#Verad Bellveil Vs The World

[faeorzea]

Beyond the Gilded Curtain

It lasted a fortnight.

The ‘happily ever after’ everyone thought she would find in Othard?

It lasted a mere fortnight.

She was still reeling from the first set of nightmares: the revelations of her family’s misdeeds. The death. The corruption. The utter -ruin- to her name and standing. The destruction of all her family had built, save the rotting stone of the manor in Ishgard. All of it was because of one man: Verad Bellveil. Verad had stolen her heart in Ul’dah one fateful night, and the rest of the ridiculous, convoluted story had unraveled and spun out of control so fast she could do naught but watch in abject horror as the world was shown what lay behind the gilded curtain.

In the process, she had fallen madly, deeply, passionately in love with one man. He was a suitor, one of seven, counted as favored even by the family for his strength. Apart from Verad Bellveil, he was the most unique of the men who sought Fae’s hand. A man from Othard. A rider of horses who lead a makeshift tribe and set his sights high. He was a man of formidable strength. Formidable presence. He had red skin as dark as blood. He had eyes that glowed like embers. His scales were as though carved of obsidian.

He was more than a man. He was a king among men: The Red King.

It was not a moniker he preferred. He had no kingdom, for he and his people were nomadic. He had no crown, unless one counted the great horns on his scarlet head. His people followed him on his strength alone. And it was his people who tore him asunder.

In their bed. In their yurt. As they slept.

And in one blood-drenched night, the Red King’s people had spoken. The tribe had endured much, and in the end of it all, they had earned no benefit from the effort. Only the Red King had gained something: a wife.

She was young. She was foreign. She was nobility.

And the tribe mistrusted her immediately. With blades they spoke their disapproval. With fists they demanded justice. With violent cries they asserted the facts as they believed: Faetrix had weakened him, and they would not follow a weak leader. They fed their blades and lust on their Red King first, for they knew if they had touched her with him alive they would not have survived the night.

It was a miracle she had even escaped; coated in the blood of a Xaela warlord, bereft of coverings.

Her aetheryte rose took her back to Ishgard. Back to that crumbling manor where the rest of the dead in Faetrix’s life lay in a state of unrest, and in that ruin, Fae washed. The ghosts in the halls of House Severidenne de Haillenarte wailed in torment and denial of their parting, and through that cacophony, she dressed. She brushed her hair with the same silver brush Yvonne had lovingly used a thousand times before, staring at the hollow eyes of the dead girl through the mirror.

The manor would remain.

The ghosts would remain.

Faetrix would not.

Faetrix would take what fortune she had left and go to Ul’dah. From there… was yet to be writ.

[clockworkdryad]

A Nightmare

[dubiousduskwight]

HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.

AM, “I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream,” Harlan Ellison

[liadanswhisper]

I would have someone else remember

There is only one way to get a letter delivered from Eorzea to Othard in less than three months. Only one force is competent enough, witty enough, magical enough, fluffy enough? to accomplish this feat.

So it is no surprise that shortly before dusk the day of the raid on House Severidenne's manor, Liadan handed a small parcel to the Moogle Post with strict instructions on its recipient.

Frankly, the only surprising part about this is that the Moogles didn't get lost, or torture some hapless adventurer on the way, forcing them to engage in quests of dubious merit (to a non-Moogle, anyway).  Still, two days later, a certain water-carrier is hunted down and the letter delivered - by hook or by crook, as Haplo Mog would put it.

When opened, the following is spied within:

Dear Marius,

Her name was Florelle.

She had seen sixteen summers, but the summers since the Calamity were naught but cold and ice for her. She was sixteen years old, and she died in my arms. I could not save her, even though I had promised I would.

Her name was Florelle and her greatest crime was being born poor. Her greatest crime was being young and without protection, so that person after person exploited her. A pretty face can buy you a hot meal and a warm place out of the killing cold.  But there's always a price.  There's always a price.

I didn't even particularly like her. I found her annoying. She was just so young. Reasoning with her was difficult at best.  She'd attached herself to a friend, one Orrin Halgren, claimed he'd forced himself on her.  That he was the father of her child.  A Temple Knight, the son of a noble house, having fathered a child with a young prostitute would not even normally been a huge scandal. Only, he'd never touched her, and she acted on orders from one Nephaera de Severidenne. Nephaera sought to silence my friend by threatening his family with social ruin within Ishgard.

She was sixteen years old and I wasn't patient enough with her. I thought I knew what was best. Her hesitation at fleeing Ishgard seemed more borne of a loss of control and fear of the unknown than any salient thought. I was confident we could protect her, that I could protect her.  I knew that once we got her to Gridania, once the Stillglade Fane stepped in to shield her, she would be safe. I knew she would be safe.

We had almost made it to the Shroud, through snow and ice and threat of bandits, when from her body burst a great mass of shadowy tendrils. Orrin tried to kill them all, and I tried to heal Florelle. To do something. There was nothing left where her inner parts should have been.

I promised her that she would be safe. That she would see the gardens of Gridania, where flowers climb the broad trunks of trees into the sky. I promised her that we would keep her safe. There was so much blood.

In the end, all I could do was take her pain and fear away, to give her peace as she died.  We buried her next to a flowering tree on the grounds of the Sanctum of the Twelve in the Eastern Shroud. Her name was Florelle, and she had so much to live for.

When Orrin and I went to confront Nephaera, and end her for her part in Florelle's death, we learned that my worst fears were true. For with her came the Beast of Toto-Rak, and against the two, we could not stand.

I have done much thinking since we fled from Nephaera and the Beast of Toto-Rak. This evil must needs be cut from Ishgard's heart, but I fear my comrades do not realize how great a price may be extracted of us this time. When last we faced the beast of Toto-Rak, we had both a fallen Padjal and heartstones from the Pact of Gelmorra to bolster our quest. This time, we have neither, for naught but a spark of O-Rehn Fahn still lingers in Heart's Grace.

A cabal of void mages is bad enough by itself. A cabal of void mages with a void prince enamored with their leader is a force beyond the reckoning of most. And yet, it must be done, lest all of Ishgard fall beneath the torment of the creature my own people created. And full well I know it would not stop with Ishgard.

Tonight there is to be a raid upon the manor of House Severidenne, licensed and authorized by the Temple Knights of Ishgard based on my word, as a representative of the Stillglade Fane. I know not what we will find within that house, but the very stones seemed to weep with void energies when I gazed upon it some days past.

I apologize for the disjointed nature of this communication. For the lack of pleasantries. But I would have someone remember Florelle if I am not able to do so. In the eyes of her people, she was never anyone of much import. Yet, her life had meaning. It was precious. It should not have ended as it did.

I know not what will happen tonight, when we raid the House of Severidenne. Yet, I will choose to cling to the hope that, together, we may triumph over these evils, both old and new, as we have in the past. Hope and love are the light of all mankind. That light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not overcome it, for cannot understand what it has never known. In this, I will place my trust.

I want to write some grand closing for this letter, but I honestly cannot come up with one. I hope you are well. I hope you are not always carrying water everywhere. I hope that you are safe, too.

Yours truly,

Liadan

[knight-kat-blog]

This Means War

The Goblet, Rendezvous of Stars Mansion, Thanalan

Kiht’s feet slowly pressed against the hardwood floor as she sat up on the edge of her bed. Her groggy gaze examined the infirmary room with mild confusion, but the look soon faded from her face, and her attention turned to her legs.

She slowly put pressure on them as she stood. Her tentative movements betrayed her hesitation, but she continued in anticipation. Nothing happened. She hopped in place a few times as if testing her legs, but she didn’t wince or feel pain. She let out a sigh of relief, and her manner grew pensive.

Her head hung slightly low as she stood motionless. Moments passed before she drew a knife from her belt. Her casual, tribal clothes were all she wore to sleep, but even in safety, Kiht was always armed. She studied her blade - a clean, steel hunting knife with a handle made of ancient wood. A raptor eye insignia had been carved into the handle. Slowly, her head lifted with intent, and she slipped the blade back into its sheath on her belt.

She gathered a white linkpearl from her satchel bag left next to the bed then brought it to life with her own aether before speaking into it “Tefh, are you there?”

“Aye sis, I’m ‘ere. What do you need?”

“I need a specific set of my belongings brought to the Shroud,” Kiht said then paused. “And I need my raptors. Meet me in South Shroud in the Lower Paths, and bring Jahk, Arri and Kedha’a.”

“Must be some serious shite goin’ on for you,” Tefh responded.

“Indeed, shite I am ready to help put an end to.”

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Lower Paths, South Shroud

The forest greeted Kiht with its usual, consistent sounds. Birds chirped, frogs croaked and giant tortoises rumbled in the distance. The Lower Paths maintained an eerie stillness as much life could be heard, but not easily seen.

She stood in the open with an alert gaze, and a spear leaning on her shoulder. She watched the tree line as she awaited to see if the next Moon-keepers to emerge would be poachers or family. Figures approaching down the road soon answered her. Three Keeper women and one Keeper man with two raptors in tow came into view, and Kiht breathed a sigh of relief.

“Kiht, what’s goin’ on?” asked the only red-headed Keeper in the group. Jahk’s small stature contrasted her perpetually irritable expression.

The two raptors let out high-pitched calls and dashed to Kiht’s side to greet her. Their small winglets flapped wildly as they bowed their heads to the touch of her hands. She pulled two small fish from her satchel, and then gave each raptor a tasty reward for their loyalty. “I missed you two,” she muttered softly to them then regarded her cousin.

“A friend of mine has been attacked. I am dealing with smart voidsent, and they are far more organized than your typical horde.” Kiht closed her eyes and took a deep breath, but all that came of her moment of pause was a scowl. “I will not stand for it,” she growled. “There are many reasons to -hate- this group of voidsent, but it became personal now.”

“We’re with you, cousin, I brough’ the war paint. Let’s murder these monsters!” Jahk interjected.

“You want to drag the family into this?” Kedha’a added.

“Shut it, male,” Jahk blurted out as she swiftly turned to face Ked, and just as Kiht opened her mouth to speak.

“-You- shut it,” he responded.

“Silence for a Gods dammed tick!” Kiht shouted as she balled her fists. “I do -not- want the family dragged into this. This is not just some gathering of voidsent in the Shroud. It is a group that infests a noble house of Ishgard. We are not going to just -raid- it or some shite like that.”

