#viera vagabond vibes

[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 #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 #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 #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 #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 #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 #17: Sally

The hells is this? Locke wondered, glaring down the road at the scene. A handful of Wood Wailers crowded a wagon pulled off to one edge of the path while one of their comrades spoke to a middle-aged Hyuran man wearing far too many rings. It was hardly the first snag Locke had encountered in the Twelveswood, but they were beginning to pile up. Shouldering his pack and preparing for another distraction before he could return to the old hermit with his medicine, Locke walked on. “Hold there,” a Wailer called out as Locke approached.

Locke tried not to look disgruntled as he came to a stop in the middle of the road, hand on his hip, corners of his mouth weighed down by displeasure. He could have tried a little harder.

The Wailer approached, spear held loosely in one hand, haft set against her shoulder so that the point was aimed up and away from anyone nearby. Locke eyed it anyroad. Nothing special. Better than what I used to make though, he decided. He returned his attention to the Wood Wailer as she reached him. “Good day, sir.” She rested the butt of the spear against the dirt, holding it upright without leaning on it as she spoke. “We’re searching for a brigand. A number of them waylaid that gentleman up ahead, made off with his chocobos and some of his goods. Have you seen anything suspicious in the last couple bells? “We’ve apprehended a number of them, but the merchant up there’s insisting we’ve yet to catch the ringleader. He reports she was a Miqo’te in a mask. Dark hair, strong accent, rather, ahem, scantily clad? Carried a shortbow, wore a few daggers.” “Nope,” Locke answered, characteristically scarce with his words. “I see.” The Wood Wailer nodded, as if she expected as much. “Very well. If you do see anything, then please, let one of our sentries know, won’t you?” “Sure. Good luck.” “Thank you. Safe travels.” Though much of her expression was hidden behind the half-mask of her uniform, Locke could see a polite smile and answered in kind. She returned to her comrades, shaking her head in response to the several heads turned her way. Locke followed, by virtue of going the way they crowded, then passed them and continued on. It was well into the afternoon before Locke stepped off the road and into the woods. From there, the walk to the old man’s hut was brief but, without the rainstorm and accompanying ocean of mud that had driven Locke to seek shelter last time, pleasant. Locke ascended the four steps to the squat little dwelling and rapped his gloved hand against the gnarled door, metal clicking against wood. Then he stepped back and waited. The hut was silent. Not that Locke expected to hear much in the way of conversation, given the hermit lived alone, but there should have at least been the shuffle of weary feet. Perhaps he was sleeping in? “Hermit! Brought your medicine!” Locke called. He knocked again, slower this time, a deliberate staccato. “You home?” Still nothing. Locke glanced down toward the steps nearby and considered sitting and waiting. If the old man was out, surely he’d be back soon. He didn’t seem like the adventuring type. Or the going-anywhere-at-all type, really. But that sounded boring. He stepped over to the nearby window and peered through the dirty glass. Bright as it was outside, and dark as it was inside, he couldn’t make out much. The embers of an old fire glowing in the small hearth, the silhouette of the old, dented table, and beside it, a single rickety chair. Locke frowned. A sennight ago, there had been two chairs. Where was the other one?

“Old man!” Locke called, returning to the door to knock again, harder than the previous two times. The ill-fitted door shook in its frame. “You in there?”

Nothing, again. No, not quite nothing. Somewhere outside, the rustle of grass and a tentative kweh?

Locke dropped his pack by the stairs and padded around the side of the hut, hand lowering to the grip of his revolver as he followed the noise. He was greeted by a pair of large, black eyes blinking at him as a yellow-feathered chocobo rose to its feet. Its leather reins were tied to a thin tree, giving it just enough slack to walk a few fulms and lay down, but not much else.

“Ah,” Locke breathed, offering his gloved hand to the chocobo’s inquisitive beak. It pecked him once before shoving its head under his fingers. He cooperated with its silent demand and scratched the side of its head. “See what’s going on here.”

Stupid of him, believing this would end cleanly.

“Be back for you in a tick,” he murmured to the chocobo, giving it one last pat before stepping away and returning to the front of the hut.

The door didn’t look terribly sturdy, but Locke knew it wasn’t meant to open inwards, given that the hermit had nearly bloodied his nose with it last time. Kicking it open might take some doing.

Assuming it’s locked.

Locke tried the handle. The door didn’t budge.

Yeah, that’s locked.

So he did the next best thing. He found the largest rock in the vicinity and launched it through the window. It smashed through with ease, sending chunks of glass crashing to the floor.

“The hells are you doing?” a muffled voice demanded from inside. A woman’s, with a strong Twelveswood accent.

“Delivering medicine,” Locke called back. He stepped up by the window and eyed the entryway he’d created. A few more hits with a nearby branch cleaned it up nicely.

“Is the old man in there?” he asked.

He heard a shifting of weight, the protest of an old chair. And something else. A bowstring being drawn, he was sure of it.

“Speak,” the woman hissed.

“I’m here.” Locke recognized the hermit’s voice. “But you need to leave, wanderer.”

“If I do that, have to talk to the Wood Wailers,” Locke asked, voice thick with faux innocence. “How’s your mate feeling about that?”

“Don’t you dare,” she snarled. “Or it’s his head.”

“See? Can’t leave. Suppose I better come in. Unlock the door?” Locke asked.

“Not likely,” she answered. “Tell you what. Step into view, at the window.”

“And get shot? I’m good.”

“Menphina as my witness, I will not shoot you,” the brigand assured him. “Nor will I shoot the old man. Not as long as you cooperate, and he continues to cooperate.”

Locke rolled his eyes. “Hate my job.”

But he stepped in front of the window all the same. He watched as the old hermit hobbled out from the room in the back, leaning heavily on the wall in the absence of his cane. He took a few steps to the side, clearing the doorway before coming to a stop.

