In which Cwenthyrth Sadler tries out local customs.
Cwenthryth had decided, a while back, she didn't much care for Ishgard.
It was hellishly cold, and the people talked a great deal while saying very little. They had even less to say to her, and she didn't like what little they said.
Still... she was trying, trying to play nice. A lot depended on working with these inbred tinheads, and that...
... well, that was some sort of justification as to why she was out here, in the wastes, worse than alone.
The drake had ravaged the camp. Six men were dead. Nobody who 'mattered', according to the braying captain. She watched the thing hungrily as it flew away from the wreckage, wings battering the air, already mentally sizing up its head for her wall.
The captain turned to Cwenthryth at last, with a humourless grin. "You're one of those Scions, eh? Well--"
"No," said Cwenthryth, because she wasn't.
"-- how about you tag along, eh, see how a proper dragon hunt is conducted!"
Cwenthryth glanced out at the windswept plain. She glanced back to the camp, and the blazing campfire inviting her closer.
It was the easy option. But she was... well, she was being mistaken for a Scion. She had to show her face, and, besides, learning how the dragonhunters went about their business would be useful.
So she'd turned back to reply, but the hunting party had already moved out. Sighing, she shouldered her bow and hustled in their wake.
They'd moved under the cover of the mist as night slowly fell. It was an easy enough job for the tracker, who made confident talk of knowing where the beast nested. "Not my first time tangling with this beastie," he said, waggling a stump where a finger should've been.
Cwenthryth wondered what would make this time different.
Progress slowed at night, but the captain refused to draw a halt. The nest was just an hour's march further ahead, and they could weather the night in the cave itself, a warm, defensible position. Home the next day, and glory and mead for all. Onwards, then, their softly gleaming armour and blazing torches cutting through the darkness.
Cwenthryth subtly let herself trail behind the column. Her own novelty had worn out, and she'd essentially been ignored since her recruitment. Suited her fine, all things told. It meant that, when she craned her neck to the sky and saw a shadow darker than the rest, swooping down with terrifying velocity, that shadow wasn't pointed at her.
She cried out a warning, but the dragon had already fallen upon the lead torchbearer, crushing her under its staggering weight, near-exploding under her talon. Its dark blue scales made it seem an extension of the night sky itself, yet its sickly yellow fangs were all too corporeal.
"It's here!" announced the tracker, before being swatted aside by a derisive swipe of a talon that threw him and three others back. One cracked his skull on a rock, and slumped into the snow.
The screaming had started. Cwenthryth tuned it out. Her longbow was a beast of a thing most would fail even to string, but she had it nocked and drawn, squarely at-- no! The captain rushed forward, straight into the line of fire, and the temptation was certainly there to let loose regardless...
She'd never cared to catch the captain's name, and her attempt to scream it now as a warcry was cut off violently when the drake rushed forward, snapping and snarling. The sword came down and glanced off the scales, the shield came down and was cast aside into the snow, and the fangs snapped through bones, sinew and steel as if they were string.
Cwenthryth loosed. The shaft dipped just fractionally in the wind, finding a mark just below the eye, sinking into the scale. The dragon roared its defiance, more men fell, but Cwenthryth thought only of her next arrow, nock, draw, loose...
It found its mark, tore through the thing's eye. The beast bellowed and thrashed, rearing up to cast off a spearman clinging desperately to its throat, and angled its head to try and find the darkest shadow in the night--
Cwen sent the last arrow sinking into the beast's throat, and threw herself clumsily to her right, rolling on her shoulder before being thrown back further still as a searing blast of heat scorched where she'd been, and even now as she instinctively threw her hands in front of her face she felt her skin starting to fry and peel away, ears ringing.
The flame abated. She pressed her burning wrists into the snow, looking up, following the beating of wings as the beast rose, ungainly, into the star-less sky.
Cwenthryth trudged back into the clearing. The captain twitched at its centre, surrounded by the broken and the dying, men carved apart or baked in their armour. The temptation was there to leave her. It would've been easy... but the easy way had bit her before.
Wordless, she ripped the pennant off a dead man's spear and sank onto her knees in the snow by the captain's side, tying it tight to the stump of her leg to try and stem the flow.
"Leave me," croaked the captain.
"Don't tempt me."
"The drake.... ! One of my men wounded it, drove it off. You can still follow it to its lair, finish the job..." The captain forced herself to sit, tried to focus on Cwenthryth's face. "Do you hear me? Ha, there's still glory to be won today..."
"Your men are dead."
"That doesn't matter! I'm ordering you to--"
Cwenthryth finally turned to face the captain. Something smouldered in those dark eyes, hotter than the dragon's flame, and a dreadful silence fell as the archer picked out the right words, slowly, meticulously. "I don't care what you want. Dead captains become heroes. You're just..." She sifted through her vocabulary of insults, but found the most scathing one right under her nose. "You're just you. Now stand."
She hauled the captain to her feet, draped a limp arm over her shoulder, forced a torch into her hand and began the slow trudge back to safety.
Lanceloux had been unable to save her from the sorrows that affected her so. No longer did she fill the winds with the melody of a song or tend to her garden brimming with flowers. It had been this way since she awakened and found herself lost even though she was home, with him. Sunken into the depths of her existence something aches deeply.. a wound that has not stopped bleeding even after all these moons.
