“Yeah, put that pillar there.” This whole team of builders and decorators were driving Alaria up the wall with some of their ideas. Rusty walls and fencing and trying to remove space for her kitchenette and bar. “I will cut you if you put that curtain back up!”
The worker with the most hideous of red curtains looked up at the very peachy leader of the Faded Tome Circle with almost fear in their eyes and they immediately took that curtain back outside (where it belonged). There would be no cutting curtains here in making this library beautiful. It hadn’t really been her dream to open this thing but if she was going to live here then it needed to be beautiful.
She walked the length of the basement again with its fancy floors and brick walls with a smile. The bar was really coming together and the kitchen had turned out to be beautiful and functional. “Hey! No! You! The stage has to take up the wall! What do you fucking mean why do we need a stage?! Shut the fuck up and fix it!”
Her head started to pulse in pain but godsdamn it there would be a stage down here. Alaria checked the table cloths again over the little tea tables. She made sure they were perfectly set and the little dressings were in the exact right spot. The fish bowls were stocked with some little critters and everything looked perfect as is.
The Viera walked her way back upstairs to see the bookshelves all covered with donations from the lecturer, the researcher, and a few other very kindly patrons. Everything was coming together except when she noticed there on the wall again.
“Get that fucking red curtain down! Gods damn you! I will set that fucking thing on fire!” She ran over and pulled it down the wall and marched it to the Sea of Clouds outside and sent it tumbling along. Maybe it was a metaphor. Maybe she was just cutting this corner.
“Hey you! Stop!” Chama’s short little Lalafell legs always failed her in these kinds of moments as she hustled as fast as she could to the most suspicious target walking these cold stone streets: a peach haired Viera that had blood staining her face. “Come on! Please stop?!”
The lance on her back that was twice her size cack-cack-cacked across the ground and finally her subject paused to turn around. The little would-be-knight stopped in her little tracks at that frightening look in the Veena’s eyes and her lance caught on a crack which sent Chama face-first into the ground.
The pain was nothing; she had fallen like this many times thanks to this stupid stick on her back but the embarassment of it all stung so hard. She wouldn’t give up. Chachama Chama would be a knight godsdamn it even if none of these Temple Knights believed her nor her family believed her.
Footsteps approached her and she looked up to see that frightening Viera approaching. Her little legs quivered in fear and she tried to back away on her little hands and knees but the peachy Veena caught up too quickly.
“I’m having a really bad fucking day so you better stop fucking following me.” Those green eyes of that Viera may had been red for how on fire they were. Chama could only nod in agreement but that didn’t seem to sate this clear evil-doer. The much taller woman kneeled down and pat Chama on her head to complete this barrage of embarrassment and then that Viera was storming off again.
“I’ll never give up.. I’m going to be a knight!” Chama said to herself. One of these days, she would be able to take on these criminals and she would be the finest knight in all Eorzea. She couldn’t help but wonder though, why was that peach-haired Viera moving so quickly down these streets with blood on her face?
The aurete amber glow of a vibrantly verdant spring’s late afternoon cast the bustling Kugane thoroughfare in an equally brilliant light, thousands of souls passed by the numerous, nestled stalls, each advertised as much by the brilliantly woven, colourful awnings and bunting banners and the paper lanterns just now starting to be lit - as to the fervent cries of the hawking mechants. To the port-city ever flooded Hingashi’s own; collectors eager for ijin imports, hired blades looking for employment in the lands across the sea, merchants bringing wares from beyond Shishu and of course, the ijin themselves.
Garleans, Domans, Nagxians, Eorzeans, Thavnarians, Namazu, Kojin, the occasional Sharlayan, even the rare Xaela from the steppe or desert - each and all eyed with scrutiny by the ruby-robed Sekiseigumi patrolling the paven streets.
Of those hoping to captivate an audience, from artists peddling masterfully brushed paintings and chiselled sculptures, collectors bearing crates and chests of antiques, artisans of all shapes and sizes peddling everything from the rarest of the rare, to the prodigiously bountiful, the humblest - lacking lantern, bunting and possessed of only the feeblest, most tattered awning, little more than a rag. A lonely lopsided sign tied together from scrap wood had, had painted across it in alternating lime and apricot hued letters, “Nest of Stories.” Though in truth it was less nest and closer to the union of a rickety stall and a tiny, elevated stage framed with stray twigs and a colourful collage of feathers and on that stage, puppets.
“You cannot defeat me! I am you! You owe everything to me!” a high-pitched, colloquially-accented voice hissed from behind the screen, trying just a little too hard to sound gruff and menacing. a tiny, painted wooden katana suspended by half-concealed strings bobbed up and down as the voice offered its dramatic threat. “No… not any longer,” another, more natural cadence stoically states, possessed of a more aristocratic timbre, continuing, “I renounce all that I am, all that I was - and so I wash myself clean of you.” The blade descended “clickety-clacking” a few times until it slotted into the hand of a stylised, colourfully-painted puppet.
In spite of the ramshackle theatre, the puppet, props and even the background scenery were lovingly detailed. The sword-clutching, grim-faced puppet’s pale scales and horns had been each carefully painted on, his face expressively grim, torso nocked with chips and nicks from which had been painted crimson rivulets of gore, patches of brilliant, jade-hued cloth crested by straggling pieces of lamellar armour, a broken, defeated man brought to life amidst the backdrop of a temple. Wooden limbs contracted, strings lowering the doll of a Raen down, angling him so that the blade slipped free, lapsing to the stage floor.
“AND YOU THINK IT SO EASY TO BE RID OF YOUR OATH?” The first, shriller voice boomed villainously, seething with menace. Hammy menace. Very, very hammy menace. The grotesque form of a multi-armed, masked, slug-like monstrosity sliding forth onto the stage, accompanied by the sound of the first speaker offering an accompanying, “Boom! Boom! Boom!” A sharp breath taken before a renewed villainous screed, “YOUR SOUL IS MINE ISAMU, YOU SWORE IT IN BLOOD. NOW YOU WILL DIE!”
“Calamity will no longer dog my footsteps, Isamu is no more,” the second voice cooly stated, the puppet weaving its way to the wings of the stage. “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” the first screamed, shrill enough to draw gazes and grimaces both from passers by. The theatre shook as a quintet of pebbles fell from above limply and an “UGH!” rattled out, just in time for the monstrous vibrantly hued puppet to flop over with a “THUNK”!
“And so I left that place and left everything behind, to reflect on the future and the past and I had many more adventures but those are stories… for another time,” the stoic voice stated, a squeaky creaking accompanying a tattered, crimson curtain slowly drawn out across the stage, pulled along by a string until the theatre beyond was put to rest. A few, scattered hands of applause just scarcely made themselves audible against the background din as did more than one snore.
Masked by a fiery-orange, stubby black-beaked robin mask, a figure clad in a tattered old cloak wheeled another masked in a lime green, equally stubby blue beaked pigeon mask, sat in a rickety old wheeled chair, garbed in a filthy old dress, colour long-since faded. The robin considered the audience, three onlookers filtering back into the crowd, one flipping a few gil into a bucket at the foot of the puppet theatre, two remaining - five heads in all. “More than usual,” she noted in her well-spoken drawl, resting a fond hand on the smaller figure’s head. “Did we get better? Did we like?” the higher-pitched of the two cooed excitedly, voice cursed by a particularly thick, urchinesque accent. “Most definitely,” the other offered with scarce a second thought, offering the pigeon’s pale locks a fond, gentle tussle.