The four Keepers all regarded Kiht with surprised faces. Though Ked’s face could only be guessed at due to his ash mask that he almost always wore.

“I brought you here not to help me fight, but to bring my raptors, pass me my things and relay a message to Matron Kihra. They may be tracking me, so I cannot stay with the family. I think it best that the family resettle to one of the secret points.”

“Nay, let us ‘elp you. That’s what families are for. I’ve killed voidsent before!” Jahk eagerly objected as she leaned forward to emphasize her willingness.

“Nay, Jahk. Our family needs to rebuild. We have taken enough losses fighting the battles of others,” Kiht responded as she crossed her arms.

“Then why do you fight the battles of others?” Ked asked in his usual, calm tone.

“Because this was never supposed to be a battle. It began as a mere favor to a friend, and it was never supposed to be dangerous. But it grew into the shite it has now, and what kind of reputation would the Jakkya gain if we backed out of something just because it got dangerous?” Kiht shook her head several times. “Nay, I started on this without the consent of the family, so I will not suddenly drag them into it just because things have gotten dangerous.”

The four Keepers regarded Kiht quietly as a moment passed. Eventually, Arri took a step forward. The lengthy bangs of her black hair nearly shrouded the concern in her blue eyes.  “Even if you started on it alone, you don’t ‘ave to finish it alone,” she said without hiding the worry in her voice.  

Kiht grew a slight smile as her gaze settled on the youngest of the five Keepers present. “Worry not; I am not alone in this. I will count on you four to watch over the family.”

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East Shroud greeted Kiht and her raptors much like South Shroud. The usual cacophony of bird and insect noises were like many kinds of chimes and bells all ringing to different influences. The many paths through the area of the forest were starting to over-grow with weeds, and the Keeper passed scarce Gridanian patrols. The tension once held in the air by the presence of the Garleans occupying Castrum Orriens was gone, and this patch of the Shroud no longer presented itself as a potential warzone.

After a time of traveling, she spotted the familiar sight of glowing fungi and manipulated plant-like structures of Little Solace. The thick canopies of East Shroud kept the area dim which made the glow of the Sylph settlement appear brighter. Fireflies hovered around the settlement, dancing through the air akin to how the Sylphs themselves often interacted with each other.

Once Kiht closed a respectable distance between her and the settlement’s entrance, she glanced to each of her raptors and spoke to them in a series of clicks in whistles while relieving them of their saddle-packs. The raptors moved off as they understood the Huntspeak commands. The larger Shroud raptor dashed off to encircle the Sylph settlement while the smaller grass raptor moved the opposite direction.

Kiht drew out a dark object from her satchel belt - a wooden whistle shaped like a bird of prey. She blew on it gently to create a shrill whistle that stood out from the sounds of birds and bugs, and after pocketing the whistle, she held out her arm like an inviting tree branch.

Moments later, a small falcon landed on Kiht’s arm. The Keeper smiled and met the gaze of his yellow irises with her blue ones. The two stared at each other for uncounted moments. Sounds of the forest were drowned out by her focus on Haru, and his focus on her rendered him motionless like a statue.

No commands were spoken, but something unheard and unseen prompted Haru to open his wings and lift off into the air with purpose. Kiht watched him fly off beyond the canopies as she lowered her arm. The sounds of the forest soon returned to her notice. She continued to the entrance of Little Solace after picking up several of her packs.

Two Sylphs tasked with watching the entrance regarded Kiht with their expressionless faces. Their dark eyes betrayed nothing, but the subtle motions they made as they hovered were dances of wariness. Kiht glanced to each Sylph but spoke no words. She halted and dropped her packs then unbuckled most of her armor.

The Keeper was free of all physical burdens besides her clothing. Her expression held a neutral tranquility, and she slowly raised her hand as if to examine it. Her motion was soon followed by the extending of her arm and subtle shifting of her hips. One foot stepped at an angle different from the other, and her lower legs crossed to send her into a slow twirl.

Kiht moved her arms as if they were gliding through water, her tail trailed behind her like a ribbon and her body shifted with each step and further twirling. Her graceful dance grew faster and faster, but moments later, she stopped. Her gaze returned to the Sylph guards.

“This one greets walking one”, one of the guards said while changing her hovering motions to a less subtle series of movements that betrayed more energy and less fear.

“This walking one is known walking one,” the other guard added while motioning in a similar dance.

“Indeed, I have trade to offer. I would like to trade goods for other goods and trade for shelter,” Kiht responded.

The Sylphs turned to each other then back to Kiht. “For shelter, walking one must speak to elder one.”

The Miqo’te bowed her head. “Very well.”

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Little Solace was crowded with Sylphs, and the biggest open space was the path that lead through the settlement. The social plant-people danced about, turning mundane daily tasks into displays of art and expression. However, Kiht found the one isolated corner of the settlement between two rock formations near a small river. She unpacked a large assortment of gear and objects from three travel packs then took a cross-legged seat on the grassy ground.

As Kiht’s raptors patrolled a respectable distance from Little Solace to avoid scaring the Sylphs, Haru circled in the sky above to keep a bird’s eye view on the settlement and surrounding area. The Keeper huntress unpacked a whetstone to sharpen her steel hunting knife and trio of spears. Tedious bells later, she found her two knives made of mythril. She poured an aether crystal concoction onto the blades to help the whetstone sharpen the special metal.

Once the weapons were done being tended, she crushed red berries in a small ceramic bowl with a finger-shaped stone and collected river water to dilute the substance which took on the color of blood. As she let the substance settle in the bowl, she soaked a cloth in river water then wiped clean the black paint markings around her eyes.

When finished, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the calm-flowing river water. Her clear face looked back at her with an appearance far more innocent than she was. Her short hair and unmarked face stirred memories in her mind.

“I remember you,” she mused quietly to herself. “I thought I had not changed, but you… You feel like a lifetime ago.”

She pushed herself away from the water’s edge then sat in front of her bowl of red paint made from Soldier’s Sore berries. Her fingers dipped into the substance and slowly drew out a tiny portion. She regarded the paint for a moment with a pensive gaze.            

“Whatever is left of my old innocence must remain buried a while longer,” she declared to herself then began to apply the paint to her face. “By the light of the Moon, and amidst the sacred Twelveswood, I swear to you, Menphina, that I will serve you as a warrior,” she prayed with a determined tone. “This has gone far beyond Verad.”

Once the markings were done, she let the poisonous paint dry on her skin. Fortunately, it was only poisonous if consumed. Next, she took her mythril knives and unscrewed the endcaps of the handles. She affixed a Sylph glamor into a slot inside each cap then screwed them back onto the knives. She slipped the blades into twin sheathes on her lower back, and they suddenly disappeared from sight. She repeated the task with four throwing knives and sheathed her only unglamored steel knife on her thigh boot.

Kiht took up her double-bladed spear and disassembled it back into twin batons that she slipped into holsters on her back. Her other two spears were retrieved from their place on the ground then bound together with twine. She slung them over her shoulder like she would another pack then gathered up the rest of her stuff.

The Sylphs in the settlement continued their usual antics as Kiht made her way out. After a sun’s preparation, she was no longer in need of their shelter. The Keeper paced out the entrance to Little Solace then let out a whistle soon after. Moments passed before Dirk and Estoc rushed to her position.

She secured the packs to the raptors’ saddles then continued onward down the path in which she came. It was time to return to Vylbrand. 

@dubiousduskwight  

[ayafoxheart]

[When the World Comes Crushing - Verad Bellveil Versus the World, Part 4]

Aya’s personal reflections after a recent meeting with Verad in Ishgard.

“I will have your very worst drink, in your very smallest serving.”

The words had been memorable enough, but the manner of the Duskwight gentleman and the endearing charm of his grinning features had locked the moment forever in the barmaid’s memory.

How many strange people had she met? It was impossible to say, but fewer had seemed stranger than he upon first glimpse. The tattered clothing still made every effort to appear distinguished. The sonorous voice filled with a passion for the absurd wares he tried, so often in vain, to sell beneath the richly decorated dome of the Quicksand.

Whether he understood them to be absurd was impossible to tell: he sold them with such conviction an energy that the willing accomplice could come to believe the “misprinted” books, bereft of text, or the various innocuous objects labeled “plot devices” to be of some curious and intangible value for their very dubiousness.

To her, a mere barmaid at the establishment, there had never been a doubt as to what the dubious gentleman was truly selling: his charm, a moment of amusement, and a memory of the absurd the purchaser would find even more enduring if matched with a concrete purchase that found its way to a mantelpiece or display shelf somewhere far too prominent for the nature of the piece itself. It was simple, momentary happiness. In this they shared.

She’d never obscured her admiration, or the sheer and simple pleasure she took in his routine. It would be unfair to refer to him as a fixture: he was a whirlwind of chaos periodically sweeping through the enclosed confines of the establishment, and grudgingly tolerated by the Proprietress.

But this was a retreat into warm memory. A moment of cowardice in the face of abject fear in the present.

Aya’s cold hands were thrust deep into the pockets of her coat. She wandered the surface of Ishgard, moving blindly through the periphery of the Pillars where the sentries would not usher her along to a more appropriate neighborhood. 

She could see his broad grin spreading from ear-to-ear.

Was he happy? He seemed it, at the time. Was she happy? She seemed it too. There’s a simple pleasure to be taken in good company, friendly faces, and a recurring sense of welcome. They were both welcome, even cheered in their own ways within the  Quicksand–that circumspect little abode of spice and ale beneath the raging sun and chilling moons of the Thanalan desert. 

She could see the smooth and practiced gesture as he offered his pitch. The reactions of the tavern’s patrons either grinning amusement, or befuddled confusion.

Had he been but a joke? A caricature? His words rung powerfully through her mind, heavy with an angry passion she had never heard before, “I’m just a caricature…”

Maybe it was true. To some at least; she’d never seen it that way. Yes, he was ridiculous. But this was cultivated. Intentional. Part of an act, part of his charm, part of the true nature of the wares he sold. Junk mongers are among the most interesting and endearing people Aya had ever known. And he was more than a junkmonger, he had refined a dimension of the art to the complete perfection of the absurd. It was a joy simply to see it in action.

