The Adventurer lets their feet take them where they will. The city’s streets are as many as the thoughts upon their mind, and there’s nowhere they need to be for bells yet to come.
Eventually, they find themselves in front of a doorway. There’s a beautifully carved stone arch above it, set into the stone cliff that the city is made of. By all rights, it should be dark inside, but the open door lets out an aura of light, somehow coupled with refreshing coolness, despite the scorching desert air.
They take an inquisitive step inside, and let out a sigh. It feels calm, in here. Quiet. A faint sound of water, drowning out any reminders that they’re still within the packed city.
There’s a statue at the end of the room, delicately carved from stone. They can’t place which of the Twelve it’s meant to be, and they stare at it, thinking. It has flared wings, and flowing robes, but the features are far from the usual Seeker depictions of Azeyma... Eventually, they shrug, and approach it. They have a little bit of their latest Culinarian practice left over, and so they take the little pouch from their belt, lay it upon the offering table before the statue.
They figure that’s enough to justify their presence to any priest, and so they walk over to a spot of wall that looks as good as any, and lower themself to sit against it. The relief from the heat has them yawning, and it’s not long before their eyes close.
It seems like only a moment later that there’s a tap upon their shoulder. They jolt awake, eyes wide and disoriented, swiveling from side to side to find the person. And yet, there’s no one there. Nothing for someone to hide behind, no quickly retreating footsteps.
Confused, and wondering if they’d dreamed it, their vision drifts to the doorway. The light coming in is more orange-y, later in the day, and for a moment they stare at it, confused. And then, cursing to themself, they scrabble to their feet, and rush out the door. Behind them, unnoticed, the offering table stands bare before the statue, without a trace of their pouch.
(Later, when they arrive at their destination, panting and out of breath, they’re surprised to, despite everything, find themself perfectly on time.)
.
There’s a priestess there upon their next visit, garbed in spotless white, and tending to a corner. The adventurer finishes their prayer- A request of luck- and leaves the token at the food of the statue. They then turn to leave, for a bare moment meeting the priestess’s shining blue gaze, before they tear themselves away.
As they leave, thoughts and concerns about their next contract tumbling in their mind, they hear a quietly amused voice-
“She liked the honeyed nuts, last time.”
They pause in the doorway. Eyebrows raising, they snort out a laugh. Sure, she did. Absolutely Her and not the priestess, whose bright blue eyes and warm voice had the distinct sound of someone having fun with them.
“Mm.” They say, awkwardly turning their head away, and continue out the door.
Well. It wouldn’t be too much trouble to make some more of them, they suppose. And it would be more practice for their part timing at the Culinarian’s Guild...
Having told themselves that it would be easy, when they finally stop by the market later that day, when the shadows stretch long and the stone walls are radiating heat, the merchants in their cloth-shielded stalls, not a single one has nuts for sale.
They go to sleep feeling oddly grumpy about that, and when they depart the city at dawn the next morning, their tail is still swishing.
.
The day’s work is hot and dusty, for all that they’re sitting in a covered chocobo carriage for the majority of it. They claim the spot with a support beam behind them, putting their back to it and leaning back in their seat, occasionally sipping from their waterskin as they watch the trees and hills slowly go by. Heat shimmers in the air as they pass through carved out canyons, and while their posture may seem lax, their eyes flick warily back and forth at falling trickles of dust from above.
Despite their preparedness, they only need to get up once, when a screaming, panicked chocobo-back courier comes careening down the path towards them, an absolutely immense drake snapping at their heels. The chocobos of the cart squawk, attempting to flee in opposite directions while still harnessed, but they’re already leaping from the cart, drawing their blade with a sharp-toothed grin.
It’s later, when the chocobo cart finally makes it back to the scene of the battle. The Lalafell driver is soothing the nervous birds as they approach, taking their time to prevent another panic.
The adventurer, using the corpse’s scaly mass as a sunshade, nods to them, and gets up, brushing off their tunic. And then ambles over to where they’ve set up a pack’s worth of cut meat and hide to salt and dry in the sun, packing up their little, crystal-aided setup.
“You know,” The Priestess says, on one of their visits. “The food is lovely, but she’d also take tales of your travels. It gets lonely, here in these four walls, and the world is so alive out there, so wide open and caressed by the winds...” Her voice trails off, a nameless sorrow having grown in her voice.
The Warrior’s brow furrows, looking over at the person they’ve helplessly begun to think about. “Are you hiding here? Is someone hunting you?”
The Priestess sighs, mulling over her words. “....Not anymore. But neither am I free to leave, to walk free upon the living earth. To feel the caress of the wind... Ah. It’s been a long, long time since I have walked free in the sun.” A matter of fact, sad smile.
“But you weren’t here, the first time I came. And… You're saying you didn't come in from outside.” It’s not a question. There’s a suspicion rising in the Warrior’s mind, an impossible idea that’s only growing more and more likely.
The maybe-Priestess's downcast, wry smile only grows. "Ah. I very much was. One might say that my presence is always here."
When the Warrior ascends from the depths of the Aitascope, walking out into bright, if synthetic, sunlight once more, there’s a deep sorrow in their eyes, and a crystalline blade of utmost luminescence at their hip. Their friends surround them supportively, if with expressions varying from confusion to shock.
In the days to come, the sword does not leave their side. It is either upon their hip, or in their hand, fingers wrapped around the hilt, the oddly warm pommel against the palm of their hand. Even during sleep, it is with them, wrapped in a makeshift scabbard and held close, as if it were a person to hug.
During the fight with the Endsinger, there is a moment when they flinch back. And yet, it is as if the sword itself rises to block, to protect them. And when they open their eyes, there is an instant. A mere instant. Where they see a pair of pale, ghostly hands, wrapped around the hilt, besides their own.
Not too long later, it is those same ghostly hands that press a device into limp, exhausted fingers. Ghostly lips that press a kiss to their forehead, even as against all odds, the red button mysteriously presses itself.
Oh my blood
Once was my own
But in one touch
You made it yours
What have you done?
What have you done?...
I don't belong to anyone else
(PVRIS - Anyone Else)
anyway i took these last night n was gonna post on twt but that shit is broke so !!! a tease!!! ur honor theyre just good friends putting on a nice show,
