#viera vagabond vibes

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #1: Steer

“I don’t want to go!” There was something accusatory in the high-pitched whine and the way the kit pointed his finger at Reynir, as if the ancient codes and unspoken laws of the forest were somehow his fault. Reynir kept a placid look on his face, kept his clawed hands folded behind his back, fought the droop threatening his tall ears and kept them perky instead. He tried to project control and competence, as he’d seen his master do time and again.

He hoped he succeeded.

“I know it’s scary, honey bun. But it’s our way,” Liv said. She folded her son up in her arms, an embrace that the kit welcomed and returned, clinging to her as if he’d drown otherwise. With the kit’s face buried in her neck, she offered Reynir a glance laden with apologies. Reynir answered with a brief smile and a nod. This was normal. Probably. “I want to stay with you and Elva!” the kit pleaded. “Atli,” his mother cooed. She pried the kit from her, just enough to look him in the eyes. Her fingers brushed through his hair, taming tangles of sunshine. “Do you know why there are so few males in the forest?” You see, about a fifth of us die in training, Reynir thought dryly. But his social skills hadn’t eroded so thoroughly in his isolation that he dared to say it. Not in front of the doting mother, and most certainly not in front of the anxious kit. Atli sniffled and shook his head at his mother. “Because the Word knows that however few the Wood-warders number, you are enough to keep us safe from all of the threats outside of Stjrn. Without you, and without him, there’s no village. No Mother or Elva. The Green Word chose this path for you because She needs you to protect Her lands.” She kissed the kit’s forehead, then his cheeks, solemn and gentle. Then she began to pepper the kit’s face with loud, exaggerated smooches until he cried out in protest and she couldn’t contain her laughter anymore. “Mother! Stop!” Alti squealed, twisting about until he wriggled free of Liv’s grasp. Though he felt his own smile growing by the moment, Reynir stepped away, slipping out the door to leave the mother and her son to treasure the moment without their unwelcome guest. He settled against the wall where he’d left his spear, folded his arms, and waited. It was some ticks before the door creaked open and Liv stepped out to join him. She shut the door behind her, the kit nowhere in sight. “Apologies. I know you wished to speak with him, but I think it will have to wait. He’s in his room now, packing his things before he and his sister help with the feast,” she explained. “He can bring his things, yes?” “Sure,” Reynir said. His voice had always been gentle and soft. Ordinarily it made speaking a nuisance, as he strained to be heard, but it seemed appropriate enough now. “So long as he travels light.” “It’s only a few keepsakes,” she assured him. He grunted his approval. They lapsed into silence. “You can stay, you know,” she finally said. “For the send-off. It’s in Atli’s honor, so you’ll have to wait on him anyroad. Nobody will deny you another night’s respite.” Reynir shrugged. “I’m fine outside.” “The feast will be outside. Our little hut can’t hold the entire village.” When Reynir looked at her again, her green eyes were dancing with amusement. “Outside the village,” he clarified, smiling despite himself. “Very well, whatever makes you happy,” she conceded. “But I insist that you take some food with you.” “Okay. Since you’re insisting.” Silence again. Reynir let his eyes drift shut, and he listened. Inside the hut, he could hear the kit speaking to his sister, their words indistinct. But they weren’t the only people awake this early. Throughout the village, a handful of women had already emerged from their own homes and busied themselves with preparations for the evening. They discussed food, music, and stories as they planned their grand farewell to the young jack. “Reynir.” He cracked an eye open. Liv was watching him still, but all of her humor and cheer had melted away and laid bare the truth. She wasn’t oblivious to what the Green Word demanded of Atli. It was there in the downward twist of her mouth, the nervous darting of her eyes.

“Promise me you’ll take care of him?” She spoke with a sliver of her voice, her words almost lost amidst the sounds of the village waking. “Teach him well and watch over him and keep him on the right path?” “I swear on the Word. I’ll—” “Oi! Merc!” A rough voice in his ear and two thumps against his left arm that he heard more than felt tore him free of dream and memory. “Wake up! Wake up, damn you!” Locke’s eyes fluttered open. Wind stung them immediately, biting at his face and droning in his ears. Snow crunched beneath the chocobos and the wagon they pulled with frenzied desperation. He turned toward the Lalafell at his side and saw the birds’ distress mirrored on the man’s face.

“What’s going on?” “You’re sleeping and not doing your bloody job is what’s going on!” Sosonado spat. He spared a glare toward Locke but otherwise kept his eyes forward and focused on the path ahead. “Look behind us!” Locke leaned out of the wagon to look past the canvas roof. Through whipping curtains of snow, a trio of chocobos pursued them, each carrying a rider hunched low in their saddle. Though they were a fair distance back — close enough for a good shot, not nearly close enough to throw a knife, Locke judged — they’d catch up soon. One spotted Locke and raised a hand, leveling a firearm. Locke ducked back into the cover of the wagon a heartbeat before the weapon barked, hot metal spinning off into the snow. “See the problem now?” Sosonado growled. “See you steered us into trouble. Nice driving.” A second shot rang out, ripping a hole through the canvas by Locke’s left shoulder. He’d have to check later if it found its mark, but he winced like it hurt anyroad. Not that it won him any sympathy. Sosonado sunk deeper into his own seat, diminutive form hidden by wood and cargo, and snapped the reins. As if the chocobos might be holding something back. “I just followed the road that they happened to be watching.” Sosonado scowled at the birds, the snow, Locke, then back to the road. “Which, if you recall, is why I hired you. Now quit your snarking and get rid of them!”

“Mm. They’re bandits?” Locke secured his swords on his back and hip, then he checked his revolver’s chambers. Of course it was already loaded. He was on the job, and he took his job seriously, didn’t he?

Naps aside.

“Bandits, brigands, Butchers. They’re shooting at us, what difference does what they’re calling themselves make?”

“Point.” Locke stood up from his seat. He was unsteady on his feet, still shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his body and weighed down by the anchor of his left arm besides, but he turned and planted a boot on the seat anyway. “Wait at the next town.”

“Par—”

The rest of the merchant’s words were lost to the wind as Locke flung himself from the wagon and into open air.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #30: Two Heads Are Better Than One

Everything hurt. Aches slithered up Locke’s legs and ribs, and the slightest shift sent burning waves across his chest and neck. He threw back the scratchy blanket covering him and found that he’d been stripped to his undergarments. Fresh bandages covered more of his skin than they didn't. Only his left arm, its wooden frame cracked and splintered, had gone unattended by a chirurgeon. He squinted against the bright light streaming into the room through several windows and forced himself into a sitting position. The room tilted, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the bout of vertigo as he waited for it to pass. He heard the door swing open before he managed to get his eyes open again. Lifting his head, he took a risk and cracked his eyes open.

“Figured you’d be out for a few more suns yet,” the boatman said, his bulky frame filling the doorway. He had a pleased smile on his face. “Feels like I should be,” Locke groaned. His back and arm felt stiff, and he reached up, trying to stretch the latter. Pain jolted up the limb for his trouble. “What happened?” “You didn’t come out of that cave is what happened.” The boatman stepped inside and grabbed a chair, one of the few furnishings in the little room. The scrape of wood on wood as he pulled it to the bedside got little drums thumping behind Locke’s eyes. “Here now though. Guess you went in to get me?” Locke asked. When the boatman nodded, Locke scoffed. “Coulda died.” “I don’t doubt it. I saw all of the, uh, the bones. And those symbols painted everywhere. Almost turned and ran, but, well, I just couldn’t make myself do it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sentimental, I guess. I couldn’t leave before seeing if you were alive. Good thing I did, too. You were in really bad shape.” “Sure feel like it.” Locke frowned down at his body, all bound in clean linen. “Dumb to go in there. Appreciate you pulling me out anyroad.” “Happy to help,” the boatman said. He looked ready to clap Locke on the shoulder, then — thankfully — must have thought better of it. “Really, it’s the least I could do, seeing as you killed that voidsent and all.”

Locke sat up a little straighter. “Oh, that’s right! Checked on Swarmhas since then?”

“Truthfully? I didn’t want to go over there before you woke up. His business is with you, after all.” The boatman glanced out the window before looking back at Locke. “But after we left the cave, I did notice the fog had cleared up. All those voices were gone too. Whatever sorcery he and that voidsent were using is gone now.”

Locke swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tested them. They didn’t hold him well, and he had to grab for the bedside table to avoid falling on his face, but he didn’t fall. Technically. “Get the boat ready then. Let’s see the old magician.”

“What? Shouldn’t you wait? I'm certain the healer wants you to get more bedrest,” the boatman said quickly, hands raised toward Locke to both usher him back to bed and prepare to catch him.

Locke ignored the gesture and shuffled across the room to where his weapons and clothes were waiting for him. Most of the latter were a tattered mess, but there was a loose shirt and slightly too long trousers mixed in with his things.

“Thoughtful.”

The boatman turned away, giving him a measure of privacy as he hissed, grunted, and swore his way into getting dressed. By the time his hips were laden with their usual weapons and the magician’s knife — the end of its blade had snapped off with the voidsent’s death, and cracks spiderwebbed across the diamond in its pommel, but he wore it on his belt anyroad — he was out of breath.

“Come on, come on,” Locke said, motioning for the boatman to follow. “Let's go see the wizard.”

It took some ticks before Locke and the boatman were leaving the docks behind. The boatman had to give the skiff a once-over, and by the time he had finished the healer had caught wind of what they were up to and arrived at the pier to chew them out.

But after hurried promises that they would return soon and Locke would be a perfect patient when they did, they were off to the Isles of Umbra. The ocean was calm, gentle waves shimmering under the midday sun, and the wind was at their back.

And true to the boatman’s word, they encountered no mist or fog on the brief voyage. Even the shores were clear, the ashkin that had previously stood in Locke’s way having vanished entirely.

Locke ventured to Swarmhas' cavern abode alone anyroad, the boatman citing a long list of incidents around the isles that encouraged him not to so much as set a toe on their shores if it could be helped.

The journey there was quiet. Waves rolled against sand and stone in the distance, and the occasional cry of a bird floated on the wind. But otherwise, Locke was left with his thoughts in silence.

Finally, he arrived at the mouth of the cave. He tapped his knuckles against the stone and called, “Wizard? You here?”

More silence.

Locke loosened his Doman sword in its sheath and moved forward, following the tunnels to Swarmhas' lair, fingers hooked loosely around the handle of a lit lantern. When he arrived, it was much the same as he remembered it. A bed, an old desk, shelves stacked with books and jars. Candles and torches were scattered throughout the cavern, extinguished.

There was no wizard.

“Swarmhas?” Locke said, walking a circle around the room. It wasn’t exactly rife with hiding places, and those that he did find — under the bed, the ilm of space behind the shelves — were predictably empty.

He’d just taken a step toward the tunnel when something thudded against the desk. Hewhirled on the noise, arm struggling to lift the lantern to swing it at the source.

A gull stood there, staring at Locke with beady yellow eyes.

“The hells did you come from?”

The gull opened its beak, as if to answer. Locke yelped when it spoke.

“Greetings, slayer of voidsent.” The gull chortled, dry as an aristocrat reacting to a story etiquette required them to find funny. “Truthfully, I did not expect you to succeed. Inexperienced, reckless, arrogant. You presented yourself as everything a hunter of the void should not be.”

“Okay, none of that’s called for,” Locke grumbled, setting the lantern on the table so he could put a hand on his hip and glare down at the gull. Its blank stare didn’t change, and words continued to emanate from its open beak.

“I apologize for sending you there regardless. I was desperate to see my failures rectified. With your help, my wish has been fulfilled. I’m finally free. But more importantly, my daughter is free. Thank you, swordsman. We can finally rest.”

“You’re welcome,” Locke told the gull. “You dead then?”

