#oc:Elaine Egout

[dustcloak]

A Huntress, of Sorts

The cart-wheels creaked to a halt, the chocobos at its head coming to rest nervously. The road was little traveled, but since traffic on the main causeways was filling up with Ala Mhigans returning home, there were some adventurous merchants and ‘entrepreneurs’ who thought they might save some hassle and time by taking the old backwoods paths. The Hellsguard sitting above the birds narrowed his eyes, adjusted his dusty, cracked glasses, and tried to make out the time-faded lettering on his map. He jerks as his only passenger stirs behind him, knocking loudly against wood. He looks backwards as her voice cuts through the forest’s calm din.

“Lost, or just need some fresh eyes to read your cheap map?” Her voice is gravely, slow, and just slightly slurred.

“I’m not lost, Madame Du Fortemps.” His voice is like a mountain’s wind, deep and powerful, yet still quiet, breathy. He and the Elezen woman glare at one another through the canvas tarp, and share a brief chuckle. “Still can’t believe that one worked, craziest stunt we’ve pulled off yet.” He scratches at his squared, red beard, arcing his trimmed brows as his eyes focus on the memory he has set in his mind.

“Honest, had no idea you had the chops to pull of something that out there. You ever even met an Ishgardian? Let alone a noble, just one of them traveling commonfolk?” He adjusts his posture and moves to the side, grunting as the lithe, tall woman spills out from the back and orients herself at the front of the carriage.

With one hand, she snatches the glasses off the larger man’s head, and then with the other takes the old map. She has to sweep curtains of long, ice-blue hair from her face, and detangle it from the gnarled wood of the wagon. She bites her thumb as she thinks.

“I’ve improvised stranger roles,” She admits, mumbling unintelligibly as she turns the paper over in her hands, straining her eyes until her brow creases “Honestly, what I wasn’t expecting was the reaction. Mor Dhonan’s must be naive as the seven hells, going so far below the standard fair and selling price on the goods.”

They sit in silence a moment, leaning closer to one another and both glaring down at the faded paper. Her face the picture of angular, tense focus, and his the image of a man too tired to think that hard.

“Why in Nald’s good name did you insist we use this old rag? Are we here…?” She points at a faded splotch on the border between the Black Shroud and Ala Mhigo’s mountains. She peers away from the map, catching sight of the glint of dawn, but no mountains through the canopy.

“No, no, I’ve come this way before when I used to run with Tornstar’s bunch. Got some good paths through the mountains what avoid the customs at the fort.” He sighs, then runs his hand through his hair, and then again through his beard as he counts with his free hand. “First, ye go through the old poacher’s base, through the old cave they mined out and that dingy Gelmorran lowroad, third ye keep your eyes out for the spire of the Church of the Twelve and then head West a day or two on them old backroads.” He points at a clearly marked X, boldly inked in stark black against the muted browns of the ancient parchment. “We stayed at the poacher’s rest there, and then we started going north as we’re s’posed to. Should’ve been that we saw the river by now, it runs through-” Both he and his companion drop their hands to their waists as a voice interrupts. 

“The river out of the Virdjala or out of the Northern Striped Hills?” It’s smooth, like cool water slowly sloshing through your fingers.

They search for the voice, only to have to sit up, lean forward, and look just past their chocobos at a Lalafellin woman dressed in deep-blue travel wear. Along her coat, several bandoliers and belts lay full and dutifully strapped shut. Her sunlit, sandy hair cascades loosely across her shoulders and down to the back of her knees in tangled curls. Her eyes, peering out from between stray locks, are reflective pools of emerald. She’s covered, from metal sabatons to leather shoulders of her coat, in an uneven smattering of wine-red gore.

The two look between one another, before the huge man shrugs. He looks back at the sudden stranger, the long, sackcloth-wrapped pole she’s strapped to her back, the glint of armor beneath the cloth. His eyes though, they’re focused on how she’s standing. The quiet confidence there in her posture speaks louder than any of her road and battle worn gear.

“The one what comes down from the Northern Striped Hills.” He answers tentatively, remaining seated, one hand still on the gun in it’s holster on the back of his hip.

“You missed your turn. The stream which was fed by that river got blocked off during the liberation. That stream is dry now.” The Elezen’s eyes searched for weapons, but all she could easily spot was the covered rod on the little woman’s back. A staff? Maybe, but it’s nearly twice the Lala’s height, there would be no reason to wield a catalyst that large. A spear? Too long for her to take advantage of without mounting something. A sword, then. Maybe the sheath was lost in a scrap, but she still needed to be a little discreet. Still, if it was a sword, it wasn’t suited to her. Even Lominsan marauders her size just wielded weapons made for her folk. Wasn’t like the size of the weapon is what mattered.