“And with that ladies, gentlemen and those that subscribe to neither, I’m afraid our story has ended… for now,” the robin called out, to a grand audience of a fidgety, muck-stained Hyuran lad and a middle-aged Raen woman snoring, head lolled to the side, sleeping standing up. “But do not fret! Tomorrow brings with it a new tale - three in fact! A tale of mystery! A tale of betrayal! And a tale that falls… tantalisingly in between!” the aloft puppeteer called out, finishing with a phenomenally proper deep dip of a bow at odds with her ragged garments, “Until next time! Pigeon and Robin will be waiting for you in the wings!” Pigeon lowered her masked head somewhat belated, leaning forward in her chair in a mock bow of her own.
Taking a moment to simply let the air of the soon-approaching evening rush over her, to stretch limbs that’d been cooped up behind the stage with her sibling, Robin couldn’t help but smile behind her mask. Once again, the excitable exuberance of the younger sibling had met the refined collectedness of the elder, to temper each other to create something that was simply… magical. Not for the audience, they mattered little - but happiness had come to roost there, in that most ramshackle of nests for two birds of contrasting hues. For Robin to respin a tale to her liking, to live the parts for hours, even in the medium of puppets and for Pigeon to bask in the dramatic deeds and exaggerated characters her sibling spun for her… Ever their wants tempered each other, weaving threads in the middle, embroidering mutual happiness.
“Sis… do you think the pebbles helped?” Pigeon inquired, stifling a chesty cough into her tattered sleeve elbow. “I do,” Robin answered without hesitation once again and so they did. It had been a struggle to incorporate them without damaging the demonic puppet, but the suggestion’s inclusion had brought the younger girl joy when she’d agreed. “How do you feel?” the loftier Raen asked, brushing a few pale locks back from Pigeon’s pallid horn. “I’m fine, me,” she chattered softly, only to hesitate as the older girl’s hand ceased mid-brush, hurriedly correcting, “All the shouting made me chest ache a little…” With that little fib self-corrected, Robin resumed her preening of the untidy, vanilla-hued mop.
Angling her wiry frame around the theatre to dig free a ceramic bottle, removing the lid, the elder sibling found herself at the tail end of adding a carefully prepared mix of dried and powdered imported herbs only to find her attention snapped by a brisk, “Oi.” The previously lingering, mucky Hyuran boy ambled his way over surreptitiously, then slipped a purse free from a sleeve across to the masked puppeteer. Pulling it open with her free hand, inspecting the collection of gil within, Robin emptied roughly half into a compartment in the stall, offering the rest back. The Hyur boy grinned, skittering away after a businesslike, “A pleasure as always miss.” The puppeteer didn’t doubt the pickpocket had stashed a fair few of the coins away before presenting his findings to be split, but it was a good trade all the same. Gil better than street puppet acts could yield for they, and distracted victims for the lad to pilfer.
Bringing the bottle back around to the younger sibling, the elder gave the contents a good shake, mixing them around, then offered it over. Pigeon reluctantly reached a scale-flecked hand across to accept the medicinal mix, raising her mask a little to better be able to drink. “It costs a lot, don’t it…” the sicklier sister stated, more than asked, gulping down a sip, gagging, spluttering at the deceptively bitter taste, prompting an encouraging circling of a soothing hand to her back. “It does, but I’d pay more if I had to, any amount to see you comfortable, Robin conceded. Taking another, somewhat more cautious sip of the medicine, sparing herself another fit of coughing if not the shudder of displeasure.
“You’ve given up so much for me and I don’t never…” the colloquial mumble of the younger sibling mumbled, interrupted mid-utterance by a finger placed onto her mask’s beak.
“In your veins flows the blood of champions, a lineage near without equal. You -are- a champion. You -are- special, a warrior. In you the echoes of our forebears reap ripe fruit! You are just, strong and you have persevered thus far, yes?” Reaching up to loosen the straps holding the fiery robin mask in place, the elder sibling pulled it away to offer her sister an encouragingly broad smile, ruby gaze upon her, “I would give up everything and more to see you smile, so do not fret my pigeon. I am happy and my only regret is that I did not find you sooner.” Pigeon briefly met the other girl’s gaze through her own mask, then turned her eyes groundsward bashfully. An amused giggle drew itself from the unmasked Raen’s lips, letting the speechless girl off with a peck atop her head, gently instructing, “Drink while I pack everything up and we’ll be off, hm?”
To the daughter of old aristocracy who’d excelled, who’d been drowned in meaningless praise and starved of connection, to the other who’d been abandoned, struggled and void of given worth, come to loathe herself, bound together with strings and puppetry, For one who longed to dote and the other who longed to be doted upon, pain ever tempered pain and need ever tempered need and tomorrow, they’d show Kugane the result again. Through paint and wood and string.
“It’s not your fault..” Alaria’s breath was ragged, quick and hot against the strange woman’s naked flesh. It had been happening more recently and it didn’t matter with whom or when, but the peachy Viera would get so close to melting into that pleasureful release only to cool off just before. “I’m going to go.”
“You don’t have to-” But the Viera just put a finger on the woman’s lip to quiet her. There were many places she’d rather be than stuck in this room with another person who couldn’t satisfy her.
“I’m gone. Enjoy the rest of your eve.” And without even looking back, the former pirate escaped into the cold Ishgardian night and the solitude that came with it. Every so often, her emerald gaze would wander to the railing and Sea of Clouds that extended beyond.
It would be easy to be even without the person who satisfied her the least, herself. A simple plunge but she never would. Maybe like that steel being tempered in a forge, in their own heat, she could emerge as something more useful.
The letter was left unread for now - after a linkpearl call to her father, who was on his way home from the Magna Glacies with Gridania’s Best and Brightest in the Ilsabard Contingent, Ayla figured it would be best to open it when family other than Anselm was around.
To get her mind off that mysterious letter suspiciously littered with clues - an absence of return address, her full name written clear as day, and an accurate means of address for herself on it - she practiced slinging spells instead of songs.
She had learned the basics from an old friend, utilizing the striking dummies a ways away from the gates of Ul’dah, her least favorite place to be. The very first spell she cast happened to feel very familiar.
It was the same feeling she got when standing next to her perpetual partner in crime. There was never a moment when fighting side by side that the static laced blades slicing through the air in such skilled hands caused her hair to raise. There was likely a scientific explanation for the phenomenon, but a scientist the bard was not. Her job was to romanticize everything. And romanticize, she did.
When she finally managed to visualize the thunder, the black magic woven into the red she would soon learn, she felt its pull and cling as she willed the magic elsewhere. Like a sturdy hand on her wrist, guiding the roiling destruction to its mark. She could feel it even now as she subjected the little community’s striking dummies to her newfound levinlight wrath. But she couldn’t keep pelting the poor construct with just jolt… then thunder… verthunder, apparently. The bard weaved in a few veraeros between the jolts of lightning.
Balance, he said. Both white and black magic.
Efficiency, she said. Draw the remnants back into the blade.
Ayla could feel the steel seething crimson less than subtle. She was getting better at this.
Getting better was the goal, after all.
Before their friendship blossomed, after incredible loss on both sides, her irreverent shinobi favored fire to cut down her foes.
The very same sort of fire that caused such immeasurable loss in the bard.
She couldn’t remember why or when Natsumi made the switch, but anymore, whenever Ayla thought of lightning and thunder, she thought of her. That storm of singing blades, the dangerous crackle of blue, the sharp scent of ozone, and to the uninitiated, the raging cackling and reckless maneuvering of a woman gone mad. How the blue in her eyes went phosphorescent in the blazing light of her fulmination.
Ayla knew full well what it felt like to be near such power. It sent shivers through her every time she played her part, matching her steps to Natsumi’s in all their deadly dances in the middle of dazzling levin.
But she often wondered what it felt like to wield the power of a storm.
