Late in the evening, Petya found herself browsing stalls mindlessly. Squirreled away in a small alcove between buildings sat a peddler with naught but a blanket and assortment of goods. The peddler was hooded and masked; his exposed hands wrinkled, scarred, and rough like that from a life of hard labor.
Such is what she gathered from a quick glance and soon did her gaze drift as she considered the peddler just another merchant of the market. Her ears, however, lingered.
"Treasures of fallen and forgotten nations for a fair price," tempted the gravelly-voiced peddler.
Surely not, thought the hedge-wizard.
And yet, she hadn't made it five steps before she begrudgingly turned on her heels and crouched in front of the peddler's tattered rug.
"I don't imagine you've any treasures from Dalmasca? The rumors do say that the nation is naught but rubble." The hedge-wizard spoke somewhat smugly and made no effort to hide her foreign accent.
"Ah, so they say...But that I do, miss. Rabanastran, I presume," he paused to reach into the sleeve of his cloak, procuring what looked to be a stone rounded and smoothed by a river at first glance. Atop was carved a series of runes; one of them being identical to the one marking her cheek which caused her to bristle visibly. This is exactly how I remember one of the waygate stones to the Vault looking!
Before she had a chance to voice a question, the peddler chimed first as he gestured his free hand towards the hedge-wizard before bringing it inwardly to help cradle the rune-stone.
"I think it calls to you. That which being where this stone leads to, that is."
Petya opened her mouth to speak, but the peddler raised a finger to his lips, a gesture to press for silence. The hedge-wizard's brows furrowed so severely that one might believe they would overtake her eyes. The peddler reached over to grasp the hedge-wizard's wrist and firmly plant it within her palm, to which she reflexively tries to pull away and sputters in response.
"I'm not- I don't wish to-"
"Free of charge, for it is a mere imitation of the real thing."
The peddler was right. The stone was considerably lighter than it ought to be and crumbling paint started to reveal the friable fake's true plaster from beneath the cracks. Just as the hedge-wizard looked up from the rune-stone imitation, the peddler and his wares were gone. Such caused a worn and heavy sigh from the hedge-wizard. Were it not for the fake in her grasp and the familiar mischievous tone of the peddler, she might have thought she was going mad.
"You never were one for subtlety, were you, Lyorkan?"
It took about four languid blinks to realize the sight before Petya was a close view of the floor and another three to begin hearing their spitting and hissing of foul words. Oddly enough, though she heard them, it seemed she could not process in the moment and so the crowd parted to leave the fledgling mage alone in the academy's courtyard.
She sat up, staring down into her lap and pleading for some miracle of strength or tactics.
The answer?
Blood running from her nostrils and onto her trembling hands.
Desperate and impatient as the fledgling mage was, she kept with her extensive, personal studies rather than socializing with peers. There would be no miracles, despite what relatives praised her for.
You are the youngest Bhaldurra in recorded history to complete the First Rite of an heir! - Because she was rushed to do so.
There are no words to likely convince the hedge-wizard now of any possession of skill beyond that of an intermediary level. To be called or recognized as a master of her craft, in her eyes, would be the end. No more progress; nowhere left to explore. So terribly yearned for and yet a state feared.
So, the hedge-wizard continues to dabble where she knows she will fumble and fail.
It's a long and winding road, but at least it's a promised journey the wayfarer yearns to never end.
Be not blissfully ignorant enough to fight the river's flow, however, for you'll then know naught of the ocean, hedge-wizard.
Arcanima, as it was taught in the Limsan school of thought to Petya, was cold, calculating, and not to be deviated from.
Complexities do not bring potency, but rather complications in most cases. Techniques of the Bhaldurra are a bit more fluid in the combination of sigils and runes into logograms, but a slight variation from the storied symbols themselves, rather than the combinations of said symbols, could drastically affect potency.
As an impressionable student, Petya practiced down to the minute details of arcane geometries and runes. There was no fear of failure from mistakes in the construction of spells as they worked exactly as expected. But expectation oft leads to predictability. Scant was the hedge-wizard's repertoire when she worked this way.
An encounter with a far more wild mage but moons ago saw perhaps the greatest turning point in her academic career. Crushed in utter defeat, advice given to the sorely beaten hedge-wizard was to begin thinking outside of the box in her spellcraft. To dare to deviate where warned not to; offering an open mind to instinctual theories.
Such is where the grand speculation began. An addiction growing to craft not only new spells but to create a new school of the arcane or rediscover a lost art.
Though the path is riddled with uncertainty, the hedge-wizard firmly prefers that to her previous, mindless studying.
You are to embody magicks in body and soul, to not only be a wild conduit but your own source. You are the balance of order and chaos just as the polarities of Astral and Umbral. You are magick.
Share that which you know, but know secrets kept are not an act of disloyalty.
With ties stronger than blood in the pursuit of knowledge.
And knowledge is power.
This is what it means to be the Heart of the Bhaldurra. Will you uphold an oath you cannot remember? Will the weight of vows you now understand crush you?