“You from here?” The woman on the cart says. She gets her answer, a simple and curt shake of a head.

“I’m Muddy Pond.” The man says suddenly, stepping down from the wagon. He shoots a quick glance up at his partner, shares a conspiratorial wink, and then continues. “That up there is Elaine. We seem to be lost. You’re not from here, but do you know the area?” He gets a silent nod. 

“Wonderful, could we impose on you a bit? We need to get to the town of Ala Ghana, we have perishable goods aboard.” He slaps the side of the wagon, then moves closer to her with slow steps.

She doesn’t respond, just looks up at him with an odd, distant expression. He stops about five yalms away, just out of reach if she were to turn that curtain-covered rod against him.

“Time is of the essence,” He drops to one knee, trying to even the massive disparity in height. “We’re carrying medicine for the wounded being cared for there,” He lets his voice soften, years of practice and no small measure of skill taking over as he lets his instincts guide him. “Elaine is an apothecary who’s agreed to assist the Resistance for a time. With tensions rising on the border, we need every hand on deck.” His voice is nearly a whisper as he continues, since Elaine up above doesn’t need to hear this part to play along.

“Even yours could make a difference,” He holds his hand out towards her, palm upwards. He could swear that for just a moment, her expression shifted. But then, she just walks past his open hand and towards the cart. He tenses as she passes him.

“You may call me Vara. I’ll get you where you need to go.” As her back is turned, he pushes himself to his feet and turns to Elaine. Her face is a perfect mask, gratitude written all over it. In one glance from her though, he gets a shiver up his spine. Calling her an apothecary may be stretching what his partner can accomplish. He gives her an apologetic, cheeky grin while their new company can’t see. He’ll have to get her a drink once the two of them are through with this risky encounter.

“So, Miss Vara.” He says, bounding quickly to his old seat before offering her a hand up, “What do you do? I can’t help but notice you’ve gotten yourself a bit uh, messy.”

“I’m a huntress.” She ignores the offered hand, taking the nearly six feet up to the jockey box in a single, floaty jump. She lands with surprising grace, and then shifts the load on her back so she holds it in one hand off the side of the wagon.

From the cagey reply, lack of eye-contact, and then expectant silence, Muddy breathes deep and takes the hint. He turns the carriage around, and then spurs the chocobos on with a quick whistle.

Elaine lets out a huff of air, blowing a greasy strand of hair from her face. Muddy Pond was snoring louder than an earthquake in the back. It was overselling it a bit, if you’d ask her, but he wanted to make sure their ‘guide’ didn’t open the wrong boxes. Speaking of, the woman who’d introduced herself as Vara had spent the vast majority of the time on the road quietly using a rag and solvent to clear the worst of the gore off of her clothes and hair. She refused to answer questions in more than one or two words, even when giving navigational directions. Still, Elaine could now see the mountains which split the Shroud and Gyr Abania. Once they were in the mountains, they were in the clear.

Only thing was, there was now the question as to how they were going to ditch the huntress they’d tangled up in this. Best case scenario, she just agrees to leave once they reach the mountain pass Muddy knows. Worst case, she insists on sticking around and Elaine has to knock the gloomy bitch out. She doesn’t like the sound of that. Muddy and Elaine had gotten by as long as they had by knowing when to pick their fights. Given the condition in which they found her, whoever this ‘huntress’ was, it wasn’t someone Elaine wanted to dance with. So, for the moment, her plan is just to cast a simple sleep spell, spur the birds forward real hard, and hope she gives up when she wakes.

Did she seem the vengeful type? Elaine risked another curious glance, but same as the last few, all she can see is that blank, distant expression. It was unnerving. Lalafells were always such vibrant folk, even when they were cruel and fucked they were fucked in a loud and colorful way. But Vara? If it weren’t for the occasional deep breath or sudden shift in her seat, Elaine’d never have guessed she was even awake.

Then there were the scars. Hidden by the near-complete coverage afforded by her travel-wear, Elaine could only see the faded scars on her face, and a particularly nasty, pale gash across her neck. From the width and color of that scar, it was recent, and it should have been fatal.

Must have a friend who’s good with healing magic, Elaine reasons.