“Verad…” She balled her hand tightly in her pocket as she struggled to hold back another rush of tears. “You’re not a caricature. You’re a gift.”

She’d wished she’d had those words in the moment earlier that evening. That she’d found the right expression to share everything she felt: There are too few genuinely good people in this world, and he’d always been one.

Now she found herself looking at the houses that lined the avenue she walked. Their rich masonry rose majestically from ornate foundations. They had withstood the test of time: standing as firmly against the blasts of Coerthas winter as against the blasts of Dravanian fire. These were the homes of the most fortunate denizens of the Tower City. And there had been a time when she’d dreamed of being among them.

Contact with those who lived within had long ago disabused her of such ambitions. Or was it mere jealousy? Did she not still jump at any opportunity to mingle with them?

She could recall how Verad had looked when she first saw him in Ishgard: the absurd Ishgardian attire, completely out of sync with his grinning visage.  

She took one slow stride after another. The heels of her boots a lonely sound amidst the steady wind on an otherwise silent night. She’d not stopped moving since she’d left the cafe, having watched Verad vanish into the night. No doubt he was somewhere now, pining, fretting, and drowning in that combination of frustration and hopelessness that had seemed so close to overwhelming him.

Had he truly wished to live here himself? Of all things he could have made his life’s dream? Among these vicious, tradition-bound families who cared naught for the world as it truly was? She had once been beside herself at the thought, when the strange double-sealed letter had arrived for her at the Quicksand:

The letter began, “You are most cordially invited…”  and ended, “Dubiously Yours, Verad Deauxbois”

He had sought her help to claim his title; to become the very thing she most reviled: an ennobled Ishgardian. Still, she had accepted the invitation. She had returned to Ishgard when no other force: not family, not friends, not lost love could compel her. She had returned, for him. Why? She hadn’t been able to answer the question to his face, but she knew precisely why.

Because there are so few genuinely good people in this world.

Because she wanted to prove to him that he wasn’t a joke to her.

Because the two of them shared a unique bond as peddlers of the simplest of wares: happiness.

His words from that evening lashed her again, “I insist. I will not hear again how I am ‘better off’ now that my dreams are over.”

The accusation had been a crushing one. She was one, no doubt, of many of his friends who had offered him just the same thought. She’d never wanted him to become an Ishgardian noble, even when she helped him in the effort. And there she was, to celebrate in some small way, his fall from grace, his stumble from the path he had dreamed of. As if the misery of failure was not company enough, he’d had to endure those he’d come to trust and appreciate telling him exactly how he should feel, and exactly where his place was.

She wiped the tears away.

His title, won, and stolen away.

The woman of whom he dreamed had come so close, but he’d lost both the favor of her family, and the delight of her heart.

Now the last woman he’d give anything to keep safe had found her way directly into harm through his own failure.

Aya carried the ghastly reminder, borne within a simple unopened jewelry box. She hadn’t seen it, nor had any desire to, but knew he could not keep it. She’d prayed for the Miqo'te dancer, Mheena, over and over again. But the prayers had gone unheeded.

“Of course, of course, by all means, my dearest!  Look, peruse, and shop to your heart’s content!  I am quite confident you shall find just what you are looking for” She could see his expression as if it had been just yesterday. His tunic finer than when she’d first met him. He’d had a real stroke of luck, and found his way into just enough wealth to establish himself with a hint of respectability. He’d moved from a rug in Pearl Lane, to a real shoppe, of sorts. 

He’d been so proud.

“Having failed at everything, they just think, 'by next Lightsday he’ll be back at the Quicksand’. That I’ll just be the same ridiculous man once more, and everything will be good.”

Had Verad not deserved more? To be seen as a man with dreams, passions, and desires of his own? Did he feel abandoned now - surrounded by friends who would aid him in helplessness, but abandon him if he dared to help himself?  

Tears blotted the layer of fresh evening snow at her feet.

The Severidenne would pay. The Monsters of the Void with whom they worked, would be banished or destroyed. The members of the family who were still mortal, would learn the limits of their mortality. With the depths of their crimes revealed there could be no doubt. With the number of heroes assembling for the cause, there could be no escape. On this she steeled herself.

But, even with this, what would be left of him…

Cruelty could snuff out even the brightest lights - and find victory, even in defeat.

[anstarra]

Stones Left Unturned

There are some who say that silence is music to the ears, and indeed Anstarra believes this to be true. When it comes as the end to cries of pain or the strident screeching of an infant then it is the silence of relief, of an end to duress. When it manifests in a shocked stilling of the words which spill from the lips of an adversary in the social arena - or the more terminal cessation of a foe’s warcry - then it is the triumphant, gloating silence of victory. And when it swirls around, enveloping you in much-needed surcease, shielding you from stress and distraction… why, then it is the silence of peace. Too infrequently heard.

Other forms of silence exist, however. Ones.. less welcome.

The silence which descends following the crashing cacophony of a man’s body passing through an old, half-rotted wooden table is less welcome. It was not the silence of victory. It was the silence of a hundred suddenly-closed doors. Anstarra can see it in the faces, suddenly shuttered. In the hunched turning-away, the shifting of chairs, the distrustful, fearful glances. In the clear-cut, painfully visible fact that her efforts have come to an end.

That’s where whores go, ain’t it?

She curses, turning on her heel to stride directly from the pub. Her knuckles smart, the memory of impacting with the obnoxious man’s teeth - an immediate and utterly necessary rejoinder to such ill-considered words - still freshly imprinted upon them. The fact that she feels the harshness of the sting despite her punching gloves, despite her own hardiness, is a testament to her failure.

The simple fact is, people enjoy a GOOD fight.

“Bloody waste of time…” She hears the bitterness in her own voice, and recognizes its roots. Her desire to help… not just for Matthieu and their collective cause, not just for the downfall of the Severidennes, not even just for the uprooting and destruction of Ner-

…

..of those stones, and the last remnants of that horror. No, not just for these things, but rather for something closer to her heart, to the root of the sympathy that she feels toward lady Faetrix Severidenne (despite her having broken Verad’s heart, the bitch) and to her shared belief with Nihka that love in all its forms is meant to be given without inhibition. The conviction, closely-held, that women (and men, yet the galling double-standards of society (especially Ishgard’s) meant that women were far more frequently concerned) should be treated with respect and dignity and not exploited simply for having a predilection for the physical.

It boggles Anstarra that a service so sought-after, so truly desirable and necessary is so reviled. On some levels, of course, she gets it. Take anything too far, and, well, it goes too far. Taboo adds to pleasure. Humiliation, the fear of exposure… there are many spices in this particular stew. But they are meant to be games! Any degradation meant to be simulated… something to enjoy and then wash off and walk away from, secure in yourself and your own sense of self-worth. Instead, far too often, the cycles of abuse and desperation and cruelty that lead to the sort of environment wherein the monstrous excesses of people like the Severidennes can take root.

The shutting down of places like the Caged Bird is a necessary thing. A first step toward something better. Part of her wonders if Matthieu is really the champion needed for this cause… does he care more about propriety than the well-being of the victims? She doesn’t know him well enough yet. But… she trusts her friends, and most especially trusts Nihka, whose endorsement of the parliamentarian is all Anstarra needs to throw her efforts behind him.

Enthusiastically. Rather too enthusiastically. As it turns out.

No one likes a bully, and far too many are intimidated by a strong woman. This, she knows. She’s played the vulnerable maid, the easily-picked-up-and-carried-off wench… whatever is needed to spur and excite. There is nothing wrong with a little artifice… Problems only arise when you break character. And tonight, punching a man’s entire mouthful of teeth into his digestive tract while sending it and the rest of him through a railing (of hard wood, sturdy construction) off a rise and through a table (whose wood, it has been mentioned, was markedly less sturdy)... Yes, this was definitely breaking character.

But it had felt damned good.

Back home, then, to seek some other way to be of assistance. To take down those nasty, void-tainted nobles, save the girl, save the man, save the OTHER girls, and stop that bastard Hearns from summoning Neruhm back to its full…

…

...fuck.

[dubiousduskwight]

The evening’s sales had been neither good or bad. The cast of the Quicksand had categorized itself as it always did. Most had ignored him. A few were polite. Fewer still bought his wares. He could not recall which. They hadn’t mattered.

There was nothing in it, though. The triumph of sophistry over good sense, the look of confusion as he listed his wares, the dance around the population as they accepted trash as treasure: all of these were hollow. 

Well, he thought, as he returned to his estate. That was to be expected. He had been dealt blow after blow, hadn’t he? Love lost, title taken, old memories returned. None of it had been pleasant, and none of it made him better. He gained no new and improved character from these trials - indeed, on balance, he had become worse. Time, however, would ease this problem, the wounds still fresh. He would appreciate the Quicksand again, sooner or later. He would fumble, haltingly, in front of attractive roegadyn women as he always did, and now he knew why. He would begin ridiculous schemes which entangled him in trouble and required his friends to help him out, but which were ultimately quite harmless. He would be the smiling old fool, with no one ever quite sure if he was clever or senile. He would be better this way, if he stayed in Ul’dah for long enough. Just Verad Bellveil versus the world, one ridiculous sale at a time. Everyone thought so, he was sure. At his front steps, his foot nudged against the box as he searched his pockets for the key to the house, lost among his inventory and samples. Small, and made of a fine, polished mahogany. It could reasonably hold a necklace. It did not bear the mark of having arrived through the moogle post.

Too many seconds passed before he decided that it was best not to ignore it, and that he should not turn the key, admit himself inside, and leave it for the rubbish. He was sure of its purpose, and if he ignored it, perhaps he would be better off. He knelt down, picked up the box, opened it at its hinge, and reviewed the contents. There he remained for too many seconds more. He closed it, set it back on the step, turned aside to his lawn, and retched. A thimbleful of qiqirn firewater, the evening’s meal of shrew-on-a-stick, and his own bile. When it seemed he had stopped, he remembered the copper skin and the dark violet color of the fingernail, and then continued, his head bowed, beard matted, and eyes red. When he was finished, he stepped into his estate, washed his face, and gathered his belongings. He contacted Miss Foxheart. One bell later, he was on the next, cheapest airship to Ishgard, his daggers at his belt.

