Scales in the Sand [Semi-Closed]

[Verad]

((The following thread is a general IC thread for participants in the Scales in the Sand plotline. IC discussions and actions performed outside of events can be posted here, as well as small sequences and hints of what's to come. Like so: ))

 

"Not a chance are you getting that item, ser, begging your pardon. But not a chance all the same."

 

Weak as his jaw was, Orrick Thatcher set it nevertheless, peering up at the customer from his seated position with a defiant expression. Around him, the sun beat down in the Thanalan noon heat, and with such force that the canopy over his stall seemed to sag. In other circumstances, he would have retired to the shade with a cup of water to wait out the bell, but a crowd of customers had gathered, attracted by the lure of Ishgardian rugs available at below-market prices. There were other trinkets too, to be sure, and it was one of those that had the interest of the buyer in question.

 

The man gestured towards it with a hand clad in a black, silken glove, spread out for display amidst a few smaller swatches of carpet that had been laid out for samples. It was a small thing, a necklace apparently made out of a simple brass and with a pendant designed in an abstract pattern. "Why not?" he asked, his voice the kind of smooth and deep tone that could make the average Miqo'te street dancer - and if pressed and deep in his cups, Orrick himself - shiver in their smallclothes. "My gil is as good as the next man's."

 

Save for a vague impression that he was looking at wings, Orrick had never known what to make of the necklace. It had fallen out of one of the rugs when he'd purchased them in bulk out of Pearl Lane, an unexpected bonus coming along with luxury goods bought at cut-rate prices. He'd mentally tagged it at about twenty gil and forgotten about it, never even considering taking it to the Goldsmiths for appraisal. There was no real reason not to sell it. But still - .

 

"I'll tell you why," said Orrick, rising up from his knees to his full height of five-fulm-six-ilm, and finding he still had to peer up at the customer, a Highlander by the look of it, if a bit on the short side for his kind. "You're too damned suspicious, that's why."

 

The man appeared taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

 

"Here, look at you. It's the midday bell, the sun's beating down on the lot of us, and you're all in black - "

 

"I can manage the sweat."

 

"And you have a black eyepatch. And a scar over the other eye! Whyn't you have two?"

 

"The right eye healed!"

 

"And don't think I didn't hear you when you were looking at it, that chuckle. And you murmured something. It was very ominous. Had a bit of the omen to it. What was it you said?" Orrick furrowed thick brows together as he tried to recall. "At last, something-or-something."

 

"'At last, after all these years,'" the man provided.

 

"Yes, exactly that! Too suspicious by far. For all I know this's the trinket that'll lead to completing some ritual to drop another moon down on us. No chance you're getting it."

 

The customer appeared affronted, placing one black-clad glove to his chest. Following it, Orrick noted that underneath his long black trenchcoat, everything on his person appeared to be made of buckles. That settled the matter. He started glancing about the other customers as the man began to prattle about discrimination. His eye landed on a bespectacled elezen in shabby formal wear, apparently distracted by the weave in one sample illustrating the sigils of the great Ishgardian Houses. "Here! You!"

 

The man glanced up from his appraisal with an owlish blink, only to find the necklace flung in his direction. "Complimentary with your purchase," said Orrick as the man fumbled to catch it by its chain. It was a gamble - but better for the elezen to get a free necklace and not buy anything than to let this man get it for himself. He turned towards the black-clad man with a smug, "So there" look. "You want to buy it, get it from him. You'll not see it from me."

 

He huffed. Nearly puffed. He did not stamp his foot, much to Orrick's dissatisfaction. But he did leave, turning with a dramatic swish of his heel that sent the tails of a black coat billowing behind him as he stalked away from the market.

 

Pleased, Orrick settled back in his stall to attend to the rest of his customers. The elezen, thank the Twelve, paid for a small throw rug, and Orrick flattered himself to think the incentive of the trinket had been the tipping point. The matter settled, he turned to tend to his other customers.

 

If he noticed, between the crowd of buyers and the general din of the Exchange, the elezen and the black-clad man meeting further down the street, he thought nothing of it. If he saw the elezen hand the man a small handful of gil, he didn't comment. Once the item left his stall, it was no longer his business, and making the rent was a far greater concern.

[Verad]

"This needs to go through Captain Longhaft." It was the third time Sergeant Malin had said it. She repeated the statement, slowly, as if the private in front of her had only recently come to the realm and only learned fragments of the common tongue. "Something this big, it needs to go through Longhaft."

 

"Captain Longhaft's getting his lever oiled," said the private, the half-mask over his face concealing the amused expression in his eyes, if not his smirk. "You want to break into his quarters and pull his girls off him, be my guest." Remembering himself, he cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. "Er, respectfully, Sergeant. But you take my meaning."

 

Malin pressed her hand to her temples and sighed, looking out over the road through Highbridge and into the Sunway. "It's that big? It can't wait?" A little further in the distance she could see the last of the cargo being loaded up onto a caravan, otherwise packed. One seat remained empty, a gap amidst chattering passengers, eager to be in Drybone before dawn.

 

"I wish it could, Sergeant, but the 'venturers made it seem pretty important. And then, well, there's the trophy they brought back. Ought to do something about it, don't you think? Our due diligence?"

 

Malin rubbed her chin in thought, wrinkling her nose. It wasn't her problem in terms of general authority, which belonged to Longhaft, or in terms of personal responsibility, her leave having started some few bells ago. But the Captain was known to be less than diligent, foisting responsibilities onto inferiors, then taking the credit and busying himself with his "staff." If it got back that she'd left work to him, it might well have been the last leave she'd have for moons on end.

 

She sighed. Donnell was going to be cross; she wouldn't be back in the city for another sun or so. But there was nothing to be done about it. "Show me the prisoner first, then."

 

---

 

The man didn't look like much - a caricature of a Highlander, thin and dour and conspicuously devoid of eyebrows. Muscular, but only because there was no fat left on his body for muscles to hide behind. A refugee once, she guessed, although from the private's report he'd gone so far into despair he'd taken up banditry. Mayhaps it was the noose for him - or mayhaps not. From the account of the adventurers and the privates sent to investigate the site of their former camp, there were some inconsistencies.

 

He was asleep in his cell, but fitfully so, curling up on the blanket reserved for non-violent captives and moaning in his sleep. It didn't sound like the pleasant kind of moan, by Malin's estimation, watching him from a stool just outside the bars. Best to wake him gently.

 

Taking her sword from her belt, she held it by the sheath and rattled the hilt between two irons. The captive was quick to be roused by the clanging, half-rising and half-stumbling from slumber into a wary seated position, limbs scrabbling on chipped stone, his expression first confused, then wary, thick brow furrowing as he examined Malin from the other side of the cell.

 

She smiled as bright as she was able in the circumstances, giving a candle's dim glow of a look while she brought her sword back to her side. "Good evening!" she said, her voice chipper if nothing else. "Doing well? Housing's to your liking, I trust?"

 

The confused look remained, but Malin continued on, apparently oblivious. "I know, I know, it's not where you want to sleep, is it? You were brought in unconscious, so I'm told. I'm told a number of things, but we'll get to them." She cleared her throat. "Anyroad, are you hungr - no, my apologies, we haven't food for you yet, but thirsty? Certainly you must be." She nudged a tin cup through the bars with her foot. Even this did not get an immediate reaction. Malin would have taken some small pleasure in watching him leap towards the bars to drink, but this seemed to be denied her, the man creeping towards the cell's entrance, as if expecting a trap, before snatching up the cup and remaining in place, taking a few cautious sips.

 

"Now, don't worry, this is just a temporary hospitality," she said. "The situation will change once we know a little bit more about you. Your name, for instance?" She lifted her eyebrows, folding her hands together in her lap and giving the man an expectant look.

 

Silence. He opened his mouth to speak, and a dry sound came out. He took a few more sips. "Gustavus," he replied.

 

"Gustavus!" She clapped her fingers together. "Excellent. You don't mind Gus, do you? Not as formal, but simpler. And you're from where, exactly?"

 

He flinched, and Malin noticed a slight tensing of the shoulders in the gesture. "Th-the camps," he said, before draining the cup of the last of its contents. "Outside the city."

 

She clucked her tongue. "That's a bit of a problem, I think. Mayhaps you are, but you were taken quite far afield, weren't you? I'm not sure why bandits in the Shroud would be keeping a refugee in their camp." Gustavus seemed to start where he stood, taking a few steps away from the cell doors, and Malin rose from her seat, offering a reassuring hand. "No, no, it's fine. You're safe. Some adventurers took a leve a little more, ah, aggressively than they should, and wiped out the lot. That's the report I've received, anyway."

 

Gustavus' eyes widened. Brown, she noted. Or perhaps grey? It was hard to tell in the light. "They're . . . gone? All of them?" She offered a confirming nod.

 

"Mmhm. We did have a few questions though. We can get you in touch with family after that. Agreeable?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "For example, I'm getting reports - excuse me." Taking out a sheaf of parchment from her belt, she unrolled it, squinting to read it in the torchlight. "A number of them, really - if you could recall which caravans they hit for insurers, for example, But what we're interested in is why so many of them had cast-off Ishgardian armor. So the report says." She looked at him from over the paper, eyebrows raised. "There were a few elezen, to be sure, in the bodies, but it was a mixed lot. Not exactly knights of the houses. And if they were - well, all the stranger, don't you think? Did they say anything about that?"