“Not out for a run tonight I see,” His voice was a pleasant sound amid the cacophony caused by her troubled thoughts. In his own way, Lanceloux helps ground her and reign her back to reality. His presence is a comfort and he realizes it when she hints at a smile, something delicate and broken upon a face framed by gold. Her eyes softened, but they were glassy, to which he assumed came from tears.
“I suppose mine thoughts kept me far too occupied.” Her hands fold at the swell of her hips and he watched as the flowers, adorning her crown of gold, bloomed under the moonlight’s touch as she bowed her head. She was the very crux of the forest, giving herself to it and in turn, it became her cage. This was her sanctuary, her prison. He loathed thinking of it as the latter.
“I have been thinking as well, about your own well being. Ever since..” His voice softened as he looked down at her features, the way she struggled with emotions behind half-lidded depths that reflected not only the glare of the sun, but the cool of the moon. He couldn’t reach her sorrow and pull her free from it. It was a ravine of pain she had to face alone, he understood this now. Instead, he had another idea. Thus, he continued to speak after the pause.
“..ever since you returned, I have been actually dedicating to the art of smithing. I find it rather cathartic when I start to think of what ails me. I thought perhaps you may need something to help as well. Luckily, I earned quite a bit..and want to share that with you.” His hands sought one of her own, gingerly taking her calloused hand into his own.
“Lance, thou art aware I do not n--” before she could finish, she felt the weight of the gil pouch in her hands and his hands folding her fingers over it. Before another string of protests could fill the space between them, she felt his embrace. She needed it, despite her refusal to admit it, Rivienne surrendered to it and hugged her brother in return.
“You are your own jailer, break free, for once Rivienne. The core of your pain may be the same thing that you believe keeps you safe.” His hand rests on the back of her head, but he feels her nod in agreement before she looks back up to him, confused.
“I am needed here,” she begins in a whisper, her last stand was a weak one against Lanceloux, who chuckles and gives her a shake of his head, sending silver-streaked hair falling before his broad shoulders. He looks older to her at this moment, perhaps more like father - if she could only remember how he looked. Before an intrusive thought comes to play, his voice anchors her.
“But what doth the lady of the woods needeth?” Lanceloux didn’t pick up the dialect from their mother the way Rivienne did, and it showed. He chuckles low and a deep sound that resonates from his chest as he gives her shoulder a squeeze, once she took hold of the gil he offered. He felt it, the tremor of her body, how she shrunk into his embrace.
“Find it, beyond these walls of oak and willow, beyond the canopies of emerald and gold, seek yourself away from the very elements that remind you of such loss. I want my sister back, not the haunt that is the very centre of this forest. I want you to live ..to smile again.”
A choking sound is muffled against his shoulder whilst fingers purchase of the back of his flannel shirt. They dig into the fabric and he smiles before giving smoothing her hair, careful of her laurel adorning her. There, he stood in silence, allowing her tears to dampen his shirt as her breathing settled and her voice was rediscovered in whispers shared.
“Where shalt I go, Lance? This is our home,” uncertainty was woven in her words, her voice broke and he is reminded that she had not ventured far beyond their borders, that the world was still new to her. He smiles at the question and pulls back enough from the embrace to reach for her flushed features; gingerly he wipes away the tears that welled in the basin of her eyes. He sees her as he did in their youth. She is his young sister, the loud, golden-haired spitfire, standing before him, no matter how much she has aged. No matter what caused her fire to nearly become extinguished.
He would see it lit and burning anew.
“Far from here, give yourself a chance to heal from these shards of memories that cut so deeply.”
Rivienne gave him a perplexed expression to his advice that he knew required further explanation. The last thing he desired was her to think he wanted her out of the very element that she cared deeply for, but the world around her was not healing the weary heart. There came a shake of his head before his weathered hands cradle her warmed features and he speaks clearly, making sure there was no misunderstanding of what he means.
“Free yourself from the very cage you have built here, fly as high as you can Rivienne, but do not get too close to the sun, hm?” Lanceloux felt emotion building up in his chest as his sister then openly revealed her emotion with a soft cry; the heavens darkened and soon join in this shared sentiment. He gave a crooked smile and brought her to his embrace, of course, the skies would weep.
“Dramatic, that is a bit dramatic” he sniffled and watched her smile genuinely behind her tears as both of them stood under the passing shower.
FFxivWrite2020 | Prompt #4: Clinch | Pairing: G’raha Tia x Angelique (WoL) | Word Count: 579
Angelique had been there with G’raha Tia as she waited for his mind and memory to hopefully combine with his original body, the one that had come to be loved by her. Green eyes stared at the crystal as the red and blue glow was shimmering and time simply started to slow to a crawl, and moments after the shimmer had faded, she still waited with bated breath while waiting to see if he would open his eyes. For a moment in silence nothing had happened, even as she called him by the true name that most Sun Seekers had when the letter was taken away from their tribe name. Even in his past times as the Exarch if only in the privacy of the Ocular or his bedchambers, it was a name he nearly forgot if not for her.
Angelique let out a surprised sound in her throat when his eyelids twitched and long lashes started to part to reveal the ruby red eyes that were laden with the tiredness. When his voice greeted her sweetly, seeing her tears, she suddenly threw herself onto G’raha’s body and hold onto him so tightly.
