#i wanted to do something for fareena today

[storms-path]

FFXIV Write 2024: Day 19 - Taken

Garlemald was cold. But Garlemald was always cold, and Fareena had faced worse winters in Bozja. Garlemald was hostile. But Garlemald had been hostile since its inception, chased into the frozen wastes for their perceived lack and turning it into a still-burning grudge. Garlemald was oppressive. But Garlemald could not help but oppress. Its leader had made it so in his mad quest to stamp out all other nations.

No, Garlemald irked Fareena because it was so decidedly dull. Grey roads, grey buildings, grey clothes. As if the sight of any colour that wasn’t some shade of grey, white or red would kill the already frail emperor. Still, it meant that Fareena could slip in relatively unnoticed, wearing the “borrowed” uniform of a soldier who had ventured away from his unit. By the time they found his body in the snow, she’d be long gone. With a little luck, anyway.

The VIIth legion had made a pit-stop in Garlemald after turning Bozja into a smoking wasteland. Fareena intended to find out why. Even if it meant jamming her ears into the stuffiest helmet known to viera-kind and learning the Garleans’ damned salutes. Luckily the Garelans’ relatively large size disparity leant itself well to her larger-than-most stature. So long as she didn’t speak, none would suspect her. And it was easy enough to act busy with a rusty gunblade as the soldiers gossiped around her. Darnus’s success at Bozja was the talk of the town, it seemed.

Fareena bit down the urge to burn the entire barracks to cinders as the brutes called her people “savages”. She needed to make a clean getaway, unfortunately. Even if the thought of slipping into the palace and hurrying along old Solus to his well-earned grave was an all-too-tempting thought.

“Sounds like Solus is ready to finally bring Eorzea to heel,” declared a soldier who really should have learned to keep his voice down. Stifled though they were by the helmet, Fareena’s ears twitched in his direction. “Still, sending Legatuses van Darnus AND van Baelsar? He must be desperate to claim them.”

The Black Wolf and the White Raven? Fareena’s stomach churned as an awful certainty rose within her. They’re going to leave nothing but ashes if the Raven is involved.

“Desperate? No, he just knows Baelsar will keep that madman on a tight leash.” It seemed one of the other soldiers agreed with her. “Did you hear what really happened in Bozja? Half a legion, dead! All because of that secret project Midas nan Garlond’s been playing around with!” Fareena fought the urge to twist around in her seat. Garlond? Where had she heard that name before? She cursed her inattentiveness when the Resistance briefings had been circulated. Too busy out in the snow, murdering Garleans. Clashing with legatuses. Licking her wounds.

“Careful, boy.” The original soldier’s voice was lower now. Much more cautious than before. “That kind of talk carries a lot of weight, especially with the Raven’s star on the rise.” Smart, for an imperial. Perhaps in another life he could have been a good man. But he’d bathed in the blood of empire just as all the rest. And you’ll burn with it when I tear it all down around you. Fareena’s hands clenched instinctively around the handle of her borrowed gunblade. It would be so easy to carve a path of destruction through this place. Through these people. They’d deserve it, too. For what they did to Bozja. For what they did to me.

A sudden muffled boom sounded, followed by a series of tremors and smaller booms. A moment later alarms began to sound. Apparently someone else had infiltrated the city, and with a great deal less subtlety than Fareena. The soldiers were in disarray, all hurrying around to obtain discarded armour and weapons, or to find the rest of their unit and investigate. Fareena knew an opportunity to slip away when she had it waved in front of her nose so flagrantly. Nobody noticed a single soldier in the crush, just as nobody noticed that soldier break away and into the city proper.

Garlond. She was certain she’d heard it before. Something about a Garlond ferried out of Bozja before the city had fallen. A possible lead. If only she had any idea where to find it. She could follow the sound of explosions to its source, but something about them felt… off, somehow. Out in the night air, she could see the smoke plumes rising from the eastern quarter of the city. But from what she had been able to tell, it was just storage sheds out that way. A poor place to target for someone looking to do real damage. So…

Without really thinking about it, Fareena headed south instead. She kept to the shadows, dark armour blending in perfectly as all eyes turned towards the growing blaze. Screams were starting to rise now, more fear than pain. The citizens suddenly realising they weren’t as safe as they thought. That Garlemald wasn’t invincible after all. There would be repercussions for this, but for now the city was too stunned to lash out. As Fareena slipped into the residential quarter, she felt no sympathy at all for it.

