Delgernandjil arched her back against the polished mahogany counter, glaring daggers at the Miqo'te woman who had her pinned. Though her own strength wasn't inconsiderable, neither was the aggressor a slouch with the advantage of both size and weight. But, with both of her hands occupied pinning Delgernandjil's to the wood surface, they were at an impasse. An infuriatingly smug expression only riled - and confused - the diminutive Xaela further.
Was this a fight? Were they fighting? She rarely said no to a good scrap, but this was more of a... wrestling match? Was this stupid bint calling an unofficial bokh competition here of all places? In the middle of a game of - what was it called - Truth or Bear? Dare. That was it. It was definitely dare. The other players ringed around the periphery of the little room continued the game awkwardly, slouched in luxuriously stuffed carmine-upholstered chairs that rather tastefully accented the dark wood paneling and floors, all doing their best to either pretend the little scuffle wasn't happening... or in some cases, such as the chubby, gimlet-eyed hyuran fellow in the corner, watch with avid attention.
The woman surmounting leaned low to say something, but reared back with a flash of delight as Delgernandjil whipped her head forward in an attempt at a headbutt. What was this? If she wanted to fight, fight! If she wanted to wrestle, darn well say so and stop gloating over the surprise pin! She was saying something, possibly even an explanation, but the Xaela's rising blood had set the war drums to pounding in her horns. Confusion and frustration slowly gave way to anger, and she growled like a cornered beast.
...Which did no favors for the vibrantly attired attendant who appeared nearby to clear her throat.
"Madames," she said, with a firmness not entirely without an edge of nerves, "If you do not intend to play, I must ask that you leave."
The response was immediate; pinner released pinnee and hopped down from the wooden surface to the floor, casting a dull look over her shoulder.
"This place was borin' me anyway. C'mon." And with that, she sauntered off, tail a-sway.
Delgernandjil looked around the room. The attendant continued to frown firmly at her, the fellow in the corner's look of extreme interest had turned to one of disappointment, and the game continued on with a little Hyuran woman being goaded to sit in someone's lap. Eorzeans were nothing if not predictable; the moment any of them started drinking, it wasn't long before someone wound up in someone else's lap, someone was taking their shirt off, or there was some combination of the two.
Suddenly feeling sheepish under the weighty glare of the venue staff, Delgernandjil trotted over to the door to push her way out into the main hall - just as lavishly decorated, with patrons scattered here and there, drinking, smoking, and discussing other vices the nature of which she could only guess - but she could probably venture a fairly solid guess.
"Do you know what kind of place this is, miss?" a kindly older gentleman had asked her not long after she'd entered. Yes, she did, but she hadn't expected them to be so bloody weird about it. She threaded her way across the lavish rugs, between knots of chatting and laughing patrons, and made for the front door.
Delgernandjil was a girl with a most peculiar habit. Or, more precisely, a woman with a peculiar habit owing to her twenty two years of age, but her remarkably youthful features, short stature (though you'd best not let her hear you remarking upon that), and marked lack of maturity did tip the needle into the girlish, rather than the womanly direction. Besides that, she thought of herself as a girl, and it's most often not in one's own best interests to argue with someone who has both a short temper and a large axe.
This was all quite besides the point of course, which was that she had a habit, and that this habit was peculiar. How peculiar, you might ask? The answer, I confess, is 'rather peculiar indeed' but owing to the subjective nature of such assessments, it's perhaps best we simply elucidate the nature of the habit and permit you, dear reader, to reach a satisfactory conclusion. Which, should you deem it peculiar, then we'd quite agree on that point. Wouldn't that be nice?
Now, the habit! Delgernandjil collected uncles. Not literal uncles, mind you - she only had one of those. Nor metaphorical uncles, for all her uncles-who-were-not-uncles were, in point of fact, genuine individuals. To be precise, some of those individuals were uncles, but not her uncles, so perhaps the literal versus nonliteral uncle is the wrong tack to take entirely. Whatever the case, she collected them and it was peculiar.
It wasn't out of any real need for a father figure, for hers was quite hale and hearty, despite being the entirety of an ocean (plus change, when one accounts for land mass) away. They even had a good relationship, past the typical assortment of little misunderstandings, bad days, and the awkward elephant in the room of her going a bit barmy every so often and nipping off for a murder or two. Or three. Or... well, you get the idea. She meant well and he respected that. Most of the people she murdered deserved it anyway, and she always gave them a chance to fight back, so it was a fair and equitable sort of murder arrangement he didn't hold against her in the least.
So why then, the not-actual-uncle collection? She wasn't quite sure. It wasn't any real conscious decision, it just sort of happened. Perhaps it was her charmingly youthful demeanor. Perhaps it was her irrepressible good cheer. Perhaps it was the occasional fit of screaming altogether too loudly while seeing how much of that gooey red stuff the latest subject of her ire can do without. The answer, for those inclined to reading ahead, was "more than you'd think, less than she'd like."
But we've gone off topic again, haven't we? Uncles. Yes. Specifically, the peculiar collection thereof. Not to say the collection was peculiar - though now that we're discussing that matter, they were - but rather the act of collection. Specifically, older Xaela gentlemen. Her overweening enthusiasm for the time-honored art of phlebotomy really ought to have turned people right off, but wonder of wonders, it did not. "Such a lovely girl," they never actually said. "Very violent too, that's always a plus," were more words which never rose from any of their lips. They may as well have however; such was the regard in which her not-literal-but-also-not-metaphorical uncle collection held her.
Which is to say a motley collection of older fellows from the Steppe thought that a bit of a grin with a screech was charming. Who's to judge them, really? Not I. It does lead one to wonder, however, what it was she gained out of their interactions, despite the occasional approving smile and pat on the head*. Were you to ask her, she wouldn't be quite able to answer. Perhaps she seeks a mirror for the boundless affection she lavishes upon the world. Perhaps she seeks security so far from her native land. Or, just perhaps, she seeks 'adult' figures to perpetuate her own childish mindset - dispensers of kindly indulgence to support the bulwark she's built against a more responsible approach to life.
Surely she couldn't be seeking to counterbalance something, some frantic attempt to tip the scales away from a fitful, ravening hunger that only grows the more it's fed. To soothe a slumbering beast that wakes every so often to hurl itself against the bars of its cage and snap with greedily salivating jaws at the faltering hands which tend it. Innocence was just that, wasn't it? A lack of knowledge, rather than its denial.
Anyway, to return to the thrust of the matter, Delgernandjil was very much fond of her uncle collection, and they of her. In the end, that's what matters, isn't it?
*Patting Delgernandjil on the head is not, under any circumstances, recommended. At best she will smile so giddily that you will have a heart attack from the sweetness. At worst, the doctor will have to retrieve your hand from the next postal code.
The flames roared and Delgernandjil fought the urge to roar back. This was why wooden houses were a stupid idea! A proper tent, you could just collapse and throw dirt on. She used to think Ul'dahns daft for building their houses out of stone, but just now she was beginning to see the appeal of those too. Here in Mist? All wood. Crackling, burning, smoking wood.
Some idiot had set the headquarters on fire and if she was any judge of things, the pooling blood beneath the corpses in the entry hall meant it was done on purpose. Swell. Just what she needed. She liked the housekeeping staff, and someone had slaughtered them like cattle. She also liked her forge, which she'd JUST FINISHED, and now it was on fire too. Yes, life was just peachy for Delgernandjil right now. She kicked a piece of flaming debris out of the way with a curse and stomped through the entry hall, moccasins leaving footprints of red across the groaning floor-planks.
