Enambris was always the first to wake, quietly slipping out of bed before the dawn’s light could even begin to paint the horizon. She would bathe in total silence, scrubbing lavender and honeysuckle soap over… More
Crystalline and Sunlit Heart
Her hands tremble. Is that excitement? Or fear? She doesn’t know, and suspects a mix of both. Her face is serene, almost blank in expression, but her eyes betray her. The man across the table takes notice, acknowledging her apprehension with a gentle smile. “You want to go through with this, then? No alternatives? Mayhap you should call on someone stronger. The other doctor, perhaps? The duskwight?”
Her eyes gleam in the firelight. Besides the barman and innkeep behind the counter, they’re alone in the Forgotten Knight. She trusts her conversations go unnoticed and never repeated, with the many secrets she’s entrusted to him over all these years. He’s been her sole confidant since the day he found her in the wilds of Coerthas and brought her to this very tavern, shivering and alone. “If what I know is accurate, this will be the only way.” Her eyes turn down to the kerchief spread over the oak tabletop, appraising the pair of crystals that lay upon it. They’re hot to the touch, like coals pulled from a raging bonfire. One is sizable, at least as large as her palm, smooth on its face like a diamond polished to a perfect shine; on its back, a sharp little spire. It’s exactly the shape she needs. Beside it sits a second crystal, considerably smaller, shaped almost perfectly like a needle, its head a flat impression of a rose. That same rose is engraved as if by the point of the finest chisel into the perfectly faceted face of the larger crystal. The needle is a few ilms long, a finger’s length, and perhaps about as wide as a marble. They’re a pair, it’s clear from the color of the wild sea that undulates within each, but the needle shines with a light like a tiny nova, where it’s brother only gleams like moonlight by comparison.
“The Conduit and the Shield,” he says.
She grins, a wry smile that only flickers in her eyes. “The rose is a nice touch,” she comments, examining the Conduit, turning its heat over in her fingers. She’s used to the burn, now; nothing could burn her quite as thoroughly as the Void, and that pain is nothing now. “I think I’ll call them something else. Truth,” she says, indicating the needle, “and Justice,” with a nod to the faceted crystal. “They’re powerful enough? Where did you find them?”
He waves a hand. “Aye, they’re powerful enough.” He pauses as though measuring his words and their weight, and adds softly, “The coil.”
A little shudder of sudden, unquenchable rage shivers up her spine and she swallows it, inhaling a shuddering breath; it’s sickening and sweet, it makes her stomach turn and her spine tingle. And, despite her utter terror as it sweeps through her, she’s more horrified by the thrilled pounding of her heart. “They’ll do. Time’s up, I’d best return to Molly.” She stands to depart and bows deeply to the weathered old Wildwood, her gaze never dropping. His eyes are just like hers, but gold where silver ought be. “Thank you. Really.”
Her vision is white. The pain is grounding, she can feel the skin of her breast beneath her fingertips, Molly’s steadying hand on her shoulder, the pure fire that floods her chest like a ship capsizing in the sea. Truth went first, it pierced her heart with the ease of a knife splitting water, and it burns. The sun itself is in her chest. She can feel her shuddering breaths, the cold air in her lungs conflicting painfully with the extreme heat radiating out of her heart. Purest aether, it tastes like dappled sunlight in spring, like desert heat. Her heart gives a great shudder, rattling against its bone cage, both protesting and welcoming the foreign presence amongst her flesh and bones.
The incision over her sternum is but a pinprick of mild pressure by comparison. Pure white aether pools around her, courses through her, flowing freely from her fingertips, and from Molly’s, as they battle a tide of blood and tears and the shadow in her veins. Both women have something to lose here, and she isn’t about to lose anything. She doesn’t lose, not anymore, not without cause. Her vision swims between black and white, static fills her ears. She will have to adjust. It will take time. She will prevail.
“Almost there.” A gentle whisper amidst a sea rushing by her ears, the crash of waves against a rocky, jagged shore. Her eyes flash, her teeth clenched, her jaw set. An island is swallowed by the sea and she watches with eyes of dullest slate.
Through her teeth she hisses, “I will not become a monster.” One final push, and Justice slides home.