The lights were mostly out this late at night, bar a few of the more alert sleepers suddenly waking to chaos and flame. But the fires would never reach this part of the city, and most knew it. The wealthiest of Garlemald’s people suffered the least for its sins. So it was the world over. Bozja, for all its shining beauty, had been no different. Still, Fareena had no time to philosophise. Her eyes were drawn to one house in particular. Its lights were off, but the same could not be said for the large extension attached to it. She could faintly hear the sound of machinery. Either someone hadn’t heard the explosions… or they were already prepared for them.

Fareena crept towards the building, silent as a ghost. Her heart was racing now. Did Garlemald have a traitor right in its heart? Would she find someone willing to tear down the vile empire from within? Or was this simply a madman with an axe to grind, sowing devastation and fear simply because it suited them? She knew not, but she intended to find out.

The ring of metal grinding against metal was clear now, even through her helmet. It was tempting to tear it off entirely, but a viera in Garlemald was unheard of, and enough soldiers were familiar with her reign of terror in Bozja that she didn’t want to risk it. Better to keep her anonymity. She crept towards the door, noting this close that it was slightly ajar. That explained the light spilling out into the street. She could see a figure hunched over a slab of metal, back turned to the door and clearly occupied. Perfect.

Fareena nudged the door open, just wide enough to slip inside and-

A length of very sharp steel was thrust towards her neck. Fareena lurched back on instinct, only to tumble over a length of cable. The hulking man wielding the steel lunged forward, only to tumble forward himself. Fareena scrambled out of the way as he crashed to the floor with a thud, reaching for her gunblade… which had been knocked loose by her fall, and now lay at the feet of… a lalafell? Who, with shaking hands, wielded a pistol of Garlean make.

“S-stay where you are!” he shouted through trembling hands and voice. His goggles obscured his eyes, but Fareena could guess at what lay under them. “Don’t move!”

The first man had stopped his work, turning to face them. He froze when he saw the armour-clad Fareena. “You got a good aim on her, Wedge?” The lalafell nodded. He did not, and Fareena knew it, but he didn’t need it when she was this close. “Good,” said the man. His white hair matched the steel in his gaze, but he looked young. Barely in his late 20s, if Fareena had to guess. “Pull the trigger, and make it quick. We’re almost ready.”

“Chief!” cried Wedge as Fareena at the same time cried, “Wait!” The larger man had gotten to his feet now, still clutching what Fareena could now see was a sharpened length of pipe. His grip was steadier than his companion’s, Fareena noted. More sure of himself, or simply more used to violence. Either way, dangerous.

The man, apparently named Chief, paused. “That voice,” he muttered in what he clearly hoped was quiet enough for Fareena not to hear.

“Let me take off my helmet,” Fareena continued, heart pounding like an overexcited spriggan. She desperately hoped they wouldn’t be her final words. A long moment of silence stretched on before Chief finally nodded. Wedge’s aim wavered slightly. The larger man’s did not. Slowly, very slowly, Fareena tugged free her helmet. A rush of cold ear and relief flooded her massive ears as they sprang free, along with her tumble of fern-green hair.

“Well, I’ll be…�� Chief stepped forward, offering Fareena a hand. The other two men tensed, but were waved off with Chief’s spare hand. “Mistress Hagen, right?” Now it was Fareena’s turn to tense. She still took the offered arm, letting herself be lifted to her feet. “Cid Garlond. Pleasure to finally meet the man my father cursed so. Only wish the circumstances of our union were better.”

Garlond. The pieces clicked into place. The scientist’s son, rushed out of Bozja with a major gunshot wound. His father, Midas nan Garlond, who had detonated the prototype weapon to finally end the Bozjan Resistance, at the cost of his life. Apparently the boy had survived, and was now… what? Tinkering with machines in his father’s garage? Fareena let herself look around for the first time. Machinery littered the walls, the floor, every inch of the surprisingly large space. But taking centre-stage was an airship. A rather small one, but large enough for…

Ah. Of course. This is their escape vehicle.

Cid smiled as Fareena put two and two together. “Afraid you walked in on our little getaway, so we can’t stay and chat. But someone has to put a stop to my father’s mad plans.” He didn’t know. News had not yet reached him of Midas nan Garlond’s death. Fareena opened her mouth to tell him, then thought better of it. Instead, another thought sprang to mind.

“The bombs were your doing, I take it?” Fareena noted Cid wince immediately as the words left her mouth. Not a man used to violence, apparently.

“Aye, that was me. Needed to keep the city’s eyes off us. Won’t get another chance like this for a long time.” Cid turned to his accomplices. “Biggs, Wedge, get us ready for takeoff. Time’s wasting.” Wedge nodded immediately, trotting off to perform his final checks. Wedge was less convinced.

“Are you sure about this, Chief? I know you’ve heard of her and all, but who’s to say she didn’t come here on Darnus’s orders?”

Fareena’s eyes flashed dangerously as she whirled to face the roegadyn. “I would sooner die. That man took everything from me. I will do the same to him.”

Her voices echoed into silence. Then, abruptly, Cid laughed. He barked his amusement into the garage, but his laughter swiftly descended into coughing and groaning. He clutched his side, waving off the large man’s clear panic. “I’ll be fine, Biggs. Just need to watch my wound, that’s all.” Cid straightened with obvious pain. “Whatever your business in the city is, best be on your way. You have a way out in mind?”

Fareena shook her head. She’d had a plan, but that had gone up in smoke the moment the explosions had erupted into life. Cid grimaced, then limped over to a lump of… something, hidden under a large curtain. With a grunt he tugged the curtain away, revealing the ugliest bike Fareena had ever seen.

It was love at first sight.

“This here’s the Fenrir,” Cid declared, patting the brutal motorcycle on its headlight. “All terrain monstrosity. This’ll get you where you need to go. Just promise you’ll look after it.”

Fareena stepped slowly forward, eyes glittering, nose twitching, ears aflutter. “This will get me through the snow?” she whispered reverently.

Cid laughed again, against his better judgement. “Don’t you know what all terrain means, girl? This’ll get you anywhere you need!” Cid gave her a warm smile. If you follow the road due south, you’ll get to a practically deserted checkpoint. Anyone stops you, tell them Midas’s boy has urgent news for the VIIth that can’t be delayed.” With Biggs’s assistance, Cid made his way to the ship. As if on cue, the roof of the garage split open with a groan. The night air flooded the garage in an instant. “Take care of yourself, Hagen!” Cid cried as the airship’s engine roared into life. “May we meet again, if fate allows it!” Then he was gone, along with his companions, into the night. Just a dark blot against a starless sky.

Fareena smiled as she hooked her legs around the engine of the great beast. “I’ll make my own fate, thank you very much.” The engine roared into life as the key turned. Oh, you and I are going to get along just fine.

Amidst fire and smoke, Fareena vanished into the night.

[storms-path]

Day 1 – Foster

“I’m sorry, but you can’t join us. The rules are clear on this.”

“Well, I’m not leaving until I get what I want, old man. So there.”

The elderly hrothgar stared in puzzlement at his latest problem. The viera woman stared right back, defiance clear in her violet eyes. She appeared to be no older than her early twenties, but given the tendency among viera to be much older than they appeared, she may well be older than him. Still, her mannerisms spoke to her being rather younger. Hard to hide the eager impatience of youth.

She had arrived earlier that evening, her clothes filthy and threadbare and her moss-green hair a mess, demanding to be admitted. Rumours had been swirling through the city lately of a viera matching her description looking for information on the guild. Those same rumours said she hailed all the way from Rabanastre, but such stories had a tendency to grow and grow with each retelling. More likely she was from a neighbouring nation, looking to try her luck at stealing secrets.