She'd been doming a pauldron in her forge (her NEW forge, dammit!) when she'd smelled the smoke. Now, a forge was already a smoky place by nature, but woodsmoke has a particular tang that coal could never quite match. At first she'd panicked, thinking a stray spark from the forge had caught on the furniture, but when a hasty survey of the room turned up nothing, she caught the smoke curling in from beneath the door. Where there's smoke, there's fire, and darned if this one wasn't a doozy. One opened door and a growled curse her mother would have paled to hear later, she'd given up on trying to pile all her forge tools into her arms and simply torn the rack out of the wall to take with her.
Now here she was, tracking someone else's juices across the foyer rug, trying not to choke on the roiling miasma of smoke. Better theirs than hers, but she was still pretty damn annoyed. She briefly fantasized about the many and varied types of pain she'd inflict on whoever caused all this if she caught them, but that train of thought derailed when she finally gained the front lawn and saw the rest of the company standing around balefully watching HQ go up in flames.
She should probably be upset about the senseless loss of life and concerned about the loss of her employer and home, but mostly she was just mad. Dumbass murder arsonists could go fuck a sabertooth baras.
Their first impression:Huh, ‘nother scaleless, hornless, tail-less lady. How do they fight, anyway? All squishy, must have poor balance without a tail - at least them Miqo'te girls got those going for 'em. She doesn’t walk like a weakling though, she’s got this weird confidence like she’s khatun of her own private tribe… Well, if she ain’t a warrior I ain’t got much to do with her, but she seems to be real comfortable doin’… whatever it is she does.
Their current impression:Well darned if she ain’t a warrior, just a different kind. Eorzea’s a real weird place, seems traders are a whole caste of people here, and darned if their competition ain’t both more fierce and more orderly than any Steppe merchant. If you ain’t got the smarts and the moxy to fend off the others, they bury you! She seems real well off and smiles without a shadow, so I reckon she’s put down a few others just by swingin’ her purse around. It ain’t what I’m used to, but you know what? I’ll go on and say that’s respectable. Fight for what you want, darlin’.
What they like the most about your character:She’s nice! Ain’t no mistakin’ it. Doesn’t seem to have a stingy bone in her body, and loves givin’ presents. 'cept she’s real sneaky about it and is sure to give presents that get her a good reaction. Sounds like an okay kind of sneak to me. What’s the point of livin’ life if you don’t enjoy it along the way? Friends are a fine thing, but a friend you can play jokes on? Sounds the best kind if you’re askin’ this gal.
What they dislike the most about your character:Well now… It’s both good and bad really, but she’s independent to the point of cuttin’ folks right off if things don’t work out? At least that’s what I gather. I guess that’s just the mindset you gotta have to hack it when you’re throwin’ around millions of gil and you gotta sling it faster than the next guy? Gotta be efficient, no time for sentiment. 'specially not if you’re cuttin’ the legs out from under someone who’s selling what YOU want to fling.
What your character is for them (Friend, lover, rival etc.):We didn’t talk an awful lot, but she was always a big mess of smiles when we did. I can be bought, and this baklava business she’s always slingin’ about seems like a good price to me! I don’t know if we’re quite friends, but certainly friendly?
A general opinion of their relationship:Well, we ain’t talked proper-like in a while but she sends me things every now and then and I send things back, so I reckon we’re gettin’ on well enough. Ain’t quite sure what about me caught her eye, but I won’t say no to niceness for no reason! And if she does got a reason… Well, maybe it’s a good one.
If applicable, something they wish to reveal:Uh… Can’t rightly think of anything. I don’t 'zactly hide much. If you wanna know somethin’, go on and ask, otherwise I’m about what you see when I grab your elbows!
So there I am, sitting down by the fire and trying to scrub blood out of the leather on my bracers - y'ever try to get blood out of leather? It don't really come out, but you can at least get it clean. My armor might look nice and shiny but metal's easy to polish. Looks like someone threw a big ol' handful of shite at the wall in the underarmor. All streaks and splatters. Where was I? Fire.
I'm cleanin' up this bracer, bit tired and a lil' grumpy 'cause I basically just went off hollerin' and skull smashin' in front of the entire tribe like some hopped-up ninny with a varmint in her pants, and Qoribuqa shows up. Qoribuqa's an okay fella I guess. Used to play with him as a kid 'bout as often as I butted heads with him. Quick to pick a fight, quick to cry over it. At least he was back then. He tosses somethin' down in my lap and folds his arms. Did this idjit want a fight? We both just finished fighting, an' it wasn't no childhood tussle. I'd just killed maybe half a dozen Jhungid, and him... I dunno how many he killed. A couple, probably.
So he tosses somethin' in my lap and it's... a rock. Now, I like presents as much as the next gal, but a rock? I don't know quite what to do with this. It's a small rock, round and flat and smooth. River rock, sure enough. Is this some kind of message? I'm too bushed to deal with that just then. If he wants to throw riddles at me, I'll need the answer too. All he tells me is that he's givin' it back. What? Don't remember ever borrowing a rock. I told him that and he frowns like I just forgot my own ma's name.
Well, one awkward explanation later, turns out we fought over a skippin' stone way back who-knows-when, and by the time we were dragged off each other, it was still in his hands. At least it wasn't the same stone as back then. Not that I'd know, I asked him about it and he said it wasn't. Which was a relief; hangin' on to a rock that long over a stupid fight? Bit too strange for this girl! Why he thought now of all times was a good spot to bring this up, couldn't tell you. He always was a bit dense. Easy to get goin', and I did like tossing a few fists every now and then, so we were... What were we? Friends? Do friends just kick each others' behinds over stupid things all the time? ... Yeah probably. Friends then.
I tell him thanks, 'cause... what else do you say to that? I've no earthly idea. I sure wasn't gonna treasure it forever, it was a rock. Suppose it was just him apologizin' in some thickheaded way, but I'm not fussed over a fight half-remembered. We got into it enough, it all ran together after a while. I've got armor to clean. 'cept then this thickheaded dzo kneels and hugs me. What the dickens? I'd have kicked his arse clear to the moon if I wasn't so worn out. Then it hit me.
We just killed a bunch of folks, and lost a few of our own. Reckon he's upset and lookin' for a little pat on the back. Why me though? What've I got to do with any of this 'sides makin' the bloodshed worse? He's expectin' warm fuzzies from a battleaxe. Wrong spot to go huntin', bucko. Anyway, he was warm and I was tired. I let him hug on me for a bit. Didn't cost anything. Maybe I'd hang on to that rock for a bit before pitching it. Reckon it'd probably skip nice.
Delgernandjil launched herself at her opponent with a shriek, the momentum of her sprint feeding the wild swing she led with. Her opponent, a far taller dark-horned man, blinked in surprise at the burst of ferocity right out the gate of the sparring match. He stepped back nimbly but the howl had done its work; he was a moment too slow. The padded wooden sparring axe clipped him in the gut, forcing out a grunt. A tiny grin sprang to his face as Delgernandjil twisted, priming herself for another savage blow, and his hands whipped out to gently slide along the length of her axe-haft. She snarled when his hands found purchase and latched on with grim strength, halting its progress. She yanked back, desperate to free her axe, and sealed her downfall.