 

It wasn't the question she wanted to ask. There was one she found far more pressing. But she had no idea yet if the two problems were related. Better to talk about what he was likely to know than what she couldn't yet ascertain. She had her suspicions, but if what she thought was correct, then getting Gustavus to admit to them would be a far more vexing task than she sought this eve, and - 

 

"Damn that Berold, it's all his fault! I've nothing to do with it, with any of it! You can put it all on him!" Gustavus cursed, throwing the cup on the ground.

 

Or not. Some days, Malin had to remind herself that not every bandit in Ul'dah was a criminal mastermind. "What? What can I put on him?"

 

He paced along the cell now, hand clutching the side of his head. Malin had seen this kind of thing before - no caged predator, this one. Just a man gathering his thoughts. "Look - we never did much before, all right? Caravans, yes. Kill a guard or two here or there, take the valuables. That was business."

 

So it was to be the noose for the man after all, then. A pity. Malin's voice was a little more sympathetic when next she spoke. "Of course. Please, go on."

 

"So that was fine, of course. But Berold - he knew a little alchemy, made our potions and the like - he comes back from getting supplies out of the city, right?" Gustavus paused, turning towards Malin and clutching the bars of his cell. This close, she could confirm his eyes were definitely brown. Frightened. "He comes back saying he got hold of dragon's blood."

 

Her snort was immediate. "And I've the deed to Black Brush for you for a pauper's sum."

 

"We did that too! We laughed, we did. Thought he'd been swindled, given beastkin's blood done up to look a little thicker." Stepping back from the bars, he clutched his hands to his head. "But then a few weeks back, he put it in a potion, and he tried it - wouldn't let anyone but him do it first. Thought it'd make him stronger."

 

"And? Did it?" She knew the answer from the hollow look on his face. Her two problems were connected after all.

 

"I remember the scream," he said. "Sort of deep and - and sharp like an axe in the brain. Blacked out from it, I think. We all did. Berold was naught to be found, and the rest . . . they were different. Going on about the glory of the horde, passing up fat caravans to hit anything that looked like it was coming out of Ishgard, stealing their armor." He swallowed, looking down at the overturned cup on the floor, finding nothing to be had. "I played along at first, you understand, but blood for blood's sake - that was too much. I don't know why they didn't just kill me."

 

"I see." Malin had a thoughtful look on her face as she processed the information, before rising on her seat. "Well, thank you for answering honest. Mayhaps it'll be in your favor, spare you from the hangman," she lied. "Just - one more thing. Berold ever say where he got the blood?"

 

Gustavus gave a quick shake of his head. "No, not a word. Could've been anybody in the Lane."

 

Damn. Well, one part of this had to be difficult, if nothing else. "Of course," she said, making her way to the jail doors. "I'll see one of the privates gets you some food, then. Twelve watch over you and all that."

 

Once out of the room, Malin bowed her head and scratched the side of her temple, face scrunched in thought. That was her part done. All it would take would be to write a report and pass it off to Longhaft, hoping he'd pull away from (and out of) his work long enough to take a look. Due diligence complete.

 

She crossed the hall of the Blades office in Highbridge to the small corner that served as her own, and paused. The storeroom wasn't too far off. She could chance a look, see what the fuss was all about.

 

The head was placed on top of a crate, a few thick pieces of linen set beneath it to keep blood and gore from spilling onto the food supplies. A casual observer might think it had been set out as a trophy, but it was simply there for sheer lack of knowing what else to do with it. What were the proper procedures for storing a severed dragon head? Would anyone in Highbridge even know? Malin thought not.

 

Even in death, and perhaps partly because of it, it was a grotesque-looking thing, a snub-nosed head as tall as her waist, she supposed, all mottled-brown scales and tiny, hateful black eyes. Its teeth were fully on display, as if it had no lips to cover them, and might snarl and leap out at any time.

 

"Poor Berold," she muttered to herself, before turning away from the door. That was it, then. Not exactly a mystery. Just write the report and move on.

 

But, she thought, infuriated with herself even as she considered it, she might as well follow up with the ones that killed it as well. Do her due diligence.

[Anstarra]

It had been a strange week.

 

Sitting on the beach outside the Harbingers' Estate, Anstarra watched the snow slowly drifting down - an 'aethereal phenomenon', Barb had called it last year, which was the same as saying she had no bloody idea what caused it - and reflected how strangeness really was a matter of perspective. Here, in nigh-tropical La Noscea, snow, real snow, was falling. It didn't linger, but it didn't look to stop either. At least, after last year, people kind of saw it coming, so there was less cursing and doomsday-wailing than there had been that time. The farmers still looked less than thrilled.

 

To Anstarra, it was a godsend.

 

"What is it about the cold..." she mused. A snowflake landed in her hand, melted, was replaced by another. She grinned. "Clear, clear. No more yammering. No more bloody dragons. No more Dravanian national anthem. 'Lat dah dah, Dravaniaaa-' no, shut up."

 

She tapped her lips with her index finger, glanced over her shoulder. The girl with the leaf fan was too busy shivering in her bikini to notice. "Maybe a bit of talking to myself left over," An muttered. She gestured at the girl, who started fanning her again. Anstarra had tried to tell her to go indoors, but no, she refused, so, at least she could warm up by doing her job. Even if the wind blew snowflakes in An's face. The price of charity.

 

"'tis the season." A curious glance. "For snow. And charity." The poor girl grinned, fanned a bit harder.

 

Settling back in the chair, Anstarra sighed in relief. Even the minor discomfort of the snow fanned into her eyes didn't compare to hearing voices. A low-rent, ongoing murmur, filled with impulse and suggestion and anger, ever since she touched that bloody relic that the dragon's corpse vomited up after they'd finished hacking its head off. Or before. Or sometime. It rather blurred. All she remembered was that that OTHER fool had tossed it to her, and -bam- it was like the Dragoon stone all over again.

 

"At least THAT experience prepared me for this..." she murmured. Her head tilted. "I do hope they did something smart with that relic. Like destroyed it. Better ask Verad next I see him." She frowned now. "And I'd better find out where the bleeding thing came from in the first place. If it comes out that I got caught up in a dust-up between Dravania and Ishgard, and a dragon, in THANALAN of all places-"

 

"Dragons in Thanalan??"

 

Anstarra glared at the girl with the fan, who yelped and returned to her fanning, cheeks red. "No. That would be ludicrous. Shush now. Or I'll find an even skimpier bikini for you to wear. Maybe a three-piece."

 

"How would that even-"

A warning finger, raised.

"Eep!"

 

Anstarra hid a smile as she settled back once more, the red-cheeked girl fanning once again with renewed vigor and admirable silence. The Seeker woman watched her a bit, then closed her eyes, lacing her fingers behind her head. Snow on a beach...

 

Yes, things were looking up...

 

It couldn't last.

[111]

((

 

http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=5431&pid=132970#pid132970

 

Made a related post in the bulletin board. Eva is trying to avoid becoming a dragon's plaything.

 

 

))

[Verad]

Malin had no illusions about the upward mobility of her work. Between a sergeant's pay and Donnell's own employment, they could afford a flat on a nameless street that differed from Pearl Lane only in its equal lack of refugees and notoriety. There was, if she were to give a fair assessment, less crime, mayhaps because a few other Blades from a few other orders lived here. They tended to break the law when they were on the job more often than off.

 

There were, of course,other ways to supplement her income, as the extra coin pouch at her belt attested. Arresting Bellveil out at Horizon had been a momentary whim, the kind of law-enforcement brought about by being in the right place at the right time and seeing the right person in his wrong place and wrong time. He was responsible for the problems at Highbridge; of that much she was sure. Between Berold's statements, records of a certain warehouse robbery and reports of a guard knocked unconscious with a piece of "golden rock", and the flooding of the markets with Dravanian relics shortly thereafter, she had enough for the scales of justice to tip vaguely in her favor should she decide to charge him with endangering the trade routes through negligence. Mayhaps they might even convict him of something.

 

But he'd had friends present, and one of them had been willing to pay to see the shackles off his wrists. It had been excuse enough to let him go, along with a few others. She'd expected him to protest, to struggle, to proclaim his innocence, but once she had him he hadn't uttered a single word. The look of resignation, of defeat, set her on edge. Better to take the offered purse and let him go.  

 

A sour smell - light, familiar, and not unpleasant - hit her as she opened her front door. Donnell's back was turned to her, bent over the small stove in the corner they had tentatively designated a kitchen. He still wore the deep blue jacket the markets kept for retainers as their basic uniform, loose and unbuttoned, either just returned from work or too lazy to undress earlier - not that Malin could judge, given her bad days. "Chanterelles?" she said by way of greeting, unbuckling sword from her waist and hooking shield near its place by the door.

 

"With raptor,"said Donnell, holding up one finger as if to correct. "Thought I'd try simmering in wine this time. Should be less smoke."

 

Malin smiled, though this was replaced by a furrowing of the brow when she considered his choice of ingredients. "A bit expensive, isn't it?"

 

"A bit," he conceded, finally turning to face her. He was smirking. He was always smirking. There was something fundamentally funny about life that he'd never been able to articulate except through that particular look of bemusement underneath a head of slicked-back dark blond hair. He'd only had the manners to wipe it off his face during the wedding, and she'd asked him to never do it again. "I had a few good ventures, some generous clients. Good time for a Heavensturn dinner, yeah?"

 

This got a wince out of Malin. When the year had turned, she'd been checking records on warehouse robberies in Pearl Lane. If he seemed annoyed, he didn't let it show. "Yeah. Good time."

 

He made a shooing motion with his hands. "Go, get comfortable. This still needs a little work before I can leave it to simmer. You made it through the day alive, I trust?"