But even with all of that observation done and behind her, the Elezen still can’t fully put her finger on an odd sense of familiarity she has when looking at the huntress. All cleaned up now, and slowly braiding her messy hair, she looked like something out of a campfire tale. The armor was worn down, sure, but it was obviously hand-crafted. Even a common swindler could tell as much. The thick, heavy cloth covering whatever she’d been carrying was a quilt of patterns from all manner of styles and cultures. The pouches on her bandoliers and belts carried odd herbs, softly glittering and glowing tonics, all manner of small components both herbal and mineral. A huntress, she’d called herself. Idly, Elaine stopped wondering about the truth of that statement, and started thinking on what kind of huntress would need to prepare so many resources before setting after her prey.

“Smoke.” The cold voice of the Lala jerks Elaine from her thoughts, and stutters Muddy’s snores. Her emerald eyes glance to Elaine as she too begins to catch the distant scent.

“I will return.” She says quickly, leaping from the jockey box down to the ground. She shoulders her bundled rod, and then looks back. With a moment of hesitation, she pulls her jaw tight and narrows her eyes some.

“Do not wait for me. You are on the correct path. Go and clear your debts.” Without another second’s delay, she bolts off deeper into the woods away from the beaten path. The smell of smoke grows stronger, and the air vibrates as something roars. Deep and gargling, it rumbles through the branches. At first, Elaine can’t believe their luck. She whistles loud and clear, and the birds race forward. Then, she hears the roar again, and the rattle of metal and gears. Machina? Here?

Not her fucking problem. Let the little ‘huntress’ go get herself killed, all the better that no one knows they passed through here.

“What was all that ‘bout?” Muddy pokes his head through the tarp, squinting in the evening light.

“Ah, our guide just split, didn’t quite catch everything she said. Fuck if I know, or care. Better she’s out of our hair now, than before we have to ice her for knowing too much. Ain’t no one can know we’re running somnus or that’s our exit strategy fucked and done with, regardless of what we owe or don’t owe.” She snaps, the day’s tension ripping out of her throat as the cart’s wheels carreen down the dusty road.

“I mean SERIOUSLY! How the fuck did you think that was a good plan?!” She hisses through her teeth, head whipping back and forth between the road and her partner in crime. “Apothecary? Apothecary?!” She gestures at her dust and mud-stained leathers with one hand while the other holds the reins.

“Do I look like a fucking doctor right now?! Fuck! At least make something reasonable up, damnit!”

“The hell do you know?” He growls, setting his back against hers through the thin wood separating the cart interior and the jockey cab. “You see the way she was standing? She was sizin us up the moment her eyes dropped onto us. We’re lucky I pulled on her heartstrings to make sure she didn’t do to use what she did to whatever was painting her twelvesdamned coat.”

“Oh, were you scared of a 2’8 doll with a goddamned quilt and curtain rod?” She jeers, but when she doesn’t get an immediate response, she pauses. Her snarky smile fades, and she glances back for just a second. His face is all stone and shadow.

 “Wait, you had a fucking gun. If you were scared, why didn’t you just shoot her?”

“I don’t think it would have mattered.” He says, voice solemn. “You ever see a dragon, El? One of the big ones, with the wings n’ all. Not the little shit-drakes the Amaljaa have.”

“What? Fuck no. We went over this earlier, right? Ain’t neither of us been to Ishgard, let alone Dravania.” She looks out and around as they clear the treeline of the Shroud, the forest beginning to give way to underbrush and stone. Ahead, the mountains loomed dark in the evening sky.

“They don’t do much when they see you. They just wait, see-” He begins, voice low.

“Oh come off it, I don’t have the patience for your barside fairy-tales right now.” She says, eyes tracing the dimming horizon above her. They’d have to slow down near the mountains. Should be fine.

“Not a fairy-tale. But fine. She’s gone regardless. Let’s just get to the first town we can. Sooner we get to Ala Ghana, sooner we clear our debts.”

Clear your debts. The smooth, cold voice echoes in her ears a moment. Elaine’s gut drops, an uncertain and cold feeling settling deep in her ribs.

“Muds?” She asks, voice suddenly much smaller, if still hoarse from shouting. “We’re gonna be alright, yeah?”

“I think we are. Just get us to the Hills and we’ll make camp. Need me to take the reins for a bit?” She feels his hand rest on her shoulder, heavy and reassuring. Tension washes out of her jaw and shoulders.

“No, no. You get some actual fuckin rest. You’re gonna have to take a watch tonight, so you gotta be awake for that.” She pauses, “Also, we’re stopping at the Stones to get you a new fucking map.”

“What? Mine is perfectly fine.”

“Bull-fucking-shit.”