[liadanswhisper]

The Price of Inaction

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." -- Edmund Burke Liadan could smell the water long before she could hear it, the scent traveling up the tunnel dug into the very heart of the stone beneath the great stump that marked the entrance to the Stillglade Fane.  A sense of hushed anticipation permeated the air around her, bolstered by the near-silent footfalls of her own booted feet, the moss and loam beneath absorbing almost all sound.  After what seemed like an age, she finally came to the bridge, the tinkling chime of the water itself having alerted her steps before.  A formal bow to the Hearer by the door - a woman named Biddy - and she stepped inside for the first time in nearly a year.

In a way, it was as though she'd never left.  Not a thing appeared changed, which shouldn't have surprised her.  The Fane had persisted across centuries in this very spot.  A mere year was nothing in those terms.  She veered to the left once inside, passing through the door that only those admitted to the Fane were permitted to enter. Down a long series of hallways dug deep beneath Gridania itself, she finally found herself in a small study where the Padjal she'd come to see awaited her. Sinking into a formal bow, more out of instinct and habit than anything else, she finally spoke, "Thank you for agreeing to speak to me, wise one."

------------------------ "How can you be sure it is the same creature?"

E-Sumi-Yan's childlike features were drawn into an expression of intense thought as he stared at Liadan from behind his desk.  His pale, almost colorless eyes held reservations but not, she thought, complete disbelief. "My first indication was when Heart's Grace began to scream. All the way in Kugane, on Hingashi, past Othard itself, and my staff was so filled with fear that I initially could not separate its fear from my own. On and on it screamed, and I could discern aught but fear and the occasional muttering of, 'He returns, he returns!'  So great was its fear that I returned - all the way from Othard - via teleportation, worried that the Shroud itself might be alight." Liadan paced as she related her actions, lacing her hands together at some points, gesturing descriptively in others, "I went to the Hedgetree, where we broke the hold it had on its victims.  Where...where O-Rehn sacrificed himself to ensure no child would ever again be misborn, as he was."  She turned her green eyes towards the Padjal across from her, placing her hands on the desk, "I spoke to O-Rehn, wise one, as I would speak to one of the more coherent Elementals. Between the two of us, we were able to calm the staff's screaming and gain yet more information. Heart's Grace said the creature had been carried north, to the land of ice and snow.  The staff said that he - the beast of Toto-Rak - was awake again.  That people had already fed him sacrifices."

She pushed away, beginning to pace once more, "I immediately left for Ishgard, for there is a Temple Knight there who helped us in the past when the Beast was free and loose in the Shroud."  She pursed her lips together, "'Twas he who related to me that he had begun having dreams - almost the selfsame day as Heart's Grace began to scream - of Toto-Rak. Nightmares, really.  Which is not surprising, as he was one of the adventurers who actually ventured there to destroy the creature.  While we spoke, another veteran of that conflict arrived - a Miqo'te alchemist named Nikha. She, too, had encountered the Beast of Toto-Rak, and she, too, had begun having dreams about Toto-Rak and the beast that haunted its halls. But, that was not all..."

Liadan pulled out a rolled up parchment and held it out to the Padjal, waiting until E-Sumi-Yan unfolded it before speaking, "Nihka brought me that. As you can see, it's a leverequest. It appears that some unnamed parties hired a group of people to retrieve stones from the heart of Toto-Rak, and then smuggle them into Ishgard to be brought to parties unnamed.  Someone ordered this, wise one." She took a seat in the chair she had thusfar ignored, leaning forward, her hands clasped, "Someone deliberately set out to awaken this creature.  And it could only have been someone who knew what he was, what he did.  That list is quite short."

"You are certain it was not one of the adventurers who fought him in the first place?"  E-Sumi glanced up from the parchment, his expression now grim, his pale eyes fixed on the Hyur's face.  Liadan shook her head in reply, "I can't be certain of anything, but..."  She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, "I think it unlikely for a variety of reasons.  The most obvious being that those who fought the Beast of Toto-Rak are aware that he is not controllable.  Whoever did this either didn't know that, or didn't care what havoc he would wreak."  She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them to look across the desk at E-Sumi, "The most likely suspect would appear to be Hearns.  I believe he may be in Ishgard, and this...this would be something he would consider.  He is eaten up with hatred towards the man who got him imprisoned in the first place." "That is true, and yet...I doubt he would have the funds to pay for such an endeavor." The Padjal looked down at the parchment thoughtfully, "Perhaps he decided to sell it to a heretic?  Or someone else dabbling in dark magic."

Liadan nodded slowly, her eyes shifting to the parchment briefly before turning back to the Padjal before her, "That is my thought, as well.  Someone with wealth wanted those stones.  Someone called him forth, and now...all of Ishgard may be in jeopardy."

E-Sumi-Yan steepled his fingers together, his elbows resting on the desk, "Ishgard has long dealt with the scourge of dragon heretics.  They are not unversed in the art of rooting out dark forces and eliminating them. Gridania is not given to interfering in the lands of others, even allies."

She leaned forward, her brow furrowed as she gave the Padjal a surprised look, "We are not, it is true. But this is our sin. Ours. We created this creature. We allowed him to thrive. It was through both our action and inaction that he was able to torment so many, and lead to the deaths of still more. Ishgard has no comprehension of what they are dealing with. This is not a group of heretics, or brainwashed cultists.  This is fear and agony given form. The nightmare that lurks at the back of your mind that you cannot escape. He feeds on hopelessness and despair." She clapped a hand against her chest, "And WE have the ability to stop him. You know this, wise one. You know the one thing he fears above all else. They do not have this hope. We do, as well as the obligation to right what our wrongs have given birth to." ----------

"The problem is, the government of Ishgard is in flux."

E-Sumi stood next to a climbing vine, one he was carefully tending in the small, private garden they'd relocated to.  The discussion had gone on for hours, and at length, the Padjal invited the Hearer to walk with him as they debated back and forth the next course of action.

"I am not at all certain that they will even honor the pact we made. After all, the Temple Knights no longer hunt for Heretics in the Shroud, or anywhere else.  Indeed, their very foundations have been shaken.  It is not clear whether their new 'parliament' will even be open to the idea of a Gridanian Hearer hunting down those who dabble in the dark arts within their domain."

Liadan stood a few feet away, looking up through the tree branches, "We can't just do nothing, wise one."  She turned her head, her green eyes returning to the Padjal, "To do nothing is an action in and of itself."

"I know."  The words were breathed with a heavy sigh as E-Sumi placed his tools on the ground and straightened, turning towards the Hyur, a grim expression on his face, "Which is why I will sanction your actions in Ishgard. You will have all the backing the Fane can give you to hunt the Beast of Toto-Rak down, and end him. And to bring to justice those who brought him back into being. But...I fear it may not be enough."

The redhead crossed the clearing, dropping to one knee before the leader of her order, "Thank you. It will be enough. All I ever needed was to know that the Fane supported me. It doesn't matter if they don't believe me. I will find a way. I have to. So that others may live."

"Have a care, Liadan, that you do not spend your life too quickly or easily. Your past does not define you. You must not forever live to make amends for the actions of a terrified child."

[ayafoxheart]

Plus ça Change - Verad Bellveil Versus the World, Part 3

(Background Here)

(Based upon events occurring in Verad’s (@dubiousduskwight) Storyline)

How many times had she been here before? It was another evening of excitement and trouble. Neither of which her parents would approve. It ended in a dive bar, followed by a walk home filled with dread and perhaps, a hint of shame. There she stood, just outside the front door, head bowed, heart resigned.  There she pulled off her thigh-high boots, knowing that their steep heels would too-loudly announce her late-night return home.  It was already well past midnight.  She wiped the tears from her cheek with the un-torn sleeve of the leather jacket that clung tight to the sides of her figure.  

The break-in at the Caged Bird had gone both well and horribly wrong. In the short term Aya's place in the Tower City would be a dangerous one.  She couldn't say here and couldn't risk endangering her family. By necessity this would be a brief visit: recover her things, say another silent goodbye, and vanish into the shadow of the Ishgardian under-city.  

But she couldn't wipe the haunting events of that night away with the mere brush of a sleeve. She'd agreed to help Verad because she believed in him. But in the moment of danger, within the house of the enemy, he had seemed to snap: he abandoned the plan, he endangered her and the others, and then when she'd moved to slap some sense into him he had deflected her with a slash of his knife.

She could fault herself: she had intended to strike him with the palm, but in his madness he'd shown no hesitation to drawing her blood.  Even as he'd recovered his senses, she'd recoiled from his reach.  Who could blame her?  The confusion of the night still clung thick, but she knew she'd never forget that moment of terror in the dark alley behind the Caged Bird where she faced an ill-tempered Verad and his flashing knife.

In the present, she pushed the front door open as quietly as she should. Light feet stepped inside. She moved slow and careful as she mounted the stairs. This was was virtually indistinguishable from those not-so-distant teenage evenings: dressed for a night out on the town in a flirtatious little skirt, a cute leather jacket, and an array of glittering jewelry all intended to draw the eye.  Only the blood-soaked bandage tied tight around her upper right arm revealed anything untoward. The jacket had been sliced open, the flesh beneath gouged and still bleeding.

She had not expected the old sentry to still be at his old station.

Thule Lord Tharin: warrior, master of his house, father.  The old man had nearly wasted away under the crushing weight of failure and advancing age. His rule over his children had faltered and failed. The family of which he dreamed seemed to disperse and scatter. Only his eldest son had become that for which he'd hoped - and that one true son grew to detest a father who had abandoned all that had mattered to their Ala Mhigan forebears. He was a father who could never convince himself that he had done his best, but the return of his daughter, and the opening of the city's long-sealed gates had still breathed a fresh sense of life into his tired body. In recent days he had cut his long, matted hair - trimmed his gray beard.  

Now he had returned to the lonely post where he had sat many long vigils. His aim was always to catch his daughter upon her return from late night sojourns. There he would impress upon her the full seriousness of her transgressions. Their yelling argument would wake the family. Their conflict would tear them apart. He would never admit how deeply he worried for her safety. How the long hours of waiting were filled with the dread of her absence.

And what now? He found himself seated far across the main room of the inn. With the flick of his finger the low-beam of his lantern flared brighter into a dim spot-light that caught his daughter by surprise.