 

"Mm." There was silence save for the ambience of bubbling liquid for a few minutes as she exchanged armor for loose cotton attire, settling on the left side of a threadbare couch. "Made a little extra myself, as well," she announced, keeping her voice casual.

 

"You did?"Donnell seated himself opposite from her.

 

"Mm. Payoff to let someone go."

 

His smirk didn't change; Malin had learned to read him by the wrinkling of his eyes, the tone of his voice. "Payoffs? That's not like you." The disapproval had the barest amount of concealment.

 

"I know, I know." She knelt forward and rubbed her forehead. "It was . . . it was an excuse, I suppose. I felt I ought to arrest someone, but I'm not sure it was necessary. Bribe's as good a reason to let him go as any, isn't it?"

           

"I suppose," he said, looking as though he didn't.

 

"There's just something off about this . . . thing,I guess. You've been in the markets. You've seen the jewelry, right? The trinkets?"

           

"All the little dragons, yes. Didn't think much about them."

           

"Right. They're not coming from Ishgard, though, are they? Not through the Highbridge route, I can tell you that. Somewhere in the city,I think." She sucked on the inside of her cheek in thought. "Better to let him run free and sort it out than lock him up and leave it for myself, I suppose."

           

Donnell gave her a furrowed brow of his own. Talking about work, when she was in the midst of it at least, was unusual. "So how much was it?" Malin raised her eyebrows.

           

"You know, I never thought to check." She rose from her seat to fetch the pouch and set it down before her. "Let's see." She undid the string.

           

Credit was due, here, to Evangeline Primrose's ability to make a pouch that functioned as a smoke bomb feel as if it was full of gil. The blast produced a sharp crack that made Malin throw the pouch against the wall of her flat on instinct, fearing a bomb. Credit was also due for her ability to make the smoke issue all at once instead of pouring out in a stream.

           

The door to the Greaves' flat opened, noxious smoke billowing out from within in addition to the Greaves' themselves, stumbling into the street and coughing profusely. Donnell slumped against the opposite wall of the street to catch his breath, taking a few deep wheezes, as Malin went on the alert, checking the road for any signs of attackers, for indications of a planned ambush. Once it was clear there was no threat of anything but the slow gathering of entertained onlookers, she knelt down to check on Donnell. "You're all right?" she said, taking his face and twisting it from left to right to see if he had suffered any burns, her voice professional but strained.

           

"I'm fine. I'm - I'm fine, Mal, really."

            

She smiled. "Good. I need to go kill an elezen."  

[111]

"Twelve Bless you." The merchant said, as Evangeline sniffles her nose after a sudden sneeze.

 

"Excuse me..." The Elezen clears her throat, "Must be dust in the air or something."

[111]

Appraiser wanted, for the Identification and Pricing of artifacts and antiquities.

 

Experience in Ishgardian and Coerthian relics a must, please contact the Southerland Estate for details.

 

Evangeline reads over the classified advertisement in the newspaper again, humming thoughtfully. Prudential Southerland had been an eccentric figure in Ul'dah's scholarly community, often snapping up strange items and curiosities at auction. Evangeline had taken no notice of her death, but it appears that was a mistake. Much of what the woman thought and collected was nonsense, fakes and trickery, but not all.

 

She could investigate the find, however if she found something important, the family would be less than pleased to relinquish it. They had put up with their embarassment of a relative for too long and more than likely attempt to extract every coin they could from her death.

 

Unless...

 

Evangeline grins, perhaps, for once, the law might be on her side.

 

"What was that Flame's name? Dana? Rayna?." She folds up the paper and stands, "Oh well, can't be too hard to find her. Only so many Miqo'te in the Flames."

[Verad]

Join, they screamed. Join, they wailed. Join, they pleaded. There was no order, no logic. One cry could not be distinguished from the next, and yet all were clear.

 

Be one.

 

Be whole.

 

Join.

 

Rurufa Rufa awoke with a sputtered start, enough to rouse but not to lift her head from the table. The study hall was dim, the candle at her table so near to guttering that for a moment it took the Dunesfolk a few moments to be sure she was actually awake. Rufa had thought that another member of the guild would wake her when the bells grew long, but this was the Ossuary, and its members understood that research needn't only occur during the waking moments of one's day. A blanket around her shoulders, placed there no doubt by a sympathetic thaumaturge, was the only sign that hadn't been there before was the only sign that she'd been noticed.

 

She took stock of her surroundings, taking in the shadowed rows of books along the walls, the haphazard stack of the same piled at one side of her table, and found that taking stock was a tricky thing - some part of her nagged her to return to sleep, to pass away the night. This, she thought, was unusual; the first few times she'd had the dreams she'd bolted upright, clutched her hands to her chest - bedsheet as well, if she'd remembered to go to bed -  gasping for breath as if the sounds, the wailing, keening screeches, were strong enough to strangle. Shock, however, had begun to fade, and the sounds had become less a cacophony and more a lullaby, dragging her out of sleep only when the chorus hit a high or harsh note.

 

Finally rubbing sleep out of her eye with one hand, she used the other to examine the object of her study: the pendant resting in the open spine of a book at the top of the pile. Rufa slipped her small fingers through its silver chain. It was such a deceptively simple-looking thing, the wyrmtear: mottled brown and yellow, dull and a little unpleasant to the eye. It caught the little candlelight quite well, giving a hint to the observer that where was something more there, but only just. The less-informed might think it little more than a cheap semi-precious gem, and the jeweler who made the pendant a fellow of questionable taste, to set so ugly a stone into silver. She couldn't fault anyone for thinking that way - indeed, she commended them. Better to be less-informed and cast aside the jewelry than to be aware of its true value and seek to keep it.

 

She held it at eye-level, and brushed her hand against the gem's surface. Nothing. No new thoughts in her mind, no renewal of the song. Just the smooth, slightly chill texture of the stone itself. A spark of aether, though - a little bit of magic passed into the stone, and it would brighten sharply, the dull color of the gem giving way to a brilliant and golden glow. That was all it would take to reawaken the tear. And then to touch it again! Rufa shuddered at the thought, and found her free hand half-outstretched towards the gem again, her fingers already twisted in the familiar gesture she used to pass aether from her body into the object.

 

A quick shake of the head, and she set it down. No. Not tonight. The song was too near and, she worried, becoming too dear. Throughout her studies, contact had been inevitable - a brush here and there, willing or not, while examining the effects of aether of varying aspects upon the stone, the occasional outright grip as healthy caution in the face of an unknown artifact gave way to frustration when preliminary studies failed to bear any real fruit. A small list of minor offenses that was building up, she feared into a grander one. The last thing she wanted to do was prove those two miqo'te correct. The sneer on the Ishgardian's face as she'd been willing to threaten the entire Guild all for a trinket! It made Rufa's face sour and her grip tighten over the pendant's chain.

 

"What does it do, exactly?" she murmured to herself. It was a stupid question, one to which Rufa already had an answer, if the few Ishgardian texts she'd been able to acquire had been any help. Stones from the bodies of slain dragons. Heretical artifacts (but then they thought ideas were heresy, so what did that matter). Possibly a sentimental token for the Dravanians, a sign of those lost in the name of whatever their cause was, but then why did it have such an effect? "Rather, how does it work?"

 

"A curious materia you have there, isn't it?"

 

Where the dream had only half-woken her, the voice made her entirely so. Voices were suspicious things in the Ossuary - what might have been a a new initiate asking the quickest way to the loo could just as easily have been a voidsent beginning a moons-long process of corruption after escaping from a restricted artifact, and so caution regarding sudden acts of speech was a frequently-healthy course of action in the Ossuary. "P-pardon?"

 

In the dark, the speaker was hard to see, and still very much so when he approached into dim-light and pulled a seat out to join Rufa as if he'd been invited. She had to crane her neck up moreso than usual - Elezen then. "A materia. Like one of that goblin's creations. It doesn't remind you of that?"

 

Rufa took half-a-moment to give the man a better look. Bespectacled, his attire a bit shabby, but anything more than a cursory examination was deferred by the dark and the sudden and unexpected interjection of an idea. "Yes," she mused, twisting the chain from side to side to give it a better look. "It does. It even looks as if it's been fused to the necklace, but . . . clumsily so. As a centerpiece? That's odd. They're usually supplemental gems in pieces of jewelry." Her nose wrinkled as she considered the possibilities. Crude materia-fashioning from the depths of Ishgardian history? A strong possibility.  She bobbed her head towards the elezen in thanks, her smile weary but relieved. "Gratitude to you, ser. That's a new angle entirely."

 

"No trouble. My apologies for the intrusion, of course. But I'd heard that the Guild was aflutter over this little item, and I was in the shelves, and, well . . . " He shrugged. "Something about the man who donated it was odd, I'm told."

 

She snorted. "Oh, yes, indeed. Hair of white and all in black attire, eyepatch over the one and a scar over the other. A parody of an adventurer, I'd say."

 

The elezen chuckled, leaning forward. "Why'd he hand it over, then?"

 

Rufa waved a hand as she set the necklace down, offering it to the man to examine. That she couldn't place his face was odd, but not so odd as to be odd. The Guild had many field researchers, and the flow of adventurers ensured there were always new faces. "Safekeeping, he said. Said he'd be back 'when we needed it most', but of course we've seen no sign since. He'd have made a good thaumaturge with that kind of bombast, don't you think?"

 

"Perhaps so." He twisted the pendant in his hand, examining it at eye level himself in much the same manner. "A small little thing, isn't it? Does it have any power to it? Was it worth the bombast?"