Like an avalanche, events tumbled downhill in rapid confusion. She was being led in a sudden turn, another's hands guiding her axe where she'd never meant it to go. She was falling, tripping over a suddenly out-thrust foot. She was tumbling to the ground, the unfamiliar weight of armor she'd only just procured dragging her earthward. She was coughing, struggling to rise as her own weapon was deftly turned over to force its haft against her neck a gentle but firm choke-hold.
She squinted, anger scattering in pure confusion. What just happened? The Qestir kneeled over her with a maddeningly cheerful smile, a guard dog holding down a mischievous kitten with its massive paws.
---
An ear-shattering howl tore apart the morning stillness. Delgernandjil barrelled towards her rival, training axe held low to fling skywards in a skull-rattling arc. The Xaela martial artist she faced danced back with only a momentary grimace - just as she'd grown wise to his tricks, he'd grown wise to hers. Her war cries no longer carried the stunning force they once did against him, but the little quirked frown that perched on his face told her they weren't shrugged off entirely. She advanced behind a crazed weave of axe-swipes, driving him back, keeping him at bay as she growled and raved. Let him come close. Let him see how much stronger she'd become! The drumming of blood in her horns urged her on.
Yet, for all the distance she maintained, she could never quite reach him. He always arranged to be not quite where the axe head fell. Little weaves, sways, and slaps at the haft made a dangerous dance in which he was always half a step ahead. Clips and grazes slowly mounted, but she could land no solid blow. He flashed a winning smile, as if to ask 'isn't this fun?' It most certainly was not. With a mad bellow, she lunged.
Swift as a serpent's strike, the Qestir was inside her swing. The jumbled pieces of the melee fell into place: he wasn't retreating. He was taunting. One outstretched palm casually brushed her axe-head off course, and the other curled inward to throw a merciless elbow. She staggered from the helmet-ringing blow, but he moved with her in lockstep, always right where she needed to be to regain balance, always with another deft flick of fist or forearm at her rattling helm. Unable to find her feet, she fell directly on her rear. He pounced.
The sky was becoming too familiar a sight. So was Bardam's entirely-too-close grinning face, which it framed.
---
The match began like all the others; a roar of challenge and an armored rush. This time, the burly Gharl faked a wind-up for a swing then immediately took one bounding step closer, driving the haft of her axe into Bardam's gut with a triumphant cry. He grunted explosively as the strike found solid purchase. Undeterred, the dark-scaled brawler snatched at the offending weapon's shaft, grabbing hold to twist its bearer into a place ripe for retaliation. She let go.
She saw all too clearly in those heart-pounding moments how his face transformed. A split-second's vexation at the blow. A squint as he weighed his options. Surprise as her hand came free of the axe's grip and surged towards him in a punch straight from the hip, carrying the full weight of her forward-thrust posture. A smirk when his answering low kick met with a solid stomp, pinning his foot to the ground. Bold delight as he reeled back from the armored forehead that crashed down on his own while he tore himself free. Slowly, his motions gathered a purpose, a strength she'd seen hinted at but never displayed. He beckoned her closer, daring her to score another hit.
She took his invitation with a scream of merry savagery, choking her grip higher to afford short, vicious chops the unarmed combatant had considerably more trouble taking away from her. They circled and traded blows, the little warrior being led this way and jolted that way but never quite losing her feet until the last, when a haymaker intended to drive the Qestir to his knees was deftly intercepted. He ducked, looped her arm over his shoulder as neatly as a fishwife mending nets, and threw her to the ground. Before she could react, he'd wrapped himself around the offending appendage like an opo-opo climbing a tree, forcing it to bend in a way Nhaama had never intended.
She snarled and tried to break free, but he only cranked it harder. She vented her anger with a rasping bark and pounded her fist on the earth.
"Yield! Dadgummit one of these days, I'm gonna kick your arse. You just wait for it!"
Bardam released her arm immediately and sprang to his feet to offer a hand to hers. As she grudgingly reached to take it, she saw the same familiar sky... And a smile edged with ferocious glee.
The little wax seal on the rolled parchment defied scrutiny. So far as Delgernandjil understood it, it was some sort of talisman to assure any who saw it that the document upon which it was placed was genuine. This, of course, raised a whole slew of new questions. What did a fake document look like? Was it not a document at all? If someone wanted to be sure that this paper was about her, wasn't the fact she was handing it in enough? Maybe it was an assurance that the document contained no lies, except Delgernadjil herself could have lied to the preparer. Or did she not understand things correctly, and she was borrowing the authority, the permission, to submit a document? Did you need permission for that sort of thing? The fact alone she had to have things written about herself on a paper and hand it in to someone was bizarre enough already, when they could just talk to her when she went to submit it! Eorzea was a strange, strange place.
She left the offices of the scribe, the 'notary', with a fresh 'application' to a 'free company' so that she could join a new tribe. If she was to succeed here in this foreign land, she'd need somewhere to belong. The lone warrior invited disaster. At a gathering place whose name translated to, she was fairly certain, the Rapid Grit (were all Eorzean names so nonsensical?) she had seen colorful postings on the wall that passerbies had been kind enough to read to her, explaining they were recruitment flyers for these strange gatherings known as free companies which were, as near as she could tell, voluntarily-joined tribes of adventurers.
One flyer stood out to her above all others - a woman wearing armor so spare it exposed more than it covered, proudly bearing a banner of blue and gold in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. Behind her, an avian steed - a 'chocobo,' she was fairly certain - gazed proudly into the distance in full war harness. No combatant with half a brain would wear such ridiculous equipment - she must be a priestess, or... Aha. A goddess of war! It was the only sensible conclusion. This free company seemingly paid homage to a proud incarnation of battle. The adventurer she'd begged to read the text to her laughed and asked if she liked women before reading the text blazoned across the flyer, but the sentiment was lost on her. Of course she liked women. Did anyone just dislike an entire half of the population?
THE ADVENTURE LEAGUE OF EORZEA, the flowing text proclaimed. YOUR FRIENDS AGAINST DOOM. She immediately knew this was the one. A warrior-goddess leading those bound by friendship against looming catastrophe? This was exactly the sort of excitement she'd come for! Unfortunately, the next step was this cumbersome application process. If she was joining a band of warriors, why did she have to fuss with questions and ink and frippery? Couldn't she just grab some member of the tribe, kick their butt, and prove she belonged? Her grasp of the language was so tenuous, she had to go find a translator and notary just to get the application completed.
But complete it she had, and with that baffling rigamarole behind her, she set off to this Adventure League to press her suit in person. She'd simply have to take the notary's word that everything was proper with the rolled parchment in her hand, but if it wasn't, she had a backup plan: she'd take out as many of their warriors as she could to prove she was good for a scrap. Seeing no possible downsides with this plan, she marched off humming a discordant tune.
"You were to be our graceful lil' meadow-flower. A beautiful gem."
The loud, creaking protest of a wooden stool answered the thought as Delgernandjil lowered her armored bulk onto the seat. Intermingled dust and blood dried in reddish-brown streaks and spatters on her imposing suit of solid plate, a rare sight out on the Steppe. It was Eorzean-made, a Naldiq & Vymelli's original wrought to appear like the overlapping scales of some great beast whose wicked talons stretched around its pauldrons in a fearsome embrace. Its wearer stared dully down at her segmented bracers, eyes tracing the etched knotwork and sanguine stains that crawled up their length. She'd have sighed, but she was just too weary right now.
"Sorry, pa."