She flinched, the breath caught deep in her throat. Reflexively she steeled herself for his powerful, practiced glare, her heart pounded in her ears. In an instant she was again the rebellious, terrified teenager terrified of her father's reproach. The years that had passed, the freedom she had won, the name she had made for herself vanished in the sudden realization that he was there.

He knew all this. He knew the role he had played. He lifted his pipe and cupped the bowl with his fingers.  Striking a match, he puffed softly as the embers burned a soft amber within.  She did not move, frozen in place as if stunned.

He lowered the pipe and exhaled a deep sigh of relief.  His voice, when he spoke, was softened with age and wear.  It carried to the stairs with just enough force to be heard, but no longer held the authority to shake.  

"Thank the Twelve.  I thought I'd have to go out there and find you..."

The gentleness of his tone broke the spell. She turned her eyes toward him and offered a long stare.  He returned it silently, just watching her from his ruined throne. She nearly leapt from the stair, and hurried to him with an anxiousness that threatened the quietness of her mission.

He coughed, ever-so-slightly. "I'd over-heard just enough," he couldn't quite make eye-contact, but he seemed  to catch sight of the blood-soaked bandage.  "I knew you were up to something dangerous tonight, and I had to make sure you got home alright."  He turned relieved eyes back upon her, and pulled the pipe quickly to his mouth to seek its calm.

She didn't seem to know how to respond. A long moment passed as she just stared at him with wide-eyed surprised.  At last she leaned down to him, wrapping her arms around him in an affectionate embrace. "Father..." she sighed softly, tears welling within her eyes as conflicting emotions overwhelmed her.

He hesitantly wrapped one arm around her as best he could to return the gesture, "You're hurt." He commented as she leaned back from the hug. "Don't tell me that Duskwight friend of yours had anything to to with this?"

Verad had been staying at the inn for some time. Though her family had initially regarded him with suspicion, his charming manner had a way of softening the hardest of hearts with the warmth of affection. She flinched at the question, daring not to answer it honestly. Her eyes grew more worried as she hesitated; she'd never been able to lie to him, and he'd see right through her at a time like this.

"I see..." the old man sighed. "Well, I am sure he protected you as best he could." He nodded to himself, as if confirming the comforting truth for his own sake. "I know you've found loyal friends."

Her heart cried out, but she struggled to hold back the truth that ached inside. Verad's own knife had been responsible, but she'd never admit it: not to her father, not to her friends.

Struggling, she offered only a meek nod in reply, "I have..."

The old man turned his head as he regarded his daughter. Old instincts die hard. He could offer a thousand words of rebuke and advice, knowing full well that her behavior would put her in danger (of which he did not know the half). That she could be safe, secure, and surrounded by family if she just listened to what he said. But that wasn't why he was here. He'd convinced himself of that, hadn't he? He did his best to suppress the accusatory look that came so naturally to his features at this hour.  

Instead, he changed the subject. "Kael stopped by earlier this evening, looking for you."  

She swallowed hard at the mention of her eldest brother, guilt swelling within her breast.

"He had hopes of speaking to you alone, today.  He said it was wonderful that you'd been to visit the children, and they were loving the toys you gave them. But, he said, he had something he wanted to talk to you about privately."  He narrowed his eyes somewhat, as if trying to guess a hidden truth. He slipped the pipe stem back into his mouth, "I'm supposing it had something to do with Gyr Abania."

She deflected her eyes as her expression fell with guilt. "I'm sorry that I didn't get to see him again."  She shook her head before looking back, "But I can't help him with that. My concern is far closer to home right now."

"Ala Mhigo is your home." Replied the father reflexively, his voice rising in volume and sternness.

Her eyes locked on his as she pulled her lips tight. She slipped easily into practiced defiance, "My home is where you are."

He tensed his jaw. Old habits die hard. An expression of contrition briefly crossing his features, but he didn't speak.

It was enough. Maybe he wouldn't press her this time. Her voice softened, "I'm sorry," she said with a breath of regret, "But I have to leave.  There's just no other way."

"I know that." He answered flatly. "You've had the look of a frightened fox since you came through the door."

His eyes turned to the bandage on her arm, "But you can't leave this untreated. It is a long journey to Ul'dah.  Let me get your mother..." He moved to start the difficult rise from his seat.

"No," she interrupted emphatically, "this is hard enough already, don't wake her."

He paused mid-way and looked back at her with concern. Buried deep within that look was an implicit threat to overrule her. To do what he thought best regardless of the consequences. But he had come to know better by now, at least for the night.

"Very, well. Then allow me." He finished the struggle to stand.

She hesitated, but knew he was right. Verad's darting knife had cut into the flesh of her bicep, the pain was at times excruciating and she continued to bleed through the make-shift bandage that had been applied.  She nodded to him.

He reached for her arm, carefully untying the cloth wound around it.  He cringed at the sight of what was beneath. It was only a flesh wound, but the cut had sliced straight-through the leather of her jacket, and had gouged her arm and muscle.  It hurt him deeply to see his daughter so wounded. How much had he given during his life to protect her? Why did he always seem to fail when it mattered most.

He struggled for a moment but managed, "We must stitch this closed. If we don't, it could become infected or worse. I hope you know someone who can heal this properly soon, but we can't let it wait for you to get there."  

He moved with considerable effort, supporting himself against the bar as he moved around it. "Your mother keeps a kit under the bar for this.  Just in case someone gets out of hand down here..."

While he fetched the first-aid kit, Aya struggled to pull her right arm free of the tight-fitting jacket. She cringed in pain with the motions before resting the elbow of her now bare arm on the table.  She looked away, trying to hide the full nature of her wound from her own eyes. She could still see Verad, and that casual flick of his blade.

Her father returned to his chair, letting out a breath of exertion as he settled back down.  He set the kit upon the table, and thumbed it open.  He knew what he was doing, he'd dressed numerous such wounds in his lifetime, and many far worse.  But this is one he'd have much preferred to never have seen. Still, he knew, with effort he could close it. And in time it would heal.

He girded his thoughts, trying to focus purely on the matter at hand. She'd want tight stitching to prevent scarring.  Even if she may seek magical healing soon, if he botched this it could be too late. An open wound was too dangerous, and someone had to treat it.  Piece by piece he extracted the elements of the kit, setting those unnecessary to the side, while preparing those he would need.

"Still fighting to protect your friends, are you?" He commented without looking at her, while picking from a small selection of needles.  "Some things never change."

She flicked her eyes quickly towards him.  "I suppose..."  she answered meekly, afraid to fully meet his gaze.

"It always worried your mother, you know."  He open the lid a small cylinder.  He'd been shown how to use this unusual device. It would heat the needle without the use of a flame.  

His daughter continued to watch his eyes, glancing only momentarily at his preparations. She'd overheard them talking about her fighting as a child. It wasn't often, but it always seemed to end with somebody hurt. "And you?"

He paused at the question, taking in an audible breath as he set the cylinder aside to do its work.  His fingers opened a container of salve, prepared by her mother.

"It made me proud."  He admitted, earnestly.  She looked at him wide-eyed and astonished.  He dipped his finger into the medicinal ointment, "This is going to sting." He stated matter-of-factually.  He began to apply it, as gently as he could manage. Warm and joyful memories of his cheerful little girl clouded his mind as he treated the grown-up version.  She cringed and bit down hard to avoid crying out at the intensity of the stinging pain.

"Though, I think if I'd known you'd still be up to it at this age I'd have been more worried."

He looked up at her, but she'd turned away.  She was trying her best to not think about something else.

He carried on, "How did you ever get that name, anyway?" He extracted the sterilized needle, and threaded it. His aged fingers, once so strong and powerful, still moved with careful precision.

"What name?" She asked innocently, though she knew full well to what he was referring.

"Foxheart." He answered, his eyes sharply focused as he carefully tied the thread off.  It was the first time she'd heard him use that name- and it sounded beyond strange from his lips.

She gave him time to finish before answering. "For a while, in the Shroud, I ran with a pack of wolves.  They came to trust me, but knew I was neither as brave nor as strong as they were."

Her father nodded at the answer. "Well, I certainly can't imagine you as a wolf." He set the needle down, taking another look at her with eyes filled with memory.

She swallowed, wondering just what her father would think of her if he knew it all.  Then again, he had lived his life on the battlefield, and navigated the treacheries and terror of the King of Ruin.  Only the Twelve knew what compromises he had made in his time.

He poured brandy from an open bottle into an empty tumbler that rest on the table.  "At least the Ishgardians make a decent brandy." He slid the glass to her, "Trust me when I say you're going to want that."

She accepted the glass, drinking its contents in one quick shot before continuing. "Though I wasn't as strong, I did find my place there. They came to see me as clever, quick, and careful. I think they thought it was amusing: like a fox among wolves."

He nodded thoughtfully, while dabbing a cloth in the brandy. "Truly?" He asked rhetorically, "Well, I happen to think the fox suits you well."

She'd have sworn he smirked, "You've your mother's beauty, and my foolishness I fear." Taking the spirit-soaked cloth he began to rub the wound and the area around it.  

She took in a sharp breath, cringing at the words and the sting of alcohol. She had no idea how to respond to his speaking like this. Once upon a time he had shown her such affection, but that was so long ago. Had she really only known harshness and regret? Memories of their closeness came pouring forth in a fountain of sentimental yearning.

"Here," he offered her a wooden peg from the kit. "You're going to want to bite down on this.  If you don't, you'll wake the entire house." The gesture and statement hurt the man far more than he'd ever admit. He hated this. But someone had to do it, and better him than anyone else.  With effort he could close the wound, but he knew only time could heal it.

The father steeled himself for that which he was dreading. It had been hard enough to look upon his daughter's wound. Harder still to steady himself to pierce her tender skin again and again with the painful steel of the needle. Every fiber of him rebelled at the thought.

She took the pin of wood, and set it between her teeth. She bit down.  Her chest began to rise further and faster with deep, worried breaths of anticipation. He tried to ignore her fear. His eyes focused. He'd use the best technique he had learned. It would take longer, but the result would be more reliable, and heal cleaner. Every stitch independent, close together. This had to be done right. Never had it seemed to matter more.

A moment later the needle first pierced her sensitive flesh. Reflexively her teeth bore down on the softer wood between them. It was more than the needle. Tears began to stream from her eyes.