It ignored his question, of course.

“You’ll find your reward in a trunk under my bed. I had little time to spare once I was freed of the pact—”

The next parts of the message were lost, buried beneath the groan of wood and iron hurriedly scratching stone. Locke flipped the trunk open and found a leather backpack there, along with half a dozen belt pouches. He frowned, picking each of them up. They were well-made but otherwise seemed perfectly ordinary.

“—enchanted to weigh less and carry more than their sizes suggest. They should be of use to you on the road.”

“Oh!” Locke looked toward the gull, then the bags. He removed his backpack and belt pouches and began transferring their contents to the magic bags. Once he was done, he slung the new backpack over his shoulder — wincing at the pressure on his injuries there — and paced around the room.

“This is light!” Locke said, grinning at the bird. “Barely feels like I’m carrying the pack at all, let alone the stuff inside. Thanks, wizard.”

“Unfortunately,” the gull continued, heedless of Locke’s side of the conversation, “I used your gold ingot in preparing the inks that were used for these enchantments. Not that you would have expected to get it back after we traded for it, but now that I am gone and you are surrounded by my possessions, I’m certain the thought crossed your mind. I was an adventurer once too, after all.”

Locke silently conceded the point. He had been a little curious about the gold bar. Surely it could have covered at least a moon of rent, were he able to recover it.

“If you don’t mind, I think it is only fitting that the rest of my belongings be given to the Maelstrom to use as they see fit. I have little of value, but perhaps my research notes will prove useful to fellow magicians. Ah, but you are welcome to any potions on my shelves. I daresay you’ll need them if you insist on testing yourself against Odin.”

The gull chuckled again, but only for a moment. Its voice soon turned somber.

“On that note, I would leave you with one last thing: Advice. You needn’t do everything on your own, swordsman.”

Locke frowned at the gull and leaned against the table. His thumb idly rubbed the pommel of the magician’s knife, and his claw clicked against the cracked diamond in its center. But his eyes were set on the gull, weighing the wizard’s wisdom.

“My own arrogance led me to this island and all of the tragedy you have been compelled to resolve. For all my research and all my plans, it took your assistance to free me and my daughter. Do not repeat my mistake. Find allies. Make friends. Open your heart. You will be richer for it.”

Locke hummed noncommittally. But his eyes and ears remained set on the bird, committing the magician’s last words to memory.

“Farewell. Truly, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The gull closed its beak and, with a reverent bow of its head, began to dissipate. Tendrils of Mist unfurled from its body, its silhouette diminishing with each unraveled thread. Then it was gone.

Locke watched the spot where the last remnant of Swarmhas had lingered for a few moments more. He walked around the cavern one last time, collecting what few items seemed useful but leaving the rest of Swarmhas’ possessions in accordance with his wishes.

He left the cavern behind, rejoining the boatman on the isle’s shore. Their return to Aleport was slower than their journey away, traveling against the wind now, and they lapsed into silence after Locke told the boatman most of what had transpired. It gave Locke ample time to weigh the wizard’s last words — he’d kept that part of the message to himself, personal as it was — as he turned the broken knife over in his hand.

The silence also, however, gave the boatman the opportunity to strike up a conversation. As much for his own sake as Locke’s, probably, after everything that had happened.

“So, traveler. Once you’re given leave to be on the move again, where will it be? Elsewhere on Vylbrand? Back to Aldenard?”

“Hm.” Locke lifted his eyes from the dagger to look at the boatman, the faint sheen of sweat visible on the Roegadyn’s brow. He’d taken a break from rowing to peer back at Locke.

“Back to Radz-at-Han to check in with my boss, I guess. After that, don’t know. Got a couple ideas. Nothing certain. Wherever the wind nudges me, maybe.”

“Ah. You’re in good company then.” The boatman smiled and motioned to the skiff beneath them, slowly drifting along with the waves.

“Guess so,” Locke agreed, flashing a brief grin at him before looking back down. He rolled the handle of the knife in his palm one more time before returning it to its sheath on his belt. When he looked up again, it was with curiosity in his eyes. “Say. Know anything about Tural?”

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #3: Tempest

“Cutting it close there, traveler. Blizzard’s right on your heels, no?” The guard’s voice reverberated behind her metal faceplate. Locke didn’t miss the way she sized him up through the gap between faceplate and coif, icy blue eyes flicking up and down. Though her eyes lingered on his weapons, sympathy tinged her gaze as she appraised him, wet and half-frozen as he was.

“Inn?” he inquired through chattering teeth.

“First building on your left. I recommend you get a hot bath as soon as you can.” She motioned toward a nearby stone structure, tall by Locke’s reckoning but utterly dwarfed by the tower of stone, glass, and light looming over the settlement. Some sort of device, a long tube mounted upon the parapet, crowned the tower. A cannon, he supposed. “And welcome to the Observatorium.”

Locke sniffled, muttered his thanks, and marched past.

Closer to the inn, he spotted a familiar wagon set off to one side, wind and snow batting at its canvas roof. It seemed Sosonado had made it to safety. Good tidings, if only because it meant Locke would be paid. He hoped the chocobos who’d pulled the wagon were being kept somewhere warm.

Locke shoved the double doors open, a gust of air following him into the room and banging the doors against the stone before he pushed them shut again. The noise drew the nearest eyes to him, but not much more than that.

The common room, small though it was, was a whirlwind of activity. A varied throng of patrons — civilians, travelers, off-duty guards, and men and women wearing tall hats — crowded the hearth and spilled out from there, seated in the nearest chairs and leaning against the closest tables. They were absorbed in their own conversations, a mess of tangled chatter Locke wasted no time on unraveling.

“He loaded his firearm! ‘Six bullets,’ he told me. ‘One for every pair of these scoundrels.’ I know, I know! An impossible feat!” a voice, all rasp and gravel, recounted.

Locke glanced in the direction of the storyteller. At the center of the little audience, standing atop a round table and waving a mug about the size of his torso around as he told his tall tale, was Sosonado. Dark, spiky hair in disarray, drooping mustache and mutton chops matted together and wet with ale, but whole, happy, and thriving with his audience, captive as they were by the budding snowstorm.

Looks like he’s doing just fine. A job well done indeed.

“The gunslinger leapt from the wagon.” He hopped several Lalafell-sized strides, a pantomime of Locke’s own leap earlier that day, beer sloshing from his mug and onto one of his spectators. The unfortunate man’s yelp was drowned out by Sosonado’s impassioned narration. “Before his feet even touched the ground, bang! Two, nay, three Butchers slain with but a single single shot!”

Locke shook his head and squeezed past several of the onlookers, as well as a harried server balancing a pair of trays, to reach the bar. The bartender there looked no less vexed than the server, gesturing at Sosonado with slender, calloused fingers.

“A bell ago it was eight of those Blue Butchers. Before that, six,” she scoffed. “I reckon this gunslinger will have killed twenty of the wretches with an empty musketoon before the night’s— oh, dear, did you get caught out in the snow?”

Locke dropped onto a stool and almost sighed at the sudden sense of relief. Finally off his feet. “Yep. You sell baths? Hot, preferably.”

“Package deal with renting a bed, usually. I’m afraid all of those are spoken for, we’ve got quite the crowd on account of the storm coming, but we’ll get you a bit of privacy and a tub regardless. Free of charge.”

Locke nodded his appreciation. “And food?”

A smile flickered across the bartender’s round features. “Don’t get too greedy, food and drink will cost you. But I’m no swindler, they’ll be cheap enough. Nice blade like that, you can afford a bowl of stew or two here, yeah?”

She nodded toward the gold filigree handle of the gunblade peeking out from his shoulder. Locke spared it only a glance, noting the flecks of ice melting along its length. That probably warranted maintenance.

“Sure,” he grunted. “Bath first?”

“That seems wise,” she agreed. “Fiocant! Prepare a bath upstairs for Mr…”

“Teabrook.”

“Mr. Teabrook! And loan him some clothes, would you? Poor thing looks like an ice sprite fell into a vat of red dye! No offense.”

Locke wiped his nose against his sleeve. “That bad?”

“Pretty bad,” she admitted. She motioned as a server returned and traded their empty tray for custody of Locke. “Here he is. Fiocant will take care of you.” Fiocant was a raven-haired Elezen fellow with traces of a paunch beneath his tunic and enough height to have a tendency of looming. He acknowledged Locke with a small dip of his head. “If you’ll follow me.” Locke slid off of the stool and began to take a step, then he caught himself. Seki always said that one thing, didn’t he? His pro-verb? Good done to others is… uh, good. That didn’t sound quite right to Locke, but it made sense in a circular sort of way. So he dug through his new gil pouch and set the largest of the coins on the bar. “Thanks.” He hurried off before the bartender could reply, loping across the common room to catch up to Fiocant. A gust of frigid air met him as Fiocant pulled the doors open, reintroducing them both to the snowstorm outside.

“Wait, wait!” Heads turned, eyes following Sosonado’s wild gestures. They fell on Locke, more numerous and curious than before, and any reluctance to leave the warmth of the common room behind evaporated. “That’s him, that’s the gunslinger! Hey, mer—” Locke swung the doors shut and followed Fiocant up the stairs to the second story. He took them two at a time, his path made just a little easier by the Elezen’s larger feet and heavy boots. The journey took all of a tick, but he couldn't pass under Fiocant’s arm and into the room quickly enough.

He found himself in a set of conjoined rooms, each smaller than the common room below but furnished in its same plain, practical style. Fiocant stepped into the next room, and Locke left him to it, beelining instead to huddle before the nearby fireplace. He kicked off his boots, peeled off his socks and right glove, and shoved his digits forward, just shy of cooking them. Heat washed over them, and feeling crept back in, a dull ache to replace the numbness.

“The tub is in the other room,” Fiocant announced, filling the doorway with that looming physique of his. He removed a crystal from his pocket, hues of red glimmering beneath the surface and stepped forward to offer it to Locke. “Do you know how to use this?”

“Kinda,” he responded.

“Mm,” Fiocant hummed, his lips in a line. “Well, if you’ve forgotten, just apply a bit of will to it whenever you’d like to reheat your water, yes?”

He dropped the crystal into Locke’s waiting hand. It was warm to the touch, like a coin that had been left out in the sun. “And do enjoy your bath. There’s a change of clothes in the other room for you as well.”

Locke waited only long enough for Fiocant to step aside. Then he was off, scurrying through the adjacent chamber and into a little room large enough to hold a wooden tub, a bucket, and a clothing rack. He didn’t bother waiting for the door to finish shutting before he began to disrobe, casting aside layers of damp cloth and leather and his metal vambrace and spaulder. The room was a flurry of noise, wet thumps and ringing clangs and the splash of displaced water as he dropped into the tub, warmth washing over him from toe to jaw before he sank further into its embrace, letting it chase away the chill on his cheeks and in his ears. Only his left arm remained above the surface, its wooden exterior thrown over one side of the tub, fingers dangling limply.

It was with reluctance that he resurfaced for air. He combed his claws through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and shifted in the tub until he was as sprawled out as he could manage, heat and aches crawling across his body, weighing his limbs down. His gaze wandered, tracing the stonework before settling on the window.

Snow danced in the air outside, swaying to the hectic beat of the shutters and the baying of the wind. It was the first song he’d ever known, before even his mother’s lullabies. It was his constant companion in the forest and the mountains, his only company through the lonely years every Wood-warder experienced.

Locke sank lower into the water and let the storm’s song carry him off to sleep.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #13: Butte

Tired eyes narrowed against the bright light of a Twelveswood morning, Locke plodded his way through the scattered crowds of Gridania with about as much care and tact as an ornery goat. Aches rippled across his feet and up his legs with each step, and every jostled citizen was a fresh twinge of pain across his side and through his left shoulder.

He’d have sworn it even crept down from his shoulder, into his arm and his fingers, but the wolf-like beast had taken the better part of that, leaving him with a limb of splintered wood and stray wires. The mess was covered by long strips of linen cut into crude bandages, such that a passerby might believe he was hiding a real arm with real injuries and not a busted up prosthetic.

Or so he hoped, anyroad.

What he couldn’t hide were the scratches on the side of his face where he’d been flung to the forest floor, nor could he hide the bruise on his jaw from his less than graceful landing. Neither were so severe that he wanted to waste even a sip of the few potions he’d squirreled away, however. Instead, he nursed his injuries and ego silently and applied himself to the job the old hermit had saddled him with. “Potionmaker? Name of Odranne?” he inquired. Each time, he was answered with a shake of the head or a polite apology, and he continued on to the next shopkeeper or citizen or Wood Wailer. Finally, he came to a stop at yet another stall, this one owned by an Elezen man preoccupied with rummaging through some sort of container underneath the counter. Locke set his good hand — his only hand — on the counter and tapped his claws against the wood. Dark eyes and a surly face appeared opposite Locke, the rummaging stopping for a moment. “Just a moment,” the stallman said. And the rummaging resumed. Locke huffed and busied himself examining the array of books on display. Leather covers, colorful spines, glyphs in different hues and shades and shapes. Meaningless to him, but they looked nice. A heavy container shifted underneath the stall, and the stallman stood up, finally fixing his full attention on Locke. “My apologies, you caught me preparing for the morning. Something I can help you with?” “Looking for someone. A potionmaker,” Locke said. “Name of Odranne?” “I think I know who you mean. You’re—” the stallman stopped, his eyes settling on Locke’s right shoulder. Frowning, Locke followed his gaze. His clothes were a bit dirty, he supposed, and turning his head, he could smell the events of the last few days on them, dirt and rain and stale sweat mingling in the fabric and leather. But surely he wasn’t that bad. “Don’t serve imperials here,” the stallman spat, pulling Locke’s eyes back to him. His expression had turned hard, his jaw tight, a flinty gaze fixed on Locke. “Not Garleans, and not their turncoat dogs either.”

“Luckily, I’m neither,” Locke answered. “Just use the weapons. Now, Odranne?”

The stallman scoffed, lip curling with contempt. “Leave, and take your questions elsewhere. I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

Locke shook his head. “You know the potionmaker. Where can I find her?”

“Leave, vagrant,” the stallman repeated, leaning closer. He towered over Locke, a full fulm and then some taller, with broad shoulders and a physique that seemed better suited to swinging a weapon than selling tomes.

Locke shifted his weight to his back foot but otherwise stood still, hand resting on the counter. Were there peacekeepers nearby? Would they take his side? He didn’t dare break eye contact to check, not when the stallman could easily take advantage of the distraction.

“Drop it already, both of you. Nobody’s impressed, you’re just bothering everyone,” a voice cut in. The stallman looked to the newcomer, and though instinct screamed at Locke to take advantage of the opening, he curled his fingers into his palm and forced himself to follow the stallman’s lead.

A willowy Elezen stood just a few paces away, nearly as tall as the stallman but more svelte than Locke. Her blue eyes flicked between the quarreling men before settling on Locke.

“I’ve been hearing my name on the wind all morning. Are you the one asking about me?”

Locke confirmed her question with a nod. When she raised a thin eyebrow and didn’t say anything, he added, “Delivery for you. From an old man. Cranky fellow, lives in the woods?”

“Hm. That doesn’t narrow it down like you might think.” She shifted a woven basket from one hand to the other, its contents hidden beneath a plain piece of cloth. “Oh, well. Come along then, we can talk business elsewhere and leave this gentleman to his work.”

The stallman grumbled his approval, and Odranne set off away from the market, heading further into the city. Locke shrugged a shoulder and fell into step behind her, watching her dark ponytail sway at first, then looking toward the basket to see if he could get a glimpse of its contents.

Could it be food? His stomach growled at the thought. He hoped it was food. Could he sneak some out from under the cloth without her noticing? Surely he’d earned that much, he’d brought her the parcel after all.

“I apologize for the trouble,” she said over her shoulder, distracting Locke from the plan forming in his mind. He dropped it and met her eyes. “He and the empire have some history.”

“You don’t say.”

She chuckled and looked forward again. “You’ll find much of the Twelveswood is like that. Lots of history, lots of grudges. And you do yourself no favors carrying weapons like those.”

“They’re effective.”

“Hence the issue. Oh, well. Here’s the checkpoint.”

A wooden gate filled the space between two tall ridges, and a pair of Wood Wailers stood before it, each armed with a spear. One of them acknowledged Odranne with a nod, the other, a smile.

Then their faces turned toward Locke. Behind their half-masks, he felt scrutinizing eyes on him.

“Only residents of the Twelveswood are permitted beyond this point. No vagrants, no sellswords, no adventurers,” one of the Wood Wailers intoned.

“And you look like you might be all three,” the second added with equally little feeling.

“No sense in giving him the whole speech,” Odranne said. “He’s my guest and temporary employee, I need him for a job. He’s not following me for nothing.”

The first Wood Wailer considered this and nodded. “Very well. Do keep an eye on him, however.”

“He looks like trouble,” the second added.

Odranne glanced back toward Locke as the Wailers opened the gate and rolled her eyes. Locke tilted his head to one side and frowned an unvoiced question. What was so troubling about him?

Still, the peacekeepers gave them no more grief as they passed and wordlessly closed the gates behind them.

Gridania was much the same beyond the gates as it was before them. Smooth paths, greenery and foliage scattered about, and natural stone walls sprouting from the ground. Some buildings stood alone, as they would anywhere else, but others incorporated their natural surroundings into the construction. Trees sprouted from the buildings, branches and ivy spiderwebbed across roofs, mounds of stone made natural walls and fences.

“As I said, there’s a lot of history,” Odranne echoed, leading Locke further into this unfamiliar district. “Old grudges are eventually forgotten, but often, that’s just because they’ve been replaced by new ones.”

“Against Viera?” Locke asked.

“Against outsiders,” she corrected. “And all of your strange and misguided ways that upset the balance of the forest. But that’s more history than I care to teach.”

“Probably more than I care to learn. How much further?”

Odranne pointed to a distant cottage atop a tall hill. It almost looked lonely, perched there away from all of the other buildings, but for anyone who valued their privacy, it was likely an ideal location. And he couldn’t imagine the view was anything to complain about.

Getting up there, however, looked to be another matter.

“Looks steep,” he commented.

“Oh, it is. Terribly steep.”

“Are there stairs?”

Odranne barked a laugh. “Hardly. I hope you’re well-rested and in shape, delivery boy.”

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #4: Reticent

On most days, Locke liked birds more than people. They talked a little bit, each inquiry and answer a slightly different kweh, just enough to qualify as company. But they never pressed him. If all he had to contribute to the conversation was a sniffle or a grunt, chocobos didn’t mind. A meal of greens, a bit of preening, a few encouraging pats, and they were set.

Ideal traveling companions, chocobos.

After three days of the same tall tale being shared in the inn as Locke and Sosonado waited for the storm to pass and the roads to clear, such that every other patron was thoroughly sick of the story by the time they could resume their travels, Locke desperately wished his client was more like a chocobo. “I daresay they’ll be spreading tales of your derring-do across Coerthas now, lad!” Sosonado crawled out from the back of the wagon, his cargo inspection completed, and hopped up onto his seat. “A gunslinger with hair like fire! A swordsman with no need for swords!” Locke’s gaze flicked down to where his swords rested against his leg, propped up in the floor of the box seat. The ornate handle of the gunblade wasn’t far from his fingers, just in case trouble found them on the road again. Though after Sosonado’s yarn, Locke had half a mind to let trouble succeed next time. “Please wait, gentlemen!” a clear voice called out. Locke turned in his seat, a tall ear swiveled in the voice’s direction before his eyes found the source. The bartender who’d been working the night he arrived in the Observatorium made her way across the yard, taking care to step around the hardy greens peeking through the snow.

“Is there something we can help you with, ma’am?” Sosonado asked. “The opposite. I was hoping to help the two of you.” She produced a pair of red crystals from her tunic and dropped them into Sosonado’s arms, too large for his hands as they were. “It’s not much, but perhaps they’ll keep you warm. Be it on the road or in a snowstorm, should more heroics be required.” Sosonado looked to Locke with a grin bright as the sun and set one of the crystals in his waiting hand, warm even through his glove. Locke found himself caught between rolling his eyes and giving the bartender an earnest thanks. He settled for a curt nod.

But Sosonado had no such issues speaking. “My deepest thanks! I have many things in my wagon, but crystals are unfortunately not one of them, useful though they’d be. I’ll treasure it. As will my companion here.” He looked at Locke meaningfully, but the bartender shook her head.

“No, no, it’s quite alright. He already paid for his, yeah? He needn’t thank me.” She flashed easy smiles at both of them. “Safe travels. I hope the Holy See proves lucrative.” “As do I,” Sosonado agreed, lowering his head. The bartender began to make her way back to the inn, and Sosonado collected the reins. He snapped them once, called to the chocobos, and the wagon lurched into motion. Travel was far from smooth, snow and ice still abundant along the road, but the birds were well-rested and well-trained. They avoided the worst of it where they could.

“Kind of her,” Sosonado said, dark eyes forward. “On my behalf, at any rate. She said you paid?”

Locke shrugged a shoulder. His hand lingered near his gunblade still, though he’d have liked to keep it on the crystal in his pocket, emanating its gentle warmth. “I suppose we did buy more than our share of bread, soup, and drinks. You especially. How do you eat so much, where do you put it all?”

A cant of his head. Fighting, traveling, existing, Locke supposed. He communicated this with several taps of his claws against his sword.

If Sosonado gleaned meaning from the gesture, he didn’t show it, though his eyes did follow Locke’s claws and settle on the sword. “I have been meaning to ask. That gunblade of yours is an imperial piece, isn’t it? As is your firearm. Quite ostentatious, the pair of them. Did you serve?” Locke opened his mouth. Words were hard, sometimes. They liked to get caught in his throat. But these came easily enough, even if it took a moment. “Not them.” Sosonado nodded. “Just as well. Wearing them as prominently as you do, they might draw trouble in places where folk have more of a, uh, predisposition against the empire. But you probably already know that.”

Locke hummed a confirmation but didn’t elaborate further. And for a while, that seemed to be enough conversation. Sosonado’s attention returned wholly to the road, and Locke slouched in his seat and rested his eyes. He was roused only when they arrived at Camp Dragonhead, where they made a brief stop and Sosonado declared he needed to stretch his legs.

While he was gone, Locke tended to the chocobos, unhitching them from the wagon and allowing them to rest properly while he fetched their water. The chore earned him a peck, which he excused as an accident, and a beak rubbing, which he answered with preening. He was mostly silent throughout the task, save for the occasional word of praise for whichever bird was cooperating with him at the moment.

Sosonado returned after a short while, a parcel tucked under his arm. It wasn’t until the chocobos were hitched again and the wagon was lurching forward that Sosonado dropped the package into Locke’s lap; he twitched in response, straightening and reaching for his gunblade. As his eyes settled on the coarse wrapping, he relaxed again and looked at Sosonado, a question written on his face.

“It’s merely some salted eft. Consider it a tip.” Before Locke could speak up, Sosonado waved a hand dismissively. “You’ll be compensated monetarily as well, don’t you worry. All we agreed upon and then some. Your apparent laziness aside, you’ve done your job well.”

Locke unwrapped the parcel and found a pile of dried meat there. The smell of it immediately got him salivating. He pinched a strip of it between his claws and popped it into his mouth, the salty and woody and, oh, citrusy flavors sharp on his tongue.