A lean Miqo’te woman clad in simple leathers followed him out. She held a shortbow in her clawed hands, an arrow fitted to the string and half-drawn. Behind her plain wooden mask, Locke caught a glimpse of golden eyes, softly glowing in the shadows as they flitted about and searched the room. Once she was satisfied, her eyes settled on Locke.

“Now,” she said, “toss your weapons in through the window. All of them.”

Locke huffed but shrugged his gunblade off and slid it through the hole in the window. His revolver followed. The Doman sword came last, tossed so that it clattered onto the old table.

“Very good. Now, the old man is going to lead me to the chocobo. You, rabbit, will keep your hands above your head and stay right there.”

“Don’t call me that,” Locke said automatically, even as he complied. As best he could, anyroad; his left arm, still wrapped and still mangled, hung limply at his side.

“Both arms, rabbit.”

“Can’t. Left one’s broken.”

“Hm. Fine. Just the one will do.” She turned to the old man, but the bow didn’t follow the movement. She kept it at half-draw and pointed toward Locke. “The door.”

With some trouble, the old man made his way across the room. She watched him, and Locke watched her.

His heel bounced as he waited.

Finally, the old man reached the door. He worked the latch, unlocking the door with a rattle, then swung it open.

The brigand took a step forward.

Locke kicked the ground and leapt to meet her.

“Cover!” he barked at the old man, but he didn’t wait to see if he obeyed. Instead he drew Mist and opened his eyes properly. He Saw the blues and greens of the Twelveswood, their soft glow playing across the windowsill under his hand. He Saw the blue-white of the brigand, her muscles tightening and Mist following the motion until an arc of green passed through the air. He Saw the arc grow more defined and certain until it was a straight line and passed into his right eye.

He went low, heard the bow sing and the arrow whistle overhead. The brigand’s leathers rustled, her bow clattered to the ground, knives rasped against their sheaths.

Locke hit the ground rolling, felt glass sting his face but couldn't stop, bounced to his feet and seized the katana from the table, the blade sliding free of its scabbard.

He closed the distance in two quick steps. A blue crescent painted the air. Slow, not like the knight he’d been kicked around by just a couple days prior.

Locke twisted, letting the crescent pass by his cheek. Steel swished through the air harmlessly a heartbeat later. He stepped in as she drew her arm back and a blue sliver appeared between them.

There wasn’t much room to maneuver inside, but he’d crossed most of it and kept her at the wall, leaving him with enough space to swing a sword. Even if she managed to nick him, she had nowhere to go. Locke’s grip tightened on his sword.

“Don’t!” a voice cried from the door.

Steel bit into Locke’s stomach and lashed across his side, burning. He thrust his arm forward and jammed the sword' handle's pommel into the brigand’s gut, driving the air from her lungs, then swung his elbow up, clipping her chin. Her legs buckled.

Locke brought the blade up, just shy of brushing her throat, and held her there against the wall. In the corner of his eye, the beginnings of a crescent coalesced, then dissipated. Her muscles relaxed.

He let go of the Mist, and a headache blossomed behind his eyes.

“Drop the knives, cat,” he growled.

The brigand swore. Her knives clattered to the ground.

“Get in here, hermit,” Locke snapped over his shoulder. “It’s your mess now.”

[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 #15: Delve (Extra Credit)

Guided by a map in his hand and the light of a lantern on his belt, Locke ventured deeper into the subterranean halls of Gelmorra.

Though the surface was far behind him, he’d seen little of the supposed horrors and nightmarish creatures Odranne had warned him of. So far, only large bugs and carnivorous plants had stood in his way. He’d gotten by with only a couple scrapes and a bruise on one knee. Hardly the worst thing he’d ever encountered.

But for all the plants and fungi, full and glowing alike, he had yet to see any sign of a blue flower streaked with red. There was still time yet for things to go wrong.

He passed through several halls, the metallic click of his boots echoing through the tunnels, filling the silence. He watched the walls and even the ceiling as he walked, eyes and ears straining against the dark, nose twitching in search of anything unusual in the stale air, but nothing else appeared before him.

Finally, the tunnel opened up into a sprawling cavern. Dark lanterns hung from the smooth walls, and tall statues lined the path forward. Stern men and women in fine clothes glared, glowered, and scowled in every direction. A glance at the map labeled the area as a courtyard.

Fancy. He rolled a shoulder, shifting his bag and gunblade across his back, and followed the statues forward before taking a right into another cavern.

A ring of blue moss and mushrooms encircled the hollow, casting dim light across the walls. The wide, gnarled trunk of a tree stood at the heart of the circle. It reached up, into the ceiling and through it, disappearing into the stone.

But it was the base of the tree that drew Locke’s eyes. Brightly glowing shrubs, bushes, and flowers were scattered around its roots, a garden as varied as any he’d seen in his walk through Gridania sprawling across the cavern, thriving in the dark.

And at its center, cradled in a cavity made by the tree’s roots, was a cluster of blue flowers, each petal streaked with pulsing veins of scarlet. Locke stowed the map away in his bag and stepped forward, slowly at first, scanning the cavern with his lantern held high in search of anything that might be waiting for him. But it was just him and the garden. He crossed the remaining distance to the flowers, stepping around the flora in his path with uncharacteristic care, and knelt beside them. He fished a pouch from his belt and set it on the ground alongside his lantern, then reached for the nearest flower.