He paid careful mind to his work. It had been a long time since he had treated such a wound, but clever fingers still retained their muscle memory. Each stitch individually tied off, was made close to the one before.  It was intricate, grueling work that seemed to stretch for an eternity under the dim lantern light of the quickly vanishing night.

Neither spoke, and both were exhausted as he finished tying off the final stitch.  He set the needle aside, and returned to the balm which he applied to the now-closed wound.  Her jaw finally relaxed. She set aside the wooden pin, now indelibly marked by her teeth.

"I'm sorry..." he said, "I know how terribly this must have hurt."

What he could never know was how much more painful it had been knowing who was responsible, and how much worse that memory would remain.

She breathed deep and tired. Long, deep, and exhausted breaths that seemed to sum the entire evening. "Thank you."

He nodded, biting his lower lip in an expression she often mimicked when stressed. But he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

"Fierce and tough. That's my daughter."  He stated with a nod, before moving to reassemble the kit, putting the pieces away one at a time.  

She lifted her eyes, staring off into the distance.  He poured himself a drought of brandy, and took it stiffly.  

"If I ever find the bastard who did this to you, I'm going to give them the drubbing of a lifetime." He announced in a fatherly manner.

She turned toward him, silent for a moment.  She knew exactly who it was, and hoped he would never find out. "I know you will..." she said at long last, "You've always protected me. Even when you haven't realized it.  But, I'm afraid its worse this time..."

"What do you mean?" He snapped the kit shut.

"Voidsent."  She answered with a single word full of foreboding menace.

"Those monsters in children's stories?" He asked, incredulously.

"As real as dragons." She answered flatly.  "And there's one after my friends and I."

His expression fell grimly.  "Aya..."

She turned her eyes quickly toward him, "You've protected me my whole life.  You've protected all of us." She had quickly drawn a long, cylindrical device from a small pouch on her belt.  "Right now you have to think about the entire family, and not just me. Protect everyone.  Mother, uncle, all of the children here. They're counting on you. I have to help my friends stop these people."  

He nodded, eyeing the object curiously. It was a magitek beacon, one she'd acquired long ago. It had aided her escape from the city and on many adventures since.

"At the press of this switch it will shine with bright light.  If you -ever- think there may be something dangerous nearby, you shine this at it.  The monster we've encountered seems to be afraid of light, and it may be enough to buy you and others the time to get away."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Do you understand?" She asked.  Running away was never a style he'd admit to, even if he had done just that again, and again over his life.  "Shine this light at the monster... got it." He said, as though he understood more fully than he did.

She took out a card, with a couple of names written on it.  "These are two Dragoons, one a former Dragoon, to contact if there is -any- sign of trouble." Her tone had become quicker, she struggled to remain calm at the thought of the danger she could have already brought upon her own family.

Her father nodded, regarding the card carefully, "Orrin Halgren, and V'aleera..." he paused at the second name, "V'aleera?" he repeated, "Why does that sound so familiar?"

"You knew her when she was a child, she grew up right here."

"Ah... the Miqo'te girl," a hint of a smile crept across his lips as he remembered, "and she rose all the way to Dragoon?"  

Aya nodded, "The finest." He smiled. The city seemed a little brighter at the thought.

"I have to get my things and leave. I can't stay here, I'll put you all of you in danger."

Her father nodded. He was still looking at the card. His expression grew resigned. All her life he had wanted nothing more than to protect her. To keep her close and safe. There was nothing he wouldn't do, nothing he would flinch at, nothing that could stand in his way, save death itself. Now helplessness gripped him.

He didn't look up. She slipped quietly upstairs, visiting her own room and that recently used by one Verad. She gathered their remaining belongings she could, hefting a pair of small packs over her left shoulder. By the time she returned to the entry-way her father had risen, and stood to greet her, supported by the heavy walking stick at his side.

His gaze followed her down the stairs, "Promise me you'll come back."  She put her arm around him, embracing him again.  "I will, and sooner than you think..."

She slipped out the door and grabbed her boots without putting them on. He watched as she moved swiftly into the darkness of their underground avenue. Barefoot and still wearing that skirt he'd have never allowed. His late night vigil had exhausted him. He grasped at the door frame, bracing. Silently he watched the vision of his daughter retreat into the darkness. He'd been here many times before. So many times. Too many times. The sadness was as powerful as ever. 

But he was not angry. Not at her. Not this time. Rather than shouts, tears were all that was left in the darkness he faced. He'd closed the wound. With time, he hoped, it will heal.

[dubiousduskwight]

Inquisitorial Practices and Where To Find Them

“In efforts to alleviate a troublesome trend amongst the brumeborn and highborn alike to erroneously report signs of possession, the ‘Expulsion of Voidsent by her grace, The Fury’ or the ‘Halonic Exorcism ritual’ was first pioneered by Inquisitor Dineaux d’Eglise The Merciful in year 908 of the 6th Astral Era. Eschewing the contemporary practices which invariably resulted in the deaths of those subjected to them, this ritual will result in the satisfactory removal of voidsent from its deceased host with no ill effects to the wrongfully accused.”

Read the opening paragraph, below was a text in stylized, calligraphic script along with a stylized image of arcane geometries replete with Halonic imagery.

“By the grace of The Fury do we expel thee from thine mortal host, by the power of The Fury do we smite thine insolence and cast you to the lowest rungs of the seven hells, by the mercy of The Fury do we lay to rest the mortal soul in her halls.”

               Just below the scripture and runes, the text continued.

“Trace the runes as depicted with enchanted Aurum Regis ink upon a ground consecrated by holy water from the spring of the Weeping Saint (See chapter 4, page 32 for consecration rituals). Once the subject is within the confines of the hallowed ground created by the rune one must recite the above prayer audibly with conviction. Should the subject truly be possessed by voidkin, the effects should be immediate and obvious.”

               The “effects” mentioned were summarily illustrated, a humanoid figure wreathed in azure flame, the three spears of The Fury pierced through the torso in equal angles from all sides while the runes were bathed in light.

“Heed not the wailing and pleas of the subject, for it is merely the damned burning in holy flame, repeat the prayer and have not your faith in The Fury waver. Soon enough the pleas will stop, and the corpse, the vessel that the voidsent inhabited, will be all that is left, the soul of the deceased saved. Should the subject merely be a mummer or a particularly wicked person, then please see Chapter 7, page 435 on mundane rehabilitation methods.”

Orrin’s fingers traced over the curved geometry of the illustrated circle. The method was cumbersome, impractical, and the materials were expensive and hard to come by but it was still an option. Orrin needed options. Deep within the recesses of the library of the Scholasticate, Orrin sat at a desk staring down the freshly opened “Complete History of Halonic Inquisitorial Techniques”. His eyes flitted off from the book to down the rows upon the rows of bookshelves, ears primed for even the slightest sound that could signify an approach. There was a pregnant pause.

It was no coincidence that he sat sequestered in a corner where the sole approach to him was from the front. He had what looked like a veritable wall of books that obscured the opened tome. Their subject matter seemed to hold a much different focus from what he had open in front of him: military histories of varying degrees of sophistication in their narratives and analyses, predictions made by the Astrologicum Dicasterium along with their assessments of their accuracy and a rather lengthy treatise on Inquisitors and how they can positively impact troop morale. They were books that would make sense for any Temple Knight to take out and read.

The illusion was necessary. Though Orrin was no stranger to the halls of The Scholasticate since he was a child, he knew his movements must have been under scrutiny. The wrath of house Severidenne was not as swift as he expected but it was quickening. Nephaera had paid a visit to his office and it took all his will and wit for the encounter to only result with thinly veiled threats. The thought of his wheedling caused him to grit his teeth. They must be waiting for him to make a mistake which he was certain he was going to make eventually. Since the mistake was an inevitability it meant that he needed all the ammunition he could muster so he could kill the vipers before their poison ran its course.

Thus the trip to the Scholasticate, thus the pile of loose papers with notes from the other tomes to obscure the what he currently copied down. He placed thin parchment over the page to trace the symbols and geometries exactly. Orrin scanned over the transcription. He had hoped to find a means to subtly identify the voidsent presence much like the novels he read as a child about hunters of fantastical creatures like lycanthropes and vampires. Unfortunately, this all-or-nothing gambit was all he had. Should the Baroness indeed be a voidsent, she would be purged and Orrin would have the full weight of Ishgardian law to disassemble and investigate House Severidenne. He would be able to see the torture rooms with fresh blood, to perhaps find the women who had gone missing. Should the Baroness truly be a mere mortal…well, the social suicide was self evident.

“This is a spell recommended for reports of possession of questionable veracity, modern scholar may liken the technique to that of a synthesis of arcanima and conjury. Though difficult, even a botched ritual will be harmlessly inert.”

Still, it was better than nothing, and perhaps in the hands of someone more inclined in the schools of magicks, this could be a useful tool. He shuts the book. He folds the papers about the ritual and consecration of grounds into his inner coat pocket, balancing the other parchments atop the unrelated tomes, ensuring the spines were misaligned so the book he tried to conceal could have its title hidden from onlookers. Methodically he returned the books back to their proper spaces on the shelves, ever mindful of who would be watching. He departed from the scholasticate and approached the nearby aetheryte. He places a hand upon it and then disappears in a puff of aether.

[dubiousduskwight]

“Tell me,” said Hearns, striking his cane on stone in a rattling rhythm, “What manner of man did you find?” Inquisitor Alseaux Cogoix frowned at the noise, sharp and pricking at his ears, but said nothing. The man had to get his bearings around the room, and would cease soon enough. He returned to cleaning his tools. “Brume rat,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “Simple enough. They’re harder to collect in a new and better Ishgard, but if you’re quiet and careful and have the right coin, well.”

“Yes, but what manner? Man, woman, elezen, hyur, young, old?” Hearns seemed keen on the question, so much so that he had stopped tapping. Glancing over his shoulder, Alseaux had to correct himself; the man had simply arrived at the central table, where the body lay.

“It matters to you? You didn’t strike me as the type for standards.” Realization crossed his face, his eyebrows raising. “Or do you mean it matters to it? Does it have a type?”

