#quick little write-up

[thebaileymail]

A happy place

It had been two days since Ryder had been confined to his bed in the infirmary. Or imprisoned, felt like a more fitting word, with the myriad of steel bars and tubes keeping him in place, disappearing beneath his skin were they worked their magi(te)k. They were affixed to the device by his bed, which emitted the most humdrum, inharmonious bleeps the Hyur could have imagined. It grated the bard on a deep level, and so much of his time was spent attempting to drum a fitting beat to the repetitive discordance. That had quickly disinterested him as well, leaving the only available activity to think and wonder.

And he did, for hours on end, when he could not find sleep, when unconsciousness lay but an ilm out of reach. If only he could keep dreaming, and let his subconsciousness whisk him away to his happy place. A place of endless joy, by the beach perhaps, underneath the warm, comfortable sun. There, his peripheral would be congested with the joyous faces of friends. Ryder imagined them, one by one; that picture had his lips curling upwards into a happy smile.

Some of those friends had stopped by. Some of them, Ryder had not told of his condition. Some of them had messaged him via linkpearl. But still, there was a loneliness that crept up on the Hyur, in the back of his mind. 

His mind began to wander again as that feeling grew all the more prominent. Would he be in the happy places of other people, too? He liked to imagine so. Probably somewhere in the back, providing food and snacks and perhaps a tale of adventures long past. But not in the foreground. Not in the central part of someone’s happy place. 

Ryder’s smile was washed away by his own unchecked musings. His legs curled up on themselves, and he turned on his bed, causing the feeling of the numerous tubes protruding from his person to become all the more prominent. His right index finger traversed upwards, trailing along his sore neck. He felt the hard metal of the replacement, where his larynx had been. Then further up, his warm digit felt along the surface of his eye replacements, brows furrowed as he felt no discomfort. In fact, there was no feeling at all there.

This was it. He was to speak with a voice that was not his own, look with eyes that did not belong to him, scooped from a rotting corpse. His blood - or, was it even his own blood - was pumped by a heart from that same cadaver. Anxiety was coerced upon Ryder by his own thoughts, prompting him to run hurried breaths through his new lungs. It began to feel as though an iron grip tightened around them. Ceruleum-powered eyes dashed from left to right as his chest thumped, searching for something salient to calm the Hyur down.

The discordant beeping of the nearby machine accelerated; it distracted Ryder momentarily, and he remembered what his mother taught him when he felt growing panic.

His eyes forced shut as the image of his happy place was resuscitated, he felt the imaginary sun upon his cheeks, the scent of freshly baked pastry filled his nostrils. There was music and dancing and swimming. There were games and laughter and stories. It sufficiently calmed him down for the passing moment.

But, he began to wonder, after a leisurely time spent in that imaginary wonderland, how would I feel if someone in the background of my happy place were to be gone? I would be sad for a bit maybe, but then all that sadness would be overwhelmed by all the other people, right? And I would be all right again.

Some people would miss me a whole bunch, Ryder’s subconsciousness argued. Like mum and dad, and Rhyan. Maybe that’s it, though.

As a growing negativity mounted, the revitalisation of the image of his happy place grew all the more difficult. His thoughts rather focused on what had been, what is, and what will be. 

At least, with a new lease on life, he could assure that, perhaps he too would be in the center of people’s happy places.

[thebaileymail]

Ephemeral Echoes

A lonesome figure sat perched upon a branch, veiled by a makeshift net of twigs, leaves and dirt that had been draped over them. They watched the on-goings down below, some fifty yalms down: a patrol of soldiers walking in nigh perfect tandem, adorned with Garlemald’s colours, safeguarding the woods. Grasped tautly between the gauntleted digits of the figure was a sizeable firearm, its thin barrel, as long as most Lalafell, stuck out through the net of foliage, set upon its quarry like a hawk. Warm breath escaped the figure’s chapped lips, billowing outward into the freezing air. As nearly all air left the lungs, a thunderous crash shot through the forest. Birds flocked to safety and forest critters fled to their homes as an empty cartridge plummeted to the muddy ground below. 