They shifted, tilting toward him, as if stirred by wind. But the air in the cavern was still. Locke frowned. Place is weird. I’ll just grab the flowers and go. He drew a knife from his boot and held it in his teeth, pinched the flower’s stem, and leaned close enough to cut it free of its roots. It wasn’t the most dignified way of collecting flowers, but within a couple ticks he had a pouch full of them. A few remained still, but he figured that was for the best, just in case Odranne needed more later. At which point she could hire someone else to collect the remainder. He missed the surface. Locke slid its knife back into place, hooked the pouch of flowers on his belt, and stood up, fingers loosely closed around the lantern. He glanced about the garden one last time, taking mental notes in case his boss ever decided to give subterranean plants a look, and turned to leave. And stopped as the tip of a sword nearly took his eye out. A knightly figure, clad in plate armor emblazoned with entwined serpents on the breastplate, stood just fulms from Locke. They lowered their arm only slightly, bringing the tip of their claymore closer to Locke’s throat. A pair of flickering blue flames watched him from behind the shadow of its helmet. “Discard Her Highness’ flowers this instant.” The voice — possibly masculine, undeniably proper in that aristocrat sort of way, and seemingly offended — echoed hollowly within the armor. Locke took a quarter of a step back and returned the lantern to the ground before raising his one good arm just slightly over his head. And not far from the handle of his gunblade. “Don’t know who you’re referring to. Need these flowers though. They’re important. Apparently.” The knight thrust the claymore forward, forcing Locke to sidestep to keep his throat whole. They twisted their arm and brought the blade to the side, transitioning from a thrust to a slash. Locke ducked low, the sword soaring over his head and, thankfully, his ears. He began to scramble back, but the knight closed the distance in a heartbeat and caught him in the side with their sabaton, driving the air from his lungs and toppling him. Locke rolled, avoiding the tip of the claymore as it stabbed into the cavern floor, and bounced back to his feet. His fingers found his gunblade, and he brought it up and around just in time to parry another thrust from the knight. The clash sent a jarring shock up Locke’s arm, and he took another step back, still gasping for breath.

“Leave them,” the knight hissed. The claymore whipped toward Locke again, easily clearing what distance he’d gained. He dodged back, mostly safe, feeling only a slight tug on his shoulder as the knight clipped his broken prosthetic arm. “Or I’ll take your head.”

“You’re already trying,” Locke snapped. He leveled the gunblade and pulled the trigger. A thunderclap echoed throughout the cavern, a roaring counterpoint to the smaller clash of metal punching through metal.

Heedless of the hole in their breastplate, the knight advanced once more. Locke clenched his teeth and stepped forward to meet them, a rush of Mist lighting up his eyes until he could See.

The chamber swirled with color, running through the tree and spilling outward at their feet in a scintillating whirlpool of green and blue, other colors of every sort twisting together in what gaps they could find. The rainbow rippled across the knight’s armor, bleeding into the flashes of blue Locke glimpsed in its joints and behind its helmet.

A blue arc carved its way through the air, followed by another, like a pair of scissors closing in on his neck. A third meant to cave his skull in. The fourth, rip his stomach open, but only after a pause.

He could work with that.

The claymore flicked forward, and Locke danced, navigating it with the certainty of an experienced nobleman performing a waltz. He slipped his head past the first two swipes and sidestepped the third. In the space between his third and fourth steps, he closed the distance until the knight was a hair’s breadth away.

Locke passed the knight, deftly avoiding the claymore with a pirouette, and lashed out with the gunblade. It caught the knight on the back of the head, metal ringing, and launched the helmet across the cavern.

A flickering shape like fire clawed its way free of the armor and rose up in a mockery of a head before turning toward Locke.

“Well struck,” the knight said. Their voice rang clearer through the cavern now, a hiss underlying each word. “But you now see it is meaningless. I exist only to guard Her Highness’ garden. I need neither food nor water, neither sleep nor air. You may consider me immortal.”

“Mm.” Locke blinked, Sight fading away until the world was dull and dim again, only a headless suit of armor standing before him. The pang of a burgeoning headache burrowed itself behind his eye.

“In recognition of your skill, I will give you one last chance. Return Her Highness’ flowers, and you may walk away.”

“Generous of you.”

“Her Highness valued magnanimity.” He could almost hear the smile in the knight’s voice, though they had no features to smile with.

Not that the lack of a body at all stopped them from fighting, apparently.

“She sounds lovely,” Locke said flatly. “But I really do need these flowers. They’re helping someone.”

“Then we cannot negotiate.”

“No,” Locke agreed. “But perhaps you can let me go anyroad?”

The knight charged forward in answer, attacking in a reckless flurry. Though Locke tried to weave his way through the barrage of tireless swings, without his Sight, he quickly felt a sting across his cheek and a second on his shoulder. The edge of the claymore clipped his arm, and though he clung to his gunblade, another strike tore it from his fingers and sent it clattering to the floor.

Locke dropped low and retrieved his weapon, but the knight’s sabaton crashed into his chest and knocked him onto his back. A moment later and it was planted on his stomach, forcing his lungs empty before the knight twisted their heel and pressed down harder.

“I would grant you last words, fellow swordsman, but it does not look as if you can speak,” the knight said. They forced a cough from Locke’s throat with their heel. “Fare—”

The gunblade barked, glass shattered, and fire ignited with a low bang. The knight whirled to see flames licking at the garden where Locke’s lantern had shattered. A cry of rage rolled through the cavern.

Locke wasted no time in squirming out from under the knight’s boot and scrambling to his feet. He jammed the gunblade back into its scabbard and rummaged through a pocket, producing a fire crystal just as the knight turned on him once more.

“Not a lot of oil in those, you can still save her garden,” Locke said softly. He felt something squeeze his stomach as he looked past the knight, and he forced his eyes back onto their bulky silhouette. “But if I add this, and you pursue me, it’s a lost cause. Probably.

“Wanna risk it?”

Even without a face, he watched the knight war with itself. Gauntlet-clad fingers curling, shoulders shaking. Until finally, it snarled at him, “Leave, swordsman. Do not return.”