“That it does not, m’lord, not a’tall.” Hearns chuckled, and stepped back from the table. “Had itself quite a medley when last I was in its company.” Alseaux prided himself reading a lie through inflection, which made the fondness in the man’s voice seem all the stranger. “As long as he was pained, and as long as he said the name, it should have been enough.” Gridanian stonework was, in Alseaux’s opinion, very much inferior to Ishgardian masonry. Rough-hewn and quarried from wherever it could be found, shaped in a manner that some might politely call “rustic,” and seemingly covered in moss from the very moment they were carved, the stones were very sore thumbs in the interrogation chambers. To his eyes, they looked no different than when he had installed them, despite several bells of work on the unfortunate subject on the rack. Pity Hearns couldn’t see what was left. Very fine work, very thorough. Hardly any splatter. The inquisitors of eld would certainly have approved. A heretic’s soul driven from Halone’s halls and into the hells where they belonged. The Wailer’s scheme had afforded Alseaux a moment of invigoration, of connection. This was Ishgard - properly Ishgard, what Alseaux had trained for, what he believed in. This was what the Warrior of Light had taken away from him with a few moons of combat, speeches, and stoic nods, stripping a thousand years of tradition away from the city as if it were so much trash.

The Severidennes understood the nature of the loss. They and the Wailer offered a way to bring it all back. If that meant that Alseaux would be in service to a demon, then void, be thou his light.

“So,” said Hearns, breaking the silence. “D’you think that woke it up?” The question made Alseaux drop one of his implements. One of the heavier ones, it rolled along stone until the spikes made it stop.

“You’re not sure?!”

“‘M no mage,” said Hearns, shrugging. Alseaux was glad of the man’s half-mask, his preferred way of hiding his eyes when he wasn’t in public. It helped to make his expression look less smug, softened the I-thought-you-knew-this tone in his voice. “I know what it wants, surely, but I’ve no means to sense it. You’ve no person to confirm it?” “Who could I possibly bring in to check?” Alseaux dropped to the floor as he searched for his tool, livid. “Lord Sollandis is no mage himself, and is away on business in any case. And I suspect that if I brought in some of the inquisitors that remain, they would not understand the nature of the bargain.” “Could always go see Ser Gil,” Hearns opined, nudging the tool in Alseaux’s direction with a prod of his cane. “He could drum up a mage.” “We are already well-indebted to Ser Gil for our current association, Mr. Hearns. I had assumed you had some means of sensing it yourself. You said you were familiar with the entity.” “Oh, very familiar an’ no mistake.” He chuckled as Alseaux put his tool back in its place on the wall. The inquisitor suppressed the urge to take the man’s cane and strike him with it until he could no longer walk. “An’ maybe in days past I could’ve given you a clear aye or nay, but those days’re gone. Instead it’s a bit more like . . . well, this is just me talkin’, you understand? Speculatin’.”

Alseaux had some very harsh words to say about what he thought about speculation at this moment, but Hearns must have heard him inhale. He held up his hand. “It’s like spiritbondin’, right. You have a tool, you stay with it years an’ years, ‘til it’s a part’ve you. Wailer an’ his trusty spear, a conjurer an’ her staff. But it takes years. This thing that we’re workin’ with, it got bonded like that. Thousands of people over hundreds of years all doin’ the same thing in the same spot.” He sniffed. “By my reckoning, it worked up a taste.

“So it’s listenin’, right. It might be awake right here an’ now. But it needs quite a bit t’really get goin’.”

Hearns had mentioned none of this in his original discussions with Lord Sollandis. If Alseaux were to beat him half to death and present him to the Severidennes as a fraud, none would gainsay him. All that would remain of this foolishness was some oddly shaped stonework, to be removed by an anonymous and highly paid mason at a later date.

And yet, the act of interrogation had been refreshing. When the rat had spoken the name per Hearns’ instructions, first pleading as if to make the pain stop, then in increasing bewilderment as the word lost what little meaning it had, until the final, muttered repetitions of a word that had become an empty mantra, Alseaux had not felt so successful in years. He hadn’t even needed to apply a knife at the end.

And he remembered the look on Faetrix’s face, the joyful weeping, as she ran into the arms of the Red King at their own engagement party. What would it be like, to break the Xaela so? What would it be like to break her?

“There’s no way to accelerate this process?” he asked once he had calmed down.

“Great damned sacrifice of magic, I expect.” When Hearns spoke, he did so too quickly, and amended himself. “At least that’s what did it the last time. Now that I am sure of, m’lord.”

“How great, exactly?”

Hearns laughed. “Y’wouldn’t believe me if I told ya, an’ it’s not really a means we’ve got.” His smile was wan. “For the best - got a bit out’ve control then. Could start with a slight damned sacrifice, an’ work our way up.”

“Right, well, get some ideas on that. If you must use Ser Gil, then you must. If you’ve no other business, then collect what you need for your forger and go.” Alseaux adjusted his collar. “I have an appointment with the Lady Nephaera in a bell.” When the Wailer whistled, Alseaux frowned. Such a vulgar man. “Nothing of the sort. There’s some questioning to be done regarding that break-in at the Bird. Your peddler was involved somehow.”

That got the man’s interest, and Alseaux took some petty satisfaction from the reaction. “The hell’d he do now? He’s still alive, yeah?”

“Yes. And we will get all we need from the courtesan who spoke to him.”

[clockworkdryad]

An had said “don’t take it to the Rendezvous.”

Except... where else was she supposed to store them? Where was she going to study them? She sat in a back room at the alchemist guild, one of the rooms set aside for hazardous experiments. It seemed the safest place to go. But at the same time, the last thing she wanted was to leave the fragments unattended. If some unsuspecting fellow alchemist got their hands on them, who knew what might happen? Then again, maybe she was being paranoid.

An’s dreams told her she wasn’t.

Nihka sat at a small desk with a single light illuminating the pen and paper. Beside the paper sat three fragments of stone. One was palm size, another perhaps a finger. The last was a tiny chip that had come off from the larger piece during travel. They looked unremarkable, but Nihka felt dread in her heart when she glanced at them. She had to write this letter. Then, if possible, meet with Orrin in person as soon as she could. She had to tell everyone what she and An had found.

  Orrin

We need meet in person. I need to sing for clarity. Need to tell you now. Will visit soon.

Anstarra and Nihka recent visit Shroud. We have discover: Hearns interfere with ruins of N. Afraid to write name. Anstarra recent start have dreams. Now realize connected. Discover survivor of leve. Leve to Retrieve six large stone. Ruins N. Do not say name.

  Nihka paused and glaNced over at the shards. She fElt sick to her stomach, and memoRies sUrfaced of the ordeal. She’d said tHe naMe, back then, back before anyoNe knew that monstEr was the name itself. She could still feel it echoing around in heR head, aching to get oUt. Was it him? Was it tHe monster hiMself, trying to feel his name echo oN his body once again? Nihka covERed the fragments with a cloth and looked away. She was stronger than that. She woUldn’t say it. She would study tHese stones and find a way to purify theM forever so that he could never come back again. But where would she put them? She turned back to the letter.

  Have no clue where is now. I know already busy other issue. But this is important. Please contact soon as possible.

-Nihka

  Nihka sighed and stared at the page. What did she actually know? Hearns had run a leve, sacrificed his employees, to retrieve six large portions of stone. She knew that Anstarra and Orrin had gone in together, so long ago, to destroy that very structure these stones came from. Who else had been with them? She couldn’t remember. Where was Hearns taking them? She had no idea. What would happen if the name was said? She looked over at the cloth agaiN, benEath which sat the fRagments she had taken. CoUld they be used, somehHow, to locate the other six? That was half of why Anstarra had suggested taking theM. But how? Would his name echo from one to the other? Of course that would mean saying it and she didn’t want to do that. Even if she couldn’t stop thinking it.

[clockworkdryad]

A Plan, of Sorts

She woke from a nap with a start, heart pounding and short of breath. The nightmare faded, leaving only echoes of the terror it had carried with it: the memories of voidsent.

No, she was safe. She looked around, she was in the lounge at the tea house, laying on a couch. Her daughter was nearby coloring in a book (thankfully, one designed for such things). She had simply fallen asleep on the couch. Well, she needed a nap.

She didn’t need a nap, she could have taken one of her stimulants to stay awake, but those were in short supply now.

Nihka closed her eyes and sighed, letting her anger at her retainer wash over her and slide away. She hated more than almost anything, when someone treated her like they knew what was best for her. The thing she hated more? Those few times the other person was right.

Her thoughts, then, drifted to Orrin. Surely he meant well, but his condescension drove her crazy. By now, Kiht would have talked to him about what they’d discovered about the baroness. How had he reacted? What would he say, next time he saw Nihka? Would he try to tell her to stay home and stay safe? Would he tell her that messing with voidsent was dangerous, as if she didn’t already know?

Focusing on this anger, though, her heart rate only climbed. Her carbuncle approached and nosed at her, worried, and she rolled onto her side and forced a smile, petting the lovely creature.

In the end, her feelings regarding Orrin didn’t matter so long as they could work together to ... what were their goals, anyway? What did they want to accomplish?

She sat up and grabbed her journal where it lay on the floor beside the couch. Their goals, what were they? She started to write.

    Goals: preserve Fae freedom; save girls nest bird; purge void all form

    Assets: Kiht, Nihka, Verad, Bartu, Anonymous, lalafell bodyguard, Spahro, Alrix, Mathieu?

She hesitated, then added Orrin to the list of assets. She could swallow a few insults from him. He probably didn’t even realize he was insulting her. (Still, it didn’t quite occur to her to approach him and explain why it was so insulting. Such a mature line of thought was still a few suns or moons away. She would get there, eventually.) Who else could she ask for help here? Anstarra? No, as long as Anstarra’s brother was still a threat, Nihka didn’t want to take any of her beloved’s attention away from resolving that issue. Okay, keep it small for now. Move on.

    Skills: Alchemy, Hunt/stalk, Cute, polite, fight, shite, dubiousness

So, technically not all of those were skills. More like approaches. She scratched out the word skills and replaced it with a more appropriate label.

    Avenue:

Ilviene Drudoy

Temple Knight (compromise?)

Inquisition (DANGER!)

Construction company Ishgard

    Need

Map of manor

Way in plural

Secret chambers. More?