“Thanks,” he said. It came out garbled and unclear and a bit wet, on account of the drooling. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping it clean.

“Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.”

More than happy to comply, Locke let the chocobos’ footfalls, the wagon’s creaking, and his chewing fill the silence for the remainder of their journey to the Holy See of Ishgard.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #2: Horizon

With three dead bandits behind him, two fistfuls of ammunition added to his pockets, and a new, half-full coin pouch on his belt, Locke trudged deeper into Coerthas. He was almost proud of himself. He’d dispatched their pursuers and only suffered a couple bruises for the trouble. Nobody could tell him he hadn’t done his job. On that count, he’d done well. What he’d failed to do was soothe and capture a single one of their chocobos. Which left him walking the rest of the way to whatever town had been the merchant’s next stop, and though both the road and wagon tracks provided him with guidance, they did nothing to keep the cold at bay. On that count, well, things could be better.

The wind nipped at his nose and cheeks, blew through his hair and chilled the damp red clumps where snow had melted in it. His toes and the fingers of his right hand were numb, only faint pricklings of feeling left in them. Perhaps it would be wise to make a shelter and fire, wait for a lull in the snowfall to travel further. He had the training for it. Surviving winter was no small part of what he’d learned in the Skatay. But smart decisions wouldn’t get him to the merchant faster. And if the merchant ran out of patience and left, there went his payment. And his ride. And most of his belongings, since he hadn’t grabbed his bag before jumping. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he hissed. He stomped once, grinding snow beneath his heel, then took a moment to breathe. Cold air filled his lungs, sharp inside his chest. He held it until he couldn’t anymore and exhaled. He had to keep moving. If night fell, he’d have no choice but to hunker down, and the merchant would be as good as gone. He flexed his fingers, trying to regain some feeling in case he needed them, and continued on. Wish I knew more about Mist and magic and all that. Bet a magician wouldn’t have this problem. If he were a magician, he could carry a fire with him. Better yet, he’d just banish the snow and cold entirely. Gone with a click of his fingers, at least until he was warm and needed to cool off again. Then he supposed he’d have to click the heat away. He snapped. Nothing happened. Oh, right. Seki always went on about the magic word. Another snap. “Please?” Still nothing. He wasn’t a magician. Shame. As he walked, the daylight grew dim, and the weather grew worse, heavy clouds spitting thick veils of snow at the earth as blustery wind cut through him. He licked his lips, copper faint on his tongue, and rubbed ice from his lashes. The thought of stopping lingered in the back of his head. Had his apprentice done this during his training, Locke would have put the kit through an extra bell of forms. Were his master here, he’d have given Locke two extra bells of forms and reminded Locke just how stupid he was. But he was alone, and he needed the coin. So he kept his head down and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, over and over, an endless cycle. The tracks were gone, buried by wind and fresh snow, but slivers of stone surfaced from the snow where it was thinnest. He followed them, trusting the road to lead him. The day had dwindled to twilight when Locke saw it. A tower of yellow lights sprouting from the earth and looming on the horizon, shapeless beyond the curtain of snow but all the brighter for it. It beckoned him like one of Dalmasca’s old lighthouses, promising safety and shelter. He answered the call and staggered onward.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #18: Hackneyed

Locke slouched in the rickety chair in the corner of the room and scowled at the Miqo’te brigand and the old Hyuran man, embroiled in an argument that they had doubtless navigated a couple dozen times with different people in different places. “You can live a different life— a better life! The wood will provide for you, you need only listen to it!” “Better to die our way than to live according to an unseen spirit’s!” “You won’t have to give up your culture!” “No, we would only have to change a select number of our beliefs to better suit your masters, our own ideas be damned!” And so it went, as they treaded and retreaded their tired justifications and their stale rebuttals. The feud had gone on for generations. It was unlikely to be solved in a two room hut by a hermit and a thief.

“Can we bring her in already?” Locke groaned. Their noise had done his headache no favors. “They’ve probably got a reward posted by now.” “Of course, your reward,” the brigand snarled behind her mask. “You don’t stand for anything, you whore your ideals out for coin.”

“Not my forest, not my problems,” he said drily. “Besides, you stabbed me.” “And I regret that it wasn’t fatal,” she snapped. Locke looked at the hermit and waved his hand in the direction of the brigand. “Does she seem reasonable to you?” “I believe there’s a way forward for all of us in the Twelveswood,” he said. “We just have to find it.”

“Yes, you believe so strongly that you’ve tied me up. Your faith in me is awe-inspiring!" “Word help me.” Locke leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, though he rested his hand near his revolver, unholstered and set atop the table beside him. Maybe the hermit genuinely believed what he was saying and didn’t want her to come to harm, despite everything. But Locke didn’t trust the brigand to feel the same. She was divested of her bow, arrows, and knives, and her hands were bound. She shouldn’t be a threat.

All the same, Locke wasn’t leaving anything to chance. "Even now, your rabbit friend waits for an excuse to attack." A humorless laugh reverberated behind the Keeper's mask. "How can you claim there can be cooperation between us all if it is only offered at knifepoint?" “Perhaps you have a point." The old man's voice turned gentle, thoughtful. “I have not put my trust in you as I should.” Locke righted his head in time to see the old man walking toward him. The hermit stopped at the table, fingers hovering, then collected the brigand’s knives and walked to her side. “Got to be kidding me,” Locke grumbled.

The old man cut the brigand’s hands free, then he extended the knives to her, as if they were some sort of peace offering rather than weapons she’d been wielding not a bell ago. Her yellow eyes flicked between the knives and the hermit, as if searching for any sign of deception. She spared Locke only a single glance before tentatively taking the knives into her clawed fingers. Locke set his hand on his revolver and watched as she slid the knives back into their sheaths.

“The merchant’s belongings stay with us, so that we may return them,” the old man said, a stern expression on his face, as if he was scolding a student. “But you can go. I won’t tell the Wailers about you. Do you agree, wanderer?” Locke met the old man’s gray eyes, then the brigand’s gold ones. Did his opinion really matter? He shrugged his good shoulder. “Whatever.” The brigand looked between them, glowing eyes in her mask narrowing to slits. She took several tentative steps and grabbed her bow from where it rested. Locke’s fingers tightened on his firearm until she slung the bow over her shoulder and collected her quiver to return it to her belt.

“Why?” the brigand asked, her voice no louder than a hiss. “If the Wood Wailers take you, you will either nurse a grudge or not be given the chance to even hold a grudge,” the old man said slowly, seemingly measuring each word. “Like this, perhaps you’ll see things can be different. Not easily, and not quickly. But it’s possible. We can coexist.” “Until your people feed me or my kith or kin to your elementals in appeasement,” she scoffed.

“I hope that never becomes necessary.” “We both know it will. It always does.” The brigand strode to the door, head high, and stepped out. The door thumped back into place behind her. “Regardless, I owe you thanks,” the old man said, taking his seat across from Locke. “For putting your trust in me and restraining yourself. Would you have killed her, had I not interfered?” “Sure. Killed three Elezen just like her up north a few sennights ago. Wouldn’t treat her any different.”

“I see.” The old man looked around the little hut, toward the doorway to the other room, out the broken window. “Well. If you don’t mind one more task, would you return what that woman stole to its rightful owner? I fear you’re more suited to the trip than I.” “You paying?” The hermit considered that. “I don’t have much, as you can see. Not unless an old staff would be of use to you? Perhaps you’d take to conjury?” He lifted his cane, holding it out towards Locke.

“Not likely,” Locke said, and the old man returned the cane to his side. “Pry my reward from the merchant’s hands instead. Here, trade you for his stuff.” Locke produced Odranne’s parcel from the bag and set it on the table between them. A small smile flickered across the old man’s face. “It’s much appreciated. I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble.” “Whole forest is too much trouble, potionmaker included,” Locke answered. He set his hand on the table, steadying himself, and stood. “But I said I’d do it, so it’s done. Hope the medicine helps.” “I’m sure it will. Thank you. Ah, let me get the merchant’s things, they’re in the bedroom.” The old man began to rise, but Locke waved him back into his seat. “I’ll get it. Getting ready to leave anyroad.” Locke stepped through the doorway into the bedroom. The room was sparsely decorated, not much more than a bed, a dresser, and a trunk. It wasn’t difficult to locate the wooden box on the ground, about the size of Locke’s backpack. Once he managed to get the crate under his good arm, he wobbled back into the other room. “Get the door?” Locke asked. The old man opened it, and Locke stepped through. He walked around to the back of the hut and, to his mild surprise, found the chocobo still there, getting to its feet to greet him. “It seems she left you the merchant’s chocobo as well,” the old man observed. His gray eyes crinkled as he smiled. “How generous.” Locke handed the box off to the hermit and untied the bird. After giving it a couple consolatory pats and convincing it he was a friend, he clambered on. Despite a hesitant kweh, it didn’t fling Locke back to the ground, which he took as a good sign.

The hermit passed the box up to Locke. It took some doing, but soon enough Locke had managed to situate the box so it was cradled between him and the chocobo. Not at all ideal, probably not great for the chocobo’s back, but it was working so far. “Thank you again for your help. Both with the medicine and the Keeper,” the old man said. He dipped his head in a small bow. “Should you be in the Twelveswood and in need of a place to stay dry again, don’t be afraid to seek me out.”

“Sure. Good luck with changing the world.” Locke flicked the reins and gave the bird a softly-spoken command. “Go.”

It set off at an easy canter, through the trees and onto the well-traveled road. Locke could only hope they were heading in the direction of problems more easily solved by swords and guns.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #16: Third-rate

Bloody, dirty, and sore, Locke marched across the room and dropped the pouch full of Gelmorran flowers on the counter. Even cut from their roots and taken from their garden, their blue petals pulsed, flashes of scarlet light leaking from the pouch’s opening. “Rough go of things?” Odranne asked, though her face only briefly showed concern. It soon dissipated, replaced by a smile as her eyes fell upon the pouch. “Not so rough you didn’t return with the flowers, it seems. Well done.” “Only just.” Locke dropped into a chair and groaned softly. It was immediate relief for his feet, even if it did nothing for the rest of him. “Don’t think you should send anyone back there though. Whatever you’re doing, make it work just with what I brought back. Dangerous down there.” “What did you find?” She looked back up from the petals, seemingly curious. “An annoying but chivalrous ghost.”

Odranne lifted her eyebrows. “Oh?” “They kept mentioning ‘Her Highness.’ We robbed a dead princess, I think.”

“Long-dead,” Odranne said. “Centuries ago, back when Gelmorra had monarchs and nobles and, well, people. But her garden endures, fortunately.”

“In large part because of her knight, I think. They were more than happy to kill to protect it.” Locke ran his hand through his hair, brushing bangs stiff with sweat and dirt back from his face before rubbing his eye. The headache still throbbed behind it. Experience told him it was there to stay, at least until he got some food in his belly and a good night’s sleep.

“You dispatched this annoying but chivalrous ghost then?” Odranne asked.

“Nah. Not really suited to killing ghosts. Blades and bullets don’t work so good. Fought them to a draw instead.”

A draw was a generous interpretation of their duel, considering the knight had made him look like a third-rate swordsman, but they weren't present to argue that fact. Locke wondered if they had managed to save the garden, but only for a moment, then he shoved that worry to the back of his mind. It wasn’t his problem.

Odranne nodded wordlessly. Was that disappointment there, in the gentle downward turn of her mouth? Or a trick of the light? It was gone when she looked at Locke again.

“Oh, well. You brought back more than enough flowers. With a little luck, this will be all I’ll need. We can call this a success.” Odranne rose from her seat and retrieved a package wrapped in brown paper and a coin purse the size of Locke’s fists held together.

“This,” she said, holding up the parcel before handing it over, “is our friend’s medicine. Do be careful with it.”

Locke wrapped the package up in his cloak and set it at the top of his bag. Barring another woodland incident, it seemed safe enough.

“And this is your pay.” She set the purse on the table; its contents clicked and jingled pleasantly. “You seem accustomed to, ah, shall we say less than ideal conditions? I expect you’ll make it last.”

Locke tilted his head to one side, unsure of what to make of Odranne’s comment, but in the end he decided it didn’t matter. After a quick peek into the coin purse — it was, in fact, real gil — he stowed it away in his bag and stood up.

“Pleasure doing business,” Locke said, though he didn’t think he meant it.

“Likewise. Safe travels, delivery boy.”

Locke nodded and made his way across the workshop. Behind him, he heard the clink of glass bottles and the click of a pestle and mortar as Odranne assembled her equipment. He opened the door and stepped through, leaving her to her work.

He walked through Gridania, head down and eyes forward, avoiding crowds when possible and pushing his way through them when it wasn’t. He briefly entertained the thought of visiting the botanist’s guild and bartering for a bit of wood, but his tools were in the nook he’d found for himself up in Ishgard. Fixing his prosthetic meant heading north again or wasting money on a set of tools in Gridania. Anything of quality would cost him coin he wasn’t willing to spend.

It was Coerthas or rebuild his arm with shoddy equipment.

In the end, he chose neither.

Locke set off southward, back in the direction of the old hermit’s hut. Were he rested, fed, not suffering a clairvoyance-induced headache, still in possession of a functioning left arm, and in the mood to potentially be hunted by a wolf-like thing with too many mouths, he’d have chosen a shortcut through the deeper parts of the forest.

Instead, he did the sensible thing this time and stuck to the road.

Not a bell before nightfall, he found himself approaching a ramshackle little inn. Grimy lamps stood guard over a worn down sign just outside, the name illegible to literate travelers, the little picture above the name eroded by time and weather until it was illegible to Locke. He ventured inside, reserved a bed for a pittance, and purchased a meal of watery vegetable soup with a chunk of stale bread on the side.

By the time he’d dunked his head into a shallow basin, wolfed down his dinner, and passed several ticks listening to two old stablehands argue about chocobo racing, he should have been ready for bed. The previous night had been long, spent delving into Gelmorra’s halls and journeying back to Gridania, and everything ached. He needed, and wanted, rest.

But before he knew it, his feet were carrying him outside and off to the side of the inn. A gentle breeze ghosted across his skin, the light chill a relief against his newest wounds. It was a clear night, perfect for stargazing, though he hardly spared them a glance as he shed his outermost layers and drew his sword.

He had eyes only for the memory of the Gelmorran knight who’d bested him.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #11: Surrogate

“I don’t like this voidsent business,” the boatman muttered for what was certainly the hundredth time in two days.

Looking at the mouth of the sea cave as the skiff crawled forward, Locke was inclined to agree. It was tall enough to allow the skiff entrance, but only just, and thin enough that the boatman’s oars tapped the stone walls with each stroke. No sunlight found its way inside; their only sources of illumination were two dim fish oil lanterns. One hung from the front of the boat. Locke held the other, clammy, gloved fingers curled tightly around its handle.

“It’ll be easy,” Locke said, flashing a smile toward the boatman. Though he meant for it to be easygoing, he was certain it appeared strained. “Watch the boat. Let me do the scary stuff. I win, we leave, magician pays us. Simple.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” the boatman said drily.

Locke smiled wider and turned to look ahead again. Their conversation done, only the sound of the boatman’s rowing and water lapping against stone and wood reached his ears. If the voidsent had any of the magician’s tricks, like the whispering fog or the army of undead sentries, Locke couldn’t hear them.

The skiff drifted to a stop just shy of a rocky shore emerging from the dark.

Locke stood and traipsed his way to the bow of the boat. He set his lantern aside just long enough to brush his hands over his gear, ensuring he had everything: gunblade on his back, revolver and katana on his hips, the magician’s knife newly sheathed on his belt. His fingers traced the outline of the gemstone piercings in his ears, a silent prayer on his lips. “I’m off,” he told the boatman after a moment. “Remember. Do not leave without me. I’m coming back. Okay?”

“Of course.” The boatman made no effort to hide the skepticism written across his rough features.

Locke hopped from the boat, metal-lined boots clicking against the wet rock. He ventured forward without looking back, lantern held aloft to cast its weak light further. What he wouldn’t have given for his left arm to still be functioning. Useful as the lantern was, he wanted to feel the reassuring weight of a weapon, any weapon, in his hand. But there was nothing he could do about that. He shook his head and pushed onward, eyes narrowed to search the dark.

He’d been walking for a while, passing stalagmites and stalactites but otherwise seeing only smooth stone passages before him, when something struck his foot and rolled forward, clattering against the ground. A frown weighing at his lips, he followed the noise, lantern lowered to better aid his search. The light fell onto a long bone, picked clean, lined with teeth marks. Promising.

As he advanced, bones of different shapes and sizes became more common. Ribs, fingers, skulls. Runes started to appear on the walls, painted upon the stone in dull shades of rust. They slowly grew more complex, appearing in longer sequences and alien diagrams, surrounding them and filling the spaces between. Perhaps, Locke thought, Yiruru the little mage could make sense of them. But to him, they were merely a sign he was in the right place, as telling as a trail of wet crimson on Skatay snow.

“I smell a visitor,” voices sang, words carried to Locke by echoes. “Putrid death. Cloying blood. Mountain snow and cherry blossoms and road dirt. What has Father sent this time?” Locke lowered his head and pressed on.

“Does he approach with a bargain? Oh! I quiver! The anticipation is simply too much.” A frown weighed at the corners of Locke’s mouth. He itched to draw his sword, to silence the voices, but he kept his fingers on the handle of the lantern and his mouth shut. Swarmhas had insisted that the voidsent was not to be spoken to. Only killed as quickly as possible.

“I simply cannot bear to wait,” the voices crooned, hot breath ghosting across his ear. He whirled, lantern swinging, but he was alone. Teeth grinding, he continued on.

“Am I to wear you? Are you a surrogate for Father’s dear little seabird?” Laughter throughout the caverns, from every direction, as if the skulls scattered across the ground had joined in. “Were you deceived? Or mayhaps you were lured here by the promise of ending the tragedy he devised? Are you perhaps a noble soul, sacrificing yourself to reunite a poor old man and his sweet little girl?”

The passage opened up, and Locke found himself in a larger cavern, easily the size of an inn’s common room. Glyphs marked every ilm of the walls, the floor, the ceiling. They encircled the stalagmites and stalactites. They were carved into the gnawed bones piled high in one corner of the cave.

They stained the skin of the statuesque woman standing at the cavern’s heart.

“The hero is here! The damsel rejoices!” The Roegadyn woman mouthed the words, and a dozen voices spoke them. “She so desperately wishes for freedom, you see.”

The Roegadyn crossed twenty fulms with a single step. She paced around Locke, yellow eyes glittering in the lamplight as she examined him.

“Surely you wish to save her? To let me wear you in her stead?” Light fingers wandered across Locke’s shoulder, his upper back, coming to rest on his left arm, wrapped in dirty bandages. “Oh, but you’re no good. Poor, broken little—” Locke dipped low, lantern clattering against the stone at his feet, and swung his clawed hand upward in an uppercut. The voidsent returned to the center of the room in a heartbeat, glaring at him through a tangled mess of moss-colored hair and dark lashes. “Not interested in your rambling,” Locke spat, straightening and stepping around the lantern. “Not a sir-Roega-whatever or a hero. Not godsdamn broken. And you’re not gonna wear me.” His daughter is gone. She’s just a corpse on strings. A demon ghost puppet thing.

Locke drew the sword from the scabbard on his hip. Its familiar weight calmed him, slowing the frantic beating of his heart and easing the thoughts twisting in his head over and over like leaves atop a whirlpool.

The voidsent lifted a hand from its side. Mist coalesced, and a single-headed battle axe fell into the Roegadyn’s palm. It twirled the weapon once, haft dancing between its slender, callused fingers, as if it weighed no more than a stick.

“Steel yourself, little swordsman.” Locke scowled and took a middle-level stance. Viera and voidsent stepped forward and struck.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #19: Taken

Locke walked away from the merchant feeling quite pleased with himself. Showing up without the culprit of the crime was underwhelming, he had to agree. The Wood Wailers hadn't seemed pleased with him, nor were they impressed with his truncated version of events, wherein he found the merchant’s stolen goods and chocobo in a nondescript clearing, no masked Miqo’te in sight.

The merchant, however, had been overjoyed. Everything was returned, all was well, and though he’d lost a day of travel to the incident, what was one day if it meant continuing his journey with all of his wares returned to him?

So he’d gifted Locke one of his many fancy-looking rings, a silver piece bearing glittering gems of red, blue, and black. Locke strung the ring onto a leather cord, knotted it to make a necklace, and wore it under his shirt. He had no clue what the ring was worth, but that was a problem for later.

For now, he was content.

He would have been smart, perhaps, to return to Coerthas and his nook of a workshop. He could repair his arm there, and then he could resume his travels or even return to his boss. He’d earned two coin purses full of gil. It was more than he’d had in a good while. Surely it would cover rent. But the ring around his neck looked valuable, and he knew of no better place to get it appraised than Ul’dah. So he journeyed southward.

The next several days were comfortably lonely. Locke followed the road, through the fringes of the Twelveswood and down into Thanalan. Without a job to spur him forward, or a companion to drag him along, he traveled at a lazy, easy pace.

The sense that someone — something, more likely — stood just over his shoulder didn’t entirely vanish, regardless of how peacefully his days passed. It was there as he napped beneath the shaded boughs of a large apple tree, there as he fished from a secluded pond, there as he hunched by his campfire and watched the perch he’d caught cook to a perfect golden brown. It was a fact of the Twelveswood, as certain as the sun would rise and the seasons would change. He kept a fire burning low whenever he set up camp for the evening and slept with his arm slung over the scabbard of his Doman sword as if it were a stuffed toy, but otherwise, he accepted the forest as it was.

As he left the Black Shroud behind, the abundant trees thinned out, the paranoia of being watched dissipated, and the ground beneath his feet grew harder. The square silhouettes of distant buildings cropped up on the horizon.

The shadows had grown long by the time the road took Locke into the little mining town at Thanalan’s edge. The homes there were small, squat things, made with function rather than form in mind. He looked about as he ventured further, searching for anything resembling an inn.

The closest thing he found was one of two larger buildings. Unlike its similarly sized counterpart, it had a sign near the door — not that Locke could read it — and lacked a fence or gate, appearing more welcoming for it. He strolled up to the front and reached for the door.

On the other side, something thumped against the floor, footsteps rumbled, and metal clanged against metal. A gruff voice shouted. The noises rolled forward.

Locke took two steps to the side just as the doors swung outward, forced open by a crumpled figure thrown through the air. He hit the dirt hard, rolled once, and groaned but didn’t get up.

A wide silhouette darkened the doorway before lumbering forward. As sunlight fell on the Roegadyn, Locke noted muscular arms laden with scars, bloody knuckles, and a notched broadaxe slung over his shoulder, gray metal glinting. He spared Locke only a glance before continuing on to crouch by the man and rummage through his pockets.

The sounds of fighting rang through the building and spilled out of the open doorway, a cacophony of shouts and splintered wood and whistling steel. Though the action called to Locke, he followed the Roegadyn and squatted by his side.

“Whatcha doing?”

He didn’t look at Locke this time, eyes set instead on the few coins he’d collected from the man. “Taking what the cur owes,” he rumbled.

“Oh. Don’t look like a lot.”

“He’s short,” the Roegadyn explained.

“Huh? What’s that got to do with it?”

“You ask a lot of questions that don’t concern you. It’s annoying.”

Locke shrugged. “I’m curious.”

The Roegadyn scoffed but didn’t say anything else. His eyes settled on a thin band on the man’s left hand. He reached for it with heavy fingers and bloody knuckles.

Locke smacked the Roegadyn’s hand away. “Shouldn’t take that,” he said. “It’s an Eorzean thing, they got emotio— ah!”

He yelped and twisted away, avoiding the back of the Roegadyn’s fist. He half-scurried, half-dragged himself back and out of reach. The man’s thick fingers grabbed at empty air.

“This isn’t your business, boy,” the Roegadyn growled. He stood and squared his shoulders, throwing a shadow over Locke. “Back off.”

A thrill ran through Locke’s stomach, and his hand crossed his abdomen, coming to rest on the sword sheathed at his hip. He widened his stance, one foot in front of the other. Though he didn’t draw his sword, or even speak, it was an obvious challenge.

The Roegadyn grabbed his broadaxe, the leather braid holding it across his back slipping away from one shoulder. He hefted it and charged forward, a bellow erupting from his throat.

Locke didn’t need to See to slip past the axe. It was a sloppy, reckless swing, all brute force and no technique. He stepped in and ducked his head for the sake of his ears, felt and heard the rush of air above, and drew. His sword rasped against the sheath before carving through the air, striking as sure as a scythe harvests wheat.

But rather than flesh, metal found metal, sending a reverberation through Locke’s fingers. A Hyuran man had materialized between him and the Roegadyn, twin scimitars in his gloved hands, capturing Locke’s blade. Dark eyes flicked between Locke and the Roegadyn.

“Mind stepping back?” he asked Locke. A hollow smile flitted across his sun-kissed face, utterly humorless. “I’ve got business with the big guy.”

Locke frowned, considering. On one hand, he’d had a quiet few days and was itching for a fight, and the Roegadyn seemed like good practice. It would keep him sharp in case something more dangerous came up.

On the other hand, those swords the Hyur carried were nice. There wasn’t much in the way of embellishment, just a small maker’s mark on the base of each blade, but at a glance they were well-maintained.

I want to see how he fights.

“I’m still here,” the Roegadyn snarled, bringing the axe back around and swiping it at the pair of them. The arc was predictable, but the axe-head came in fast, strong as the man was.

The Hyur released Locke’s sword from between his own and dodged back in a smooth motion. Locke caught the axe with the flat side of his blade and retreated with the momentum of the blow, shoulder jarred from the impact.

Locke released his breath through his teeth with a small hiss. “Give me a show then, and he’s all yours.”

The Hyur looked at Locke, then back at the Roegadyn. “That’s an odd request, but if that’s what it takes. As you wish then.”

Locke sheathed his sword and trotted over to the man on the ground. He seized him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him along, away from the combatants. The man whimpered and kicked once in protest, but otherwise, he went along with it.

If the axe-wielding Roegadyn had an issue with Locke bowing out of the fight and pulling his quarry a few yalms away, he didn’t — more likely, couldn’t — do anything about it. His eyes were on the Hyur with the twin swords.

The Hyur darted in, quick as thought, swords flashing under the Thanalan sun. They bit into the Roegadyn’s leg once, twice, then they were gone, carried away as the Hyur danced back. The Roegadyn advanced, trying to close the distance, and the Hyur rushed in to meet him. He parried, dodged, slipped past the Roegadyn’s offense in a blink. Steel kissed the taller man’s side and arm, the swords coming away tinged red. Then the Hyur was gone again, graceful as a dancer, as hard to snatch from the air as a raindrop.

Locke felt a smile growing on his face. He sat back and watched the Hyuran man work, bright blue eyes following every elegant step and every flash of a blade, thoroughly taken with the display.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #12: Quarry

(Note: Reli belongs to @straycatte) Locke pretended he didn’t hear the branches shift behind him, didn’t hear the leaves rustle as they parted, didn’t feel the eyes boring holes in his back. The noises had started just a short while after he’d left the old man’s hut and decided to cut through the woods, walking a more direct path back toward Gridania rather than following the meandering road and all of its detours. At first, he’d thought nothing of them. Though the rain had passed, the Black Shroud was still drinking it in. Water freely dripped from its many leaves and branches, a staccato echo of the earlier rainstorm. Gusts of wind wound their way through the trees, the wood rasping and rattling. Little sounds, like he’d heard dozens of times back home when the thaw softened the foothills of the Skatay Range, if only for a short while. But with the thaw always came the stirring of life, roused from its winter slumber. The plants and animals not suited to the harsh winter would reappear, and the wind would carry birdsong again. There were no animals to be heard in this forgotten corner of the Twelveswood. No bleating, no chittering, no birdsong. A cloudy, patchwork sky of red, orange, and blue pressed down on the Black Shroud, the shadows growing longer with each passing tick, but there was daylight to be squeezed from the sun yet. The silence was unnatural. A forest asleep when it should have been alive. There was, however, breathing. Slow, careful, blending into the ambient noise of the forest. Almost perfect. Given away only by a low, barely perceptible hiss every time the source of the noise inhaled. Locke was being hunted.

His hand rested heavily on the handle of his revolver as he picked his way through the underbrush, his leathers scraping against leaves and wood. It added another sound for the faint wheezes of his stalker to blend into, but that was far from his biggest concern now. How do I kill it? had claimed the highest priority, just above What is it? and Why? He was no stranger to fighting predator animals. The Skatay had its share of beasts, and his master had often said a Veena wasn’t a proper Wood-warder if he couldn’t hunt or evade each and every one. But this wasn’t his homeland. Whatever parallels he’d noticed in his brief brushes with the people of the Black Shroud and their beliefs, neither the Green Word nor his thorough education of the beasts and fiends of the Skatay applied here. Still, he’d learned a couple things without the Green Word’s guidance too. For instance, a well-placed bullet was anathema to every living creature he’d encountered. Exhale. Locke took the first step into a small clearing. It wasn’t a lot of space, but it was enough that he could move freely. His right hand tightened around his revolver. His left hand twitched at his side. Hiss. Locke spun, drawing his firearm and leveling it at the source of the noise in one motion, cobalt eyes and silver barrel alighting on a towering mass of fur and teeth. Gun and beast howled. He wasted no time on sizing up the target’s condition or lining up a second shot, trusting instead that proximity and the creature’s size would do the work for him despite the recoil, and squeezed the trigger again. Another bark, another shock rolling through his arm. He thumbed the hammer a third time— Quick as thought and every bit as silent, the beast was on Locke, half a dozen quivering eyes hovering above him, drooling fangs snapping. He twisted back and away, trying to retreat, but insistent tendrils of wood found his legs and curled their way underfoot. He stumbled, falling backward, but he found enough space to thrust his left arm toward the beast, as if it was a voidsent and his arm a holy relic. Its mouth — or one of them, at least; in the splotchy light leaking through the canopy, he could see others scattered across its neck and torso — closed around the extended limb, and with a twist of its head, it jerked Locke up and back in. He heard, rather than felt, the crushing of metal and the splintering of wood. A shock rolled through the mangled mass that was his left arm, dispersing across his shoulder, a series of tingling pinpricks that insisted he should hurt. Instead, he finally appraised the creature, for what that was worth. It was a roiling mass of ink and ivory, black on white from head to claw, monochrome bleeding into monochrome under the heavy boughs overhead. Though it was undoubtedly solid, its silhouette danced like a shadow cast by an open flame. All save for a telltale glint of red hanging some ilms beneath its center mouth. Blood, where a bullet had caught it? A convenient weak point? Something else? Locke wasn’t sure. He lifted his good arm and jammed the revolver up against that spot anyway, or near as he could, and his fingers worked the trigger and hammer like a frenzied pianist, each chord a click and a clap of thunder. The echo of gunfire gave way to a muffled snarl and another twist of the beast’s head as it ripped the world out from beneath Locke. He hardly registered he was sailing through the air before he hit the ground, the air leaving his lungs. Locke scrambled to his feet, casting the revolver aside and tearing the gunblade from its place on his back. He scanned the clearing for some sign of his stalker, a hint of the shifting silhouette amidst the darkening trees. Gouges in the grass and dirt were clear where it had loomed and thrashed about moments ago, and snapped branches marked a path deeper into the wood, where the beast must have retreated. He licked his lips, tasting copper, and shook his head. This wasn’t the Skatay, and he wasn’t a Wood-warder. He was more than happy to let this beast go.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #29: Madcap (Extra Credit)

Magicked steel snaked past his old Doman sword and drew blood from his neck, eliciting a dozen laughs from the solitary figure before him. The sound rang in Locke’s ears, drowning out his haggard breathing and hurried footfalls.

“You’re slowing down, mortal,” the voices sang in unison. The voidsent’s Roegadyn features split into a grin, wide mouth showing too many needle-like teeth. It raised its axe easily, one-handed and careless, and brought it down in an overhead swing.

Locke danced back, getting clear of the axe’s reach a moment before it would have connected. In that same moment, the haft in the voidsent’s grip shifted and extended. The axe-turned-polearm bit into his shoulder, shallow, but spreading a burning feeling across his skin. He retreated further, numb fingers clinging to the sword in his hand.

His back hit the cavern wall. The voidsent advanced, crossing the fulms between them in a single step and looming over him, pretty face contorted with unrestrained glee. It swiped at Locke’s side, polearm shrinking into something more compact.

Locke parried a cutlass and darted to one side, trying to get space, but the voidsent was in front of him before he’d even finished taking a second step. Metal rang out against metal as Locke defended himself again.

The sound faded, replaced by the rasp and rattle of chains. A flail slid past his guard and swung toward his head. He jerked his upper body back, arm stretching out further to hold the chain away, and avoided having his jaw smashed. Spikes nicked his cheek, however, and warmth trickled down his face.

The voidsent ripped the flail back, forcing Locke to stumble forward or surrender his sword. He scrambled, trying to regain his footing, but a boot struck him in the back right as the chain vanished from around his sword. The metal lining of his boots screeched against the stone as he pitched forward and slipped.

Laughter again. He righted himself and whirled on the voidsent, sword up and ready to intercept whatever came next, but the Roegadyn was out of reach. It stood back, smiling pleasantly, savoring the situation. This isn’t working.

Every exchange ended with a new wound and more of his blood being spilled. The moment the voidsent grew tired of torturing him, it would find its way past his guard yet again, and that would be the end.

Swarmhas would remain cursed and pactbound, damned to live long after his time should have come.

His daughter would never rest properly, her corpse puppeteered by a monster. Locke would lose to a smug, shite-talking voidsent.

He tightened his fist around his sword and drew what meager Mist he had, Sight lighting up the cavern, previously illuminated only by a lantern on the ground. Wisps of glowing purple crawled up the Roegadyn’s silhouette and cast a long shadow at its feet.

The voidsent hesitated, the mask falling away for only a second. Its yellow eyes narrowed, and its slender fingers tightened around its shifting weapon. Locke stepped in and struck at the Roegadyn’s neck in a single fluid motion. The blade skated across a shield held but an ilm away, but Locke shifted his weight easily, thrusting toward the voidsent’s stomach. It batted the sword away with one of its own.

He pressed the attack, flowing from one practiced motion to the next, steel glinting in the lamplight. He attacked from every angle and position he’d ever learned, earning tar-stained scratches on pale skin as he drove the voidsent to the far wall.

The moment the voidsent’s heel touched the stone, its face twisted into a horrible facsimile of a person, eyes bulging and lips tearing until its mouth reached from ear to ear and crooked needles jutted from its maw.

Locke saw the Mist in the corpse’s muscles shift. An array of sweeping lights materialized, purple tendrils flickering through the air between them.

He slid back a step, creating space as his eyes darted about in search of safety, but the lights pressed in and the voidsent followed a heartbeat later. Sword, spear, and scythe danced, steel fluid as water and fast as thought.

For each deathblow he evaded, the voidsent wounded him. Crimson blossomed across his skin and darkened his shirt. He stumbled back, settling most of his weight on his right leg. Though he couldn’t see it, he felt blood running down his left.

The voidsent stood several paces away, yellow eyes surveying its work. “Tell you what. You’re an amusing creature, so I’ll extend to you a deal,” it said with its many voices. “If you were to serve as my vessel, then perhaps I could restore your left arm? Think about it! The damsel is free, and she gets the eternal rest her father has denied her. With that, Father gets half of what he wants. And you will, in a sense, live on, whole once again. Not broken.

“Everybody wins. It’s quite the bargain, considering your current position.” Locke tried to tighten his fingers around his sword. His grip felt weak. He was certain he’d be disarmed the next time they traded blows.

“Why change your mind?” he asked. His voice was weak, hoarse. The words grated against his throat. The voidsent’s blue lips curled into a smile. “I believe I’ve come to understand you. You want to be strong. Faced with a superior opponent, you dig your heels in and fight regardless. You’re not unlike one of us in that regard.”

“Like you,” Locke muttered. Brief though they were, the words tasted bitter. “Like a voidsent,” it clarified, taking Locke’s musing for a question. He felt his lip curl.

“Power is ephemeral, you see,” the voices lectured. It held its scythe aloft, and the weapon reformed itself ten times in the blink of an eye, stopping only once it had transformed into a replica of Locke’s own sword. “Outwit someone stronger and consume their essence, and just like that, you’ve taken their place. Be outwitted and consumed, and you’ve lost yours.

“You understand. You would be well-suited to our methods. Not that you would be a proper voidsent, but as my vessel… well, you would be close, no?” Locke stared at the voidsent’s eyes, meeting its gaze. He tilted his head, weighing his options. But there was never anything to consider.” “See your point.” “Excellent!” the voidsent cried out. “Then I’ll cast aside—”

“Understand that all I gotta do is outwit you, like weak voidsent do, and that’s that.” Locke lifted his shaking arm, pointing his sword at the voidsent, and forced his lips to twist into a grin. “Then the girl gets to rest. Her father knows peace. I get to brag about taking your head. “Everybody wins. Right?”

The mask fell away. The Roegadyn stared back at him with a dull expression, eyes narrowed to glowing slits, needle teeth poking through gaps in its cheeks. “Your mocking irks me.” The sword leapt from the Roegadyn’s fingers, springing as if shot from a bowstring, and smashed the lantern on the floor. Flames scattered across the floor before sputtering out, leaving Locke submerged in the dark.

A flicker of purple shot across the room, giving Locke only a moment’s warning before a footstep tapped the stone beside him and icy metal cut across his neck. He felt blood, hot on his clammy skin, run down his throat. Though he swung toward the noise, his sword found only empty air. He clenched his teeth and lifted the blade, taking a guarded stance. A second flash appeared, brighter, just a little too fast for Locke to respond. A boot clicked against the ground just as something heavy smashed into his ribs, forcing a wet gasp from his chest. He stumbled but stayed on his feet, and his sword clattered to the floor. He dropped his unfeeling fingers to his belt, blindly grabbing for the magician’s knife. His fingers closed around something firm. Wide, bloodshot eyes scanned the dark even as sharp fingers pried his skull apart and prodded at his brain.

Purple flared an ilm from his chest.

Locke pulled away from it, but only by a finger’s width. Proper footwork was beyond him, and the voidsent could easily have better reach than him with its ever-changing arsenal of weapons.

Instead, Locke waited for the telltale footstep to tap the stone in front of him, and prayed.

Something impossibly sharp lacerated his skin from abdomen to shoulder. Pain ignited across his torso, and a strangled yell erupted from his throat.

He slammed the magician’s knife into the voidsent in the same moment. The puppet corpse’s flesh gave way to the silver blade without resistance, effortlessly piercing its body from point to handle. The diamond pommel burned Locke where it touched his gloved palm, but he tightened his grip and twisted the knife, driving it deeper into the voidsent’s gut.

A dozen voices cried out, screamed, cursed his existence in languages he couldn’t have possibly comprehended but understood anyroad. The corpse fell to the floor, finally lifeless and at peace. Locke followed.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #25: Perpetuity

True to the word of the little aristocrat-mage, Locke had regained his full range of movement by the time Limsa Lominsa appeared on the horizon. He attributed part of that to being stuck on a ship for what felt like an eternity, but realistically, the voyage had been as short as possible. There were no abrupt detours for repairs, no sudden confrontations with sea monsters, no exhilarating pirate attacks. Much to Locke’s disappointment.

He disembarked from the ship on wobbly legs, his poor balance made worse by the time at sea and the weight in his bag. Though he led Snowdrop with her reins, he relied on the chocobo to keep him steady.

The pair meandered through the port city, following the crowds, the calls of traders, and the smell of food. Though the latter proved fruitful — Locke chewed on a grilled trout as they ventured further from the dock — nothing he saw yelled This is what you’re looking for! and held his attention for more than a few seconds. The city was every bit as relaxed as the voyage he’d just completed.

They found their way back to the docks, where they could get a clear view of the sun sinking into the distant blue horizon and dyeing it orange. Locke contemplated the waves as he bit a chunk of roasted meat and peppers off of a skewer. Snowdrop noisily devoured her meal of mixed greens beside him.

“Era of peace indeed,” he muttered. The opportunity to laze about should have appealed to him. He loved doing nothing. It was one of his favorite pastimes, up there with eating and sleeping. He could spend the next two hundred years of his life doing nothing and, at the end, he’d consider it a life well-lived. But the Green Word had made him a hunter. He wanted to fight. He needed to hear steel and blood sing their intoxicating duet in his ears while his heart drummed in his chest. It was the only thing he’d ever been meant for. He could — he would — chase that high forever. And if it led him to his death, that too would be a life well-lived.

Would living a fleeting fourth of his life before dying honor his master and apprentice? Were their regrets bitter on their tongues when they returned to the mountains forever? He thumbed the gemstones in his ear and wondered if they still watched him, or if they perhaps left him when he embraced exile.

Locke leaned over until he was laying against Snowdrop. The chocobo pecked the top of his head, gently as a mother might, and returned to her meal. He bit off the last piece of his miq'abob before tossing the skewer into the water. In time, the ocean swallowed the sun, and night swathed the port city in a blanket of blue and black and silver.

“Too much thinking. I’m no good at it,” he told Snowdrop. He patted Snowdrop’s beak before pushing himself up onto his feet. “Come on, girl. Won’t beat that mythical forest swordsman sitting around here.”

Locke put Snowdrop in the care of a stable on the dry outskirts of the city, then he trudged to a nearby inn. Despite the late bell, a smattering of patrons lingered at the bar and the table nearest it. Locke ordered a mug of grape juice and found an empty table to sit.

The patrons traded stories as they ate and drank. Tales of old pirate crews and sea monsters, of foggy nights and sirens. Locke listened idly throughout, but it wasn’t until he heard mention of an undying wizard on a nearby isle that he swiveled his ears toward the storyteller.

“Old Swarmhas was dying, ya see. Cursed, ill, wounded. Not a soul agrees on the how. But he was dying, that much is sure. Something dark eating away at him. Powerful wizard like him, he tried everything he knew, every ritual, every concoction, every bit of magic he’d amassed in his long life.

“When it all failed him, he prayed to the Twelve. He begged the Twelveswood’s horned children. He called out to anything that might be listening to cure him.”

The storyteller paused, took a long swig from his mug while he scanned the room. His eyes met Locke’s for a moment before sweeping past.

“Reckon something must’ve answered. Last anyone saw, he was little more than a skeleton, rowing out to the Isles of Umbra. Ships started disappearing there—”

“Oh, that’s some codswallop, everyone knows that was the siren!” a patron protested.

“—and,” the storyteller continued pointedly, “people hear Old Swarmhas calling to them through the fog and the mist, even now. Luring them in—”

“That’s the siren too!”

“—for his dark designs. They disappear, but he endures, still grappling with his mortality.”

“Alright, alright, it’s my turn now!” a Miqo’te with short salt and pepper hair declared. He banged his empty mug on the table like a gavel. “How about the time I tangled with Leviathan?”

A few groans rolled through the little crowd, but the Miqo’te launched into his tale anyroad, pointedly ignoring the man beside him pantomiming the story and mouthing parts of it verbatim.

Locke collected his empty mug and plodded over to the previous storyteller, requesting his attention with light taps on his shoulder.

The storyteller raised his bushy eyebrows at Locke. “What can I do for you, young’un?”

He didn’t point out they were likely about the same age. Instead, he smiled and produced a few coins from his pouch. “Liked your story. Point me in the direction of this wizard of yours?”

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #21: Shade

“Hot, hot, hot.” Locke swiped his hand over his eyes, rubbing stinging sweat from them, and brushed his bangs back. It offered the slightest bit of relief from Thanalan’s arid weather, exposing his skin to the air and letting it breathe, but it did nothing for the shaggy mess sticking to his neck. He’d have to get a hair tie next time he found himself near a market.

Whenever that was. The dirt road twisted through the hills, dry and cracked beneath the midday sun. Stubby trees and stone outcroppings dotted the landscape, but they offered little shelter from the heat, and he saw nothing promising before him.

“Gods help me,” he muttered. “Would like some shelter. Or rain? Settle for rain.”

It wasn’t a proper prayer, really. He wasn’t certain how those worked here.

But somehow, it worked anyroad.

The sun had traveled a couple bells’ worth further across the sky when Locke spied a spire jutting up from the stone. He shouldered his pack and quickened his pace, moving briskly down the road and closer to the spire.

As he drew near and stepped into the open, more spires reached up from the stone and from buildings arranged across the hills. They loomed over the path, rocky fingers beckoning him to a shaded cavity below.

Locke spared a glance toward one of the buildings as he passed, eyes following the stairs leading up to the door. Though old and worn, it didn’t appear to be in disrepair.

But his gaze was quickly drawn back to the cave. Flanked by columns nursing lit candles and adorned with glittering red and blue ornaments hanging over its mouth like teeth, it had the look of a holy site, though he knew not to what or who.

What he did know was the cave offered shade and shelter, exactly as he’d prayed for.

It seemed rude to decline.

Locke stepped into the tunnel and followed it, the metallic click of his boots on stone echoing all around him with each footfall. Candles and columns lit the path forward, guiding him until he stepped into a chamber.

A stone statue stood at the far end, hooded head bowed, carved eyes shut. Swathed in long, flowing vestments and bearing a sword almost as long as the statue was tall, it towered over Locke. Behind it stood a massive door, carved into the rock.

He crossed the lonely cavern to the altar at the figure’s feet. Smoky incense burned in a censer, rising up in lazy curls and setting Locke’s nose twitching. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and sniffled before lowering himself to sit before the altar.

Locke stared up at the sculpture for a while, pondering it. There was no question that it was some sort of deity. Surrounded by lamps and candles and glittering ornaments, watching over an array of urns and their contents, its frame carved so meticulously and maintained despite its age.

If he spoke, would it hear, as his master had once claimed the woods did? And would it speak, as his elders certainly still claimed the woods did?

But his god and his ghosts were half a star away. What questions could he possibly have that wouldn’t be a waste of this foreign deity’s time?

He closed his eyes and let himself rest instead, rousing from his not-quite-sleep only once he felt the worst of the day’s heat had passed. He rose to his feet and stretched before collecting his swords and his pack, returning them all to their proper places.

His eyes wandered up the statue again to peer at its face, composed and at peace throughout its long vigil.

He set a coin on the altar.

“It’s not much,” he apologized. “But thanks for the shade.”

Locke flashed a smile at the keeper of the dead and left the temple, continuing on his way.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #20: Duel

The Hyuran man stood over the collapsed Roegadyn. Blood flecked his twin scimitars and darkened the dirt at his feet. He’d pushed his opponent to the limit before finally dealing the finishing blow and striking him across the side of the head with the flat of his blade. The Roegadyn was alive, judging from the pained groans he uttered into the dirt, but he was undoubtedly in dire need of a chirurgeon. The Hyur wiped the blood and grime from his swords before slipping them into their scabbards. He brushed his blond curls back, damp with sweat and the blood leaking from a scratch on his forehead, and looked to Locke with a lopsided smile. “Did that satisfy your request?”

“Satisfied and then some,” Locke said, nodding enthusiastically. He stood from the ground and patted some of the dirt from his clothes. “My turn now.”

The Hyur’s smile vanished instantly. “You get your show, I get my revenge. Dueling you wasn’t part of our deal. Besides, I’m not done. I still have business with his boss.”

“Kind of business? Cutting him up too?” “More or less.” The Hyur pointed toward one of the mining town’s two large buildings, specifying the one that was sectioned off from the other structures by a metal gate. “He wasn’t in his little somnus den. So I expect he’s hidden in there.”

“Hm.” Locke frowned at the house, then at the Hyur. “Won’t you get arrested if you break in?”

“Ordinarily, yes. But he only keeps a few Brass Blades around here for appearances, and I’ve persuaded them to take the sun off.” He glanced toward the bulky heap on the ground before jerking his head back toward the inn. “The rest of his muscle are independent mercenaries, and most of those are dealt with, much like our good fellow here.

“His finest will be in the house, but I’m certain I can best them as well. I need to do it now, however, while the Blades are away and his men have yet to regroup. If you’ll excuse me.” The Hyur turned from the Roegadyn and began to walk in the direction of the larger house. Locke left both the Roegadyn and his would-be victim in the dirt, instead falling into step behind the Hyur.

“I don’t want help,” the Hyur said, eyes still forward. “Same as before. This is personal.” “Not offering help. Just gonna wait outside. Can spar when you’re done.” “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” “Heard it once or twice.”

Locke followed behind the Hyur as he shoved the front gate open and marched up the path toward the house. Though large by the standards of the mining town, where most of the buildings were a single story and likely only a few rooms, it paled in comparison to the silhouettes of the grand manors Locke had seen in Ishgard. There were no spires or tall columns or banners proudly displaying a coat of arms. Just wood and stone and glass. The Hyur came to a stop, swiping the back of his hand across his bloody forehead, and looked up at the building. His eyebrows knitted together, and his jaw tightened. “Kindly stay here,” he said. “If you’re going to insist on this.”

“Sure.” Locke pulled the sheathed sword from his belt and laid it across his lap as he dropped onto one of the house’s steps to relax. “Best of luck with your revenge thing.” The Hyur drew one of the scimitars from his back. With a grunt and a crash, he kicked the front doors open and stepped inside. Locke leaned his head back and stifled a yawn. Though the doors drifted back so that they were merely ajar, he could track the Hyur’s journey through the house by the light footfalls on the floor, the shouting, the ringing of metal. The stairs creaked as he ascended. His steps were both slower and heavier than they had been moments earlier.

The Hyur reached the landing at the top of the stairs, thumped down what must have been a hallway, and another door was flung open. There was a scream, a man’s voice. Then silence. Locke stretched his legs out and leaned further back. The steps made a poor place to lie down, wood digging into his shoulders and the small of his back, but there was no helping it.

He waited. The sun crept lower toward the horizon, and the dry air grew colder, nipping at his cheeks. It was dusk when the Hyur limped through the doorway. Blood trickled down fresh wounds on his cheek and jaw, falling freely from his chin. Bright, angry wounds were visible through new tears in his coat and trousers. Bloodshot eyes searched out Locke, unfocused even as they settled on him. “Looks like it went well,” Locke said.

The Hyur scoffed wordlessly. He lifted his left arm to point at Locke with one stained scimitar. “Come on then. You wanted to fight me, yeah?” Locke looked him up and down. All the blood and cuts, the loose grip on his swords, the way his right arm hung limply at his side in a way Locke was all too familiar with. He felt his shoulders slump but fought to keep the frown off his face.

“Nah. No sport in dueling corpses.” Locke braced himself with his scabbard, leaning on it as he rose to his feet, and slid it back into place on his hip. “Go see a healer or something. Oh, and drink this, probably die before you get treated otherwise.” He produced a potion from his belt and set it on the step by the Hyur. An unreadable expression flickered across the man’s face as he stowed one of his swords and stooped forward, albeit with visible difficulty, to collect the potion. “I appreciate it. Perhaps we’ll meet again and you’ll get your sparring match another sun. If not, then Tural might be of interest to you? Cross the salt and you’ll find far better swordsmen than I.”

“Tural,” Locke echoed. “Keep that in mind. Good luck with whatever’s next.” “To you as well.” Locke set off down the path, away from the house, and put the mining town behind him. He didn’t get far before night fell completely, leaving him with no choice but to hastily set up camp near the road. It wasn’t fair, he knew, to stare at his little campfire and sulk over a stranger not setting aside their grand and important revenge plot to indulge his one-sided desire to duel. He hugged his legs to his chest, cradled his chin in his knees, and sighed anyroad.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #22: Wisdom (Extra Credit)

Locke and Snowdrop gave Ul’dah a wide berth as they cut across Thanalan. Though Locke had intended to spend more time in the city, Snowdrop’s escape from the stable and her subsequent adventure through Ul’dah’s streets complicated things. Maybe he could leave her outside the city walls and hope she understood not to follow while he went about his business, but he wasn’t optimistic about his chances.

No, better to check in on Sosonado and his shop another time. Instead, Locke followed the winding road toward the western coast of Thanalan. He wasn’t particularly fond of travel by sea, but he’d been on the road for a good moon and taken a couple beatings in the process.

The break would do him good, and once in Vylbrand, he could search for more work.

It seemed as good a plan as any.

Locke slid from Snowdrop’s back, giving her a break from carrying him and choosing to instead walk beside her, his good arm outstretched to rest on her flank. The rustle of feathers under his claws where they protruded from his gloves was a reassuring sound and put a smile, minuscule though it was, on his face.

It was just enough to distract him from the lump in the road until the figure was nearly underfoot. Snowdrop halted, large talons hovering just above the bundle of cloth, and uttered a low wark of warning.

Locke followed the bird’s eyes to peer down at the lump. It shifted and uttered a low groan into the dirt.

Snowdrop pecked the lump. It yelped and rolled away, kicking up little bits of dirt and road dust. One arm lifted, as if to shield the lump’s face, while the other fumbled for something at its belt.

“Wouldn’t do that,” Locke warned, fingers dropping away from Snowdrop to rest on the handle of his revolver.

The lump stopped. It lifted its hands, fingers splayed to show it held nothing, then pulled back its hood.

Vivid green eyes set in a round, dirty face stared up at them, blinking quickly under the early morning sun. The Lalafell coughed through the dust and brushed dark tresses back from their cheeks. “I don’t have anything, I swear,” she uttered in a hoarse voice. “Really.” “Got that, dontcha?” Locke asked, nodding toward the wand slipped into her belt. “Oh, well, yes. I suppose I do.” She frowned, considering, then quickly lifted her hands again. “But it’s not worth a lot! It certainly hasn't done me much good.”

“Seems a waste to carry it then. But relax, not robbing you. Just passing through.” Locke moved to step around the Lalafell, Snowdrop following, but the Lalafell quickly scampered to stand in their path.

His hand rested more heavily on his revolver. “You robbing us then?”

“Wark!” Snowdrop weighed in, a menacing glare crossing her avian countenance.

“Nonono!” the Lalafell spluttered. “Um, I need help, actually!” “Mm.” Locke swiveled his ears and cast his eyes across the dirt and rocks around them, searching for anything unusual. Everything here reeked of a setup.

“I do! I’m a student, you see. At the Arrzaneth Ossuary. We can go there right now and they’ll tell you so!”

“Uh-huh. Go there and get help then.” Locke stepped to the other side of the road, intending to pass, but the Lalafell scampered in front of him again.

“I can’t right now, I’m undergoing a trial. I’m supposed to do it on my own, but I just…” she trailed off, a frown weighing at the corners of her mouth. It took her several moments before she uttered, “I can’t.”

“Go find a new career then.” Locke paced to the left side of the road, again, and found himself blocked, again. He sighed.

“It’s not that easy!” the Lalafell snapped, glaring up at Locke. “I have to succeed here! So I need your help.” “Thought you said you had to do it on your own?” Locke asked. He gave up on getting past the Lalafell and sat down in the middle of the road across from where she stood.

“I do,” she confirmed. “But you look like you’ve fought a lot. I mean, you’ve got that scar. And your arm is all bandaged, like you just had a proper dust-up!” Locke grimaced. “And you’re carrying all those weapons, you seem quite professional!” the Lalafell continued, heedless of Locke’s expression. “So I bet you’ve got the experience to maybe give me a couple pointers?” The expression on her face was hopeful, her eyes bright, a smile pulling at her lips and showing white teeth.

He sighed. He’d seen the same expression before. It had worked when his first apprentice used it three decades ago, and it worked now. “Okay. Sure. What do you want to know?” “Um, well,” the Lalafell began. “I need to kill a peiste.”

“Mind the eyes. Can paralyze you if you’re not careful. Carve them out if you can, it’s an easy fight then. Otherwise, just keep cutting and bleed it dry,” Locke said. His eyes dropped to the wand on her hip. “Or shooting. Whatever you’re doing with that thing.” The Lalafell rummaged through her robe and produced a small journal, a quill, and an inkpot that somehow went undamaged in whatever incident led to her crumpling into a heap on the road. She scrawled something on the page, then looked up at Locke expectantly.

“What?” he asked. “What else?”

“Uh.” Locke glanced toward Snowdrop, as if the chocobo might give him an answer, but she had wandered off to one side and found a patch of grass to rest in. He was on his own. “Well,” he continued, “you should avoid getting hit?”

“That much is obvious,” the Lalafell muttered.

“Then you know all you need to know about peistes. Rest is just practice.”

“Hmm.” Somehow, the Lalafell didn’t seem convinced. “What about giant toads?”

“Cut out the tongue. Don’t get smashed,” he said simply. The Lalafell made another note, then she looked up at Locke and arched one delicate eyebrow. “Is there more?”

“Uh. No, I think that covers giant toads.”

“I see.” She looked down at her notes — Locke leaned forward to look at them too, noting that there were thick blocks of writing on much of the two open pages, but only brief lines where her quill hovered over wet ink — then back up at Locke. “I get the feeling you don’t think much when you fight.”

“Not really,” he admitted. “Not a lot of time for it, usually.”

“I guess I can give it a try,” she mused. “Would you mind watching me? Maybe you can give more advice if you see something I’m doing wrong? “Or at least ensure that I don’t end up passing out on the road again?”

Locke snickered. “Sure. Don’t work for free though. Just to be clear.” “I don’t expect you to! I’ll pay well for the mentorship,” she assured him. “Hold you to it.”

The Lalafell nodded and, after blowing on her freshly written notes, shut the journal. She stowed it in her pocket, dusted herself off, and started to walk off in the direction Locke presumed the peiste was in.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, spinning around. Locke stumbled in his effort not to bowl her over.

“I’m Yiruru.” The Lalafell curtsied, every bit as proper as any Ishgardian noble Locke had ever seen. “Locke.” He offered his hand, and she reached up and shook it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Locke,” Yiruru said. She marched along the road, and Locke fell into step behind her, trailed by Snowdrop. “Let’s find that peiste!”