A biting ache spread through his lungs as he inhaled the intense winter air. His eyes cast away from his quarry, sparing himself the sight of a lifeless body collapsing into the mud below. He did not take joy in the act of killing. It was a necessary evil, the Hyur had told himself, at least they feel little to no pain. Ryder’s nimble gauntleted fingers coiled around the rusty lever of the weathered firearm; it had seen decades of use already, but he had hoped it would see many more. The lever was pulled back, pushed back into place with a silent click. He exhaled again. Another bullet fired.

Ryder

He had more or less painted the ground crimson, where the patrol had been reduced to a stockpile of bodies down below. Still there was no art to it, Ryder kept reminding himself. Still as a statue, he waited until he deemed the area safe. When he felt the area was appropriately secure, Ryder discarded the brown cloak, revealing below a set of lightweight armour, fashioned from various Garlean constructs, and welded together expertly. Ryder grappled down, and sought to investigate the bodies.

Ryder

A yellow glint emerged on the surface of his eyes. It caught his attention but before the chance to look arose, that glint had grown into a salient speck which thrust upon the Hyur a sinister outcome. Ryder found a blazing inferno, an orb of compact carnage making for his position. He plucked his cold hands from the corpse of a soldier he had shot, and sought to evade. He was cast aside by the force of the impact; it sent him airborne, and a reverberating crack shot through his body as his ribs met with a tree.

Ryder

Pain washed over his entire person as he recollected himself. The heat of the burns blended painfully with the cold winter air. A quick glance was cast to the source of the previous attack. A bipedal metal construct entered Ryder’s peripheral as he did, its colossal form zipping effortlessly through the thick woodland. When its metal maw opened wide, and gave way to a growing ember, Ryder knew to scamper off. His grappling hook shot outward, and briefly thereafter, the Hyur pulled himself free from the ground.

Ryder

It had been a bell. Marred and drained of energy, the Hyur still sought to scurry out of the woodland. Every so often, he hid, hoping that the search party would lose track. But they were like bloodhounds. They had gotten his scent, and were only drawing nearer. Defeated, the Hyur positioned himself in a clearing. He would at least take some out with him. Death had always frightened Ryder; but in that moment, he welcomed it with open arms.

Ryder

More crimson was drawn, painting a picture of defeat in the snow beneath Ryder. He fell, and his frozen fingers no longer could grasp the rifle. His eyes gazed up into the sky as he lay on his back, cutting through the thick boughs above for a final view of the sky. Swiftly, that view came to be obstructed by the barrel of a gun.

“..Ryder, gods damn it! Your mum need your help out in the garden.”

“--Huh? Wh- right, coming, pa, just-- give me.. give me a tick!”

[thebaileymail]

The beds

The basement of the Goldenhearth mansion had been drowned out by darkness; the only source of light was an iron ceiling lamp which swung back and forth like a hypnotising pendulum with every step taken upon the ground floor.

In the center of the room stood four medical beds turned away from one another. Upon them lay decrepit Hyur bound to the metal in hardened leather straps to disallow any movement. Their surroundings were dank and the air smelled of decay.

It had been weeks for some since they were last able to move a muscle. One particularly adamant Highlander survived the bed for several moons with their veins punctured and invaded by needles; one drew blood, whilst the other provided sustenance.

The bed, that is what Jamie had called the machinations of the basement. He had insisted on calling it by something which provided comfort; something to fall back on. Perhaps then he could persuade his thoughts that what was being done is just.

Jamie clasped his hands behind his back as he strode over the wet cobbles to the center of the room, towards the foot of one particular bed. He tilted his chin ever so slightly whilst his eyes traversed downward towards the Highlander male that had been deprived of movement for two moons.

“Mr. Swiftarm,” greeted Jamie, dignified. He attempted to ignore the pungent smell of feces and urine, but it crept upon him like a growing pain. If it were up to him, the captives would be kept in healthier surroundings. “I hear you wanted to speak?”

“Yes,” croaked the Highlander, his voice was as coarse as gravel, and left his lips like a postmortem breath. “I’m ready to talk.”