Info Nest Cage as much possible

Locate to protect Fae

She sighed. It wasn’t a comprehensive list, but it was a good place to start. There were things that needed done. If she and Aya went to talk to Ilviene, they might be able to learn more information about the Nest and the Caged Bird. What about more legal ways? Well, she only knew one person who knew the way Ishgard worked. She pulled out some paper and started drafting a letter, little more than a quick note.

    Orrin

    I am send this letter with personal courier. By now Kiht talk to you. You aware are aware of a threat in the family. You are only person can think to talk to about. I am assume that is very likely; tied to noble family, even many knights will side with noble more than right. I know family tie to inquisitor. Need some way to know: which inquisitor, which knight, will not side with villain.

    Maybe is paranoid; I worry if try say public, family will hush news. Worst case scenario: Inquisitor will side with family. You are probably already work on: identify which can be trust to side against threat. If you are not: you are only one who can. Please do.

    Have evidence. Not enough. Need to know who can trust. I trust you. You need to know who you can trust.

She frowned. Such horrid writing, but it was so much better than it used to. Singing, it seemed, had done more than help her speak. It still looked like someone illiterate had scribbled out jumbled thoughts in flawless handwriting, but it was better. She tapped her lip, then pulled out another sheet of paper.

    Bartu

    I have job for you. Very important. Very important person; I expect will be try travel far east. You know the person. You know she will travel with new mate. With horse. Can only guess: best place to get boat: Limsa. Talk with merchant, talk with shipyards, talk with any able.  In order to protect friend, need to be able to find.

    Also important: look for people try to follow friend. If people try follow, all us need try to stop. All us need to know if attempt to follow.

Nihka bit her lip, then folded up the two letters and prepared them to be sent. She would ask her retainer to hand deliver them: she didn’t trust the moogles. Too mischievous. (Though, Min could be quite mischievous herself.) With those letters written, she turned back to her journal.

    Ambush. Fighters: Kiht, Lalafell Bodyguard. Anonymous. Why? Why is she bait? Orrin?

    Goal? Find faceless. (dangerous). Capture? Kill?

They wanted to bait out the faceless man, but they would need as many capable fighters as they could to capture him. Of course, was capture even feasible? Or were they just planning to kill him. Assuming, of course, killing was possible. She kept writing notes, moving down the list of assets they had available. Spahro would be able to spread word quickly, but it was far too early to publish anything. Such action now would only put their enemy on guard. Was there, however, some other thing that Spahro could do? What rumors might help, rather than hinder? If they wanted to lure someone into a trap, maybe Spahro could put out a piece to help with that. Nihka underlined that note, and moved on.

Alrix. Mathieu. Two of the suitors that seemed like they might be trustworthy. How much did she want to share with them? If she shared too much with Alrix, he might go gallivanting off to save the day. The thought of him getting hurt? He was too pure, too earnest. His younger sister was too wonderful to bring any more hurt into her life than might already exist. She paused for a moment, then added a note and underlined it five times:

    Send candy to Marjorie

There was more work to do. There would always be more work to do. But, she had just woken up from a nap and now her stomach was rumbling. It was time to go make something to eat, it was time to spend some time with her daughter.

[liadanswhisper]

Left for two friends

Dearest Tengri and Sarangerel,

I am so sorry to have left without a word in person, but when I came by your home, you were not present.  Alas, I have not the time to spare to wait upon your return.

I believe that the void creature we fought so long ago in the Shroud, he who stole the twelve souls into the void and tormented them for decades, has returned. Bells ago, my staff, Heart's Grace, which was given to me by O-Rehn when he became one with the Elementals, did flood me with an overwhelming wave of terror.  Over and over it whispered, "It returns!  It returns!"  I can think of aught else that would inspire such terror, nor such phrasing.

I have not time to spare on an ocean voyage - we all know that three months is far too long a time to wait. So I am leaving now, the quickest way I know how. I know you are both well able to travel long distances in your own way. But, too, I know that you have your own matters to deal with - such as the wayward Crow I encountered. I cannot ask you to split your attention at this time.

Whatever may happen, know that I have been blessed to count you both as friends. You know how to reach me should you need to speak directly with me. I am sorry that I could not wait longer. I hope you will both forgive me the lapse.

I remain yours faithfully,

Liadan @cfs-melkire @kanaria-galanodel

[dubiousduskwight]

The Fall of the House of Deauxbois

Salutations to you Verad Bellveil, Lord Deauxbois,

After careful consideration of all of the advantages offered to each of Lady Faetrix’s many suitors, we have decided that, while you possess many admirable qualities appropriate to both an effective alliance and a happy marriage for the jewel of our house, we have decided that another is better served to join with the Severidennes.

Please note that we mean no disrespect by this decision, and wish you the best in your future endeavors in Ishgard. Lady Faetrix wishes to remain a dear friend to you, and is eager to welcome you into our home to celebrate her engagement.

Warmest Regards,

Nephaera Severidenne

The desk in Verad’s office had turned somewhat to grey from moons without a good dusting. So had the seat of his chair. Upon returning home from his quarters in Ishgard, he had brushed aside enough grime to make himself comfortable and lay two letters on his desk. He had read both several times over well before coming home, but the sting would not abate. The pain from the letter written by the Severidennes, simple and cruel and kind on fine parchment adorned with the rose and viper, was clear enough. It was the second, in the workmanlike but functional paper of Ishgard’s new offices, that was still difficult to accept:

Mr. Verad Bellveil

We write to inform you that the Genealogical Investigation and Restitution Committe has received new documents pertaining to your claim upon the title of the last remaining heir of the house of Deauxbois. While your claim has been confirmed, new documents have surfaced indicating that the line culminating in the extant members of the house of Severidenne are closer in the order of succession to the last known heirs of the line.

In ordinary circumstances, we would leave your title undisputed, to be transferred to the other claimant upon your death or voluntary relinquishing of the name. However, as you have indicated to us in prior correspondence, you have considered the title a formality, and chosen to waive the political and legal responsibilities required of you as a standing member of the Lords. The Severidennes have expressed an interest in assuming those responsibilities and restoring the title’s estate. As such, we have chosen to recognize Lady Faetrix Severidenne as the current Lady Deauxbois.

Should you wish to dispute this claim, please contact us in writing at our offices in Ishgard. We look forward to resolving this matter amicably.

Launval Charbonneau

Chief Genealogist

Genealogical Investigation and Restitution Committee

Was it possible for penmanship to gloat? Verad was sure of it as he reviewed the notice. After this much time spent in study, every curl of a Y and stroke of a T seemed to bear the smug air of somebody delivering the worst kind of news and feeling the best sorts of feelings about it, politeness brought on by their own pleasure rather than for mere etiquette’s sake. The members of the committee had never been pleased to receive his application, so much so that they had schemed to frighten him away from the claim.

They had been right to be wary, of course. The entire claim was a ruse, a farce of flimsy design and spurious suppositions, and the truth of the matter was buried within research and the assumption that one lost third cousin had not been lost at all. After moons of going without challenge, Verad had almost convinced himself that he truly was the lost lord of Deauxbois. The hope had been that his marriage would be finalized before the Ishgardian authorities found him out, ideally too late to nullify the marriage but early enough to strip his title before he could do real damage to Coerthan politics.

That the Severidennes would strip the title away from him for themselves was unexpected. And what could he do? Declare their claim a fraud, because his was a fraud as well? He would be laughed out of the Committee offices. He would be laughed into the Committee offices as well as out. It was a fine punchline they’d been provided to end the joke of his own efforts.

“But a joke is all I am, am I not?” he muttered, pushing the letters aside.

If forced to give an honest account of as much as he recalled of his life, Verad would admit that it was made of many farces. He had sold himself into slavery, on the belief that his compatriots at the time would free him; he had stood, naked, before a woman with a knife and declared his defiance at a game of cards gone awry; he had robbed the rich and given Ishgardian heresies to the streets of Ul’dah by accident; he had lied to ghosts, that he might swindle them into acknowledging his claim to the title he had now lost. And yet despite all of the above, not once had he felt himself so ridiculous, so silly an old man, as he had when he had convinced the woman he loved to love another and sold them the very idea of themselves together.

He had met Faetrix after receiving the letters, and informed her of their contents. “I have been sold,” she had said, her smile forlorn at the prospect. She had then let him take her to the Red King, to be treated as wares once more. Truth be told, it had been one of the easier sales Verad had made. Only a fool could miss the looks of unmasked desire between the pair. Who could blame them? He had desired Faetrix, and he supposed that in her estimation, a Xaela of towering height and musculature was an easy choice in comparison to an elderly elezen of indeterminate age.

Verad snorted. No, don’t think so. It would be too easy to treat this as a matter of lust and the fickle nature of a woman less than half his age, distracted by mere superficialities. It was better for her to have a strong man than a weak one. Better to have a leader than a peddler. Better to have someone forthright and true, however brutal, than someone so godsdamned dubious.

His face contorted in a pained snarl. Better to hide the damn things so he couldn’t look at them for at least a bell. He forced open a desk drawer in dire need of oiling from the sound of the screech it made, intending to store them for later. There, in the drawer’s base, was The Mummer’s Guide to Ishgardian Heraldry. As always, the gilded image of a cartoonish Lalafell winked up at him from the book’s cover, hand up and finger extended as if preparing to correct the reader.

A quick rustling and the sound of a sudden grunt of exertion later, the book slammed against the cabinet door in the back of Verad’s chambers, where his office parted into his sleeping quarters. He glared at it where it lay on the floor, as if the text itself might plead for mercy. When it didn’t, a frustrated fury overtook him, and he kicked it by its spine a few times, sending it skidding across tiles until it bumped against a rug.

“Pity the hearth’s downstairs.” Granted, Verad could pick up the book and simply walk there, but his anger was not so long-lived; he would feel all the more foolish, he knew, when he gave up halfway down the basement steps. He would have to design one for dramatically burning books upon flame at a later date. Indeed, the entire room needed a refurnishing. When was the last time he had entertained clients here? Truly? Time to strip it out.

Retrieving the book from the floor, he took his seat again and opened the text to its contents. He needed it. There was a critical part of the promise - the purchase - of Faetrix and Ogul that needed to be done: House Severidenne had to fall. At least, the grip of the Baroness upon the family had to end. It was the only way to get the two something like a happy ending. 

Somebody ought to get one, somewhere. So he told himself as he turned to the drawing of the family crest.