book with an intent interest, "Though I am to understand that method is familiar to most."

 

The blonde stood dumbfounded a few feet away.  So great was her concern about the danger of the magician that even this heartened her spirit, "At least that means they are vulnerable to arms..."

Rhea nodded, her attention still consumed by the book.  "It is the most common method for dealing with such problems.  Even if some people won't admit that such a simple method is best." She looked intently upon a page, "I also fear that I was unable to uncover what you asked for regarding a method for tracking such an individual.  Normally, of course, tracking such a powerful magician, especially one corrupted by the void, would be a rather trivial matter.  So I was curious why you had asked about means for tracking such an individual."

 

Rhea cupped her chin for a moment, Aya a captive audience.  

 

"But I was able to uncover the reason for that.  There is a method that these magicians, in the past, have used to hide their true power and thus avoid detection."

 

Rhea lifted the page so that Aya could regard it, as if she were able to make any sense of the Ampadoran record.  Blonde eyebrows rose in anticipation.  Unconsciously Aya leaned toward Rhea, anxious for every morsel of information.

"It is a method most sane and humane souls would never considered.  But one untethered by morality, and so empowered, may offer another as his vessel for corruption.  The darkness is thereby channeled into the vessel's body, thus sparing the master of its taint.  The vessel is treated as little more than a living, breathing ward of power."

 

Aya gasped - Rhea's intonation was even and unemotional, but it was still obvious just how deeply the thought of so profane an act moved her.  

 

'What sort... of darkness...' asked Aya as if the breath had been sucked right from her body.  The implications for the Ghosts already plainly obvious.

 

"Though we may not assume to know it from experience, our enlightened scholars concluded that, if an acceptable sacrifice were provided, the magician would be able to summon power from the vessel.  Thus retaining full destructive abilities with nary a sign of corruption.  The corruption would, instead, effect the vessels who are sacrificed to bear the burden for him."

 

"I see..." replied Aya in an near-whisper.  She clutched her cloak more tightly around her collar, as if she could ward off such evil with the gesture.  "So the vessel carries some of the power reserved by the magician, who then appears incorrupted?"

 

Rhea nodded, carefully closing the tome.  "That is correct.  It is the enslavement of a person, against their will, to hold onto the magician's void power in the manner of a battery.  Given the unwilling and unwarded nature of the sacrifice, it is likely that the void corruption would run free and obvious upon him or her.  But the magician would be beyond notice."

 

Aya clenched her jaw.  Liadan had been attempting to cleanse the Ghosts, the vessels, of their void taint.  The potential for danger suddenly seemed to close in with increasing urgency.  "This means that we could be dealing with an individual with dozens, if not more, vessels walking aro..."

 

"Is there any way to reverse the process?" interrupted Aya.

 

Rhea's ears lay back flat against her head and her tail tucked at the interruption, while she seemed to ponder.   "It seemed that the same approach as in the case of the Magician were preferred."  She paused,   "But, there is a problem."

 

As if problem enough were not already apparent, "A problem?" Aya asked with a ready hint of exasperation.

 

Rhea looked around the room for a moment before retrieving from her safe a relatively flimsy looking bag, stretched taught with black and white pearls.  She carefully sorted out the black pearls, setting them aside on the table.

 

"Say that these," she gestured toward the black pearls, "represent his vessels.  This bag of pearls is our mage.  Say someone locates one of his vessels, who is showing signs of void corruption, and exterminates him, like most would.  The problem is, what happens when the vessel dies?  Normally the void magic would disperse or, in the worst cases, run wild.  But, in this case, what happens in the record, is:" she pinched the bag of pearls where it iwas tied, opened it and poured in the black pearls that were the vessels.  She shook the bag, mixing the pearls together, and then attempted to retie it where she had pinched it.  So hard she pulled against the tie that the bag burst, scattering the pearls dramatically across the chamber.

 

"Like a bomb.  A walking, living bomb of corruption.  The record indicates that the corruption released by his vessels' death rebounded unto him, suddenly killing him instantly, even though he were malms away."

"A bomb...?" asked Aya, looking half petrified, and half excited.

 

"The release of so much void energy at once could have any number of unpredictable consequences for those around the magician.  An explosion, or corruption. The summoning of a void beast, or even ripping a tear right into the void."

 

Rhea returned the tome to its velvet wrapping, and placing it back into the box.

 

"It is just my personal opinion, but if this man were smart he would be using this danger to his advantage.  Perhaps hiding himself in a position where he could do the most damage if this weakness were exposed.  Though, it is possible that he is too foolish to realize his own predicament. That said, I have found that such people are both reckless and bold, but rarely fools."

 

Aya nodded slightly, her grip upon her cloak slowly relaxing.

 

Rhea stopped at her safe, turning narrowed eyes back toward Aya with the look of either accusation or amusement upon her nearly expressionless face.  "By the way: This tome cost me half a million gil."

 

((Thanks to the fantastic Rhea for the RP scene this was based on! ^^))

[Aya]

[align=center]

A Tonberry's Love[/align]

A light-hearted song written and performed by Aya for A Show of Hearts

 

I will never forget, that shuffle of feet

Those two yellow eyes - that peered in the dark

Just gazing, and gazing, with the aid of his light

Through that long and dark tunnel - to his greatest delight!

 

[Chorus]

With those cute little hands -

And those cute little eyes -

Those cute little boots!

And that cute little knife!

 

Dark though it was, I know that he smiled

And gave me that look, that longed for my touch.

How he followed, and followed, no break in his stride.

Through that long and dark tunnel - he chased his new bride.

 

[Chorus]

 

I knew it right then! A love like no other

For that little green man, who never gives up!

Just chasing, and chasing, the one he holds dear,

Through that long and dark tunnel - with feelings sincere.

 

[Chorus]

 

Some girls want their jewels, and some want their gold.

I'll pass on it all!  I know what I like:

My little green man, with his little green face.

You know what they say: The fun's in the chase!

 

[Chorus]