Jamie resuscitated his toothy smile. “That is good, Mr. Swiftarm!” He told him in an encouraging fashion. “We find no joy in the lack of your comfort; you must know this. We can only be glad that you are finally willing to free yourself from this prison of displeasure.”

The Highlander had attempted to nod, but his atrophy had disallowed as much. “The Beaumonts, they did it,” he whispered nervously, which had earned him a nod of approval. That was all Jamie needed to know. “But why? My blood? Will you stop draining me?”

“Your.. blood?” Jamie echoed, as he looked back to the bags of blood which had been drained from the captives. “For my chalk,” he explained vaguely as his eyes traveled back down to the Highlander. “You see, I need a steady supply of it, and since you were a catalyst in the poisoning of my family, that will be the sole function of whatever pitiful life still runs through you.”

Swiftarm’s jaw quivered ajar as he attempted to speak, but he was promptly interrupted by Jamie.

“You wrought this havoc upon yourself, Mr. Swiftarm, when you aided in bringing death to my kin. You will be the cause of your own death, but know that you will be avenged. Now, I very much doubt that we will see each other again; these surroundings are awfully depressing, you see.” Jamie gestured around to the dismal ambiance. “May the Twelve persuade better choices in your next life.”

[thebaileymail]

The Mongrel

It had been a long day for Romeo at the Conjurers’ guild. The twelve year old was glad to finally travel back home again. He could start a campfire in the backyard and melt some cheese. He could lay back and watch the stars on his bedroll. He could rest, finally.

Those thoughts had dawned a hopeful smile upon his mien, whilst his tired feet carried him forward, one slow step after the other. His ankles ached as though they were shackled to a pair of bricks. One step after the other, he kept thinking to himself. He was nearly home.

Walking through Quarrymill had never been a fond experience for Romeo; especially at night when the drunkards were loud and their venomous tongues let loose repressed bigotry. Tonight was no different, it seemed. Two Wildwood men and a Midlander stood at the ready, wine bottles brandished, to vehemently express their opinions at any who dared to walk past them.

“Mongrel!” Exclaimed one, which had prompted Romeo to wrinkle his nose in disgust. The half-breed had heard that insult on a nigh daily basis. He lowered his head and pushed back his thick ginger locks over his pointed ears, perhaps then they would realise Romeo held only shame for them.

“Fucking mongrel!” Blurted another. Romeo had almost felt sad for the lack of creativity. His jaw tensed as his aching feet carried him forward in quicker steps.

“We’ll stop by tonight and have your mama’s cunt make another freak like you,” the third proclaimed, which had earned him the laughter of the other two.

Romeo then paused in his tracks. The bucket of his irritation had overflowed with those words. With clenched fists, the twelve year old pivoted on his feet to face the three men, fear washed away by provoked anger.

“My ma would sooner hang herself than sleep with the three of you,” Romeo told them, as he vaguely gestured in their direction. “You’re so ugly that if you lay on the beach, not even the tide would take you, you illiterate fucks.” The twelve year old stepped forward, instilled by undue confidence.

However, that confidence was like dust in the wind, blown away by utter fright when the three men stepped forward. Swiftly, Romeo turned and dashed away, his keen ears caught something along the lines of “Get him!”

Romeo was quick and knew these parts like the back of his hand. Swift legs ushered him out of Quarrymill and into the forest, where he hopped and skipped over wayward roots and slid through the mud to avoid branches. He dared to look over his shoulder, presuming the three drunkards had buggered off to be a menace to someone else. When he did, he felt and heard his ankle snap, and the redhead promptly collapsed to the mud in a cry.

It did not take long for a steel-toed boot to crash into his back, which had shut Romeo up, his cries turning to erratic breaths exhaled through a quivering jaw. His eyes lay wide open, staring into the distance; hoping someone would stumble upon the scene.

“Can’t even bloody walk?” One Wildwood asked in a provocative slur of words. “You know what we do to chocobos who can’t walk no more?”

Romeo knew the answer to that; he wasn’t going to bite. “I’m sorry!” He sobbed, attempting to push himself up to his feet. Another boot rammed into him; he could feel the pain shake through his bones. The helpless adolescent dropped down again. He could taste the mud on his tongue.