 

Here Rufa hedged. "It's . . . well it glows," she admitted, a little sheepish, her head bowed to avoid eye-contact. "Pump it with aether and it'll glow. Never mind the aspect - fire, ice, lightning, it all glows just the same. But it fades. And then - " She paused, the memory of the song echoing, and shrugged. "Well, it just glows."

 

"Hrm. You've found nothing else? Worn it? Touched it?" He offered her the pendant, palm extended. She snatched it back quickly, more so than she'd planned. "Surely it must have been worth more than that."

 

"Mayhaps," she conceded. "What I've dug-up says they come from slain dragons, from time to time. Read the old sagas and it's proof of foul dragons' deeds, quickly destroyed by whatever dragoon happened to be the story's subject." She slipped the pendant around her neck, pushing back her robe's hood enough to allow it. It felt better there. Easier to keep track of it. "Always the gorier sections, really. Stanzas about spilled blood and torn flesh and fallen stones."

 

"Ah, well," said the elezen, as if they had lit upon an answer waiting to be discovered. "That explains it, doesn't it? Blood's the thing."

 

"Blood . . . " Rufa ran her hand along her chin, peering off to the side of the shelves. It was a queer thing, the man said, but the average thaumaturge said five queer things before supper. And it was an interesting idea. "Beastkin? Spoken, mayhaps? Ought to start small."

 

He chuckled, and shook his head. She had a sense of longer hair, but it was . . . hazy, wasn't it? Darker than it should have been, even with the little candlelight that remained. It was hard to see his features beyond his spectacles. "No, I'd say the real thing. Dragon's blood." He rustled. There was a clink. A vial of red rolled across the table to bump against a book's spine.

 

Rufa's eyes widened and her arms scrabbled along the table to snatch up the vial before it rolled away, or worse, shattered. "Where did - why? This is restricted! How did you get this?!"

 

He folded his hands together, blithely ignoring the question. "You have to know, don't you? How long has this been eating at you? The guild is smarter than some old sagas. You have to decipher how this works. How often have you said that?"

 

The vial in one hand, Rufa rubbed at the bridge of her nose. "I don't - it's - this is - " They had training against this sort of thing. Corruption brought about by hubris. It was a common enough condition in the guild. There were seminars. Pamphlets. But with the pendant around her neck, the echo of the song seemed closer, as if it were no longer content to remain in dreams, crawling out of her slumber and into her waking mind.

 

She frowned, glancing down at the pendant. It did not glow. There was no charge. "Why?"

 

"Go on," he said, gesturing towards her with one hand. "You know why. You can feel it, can't you? The call. You've been close enough to it. Why not answer?"

 

"Why not . . ." She gave the vial a closer examination. The memory of the Ishgardian woman surfaced, and it made her angry, tightening her fist around glass. She had been a nuisance before, to be certain, but the thought - the thought of someone from that country breaking into the guild, threatening them, taking away what was hers, to be delivered to the enemy? Unforgivable.

 

A test, then. A test to see if she could control it. Her hand passed over the pendant, the slightest spark of lightning from her fingertips draining her stores of aether and restoring it to its full glow. She uncorked the vial. The man sat across from her, saying nothing. She thought to ask him what she ought do with it, but this close, it seemed simple, didn't it?

 

Join.

 

She raised the vial to her lips.

[Zelmanov]

Orrin reached for the wrought-iron poker and pressed it into the flames, stoking the fireplace within one of the more luxurious rooms that the Quicksands had to offer. Sweat started to peel down his face before he turned to his left. Upon the stone flooring by the hearth lay a singular bone ring, inlayed with runic scratches of the Dravanian language. His right hand, covered in the gauntlet of his Drachen mail reached down to pick it up between his thumb and forefinger. 

 

He looked upon the ring's engraving and it read "Nidhogg" as if the very utterance of the name was enough to drive people to madness as the dragon itself did with its mere presence. He knelt down, ring in hand and carefully and deliberately perched the ring upon the hottest part of the flame, the underside of his gauntlet blackening with soot. He stands and sits back on a chair he pulled away from the table within the room. He watched the ring burn.

 

Orrin had been at this for what must have been weeks now, the trinkets that found their way to market, methodically purchased and subsequently disposed of. All until not one found their way through the legal channels he had means of accessing. The sheer volume had made it difficult to rid himself of the corrupting bones and jewelry all at once. This final ring would be the end of just one part of his duty.

 

The ring began to crackle along with the fire wood, charring at the edges, ashen grey coursing with red hot veins of flame. All the while small beads of light started to dissipate into the air among the embers, the final defiant bits of aether returning to the Lifestream, freed its corporeal prison and the hatred that bound it. 

 

He rested his cheek against his unarmored left fist, perched upon the armrest, slumping into his seat. Icy eyes fixated upon the fire. Dragons to the south, heretics scrambling to recover their stolen idols, more Wyrmtears over the course of moons that most Dragoons wouldn't see in a lifetime. None of it made sense. Were it the heretics moving to establish a southern front for the horde...perhaps he could accept it. However they moved as frantically to take back what was theirs as much as he did to destroy them. He bit his lip, exhaling in a long deep sigh, watching the flames dance.

 

He stood and reached for a cloth soaking in water, pressing it to the soot-covered gauntlet, instantly blackening the towel. He sets the towel aside and began to undo the latches to loosen the dragonblood-stained armor before finally placing it along with the rest of his symbol of office. The Dragoon armor was piled up to look as though it was kneeling, as if ready for a dullahan to possess it and walk off. He looked upon the beaked-visor of his helm and saw the flames roaring through its reflection. 

 

His hand then moved and pressed against the coat of arms for his house: the symbol of the wolf, proudly displayed upon the left shoulder. He had come out of Ishgard's walls to see what virtues the outside world had to offer, what qualities that the city lacked to such a degree that the Azure would be given to them. Orrin stands and moves to a glass of Ishgardian Brandy he had poured for himself and took a small pull. For too long Orrin had rested upon his laurels, trusting the people of Ul'dah to do the proper thing and destroy the blasted objects. Be it through the object's insidious corruption or blind greed they seek to preserve them. Saw his calls for their destruction to be the fearful mewlings of a zealot when they knew not that Ishgard was not above co-opting the power of dragons for their own. He looked upon his cursed armor and steeled his gaze. He had a world to move at this point, two wyrmtears in need of destruction, a fallen Lalafell at risk of causing more destruction and costing lives, another potential victim of the tear's influence, an investigator who is all but sure is lying and the one behind all of it. 

 

He sat in his chair, watching the flames; the ring turned to naught but dust.

[111]

Evangeline sinks into the back of her desk chair, pressing a glass of chilled spirits against her forehead. The last forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind, and she still struggled to understand all that had happened.

 

The attack on the road to Highbridge had been dangerous enough, the fel-drake strafing their party from the sky. If not for the skill of Lady Barbaccia, and the stoutness of the two Miqo'te lancers, it is unlikely they would have survived. Though they did have a secret weapon, one that allowed them to call the drake from the sky, and disorient it long enough to stop its rampage.

 

The Wyrmtear.

 

Somehow they managed to stop the drake, returning its form to some poor corrupted Lalafell. Why they gave a second Wyrmtear to such a mortal still confused her, but she managed to retrieve the second stone before the others realized what she was leaving with. However the hounds of Ishgard were not ones to sit quietly, and she had prepared for their response. The two stones were beyond her reach for the moment. One in the hands of Lady Crofte, the other in an anonymous location. She could not continue her research for the moment, but at least she could evade the hunters.

 

Giving the stone to Lady Crofte was a risk. There was no love lost between the two of them, however the woman herself had seen the usefulness of the stones on that road. Either way, the stone was safer with Crofte than in Evangeline's drawer, and that was sufficient for the moment.

 

Evangeline takes a sip of the hard drink, giving herself a moment to relax, before writing a few names on a piece of paper.

 

Sultansworn

 

Flames

 

Ishgard

 

Nobles

 

Merchants

 

 

After a a moment she begins to fill in more names.

 

Sultansworn - Crofte

 

Flames - ????

 

Ishgard - Orrin, V'aleera, more?

 

Nobles - Barbaccia

 

Merchants - Verad, Otto

 

 

Leaning back she underlines a few.

 

Crofte

 

Flames - ????

 

Orrin

 

Otto

 

"Yes... that will work. If they can be convinced." She pushes the paper aside and pulls out a sheet of diagrams, "And if another tear can be found."

 

She smirks, and begins doing calculations on the side of the page, amounts of crystals, types of metal. In the center lies plans for an arcane, cylindrical device. On it, labeled, are indents for three Wyrmtears.

 

"However, I'm sure Fate will provide."

[Verad]

"Nothing."

 

"Nothing?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Nothing?"

 

"It's as I said, is it not? I watched from afar. It took out the Flames, as expected; but then, adventurers."

 

"Ah. You weren't seen? They weren't putting on a show?"

 

"Being seen is your business, is it not? I do the opposite."

 

"True enough. And by the by, these seats are intolerable."

 

"They're in the dark."

 

"Precisely!"

 

Silence, but if eyes, when rolled vigorously enough, make a sound, then that sound can be presumed to appear at this point. Further silence.

 

"Fine. So nothing, then."

 

"Near to nothing. It was still a rogue voidsent, as far as Ossuary and Ul'dah alike are concerned. None of them seemed eager to report the news of the truth."

 

"There was no body? Dragon's body would be a stir."

 

"None."

 

"What, did they obliterate it that thoroughly?"