“Do as you will, then.” The hrothgar turned away, facing the guild entrance that his young charge desperately wished to enter. “Bozja will welcome you, provided you don’t make trouble. But the Gunbreakers’ guild will not.” He could sense the vagabond’s pout even if he couldn’t see it. “We do not allow outsiders to learn our craft. We have safeguarded it for centuries, and no would-be thief will change that.”

There was a moment of ominous silence before the reply came.

“Very well,” she spoke. “Then I’ll make myself at home.”

…

“Nice weather, eh Rostik?”

The white-furred hrotghar breathed a heavy sigh. Five years had been and gone since he’d told an uppity outsider to clear off. Five years she’d chosen not to listen. Every day he’d have his daily walk, and every day she’d be there, waiting. Even in the dreadful cold of Bozja’s winters. Even today, freezing rain pouring on them both. Fareena, she said her name was. Likely not her true name, but she didn’t seem to care.

Rostik looked around at the sodden, biting rain blanketing the city. Then he looked back at the problem that would not leave. Fareena grinned at him. This woman’s going to be the death of me…

“Your definition of nice is a continual surprise, miss Hagen. And not a particularly pleasant one either. The answer remains no.” Rostik held back the urge to roll his eyes as his young charge pouted dramatically. As if she hadn’t heard the same answer for half a decade now. “I assume you’ll join me regardless, as if I’m some feeble old man in need of a bodyguard.” He gritted his teeth as she nodded eagerly. Age hadn’t changed her mind in the slightest.

“You’re my ticket inside, old man. Of course I’m going to join you.” Fareena had made something of a name for herself among the Gunbreakers. Multiple break-in attempts, numerous fights and one particularly hare-brained scheme involving a morbol seedling and goblin cheese had built the young woman a sort of legend among the guild members, with a few more open minded members claiming they should let her in regardless of her status. Rostik was quick to shut such voices down.

Especially the voice in his own mind, steadily growing louder, whispering that perhaps he should just admit her and get it over with. He would not trust dissent among the ranks.

…

Fareena was still asleep, thank the Twelve. She looked almost peaceful, if you looked past the blood-soaked bandages. Rostik sighed softly, cursing his creaking bones as he took a seat beside her. Ten years ago he’d never have entertained the idea of her being a hero. A saviour. That had changed after the last few nights.

The Gunbreakers’ guild had been investigating rumours of a planned assassination attempt on the queen. Months of careful investigation, subtle bribes, reviewed security. None of it had mattered. The assassins had a man on the inside, one of Rostik’s own former pupils. The queen would have been cold in the ground if Fareena hadn’t intervened. Rostik had rushed through the palace halls like a man possessed, cold dread pulsing through him in terrible tandem with the adrenaline keeping him moving. He knew what he would find when he reached the queen’s bedchambers.

What he found instead was Fareena, sword in hand, her dark skin covered in crimson splatters (both her foes and her own), surrounded by would-be assassins and keeping a quietly terrified queen Gunhildr behind her. The remaining assassins never saw Rostik coming, his ferocity and fury tearing them asunder in moments. It was only thanks to his queen’s desperate command that Fareena did not meet the same fate.

The viera had been one step ahead of the Gunbreakers, leading her own investigation and stealing into the palace to act as one final line of defence. Without her, the queen would have been utterly defenceless. With her, vital time had been bought for the still-loyal Gunbreakers to secure the palace and destroy the remaining vermin. Fareena had stubbornly refused to have her wounds treated until the remaining assassins were found. The steel in her eyes discouraged any attempts to convince her otherwise.

And you damn near died for it, you fool girl. The chirurgeons had confided in Rostik that it was likely Fareena’s sheer stubbornness that had kept her alive, despite her hideous wounds. A lesser woman would have died on their feet, or on their way to the hospital. Her heart is steel. Her soul is flame. I suppose it’s time…

Ignoring the steady shake in his hands, Rostik placed his gifts on the table next to Fareena’s bed. A note, and a soul crystal. His, to be exact. “Keep it safe for me, girl,” Rostik muttered. “I’ll not need it any more.” And with that, the old man left without another word.