“Welcome home, Raha.” Angelique spoke as tears started to slowly cascade down her face while she too could feel the same from G’raha Tia himself, he was home...he was awake...and as far as he was aware nothing seemed out of place or fuzzy. He could remember his time in Saint Coinach’s, the research of the Crystal Tower, his time as the Exarch. They seemed to have combined well as he held her back just as tightly, relieved to simply feel his flesh and blood hands, arms, fingers clenching to the fabric of her shirt just able to feel everything. No longer with a crystal palm that felt as if he could not feel for a few good minutes after.
When he had made to get up his legs had nearly given out on the first few steps from the lack of truly walking. But those stumbles made Angelique collect him and give him a small smile while he was just a little sheepish and apologetic. While she had helped him down the winding crystal stairs, he would clench onto the sleeve, trying to keep himself steady. It wasn’t until they left the large doors that would slowly close behind with an echoing thud. A chapter in what would have been a lifetime of stories missed, G’raha Tia couldn’t help but feel the breeze brush against his face, blowing back some strands of his crimson hair and sun shining warm against his face.
But when he saw Angelique kneeling down and suddenly he felt himself being pulled off the ground as the bard pulled him onto her back. He could almost feel her warmth and heartbeat through her back, and despite his bit of embarrassment he would wrap his arms around her shoulders, and while it was something to keep himself balanced...he couldn’t help but lightly clench his grip tight around her shoulders, burying his face into her shoulder. He could feel himself shake a little bit as a soft scent touched his senses and tears started to fill his eyes again, but this was the moment of sheer joy. He was home...and everything was here...grounded by her strong fingers purchasing against his thighs just a little tighter.
This was real, and not even the tower can pull them away thrice.
🐥- A memory about their children (past, present, or future) (GIMMIE DEM CUTES GIRL)
click.
The door gently shut behind Takome, another day’s work in her workshop completed. Snow was falling around her on her walk home, the extra hours put in due to the Starlight festivities celebrated at this time of year. She’d been creating new toys for her children and something special for Miloh, which required a surplus of time spent at the shop. The warm glow and crackle of the fire in her family home brought an immediate restoration of warmth back to the small woman’s eyes, every footstep methodically placed so as not to wake any member of the family back up.
As she turned the corner into the living room, her gaze fell upon something that immediately invoked tears to well up in her glassy eyes. There, on the couch, lay Miloh asleep, a gentle and calming purr emitting from his body; Atop of him lay a little Xaela girl no more than 4 years of age. Miloh’s hand held her small head to his chest, a blanket around both of them to keep them warm while frost nipped at the windowpanes. Serenity surrounded them, the gentle flakes of snow falling silently around the house. Takome gently moved to them, the Inventress’s deep hair falling in front of her shoulders as she first planted a soft kiss upon her adopted daughter’s head, then another against Miloh’s cheek.
She reached her hand out gently to rest where her lips had just been, time seemingly frozen for a moment as she held this intimate moment locked in her heart.
“Mom?” A gentle voice peeped from the doorframe. “Will you read me back to sleep?”
Takome turned her head to see her six year old son standing in the doorway, a blanket in one hand while the other rubbed his sleepy eyes. His dark black and navy hair reflected perfectly to his father’s, his freckles a bright image of constellations across his petite face. His tail stood stiff as though he’d had a nightmare, face begging for a hug as he sniffled away the tears of what ailed him.
Takome let her fingertips fall gracefully from Miloh’s cheek as she moved to her son, lifting him gently in her arms and placing him on her hip. She leaned her forehead against his and idly rubbed his back, a soft smile greeting his tearful eyes.
“Of course.”
THANK YOU FOR ASKING @jackleansparrow I AM SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG but i hope it fulfills the cutes you have requested
ENTRY #001 - “CROSS” - AU : Le Vol des Ailes Noires - 2836 mots
Inspiration : “Cross” ou “Croix” : Un objet qui permet de soigner l’altération d'état Malédiction.
Résumé : Spectral rentre maudit d’une de ses pérégrinations personnelles après avoir joué avec de la magie nécrotique qu’il ne comprend ni ne sait utiliser. Eligos finit par comprendre qu’il est maudit et invoque par son pacte de sang un “ami” de longue date pour soigner le jeune guerrier de lumière. Le mage matérialise un artéfact ancien, un cristal violet pour absorber l’éther maudit du lancier.
Texte non relu, sans queue ni grand sens ni tête.
- « Ta prime, comme convenue. »
Le Miqo’te ramassa d’un geste souple la bourse de gils posée sur la table sans mot dire et l’accrocha à l’une de ses ceintures. Il patienta quelques secondes comme à l’affût d’une nouvelle mission de son employeur mais rien ne vint. Au lieu d’entendre la voix mielleuse glisser des lèvres fines du paladin d’Halone, il vit ses sourcils s’arquer et sa tête faire un mouvement incompréhensif :
- « Qu’est-ce que tu attends ? »
- « Donne-moi un autre contrat. »
Les paupières du métisse se plissèrent et il considéra un moment le chasseur avant de lui dire d’un ton doucereux :
- « Je n’en ai pas d’autres. Ils ont tous été accomplis ou pris par les autres membres de notre joyeuse compagnie. » Il vit le visage de son employé se crisper de frustration et son regard se durcir – il le devinait malgré la lourde capuche rabattue sur le sommet de son crâne. « Je peux t’envoyer en renfort peut-être, mais le temps que tu arrives sur place avec ton dindon, les créatures seront certainement abattues. »
Un grognement de colère étouffée remonta le long de la gorge du lancier alors que son poing ganté se resserrait sur la table. Il n’aimait pas qu’on désigne sa monture pour ce qu’elle était mais il ravala toute remarque à ce sujet et insista :
- « N’importe quoi fera l’affaire. Un béhémot, des coeurls, des vers de sable. Je prends tout. »
- « Vous avez abattu le dernier béhémot dangereux du Coerthas il y a quelques semaines. Ukiyo refuse qu’on touche aux coeurls, quand bien même ils seraient dangereux. Quant aux vers des sables … Sérieusement ? »
- « Qui peut bien se soucier des caprices de ce gosse ? » cracha le miqo’te.
- « Si jamais j’autorise la chasse aux coeurls, je perdrai « ce gosse ». Je préfère passer le prestige d’abattre une Regina et sa meute à quelqu’un d’autre plutôt que de perdre de vue ce petit. » expliqua sèchement Eligos. « Prends plutôt du temps pour te reposer en attendant que d’autres bestioles prolifèrent. Je n’ai rien à te proposer. »
- « Alors donne moi d’autres proies plus petites. » persista-t-il. « Des loups. Des bombos. Des souris du néant profond. Qu’importe. »
Le paladin croisa les bras avant de s’adosser contre la chaise de fortune de l’auberge où ils s’étaient donné rendez-vous. Spectral n’était pas homme à se soucier des petites chasses mineures, il avait dépassé ce stade depuis plusieurs mois maintenant. Il l’avait vu devenir un traqueur avide de proies toujours plus dangereuses et se désintéresser des petites créatures mineures qui ne posaient jamais de réels problèmes. Il était facile de deviner ses motifs en général. Tout ce que le Miqo’te faisait de ses journées était destiné à détourner ses pensées des pensées noires qu’il ruminait sans discontinuer. Pourtant, lorsque les missions étaient accomplies, il était courant de voir le chasseur disparaître et se complaire dans sa mélancolie morbide. Un tel excès de zèle était inhabituel.
- « D’ordinaire, on me demande une prime de chasse, pas plus de travail. » s’amusa le chevalier. « Il me semble t’avoir amplement rétribué pour tes derniers exploits alors dis-moi … Dans quel genre d’excentricités et fumisteries comptes-tu dépenser mon argent cette fois-ci. Courses de poulets, alchimie illicite ou pseudo-magie ? »
Le miqo’te garda le silence, laissant la question de son employeur en suspens. Il semblait s’agiter sur sa chaise comme la première fois où ils s’étaient rencontrés. De toute évidence, Spectral pesait à nouveau le pour du contre à répondre. Ce n’était qu’une question de secondes avant qu’il ne lui avoue vouloir investir dans le dernier courant de magie en vogue pour les nuls qui faisait miroiter monts et merveilles à tous les déficients en éther du continent. Devant le mutisme agité de son employé, le paladin commença à s’inquiéter :
- « Ne me dis pas que tu comptes réellement investir dans la magie bleue ? C’est une arnaque. Tu ne tireras rien de cette arnaque hormis la honte d’être tombé dans ce grossier attrape-nigaud. »
La silhouette du chasseur cessa enfin de s’agiter mais sa mâchoire et son poing restaient désespérément contractés. Le sang-mêlé allait abandonner l’affaire quand le miqo’te porta ses deux mains gantées vers son front et découvrit sa tête de la lourde capuche qui le dissimulait. Ses pupilles devenues blanchâtre se relevèrent pour croiser le regard interloqué du Paladin :
- « Je ne suis pas sûr que l’argent te soit d’une quelconque utilité pour … quoi que ça puisse être. Tu as besoin de soins. »
Eligos se rassit en écoutant ce que le chasseur avait à dire, tout en observant sa peau étrangement grisée et craquelée.
- « Je suis allé à Gridania, leur Padjal m’ont dit que leur magie ne ferait qu’empirer les choses. Les astromanciens ont baragouiné quelque chose sur des portes dans le ciel et des perturbations de je ne sais quoi sans rien résoudre. Ils ont juste aggravé les choses. Ils n’étaient pas utiles. »
Le miqo’te parlait plus lentement que d’habitude, et ce faisant, il défit sa cape et enleva la chemise qu’il portait pour dévoiler sa peau semblable à de la pierre, fissurée par endroit depuis ses doigts jusqu’à la base de sa machoire.
- « … Et la gamine qui te suit, ne verse-t-elle pas dans la magie elle aussi ? » suggéra le chevalier en examinant les fissures qui faisaient lieu de cicatrices sur la peau durcie du lancier. L’éther du miqo’te était entièrement perturbé. De toute évidence, il avait offensé le mauvais adversaire et cet adversaire s’était fait une joie de lui faire payer.
- « Si ses mentors Padjals ne savent pas résoudre le problème, elle ne le saura pas non plus. Elle ne fera que parler, me houspiller et s’inquiéter. Je n’ai ni envie de l’entendre à longueur de journée ni envie de la voir ou de me justifier. »
- « Tu as croisé un catoblépas récemment ? »
Eligos ignora les justifications du miqo’te. Tout ce qui lui importait était qu’il préfère s’en remettre à lui plutôt qu’à la nuisance poilue qui le suivait. Sans oser toucher la chair à l’apparence de pierre, il remonta du regard la contamination grisée qui s’étalait depuis les doigts du miqo’te jusqu’à l’un de ses pectoraux. A voir comment Spectral arrivait à mouvoir malgré les signes évidents de pétrification était un cas atypique, il le concédait. Il entendit l’autre grogner un non sans pour autant s’expliquer sur ses dernières rencontres et soupirer d’impatience :
- « Tu ne pourrais pas utiliser ta magie ? »
- « Non. » grogna à son tour Eligos. « Tu es maudit, ce n’est pas de ma clémence dont tu as besoin mais celle de celui que tu as offensé … ou d’une Croix pour lever la malédiction mais elles ne courent pas les rues. »
- « Ou je pourrai payer le voyage jusqu’à Sharlayan et demander les soins des Sages. »
Il dévisagea alors sans vergogne le miqo’te aux yeux blancs et à la sclère grisée.
- « Les contrats que je te donne permettent d’éviter ce genre d’incidents Spectral. Chasser dans des environnements contrôlés ce qui a besoin d’être chassé. Quand bien-même j’aurai des contrats à te confier, tu ne peux pas aller combattre dans ton état c’est irresponsable. »
- « J’ai besoin de travail, et je suis en état de le faire. » s’entêta le chasseur. « Plus vite tu me donneras quelque chose à abattre, plus vite je pourrai me soigner. »
- « Par Halone, dis-moi où tu es allé que nous puissions faire une enquête. Je te donnerai ton argent. »
- « Je ne veux pas de ta charité Eligos. » se vexa le lancier.
- « Réponds-moi crétin. » ordonna le métisse.
Eligos élevait rarement la voix et les insultes étaient encore plus rares. La combinaison des deux suffit à faire se tendre le miqo’te comme un chaton face à sa mère étrangement. La mâchoire de Spectral se desserra, ses oreilles s’abaissèrent honteuses et il n’eut pas le courage d’affronter le regard d’acier qui le scrutait. A demi-mot il avoua :
- « Le Palais des Morts. Il y a des êtres du néant là-bas et… »
- « Oui. Je sais. » le coupa l’autre. « Ce ne sont que des parasites de rang inférieurs qui grouillent là-bas. Ils ne connaissent pas l’art de la malédiction. »
- « Il y a aussi des morts-vivants dans les étages inférieurs. » poursuivit le lancier. « Des morts-vivants et des êtres du néant ne surgissent pas de nulle part en aussi grosse quantité. J’ai voulu voir d’où ils venaient. »
Il n’y avait pas de mots qui venaient à l’esprit du Paladin pour décrire l’incroyable stupidité dont pouvait faire preuve son meilleur chasseur parfois. Il le savait solitaire et persuadé qu’une mort noble ne pouvait se faire qu’au combat, lance à la main contre un adversaire coriace. Aussi ne s’étonnait-il pas de le voir partir seul pourchasser des bêtes qui auraient tôt fait de le briser au moindre faux pas. Il le savait parfois idiot à vagabonder là où ses pas le menaient. Il s’était égaré sur des territoires dangereux pour des raisons stupides des dizaines de fois. Voir la naissance d’un bandersnatch, la migration des mammouths « au plus près », savoir si les pères bombo résultaient d’une agglomération et fusion des bombos bleus. Mais aller se donner en pâture aux créatures du néant qui s’étaient appropriées le Palais des Mort pour voir d’où elles pouvaient bien venir, c’était une première.
- « Laisse-moi deviner. Ils apparaissent depuis des portails. »
- « Oui. Mais il y avait aussi un mage qui les invoquait. »
La curiosité du paladin fut piquée au vif.
- « Un mage qui invoque des familiers n’est pas réellement une menace Spectral. Les diablotins sont tout au plus des singes volants qui volent l’éther des proies des créatures bien plus puissantes qu’eux des qu’elles ont le dos tourné. »
Spectral fronça les sourcils. Il ignorait que le Paladin connaissait le comportement des êtres du néant, ce n’était pas un sujet commun à Ishgard et ce n’était pas le genre de proies qu’il faisait traquer à ses hommes. A vrai dire, Spectral n’avait jamais vu un seul mandat demandant d’éliminer des êtres du néant émaner d’Eligos.
- « C’était un nécromancien Eligos. Il invoquait autre chose que des diablotins là-dessous. J’ai juste voulu discuter de son Art avec lui mais il a envoyé ses créatures. Je les ai abattues et il a profité de l’affrontement pour s’enfuir. J’ai fouillé son bureau et j’ai trouvé un parchemin et un sceau. »
- « Et comme toute personne censée ne sachant pas manipuler l’éther tu as lu le parchemin en te plaçant dans le sceau n’est-ce pas ? Un sceau de quelqu’un que tu as identifié comme nécromant. »
Les oreilles déjà baissées du Miqo’te s’affaissèrent plus bas encore. Il tenta de se justifier maladroitement en remettant ses habits :
- « Il invoquait les âmes des défunts. J’ai pensé que peut-être je pourrai faire pareil et parler av… »
- « Tu es un demeuré irresponsable. »
Le Paladin se releva de son siège pour s’approcher du miqo’te. D’un geste sec il l’aida à se relever et remis sans ménagement la capuche sur la tête du chasseur qui le suivit en silence. Ils errèrent un moment dans les rues d’Ishgard, sans que le métis ne lui adresse la parole. Ils passèrent par des rouelles détournées pour arriver jusqu’à un lieu que Spectral ne reconnut pas. A l’abri des grandes tours et ponts de pierre pavée de la cité, il crut d’abord avoir été conduit dans les plus bas quartiers de Brouillasse. Il ne venait pas souvent par ici. Eligos le tira d’un coup sec vers une ruelle étroite qui se finissait en cul-de-sac et le plaqua contre un mur lorsqu’un chevalier en patrouille passa par le chemin principal.
Apparemment, quoi qu’ils aient à faire ici, ça n’était pas quelque chose d’officiel.
Malgré l’argent qu’il lui avait promis en échange de la vérité, Spectral savait qu’Eligos n’avait pas des fonds inépuisables. Les derniers contrats avaient été onéreux en frais et en primes – et il le savait, ses dernières cibles étaient abattues pour satisfaire la seule volonté du Paladin. Les demandes n’émanaient ni du Clan ni des quelques privés privilégiés qui finançaient la Compagnie de la Plume Noire. Spectral redoutait que les Valraven aient épuisé les fonds qu’Eligos avait constitué à force de négocier primes et frais à rembourser. Le miqo’te craignait qu’il l’ait emmené pour assurer sa garde le temps de faire crédit auprès de personnes peu recommandables pour honorer le paiement des informations.
Plusieurs minutes passèrent alors que le gant de fer empêchait toute parole du miqo’te fiévreux plaqué contre le mur par la silhouette du Paladin qui le dominait. Enfin, l’étreinte se libéra et Spectral allait demander des comptes d’un air rageur mais il se ravisa, incompréhensif, lorsqu’Eligos défit l’un de ses gantelets et se servit d’un couteau finement ouvragé pour entailler ses doigts et tracer des signes de sang sur la lame noire de son épée. Il ne fallut que peu de temps avant qu’il n’entende l’ouverture d’un portail puis de pas vers le fond de l’impasse.
Ses pupilles blanchâtres alternèrent dans l’incompréhension la plus totale d’Eligos vers l’inconnu masqué qui était sorti de nulle part depuis ce qui semblait être un portail du néant.
- « Je vous avais dit de me faire venir lorsque tous les contrats auraient été exécutés Ser. Il me semble que certaines clauses sont encore à honorer. » le réprimanda l’homme au masque rouge.
Spectral observa le paladin dans l’espoir qu’il lui dise de qui il s’agissait mais ce dernier l’ignora. Son regard blanchâtre passait d’un homme à l’autre dans l’espoir de comprendre.
- « Mon compagnon est sous l’emprise d’une malédiction. Il me faut le soigner ou notre accord ne pourra être rempli. »
- « Vous en avez d’autres pour remplir ces objectifs. »
- « Il est le seul qui puisse abattre la cible que vous nous avez confiée. Vous seul êtes à même de le soigner sans que des indiscrets ne se mettent à poser des questions. »
L’homme au demi-masque tourna son regard sur le miqo’te sur la défensive et s’approcha de lui. Il usa de magie pour ordonner à Spectral de dévoiler les parties malades de sa peau sans qu'il ne pose de questions ou ne se rebelle. Son sort exécuté, il ne laissa pas le miqo'te s'insurger de l'emploi de la magie contre son gré pour le faire s'exécuter lorsque demander aurait suffi. Le mage plaça la paume de ses mains face à face et concentra son éther pour faire apparaître un petit cristal violacé en forme de croix au creux de ses mains. Eligos se décala d’un pas rapide de l’objet invoqué et du miqo'te en lui intimant de rester tranquille en l’entendant feuler contre l’inconnu qui usait de magie contre son gré.
Les poils hérissés, le chasseur eut bien du mal à écouter le chevalier mais il se fit violence pour obéir. Il ne comprenait pas, mais il prit sur lui de lui faire confiance et cet acte de subordination volontaire surprenant et immédiat arracha un sourire à l’homme masqué :
- « Vous l’avez bien éduqué … »
- « Ce n’est pas un animal, il me fait juste confiance. » le corrigea le chevalier – qui n’en pensait pas pourtant pas moins. Voir un Guerrier de la Lumière lui obéir sans poser de question le grisait plus que de raison.
Le petit cristal se mit à briller et un lien sombre se créa depuis la roche teintée jusqu’au miqo’te qui déglutit difficilement lorsqu’il sentit l’accroche éthérée sur lui. Peu à peu, le lien se renforça mais la conscience du miqo’te eut du mal à résiter à l’échange particulier entre lui et le cristal qui tournait à la manière d’une roue à mesure que le lien croissait. Chaque seconde passée à absorber la contamination grise menaçait de le faire défaillir, comme si son énergie était aspirée de concert avec celle de la malédiction.
Enfin, alors qu’il se sentait s’évanouir, le lien se brisa violemment et lui arracha un cri de surprise douloureux. La pétrification s’était atténuée. Ses yeux reprirent des couleurs. Les fissures se colmatèrent et reprirent l’apparence des cicatrices qui barraient par endroits la peau du miqo’te
- « Qu’est-ce que … ? » demanda-t-il, encore sonné par l’effort magique.
- « Une croix. C’est le nom qu’on donne à ces cristaux violets. Des artéfacts créé par l’Ancienne Magie pour absorber les maux des Malédictions. »
Il allait remercier le soigneur et Eligos lorsque l’homme masqué invoqua à nouveau son portail sombre et disparut sur ces mots :
- « Prenez-bien soin de celui-ci. Nous aurons besoin de ses services pour éliminer certaines créatures. Considérez ce service comme le salaire d’un des contrats que nous vous avons confiés Ser… »
Garnett was a man unaccustomed to having his tunic grabbed by merchants, let alone his pants, but he had to admit the prickly little lalafell had a point.
"I pay you prrrrotection money," she'd said, weaponising every R, "for... prrrrrrotection! And yet this girl comes by--"
"What girl?"
"You come out of this derelict hovel and I show you!"
It had been a hard sell. He liked his derelict hovel, chiefly because nobody else did, which was a useful advantage as a petty crime boss, midway up the food chain. But it did some good to stretch his leg, get his face about, play up the whole 'friendly enforcer around town' routine, smiling at stall-runners, reminding 'em, hey, he might be a thuggish extortionist, but he's our thuggish extortionist. He bought an apple from some guy in the happy knowledge that the grocer would insist it was on the house, and loomed contentedly on a wall, a small pack of goons waiting in an alleyway.
"You sure she'll be here?"
"She comes by all the time," the lalafell sniffed. "Tries to steal the arrows, I'd expect. Mhigan girl. You'll know her when you see her."
It turned out Garrett did. The tattoo daubed across one cheek in a fit of patriotism - or, more likely, wanting to fit in - betrayed that, deep indigo on dark skin. She was an awkward, gangly figure, a girl of maybe sixteen whose body was trying to tell itself to become brawny and barrel-chested but fought a losing battle against malnutrition. A shock of blonde hair had been cut brutally short, probably by taking hair by the fistful and sawing it away with a knife.
Her eyes darted with the wariness of the born street kid as she strode confidently through the crowd, but was like as not looking for Brass Blades more than jilted merchants. But she stopped dead in her tracks before walking into Wilting Flower, a 350-pound hellsguard whose mother had had something approaching a sense of humour.
The Mhigan girl sized him up. Flower grinned. Behind the girl, the crowd sensibly made themselves scarce as two other heavies lumbered in from the alley.
Garnett was impressed when the girl threw a boiling hot-pot of curry in Flower's face. Mostly, street-rats tried to talk their way out. He was impressed, too, when the first of his heavies came out swinging, got a boot to the midriff, folded up and took an elbow through the face. You got plenty of fighters in this city, but Garnett had little time for them. Fighters tended to stop being fighters when you bit their nose off and spat it on the floor. This girl was a scrapper.
Of course, there was still a third man, who cudgelled the girl sharply around the temple. She fell like a sack of bricks, and the jackals fell upon her, kicking and pummelling.
Garnett took another bite of his apple. "Shee? Thash protecshun."
The lalafell sniffed.
Garnett had nearly forgotten about the incident two hours later, when he heard screaming.
Then, as these things do, it came quickly back to him. Right. They'd dragged the girl back to her hovel, as dutifully silent locals looked on and murmured. She'd come to with a bucket of water, he'd put the frighteners on her and toss her out into the world, civic duty complete.
It was a neat, clean plan. Screams did not fit into it. They were quite putting off his new guest, a rapidly paling Brass Blade.
Garnett was a man who could improvise, and marshalled his near-complete set of teeth into a grin. "And that's what we do, Captain Rivu, to people who don't fit into the system. It's the price of peace on the streets."
Rivu gave her excuses and made herself scarce, a few seconds before the trapdoor to the basement swung open. The girl emerged, swaying gently, face already beginning to swell and, it seemed, dripping blood. Garnett followed the trail up. Dripping from her right hand. Even his bruisers noticed a detail like that, reached for their weapons, but Garnett waved them off.
"I don't like your guard," said the girl, matter-of-factly. "He touched my face. I'm going, now."
Garnett snorted. "Yeah? Bold to just say that. You're just a girl-- an unarmed girl."
She blinked. "Couldn't pull me knife out. Think it stuck in something."
The screaming gave way to a sickly groan.
"Guess it's his knife," the girl amended. The precise detail seemed important to her. "Has it back now. I don't need it anymore."
Garnett groaned. "Get the sawbones, Menat. Maybe run a bit." He leaned forward as the brute hustled off. "What's the plan now, girl?"
"Name's Cwenthryth," she said, pointedly. "Everyone else just says Cwen. I already told you I'm going."
"Well, I'm telling--"
"Don't ask questions if you're just using them to say something. Just say what you want."
Garnett looked at her, critically, before glancing up to his remaining goon. "Teach her some respect."
"Uh?"
"Hit her."
Ten seconds later, he was out of goons, but his instincts were right. Cwenthryth rubbed her knuckles gingerly. "Are you done yet?"