"You must be blessed to still be standing, being where you are now."
Such words never sat quite well with the hedge-wizard who considered herself forsaken by any divine or benevolent force. Any pleas she made were unanswered. Any brief respite is often snatched away. Even so, she could not deny multiple times in which survival has come in the form of a miracle or sheer luck.
In one such case, some good eight or so summers ago did the Dalmascan mage and a handful of close companions set out to make their grand escape. Tensions were high but hope sung higher in their hearts.
The sea venture's start had been relatively peaceful besides her steady development of sea legs. Leaving Valnain's port had been a smoother process than the hedge-wizard expected and the Valnard Sea did not yet seem to live up to its infamous reputation. There were chores and work to be done, of course, but for once in her life: Petya tasted freedom. It was a giddy feeling; butterflies stirring in the heart until the sharp sense of dread crashed into her as the waves rocked the ship to and fro. But where to go once we've docked?
Set to scrub drying brine from the deck, Petya could not resist keeping her eyes locked on the horizon where Valnain's port became farther and farther out of reach. A pang rang in her heart as a temple's bell but it quickly faded as she thought, I will return to you one day.
Despite some of the laborious chores, one passenger started whistling and humming Dalmascan folk tunes while others joined in. Night's cloak swiftly cast along the sky, leaving the only light to be from that of a scant few lanterns, stars, and the increasingly distant port city. Soon all were called to gather on deck, the captain sitting on a chair with a partially eaten dinner plate already as she held a hand up to quiet the growing crowd. The captain handed off her plate to one of the crew, placing her hands, clasped, in her lap as she smiled warmly.
"Tonight's dinner is food for thought, wayward souls."
The captain, she was a severe woman with a gaze that could paralyze despite not being of a much intimidating stature. Her smile waned, the lines on her face creasing further as that cold gaze sharpened. She stood to walk about her chair and grasp the back of it while she leaned forward and raised her voice.
"You who thought you could fool the system are sorely mistaken. We'll be returning to port where your sentences will be fairly distributed. If you'd like to try swimming the rest of the way, good luck. Otherwise, enjoy the completion of this venture."
The hedge-wizard's heart lept into her heart and then sunk as she paled. One of the passengers hopped into the waters below, to which all the others ran to peer over the edge of the ship. His head never bobbed up back above the water, but a few ripples and bubbles where he was submerged remain for a fleeting moment as waves washed away those remnants away.
"Ah," the captain mused, "I did forget to mention, the pull to the cataract is still yet strong. Even this far out."
Once finishing her piece, the captain turned to the crew to bark orders and have the ship return to Valnain.
With a drumming heartbeat, the hedge-wizard weighed her options and all slowed. A silent prayer for a miracle, she vaulted herself overboard.
[Valnain, Dalmasca Inferior of the Diocese. ~10 Summers Ago]
"You resemble your father."
Words that were said with disdain rather than admiration she received from other relatives. Though the Centurion scarcely removed his helm, Petya could feel that bitter glare through its metal.
"Too much," he gave his delayed words before staring forward and continuing that march forward.
When the hedge-wizard offered no words, the Centurion continued his harsh words spoken with a practiced apathy.
"He didn't have the decency to only drag himself into trouble. He had to tear all those around with him. I hope it goes without saying that I advise you not to repeat his missteps."
The young hedge-wizard then returned her own vitriolic scowl, spitting out in retort, "I think it's in poor taste to speak of him like this so soon after you..." Her words trailed off into a huff, akin to if the wind had been knocked out of her. Her temper waned into mourning sorrow.
The Centurion paused to regard the young hedge-wizard again fully.
"Learn from the mistakes of those who walked and fell before. There have been enough losses in vain."
For a moment, the Centurion stood there still and all that broke the pregnant silence was the sea's breeze stirring the near palms. They stared until the Centurion was the first to turn on his heels and depart with the young hedge-wizard left in the courtyard, alone and staring daggers into the back of his helmet.
[The Royal City of Rabanastre, Dalmasca Superior. ~ 16 Summers Ago]
A few sun rays peeking through the stacks illuminated the dust as it was settling after being disturbed. The fledgling mage coughed lightly as she was sprawled on the ground, staring up at the towering stacks she tried to scale back down from moments prior with a few tomes under each arm.
The pain subsided soon enough, and though there was no one around to see it, the fledgling mage's cheeks burned brightly and tears welled. Not only had she fallen, but it was a cruel reminder of her inability to carefully pluck a book from a high shelf by way of manipulating aether.
Thoroughly understanding the concept, but setting out to do it was an entirely different obstacle. She imagined that books might help her come to understand, but many of the texts had a poetic flair of describing magicks which were difficult for the fledgling mage to understand.
"Align the threads of aether unto that of the loom betwixt the intangible and tangible and sew. If there is difficulty, find another approach. Every mage has their own understanding of the Weave, and none should be considered lesser than the other." - Mjrlin of Rabanastre, Aetherical Flow Explained For Younglings
Increasingly frustrated with her lack of understanding of the phrases and how to utilize the tome's advice, she grabbed another of the tomes that had fallen with her. A bell passed with her sitting slumped against one stack as she pushed herself to continue reading from the various texts she'd retrieve by hand and without ladder from the stacks. Her stinging vision blurred and the nagging of her stomach soon caused her to relent in her studying efforts.
A phantom feeling of the untangible; a yearning grasp for the aether's weave slipped through the fingers like sand. At what point did the thirst for power begin? And at what point had it outweighed the warnings?
Though the goal of her countrymen's freedom still perched itself within the hedge-wizard's mind, it had far retreated to the recesses. To not only fit into the mould of the famed Dalmascan War Mages, but to surpass them. The lust to weave spells oft left untouched due to the consequences or difficulty and their resulting devastation was not out of shallow pride, however.
In the presence of temptation, the hedge-wizard knows not if she will be able to resist, not just out of curiosity but to quell her fears of ineptitude. Countless hours spent in practice and study, sweat beading above her brow to keep at where others had progressed before.
And yet, failure kept close to the hedge-wizard and nourished bitter envy for the victors. Malice often needed to be swallowed down when mocked by victors; taunted that her spells or aetherial constructs didn't even cause a graze or bruise.
That tucked and hidden part of her heart wanted to be feared, to be capable of crafting catastrophic destruction even if it was only to be held over the heads of foes. It felt wrong, very wrong, and yet there was an intoxicating excitement to the very thought.
Righteous or wicked, I'll not rest. As long as it's used to smite those evil and wrong, this should be alright. Shouldn't it?
Continue upon this deviation and you will burn, wayward arcanist.
Rehearsed joy and cheer filled the promenade and square below the balcony. It had not been long since Petya was plucked and placed within this household and their expectations of her were already extensive. The Junitus, a proud enough Garlean family that had not climbed the ranks of the military, but instead stuck to the duties of public servants and the like.
"We write laws and enforce them in such a way for the good of the people, Petya. It is not about conquered and conquering, but rather peaceful assimilation. When you train a hound to heel while on a leash, it is for its safety."
But we're not mutts or animals, thought the fledgling mage. As bold as her thoughts and retorts could be, the child never dared to voice them. She kept hearing conquered, annexed, assimilation, and the like without a clue as to what they meant. Of course, she thought she knew what it meant. It was the Bangaa forced to work to exhaustion, the exile of Rabanastrans from their homes in the North End, it was the soldiers patrolling and keeping curfews, it was --
"Are you listening, Petya?"
The fledgling mage widened her eyes, trying to speak but instead sputtered out nothings so she answers with a nod of her head. That woman, Minerva, her mother only by law, placed a hand upon the young girl's shoulder as she sighs softly and gestures to the crowds which gathered to watch the imperial cavalcade through the Palace Square.
"I'll not repeat this a third time, so listen and observe," Minerva then paused to clear her throat before continuing.
"I'm hoping to raise you as one who shall become an inspiration for all annexed citizens. To remind them of the positions they can yet acquire; to foster hope in them. Even if it be through envy."
The peacock brings her hand to her mouth, stifling a soft chuckle with attentions elsewhere as the fledgling mage squirms. How can I do that? The fledgling mage was a free citizen of the lowest rank, but only due to nepotism and the weight of her family's name, Bhaldurra. A weight that became binding and crushing as their reputation soured over the many summers of Dalmasca's occupation. To have one member of the staunchly rebellious Bhaldurra be fostered by Garleans, to take their name, to be placed upon a pedestal made fellow patriots wonder if the family had become turncoats to the cause.
The fledgling mage was not aware of what word to use to describe it, but the peacock woman certainly said many honeyed words but didn't mean them. She felt used, a pawn, and wondered when she might be tossed away; whether that be a quicker outcome through obeying or rebelling.
"Return their smiles, Pet. Show them the position in which to strive for."
There were no smiles to return from what Petya saw, nor even envy. To those who looked at her, it was of pity, disdain, or apathy. A people worn. A people broken. Others watched the imperial cavalcade with a quiet fear, for they knew just how the machina would be used to deal with uprisings.
And yet, the fledgling mage spied a flame yet kindled among few scattered about the spectators who yet seemed willing to fight another day. It was an inspiration. However, for herself, that hope not just for the kingdom, but for freedom still blossomed in the hearts of her compatriots. The battle was not lost yet.
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#FFxivWrite2021 is underway – a daily writing challenge presented to the Final Fantasy XIV writing community for the month of September. You can join any time throughout the challenge with any prompt number!
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Rules & Info || Prompt List || #FFxivWrite2021Â || kofi
The vessel changes shape to meet its needs. Call it evolution.
But those who completely lose their mortal form are no better than monsters…
How will you fare?
Will you keep your mortal form until the end?
"Let not the truth halt your course, but instead alter it. You yet have many summers ahead of you; who is to say the answers you seek will evade you forever?" - Nabhanay Prabhaati