Locke nodded and backed out of the cavern. He didn’t stay to see if the knight’s efforts yielded fruit.

Guided by the weak light of the Observatorium bartender's fire crystal, he instead hurried back toward the surface as if he was trying to escape from the hells themselves.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #9: Lend an Ear

(Note: Make-up day!)

Odranne’s Tinctures and Tonics was a cramped little building with a dozen-odd shelves and cabinets, each stocked near the point of collapse with glass vials, wooden boxes, and old books. Now that Locke was inside, the variety of herbal and chemical smells — and dust — made his nose itch and twitch. The feeling was alleviated by the bowl of soup set on the table in front of him. It was unfortunately a bit light on meat, but the variety of tender vegetables compensated for it, and the aromatic herbs added an earthy touch without being quite as overbearing as the alchemical counterparts scattered throughout the room. “Are you listening to me?” Odranne asked, clearly exasperated. “Yes,” Locke answered immediately.

“Mhm.” She leaned back in her chair, arms folded, and glowered at Locke as he returned to his meal. “What were you saying?” “I’m reconsidering this deal of ours,” she mumbled. “Fine by me. Make the medicine for that hermit. Be on my way soon as you’re done.” Odranne appeared to consider that for a moment, but she shook her head. “No. Enough time has been wasted on your nap and this dinner. I’m afraid you’re still on the hook.” Locke shrugged a shoulder and shoveled another spoonful of stew into his mouth. “Could’ve looked for someone else while I was asleep,” he pointed out. It came out a bit muffled, full as his mouth was. “Pardon?” Locke swallowed and repeated himself. “Ah. Perhaps,” she agreed. “But as I said before, it’s a personal matter. Not something I wish to entrust to strangers.”

“Barely know you.” “Very well, let’s say it’s not something I wish to entrust to Gridanians then,” Odranne clarified, a thin smile on her lips. “Why’s that? It illegal?” “No, not exactly. But I don’t expect it would be popular amongst them either.” Odranne peered toward a door in the back for some moments before looking back to Locke. “You recall what I said before? About history and grudges?” “Sure.” Vaguely, he didn’t say.

“Well, many of the residents of the Twelveswood can trace their ancestry back to the underground civilization of Gelmorra. Elezen and Hyur built it together after fleeing the Twelveswood. But eventually, circumstances changed, and a significant part of the Gelmorran population returned to the surface.

“Which brings us to Gridania. They exchanged their old city underground for their new city above ground, at the cost of serving the elementals.” Even glancing between Odranne and his meal, Locke didn’t miss the sneer curling her mouth. “Gelmorra declined until it was a ghost of its former self, leaving those who wished to stay with no choice but to try to carve a life for themselves here in the Twelveswood.”

“And that was a problem,” Locke surmised. “For those who never wanted to bend the knee to the elementals? I imagine it was.” “Did you? Want to follow them, I mean.” Odranne leaned back in her chair and gazed at a spot on the table between them. “No,” she admitted. “All of this history happened long before I was even a consideration for my parents, or their parents. But it has shaped the course of my life regardless.” “I see,” Locke said softly. “Can sympathize with that. Just a bit.” “I suppose it happens everywhere.” Odranne smiled, wholly without humor, and clapped her hands once. “Oh well. Let’s not get distracted, yeah? I’ve still got a job for you.” “Gelmorra?” Locke guessed.

“Aye, exactly right. As I said, it’s nothing like it was, but there are still things of value down there. Relics lost, knowledge forgotten, resources abandoned,” she said, counting the list on her fingers. “I’ve an interest in all three, but from you, I require the latter.” “And you can’t go get it yourself?” “Unfortunately not. People may have abandoned Gelmorra, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty. Pests, plants, beasts. Monsters and creatures best left forgotten too, if you venture deep enough.” Locke recalled the wolf with too many eyes and mouths and silently agreed. “It is… possible you will encounter such things. I require a flower from an underground garden. Blue petals streaked with red. Rare, impossible to find here on the surface, but vital for my work,” Odranne said. She spoke quickly, determination plain on her face. “I can give you a map that will take you to roughly where you need to go, so you won’t be stumbling around blind, and if you need a couple of potions, I can provide them. But that is the extent to which I can assist you.” “Blue and red flower? Okay. Can do. Underground city full of things nobody wants to remember? Not as sure. Don’t think you hired enough people for this. Seems dangerous for one swordsman.”

Odranne pursed her lips. “I don’t disagree. But I can only afford to pay you, unless you’re willing to split it four ways and the other three mercenaries are feeling generous. Or perhaps you know people who will assist you for free?” Locke shook his head. “No. Neither of those works.” “Then one swordsman is all it’ll be. But I think you’re more than enough.”

Locke scoffed. “Sure. Take those potions and the map now.” Odranne stepped away to retrieve them, and Locke focused on cleaning his bowl, scraping every last morsel of food and broth from the dish before setting it aside. When she returned, it was with a vellum map. Locke traded her the bowl for it.

“Why are you all hush-hush about this anyroad?” he asked as he traced the lines of the map with his eyes and a clawed finger. “And what’s the flower for?”

“Medicine,” she answered simply. She opened her mouth again, as if to elaborate, then seemed to think better of it. “More than that, I cannot say. But I appreciate you offering to lend me an ear.”

“Sure. Got plenty to spare.” He motioned toward the tall, leporine ears that crowned his head, earning a genuine, if brief, smile from Odranne.

“But enough of that,” Locke continued, standing up and stowing the map in his bag, “let’s talk coin.”