“You will be - you don’t bloody talk to us like that,” one Wildwood spat out as he knelt down and pushed the redhead’s head deeper into the mud. “Hold him down,” he told his lackeys. Romeo violently squirmed and pushed wherever he could, then maybe he could have some semblance of control over the situation, but he was weak and overpowered.

“Please-- please let me go?” He cried out, and felt cold steel pushing on the bridge between his ear and skull. “Please don’t,” he begged. “I won’t tell anyone!”

Romeo cried in agony as the steel cut, sliced and carved into his flesh with ease. “Going to pick my tooth with it,” boasted the Wildwood. He could have sliced the appendage off with a single quick motion, but he had wanted for it to hurt.

The dark mud came to be tarnished Romeo’s blood, which he swore he could taste as well. He no longer struggled, his limbs fell still as he accepted whatever fate would be wrought upon him.

Halfway through, the adolescent succumbed to his pain, and his eyes rolled back into his skull.

[thebaileymail]

A tribe of lions and owls

Family. Perhaps, the single most meaningful word in Jamie’s extensive vocabulary. His family’s actions had wrought upon him ceaseless trials and tribulations, and scars which constantly lay strewn about the young man’s thoughts. And still, like a moth to a flame, Jamie would give anything to harbour the safety of his kin.

Except, Jamie had nary an opportunity in his life to meet with his mother’s side of the family. Where the Goldenhearths were renowned for sworn oaths, honour and limitless charity, the Astors devoted their lives to self-fulfillment and the advancement of the sciences.

A noble cause, to advance the understanding of the world, Jamie supposed, as he treaded the immaculate roads of Sharlayan beside his twin. Juliette and Jamie, although twins, were as contrasting as the sun and the moon. Whilst he preferred bejeweled rich fabrics and held a talent and penchant for diplomacy, she preferred the sound of chainmail and the weight of a sword upon her person.

Jamie jested that the Astors would consort with skatene and ravens in the dead of night to learn of answers unknown to others, and was rewarded with a chummy shove to his shoulder.

Despite his insignificant stature and negligent battle prowess, Jamie had always felt as tall as a giant and twice as powerful in Eorzea. But here he felt as petite and vulnerable as a mouse. The tall, white-brick walls of the numerous estates crept up on him, and left him feeling claustrophobic.

“You’d think, with all this knowledge in the world, the Sharlayans would have invented colour,” jested Juliette as she gestured to the achromatic aesthetic the city wore, distracting Jamie from his thoughts.

“Ere long, sandstone bricks will be all that we can see yet again,” Jamie mumbled, he felt a lump in his throat which had distracted him from a witty retort. When he attempted to swallow it down, Juliette had repeated his words to him in a childish lilt, which prompted him to roll his eyes in faint amusement.

When they arrived at the Astor estate they found the sigil of an owl perched upon the gate, staring the twins down. Typical, Jamie thought. He stood and assessed the situation, and calculated an approach in his mind for a suitable greeting-

Juliette brushed past Jamie with a certain bounce in her step, with the cacophony of chainmail in her wake. Her armoured glove soon found the front door, and sent the hinges whining in protest at the force of her knocks. “Heelloo~?” Came her inquisitive, impatient voice.

Bloody hells, Jamie thought as he followed suit. He clasped his hands behind his back, and tilted his chin upwards. Jamie’s face had been washed off his mien, and the face of James Eugene Goldenhearth surfaced. Stoic, yet hospitable. Friendly, yet commanding.

The front door let loose a screech as the rusted hinges were pulled into motion and the door opened. Behind it stood an old crone in ragged and greasy black fabrics. One could almost swear her back had been her tallest point, which bended forward and left her weight leaning upon an old cane which resembled a veritable pillar in her stance. Wispy grey tufts of hair sprouted from a mostly exposed scalp, and with the slightest breeze, one could see more hairs escape the beldam like dust in the wind.

“Grandmother,” the twins greeted in unison. Whereas Jamie had felt intimidated by the prospect of the meeting, now he felt pity. And where Julie had felt excitement, now harboured disappointment.

“Come on in dearies, we have much to talk about.”