And in a way, with her blade and focus and those new neural pathways to shuttle aether through, the bard could finally glimpse what it’s like.
As the spells scorched their target, the training area became washed in blue.
And it reminded her of their new, shared goal.
A fire that warms, and never hurts.
That flame between their outstretched hands, radiating a constant blue glow.
Her aether and Natsumi’s, together burning so hot as to turn blue.
The bard smiled. She’d always had a fondness for blue, it turns out.
A barricade is kindling to a wyrm, all understand.
Yet the sight of them is comfort, the firm of them resolve, and a new camp is always christened by the chuck of the adze. Kowa remembers the myth of a fruit that is a color, the wood curled in dull rinds, and when the Bertha boys offer scraps she gathers them with a nod. It is something to do on the wagon, making dowels, until the almost-dead are cleared to pass. Tents lurch into the sky. A wave, and wheels crush the whittle-crumbs.
The chirurgeons never need long to establish domain. Slats are laid and scrubbed, frost scraped off, then the cots arranged on the makeshift floor. They sawed the river two suns ago to boil gauze, the cauldron water gray, and she drags in the laundry sack behind the boxes of blankets. The aggrieved follow. Two will die tonight, a rattle in their lungs; she will practice her letters on their vellum. Six slumber. The rest groan for a goddess who is not listening.
Kowa does not pick favorites. Kowa is a liar, and puts her stool by the middle bed. This knight sleeps well, swallows her tinctures without protest, and has stopped speaking to the Keeper in the absence of a response. Agreeable to wind bandage beside, rolls made as thick as the wood can handle. The expanse grows deep.
She comes aware of eyes halfway through her sack.
A glance: lucid for the moment, blonde damp with infection sweat, in want of kinder visions than an angel’s right hand. Her mouth is ignorant of smiles, but she returns the stare, and sets aside a bolt for the woman’s wounds alone.
[ companion prompt to this by @throughthemanorwindow ]
“Fucking stupid.. Can’t fucking believe her..” The sounds of Alaria’s stomping footsteps echoed down the halls of this new library. It wasn’t much of an environment to look at back in the bowels of this old warehouse unlike the front which had turned into a beautiful library and cafe space. Finally, she stood in front of the door to her room. “Fuck..”
The peachy Viera’s hands were shaky with rage which didn’t help as she fumbled to find the key to her little space. Finally again, she found the right key and forcefully unlocked the door to step inside. Slam! She shoved the door closed and locked the bolt before walking deeper into her room.
“Where’s my fucking flask!” The former pirate threw her bag onto her little tea table in a fit of fiery anger and then kicked over one of her chairs. She really couldn’t believe the audacity; couldn’t believe how fucking stupid the situation had been. Alaria kicked over another chair and then dumped the contents of her pouch out onto the table, Omen bounced off the wood and landed on the hard floor with a loud thunk. It probably wasn’t a good one for that to have happened, she thought.
But finally, which it had been a night for finallies, there was her prize: the ornate flask filled with a ship-made rum from her days asea. With shaky hands, the angry alcoholic twisted open the damned thing and chugged all the contents in one go. The burn hurt good in her throat and it was a welcome pain but the empty flask no longer helped her so she launched it at the nearest wall where it landed with a clang.
“Why do you fuck everything up! Huh?!” She shouted at herself as she kicked over her table now. Her eyes stung with tears that began to fill them. “Godsdamn it!”
Alaria grabbed Omen off the ground and went to that corner of her room; the one that had previously held the bloodstains from another accursed night in her life. All nights had become cursed though and the loneliness crushed the dreamer. As she held the dagger, she wondered what the Dark Knight who had bestowed this on her would think if she knew what this dagger had been mostly used for.
That blackened blade and blackened hilt filled the Viera with a warmth from its imbued aether. She knew the gift-giver in this would be sorely disappointed but Alaria was a disappointment. Always had been and as far as she was concerned, she always would be. She ran the blade, gently first, down her arm just enough to draw some blood and give the release she needed from her current misery.
“Yup.. You’re just a fucking disappointment again.. A fucking wreck.. Why the fuck are you leading this stupid company?” Each statement and question had its answer, another line across those pale wrists. Another scar and another pain. “Why the fuck couldn’t she tell me she loved me earlier..?”
“THUD! THUD! THUD!” An ominous trio of obnoxious sounds rattled out from beyond the ornate wooden doors of a premier quality lounge.
To a moustachioed Plainsfolk man, amber eyes turned to the lounge from across the limestone-paven Lominsan road, it conjured thoughts of a beast, a horror of olde trying to wrench its way up from the depths. “THUD! THUD! THUD!” To another, a grubby-faced Sea Wolf lad trundling a wooden hoop with a stick, it prompted a halt and ruminations of a mouldering prisoner seeking freedom - mere ilms away from the taste of fresh, salty sea air. “THUD! THUD! THUD!” To a bawdily grinning Miqo’te sailor grazing on a wedge of hardtack well… some things were better left unshared.
“THUD! THUD! THUD! - THUNK!” With one final, calamitous crash the doors part, swinging open to validate in part mustachio-enthusiast and urchin both, much to the frowning seawoman’s disappointment. The lounge - an elegant place of fine ales and imported sakes belching forth from its esteemed bowels a juxtaposingly inelegant pile of lank limbs, tangled blonde locks and concussed gaze. A disappointingly dull “THUD!” emanates from the pathway to where the rangy Veena-shaped projectile strikes.
“Ow, my e-everything…” the gangly waif groans - coughing free a mouthful of dirt. Unfolding limb after scrawny limb, unfolding herself upwards akin to a piece of scrumpled up parchment unfurling. Nursing the head she’d just used to ram her way through the doors with one crooked hand - the other, equally gnarled, equally bandaged crept its way towards the first sight to catch the attention of oversized, ink blue eyes.
“Y’okay miss?” the Roegadyn lad called out, crossing the road, sauntering his way up the pale stone stairs to the verdant front garden just in time to spot the slouching wretch of a woman turn her head, wild-eyed, teeth locked around the bloom of a white viola. Rather than relinquish her prize, the shabby dress-clad Veena clenched her jaw, taking a generous chunk out of the petals, grazing on it. Not okay, or perhaps just very hungry, the urchin considered.
In truth little less grubby than the concerned street rat now watching her, the shaggy-haired flower-munching escapee craned her head to the left quizzically. Then a little more, then back to the right again eyes unblinking as she considers in turn her onlooker. “H-How…?” the squeakily stuttered question tumbles from the lanky Viera’s lips, even as her head-craning threatens then follows through on a long, leporine ear limply lapsing to the side of her head. The hoop-clutching street rat frowned before querying in return, “How miss? How’d I what?” A knobbly index finger subsequently outstretched, gesturing to the paven road beyond, clarifying little.
The flora-loving woman’s lips flapped ineptly as she struggled to find the right word - the right syllable to begin on, hands racing through a fit of signed gesticulations that eventually manage to yield and chittered, “The r-road… how d-did you?” Even that clarification in truth, revealed little to the Sea Wolf street rat, though in an effort to try and help the tongue-tied Veena along he traipsed back to the other side of the street - then back again, prompting an anxious squeak and palpable gawking from the awkward waif. Crossing back again, met with applause, the urchin raised an index of his own inquiring with puzzlement, “Cross the road?” A sharp trio of nods were offered in answer.
“Well miss, ‘s just like life. You just do it. Put one foot in front of the other and before you know it, you’re there,” the hoop-carrying boy offered sagaciously, repeating his demonstration to further applause, finding himself considering the dishevelled Veena, offering up another question as he assessed her, “You don’t get out much miss, huh?” A sheepish chuckle in response, followed by a pause to sign further, then an admission, “N-No… it’s s-safe in there and my friends say I should s-stay inside.” The urchin shrugs, conceding, “Might be they’re right miss, but ‘s just a road.”