 

"Hardly; they fixed it."

 

"Fixed it." A pause. A sip. "Fixed it."

 

"As I said."

 

"Is it a fixable thing? These things can be mended?"

 

"Not by the ignorant."

 

"And yet."

 

"Indeed. And yet."

 

Silence again. "So what did they do with the, ah, what would you call it - "

 

"The vessel?"

 

A snap of the fingers. "Yes, that's the word."

 

"Took it home with them, near as I can gather. His Dubiousness has it. He can keep it for now."

 

"Well, that's it then, isn't it? That's all we can do."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"There's nothing left to distribute. The markets are tapped, and this has been the only little play, to, well, play. To have an audience. And nothing."

 

"Nothing."

 

"So we wait, don't we? Wait for another accident. If they can fix it - "

 

"Then I can't take the risk again, yes."

 

A heavy sigh. "Well, it was a good role."

 

The patting of a hand upon a shoulder. "It has yet to end."

 

"What else is there?"

 

"The Dravanians, for one. They're skulking about. They need only kill the wrong person, or try to. Then everything proceeds."

 

"If they need goading, then fine. Others?"

 

The tapping of finger, soft, but quick, upon a chin. "Then there was that woman."

 

"Which woman?"

 

"I beg your pardon."

 

"Look." Exasperation in the tone. "I haven't wanted to say, because it's not as if I'm one to judge, but the way you're so vague. Always 'that man' and 'that woman' and 'the organization' and so forth. I understand the need to keep things secretive but you could at least use a false name or similar. Pronouns confuse the issue."

 

The tapping stopped. A clearing of the throat. "Er, that is, it just confuses me, you understand." The words are hasty. "Makes it harder for me to do my job, you see?"

 

"I see."

 

"It's not, well, an insult. It's practical."

 

"Very practical, I agree." The tapping continues. "You've seen the woman. The fracas at the Southerland estate, for example - "

 

"Now there was a wasted opportunity."

 

"Agreed. And she was at Highbridge. She'd be hard to miss. Always passing out her little pamphlets."

 

"She's a possibility?"

 

"Among others."

 

"How should I handle it?"

 

"Do as you do. I'll talk to that man - " A pause. "Our employer."

 

"Which employer?"

 

"The right employer." The tone brooked no further questioning. "We'll put on a show. Mayhaps it will be sufficient. Then we'll speak. I'll talk to her."

 

"Who?"

 

"Her."

 

"Which her?"

 

"That woman!"

 

"Which woman?"

 

Silence. "Get back out on the streets and make an ass of yourself already."

 

"Fine, fine." A chair slides back. "I just can't stand the vagueness."

[111]

Surrounded by open books and scattered papers, Evangeline taps a pen against a fresh sheet. These artifacts were flowing into the city for a reason, a reason she intended to find out. The others simply wanted to destroy the items, eliminate the threat.

 

How Droll.

 

What is the point of misfortune if nothing is learned from it? Societies must grow, expand, change. She glances at her growing pile of schematics.

 

They must Evolve.

 

Master Wolfsong did not understand, he berated her for her course of action, fearing the unknown consequences her actions might bring. His concern was touching, but unneeded, one would think a freedom fighter and a lone soul such as he would be more adventurous. He was right, of course, she was taking risks.

 

Lady Crofte was similar, her destruction of the Tear still rankled. It was the worst kind of snap decision, motivated by fear and ignorance. Finding out the true nature of the tear, the Paladin made a fight or flight decision, and she chose flight. Understandable enough, if disappointing, one would not collar themselves to an ancient and stuffy dynasty if they were fond of change. Still, she could be worked with, if given the proper motivation... and the proper assurances.

 

Now Orrin on the other hand, was a man of drive. She leans back, smiling, who would have thought that a Dragoon of Ishgard would ally himself to her cause, only if temporarily. It was not so strange however, once she thought on it. Dragoons of all people knew the value of risks, of change... of evolution. Why else would they strap on the blood and bones of their enemy. Trading their bodies and sanity for a small advantage over the Horde. Yes, Orrin understood.

 

There was still too many unknowns though, Verad and his Ilk, the Noble Barbarracia, and of course, the one who started this all. The mysterious no-eyed man, and whoever was backing him.

 

Someday she should thank the magistrate who exiled her from Ishgard. Ul'dah was much more fun.

[111]

((Related to: http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=10177&pid=148125#pid148125 ))

 

Evangeline puts the pamphlet down, before going over her notes. The TARGDAFTIGOPS was indeed an ancient beast of legend, sought after for centuries. How Prince Falariku claims to have uncovered the beast was still secret, but Evangeline had some ideas of her own.

 

A dusty clipboard, swiped from an excavation site, lifted in secret during the chaos there. It seemed so long ago, but it had only been a few short weeks since the battle in the swamp outside Horizon. They had discovered strange artifacts, linking Thanalan to ancient worship of Shiva and Dravania in the past. She had also retrieved the records of the dig, and would have had time to examine the site herself, had not that murderous Dragoon, V'aleera, lept into the scene. With that Zealot putting holes in every Brass Blade within sight, their original mission of research had turned into damage control.

 

Still, it was not a total loss. The records describe a set of bones found in the pit, and a skull to match. Three carts were required to move them, but the records do not say where. They do however state the following in a hurried script.

 

The malady has struck down three more workmen, at first we thought heatstroke, yet it continued even at night. Almost a score were lost before the cause was found. Do not touch the bones without gloves, and always wear a mask when nearby. The slightly fleck of bone, or breath of dust, can cause madness within hours.

 

Reports from the museum had been troubling as well. There was more than one new arrival outside the walls, ranting and raving of dark wings and gnashing teeth. She had tried to investigate, but the museum was strangely guarded, tight lipped mercenaries barring every entrance.

 

Still, such a lead was too good to pass up. There had been precious little new information on this case, and one way or another, she was going to find a way into that museum. Though she would need some help if she were to survive once inside.

 

She began to pen a letter,

 

"Dear Master Orrin..."

[Anstarra]

((As an interlude, and around this time, bad things are happening elsewhere in the desert... which might become related, or not.))

[111]

Outside the Quicksand, a bespectacled Elezen flips through a well worn leather journal, making various calculations, "Hmm… But if I apply aether to the wyrmtear just so..." She scribbles a few calculations, then nods, "Yes yes… That might work."

 

Nearby, a silver armored dragoon walks about, seeming at a glance to be lost as her head turns this and that way, scanning about but clearly not finding what she is looking for. She mumbles to herself, tail flicking with annoyance. "Evangeline Primrose... Primrose... I know I've met this person before… I feel like I'm walking in circles in this city..."

 

The Dragoon looks down at her feet as she walks, frowning, "Perhaps I ought simply treat myself to a drink, then settle for the night. Resume searching tomorrow..." Absentmindedly, she manages to collide with someone in her path "Oh, excuse me- YOU! I knew I remembered that name!"

 

Evangeline hisses in pain as poky bits of dragoon armor impact her, and she snaps her book shut, "Hey, what's the big idea. You can't go around in that walking pincushion and not pay attention." Frowning, she examines a tear in her robe, "I should send you a bill."

 

"T'was you that caused me trouble in Horizon! And t'was you that sweet Kyra- erm, the buffoon gave the wyrmtear too!"

 

Evangeline rolls her eyes, "You created the trouble. We could have just walked in asked that researcher. But noooo~"

 

V'aleera waves her hand dismissively, "There is no time for debating such minor things; I come on far more important business!" She points accusingly, "Kyrael said you specifically asked to be given the wyrmtear taken from the fool thaumaturge. I demand to know: what business have you with such a thing?"

 

"I didn't ask, I simply took it. No one else there knew what it was, or what precautions to take. It's why the drake appeared to begin with. The stone was left in the hands of one who had no concept of its danger."

 

V'aleera crosses her arms, looking dubious, "And I suppose you would know better, then?"

 

Evangeline taps the brand on her cheek, "I suppose I would."

 

The Dragoon narrows her gaze, focusing in on the mark, "I am not familiar with this mark. However, as I recall, you harbor sympathies for the heretic filth that infest the lands of my people, do you not?"

 

Evangeline laughs, "Forgive me, I forget that Dragoons are our soldiers, not our lawmen. I was branded and exiled for being a member of a dravanian cult. Lady Iceheart’s to be exact. I would have been executed, had not my family connections stayed the headsman's axe. So trust me when I say, I have a /very/ good idea what I am dealing with."

 

V'aleera clenches her teeth and narrows glares menacingly at the woman. "An unashamed heretic; I would see you resting upon the end of my spear were you not so cowardly as to hide behind the laws of this wretched city."

 

Evangeline waves a hand, "You have one thing wrong. I'm quite ashamed by it, I was manipulated, I admit. Lady Iceheart does not have the solutions Eorzea and Ishgard need."

 

V'aleera seems ready to start throwing punches, then momentarily casts her glance aside, as if distracted by a stray thought. CLosing her eyes for a moment she takes a deep breath, then assumes a more stoic and stone-like gaze at the elezen. “That is an answer I was not expecting in its entirety."

 

The Elezen chuckles, "How so?"

 

"I have met few heretics that express shame in their behavior. Granted, most of them couldn't form complete sentences either..."

 

"Dravanian corruption will do that to you. Fortunately, I was always on the outskirts, and I've had a bit of time to recover from what influence I did fall under."

 

V'aleera continues to stare at Evangeline, her suspicion bald, but her wrath and fervor clearly tempered. "I do not trust you, Primrose. One who has touched such dangerous magic, to say nothing of such dangerous ideas, can never be fully trusted. But you have yet to use the wyrmtear, clearly, so it would seem your motives are not rampage and destruction."