"Don't be sorry, Delger. We're what we make of ourselves." Ukhaalag waited for her to remove her unevenly horned helmet before handing her a little clay cup of water. The scene at the fire was peaceful and still, its comforting warmth only serving to further accuse the grisly idol of carnage the flickering light threw into sharp relief. In the gathering evening dimness, other Gharl moved about the loosely scattered encampment, some bearing bandages or other evidence of wounds.
"Well, they're prob'ly all scared of me now..."
"Scared?" he scoffed. "Don't take us for cowards 'cause we prefer peace, girl. It's true we ain't all got your fire, but we ain't ash yet. We'll fight to protect our own, sure enough."
Delgernandjil drank and looked down at her mail besprent with blood, hers and others'. Mostly others'. The base of a horn ached where she'd caught a Jhungid club, and a dull fire burned in one arm where a spearpoint dug a wound that wept red into the leather of her gloves. Countless other aches assailed her, but they weren't what troubled her most. She was afraid to take off the armor, she admitted to herself at length. Afraid to stop being a vengeful guardian of the Gharl, and be Delgernandjil again. She wasn't sure what her tribespeople thought of their wayward daughter, especially not after her display.
She wouldn't even be here if not for the letter. The Jhungid, some of the steppe's most prolific press-gangers, made a yearly habit of swelling their ranks through alliance, intimidation, conquering, and the outright kidnapping of other tribes. This time, the Gharl had the misfortune to catch their eye. Her father, knowing her tendencies, had begged her to return and discourage them. Discourage them she had.
They'd come expecting resistance, but found themselves utterly dumbfounded in the face of a steel demon who shrieked the very chorus of the seven hells. They'd heard no rumors of a warrior clad in foreign metals among the Gharl, and even though her presence alone was not enough to serve them defeat, her unearthly howls somehow stiffened the resolve of those they'd come to subjugate. They'd found themselves mired in a ferocious struggle with no quarter asked or given. It would have been easy enough to simply wipe out this modest band of Gharl, but the Jhungid had not come for victory no matter the cost, they'd come to recruit. After one too many of his brethren fell, the Jhungid warband leader called the retreat. Corpses did them no good, no matter which side they were on.
"Your mother's always been a peaceful woman," mused her father, interrupting her reverie. "But when you started hollerin'... I saw death in her eyes. She's strong, maybe stronger than I reckoned. Might be it's where you got it from."
"Is she... alright?"
"She's fine, Delger. Head wounds bleed a lot, you know that. She'll be back on her feet soon."
The soil-priestess had risen to her daughter's delirious urgings when the Jhungid came, channeling her aether in a way they'd rarely seen. Stones burst from the earth to assail their foes and the soft dirt swallowed up the ankles of others, making them easier prey for the defenders' blades. She'd answered her daughter's every howl with more stately, restrained encouragements of her own right up until an arrow clipped her brow and sent her reeling back, bleeding. She was one of the more fortunate; others simply fell where they'd stood. The Jhungid had taken care not to use lethal force at first, but as the melee grew more desperate, so had they.
The little dark-scaled warrior cast a distraught glance around the camp at the walking wounded. She wanted to apologize for all this. To say something to relieve the guilt of not being what she was supposed to be, to make amends for not meeting expectations, to somehow make things right, but her father had already told her not to apologize. This was the path she'd chosen. Bloodshed.
"Reckon you think I'm a right dag for choosin' all this, huh pa."
"Don't be ridiculous. If you hadn't come back, we'd either have lost twice as many, or be in a Jhungid camp right now. You think this is your fault? They chose this. You, you're of the old blood. The strength of our fathers hasn't abandoned us yet. It always comes back 'round when we need it. You're my daughter. You're Gharl. Be proud, Delger. Be proud of who you are."
The words struck Delgernandjil with the force of a physical blow. She struggled valiantly against the tears that threatened to fill her eyes, but couldn't still the quavering of her lip. Then, all at once, it was too much to bear. With a heartrending wail, she threw herself into her father's arms, a mere child heedless of the filth she caked on his shepherd's robes. His hand came up to rest on her head, smoothing out the wild tangles in her hair.
"There there, girl. Your home's always waiting for you."
Delgernandjil clapped madly as each winner was called out from stage, the emcee's bold and confident voice filling the spacious basement with ease. The little adventurer hadn't had any idea what to make of things when the impromptu adult revue competition had been announced, but seeing it was simply her new tribemates putting on silly little performances and dances with less clothing than was strictly polite in public, she'd begun to relax and even enjoy the bizarre Eorzean custom. She couldn't help but wonder if it had some kind of ancient roots in a mate selection ceremony, but nobody here seemed interested in that particular aspect as they'd clapped and hooted encouragement.
She couldn't much make sense of the acts, either. There had been some sort of fire dancer who made a show of flinging off bits of heavy clothing as she went, revealing a spare outfit of Thavnairian silk. The khatun herself, a Miqo'te woman with pink hair and fur (Was that natural? Delgernandjil had the creeping suspicion it was rude to ask...), had put together an ensemble somewhere between a knight's armor and swimwear to perform an intricate spectacle of sweeping steel and crackling aether. Then, of course, there had been the enigmatic Manmancer, a Qestir mage who strode onto stage with a bold, commanding gaze that nearly demanded the winning votes of all who beheld him. No one was quite certain where the name 'Manmancer' had even come from. They'd just somehow agreed it seemed the only appropriate moniker after the fact. There didn't seem to be any pattern she could discern - one bunny-eared woman in brightly colored smallclothes had even given some sort of... speech that every so often sent the audience into fits of giggling and despairing groans.
Now, in the Adventure League's cozily dimmed gathering space, she sat on a floor cushion in an outfit borrowed at a friend's insistence to watch other friends in stranger clothes perform. Eorzeans truly were an odd lot; they washed obsessively, owned dozens more articles of clothing than they could profitably wear at once, and seemed to think once a good camp site was found they should put up an impossible-to-move ger and camp only there forevermore. She tugged at her skirt and watched the antics of her Hellsguard friend on stage. Skirts. Another Eorzean oddity. It was as if someone had cut a long coat in half, then cut the remaining half in half, then wore it for a belt.
"We have one prize left," boomed the ecstatically beaming master of ceremonies. "Best peepshow, to Delgernandjil! We hadn't planned to make this a category, but we've all had quite a view of your smallclothes from onstage, honey. We're going to have to teach you how to sit in a skirt sometime," she chortled with a wink.
The wooden stairs creaked loudly in protest with each armored step Delgernandjil made, retreating down their length to the freedom of the ground floor. Her muscles ached, her face throbbed with the promise of bruises yet to fully blossom, and the buzz of pure adrenaline had long since burned away, leaving her shaky and loosely strung. Despite all that, what stung most of all was her pride. She put one thudding step after another, away from the training room, fleeing the dumbest thing she'd ever heard. Unfortunately for her, it had come out of her own mouth.
Though far from an expert on dealings with the opposite sex, she wasn't entirely clueless either. If the past was any guide to go by, flirting was nine tenths confidence and one tenth what was actually said. With a playful enough grin, even pure idiocy could be made to sound positively scintillating. Maybe. She had doubts. Actually no, that was completely wrong. She could recall a few times some hopefully grinning sot had said something stupid enough to make her horns curl. So much for that idea...