The rampantly inquisitive waif squatted down atop the top stair, then step by step clambered her way down overly cautiously - slithering her way across to the side of the road - digging bandaged fingers in to pry at the space between the verdant verge straddling the estate’s walls and the paven road, then offering a few prods to a paving stone in turn. “See miss? Just road. Anyone can cross it,” the urchin offers, doing just that again for the Veena’s benefit. Rising fulm by fulm back to her prodigiously lanky height, the nameless woman rocked anxiously by the side of the road, torn between the rampant want to test this thesis, to indulge her curiosity and the unspoken “what if”.
What if -she- wasn’t allowed to? What if she’d get in trouble? What if she was spotted? What if she got stuck on the other side and couldn’t make her way back? She’d been allowed out to linger in the garden on multiple occasions, but to venture beyond… Picking up on the dishevelled woman’s fraying nerves, quite palpable in her rampant jockeying in place, torn between flight and exploration - the lad with the hoop questions, baffled, “You’ve really never crossed a road miss?” Another few moments of signing follow, before the highly-strung blonde concedes, “N-No… or, I d-don’t remember? I’ve never g-gone further than h-here…” A few, limp efforts to push herself forward yield nought but failure
A puzzled, if not unkind smile blooms on the urchin’s mien, offering out a hand, “‘s okay miss. I can help you across - it’s not so scary. Once you know how to do it - you’ll be able to do it all on your own!” It was hard not to pity the scraggly mess of a woman terrified of crossing a road on her own. A bony, misshapen hand soon wafted near his own ineptly, its owner's eyes shut, face a veritable death mask of a grimace, a hand soon taken. Multiple rapid, shallow breaths accompany each footstep, each laborious, slow - each less steady, heavier, more a struggle than the last and yet… before long, it had happened. The Veena’s eyes only peeling open from behind her other hand’s fingers as the two come to a halt and her would-be assistant in crossing offers a gracious, “You did it miss, we’re across the road!”
Gawking at her surroundings, at the burly lad, at the road itself then back across at the lounge she’d left behind, the lanky blonde squeaks, “W-We did? I did? I…” A fit of rampant clapping, followed by a clumsy pirouette that the urchin has the sense to quickly extricate himself from the immediate vicinity of lest he be inadvertently struck. Pointing off a stubby finger to the hillsides beyond, brilliantly green - each abrim with colourful stalls, delightful limestone structures and roads, enough roads to leave a road enthusiast giddy - the urchin’s clears his throat, preparing to expand the waif’s world that much further, only to be cut off by a delighted cry in the distance, ebbing by the moment, “I d-did it! I crossed the r-road! I d-did it everyone!” A few patches of a tattered, crimson dress’ hem disappearing back into the lounge.
Blinking, baffled by the speed at which the waif had fled home and the seeming satisfaction with which she called out that success, the hoop-trundling lad shakes his head, chuckling then continues on his way - pushing along the hoop with the accompanying stick. Crossing a road… it was enough to make the strange, rabbit-eared woman happy and it’d earned him a story that’d raise a few eyebrows at the least, maybe a couple of gil or a meal if he picked the audience. Humming a sea shanty as he goes, the lad strolls his way back to the city proper - crossing roads after all, was hungry work.
Ever since those delicately manicured fingers pressed against her temple, transmitted information she would’ve never dreamed she’d even see, let alone know as fact in her lifetime, the bard tried communing with the crystal in earnest. No longer afraid of how it called to her, because of who called to her.
She always longed to hear her name in her mother’s voice.
The images which flashed through her mind that night under a blanket of stars were written down as accurately as she could. All other visions joined those that her elegant friend showed her in that vineyard mere days prior.
But now she sat quietly, cross-legged in the living room, where the rugs swayed like flowers in a field.
Occasionally, a dog joined her, sitting right in the ring made by her legs. Leaning a head on a broad shoulder and sticking a cold nose in the bard’s ear to make things extra difficult.
At first, the pictures in her mind were blurry. Not as clear as those that Kowa extracted from the crystal through such fantastical means, like powerful witches from the old tall tales. The voice she heard within the crystal, the one much like her own, was still fragmented.
And on one of the days she still wore her bard’s crystal while communing - accidentally - the voice became more than crystal clear. As if the soul within the crystal etched with the deeds of the red was finally reunited with the remnants left in the crystal of the war-bard.
The memories left behind were too intense to be felt in just one sitting, but with each session, the bard took notes. Those sweeping curls of ink told a story that none had heard before but the fabled Sharlene Fairlight-Thatcher - or rather, Charlotte Stone.
This was something wholly new to every Thatcher. And potentially to every Stone left behind.
Late at night by the light of a candle, the bard took those notes and attempted to piece together her mother’s story, keeping the details to only the facts. A taxing task for such a theatrical mind, but it was a duty that had to be done diligently. No flourishes.
As far as she could discern, the story began thusly…
Under cover of night, Charlotte Stone made her escape, with only the clothes on her back, a satchel with necessary supplies and papers, and a bow and quiver. She ran away. Away from the cold marble. The palatial estate which housed her for seventeen long years. Tears blurred her vision as she snuck aboard a Gleaner’s cargo ship, setting sail for distant shores. Away from the lonely little island. Away from the heartbreaking realizations.
But what were they? Why did seeing through her eyes make Ayla’s heart hurt so much?
The boat traversed the Northern Empty, and the journey was not easy. Midway through, she was found by furious men in green and hauled up to the decks to explain herself.
Mercilessly, she was released when they docked in Gyr Abania for a restock, and left to fend for herself.
For days, Charlotte crossed the deserts of Gyr Abania with no heading. No direction. A mere child, lost in the desert with no one to help her.
And when she stumbled upon a group in dark uniforms, gunblades drawn, she feared that this would be the end…
If not for the flurry of magic and courage from a band of duelists in red.
That had been all the bard managed to piece together in the first few days of communion with the crystals, but it painted a clearer picture in her mind. When her father told her that he knew nothing of her mother’s life before Gridania other than that she was originally from Old Sharlayan, she wondered why the woman would keep such vast swaths of her life unheard from even the man she loved.
There had to be more to it, she thought. This couldn’t be it. But even finding that much within the crystal was a trying endeavor; the bard had broken into a sweat at some point in the uncovering. She needed to take a break.
And while she sat for breakfast with the love of her life, she milled through the day’s letters.
There was one for her, addressed to Ayla Fairlight Thatcher with the fanciest handwriting she had ever seen in her life, with no markings of who it could be from…
Save for the image of a nautilus watermarked in the fibers.
It’s fine. It’s just an empty glass jar. Just a little bit of food. Not even food, really. Barely costs a noteworthy amount of gil. It’s just… a very disappointing breakfast.
“Khai, I hate your damn beetle.” Ambaghai slams the jar down onto the counter, quickly regretting the decision as sound makes him wince.
Khai pauses in the door of the bedroom he’d just emerged from, rubbing his eyes and clearly not yet fully awake, “Eh? What?”
Ambaghai makes a gesture at the empty jar, which - judging by Khai’s expression - clarifies absolutely nothing.
“He’s been staring at that thing and sulking for a solid five minutes at this point,” Dayir comments. He sits beside the fire pit, contentedly sipping on some milk tea as he arranges fresh biscuits on a large dish.
“What? I’m not sulking.” Amba objects, gaze fixed on the cat as she her nose into the jar curiously. He feels the urge to swipe it away from her, as though that will somehow restore what was lost, and instead crosses his arms against the impulse.
Khai looks questioningly at the jar, and then at Amba, “But what did Sparky do? She’s innocent!”