 

"Think of it this way, as I have told Master Orrin, Once bitten, twice shy. However as for the tear, it has been destroyed. So no worries on the amulet. Instead I have new threats to stamp out."

 

“That Fortemps oaf is involved in this matter still?" She rolls her eyes, “I suppose you will not render the object to me were I to demand it?"

 

Evangeline laughs, "Oaf? I find him well meaning and a bit dashing. As for the amulet, I could not, as it was destroyed by the Sultansworn of Ul'dah. Lady Crofte likely has the remnants still if you wish to look them over. Master Orrin was witness to its end."

 

"He is a fool that showed mercy to a murderous enemy and allowed his escape."

 

The Elezen waves a hand, "Maybe. It’s not like I follow his every move."

V'aleera blinks, the surprise writ upon her face, "Is that so? This is good news then." She strokes her chin, her gaze refocusing on the woman in front of her, "Why did you relinquish the wyrmtear to this Sultansworn woman? What was the benefit to you?"

 

"None, except that I wished it in a more secure location than my desk. Some ignorant fool got hold of it before, turned into a drake, killed a squad of flames, and nearly myself as well."

 

"She was wise to destroy it. It begs the question why you did not."

 

"Oh. I'm researching them. They're quite interesting, you know."

 

The Dragoon sneers, batting the air with contempt, "Nonsense. It is heretic magic; foul and good for nothing but the reaping of death and sorrow. While I shan't give approval for your cowardice in fleeing your due fate in the Holy See, I can not comprehend why you cling to such ways when your own actions have earned you a chance for redemption and rehabilitation."

 

"Because your ways are not working."

 

"The ways of Ishgard have been working for one thousand years." She counters.

 

"The Holy See has had centuries to win this war, and failed. They've crushed every attempt to research the drakes. I intend to learn if there is something they have missed."

 

V'aleera looks curiously, "To what end?"

 

"To defeat them. Obviously. I do not appreciate being manipulated and controlled, not by Ishgard, and Especially not by a Dragon."

 

"I suppose... that is a sensible motivation, if self-centered. Am I to believe the Sultansworn of Ul'dah have involved themselves in this matter? Or simply this one woman, the Ser... uhm..."

 

"Crofte."

 

"Right."

 

“We have something of a history. Anyway, I intend to obtain another tear if possible, for research purposes, and samples of dravanian bone... hopefully flesh and blood as well."

 

V'aleera is clearly having to put her brain on overdrive in order to process all of this. She remains silent for a few moments, stroking her chin. Finally speaking up she asks, "Where would you acquire such things? Marked as you are, you can not simply waltz into Coerthas and hunt a dragon. And there is no good that will come of possessing an artifact such as the wyrmtear!"

 

"I know not of the tear, but I know where I might gain a few slivers of bone. Well a whole skeleton, but I only wish for a few slivers.I intend to destroy the rest. No good may come of it as you say, but I intend to find out for myself. Master Orrin, along with the Sultansworn and Flames have agreed to assist."

 

V'aleera doubletakes and sputters, "An entire skeleton?! What nonsense! Do you speak of some novelty dragonfly spine some fool outsider merchant happened to acquire on the rode to the highlands?"

 

Evangeline grins, "Do you want to know? "I will tell you, on one condition. After all, we could use all the help we can get."

 

V'aleera Evangeline a dubious look, remaining silent and listening.

 

"You allow me my samples. And watch as I destroy the rest."

 

The Dragoon furrows her brow, not answering for several moments. Finally she sighs and nods, "This is... agreeable. But make no mistake: I -will- be watching you, Primrose

 

Evangeline nods, "Of course. As I told Orrin, It's something of an insurance policy. If the worst does happen, you and him will be aware enough to deal with it."

 

V'aleera continues nodding, her frown still present but lessened, "I suppose I lack any other option. Very well. I shall adhere to these terms. For now. When the deed is done, however, they shall be up for... renegotiation. Am I clear on this?"

 

"You are. And if we somehow find a tear, then we will discuss what to do with it. Agreed?"

 

"Agreed."

 

"Are there any others I must know of that shall be involved in this... venture?"

 

Evangeline counts off names on her fingers, "Lady Crofte of the Sultansworn, Ser Orrin, Corporal Jana of the Flames. "Then. There is a museum. You remember the dig site, of course. Where those artifacts were found. They were not the only thing found. There were bones, and a skull. I snagged the logs of the dig site."

 

V'aleera grumbles "Wouldn't have needed logs were I left uninterrupted..."

 

"An enterprising merchant is opening a museum, two weeks hence, a beast of their own creation, the TARGDAFTIGOPS, is the prize attraction."

 

"..." V’aleera gives Eva a suspicious look, "...the what?"

Evangeline pauses, "The Targdaftigops.. the prehistoric beast of legend...? From the ancient poems, they roamed the pains. Supposedly the first lalafell road one of them to Thanalan."

 

V'aleera stares blankly, her unimpressed stare bald and accusing. "You are jesting with me. There is no such creature that could possibly go by such a... ridiculous name!"

 

Evangeline blinks, "What? Here, take a look at the flier."

 

V'aleera Lhuil reaches out to take the flier, still not believing as she holds it up to read. Her eyes widen, her head tilting to the side in curiosity and bewilderment.

 

"It's quite well known in the creation myths of this area... and it could be? Who knows if it ever even existed. But even so, its name will sell tickets."

 

V'aleera her brow in thought, "And... you believe the bones taken from the dig site were used to construct this replica beast?"

 

"I do, several reports confirm it, and there are workmen in the camps outside the walls. Apparently prolonged exposure to the bones... likely the ones who were building it, caused a level of corruption in them. If I am wrong, then we shall make our escape."

 

The Dragoon widens her eyes, her hands forming fists, "They mean to utilize this construct and false attraction to sow corruption into the unsuspecting hearts of the citizens! This cannot be allowed!"

 

"It cannot. Which is why I am acting. And... why I am telling you. If my aims were truly as heinous as you suspect, we would not be having this conversation."

 

V'aleera frowns, looking Eva over, before turning her gaze aside and elsewhere. "I suppose then, I should... offer my thanks."

 

Evangeline holds out a hand, "There is no need. Despite our allegiances, I think we have similar goals.Shall we shake on cooperation? At least in this small enterprise?"

 

V’aleera looks suspiciously at the extended hand. She glares instinctively for a moment, then softens her expression and reaches out tenderly, finally grasping the other woman's hand into her own. “We have an accord, Ms. Primrose."

 

Evangeline shakes it firmly, "Well then, we have a raid to plan."

[111]

((The following persons receive the following letter, which will follow the list of following recipients.))

 

Kale, Jana, Crofte, Inessa, V’leera, Orrin

 

 

Dear Erstwhile Allies,

 

There is another shipment. We need to speak. I can be reached at the Phoenix Rose.

 

This is not over.

 

 

Evangeline Primrose,

Chairwoman of the Republic of Ul’dah Executive Committee

Secretary of the Republic of Ul’dah Executive Committee

Treasurer of the Republic of Ul’dah Executive Committee

Publicist of the Republic of Ul’dah Executive Committee

Adjudicator of the Republic of Ul’dah Executive Committee

[111]

Her letters sent, Evangeline rolls the jar around on her desk, wyrmtears jangling around inside. She’d tested them, once the no-eyes-man had given them to her, going so far as to feed them a spark of aether, and watch them flare.

 

“Humph…”

 

She sighs, “Life is confusing when you actually get what you want.”

 

With a rustle of paper she digs out her neglected plans, looking back over the drawing. The device seemed slightly more sinister with the passage of time. The more she learned of the tears, the less she wanted the power of three combined. Especially after they had grown in power.

 

She sighs, “Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Time to find a blacksmith.”

[LiveVoltage]

Inessa read's the letter. Perplexed at who could have sent it, but by reading the place to meet the person who sent the letter, Inessa scowled at the thought of possibly going back there.

 

She sighs, tearing the letter up then tossing it in the trash can next to her desk.  

 

 

"Fuck it. Ill go hear her out, but im not doing a damn thing she says anymore unless I want to do it. Tired of being bossed around. . ." She mumbles to herself.

[Jana]

Jana lets out a small growl as she reaches the bottom of the letter... Unless it was her stomach, a likely possibility as she made the trip from Ul'dah proper to the Goblet through the Miners' Guild tunnel. "It's just so like Primrose to give herself a bunch of meaningless titles. Still, the situation is ripe for the picking... I'll have to find her at that house again."

[C'kayah Polaali]

C'kayah was walking. He could feel the rounded cobblestones through the soft, thin soles of his boots. The air still held the chill of the night, but the new sun warmed him as he made his way through the wide square. A tall Hyur woman strode beside him. Aya Foxheart. Supernaturally beautiful, with a dancer's grace, she smiled at everything she saw with a delight that was almost innocent, devoid of guile.

 

Their destination was a squat building, a low block of pale stone with the false windows common in Thanalan's hot climate. The house looked inward, on a shaded courtyard, while the outside turned a near-featureless shoulder to block the blazing sun. The door was a pastel rose slab with a carved handle and a little sliding window at a Hyur's eye level. He knocked on the door, two quick raps, then a pause for five heartbeats, then another two. The window slid opened, revealing a shaded green eye. It snapped shut. There was a pause, then the sound of bolts being drawn. Finally the door opened, admitting them into the cool, dark interior of the house.