Garnett drummed the arm of his chair. It was an incongruously nice chair, given the surroundings, a selfless donation from a woman with an all-consuming gambling habit and no remaining fingers. "Seems to me I'm running low on muscle. How d'you like thieving, Cwenthf... Cwenther... Cwen?"
"I don't."
"Good. You're an honest girl, I can see that." He could see a lot, in the dull, glowing embers behind those mottled green eyes. Mostly, he saw a deep, dark anger beneath the surface, unconcerned for anyone or anything that got in the way of seeing tomorrow. "Thing is, in a city like Ul'dah, to make an honest crust? You gotta be willing to get your hands dirty. Are you willing to get your hands dirty, Cwen?"
She glanced down at the bits of her guard that were stuck under her fingernails. She glanced back up. "Yes."
"I can see that, too." Garnett grinned. "Good. 'Cause you can go far with us, Cwen. We're gonna be just like family..."
The new traveller had caused a stir. A lone traveller - in these times! - taking the north road from the fort.
She was an unusual sight, in Rak'tika. A fellow viis, though with a dark velvet skin and flaxen hair that was unusual in these parts. Rumours began to proliferate among the wood-watchers, and fought each other along the way. She was sleek, well-dressed, well-fed; that much suggested Eulmore. But she walked the roads like a natural traveller, with an easy stride that masked a watchful scan of her surroundings, and one of the pickets swore the traveller had looked straight at her and winked.
The beasts didn't seem eager to eat her. In fact, they were staying well out of her way. Perhaps they knew something the viis of Fanow did not.
Now Sigret watched the newcomer, with a knot of scouts. The traveller was headed straight for the ruins, leaving the neglected path to sweep through the woods with a certain arrogant authority - that again suggested Eulmore - before finding some fallen, crumbled stones.
She'd used charcoal to copy engravings and marks onto paper. When her work was done, with a satisfied sigh, she sat down on one of the flatter rocks and began to write, legs crossed, seemingly quite unconcerned with the world around her.
There was, on the road through Rak'tika, a natural ambush point by a fallen wagon, which a traveller may have assumed as a point of danger in such times of strife as these. Yet not here, nor on the broken bridge, nor mired in the fens held any danger beyond the bestial ...
"I can hear you, you know," said the viis, without looking up. "No wood is that silent. You're keeping the trees from swaying in the wind."
... thereby leading to the question: did this lend itself to some essential decency in the people? Or did it instead owe to the trepidation in the air ...
The trees rustled with whispering. The viis sighed, and dipped her quill in the inkwell.
... that no waylayer dared brave the roads, even facing such deprivation? Therefore it seems clear: unless the wood holds some unexpected bounty, this feels a land barren of hope, of order and disorder both ...
Above her, someone came to a consensus of one, and an arrow scythed the quill in two. The viis blinked, and went on assailing her page with interminable waves of prose.
"Enough!" Sigret leapt from the tall branches, landing deftly on two feet and a splayed hand. Others joined her, brandishing spear and bow.
That at last caught the newcomer's attention. Her violet eyes widened, brightened. "My people!" she blurted out, a second before Sigret pointed the tip of her spear under her chin, forcing it up.
"Your people? You are not of Fanow..."
"Friends, a ... viis is a viis, no matter from whence they hail. From how far, in my case."
"And how far would that be?"
"Well, I doubt you've heard of Camoa, that should tell you how far." The newcomer's smile was altogether too smug for someone with a metal tip digging into her throat. Perhaps she could hear a couple of the scouts chattering. "Certainly I mean you no harm, so if you wouldn't mind..."
Sigret went for safety. "Your name?"
"Ljda, in the customs of this place," she said, airily. "Yours?"
"Sigret," she found herself volunteering before she could stop herself. The quill flicked. ... found myself accosted by a guard captain by the name of Sigret, a ... "Stop writing!" she barked.
With an altogether too dramatic sigh, Ljda set the quill down. Sigret relaxed somewhat, a modicum of control restored. "Look," said Ljda, "I have no aspirations of--"
"Ah?"
"I don't wish any harm upon Fanow. Or these ruins. I'm from the Crystarium, and--"
That set murmurs rolling among the scouts. "Oh, an archaeologist," one murmured, with a derisive snort.
"-- but I do not represent them," said Ljda, loud enough to cut over them. "If you wanted me dead, that arrow wouldn't have missed. If you want my whole story, you'll see me to Fanow, and I can assure you it will be worth the wait."
"And if we leave you here to the beasts?" asked the impetuous archer, before Sigret threw her a withering glance.
Ljda's patience frayed. "Then you'll have fewer beasts. But I'd sooner be of use to us all. Surely you can feel the light poisoning this place? I can feel it under my footsteps. I would see it reversed. How long has it been since the sun set? A wood must have..." She smirked at some private job. "Shroud, after all."
That caused a stir. Ljda's eyes locked onto Sigret, and her hand gently but firmly pushed the spearpoint away from her neck as she rose up face-to-face. "I can't promise I can stop this. But I swear by spirits beyond your knowing that I will task everything in my power to ending this blight--"
The spear whipped around, its shaft catching Ljda hard across the temple, sending her to the forest floor in an inelegant bundle of limbs. Sigret glanced across her suddenly silent troupe, daring comment. "She wants to see Fanow? Fine, she can see Fanow. But she needn't know the way."