Amba uncrosses one arm to briefly gesture at the jar again before folding it back under the other. “She ate my jam!”
Khai looks at the jar again. “How do you know it was her? Look! Puffball likes it too!”
The cat raises her head from the jar momentarily when she hears her name, licks her snout, and then immediately returns to licking the interior of the jar.
Amba only frowns, “The floor - and the walls - are covered in sticky jam prints that were definitely not made by a cat.”
Khai looks to the ground and spots the prints in question, then looks up to Amba with a sheepish smile.
“Uh… you have more jam?”
Amba takes a long breath, and lets out a similarly long breath, accompanied by a low growl. He picks up the jar, staring down at it as he speaks. “This was apricot…”
Khai’s smile lingers a moment longer then drops as he realizes, his gaze sliding over to Dayir, who offers him a sympathetic smile and a single-shouldered shrug, a hint of amusement lighting his eyes.
Puffball meows loudly at Amba, indignant at having her snack taken away, and he looks at her, then sighs and relents, placing the jar back on the counter for her before he turns toward the fire pit to take a seat.
“It’s my favourite,” he grumbles quietly. Dayir slides a cup of milk tea in his direction, and he frowns at it for a moment before accepting it.
Khai takes this as a sign that his brother’s done sulking - mostly - and heads over to join the other two for breakfast.
“You owe me for putting up with that thing,” Amba says as he reaches over for one of the biscuits.
As Khai laughs, Amba finds himself wondering how long beetles live for.
A cold wind blew through those hard stone streets of Empyreum. Even these waning days of summer couldn’t bring enough warmth to this mountainous city above the Sea of Clouds and Alaria, the now peachy short-haired Viera, stood there with her arms crossed to retain some warmth. It had been a tumultuous moon of near death experiences and broken hearts, brand new scars and bad break-ups. It had been a moon where she could count the days sober on one hand.
Tonight would certainly be another night filled with drink for certain. The former pirate could almost not believe her emerald eyes and only unfolds her arms to bury her face into her hands. This damned Hingan noble really was out here doing laps around that little circle on the ground and skipping to prepare for this fight that she had scheduled against the much taller nothing of a Viera. It’s not that Alaria hadn’t prepared; she was dressed in her pirate shirt with the bandana covering her eye and Omen attached to her hip. It was certainly a costume that would work for the sands of Bokh but the peachy Viera hoped it would be intimidating.
“Are you ready to get your ass kicked?” Is Alaria’s challenge to the bratty noble, Chiho. Even that stupid woman’s outfit, the most stereotypical detective’s outfit complete with the brightly plumed detective’s cap, annoyed the equally ridiculously dressed Viera. The terrible lizard lady turns to face Alaria with that very punchable face and smug, superior attitude. This fight would feel good.
____
Alaria had pitied this pathetic bitch of a noble. She had something other than distaste for the damned Chiho and how was that repaid? With a sneak attack with some strange spell after Alaria had already defeated her. With arms crossed, the victorious Viera glared down at this Raen with a loathing saved only for a select few and herself.
“You will use my name properly and give me the respect I’ve earned. Or I will kill you.” So much had led to this moment but Miss Chiho Amada the Eleventh had earned this and more. Truthfully, it would be more satisfying to slice this bitch open and dump her body out into the Sea of Clouds. But, even for as angry as this damned detective had made the former pirate, she felt validated and good in this victory. It felt good to threaten and humiliate someone of status who would have tried to keep her down. “Now get to your feet and get to the infirmary.”
“Ishgard may be a closed-minded, backward city at times, but the opera is a place for those with talent to shine. Muscular or not, you would look gorgeous gracing the stage.”
yeah, okay. they never let me be a soloist, she’d told her, and her estimate of when the regretful text shows up is off by bells. of course they don’t want her, and she’s a stupid bitch for not snapping this idea in the elezen’s hopeful throat the second she voiced it. theater mirrors a city. ishgard’s soul is shit.
but so is radz-at-han’s, where they fucked her in character. only in character -
The Viera sat in her chair, her long legs lined in fishnets, amidst the sea of grievers. Rows upon rows of grievers sat in front and behind her and lines upon lines of grievers sat at her sides; each griever’s chair pointed to her own. Alaria had no eyes for them though; not for their long purple robes and shiny porcelain masks, each painted in the face of The Mistress, and their curled blonde wigs. They had eyes for her but the Viera faced forward to the front and gazed at the open casket, with purple flowers like octopus tentacles flowing out of it, with Her laying there peacefully. The Mistress laid there dead but full of all the color she had in her life unlike the pale masks with painted eyes that leered at Alaria.
Alaria rose to her feet and strode down the rows, chairs screeching as they turned to follow the Viera on her way forward but the grievers were still. Though the rows of chairs seemed infinite, she quickly found herself standing atop the platform and in front of the casket. The Mistress’ eyes lifelessly glared, a face she had often made when she was living, at the Viera. Alaria couldn’t believe the audacity this bitch had at being dead.
The Viera didn’t know when it had happened but she straddled the corpse, hands tightly strangling its cold neck. She was screaming words but didn’t recognize them. Her eyes were fire and her arms began ripping. First it was the purple robe. Alaria ripped and tore at it, letting its fabric fly away. Then it was the dead skin, stripped from the torso like pale ribbons. Then the Viera just plunged her hand right through the corpse’s chest, reaching for a heart or something she could rip out but Alaria found neither heart nor satisfaction in this; it wasn’t satisfying if she couldn’t do this to Her when She was alive.
There was no point in this. The Viera pushed herself off the body and back onto the platform. She gazed out into the Grievers, all of them faced forward to her but they sat there emotionless with their porcelain masks. She turned back to the body. The hair had turned green. The ears had grown. She only saw herself, stripped and ripped, laying dead in a coffin.
The empty hole in the chest squirmed. Alaria leaned in to see if organs had magically grown inside. Fingers reached out of it, pale white with no nail, probing their way out. The hand followed, impossibly smooth and white.Alaria took a step back as now an arm burst from the hole, reaching infinitely into the sky. She turned tail and ran into the endless sea of chairs as hundreds of arms ripped their way out of the corpse and into the sky.
The grievers flopped out of their chairs in front of the Viera forcing her to climb and run atop them. The endlessly long arms, like twisting and turning tendrils, spiraled toward her. There was nowhere for her to run; there were always more chairs, always more grievers to fall in front of her. But she couldn’t look back and pressed on and on and on.
More arms came now from in front of her. She tried to dodge one but two more had grabbed her own arms. They lifted her into the air and one from behind slammed its way through her chest. That hand was not empty. She saw her own heart resting inside its grip and the grip tightened, squeezing it into juice. All the tendril arms grabbed a limb and pulled the Viera apart as she screamed.
Alaria shot up from her bunk coughing into her hand. She gazed down at her chest, it was still intact. Her hand was wet though. Alaria saw blood. Damn. She pushed herself out of the bed, shaky on her feet, and made her way to the deck. The moon was a pure black void in its newness. Captain Gugo, his green hair completely a mess but his eyes awake, was already there looking up to the cloudless sky.
“Can’t sleep Alaria?” The Captain asked casually. He hadn’t really turned toward her; it had come quite common for the two to find each other on the deck late at night. When she didn’t answer he tilted his head toward her and his eyes went wide at the sight of blood on her hands. “The fuck?! Did you get stabbed?”
“No..” Long pale hands twisted their way out of the void from the black moon. Alaria closed her eyes and shook her head. She opened them to the normal new moon looming overhead. “I think it might be time for me to go back though.”
“Well, we can have you back home in a moon’s time. It’ll be sad to see you go though.” The two gazed at the sky. A porcelain face peered down at the Viera.
I have new stars that fly above me. They’re bright; the brightest is green like Gugo’s hair. They form no constellation but make a foundation. I sit in a tall tower, surrounded by lightning on the top floor. Nothing is keeping me inside but I like looking out into the distance. Way off is a visible island, the sea is no longer infinite and dark, over it I can see the old stars of my dreams. Odd that they sit over land now when they used to just rest over sea. Primary color is a deep blue, blue like the oceans.
The tall Viera, illuminated in a dull orange by candles, sighed deeply and closed her diary. She hadn't been keeping up with her dreams as she had wanted and knew she had forgotten some details; but dreams are temporary like these days spent in a city. Alaria took one last look around her makeshift tent; her tea kettle resting over a small fire, a couple empty chairs across from her, a small table with only an assortment of odds and ends resting atop, and a depressingly empty jar next to her that simply read ‘Tips’. It was a rough night outside the tent with rain falling in sheets and thus it was a bad night for customers. The woman stuffed her diary back in her bag and replaced it with a single night-blue teacup. She'd at least enjoy a sip of hot tea before making her way through the cold night for the ship.
Alaria had just lifted the hot kettle when a pair stumbled their way into the Viera's tent. She couldn't make out too many details of the two as they both had their own drenched cloaks wrapped tightly around their faces. Neither had a tail nor discernable ears. They were neither very small nor very tall. Neither seemed to acknowledge the Viera at the other side of the table, their wide eyes darting in every direction and to each other. Alaria couldn't tell if they were shivering from the cold or trembling in fear. She decided that it must be both.
"Welcome my dear new friends. Please have yourself a seat." The two jumped in surprise when Alaria spoke in her sagely, mysterious witch tone as they realized they weren't alone.
"You're both in luck as I was about to read my leaves. Come grab yourself a seat and share a cup of tea with me." The two were hesitant and just stared at the Viera with wide, fear-filled eyes but she got a better glimpse of their faces. They both had gray eyes and the same nose, clearly siblings, maybe twins. The Viera smiled at them while placing the kettle on the table. "Come now, it's very warm."
The promise of warmth loosened the two up and they tentatively stepped deeper into the tent, eyeing the flap they entered warily as they sat. Alaria rose to her feet and blew out all the candles except one and extinguished her little stove taking the fairly lit tent into a barely illuminated haven. She returned to her chair to see the pair more at ease with the lights dimmed.
The Viera returned to her chair and pulled out two more tea cups. She filled all three cups with hot water before opening a jar with loose tea leaves. She sprinkled a fair amount into each cup.
"Now while those are heating up, how about you tell me your names my new friends? Mine is Alaria, reader of the stars and teller of the moon." She spoke barely above a whisper with a sing-song seer voice. The two removed the cloaks from their head to reveal dirty but young faces, they both had to be a few years younger than Alaria. One sported some face around the face that barely passed for a beard and the other had a ring through their nostrils and long, red hair.
"I'm Erryl and this is my brother Philipe" said the one with the piercing with a soft voice. Philip looked upset at being introduced. Alaria paid him little mind and motioned at the cups.
"Erryl and Philipe, how wonderful for the stars to guide you to me tonight." She lowered her head slightly. "Now I want you two to think of a question that you need answered. Feel with all your being and concentrate on it as you drink your tea. And please don't drain your cup entirely, try to leave a thumbful."
Alaria studied the two from behind her own cup as they drank their tea. Philipe seemed relieved to just have something warm, but his eyes barely left his sibling and the tent flap. Erryl mouthed a silent prayer as they brought the drink to their lips and drank with their eyes tightly closed. The pair had some mud caked on their faces, probably from hiding. What clothes she could spot under their cloaks were barely better than rags. The two were also thin. She frowned that she didn't have any snacks to offer.
The Viera’s long green ear tilted toward the sound of boots splashing in the streets outside. She couldn’t make out how many pairs of boots were running out there nor the shouts being muffled by the rain and the tent. Erryl opened their eyes and Philipe tried to crouch lower into his chair at the sound outside but thankfully the boots seemed to run right past Alaria’s little tent.
"That should be enough tea for now." Alaria said to the pair as she pulled a couple spoons from her bag. The two turned their attention back to the Viera just as she had hoped and she handed them both a spoon. "Now swirl those leaves in your cups. And remember to concentrate. We want to make sure you get an answer."
Philipe half-heartedly turned his spoon in the cup, paying much more attention to the outside of the tent. Erryl had returned their full attention to theirs and swirled and swirled, the spoon occasionally clinking the edge of the glass. Alaria watched them but began putting a few items in her bag. Normally there would be some expected theatrics as she tried to cultivate a mode, but tonight was not the night for it. Instead she spent a minute gathering whatever was in reach until finally telling them "Stop. That should be good."
Alaria rose to her feet and leaned in behind Erryl, placing a hand on their shoulder for comfort, to gaze into the cup. They watched as the leaves settled into place; Philipe's leg began to twitch. The leaves danced and danced as Philipe’s leg bounced faster and faster and the rain dropped harder and harder. But as the leaves finally settled into their place, Alaria gave a big “hmmm” and squeezed Erryl’s shoulder.
“Ahh a wing.” She said tracing the outline of a wing with her fingers. Erryl leaned in more closely and even Philipe calmed down to watch.
“What does the wing mean?” Erryl asked softly.
“It means you need to find your freedom. You are caged; held down by some oppressor.” Alaria says barely above a whisper. Both siblings’ eyes dart first to each other and then the Viera.“You may be crushed from a danger unless you find your own wings and fly to your own freedom.”
“The Hikari Family wants to kill my brother!” Erryl blurted at the Viera; her voice cracking with a plea.
“Quiet Erryl! We can’t trust anyone!” Philipe interjected, his voice strained.
“You heard her though! We need to run!”
“What do you think we’re doing?!”
“Please! You have to help us. We have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Please!” Alaria saw tears forming in Erryl’s eyes. Their brother looked absolutely exasperated. She pulled Erryl in for a quick hug.
“My dear new friend, you were guided into my tent tonight.” Alaria gave her most reassuring smile to both of them. The pair shared an uncertain look with each other as the Viera grabbed her bag. "I have a ship docked right now and we go back a-sea in two nights time. You can hide there and then we can get you out of the city."
“And you’d help us just like that?! Erryl! We can’t trust this woman! There’s no reason for her aid us, no reason for her to not sell us for some gil!” Philipe pleaded with his sibling. Meanwhile, Alaria had already begun stuffing her bag with some of her things.
“Philipe. If she were to turn us in, she would have already. She’s done nothing but kindness for us.” Erryl reasoned.
“Listen to your sibling Phil. I can tell that neither of you are armed so you’ll want to stick close.” The Viera had made it to the flap of her tent and opened it. “Come on then. Let’s open your wings and fly out of this city, hm?”
With a resigned sigh, Philipe relented to following their new guide out of the city. Alaria prayed her tent wouldn’t be moved by morning so she could collect it; she had grown rather fond of its ugly purple cloth. It was a long and harsh trek with bitingly cold winds and sharp downpour of icy rain as the three wove their way through backstreets and alleyways. The Viera kept an open ear and cautious eye to avoid any armed looking guard on their hike. Unfortunately for the trio, the cold rain made for empty cobblestone streets which meant no hiding in crowds. Fortunately though, the weather made the street lanterns nearly ineffective; their orange glows dimmed or dead in the winds.
No crowds meant slower movement as to not be seen. They had to have been sneaking their way for at least a bell in this miserable weather before finally spotting the docks across a bridge. Alaria ducked behind a box as the other two hid behind some barrels; one guard stood stoically in the middle of the bridge with his back toward the group. They could try and find another way across and into the docks but Erryl and Philipe were waning with each step. It was clear to Alaria that they were exhausted and needed rest.