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #14: Telling

Locke stumbled at the top of the hill and decided that was enough effort for the day. He removed the Doman sword from his belt and shrugged his bag and gunblade away, set all three to the side, and fell onto his back to catch his breath. The sky overhead was a bright blue, the clouds dispelled by the storm a couple days prior, and the midday sun was shining bright, chasing away the autumn chill. Locke basked in the warmth and let his eyes drift shut. “Come on, delivery boy,” Odranne said. He heard her step around him and continue toward her workshop. “No time for a nap. I’ve got a job for you to do.” “Been on my feet too long,” Locke grumbled. “Nap first.”

“I won’t mix our friend’s medicine otherwise.” Locke cracked an eye open to stare at her. She waited by the front door, a covered basket dangling from one arm. “He didn’t tell me I’d have to do anything for you. Neither did you, not until now.” “I apologize, I couldn’t speak of it in the market. Regardless, it’s important, and I won’t work until you hear me out,” she insisted. Her tone was firm, leaving little room for argument. Locke sighed but didn’t move. “Won’t work for free.” “You won’t have to. I’ll pay you.” He considered that for a moment. He did need the money. Both for the boss’ rent and to fix his arm. “Food too,” he said, imitating her tone. “I want a meal first. I’ll do your job. You pay me. Then you give me the old man’s medicine. In that order.” Odranne made a show of considering the offer, tapping her chin with one slender finger. “Very well. Though you’re being a little too bossy, I agree to your terms.” Locke stifled a yawn and closed his eyes again. “Great. Wake me when the food’s done.” “I can’t explain the job while you’re sleeping,” she pointed out. “You need to be awake for that. Awake and preferably inside, it’s of a…” she trailed off, searching for the right word. “A sensitive nature.” “Tell me over dinner.” Whatever face Odranne made, Locke was pleasantly unaware. He heard the door open and then shut behind her, leaving him free to fall into sleep’s waiting arms, cradled by soft grass and caressed by sunlight. Like that, he dreamed. A trail wound its way through the woods, gray branches and green leaves reaching up through the snow underfoot to carve the outline of a path. It was well-trodden, made smooth by the footfalls of those who came before. Reynir led the way, the kit trailing behind. Long strings of meaningless noise drifted through the air as the kit chattered away. Engrossed in the one-sided conversation, he strayed from the path, prints fresh against the untouched snow. Reynir called him back. He spoke softly, more meaningless noise, but the kit hung on every muted word. When he finished his brief speech, Reynir ruffled the kit’s hair and ordered him onward. His chest swelled with pride as the kit followed the trail unerringly this time. The forest gave way to a clearing of white and gray. A two-headed wolf with the body of a man waited at its heart, seated upon a throne. Too many teeth filled its grinning mouths. It rose to its feet, armor clanking and chains rattling. Swathes of starlight fell into its outstretched hands. The beast threw its heads back and howled at a red sky streaked with blue. The kit answered with a shrieking war cry. “Delivery boy? Delivery boy, are you alright?” Locke opened his eyes. A tan face with sharp features stared down at him, mouth twisted into a frown, eyebrows knitted together. He had enough time to rub the sleep from his eyes and look past the face, up to a red and orange sky, before he remembered he was visiting a potionmaker in Gridania. Without answering, he sat up, forcing Odranne to take a step back in doing so. He got to his feet and collected his things, returning his swords to his back and hip and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Starving. Food ready yet?” he asked, forcing a chipper note into his voice. He studied the houses below the hill, looked toward the gate in the distance, checked the claws of his right hand for dirt. Whatever expression Odranne was wearing, he didn’t want to see it. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Yeah, it is. But what—” “Good.” Locke trudged past on uncertain legs and pushed the door to Odranne’s workshop open. The smell of something rich and savory met him at the threshold, and his stomach growled, urging him to step inside. “Come on. Tell me about this important job.”

[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 #7: Morsel

“Looks like rain,” Locke muttered, staring up at the sky. It didn’t take a master Wood-warder to understand why he thought that. The clouds over the Twelveswood had become a second canopy, dark and heavy between the gaps in the branches. Though Locke knew it was hardly midday, he’d have believed anyone who told him it was dusk. He looked back over his shoulder, eyes following the road he’d walked. He’d been on the move since sunrise, minus a couple breaks. Could he make it back to town before the downpour started? A fat drop landing on his smudge-stained nose told him no. No, he could not.

He pulled the hood of his cloak up and began to move forward again, scanning the treeline as he went, searching for shelter. A rocky overhang, a cave, a tree with just the right sort of wide branches. He wasn’t picky. The rain began to fall harder, thudding against his cloak and bag, turning the dirt of the road into thick, persistent mud that clung to his boots. He wished he’d brought his chocobo with him on his job to Coerthas, rather than leaving her at a stable in Thanalan. She would’ve carried him somewhere dry quickly. Or at least given him someone to complain to. Even that would have been an improvement. The day grew darker, the clouds heavier, the weather worse. Wind blew the rain about, carrying it beneath Locke’s hood and spattering his cheeks and eyes. He wiped a gloved hand across them and blinked. A thin light no larger than his smallest claw appeared in the distance, twisting and dancing with the trees. Locke blinked again, but it didn’t disappear. He squinted, and still it remained, a weak little flame beckoning him away from the path and into the woods. There were monsters like that, he knew. Frustrating, elusive things, unlikely to lead him somewhere dry. Instead, they’d probably lure him into danger. But they weren’t so dangerous that he hadn’t dealt with them before. He rested a hand on his revolver and moved forward, toward the treeline and the dancing light.

As he drew further from the path and closer to the light, he realized it was a candle. It sat in the window of a squat, gnarled hut, equal parts building and large stump. Releasing his firearm but keeping his fingers near the holster, he squished and squelched his way through the thick mud and grass and up the four steps to the door. The metal covering the backs of his fingers clicked dully against the wooden surface.