 

"Lin is just finishing his bath." The speaker was another Hyur. Shorter than Aya but no less beautiful, the woman smiled at them as she closed and bolted the door. She was dressed in light silks, intricately embroidered and drawn tightly around her lean figure in the latest mode. "I've made coffee, if you'd care to wait." She turned before they could respond, leading them into a lush garden, an atrium of green leaves and brilliant flowers and the hum of bees. A low table stood on flagstones in the center, sitting cushions arranged around it. Sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and yogurt sat in bowls, breakfast for the master of the house. The woman guided them to the table, wordlessly encouraging them to sit while she poured out tiny cups of strong coffee, steaming in the morning air.

 

"Really, C'kayah", a masculine voice called from the shadows. "A beautiful Hyurish assistant? That's so tacky."

 

The speaker was a stocky man, his dark hair clinging in damp curls to his head, his pale skin the inheritance of his midlander mother. He smiled warmly at the Miqo'te as he moved into the light. He was dressed stylishly in dark colors, simple attire that betrayed it's expense with the obvious care of the cut, a rich blue cravat drawing the eye back up towards his face. He moved strangely. Aya watched him as he approached, realizing that one leg was shorter than the other by nearly half a fulm, giving him an odd, limping gait.

 

"Grimsley", C'kayah purred, rising from his cushion to bow at his host.

 

"Sit, sit!" He waved them back down, settling himself at the table and reaching for the coffee. "You're going to make me feel like Jameson Taeros, ridiculous man!"

 

"Lin", C'kayah said, taking his cushion, "this is my friend Aya Foxheart. Aya, this is Lin Grimsley."

 

"They call me 'Grimsley the Lame'", the man chuckled, smiling at her. "You're lovely, aren't you? If you ever get tired of this fickle gigolo..."

 

"It's a pleasure to meet you", she said, turning her bright smile on him.

 

"Ho ho! She's a dangerous one", he laughed, nudging C'kayah with his elbow.

 

"Lin, have you-"

 

"I've outdone myself", the man said with obvious pride. He drew a brooch from his jacket pocket, setting it on the table before them. A dragon's claw, hand-hammered in silver, clutched at a sickly yellow gem. Years of tarnish hung on the thing, which seemed to suck the warmth out of the light that shone on it. It was a singularly ugly piece of jewelry.

 

Dread clutched at Aya's heart as she looked at the thing. It was Dravanian, and clearly ancient. The stone flickered dimly in the light, as if it would glow even in a darkened room. She parted her lips and exhaled. "It's..."

 

"Perfect, I know", the man replied. "You'd never guess from looking at it that it's three days old, would you?"

 

"And the extra-", C'kayah began.

 

"It's trackable", Grimsley added. "Just like you wanted. You'll need a mage to do it, and they'll have to be skilled enough to track someone through aetheryte jumps, but it's trackable."

 

C'kayah picked up the brooch. A heavy pin was brazed to the back, bent as if it had been plucked from a cloak sometime in the last age. As much as Grimsley liked to boast, he did beautiful work. He held it up for Aya to examine, but he could see from the revulsion on her face that it struck the right nerves. "It's perfect", he agreed. "And the rest?"

 

"I'll have Nora leave an address and key with Momodi for you", the counterfeiter replied. "A little apartment. It's yours for the year."

 

"Thank you, Lin", he said, slipping the claw into his pocket.

 

"You paid for it", the man laughed. "What do you think 'extra services' on the invoice was?"

 

"Still", C'kayah grinned, "I appreciate it."

 

"What are friends for", Grimsley replied, sobering. "This is bad business, you know, C'kayah. I hope you know what you're doing."

 

He looked at Aya, meeting her blue eyes for a long moment. "I do, too, Lin", he said. "I do, too."

[Verad]

Far from the comforting song of the Horde, far from the arms and camaraderie of the brethren, and, most damningly, far from anything resembling a good Ishgardian wine, Fraideoux Morelz found himself considering, with ever-increasing frequency, when and how to call off the hunt.

 

When word had reached the brethren of the relics scattered among Ul'dah, traded out amongst the stalls like so many cheap trinkets, his rage had been as great as any other man's. When he had been chosen as part of the force to retake them and punish the offenders who dared let them reach heretical hands, his joy had been just as great. And when he had been chosen to lead one half of their forces? His pride had swelled at the chance to serve the chorus.

 

And now? Now, after moons of stalking and surveillance, he found himself seated at a cheap cafe in the late evening and, in-between mouthfuls of an anonymous and sour local vintage, the bottle already half-empty, staring out of the corner of his eye at a box placed against a wall across the street.

 

There were no guards around the box, though the way the Blades patrolled so close to it suggested that they had been asked to give it a watchful eye. There was nothing about it that implied that items of great value were within, or even that the box itself looked especially valuable; indeed, it was downright cheap, barely a crate taken from the scraps in the city's poor districts and forced open at the top. There should have been nothing at all about the box that mattered to him in the slightest.

 

And yet, every so often, somebody would approach in a furtive manner (everything about this city was furtive, he thought, as if every soul in the city was born as part of a scheme and with a scheme of their own) and drop some anonymous item therein. At times they were in pouches, and at times dropped in without any coverings, allowing a viewer to get a glimpse of crudely etched draconic imagery, of rosaries that might, maybe, have been of Dravanian make.

 

In his heart, he knew they weren't. The No-Eyed Man's declaration of paying for the delivery of relics, whatever his goals, had led to little more than the appearance of cheap fakes from his own observations and those of his agents. Where the markets had briefly been devoid of their quarry, now they were flooded with what was worse than nothing, worse because they could not afford to overlook the prospect of such thing being genuine.

 

And where were they concentrating? At the boxes. And so here he sat, as did his other people, across the city, and here he drank.

 

It hadn't started this way, of course. The two cells had come with more aggressive plans - his, Greenwing, to find the relics and reclaim them, and the other, Redscale, to find and punish the thieves. They had followed protocols and engaged in their purviews well.

 

Then Sylvetrel of Redscale had been captured following the righteous execution of local bearing a rosary. By rights he should have been silent, accepted his execution, but his cell had attempted a rescue - baited, he was told by the sole survivors, by the presence of a dragoon near his cells. They were slaughtered, and Fraideoux forced to incorporate the survivors into his own forces and attempt to do twice the work with half the men.

 

Worse, security had been compromised, passphrases and meeting placess divulged. He knew not if Sylvetrel had succumbed to torture or proved weak in spirit, but Fraideoux found himself entertaining offers of compromise and peace from fools, a local who did not understand that some peace could only be obtained in blood. He had made her an offer - she did not accept it, left with threats on her tongue that had, to date, proven empty. Refugees had followed next, confused initiates going south rather than north.

 

Fools, but he had taken pity, and made an offer to them - the death of the thief of the relics in exchange for succor. Here Fraideoux allowed himself a bitter smile as he drained his glass. Finding Bellveil's identity had been the only triumph, however small. But he was well-guarded at his estate, and rarely left the premises. Getting to him, let alone punishing him, was near-impossible with the forces they had remaining.

 

That, and the sense of the empty, the lingering absence of the chorus singing bright and strong, propelled his thoughts. The matter was settled, he thought to himself. The thief was dead, some anonymous interloper, easy enough to take from the streets, and most of the relics restored. The loss of the Tears was a problem, of course, and for that someone would be punished. Most likely Fraideoux. But it would not deserve death with Redscale's mistakes to blame. Yes. this could work.

 

Another glass and another bell's slowly simmering bitterness might have made him call his agents, but the shifting of a chair in front of him and the appearance of a shadow over his wineglass, one made by hands knitted together over elbows resting on his table, gave him pause. "You don't mind the interruption, do you?" The voice was polite, pensive, a little mocking. "You seemed lost in your thoughts. Spiritual matters, I'd say."

 

Fraideoux considered telling the man to leave in some of the more colorful language he'd been hearing in the south, and his mouth opened to voice the first of many volatile syllables. Careful study of the intruder's face, however, made his eyes narrow. "You."

 

He received only a smile and a tilt of the head in return. "Me. Plans going well?" Fraideoux found himself reaching for a sword he didn't have; bad enough to be watching a box, and far worse to be armed and watching a box. There was obvious suspicion of the No-Eyed Man's appearances, and then there was regular, everyday, attract-the-attention of guards suspicion. He had chosen to avoid the latter.

 

Lacking weapons, he hissed in irritation and drew his bottle closer to his side of the table. "Of course you would come to this city, of all places. What better home for the corrupt than corruption's heart?"

 

"A little predictable, I admit," said the man with a shrug of his shoulders. "But it could have been anywhere; I merely saw the opportunity here. And surely not so predictable as yourself, hm? Tell me, how many of our brethren will I find watching these?" He glanced over his shoulder towards the box. As he watched, a man stumbled forward along the street, drunk, clutching an empty bottle. This, in a spirit of local civic-minded compromise, he deigned to dump in the relic-receiving crate. "And such important work, too," he continued, turning back to Fraideoux.

 

The Dravanian's grip tightened on his glass. "Are you only here to mock the faithful? You are not part of our mission, Gerchon, but I will gladly - "

 

The man held up both hands in defense. "No! No, nothing like that. Happened to espy you and yours scouting out these boxes, guessed your purpose, and, wouldn't you know it, it suits my own. You're looking for relics and thieves, correct? Don't answer, of course you are. Blasphemy must be punished, the righteous must be reclaimed. I know the song and all its notes the same as yourself."