There was only one clear solution Alaria sighed. She motioned for the others to stay down as she stood straight up. A small line of purple aether began to swirl around the Viera’s right wrist. She summoned all her anger toward those who would oppress and the line of aether became a pool encompassing her wrist. She invoked all the loathing she had for herself and the pool of aether swallowed her entire arm. She called forth the malice toward Her and the aether shot from her arm. Alaria glared at this man as her violet aether shocked through his body. He crumpled there and the Viera strolled toward his body. Maybe he was still alive but it didn’t matter to her as she rolled his limp form into the black waters below. She beckoned the siblings and they continued along.
Finally they had made it. Only Boone stood guard but his was a giant with an axe; only the foolhardy would dare tempt him. He grunted as the trio made their way aboard.
The endless night sky of stars beamed over the lone woman writing away on the balcony of the ship. The full moon in the cloudless sky cast its bright light on the dark ocean and gallery; Alaria didn’t need the lantern burning dimly next to her. It was one of those peaceful nights; the only sounds were the ambience of the ship that she had gotten used to over the first moon and her pen scratching away at paper.
I’m sorry for running off. I hope we can meet again when I return.
“Ship hoy! Get the captain!” Shouts from the deck pierced through the peaceful ambience and Alaria sighed. She crumpled her paper and buried it into a stack of other incomplete letters piled in her bag. It only took a few ticks for the sounds of more shouts and hurrying feet took over the ship. Alaria added her own to the mix and hurried her way to the deck to see what all this commotion was about. The lalafell Captain Gugo scurried up beside the significantly taller viera Alaria. The captain tried to sort his sleep disheveled green hair to no effect; it stood in a tall cowlick. The first mate Boone was still shouting “Ship hoy!” while pointing his long arm in the distance as the pair made it to deck.
A lone ship, almost identical to the one Alaria was aboard, sat perfectly still in the distance as if it was enjoying a nice slumber in this peaceful night. The viera instinctively looked up to the sky to find four bright green stars lined up like an arrow aiming at the distant ship. The captain stuffed his hat atop his cowlicked head and made way to his boat’s edge; the viera followed close.
“We should board it.” Alaria spoke up. Captain looked up at her before turning his gaze back to the lone ship. “I’m telling you, the stars haven’t led me astray yet.”
“Of course we’re gonna board it. Who knows what loot we could find in those fat holds.” The lala scoffed. It was always the potential for him but why else would anyone ascribe to this life. Realizing that the tall Viera was probably judging him, he quickly added. “And maybe we’ll find some survivors to save too.”
The ship in the distance only responded with silence. There were no lights shining anywhere within or upon it. It just sat there silently and that seemed answer enough.
Alaria gazed into the water as the boarding boat drew closer and closer toward the lone ship. It was clear, just like the sky, save for some dots toward the bottom of the sea. She thought they looked like eyes peering up to the would-be intruders and shuddered as they seemed that maybe they were slowly rising to the surface. But then the rowers stopped as they clunked into the lone ship and she had no time to think of those dots deep below as the boarding party climbed a letter to the deck.
The climb felt long and quiet save only for the heavy breathing of Boone as he tired and sound of boots slapping wood. Alaria was only behind the Captain on the ladder and they both reached deck one after the other. There were no signs of life anywhere above; no crates nor barrels casually sitting around, no bodies or people or sounds. There was only a layer of dust caked on every surface; dust that had time to gather and rest.
“I don’t like the look of this.” Boomed Boone as he made his way up the ladder. The Captain shushed him and motioned with his hand that maybe everyone should speak more quietly. Boone apologized softly but Alaria agreed with him. She didn’t like the look of this at all.
Gugo knelt down to place his ear on the deck floor which seemed odd but maybe his short stature could hear something better than she. Alaria crouched down to a knee and her ear turned ground-ward. There was sound from down there; it sounded like screams muffled through the boards and nails scratching on planks.
“I’ll check the Captain’s quarters..” The crew’s captain quietly said. “Boone, Gibbs, and Sharkey check the hold. Alaria..”
But she was already headed toward the door to go below. He knew that he couldn’t really give the Viera orders; Alaria always followed her own intuition. As she put her hand on the door, the three other crew got close behind, and they all listened. Screams, muffled screams, just on the other side. Boone handed Alaria a lantern as she opened the door and took a tentative step into a hall.
“Hello?” She quietly called out into an empty hold. The screams were gone; replaced with an oppressive silence. She didn’t know if she would feel better if someone responded to her call or if they had found a source to the screams. Boone and company stepped around her, quietly conversing to themselves about how they wanted off this ship as fast as possible. She couldn’t blame them.
She cautiously stepped her way deeper and deeper into this hall. Every so often she thought she had heard the screams again behind a door but every door she opened only led to an empty room. It was as if the screams only existed in the wood itself. Her lantern illuminated layers and layers of dust caked upon railings, tables and cannons. No life, no people to be found. The Viera was ready to leave this ship more and more as she took steps.
Then, she found a particular door with gold floral engravings running up the edges. The screams from this door were the loudest yet. Alaria gulped and slowly pushed it open to a silent bedroom. Her feet brought her in and her eyes and hands drew themselves to a bag laying atop the bed. There were letters inside, lots and lots of letters. She pulled one out and unfolded it.
I ran and I’m sorry for that. But how could I face you if I can’t face myself? I hope you understand. And I hope that one day we can talk again.
Alaria pulled out another.
One day we’ll meet again and we’ll have some muffins and we can catch up. I’ve seen a lot since I’ve stowed away on this boat..
Letter after letter, Alaria skimmed through them all as she pulled them out of the bag. Finally there were no more and all that was left was a small box for a deck of cards. It was long and the design on the back was a gold rose on a purple background and inside revealed an entire deck. She fingered a card from the middle of the deck to reveal what looked to be water falling into an urn but she found some words atop the card that were upside down. She turned it over and now the water spilled and the card read The Ewer.
A scream pierced the uneasy silence followed by more yelling from below.
“Off the ship! We gotta go!” Was being yelled from down the hall and the staccato of running boots got closer and closer. Alaria closed the deck up and turned quickly toward the door. She gasped.
A dark gray hand on a formless body reached toward her. It had no eyes and fingers longer than any dagger. It also had a mouth, wide open and it screeched at the girl. The Viera dove under the specter and rolled into the hallway for a sturdy hand grab her back the scruff of her jacket and pull her up. Thankfully it was Boone with Sharkey close behind. There was no Gibbs.
The trio sprinted through the hall as more and more specters manifested through the walls. Captain Gugo was already at the ladder motioning frantically to his crew. They sprinted, Boone breathed heavy, but hesitated as they looked down at their small row boat. The water around had turned a pale green but Boone practically shoved everyone off the deck down into rowboat because they had to go.
Boone and Sharkey started rowing as hard as their muscled arms could and Alaria studied the water. Hundreds of pale green faces studied her from just beneath the surface. Their eyes were pure white and their mouths were wide. Thankfully the rowing duo were deft at their task and even more thankfully the faces did not follow them as they neared their own ship.
As soon as her feet touched down in Lakeland, she was overwhelmed. Many hours had been spent following the path and keeping her eyes peeled. Halott had heard the horror stories from people on the airship. Of monsters that could turn you into one of them. Some hideous, unnatural herald of light. They didn’t have those in Tomra… and all she had on her person was her dwarven garb, some simple provisions, and the pickaxe on her belt.
It was imperative, then, that she found her way to some sort of civilization.
After scanning the sky, her golden eye spots spotted a crystalline spire looming high above her.