No noise within the hut, though the pounding drum of rainfall could have easily washed it away. Locke tried the door again, more insistent. “I’m coming, I’m coming! Nophica help me, have some patience!” Raising his eyebrows, Locke took half a step back and waited. The door swung out a moment later, the edge of it passing just by Locke’s nose, such that he was certain the hut had seen its share of injured visitors. An elderly man, bowed with age and leaning heavily on a gnarled cane held in equally gnarled fingers, glared at Locke with gray eyes. His mouth twisted into a frown beneath its drooping white mustache. “You’re not my granddaughter,” he observed.

“I’m not,” Locke agreed. The old man disappeared behind the door as it slammed shut. “Wait!” Locke called, raising his voice above the rain to be heard. He rapped his metal-clad knuckles against the door. “I need shelter! And food!” The door cracked open, and a gray eye appeared in the gap, narrowed as it sized him up. “You’re still not my granddaughter.” “No.” Locke was ready this time, left hand reaching out with the low creak of his joints and the soft twang of pulled strings. The door slammed against his palm. It didn’t hurt, but he grimaced anyroad, thinking of swollen joints and broken bones. “Can find her though. If you’re looking. Just need shelter first.” And with a tinge of hope coloring his voice, he added, “And maybe food?” The gray eye considered him, his gloved and seemingly uninjured hand, and then the weather just past his shoulder.

“Very well. Just until the rain stops, you may rest here.” The door swung open again, forcing Locke to step back once more to avoid it. He followed the old man in, left arm falling limp at his side once more, and pulled the door shut behind him, muffling the low groan of the wind in the trees and the worst of the rainfall, though he could still hear its steady pitter-patter on the roof above. The room Locke found himself in was small, perhaps ten steps from one end to the other. Besides the candle in the windowsill, it held only a small hearth — with a fire already burning in it, for which Locke was thankful — and a couple pieces of old furniture, including a set of cabinets and a table with two crooked chairs. The old man waved his cane at the furthest of the chairs. Locke played the part of a good guest and lowered himself into it gingerly, then waited while the old man dug through the cabinet. Within a couple ticks, Locke had a small chunk of bread and cheese on a plate and half of a cup of tea. “You missed lunch,” the man grumbled. “I hope that morsel will suffice.” “Better than nothing,” Locke said, trying a smile before ripping the bread in half and stuffing it full of cheese. It was gone as quick as it had appeared. “I don’t need you to find my granddaughter,” the old man said, eyes not leaving Locke as the Viera chewed with cheeks stuffed full. “But seeing as you practically forced your way in, you can run a different errand for me.” “Sure,” Locke agreed, speaking around a mouthful of bread and cheese. If the old man was bothered by his poor etiquette, it didn’t show on his face. “I need you to make a trip to Gridania in my stead. You don’t have to do much, just deliver a parcel to a friend of mine, collect what she gives you, and return here with it.” Locke swallowed and ran his tongue along his teeth, prying a bit of cheese from one of his molars. “Just came from that direction.” “If you think that’s a waste of your time, well, you’re the one who insisted you be allowed in. So, are you going to do it?” “I get paid?” The old man snorted. “You just ate half your pay. The rest is in that cup.” Locke peered down at the teacup and its contents, coils of steam reaching up from the dark liquid to brush against his chin. He took a sip, a bitter taste running over his tongue. “Fine. I’ll take your dumb job.”

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #6: Halcyon

In the end, Locke chose not to linger in the Holy See of Ishgard for longer than necessary. Part of the decision was motivated by common sense, having made an enemy out of an aristocrat with just enough standing to be problematic, but not enough standing to have anything better to do than bother Locke. The other part of that was the ever-present need to keep moving. He had no qualms with working for Sosonado again, and Sosonado insisted he didn’t blame Locke for the incident in the Forgotten Knight. He’d even gotten Locke a good deal on a fur cloak to keep him warm on his return journey through Coerthas before offering him more work back in Ul’dah. Surprising, considering Locke had cost him some of his earnings in the form of damages paid to the Forgotten Knight’s proprietors. Civilization was weird like that. Sometimes people could be real bastards, but other times they were nice for no apparent reason. Go figure.

Regardless, wanderlust ate away at Locke. He was certain he’d see Sosonado again, but he wanted to see other places before returning to Ul’dah, where they’d met just a short while ago. Locke left Coerthas behind, traveling a different — and fortunately less bandit-infested — path. He soon found himself descending into the Twelveswood. Travel kept the road worn down and relatively smooth, and a contingent of Wood Wailers ensured the road was equally safe, leaving Locke with no reason to draw any of his weapons. The journey was inarguably safe and perhaps a bit dull for it. Once in Fallgourd Float, he set to business right away, pacing from one end of the settlement to the other asking for work. He came up empty, mostly. “Truth be told, the woods have been quiet lately. The Wood Wailers see to that,” an Elezen man confided. He leaned in a little closer, almost conspiratorially. Locke pretended his own ears didn’t imitate the gesture. “We hear about the occasional issue when it crops up somewhere in the forest. Poaching, territory disputes, things like that. But lately? As I said, it’s been quiet.” “The harvest is approaching,” a Hyur woman pointed out to Locke when he went to the other side of the little village. “Perhaps you could find some work further in the Twelveswood, where the land is more bountiful?” Locke’s last stop in the settlement was The Bobbing Cork, an inn that towered over the diminutive cottages that made up the rest of the village. Light spilled out through its tall windows and open doors. He entered and strolled toward the bar, aware of a Wood Wailer’s eyes on him all the while. “Good evening, friend.” The bartender was a lean man with a rich voice. If he minded Locke tracking dirt across his rug, he didn’t complain. “Do you need a room? Or perhaps a meal? We’ve ale too, if that tickles your fancy.” Locke shook his head. Though his coin purse was still reasonably heavy on his belt, he wanted to make it back with as much gil as he could manage. “Looking for someone.” “Oh? The Wood Wailers might be of more use to you then. People pass through and stop here to rest, sure, but if it’s a bounty you’re after—” “Not a bounty,” Locke corrected. Not that he blamed the bartender for the misconception. He was armed to the teeth, after all. “Looking for a swordsman with many faces. Rides a horse.” The bartender arched a brow at the inquiry. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of anyone so, uh, unusual as that.” “Uses a spear too, I’ve heard. Sometimes called The Butcher? Man-mani…” Locke thought hard on the word Erah’sae had used. There was a festival in it somewhere, wasn’t there? Oh well. “Appears. Appears in your woods.”