She probably was clueless, she concluded with a sigh. Some moons earlier at a party a friend had badgered her into attending - in an elegantly flowing Ishgardian dress of deep blue no less - she'd been cornered at the pastry table by a well-dressed Miqo'te who insisted on being the one to serve her a slice of cake. He'd chatted amicably enough, before inviting her to view his private library some time. Was this a thing Eorzeans did? Just... visit each others' libraries? Did they all have libraries? Somehow she doubted it. The poor man had deflated when she asked if he had childrens' books, her preferred reading level. Though far from dense, Eorzean was not her native tongue and any sort of reading at all was a bit of a rarity where she came from. She'd learn with time, but she certainly wasn't there yet.
She shifted the twin weights across her shoulders. On her right rested the haft of her battleaxe, a gnarled and wicked thing of spikes and biting curves. On the other rested a massive octagonal shaft of iron, all blunt straight edges to the other shoulder's bladed sweeps, though just as spiked. Her prize. For... losing. She grimaced at the memory, not out of shame for the loss, but at what had followed.
The scrappy Xaela was always eager for a fight; to her it was just about as good as a hello or a how-do-you-do. Anyone too fearful or weak to trade a few blows wasn't necessarily a coward... But they did draw a bit of pitying condescension from the warrior-woman. Quailing behind others didn't seem like any way to live, but not everyone was so gifted as Nhaama's children after all. They were still fine people, she was sure, but without the will to stand up and defy life's challenges, come what may... It seemed a sad sort of twilight subsistence, not living.
The trouble was that Delgernandjil had a habit of consistently biting off more than she could chew. To whit, she had never won a sparring match. Ever. Challenging those she knew she could beat seemed at best dull, at worst simple bullying. She didn't lack for stronger combatants either; at the age of twenty-one she was far from a veteran at her trade and knew she relied on raw savagery far too much at the expense of discipline and technique. Besides, she secretly glowed with pride when, after forcing a far stronger opponent to take her seriously in order to put her down, they'd share surprised compliments about her speed, her ferocity, her potential. It hadn't been enough to defeat them, but her time would come. She had much to learn, and couldn't wait to learn it.
One of the things she'd need to learn was better lines. She glared at the solid iron bludgeon slung over her shoulder, the source of her woes. She took his club, all right. Took it right to the self-respect. In a sennight or so she'd have to look him in the eye, remember what she'd said, and try not to cringe. Oh, well... They were probably even. After the fight, which in the end had devolved into a slugging match on the floor that forced her to eventually yield to the Highlander's superior bulk and reach, he'd grinned and said, in broken Auri, what amounted to "You pretty, fight good. Want sex?"
She frowned. Yes, she kind of did after all that, but you can't just jump for a line that bad! She'd invented something about taking his club as a suitably flirty diversion, which somehow turned into the promise of a rematch and her promptly marching off with said club so she wouldn't have to look at the silly grin her comment had wrought on his bruised face. She probably wasn't doing any better herself. The thought of looking in a mirror to check filled her with equal parts glee at having collected a warrior's reward and despair at how misshapen her face would be once the swelling set in.
A small, childish part of her looked forward to the horrified looks she was sure to get once it had. Maybe if she got a bunch of large, threatening scars on her face people would stop calling her cute. She trundled the rest of the way to her quarters amidst an idle fantasy of wrestling tigers.
Delgernandjil stepped off of the airship gangway and onto the rough timber airship dock, its splintered length winding away into a packed-earth staging area ringed by a palisade, topped with sharpened stakes. Figures milled about in little knots of conversations both boisterous and restrained while one fellow in the red overcoat of the Maelstrom stood sternly near the gate lecturing an attentive band of adventurers, all armed and armored and ready for sortie. Around her filtered yet more, members of the foreign levy such as herself as well as freelancers, all sworn to fight for the Maelstrom - for now. The brushed past her and made to prepare for the day's exercise. The armored woman stepped forward to join then, but her eyes caught on the sight rising majestically from far beyond the ramparts, and she stopped to stare in wonder.
Dominating the heart of the Carteneau Flats stood an enormous plateau, the upthrust finger of a giant. Hardly had she begun to appreciate it that she was bumped roughly into from behind. A curse rang out.
"Llym's snatch, watch it!"
The tanned, stubble-faced Midlander scowled at the bulky armor-plated form he'd just collided with. His light, open-front shirt and deckman's boots pegged him squarely as a Lominsan, or at least a pursuer of Lominsan fashions... if his choice of blasphemies hadn't already. Twin long knives rested at his hips, secured by a rakishly slung weapon belt, and a frankly excessive number of smaller blades found holsters in thigh straps, boot sheathes, and one daren't guess where else. His irritable sneer slowly transformed to confusion, then embarassment when the steel-clad figure turned to squint back with hostility.
Delgernandjil fancied herself a fierce warrior, the sort who set strong foes to trembling and the weak to flight. She thought of herself as an unstoppable fury, the heart of any conflict, the reaving wind that broke spears and shattered helms. She was half right at least; while unquestioningly vicious, possessed of a ghastly strength, and grimly terrifying under the right circumstances... This was not one of them. Her curse was her face.
"What-" faltered the Lominsan, confronted with a glare from a face whose features would be more at home in a crowd of teenaged girls cheering on the Homonculi rather than the battlefield. She was babyfaced. She knew it, she hated it, and she wore a great horned helmet as much for protection as to hide it. At this distance, the lack of a bevor made her predicament plain. Her angry look carried all the ire of a slighted puppy.
"Sorry 'bout that," the man mumbled and stepped aside to continue on his way.
"Vait," she snapped. She flung a finger imperiously towards the enormous stone monolith that proudly topped the flats. "Vhat is THis THing?" She nearly spit with the force of her overpronunciation. Some sounds in the Eorzean language were still foreign to her, and she struggled get them right.
"Hm? 'eliodrome. You came all the way out 'ere and don't even know about it? 'tis our objective, lass. What we're all fighting t'take."
"Eelyo... Drome?"
"Aye," replied the man, one hand circling vaguely. "'elio as in sun, drome as in... uh... place. Hells lass, I'm no linguist."
Her attention riveted back on the plateau immediately. A towering crag called the Sun Place, over which warring tribes battled? The Gharl's mind flashed back to Azim Khaat and the Naadam by which it was claimed - the very reason she'd come here to Eorzea. The Gharl, as those who released the Steppe from its bonds to allow the strongest to rise up and claim the bed of the sun, were naturally barred from participation. Half of the contest was who could arrive the swiftest, and to know the site beforehand provided an incalculable advantage. Besides, being seen as harmless had its advantages. With none of the other tribes keeping an eye on them as potential rivals, the Gharl had a much easier time of traversing the Azim Steppe to carry out their sacred duty of tilling the soil. How was a hot-blooded young woman to make her name, to find worthy soldiers to fight alongside in such depressingly boring pacifism?
An old, familiar excitement began to rise in her breast. Here, so many malms from home, she had found her own Naadam. Here, she would claim the place of the sun for her own. Here, all who stood before her would find their ruin to lie broken and bloodied in her wake. The wolf within awoke, tasted the air, stretched, and begun to pace. Without quite realizing it, a maddened grin began to spread across her face and she trembled with a ferocious glee.
"You look... busy," hedged the man with a downward quirk of concern on his lips. "Just uh, hop down t'th'briefing whenever ya come back from whatever flight o' fancy yer on, lass." He shook his head incredulously and moved on.
"Your names?" The Xaela's voice carried an odd, curling lilt when he spoke, a singsongy quality permeating the simple question and making it dance in the air between his little gaily-clad troupe and the trio watching them warily.
A bathing Manzasiri had spooked the horses on their little hunting trip, causing Delgernandjil's uncle to be thrown from the saddle. He lay grimacing against an exposed boulder, foot twisted at an unhealthy angle, watching his brother exchange terse words with the quartet of cautiously friendly strangers.
"Ukhaalag," responded Delgernandjil's father, still standing protectively in front of her, bow in his hands but string slack, deadly payload pointed at the ground. Out in the open Steppe, any meeting between tribes could be a cause for celebration or the beginning of grief. Killings over slights real and imagined weren't terribly uncommon between tribes, nor were outright kidnappings if a warrior or young lady struck a hunting party's fancy. She peered out from behind him, somehow not convinced these warbling tribesmen meant any harm.
"The wounded one's Nachin, my brother. This's my daughter Delgernandjil."
"Nachin! An auspicious name," laughed their leader with a rise-and-fall of delight making lyric of diction. He strode up to the downed man and squatted. "I too am of the sky, Nachin. My name is Sibaguchu. We are Qalli. You are..." Sibaguchu's lips drew together, brow knitting as his eyes roved their clothing and saddles. "Dataq?"
"Gharl." Ukhaalag shouldered his bow and tucked the arrow into the hide quiver at his back. "In case the name ain't enough, let me promise we're ridin' through peacable-like. A spot of huntin'. If we're too close to your gers, we'll shove right off. Let us pack this one up and we'll be on our way home."
"You are close to our gers, it is true. But is this not the hand of Nhaama upon your fates? Your brother is not suited for a long ride in this state. Come." The Qalli slapped his knees with finality and stood, smiling.
"We haven't made a kill yet. Got nothin' to repay your kindness..."
"You do!" came the melodious reply, a joyful affirmation. Sibaguchu gestured to Delgernandjil. "She is of age, if my eyes don't deceive. One of our children..." His tone wavered, lips twisting briefly in a quest to find a sufficiently delicate phrasing. "Disrespected a sacred fire. A small matter, in all likelihood, but...!" A grand, sweeping gesture accentuated the stately march of his chant. "We have here a soildaughter to purify the ashes! What say you, Ukhaalag. Shall we aid each other?"
Ukhaalag's shoulders sagged in relief. "That all you need? We'd be happy to, Sibaguchu of the Qalli. C'mon Delger, Nachin. Maybe they'll even teach us how to carry a tune."
I feel like I have to explain this one. I was originally going to use Merriam-Webster's word of the day, Umbrage, but then I ran a Duty Roulette with friends also doing the challenge and a dumb joke turned into a dumb dare and now here we all are! <:D
Don't worry, part of the dare was that it couldn't be NSFW.
--
"MA!" came the indignant cry. "MA! BATZORIG HIT ME!"
Altanchimeg set aside the pair of breeches she'd been patching with a frown and watched her son strut up to the ger with a supremely self-satisfied grin etched into his sun-darkened features, his bluish skin turned nearly purple by Azim's heavenly rays. Batzorig had hit his growth spurt, his stature rising taller, horns growing longer, and scales coarsening. Usually, Altanchimeg was pleased to see her son becoming a young man, almost as much as he enjoyed the newfound strength of suddenly being the larger sibling by far... But, as evidenced by the loudly protesting body tucked under one arm, his pinned and struggling sister was having a decidedly harder time dealing with the situation. Their mother drew a fortifying breath to deal with this latest catastrophe in the saga of childhood.
"Well," she began. "You gonna tell me what this's all about?"
"She was slow," replied Batzorig smugly, as if that explained everything. Before he could continue, the flailing little figure cut in with words of biting wrath.
"You put me on down, you dag! I'll kick your arse clear to Reunion!"
"You shouldn't hit a girl no matter the reason, Batzorig," Altanchimeg sighed with infinite patience. "And ladies don't talk like that, Delger."
"I ain't a lady, I'm a GIRL!" shot back Delgernandjil hotly.
Altanchimeg shook her head with a smile. "Ain't that the truth. Now, do you two want to tell me what-all this's about? AFTER you put down your sister," she admonished the taller child.
"You and I know she'll just attack me if I do, ma."
"Then don't do things that make her want to attack you. Give her here," she said opening slender arms to accept the wildly kicking girl. She got off a good one on her brother before the pass was complete and stilled into a spitefully satisfied smirk upon hearing him grunt. Delgernandjil settled down once on her mother's lap, not willing to test her strength - though not much of a fighter, Altanchimeg was a daughter of the Steppe. None survived long there without a touch of iron in them.
"Now. You hit her 'cause she was slow. That don't tell me much, Batzorig. You want to come on out with the rest of that story?"
"Slow sheep get a swat on the hind," he explained, mimicking the gesture with an invisible shepherd's crook. "She was gatherin' wool. Meant a tease, might've clipped her a bit rough. Sure didn't mean no harm, but she wasn't keen to listen."
A pink tongue shot out at his account, prompting Altanchimeg to suppress another sigh. So it was bruised pride, and little more. She hadn't been certain whether or not to be worried when they'd first arrived, but she trusted her son's temperament. Though he had a stripe of the wicked in his sense of humor (which he probably got from his mother, she was loath to admit), he was a level-headed soul.
"D'you think he was trying to hurt you, Delger?" she probed.
"Prob'ly not," admitted the girl grudgingly.
"You think you could forgive him if he says sorry?"
"Maybe," she sulked, childishly clinging to the last vestiges of a tantrum she knew she'd soon have to give up. "If he gets right down to his knees."
The soil priestess turned a perhaps-too-cheerful smile on Batzorig. This was between siblings, for now. Her smile deepened as the lanky youth settled into a kneel in the scraggly grass and reached a hand out to rest on his sister's head, wearing an indulgent smirk.
"Sure am sorry about that, Delger. Think we could cut out whallopin' each other for now?"
"Yeah maybe," she bit out, "but you gotta take me huntin' with you and pa next time!"
"Hunting...?" he asked, caught off-balance. He turned a look to his mother, but she only shook her head and continued to smile. "Aw, c'mon now Delger, you know a baras wearing a bell starves."
She sat up stock straight, insisting. "I'll be real quiet this time! You GOTTA!"
Batzorig sighed. "Ain't up to me. Ask pa. What he says goes."
"YEAH!" she exulted, exploding from the confines of Altanchimeg's embrace to throw a rough hug around her brother's shoulders. "I'm gonna ask him RIGHT NOW! You're the BEST!" The dark-scaled youngster was already on her way out towards the grasslands, calling over her shoulder in a fit of excitement that had completely washed away her earlier pique.
Mother and son traded a look. Delgernandjil's mercurial nature was nothing new, but that made it no less confounding each time she switched tracks without a moment's notice. Batzorig dusted his knees and stood.
"Suppose I'd best get back to the sheep?"
"Suppose you'd best."
The trousers found their way back into Altanchimeg's hands to resume their patching. Maybe her father was right. Their little sparrow's joy was as brilliant as the sun, and her temper just as hot. She only hoped one day Delgernandjil would find companions as able to handle her as her brother.
The carmine glow of banked embers threw a wavering light across the dark metal plating of the crowded chamber's floor. Bookshelves crammed to overflowing flanked a threadbare entry rug stained with soot, tumbling out into a cramped forge where labored a pale Miqo'te woman, her ears, hair, and tail nearly as black-dusted as the entryway itself. Several small tables staggered drunkenly away from the walls and out into the room at seemingly random placement and angle, all laden with the detritus of smithery: blade templates, plating diagrams, stacks of ingots, half-rolled scrolls, and an apple with a few bites taken then forgotten. Behind one sat another Miqo'te, nearly a mirror of the one at the forge... Nearly. At a casual glance, but for their attire and cleanliness, they were identical.
Delgernandjil sat nearby, watching the more orderly of the pair stitch a pair of leather-reinforced trousers. They were making armor for her, she knew. She'd blazed with pride scant hours before when her mentor, Rhea of Nhacara's nineteenth (so she preferred to be called - Delgernandjil wasn't entirely clear why she preferred to be addressed so differently from other Eorzeans) announced she'd forge a suit of mythril plate for her violence-prone student in celebration of her smithing progress. She would, however, have to call in a seamstress to handle the cloth and padding of the underarmor. Her sister. The sturdy Xaela had been curious what sort of woman might be related to her instructor, but wasn't quite prepared to answer the door and come face to face with... her instructor. Better groomed, more mysteriously aloof, but otherwise struck from the gods' same mold.
Now, a few hours later and after careful observation, she'd come to appreciate more of the differences. The blacksmithing student had, of course, been given permission to leave, take a nap on the shoddy cot in the corner, or do whatever she pleased since the process of forging armor was not a light bell's work. She'd declined, saying she couldn't possibly turn down an opportunity to learn by observation and wished to respect the maker's time anyway. The smith hadn't said anything, but words were rarely a torrent with her. She'd squinted, given a tiny smile of approval, and set to work.
The stocky Xaela swayed in her seat idly, eyes torn between the powerful hammer strokes of the elder smith and the dancing needlework of the younger tailor. She found her eyes drawn, again and again, to their hands - perhaps one of the most telling differences between the two, even if one of the more subtle. Rhea, the elder by some quarter bell, was the more solid of the two and her strong, calloused digits told a tale of burns and scars and triumphs in steel. In temperament and form, she was a creature of stone, while her sister Mho was a spirit of air. Rhea's bare arms carried more muscle, her expressions were more bold and open, and though she spoke in a hopelessly archaic dialect that Delgernandjil was only now learning to follow, her expressions were plain and direct.
Mho... Was a bit of an enigma. Ephemeral, silent, and discreet as if she'd fade from the world the moment no eyes were upon her. She drew her silences about her like a cloak, and comported herself like a statue - her every mannerism was carefully measured, muted, restrained. Her fingers, delicate and graceful, guided a curved needle through leather and cloth with an ease remeniscent of playing an instrument. Her high, clear voice - the same as her sister's - hummed a gentle tune. Though it may have been a trick of her senses, Delgernandjil could have sworn its melody set the pace for her stitching and her sister's hammering both. The striking nature of how very nearly identical the sisters were warred in Delgernandjil's head with the subtle differences which, in any other context, might be next to nothing but here... They nearly shouted to be heard.
One of those differences was how easy they were to understand. Whatever strange dialect spun Rhea's speech in odd little circles threw Mho's into a dizzying labyrinth.
What was an eyn? What had been taken? Why was she asking how? The warrior-woman's mastery of the Eorzean tongue was far from complete, but she liked to think she could follow a conversation alright. The mysterious Keeper of the Moon twins almost made her feel like she was learning a different language just to speak with them. If there was one thing Delgernandjil had learned being amidst foreign cultures however, it was that people valued what you meant far more than what you said. With enough time and irrepressible cheer, even the most contrary curmudgeon could be won over.
"I am vatch," she said, her thick Steppe accent clicking her k's in the back of her throat. "So fery interesting, how you are makhe! It is okhay if I am lookhing?"
"Scry on," intoned Mho with a delicate twist of amusement. "Light, thy burden."
She returned to her needlework, and Delgernandjil to her rapt fascination with the nimbly dancing fingers.
Sesehiru pushed doggedly through the fitful snow-laden gusts, the wideswept ravine he traversed doing absolutely nothing to cut the occasional blasts of powder that dusted him head to toe in white. The beginnings of a storm had sprung out out of nowhere in the middle of the match, and but for the terse exchanges of the Immortal Flames team attempting to regroup in his ear, the Lalafellin thaumaturge may as well have been alone in the Coerthan wilderness. At least he was safe, for now. Please let me be safe for now, he prayed to Nald, Thal, Halone, or whoever else might hear him in this godsforsaken tundra. He had to keep moving. He had to regroup.
The match had been going well mere minutes ago. The Flames had managed an early lead on a number of tomeliths and claimed them handily by following the orders of their caller, a Hellsguard bard with mellifluous tones of encouragement it seemed only natural to attend. Sesehiru found himself lost in a reverie of what it might be like to hear her sing when her voice changed, tensed, took on the ring of command over the linkpearl.
"Maelstrom at base," she'd noted tersely. "Head back and drive them off. Leave the 'lith to the Adders." They'd wheeled about and made double time across the trampled snow to snatch back what was theirs, morale high. They had the lead and they knew it. If they could rout the sea dogs nipping at their heels, all they had to do was keep pushing on the momentum they'd built and sail all the way to victory. If.
It may have been pure cockiness that made them overcommit. They may have been simply outmatched. Sesehiru entertained no doubts about the outcome of the rapidly developing melee until the screaming began. A shrill, hoarse screech seized him by the ears and burrowed somewhere deep into the core of the little thaumaturge, assaulting his senses with about as much force as a body blow. Fortunately for him, he was not the recipient of the literal body blow that followed close behind when a stocky, armored form burst from behind the cover of their banner to barrel directly into the Flames free paladin. The Hyuran man was caught completely unprepared and sprawled onto his rear, only barely managing to flounder out of the way of the kindling-splitting axe strike that fell where he was the second before. A second howl tore through the air, thick with barbaric frenzy.
When he later tried to make sense of the scene, replaying it in his mind when the urgent panic of escape had somewhat calmed, Sesehiru could have sworn the warrior's cries somehow fed the combatants, urged them on, guided their lances and bows and unleashed aether to break the back of the Immortal Flames resistance. That was stupid, of course. No amount of shouting, however loud, had such power. But in the moment, it felt like a living, breathing beast that slavered for his very life's blood. Actual fatalities were virtually unheard of in Frontline skirmishes. Grand Company officers watched everyone like a hawk, punishments for going too far were unimaginably severe, and the post-match medical care was second to none. Yet even knowing all this, in the blind, fumbling terror of the battle at the banner, the Ul'dahn thaumaturge wondered if his time had come.
The bard was first to fall, stepping confidently in the fray to send arrow after arrow winging at the Maelstrom healers. She'd sought to lead by example and did just that, though not in the way she was hoping - a Lalafellin fellow with a curved eastern sword and a topknot brought her down with a flourish. The battle raged back and forth in the snow-turned-slush by the stomping and prancing of too many feet, fistloads and spearheads and brilliant bursts of raw aether flashing all about. Yet for all that, in the face of the horrific baying of the heavily armored axefighter, the thaumaturge's spells felt... weak. Somehow he couldn't focus to save his life, and he feared he might have to do just that. The horned helmet turned towards him and his marrow turned to water. She'd see him. She'd smiled.
A hand broke his petrified trance with a rough shove backwards, the sturdy frame of a Highlander woman stepping between them. They'd chatted briefly before the match. Edelmire. Took up adventuring when her father's restaurant failed. Pretty eyes. Scars he was afraid to ask about. Probably the only thing between him and imminent death. The loud crack of her reinforced gauntlets meeting armor plate clashed against his ears, her bellow of defiance answering an angry bark. Sesehiru ran, fumbling through the winds that had risen as if in answer to the shouts behind him.