“That’s where I need to go,” she said to herself. She straightened her beard and steeled her nerves, jogging in the direction of the spire.
The path finally wound up to the gates of the town, and as she approached, the people standing guard outside gasped and drew their weapons.
Halott stopped abruptly, holding her hands up in the air, “No! Wait, wait, wait! Stop!”
“NO! DUCK, DWARF!”
A screech echoed from overhead. Large, stark-white wings cut the air as claws dove down.
Right at her.
Halott threw herself to the ground, talons narrowly missing her flesh as they sparked and scored against the metal of her dwarven helmet. The beast changed course, lifting itself into the air to strike out at the guards who seemed well versed in attacks against these insatiable monsters.
“RUN TO THE CRYSTARIUM!” a viis guard shouted, “YOU’LL BE SAFE THERE!”
Her horned helmet shook in panic, and Halott watched in terror from her position on the ground as the beast continued its assault. With a gloved hand, she grasped at a large rock beside her and threw it as hard as she could at the wicked white monstrosity. It landed against the side of its head with a loud crack! A roar of pain and agony ripped from its throat, giving the guards an opening just long enough for a sword slash from the viis and shield bash from the galdjent.
The winged creature fluttered backward, dazed by the shield to the face. Halott spotted the opening and quickly pulled her pickaxe from her belt. Strong muscles honed from hauling ore day in and day out helped her vault forward from the ground. With a strangled yell, the pickaxe buried itself into the creature’s back. One strong yank sent the beast to the ground, gargling viscous white lifeblood which only increased in volume when a guardsman’s sword sliced clean through the monster’s neck. Its body sat lifelessly on the path, a threat no longer.
Halott withdrew her pickaxe from the flesh of the monster, looking at the sickly blood with as much disgust as the bright yellow eyes of her helmet allowed her to convey.
“Hey!” The viis guard shouted, to get her attention. As her head lifted in recognition, he snorted a bit in amusement, “You didn’t listen to me!”
“I didn’t,” Halott said, blinking cluelessly, “I wasn’t just going to leave you to fight it on your own.”
The guard frowned deeply, “…You did that with a pickaxe! You’re just a kid– I… I think, anyway. A-…And you could’ve gotten yourself hurt!”
“But I didn’t.”
The guard groaned in frustration, “Y’know what– wait. Hang on.” He leaned in a moment to examine Halott, “…You’re not a dwarf.”
“I’m just really tall.”
His ears drooped as he sighed, “…C’mon, kid. Follow me and we’ll get you where you need to go. I’m Albus. Baldwin, you stay out here for now.”
“Aye, sir,” the larger man replied.
Halott warily followed Albus, stopping abruptly when he suddenly stopped in front of her and whirled around to face her.
“Wait,” he said, “You do know where you’re going, right?”
Halott thought for a moment, before shaking her head, “No.”
Albus’s shoulders slumped in defeat, “…Okay, Baldwin, I’m going to be gone for longer than I thought. I’ll send Patrice out to help you.”
Moments after, Halott found herself in a brand new place, walking through the Tessellation with people just as tall as her, or even taller. Bright golden helmet eyes gazed at their surroundings, taking in everything.
It was enough to make her head hurt, watching the crowds bustle around the Rotunda and seeing those unfamiliar black feathered creatures resting in the Rookery, beaks clacking happily. Carefully navigating those winding stairs and endless platforms. The wordless trip ended just outside of the Pendants, where Albus told her to wait for a moment. He came back quickly.
“Okay Dwarf Kid,” Albus said, stepping outside of the Pendants to gather her, “I’ve got you all set up with a room. I’ve paid for a few days, and tomorrow I’ll get you set up with a job. You like mining, right?”
Halott blinked at the viis man, “Yes. I mean, I know how to mine.” Her helmeted head tilted, “You paid for my room? Why would you do that? You don’t know me.”
“Well, yeah, of course I did. I can’t just leave a kid out here in the elements,” Albus said, in a weary tone of voice, “You have just a few days on my tab to get you started. Enough time for you to get established as a miner here. And hey, if you ever want to learn how to swing a real axe, drop by the militia headquarters sometime. It’s down in the Exedra if you’re interested.”
Halott fell quiet for a moment, before giving the man a soft, shy, “Thank you. …I think maybe I will.”
Albus smiled at her sudden change in demeanor, before gently patting the top of her dwarven helm, “You don’t have to decide right away. But let’s meet here tomorrow at daybreak and get you introduced to some miners here. Sound good?”
She nodded, the beard of her helmet wiggling comically with each movement.
The guard said his farewells, leaving Halott to explore her new room alone.
A room her size.
With a bed her size.
For no one else. It was all hers.
She looked around to make absolutely sure she was alone… before she took her helmet off…
"You seem especially agreeable tonight. Are you simply worn out from the work today or are my charms finally beginning to work?”
“I don’t know… do I have to know?”
“...no. You don’t.”
To this day, she wouldn’t be able to explain to anyone why it changed.
It surprised her as much as it surprised Evilie; the first time she crawled to her. You know, the first time they fucked, Xiaohu faked a smoking habit just to get away from her— just stop touching me— “I get touched a lot”— why does she want to touch me— and lit up a couple crushed, stale, cigarillos. She wasn’t thinking about her either: the woman all-but-screaming, love me, look at me, touch me. Not really. Not with any real pleasantness. It was a lot of why did I fuck her? and how the fuck did she survive this long? sprinkled amidst her wandering mind as they talked.
She was thinking about how the guy that got her these smokes might have been fun too if she didn’t spend that whole night philosophising with him (but she didn’t want to reward the jealous negging that night). And thinking about ‘work’, that she was fucking upset that they didn’t listen and now Silvestre was out there, cold and hurt, while she was… doing this. Pushing down how fucking angry she was about doing this, that another person was puppying after her again because they just wanted to spill onto her.
But she didn’t cry that time, so Evilie had that going for her.
Which was something because there wasn’t a lot there, at the time. It was a weird sort of dance they played at, for a while. They weren’t really having a good time together, she remembers that. She thought Evilie was desperate, embarrassing. And Evilie thought she was fucking cruel.
Both are true, by the way.
But they kept revolving back, they kept up the “I’ve never felt this with anyone but you”s when she wasn’t yelling, and Evilie wasn’t crying. It was fucked up - nothing more, or nothing less. Just because they’re more than fantastic now doesn’t mean it suddenly wasn’t fucked up. It was really fucked up.
She’d call it the patience of it all, but it wasn’t really patience. It was just the mundane sort of insanity that no one really talks about because everyone else is dealing with much more life-threatening shit. And it’s impolite to stick your nose in someone’s relationship affairs or some shit.
There’s really no way to explain it.
There was a sun in which she veered off the course.
When what felt right wasn’t the same thing that it had always been.
The first time she crawled into her lover’s arms, her M.O. changed.
Things went from why am I doing this; what do you want from me? to a different chant. It started sounding like, love me; look at me; touch me, in this sort of sing-song that even felt like it came from a different place. Like that changed too— like she reached a higher place than she did before. It wasn’t aching there in her gut anymore, behind her stomach and branching through the thickened bloodline there: this fang-bared I want you because I want to see you weak for me. It went up, up, up, to her chest. That bloom at her sternum that liked to squeeze around the base of her throat until she could fucking choke on how much she feels that: I want you because you’re a fucking marvel.
And it felt good, really fucking good. It wasn’t too much like it had been before, it wasn’t something she had to regulate and ration. She didn’t feel bad about herself, she wasn’t scared of what Evilie wanted from her. It was the sort of space she could float through forever— how much she wanted Evilie to fucking hold her, and how much she knew this woman felt the exact same way.