Understanding flickered in the man’s eyes. “Ah. You’re talking about Odin.” “Guess so. Know him?” The bartender shook his head and glanced further down the bar, where one of his associates was dealing with a loud and remarkably irritated Lalafell. His eyes returned to Locke. “I know it well enough to know that’s a legend you don’t want to go chasing, sir.” “Everyone says that,” Locke agreed. “So, he doesn’t come here?” A scoff escaped the bartender’s lips, though to his credit, he looked apologetic afterward. “No, most certainly not. As far as I know, it keeps to the woods. Thank the Twelve.” The bartender set his elbows on the counter and leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “People here — people everywhere on this star, really — have seen enough tragedy. The further things like Odin, the things legends and nightmares are made of, stay away from us, the happier we are. “And it’s better that way. Whatever it is you’re chasing, fame or money or revenge, it’s not worth dying for. For the first time in a long while, so long many have forgotten it, there’s peace, friend. You should enjoy it while we have it.”

“Hey, can you lend me a hand?” the bartender’s associate called. His eyes flicked from the upset Lalafell to the bartender and back again; he resembled nothing so much as a mouse cornered by a cat.

The bartender offered Locke an apologetic smile and a brief “Save travels” before stepping away to assist his associate.

With no further business left in the village, Locke departed Fallgourd Float, but he didn’t go far. The daylight had dwindled to a sliver during his inquiries; he used the time to find a suitable spot to set up camp, near enough to the village that he could still see its lights but not so close that the Wood Wailers would trouble him.

Once he had a fire going and his bedroll laid out, he stripped his layers of travel gear away until he was left in his trousers and undershirt. Autumn was near enough that there were the beginnings of a chill in the air, but he hardly noticed it, light as it was.

There, swathed in the flickering light of a small fire and the handle of a sword cool against the skin of his bare fingers, Locke stretched, stepped, and struck. He flowed through his forms as he had thousands of times before, decades of routine slowly building upon itself and evolving in the smallest ways by new ideas, new injuries, new experiences good and bad alike. Seventy years of history told in one stroke.

And he knew peace.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #5: Stamp

“You’ve got some strange quirks, lad,” Sosonado observed. “Wouldn't have thought that left arm of yours did anything, the way it flopped about till now. You sure proved me wrong.” Locke set the third crate down with a grunt and turned, glaring first at the shopkeep, who had made no move to help, then at Sosonado, who seemingly couldn’t help on account of his size. He let the look serve as his response and returned to the wagon. Sosonado soon joined him, gave the chocobos an order with the reins, and the wagon lurched forward.

For the most part, the streets of Ishgard could accommodate the wagon. Locke had to admit the height made him nervous at times — a misstep from either bird in the wrong place could easily send all of them hurtling into the snow and fog below — but he appeared to be the only one with that problem. Neither Sosonado nor the birds seemed to mind.

They stopped at the Skysteel Manufactory next. Sosonado led the way, holding the door open for Locke as he staggered through with another box of cargo. He thought he handled it reasonably well, considering it felt like a crate full of rocks, but his stomach had started to growl a good half-bell ago and there was half a wagon of goods remaining. The sounds of bartering — compliments, veiled jabs, numbers, boring nonsense — buzzed in Locke’s ears. It was easily lost amidst the persistent hiss of steam and the pulse and grind of machinery. He clicked his claws against the counter as he waited, scanning the room.

There were several people tinkering with little devices throughout the room. Strange, but not weapons, as far as Locke could tell. Was all the good stuff behind that door across the room? It had some sort of sign over it, but the shapes carved into the wood held no meaning to him. Was it a workshop? “That, there's another one!” Sosonado yelped suddenly. Locke turned on him, the drooping corners of his mouth asking the question he wouldn’t voice. What are you going on about?

“You swivel your ears at things. I assume you do it to listen? You kept focusing on the pipes and that large contraption,” Sosonado explained, a triumphant grin lighting up his face. “Oh, and you seem to like tapping your claws. No rhythm to it though. It’s just noise. You’re not a musician, are you?” Locke huffed and pointedly lifted his hand from the counter, dropping it to hang at his side. “You done?” Sosonado shook a bag in Locke’s direction; it jingled, an alluring noise, more interesting than any of the secrets the Manufactory might be hiding behind the closed door. “Ah, there are those ears again. But aye, quite done. Shall we be off?”

They returned to the cart. At Sosonado’s instruction, the chocobos brought them to the market. There, Sosonado traded with what had to be half the merchants in the Holy See. Locke alternated between assisting him and sitting by idly, looking up and down the street at the goods on display. A pleasant scent, warm and sweet, drew Locke’s attention away. It clung to a Hyur man, rolled off of his hair and clothes in waves. As Locke focused on him, and he drew closer, there was something else. A touch of cinnamon?