It was the reasonable thing to do, he tried to assure himself as he pelted down the gravelly ravine. Enough of his team had fallen, he was an easy target. As a thaumaturge, his job was to provide the artillery but he could only do so if protected by the others. They had begun to scatter, so it was his job to remain safe and return once they'd had a chance to reorganize. Yes, that was it. That was it, and not the queasy thrum of adrenaline tying his stomach into knots of dread. He skirted the cliff face and listened to the confusion of voices on the Flames channel. He was safe. The only sane way down here from the encampment was the loose scree of an incline that would make a quiet approach impossible, and he'd heard nothing. No one was fool enough to chance the forbidding cliff face.
The snowfall, light before, came harder and harder, a white curtain to cover his tracks. Good. He'd made clean. He drew a steadying breath and prepared to-
Rocks clattered down the cliff nearby. The wind? More came, then more, then the fwump of something large hitting the snow. Melt. Had to be. Sometimes large bits of snow would break loose and fall all on their own. Of course that was it. He'd just round the corner, have a good laugh at his own paranoia, and...
A pair of heavy iron tongs clanked dully against outstretched darksteel talons. The horridly leering visage of some Void-blasted beast hunched over scraggly claws upturned in silent, blasphemous prayer. Its sharp, bladelike tongue licked hungrily at all who drew near, beckoning them closer for one final taste. It was a damned fine tool rack, if Delgernandjil said so herself. She folded her arms and stepped back to beam with approval at the modest forge crammed into the corner of her room at Yōsai headquarters.
She wasn't sure if she'd get the go-ahead to put one together at all, but after a few years in Eorzea she'd learned how Eorzean minds worked and made a safety inspection part of her proposal. It was rubber-stamped with surprising alacrity, so the doughty Xaela had set to the task. Now, nearing the end of her labors, she felt confident enough to take an overview. She could have had a normal, boring forge of course but why make work of work? If she was to shape steel like a potter's clay, she needed inspiration. Inspiration to the tune of an improbably demonic tool rack, adapted from a wall sculpture. Inspiration of the likes of Ifrit's bellowing mien vomiting flame into her forge when she needed extra heat. The entire workspace was a pastiche of staid, ordinary objects juxtaposed with the jarringly fiendish.
With a fond pat on the head of the snarling Doman demon-dog carved into the frame of her upright grinding wheel, she surveyed the space. Bins of scrap and metal blanks lie packed against the wall under a window converted entirely into an air delivery and exhaust for the forge nearby, metal pipes dominating the wall between. Nearby rested a sturdy anvil, bolted to an old stump to keep it stable and absorb the ringing impact of the hammer's blow. The forge lay cold, but she could picture the rosy glow its banked coals might throw on the red-tiled floor, fed by a an extravagantly crafted Ifrit's head sculpture whose mouth bore a balefully pulsating core of some strange, dark material resembling horn. And, of course, her toolrack. Delgernandjil was particularly pleased with that.
It would do. She had to admit, the layout was shamelessly stolen from the workshop of her former mentor, a quiet Keeper woman with hopelessly archaic speech and the crushing grip of a lifetime's smitting, but Delgernandjil didn't trust herself to redesign the wheel. She was comfortable with this layout from hours spent working bronze, then iron, then finally being permitted to touch steel under the stern eyes and frequent strange little smiles of her instructor. The Xaela was no master yet, but mastery came with time and practice. Here was a place she could spend one to earn the other.
The dark-scaled woman turned, struck by a sudden thought. Pushed into the far corner of the same room was a bed, or more precisely a nest. It was a bowl-like tumble of pillows, bedding and furs recessed into a little stage, itself strewn with cushions. It was a place to bodily fling oneself in a sprawl at the end of the day, and it scoffed at the very notion of civilized silliness like fitted sheets and bedcovers. The scant room's length between the two opposites of labor and leisure probably encouraged a workaholic mindset... She might be more like her mentor than she'd realized.
Well, as long as she didn't start to talk funny, she was probably alright, wasn't she? Back to work.
We hereby give notice that Storm Sergeant Delgernandjil is temporarily suspended from participating in Maelstrom training exercises until further notice, pending imminent review. Any attempts to enter the Wolves' Den, Cartennau Flats Frontline grounds, or the Astragalos will result in immediate expulsion and an extension of the ban.
Offenses include:
Excessive use of Maelstrom linkshell channels
Attempted misuse of Maelstrom equipment
Reckless endangerment of allied troops
Gratuitous destruction of Grand Company equipment
Sergeant Delgernandjil has been reported obstructing free use of the linkshell via incessant and incomprehensible shouting, deliberately attempting to step on opposing infantry once in command of machina, firing dangerously close to ally-occupied positions, and partially dismantling opposing machina once felled in an attempt to attack their pilot. In light of these infractions, we have no choice but to take punitive action.
You will be contacted once your case is eligible for review.
Syngibrem Wuotrammwyb
Storm Captain, Foreign Levy
The Roegadyn woman finished penning the missive and leaned back in her chair with a groan, upholstered leather raising a creaking counterpoint as she did. This sudden influx of adventurers from the east had been marvelous for the roster, but there had been a number of, to put it delicately, incidents with their integration. Syngibrem didn't know what kind of place the Azim Steppe was, but the black-horned people it birthed were vicious as any pirate crew. And, just like a pirate crew, they didn't always know or care for the rules.
She'd only heard the stories second hand, but by all accounts this Delgernandjil had raised an unholy racket all exercise long by shouting, screaming, ranting, and cackling into her team's linkpearl with words both comprehensible and foreign. Reports were sharply divided as to whether it was inspiring or terrifying, but nearly everyone agreed that a running stream of taunts and war cries was not proper use of Maelstrom communication channels. And speaking of misuse...
Her eyes fell on the damage reports, next to which were the repair estimates. It was fully expected for a few machina to get bunged up in a Rival Wings match. It was not expected for combatants to bring one down, scale the frame, pry off armor plating, then try to punch out the pilot before they could extract and return safely to home base. To make matters worse, those on her team, Eorzean adventurers who by rights ought to have known better, were sighted egging her on and working in concert to turn what would have otherwise been a lone temper tantrum into a full-blown rampage. Had this been an actual engagement with the enemy, their fervor and effectiveness would have been laudable. For a training exercise, it was a disaster. She didn't even want to look at the write-up on what happened when the team somehow conspired to get the girl's hands on an Oppressor. Once was enough.
While the threat of a Garlean invasion loomed large, the Foreign Levy was an indispensable part of the Maelstrom's efforts. Valiant men and women, volunteers all, throwing themselves into every gap, shoring up every line that threatened to break with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism. Now that the threat was farther from their doorstep, they'd become almost a liability - a frenzied throng of enthusiastic can-do free spirits with not enough bladework to keep them all occupied. The rumors of unrest in Ala Mhigo had many of them off sharpening their swords, and Syngibrem almost caught herself wishing for another war just to keep them occupied.
That would't do. She needed a drink. She needed several drinks. The lanky captain folded up the suspension notice and slipped it into an enveloped addressed to The Adventure League of Eorzea, attn: Aveline Blue. She stood, groaned, stretched, whisked her jacket off the back of her chair and onto her shoulders. The little mammet in Limsan livery clacked to attention in the corner and trotted over when she held out the letter, then saluted with an oiled click once it had changed hands.
Let adventurers see to adventurers for now. Whatever messes they made, when they were needed they came running. They always did.