 

Fraideoux poured himself another glass, shaking the bottle upside-down to eke out a few more drops. "Spare me. Tell me what you want and go, ere the guards take too much notice of the talk."

 

"Well, it's just I have this unconscious thief on my hands, you see. The one you're looking for. Bellveil, isn't it? The merchant?"

 

Fraideoux gripped the table with both hands. "You have Bellveil."

 

"Mm. And his accomplice. You're not going to drink the wine?"

 

"Why ought I do that?"

 

"Well, it just seemed the sort of thing which ought to cause you to spit something out of your mouth upon hearing."

 

"In a farce, perhaps. You fancy yourself a mummer, Gerchon?"

 

The man shook his head. "Hardly, but things rub off. Look, do you want Bellveil or not? I have him trussed up with his accomplice for delivery. Take him somewhere scenic and cut his head off, honor the chorus, have a very solemn moment with your kin, and then you can leave." The slight forward lean of his upper torso made him seem to loom over Fraideoux. "That's what you want, isn't it? To leave? We've both heard what's coming. Surely you want to be there."

 

There was a frown, a scowl, a clenching of the fists and the grinding of the teeth. And then submission. "What must I do?"

 

Gerchon's smile widened. "Well now. How many of your men do you actually need?"

[111]

Evangeline feeds aether into the stone, waiting until it pulsates a dull yellow before reaching out to touch it.

 

Immediately her mind is full of the screams and calls of the horde. Her head spins, and she pulls her finger back, breathing heavily. All three tears were real. She rubs a temple, perhaps it was unwise for her to touch them, the last seemed to tear through her considerable resistance. However she knew no other way to determine if the stones were genuine.

 

Mind still swimming from the tear's influence, she scoots the three stones together on the table, their lights pulsing in unison.

 

"Now to see what happens when they are in a group..." She exhales, trying to push the sound of beating wings and rushing skies to the back of her mind, feeding aether into the group of stones.

 

Almost immediately the stones grow bright.

 

Too bright.

 

Their energies seemed to bounce back and forth, concentrating the aether like lenses.

 

A searing pain fills her eyes as she falls backwards onto the floor, twitching and screaming in pain as the room fills with the scent of burned flesh.

 

She howls, clutching her throbbing eye sockets, seeing nothing but terrible blinding light. Faintly though,

 

Ever so faintly in her pain addled mind.

 

She can see the outlines of wings.

[Seriphyn]

Since the rise of anti-Ishgardian sentiment within Ul'dah, standing orders have been distributed among the subordinate units of the Immortal Flames Main Brigades, while additional copies have been left at Grand Company outposts for the attention of enlisted adventurers. Each parchment is addressed to the various commanding officers, complete with official heading. The orders would be disseminated to the rank-and-file...

 

In response to a number of incidents targeting Ishgardians either residing in or travelling through the Sultanate of Ul'dah, the Hall of Flames has seen fit to disclose its efforts in its attempts to locate a number of foul relics of Dravanian origin currently distributed across the Thanalan region. Previously the unassuming property of Lady Barbarccia Valadis, these relics have been revealed to be malignant in nature. As a consequence of these items somehow finding themselves on Sultanate soil, Dravanian attacks in settled areas such as Drybone have been reported.

 

The Immortal Flames are neither compelled nor inclined towards the elucidation of these relics' significance beyond their inherent danger. They must be expunged from Thanalan with utmost expediency. Attached with these orders are sketches of relics that have been recovered by knights of the Sultansworn. Have your troops recognize and retain the details of their design. Henceforth, patrol objectives must be modified to account for possible Dravanian activity. Commence additional patrols if need be. Account for manpower issues on a case-by-case basis. Respond to incidents with the sole objective of destroying these relics.

 

The tactful questioning of Ishgardians who may hold information is necessary, including inspections of trade caravans either heading to or coming from northern Aldenard. The emphasis is on tact. The authorities have had altercations with interlopers from Coerthas who have ignored local laws in their single-minded efforts to destroy these relics. Our sovereignty must not be undermined, but neither should our foreign relations. Act with discretion and good faith; our objectives are aligned.

 

We have been in communication with several Brass Blade orders, to include the Rose, Gerbera, and Balsam. They are sympathetic in restoring the status quo in the name of normalizing the trade routes to Coerthas, and have been paid accordingly to augment our efforts. The intentions of other orders cannot be accounted for. Please act with discretion, especially when intruding on areas under their paid jurisdiction. In addition, the Sultansworn are actively seeking out the relics for their destruction as well; please assist them the best you can.

 

Unit commanders, have your levemetes issue and distribute new leves to the end of incentivizing adventurers in boosting our stepped-up patrols. It is recommended that irregulars of the Free Brigade are kept abreast of our activities. They are urged to seek out Acting Flame Lieutenant Kale Aideron, commanding officer of Sandworm V, a Bloodsworn unit with the foremost mission of adventurer liaison. This gentleman is connected to the adventuring community, and is aware of the identities of numerous independent individuals who have varying degrees of investment in the matter. His unit's barracks can be located in the seventh ward of the Goblet, fifty-second plot.

 

This must not turn into a Belah'dian magehunt. Our relations with the Holy See cannot be sabotaged by the efforts of a malevolent few.

 

For Coin and Country, 

 

 

First Flame Commander Autgar Wolfhammer

Immortal Flames Bloodsworn

[Zelmanov]

((I love the term Belah'dian Magehunt))

 

 

Away, that is where he had to go. Away from the prying eyes, the crowds, the cramped alleyways where he did nothing but take up space. He was on the final stretch, the jewel of the desert naught but a faint glint in the distance now. Near last of his gil spent on a custom porter chocobo that was currently carrying him further and further. Wind swept up behind him, the tracks in the sand quickly covered up, leaving no trace of his venture. It seemed Halone was with him. 

 

It was that thought that kept him steady and calm. He wandered if the chocobo could feel it, the clawing, beckoning sentience of the tears. Though locked away in individual crates they resonated with him, the inner dragon that began to roil and churn beneath. The chorus, the song, powerful, perhaps amplified by the proximity and number. His breaths deepened in response, slow, deliberate meditative breaths. This was still indeed justice, his justice, he thought, not weakness nor leniency, this was the right action, not a dragon's will. He snaps the reins, bidding the bird to go faster. A little further would be enough to steel himself away along with the cursed artifacts. 

 

The wind begins to kick up, forcing him to raise a hand to grip at his cowl to cover her his eyes, mouth and nose. He forges forward blindly still and what he saw when he closed his eyes always went back to that ghastly site: Cold, serpentine, lifeless eyes, gazing back unblinkingly. He wondered if what he had witnessed had been a kindness. It was Dragon's eyes and lucid words instead of loving, caring eyes and dragon's lies. Lance or no, he thinks that her blood would be spilled were he witness to the latter once again. This time would be different, this one he could save. 

 

As the dust storm cleared the unbearable heat of the Thanalan sun began to radiate down upon the ivory sand, and the backs of him and his poor chocobo. He looked back over his shoulder once more, civilization but a mirage now. He then looked forward to an outcropping of rocks, one overhanging with tantalizing shade, a bare, dead dry tree, desiccated  for its audacity to grow so far away from others. He smirks a bit and brought the bird to a pause. He dismounted quickly and circled around to the backside of the beast to retrieve the water skin affixed to his effects. Skin in hand he looked to the bird with a soft appreciative smile "I would ride you into battle" he smirks and cupped on hand, the other folding over the bladder to loose some of its water into his palm before lifting it up to the bird's beak. 

 

He started to unload the rest, simply unburdening the chocobo of his armor and arms and the of course, the damnable relics that had consumed moons of his life. With everything removed he walked the bird around by the reins , facing back towards Ul'dah before giving it a firm smack on the rear "HYAH!" he yells and off the bird went.

 

He watched the golden figure slowly disappear over the horizon before turning back to what would be his place for a while. There was his mission, his duty to perform.

[111]

Evangeline wakes up at the first rays of sunlight, as she has every day since the accident. Her eyes had become sensitive. Too sensitive.

 

Well dragons weren’t exactly known for their bad eyesight, were they?

 

She groans and rolls off the bed, rubbing her eyes and feeling for her tinted glasses. Even with the thick lenses the daylight was almost unbearable. Not for the first time she cursed her arrogance in this whole enterprise. She’d held the stones for so long, and without incidence, and it had caused her to grow complacent. Not only had she come to harm, but others in the house as well. Jaques, Vaughn, Farrell, Lyria, Chia, and...

 

Angora.

 

Evangeline sighs and plods to the bathroom. In the Miqo’te’s urge to help Evangeline, she too had absorbed some of the corruption. As Orrin had said, the stones seemed to find their own ways to spread their Influence.

 

The stones were with the Dragoon now at least, given with a vague promise. Orrin said he would return them with needed. That alone would be enough to damn the man, should the inquisitors ever discover it. Evangeline wanted to refuse, the Stones called out to her, begging her to keep them at her side, but she could not resist the look of pain in Orrin’s eyes when he asked her. She would trust him, as she had in the past. He was gone though, and more pressing matters availed her.

 

She stops in front of the bathroom sink, muffling every window with heavy curtains, leaving the room in near blackness. She removed her glasses and to altered eyes, it seems as bright as mid day. Taking a deep breath she once again confronts her visage, the one Orrin could not view without pain and anger crossing his face.

 

Her eyes stared back at her, strange pale grey eyes, the iris’s flecked with yellow. The pupils had changed as well, more a slit than a dot, more like a lizard than an Elezen. She sighs, resting her hands on the sink. “Well, time to figure this nonsense out.”