“Your nose is twitching,” a gravelly voice commented at Locke’s side. “Like a—” “Ridiculous.” “Biggest word I’ve ever heard you use,” Sosonado taunted, but he didn’t finish his previous thought. Not aloud, anyroad. Instead, he returned to the wagon and fiddled with some bags and coins while Locke listened to the gil jingle and watched the market. The smell of baked goods had unfortunately vanished.

“Here you go, merc.” Locke turned just in time to catch a pouch full to the point of bursting. Thankfully, the seams held. “Your pay, and the bonus I promised you. I won’t be offended if you want to count it first, but otherwise, our business is concluded.” Sosonado flashed an easy grin at him. “Unless I can convince you to sit still for a sennight while I see to a few things? I’ll be bringing some goods back the way we came, and I could use a guard.”

Locke pulled the bag open and combed his fingers through it as he considered the offer. The pouch was pretty heavy, and all the coins looked real. Surely it would cover a moon of rent and food. The boss would be ecstatic if he brought back two bags so full they were almost overflowing. “Long time to sit still,” he muttered. “We’ll see.” Sosonado sighed. “That sounded a lot like a no, but very well. How about a meal and drinks before we call it a day then? My treat.” Locke nodded immediately, and Sosonado barked a laugh. “I thought so. Your stomach’s been growling since our first stop.” They stabled the chocobos and left the wagon with them, then walked the rest of the way to The Forgotten Knight. The common room wasn’t too different from what they’d seen at the Observatorium — stone walls, simple wood furniture, a fire crackling in the hearth to warm patrons as they tried to escape the cold — and, given the hour, it was similarly crowded.

Locke entrusted the talking to Sosonado and instead wandered over to the fireplace, letting the heat wash over his flushed skin. The Forgotten Knight was about as far as one could get from life in the Skatay, but that feeling, of the cold being chased away after bells spent exposed to the elements, carried decades of nostalgia. He closed his eyes and basked in it.

“Oi, lad, drinks are– oh!”

Locke swiveled an ear even as his head turned, hearing the splash of liquid and the hollow clatter of a mug hitting the floor before his eyes found the source.

An Elezen man dressed in fine, warm-looking furs and a formerly spotless white shirt looked at the dark juice dripping down his front with narrowed eyes and a curled lip. His eyes, hard as flint, flicked over to Sosonado, who was still holding one mug and scrambling to his feet.

“Terribly sorry. Truly, a thousand apologies,” Sosonado said, speaking so swiftly the words slurred together.

“You ruined my clothes, you inattentive rat,” the Elezen growled. He leaned forward, hands dropping to his hips, looming over Sosonado. “You'll be paying for them.”

Locke didn't miss the saber on his hip, though he didn't make any move to draw it. Sosonado didn’t either, judging from the way his eyes drifted toward it before snapping back up to the man’s face. Fingers curling at his side, eager to reach for a weapon but restrained by what little sense was in his head, Locke took a few steps closer. Just in case.

“Of course, of course,” Sosonado agreed, finally getting to his feet and stepping off to the side. He glanced toward Locke. Everything on his face and in his eyes said Don’t. Then he looked back at the Elezen and smiled, perfectly pleasant. “That’s only fair.”

“Hm. I'll send an assistant to collect in the morning.” The Elezen sidestepped the mess and turned, beginning to move for the stairs, but the change in direction brought him straight to Locke.

He jostled the man with his shoulder, the metal spaulder jabbing him just below the chest. It earned Locke a wordless exclamation of indignation and the pleasure of watching the Elezen take two haphazard steps back, into the grape juice spilled across the floor.

“Watch it, runt,” the Elezen spat, glaring at Locke before looking down toward his feet, assessing the mess. Irritation rolled across his sharp features.

The satisfaction fell off of Locke’s face in a heartbeat. He clicked the metal heel of his boot against the floor. “What’d you call me?”

“Lads, lads, no need for this,” Sosonado said. He stepped forward, in between the pair, one hand on the Elezen’s leg and the rim of a mug against Locke’s. “It was my fault in the first place. I'll pay your tailor, sir, and I'll get you another juice, Locke. And all will be well.”

Sosonado looked up at Locke meaningfully. “Right?”

“None of that is relevant to this brat intentionally barring my way.”

“Who cares about that?” Locke snapped. “I’m not short.”

“Well–” Sosonado began, only to be cut off by a look from Locke.

“You clearly are,” the Elezen said, unaffected. “Were it otherwise, I might have seen you. The same goes for your Lalafell friend there.”

Another tap of Locke’s bootheel, harder this time. A stomp.

“Are you throwing a tantrum?” the Elezen scoffed. He pushed Locke back a step and moved to leave the other way, toward the stairs in the back. Under his breath, quiet but not so quiet a Viera and Lalafell couldn’t catch it, he muttered, “I can't waste my time arguing with a child.”

Locke snatched the mug from Sosonado and stomped a third time, shifting his weight to his back foot. With perfect form, he launched the mug at the Elezen’s back, a spray of ale following its trajectory like the tail of a comet.

“Stomping warnings,” Sosonado groaned as hell broke loose across the common room. “Like a bloody rabbit.”

[rythasbrenelle]

FFxiv Write 2024: Locke's Trading Quest

Snippets and glimpses of a Viera vagabond's wanderings and recollections. Prompt #1: Steer Prompt #2: Horizon Prompt #3: Tempest Prompt #4: Reticent Prompt #5: Stamp Prompt #6: Halcyon Prompt #7: Morsel Prompt #8: (Extra Credit) Prompt #10: Stable Prompt #11: Surrogate Prompt #12: Quarry Prompt #13: Butte Prompt #14: Telling Prompt #9: Lend an Ear (Make-Up Day) Prompt #15: Delve (Extra Credit) Prompt #16: Third-rate Prompt #17: Sally Prompt #18: Hackneyed FFxivWrite Info | Challenge by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast