#her state and nature doesnt have to be explored nearly as much in those cases - she's allowed to just be

[sootcloak]

Crow’s Shadow: Repair Required

The first part of a short, serial-style work I’ve been cranking away at for far too long. This is part one of a (planned) three-part series. You can find the second part, Carrion Circle [Here]. I’ll add another link to the third part once it’s up. Beware of some major spoilers for Stormblood if you’ve not gotten through it yet, and some general spoilers for the MCH quest kinda. Lastly, if you’re a purist when it comes to in-game lore, you should be warned that I take some creative liberties in regards to the character around whom this blog is centered. Also I hate this hellsite’s text post coding, it makes the formatting look so goddamned wrong.

3064 words, featuring Hilda the Mongrel, Rostnthal the Reborn. Centered around a wounded OC, a tense cross-country trip, and the looming specter of a dangerous foe.

    Hilda stares with a rare, dumbfounded expression on her face. Curled in a ball on her old, ratty armchair is a familiar, Lalafellin woman. Her sickly, pale skin, greying blonde hair, and scarred face were unmistakable. Vavara had become a common sight around Foundation ever since the gates were opened after the Dragonsong war. Her work alongside the Manufactory and Lord Stephanivian was shrouded in some level of discretion, but it was no secret that she was an expert in Garlean-style magitek.

    But the whispered words which surrounded the woman seemed an understatement, if her eyes were to be believed. It was rare to find Vavara out of her usual Company-style overcoats. The few times she was caught out of uniform, she was in battle-ready armor instead. Now Hilda understood why. Her body, small and compact as it is, is almost entirely mechanical. Covered in intricate layers of dull, grey plates and brassy webbings of cogs, she looks not unlike the tools and machines of Idyllshire. Like clockwork muscles and cable tendons, her body is simultaneously relaxed and completely rigid. Here and there, where the metal fades, she can still see skin. Sickly, near-grey, and oddly textured like a doll’s porcelain, but still skin. Tangled in a blanket, eyes shut, and body snoring in strange, buzzing whirrs, it takes a few moments of shock to realize two more things.

    First, Hilda hadn’t ever told Vavara where she lives. Nor had she given permission for the huntress to remain with her.

Second, one of Vara’s arms is missing. Just gone. A bare, brass socket lies exposed to the air where it would meet her left shoulder. Hilda glances around, but the limb is nowhere to be seen. There is, however, a note on the end table besides the table. The messy, big letters on the page are of an immediately recognizable hand.

        Hilda,

    Vavara was out testing one of Stephanivian’s new gizmos last night. Something went wrong, it’s all a bit fuzzy until we can look at the damned equipment, but it blew up in her arms. She soldiered on as well as you’d expect from her, but when we caught up to check on her we found her in shambles. We were all as surprised as you probably are - what with all the metal bits and all. Save for Stephanivian, that is. Seems he was already aware of her illness condition state whatever you call that. She was adamant that she not be seen like this, so we needed a place to keep her where untrusted eyes wouldn’t find her.

    So I borrowed a key from Joye and let her in. She should be asleep until tomorrow morning, or at least that’s what Stephanivian says. He’s making replacement parts for her damaged bits, but he couldn’t give me an exact time to give you as to when they’ll be done. I’ll have Joye run over as soon as he has an estimate.

    I know it’s a good bit to ask of you, but we all owe her and hers a solid turn. This is a good chance to make good on that. Please look after her for a bit, and don’t let her run off and do anything dangerous, no matter how angry she may look. She’s too busted up, at least based on how we found her, to really argue with you.    

    Keep her safe for now,

    Rostnthal

    Hilda’s hands crease the paper, her eyes drifting back and forth between it and the sleeping woman. 

    “Well shite. There went my plans.”

    Vavara’s eyes open to the dim, flickering light of a nearby hearth. Her body hums with angry, buzzing pain. As she takes in a ragged, grinding breath her eyes scan around the unfamiliar room. She can feel the damage all throughout her body. She can feel the way her breathing hitches every three-and-a-half seconds. The way her right arm can’t rotate exactly as it should. The way her eyes won’t focus. Her ears are ringing, ever so slightly. 

    There’s dust in the air, quite a lot of it. The furniture strewn about the stone room is old, patched, and covered in a thick layer of dust. The armchair she’s nested in leans to one side, one of the legs having been replaced by a few stacked stone bricks. The wood floor is rough, coarse, and looks like the kind which would give splinters just for standing on it. The hearth, a simple stone fireplace built into one wall, is surprisingly clean. The ashes are swept, the firewood is fresh. The fire is painfully bright. The heavy rugs thrown beneath some of the seating in the cramped, dusty living space are all torn and resewn. Her eyes trail to the bare walls, where a series of hangers stand.

    Through blurred sight, she can see a leather jacket and a rimfire hanging in it’s harness. From color alone, it’s clear they’re neither Vavara’s old service overcoat or her custom revolver. A wave of cold anxiety washes through her, her feet finding the floor and stumbling towards the door. 

    She only makes it a few feet. One of her legs crumples at the knee with a disheartening, metallic crunch. She bites her lip, forcing back a whimpering cry before it can rise in her chest. Instead, she takes a few gasping breaths, each huff sounding like a music box turning through broken cogs. Finally, she gets up the strength to push herself up to her feet again.

    She dully registers quick, urgent footsteps coming from behind her. A steady, insistent hand finds its way just beneath her arm. The tense springs fused with half-dead, ceruleum-greyed skin have a sickening texture, like that of a corpse held together by staples and rope.

    “You’re too hurt to be runnin’ about. Ye’d best come along.” Hilda says, hiding the way her throat closed in a queasy, silent gag. Vavara’s remaining arm twists back, trying to grasp at Hilda’s arm. It clicks and creaks, something inside the joint protesting with quiet, metallic groans.

    “Hey.” Hilda pulls and twists her around. Their eyes lock for a brief moment. Vavara’s dull, foggy eyes sparking with a quick moment of recognition.

    “Hilda?” Her voice is a surprisingly deep rasp. The  grasping hand goes still, it’s steel claw-tipped fingers relax. “Is that you?”

    “Who else? Let’s get you back to the chair.” They shuffle back to where Vavara woke. After grabbing an old crate and dragging it in front of the worn armchair, the two sit next to each other. Hilda sucks in a breath, and breaks the brief, momentary silence.

    “I imagine things feel a bit rough. Been on the bad end of an explosion once or twice myself. Here, read this. It’ll do some of the explainin’ for me..” She hands the crumpled letter from Rostnthal to her, waiting quietly as it’s opened back up. Vavara’s eyes slowly, carefully track across each messy line of text. When she looks up to Hilda again, the other woman is already speaking.

    “Joye came by earlier today, while you were still out. Said parts were being manufactured, but some things needed to be brought in from out the Holy See. It’ll have to get cleared by the Temple Knights, checked for contraband and the like. All said and done, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your uh… Parts?” She looks to Vavara for confirmation. There’s a single, quiet nod.

    “Yeah, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your parts made. Till then, you’re gonna need someone to watch your back, I’d imagine. I know one of your friends has an arrangement with Count Fortemps, so if you’d prefer-”

    “No. I’ve no intent on relying upon his charity. I have not earned it.” Vavara’s voice is a steady, rasping hiss. No malice or ill-will is born in the words, just a stubborn, quiet kind of pride.

    “It’s not always about whether or not you’ve earned it, just-” The glare Hilda gets before she can finish is petrifying.

    “Fine, fine. You can stay here, then. Can’t promise I’ll be here all day, but you’re resourceful, and so long as I get you a cane you could even get around by the looks of it.”

    “No.” Vavara shakes her head.

    “What? Then where will you stay?” Hilda says, eyeing her up with concern. Vavara’s face is a knitted, frustrated mess barely concealed by her usual stoicism. Her narrowed eyes, knitted brow, and curled lip speak volumes. It was rare for her to emote at all, let alone so clearly.

    “I was only meant to be in Ishgard for two days, at most.” A strange, tense note rides in Vavara’s voice. Concern, or outright fear? Hilda hadn’t seen her like this since she’d returned from Ghimlyt, spending days on end beside the Warrior of Light’s bedside, waiting for him to awaken. Guilt-racked and uncertain. When her voice picks back up, it’s a mess of anxiety and fear. Each word comes out faster, not raising in volume but in intensity.

    “I cannot stay here. I have to return. I need to-” She stops herself, coming to a sudden and abrupt halt. With a clenched jaw, squinted eyes and a tense neck. she pulls a breath in. The tension does not leave her, resting on her shoulders and in her jaw.

    “Thank you for watching over me.” Vavara says, opening her eyes to match Hilda. “I will need that cane. I have a journey to make. Please tell Stephanivian I will return to collect the parts when I am able.”

    “Now hold on.” Hilda squares her shoulders. Her eyes unwaveringly stare into Vavara’s. 

“You’re barely able to see straight. It took you near a full minute to read through a half-page letter. You had to ask if it was me. I don’t remember looking much like another half-breed.” A potent frustration rises in Vavara’s body, but before it can exit in a shout, Hilda continues, Brume accent kicking into her words as she grows more insistent.

    “I’ll be coming with ye. I’ve deputies with the Hounds for this exact kind of situation. And before you try and tell me I’m not, I’d remind ye that I’ve already seen why yer always either in battle-gear or a great-coat. Whatever secrets yer keeping still, ye can keep them. None of my business. But yer health? All the Hounds’ve had their skins saved by ye at least once, meself included. I owe you this much, at least.” Hilda stands as she finishes speaking, walking across the room to wear her jacket and rimfire are hung. She snags them in one hand, turns and gives a confident smirk.

    “So let me just run and get that cane.”

    She’s out the door before Vara can muster a reply.

    Later that evening, the pair stand outside the Gates of Judgement. Vara’s shrouded in her overcoat, her usual brimmed cap pulled tight over her head, greying blonde hair spilling out of it in messy tangles. Beside her, Hilda holds the reins of two birds as they’re hooked up to a small wagon. Some traveling supplies, a small smattering of goods, and some specialized supplies Stephanivian rushed to prepare all sit in nondescript, covered bundles.

    “You shouldn’t come with me. You have work here.” Vavara says. For perhaps the first time, Hilda notes how her breath doesn’t make mist in the cold air. She can’t help but wonder if her instinct was right, if the woman she’s known for years now, who’s saved her time and time again, is just a corpse pulled by metal marionette strings.

    She casts the thought from her mind.

    “And I’ve pressin’ debts to settle with you. It took no small amount of talking to convince Joye not to tell Rostnthal we were goin’. Else you’d have two peepin’ nannies.” Hilda’s forces a grim laugh.

    “It’s dangerous.” The statement hits like a sack of bricks. There was little anyone within the Warrior of Light’s circle deemed worthy of such a warning. Least of all the woman who frequently gives him a run for his money. 

    “Always is.” Is all Hilda can muster in response.

    “You should stay. I don’t want you hurt.” The words come out slow, still rasping with that metallic hiss under the wind. Barely audible.

    “I can’t protect you.” Vavara’s hand goes to the empty sleeve on her left. She looks up with foggy, dull eyes. Were they always so dim? She’s one of the Dunesfolk, aren’t their eyes supposed to be like glossy gems? Again, she casts the thought away.

    “Please. Stay.” Vavara’s words sound pleading.

    “Eh- ‘Ilda?” A deep, rumbling voice smashes the growing anxiety in Hilda’s chest. Heavy, crunching footfalls grow louder from behind. Both she and Vavara turn to look at a familiar, salt-stained face.

    “An’ it is!” Rostnthal reaches them in no more than three strides, his excitement plain on his face.

    “An’ Vavara’s ‘ere too, I see.” He briefly glances to the cart, still being loaded.

    “Ye headin’ somewhere?” It’s not really a question. His eyes fall onto Vavara’s. “Ye sure yer fine to be travelin’?”

    She nods.

    “Good!” He guffaws, a single loud bark of a laugh. “If yer good enough to be out-n’-about, then so am I! I’ll keep with ye. After all, it was cuz I was too drunk to test the prototype cannon that you ‘ad to. I get hurt like that, chirugeons patch me up over a couple nights. You?” He gives an awkward, knowing shrug.

    “So, it’s my fault yer in this mess. I’m comin’.”

    It isn’t really negotiable. Even as Vavara’s takes a rattled breath to retort, he’s already stepped up into the cart proper. 

    The chocobo-hand stands up from besides the cart,

    “All good to go!” He shouts over the wind.

    The three step up, and Hilda spurs the birds on towards Gyr Abania.

    “Ye packed some booze, yeah?”

    Vavara shakes her head. The groan he makes can be heard from the Gates.

    Rostnthal’s voice echoes along the snowy paths of Coerthas, oft-untrodden paths suddenly as lively as a back-alley bar. He’s taken mindful, measured swigs of his flask. He snagged some few supplies from Dragonhead at a painful price, but he had very little considering the length of the journey. Sensing the growing tension, Rostnthal had sung every diddy he knew at least twice from his spot lying in the back of the cart. He’d sung the one about the slaver at least four times, and the one about the Admiral more than eight.

    “So what’s all the urgency about?” Hilda’s question breaks through the bars of off-key song. 

    “I left someone in the wild mountains, where I take my rests between work. He is unskilled, though his training has shown promise. An old enemy of mine resurfaced during the Ala Mhigan Rebellion, and has since been hunting me, and I him. Should I leave my student in one place too long, he’ll be found. And he’ll be killed.” Her words are clipped. Rostnthal’s singing stops.

    “Y’took an apprentice? So the ever-cold Lady Ashenheart does have some warmth left in ‘er.” He sounds genuinely perplexed. “An’ here I thought ye were all business and bad blood with the Empire. Rumors’d’ve me believe ye’d never have time for teachin’.”

    Her gaze towards him could curdle milk. He just laughs his guffawing laugh, gently slapping her good shoulder with one hand.

    “My strength comes at a cost, unlike that of my peers. It requires that I rest for long periods of time after difficult excursions. In recent times of repose, I took to training three such students in total. Two of whom have long passed beyond a need for my guidance, if they ever truly did need me at all.We have not spoken in some time, I have no fear for them. The man who hunts me will not seek them. My current student, though, is untrained, reckless, young, and a danger to himself more than his opponents.” Her voice lapses in and out of nostalgia and strict concern as she speaks, eyes shutting as she speaks.

    “Sounds like a handful of a kid. An’ this ‘unter. Ye think he might meet us there?” Rostnthal’s voice dips into a grim resolve.

    “I do.”

    “Care to share, or are we just going in blind as newborns?” Hilda says, eyes locked on the road and her surroundings. The sun is low, and shadows stretch across the road cast by trees and stones and looming mountains. It will be dark soon.

    “His name is Llain. He and I were once… Compatriots. He is possessed of a strength similar to mine. I will admit freely, he is better suited to it than I have ever been. He took to steel, ceruleum, and magitek as a bird does to flight. He has done so more safely, and more efficiently, than I have. We have not crossed blades directly for too long, to make any assumption on his methods now as opposed to the man he once was would be dangerous. All I can say is this: A direct confrontation is something we will not win. He is a worthy and cunning foe for even the mightiest among us.” Vavara says. Each word is slow, methodical.

    “So we just grab the kid an’ make dust?” Rostnthal thumbs at the cap on his flask, glancing up at Vara with his good eye. She just nods. It’s enough.

    Vara’s hand rests uneasily on the grip of her revolver. In her nostrils she can smell smoke and oil and flame. In her eyes, though snow and tree and stone race past her, all she can see is a burning Castrum and a vengeful shadow in the fire.

    How simple her escape felt then. How powerful those first, few, small implants made her feel. Her clockwork muscles tense. Perhaps if she’d been more careful. If she hadn’t allowed herself to become so gravely wounded so frequently, she would still-

    A tap on the shoulder shakes her out of the old memory. She looks up at Hilda, whose eyes are still locked forward.

    “We need to go through the night, or should we rest?” She asks, tone all business.

    “You rest. I’ll drive.” Vavara answers. Hilda just groans, before stepping awkwardly, carefully into the back next to Rostnthal and snagging a fur blanket from one of the many bundles.

    Rostnthal waits a while, and then starts to sing again. Fewer lively, old tavern diddies, and more of the songs skalds would sing when night came to call.