Fire; FFXIV
Profit Margin
A man watched, impassive, as the cascade of fire and havoc slowly quieted, a cacophony of world-shattering magnitudes, both cataclysmic and beautiful. The great eikon’s death knells were sure to be heard from Ul’dah to Ishgard, the most incredible song heard by mortal kind. Their comprehension of it was so lacking, so very limited, that all would either refute it, or force themselves to forget its majesty. They knew not what they had felled, and what inspired and beauteous havoc could come of it, how that havoc would be in their favor. The glimmer of a smile reached the man’s lips, but not his eyes. Cold and nigh on dead, there had not been a smile there for decades, and now would be no different. He watched the site for days, weeks, the tumultuous fallout of the battle having rocked the land to its very core. A war on three fronts, and losses for all. Senseless deaths, the lot of them. This would not happen again, he would see to it.
When much of the fire had become but embers, he dared chance a foray into the field. Most of what remained was but ash, charred corpses and bones in the bloody sand, remnants of the great crystals shattered to naught but dust. The smile grew. He found what he’d been looking for. How long had he waited for such glorious opportunity? It was a gift from Nymeia herself, surely. With the care one might show a newborn infant he stooped to a crouch, gently brushing and dusting away debris, leaving behind only sands and a man filled with glee. This was it, the true answer. This would save them all.
It took him at least four hours to fill each of the large stone containers he had carted in with him. Despite their weight, each at least a dozen ponze or more, they would hold surprisingly little compared with what was needed for the craft. Dreadfully difficult to make and even more so to harvest, he could only imagine how much wasted material he would have, how much effort would be required for simply one piece. Such a carefully guarded secret, one he would trust to no other living soul. That anyone even knew the item by name brought him a measure of violent disdain. They were too easily abused by those only looking at their baseline and never the wider picture; these merchants of death found no quandary with the implications of their grim market. He grinned again as he carefully filled a fourth pot with the bloodied, sand-like remains of the battle. Their margins of profit were far too small. He would show them what that meant, every last one of them. And they will thank him.
Gallows Glass
She’s so peaceful asleep, a shadow ponders to itself. Her room is cold, as most rooms at the Forgotten Knight, and all of Ishgard, tend to be. The fire has gone out, leaving behind naught but smoldering ashes in a blackened hearth. She doesn’t seem to mind the cold, laying across her feather bed, blankets askew, fast asleep. The shadow has eyes, and they linger on her form, soaking in the details: her left arm draped over her stomach, her right to her side, bent at the elbow, both covered in the fading remnants of void burns winding like pale ribbons on her porcelain skin. Silver eyes are closed, flicking to and fro behind her eyelids as she dreams, something decidedly peaceful, or the shadow assumes she would appear more perturbed.
It watches in silence, for what could be an eternity, the only light in the room the pale moonlight spilling in through a haphazardly-closed curtain. Her weapons are out of reach, carefully placed upon the rickety table off to the side; her armor and the remnants of her shield lay beneath, dented and shattered and otherwise unusable, shards of silver and gold peeking out from beneath the plates, tassets, chain mail and skirt that lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. It ignores these things after brief consideration, and watches on.
Long red hair is spread over the sheet, a few unruly locks brushed across closed eyes. She shifts, turning her head, but doesn’t wake. Still the shadow watches. It takes in the bruises on her diaphragm and arm, the clear signs of fracturing in the bone beneath the skin. As the moonlight moves across the wall with the passing of time, the shadow slithers with it, filling the room, the air, her lungs, her dreams. It peers through her eyes, sees the letter on the table, Gallows Glass scrawled hastily across bloodstained parchment. The shard is with it, and then it’s gone.
Her breathing quickens. With a devil’s maw the shadow spreads a jagged smile.The letter lies on the table, but the shard is missing. Beside it sits a small pile of trinkets: a pair of rings, earrings, a locket on a worn silver chain, a tiny, black iron key, a bangle scuffed where a blade had struck it and glanced off. No shard. It spreads to the armoire, fills the pockets and creases of fabric piled within. No shard. It fills the hearth, the chest of drawers, the chairs and blankets, beneath the bed. Still no shard.
Determined and undaunted the shadow turns yet again to the woman on the bed. There’s ice in her dreams again, a song that paints the air and hovers over a bridge like a thick cloud. More ice, silver eyes and blue eyes, the song rings louder, a bonfire flares in the darkness. Fire and ice, a scream, the splitting of a barrier, a kiss to the forehead, a whispered prayer, a stolen glance. A frozen island swallowed by the raging sea. The shadow fills her dreams again and, again, it watches. The shadow is good at watching.
Observation of Mages
She never really understood why, but she’s always hated dolls. Unnatural interlocked joints, cold porcelain faces, dead, ever-staring eyes. It’s especially true now, as she stares with unwavering determination at a doll named Calcabrina, more a mountain than a plaything, all eerie giggles, horrific screams and heavy, sundering strikes that vibrate Enambris’ bruised arm through her shield. It’s a temporary replacement, the kite shield strapped to her injured left arm, made of iron and tempered well enough. But it’s not her shield, and so it feels alien.
Another monstrous swing strikes the flat of the kite and she skids back at least nine fulms, limbs buzzing from the impact. The heavy thwack and crack of a lance is just audible over haunted giggling, and beneath the unclothed horror that is Calcabrina she can just glimpse the practiced footwork of Molly Harlan, thrusting and stabbing and striking with such force that any normal doll would crack and splinter to pieces. There’s another awful shriek that splits the air, and the explosive force of fire paints the doll black; the void magic that calls the fire forth makes Enambris’ skin crawl from the reaction of faded burns that wind their way up her arms beneath her chain shirt and plated coat, a sickly sweet sensation that makes her stomach turn. Beside Mara she catches a glimpse of Serea, all concentration behind a staff glowing white.
The doll swipes again and Enambris misses the block. She feels the skin of her right cheek split wide open, a gash that shreds muscle and slices down her jaw and neck. Before her blood can begin to pour though, she feels the skin rejoin, stitching itself back together as though it had never been apart. As Serea’s white magic courses over and through her, she ignores the burns that ignite and protest the healing flow of aether. The thing is almost dead, just a little more punishment must she endure.
She misses what happens next in the tumult of battle. Enambris sets off a spark of her own aether, blinding the horror, but Molly hits the ground hard; the doll swings around hard and sends her skidding back again. Confusion, some panic, and the doll turns away from her, awful red eyes locked on Serea. She’s powerless to stop what happens next.
Another gut-wrenching scream rips the air and a flash of red washes over the pair of mages, standing steadfast side-by-side. Enambris tries to scream out in warning, but it’s too late, and the women’s eyes both turn faded and glossy. She pools her aether around her and watches, helpless to interfere. The doll’s attention is back on her once more but her gaze is fixed on the pair as they turn to face one another, staffs brandished. The hard, aetheric metal of her shelltron shield flares into being and Enambris throws her head back to laugh wildly as Mara and Serea strike each other with the blunts of their staffs, wholly but temporarily lost to reason.
This actually happened last night. I died laughing.
Counting Wounds
I was considering my records today, common thugs and unnamed individuals notwithstanding. To date, I have suffered the following:
Enad of Ashes– Four proper duels, seven Warsongs, three fistfights. Four wins, ten losses. Several black eyes, one broken wrist, twice run-through, four cuts to the arm, seventeen cuts to the legs, twenty four cuts to the abdomen. Zero scars.
Ana D’mira the Ruthless – One duel. One win, zero losses. One cut to the face. Zero scars.
Alvild, Wings of the Far Reach – One duel, one Warsong. One win, one loss. Seventy separate burns, two cuts to the face, thirteen cuts to the abdomen, thirty four bruises. One scar.
Octavian Stonewold, professional prick – Fourteen duels, one sparring match, one fistfight. Sixteen wins, zero losses, one draw. Forty seven bruises, two concussions. Zero scars.
Dilacey Gray, street urchin of Ishgard – One duel. One win. Zero wounds. Zero scars.
Kra’yg Wardenblood of the Mass’ef – One Warsong, one fistfight. Zero wins, zero losses, two draws. Thirty four bruises, one broken rib. Zero scars.
Kale Aideron, Bloodsworn of the Immortal Flames – One battle. Zero wins, zero losses, one draw. Zero wounds. Zero scars.
Raphael Delarue of Ishgard – One Warsong. One win, zero losses (I believe this to be a draw). One cut to the face, one cut to the neck, one cut to the abdomen, one cut to the leg, one reopened wound, several bruises, several severe burns, one minor concussion. Recovery incomplete.
Bordeaux the Black Berserker – One duel (near Warsong). One win, zero losses. Zero cuts, one massive bruise to the abdomen, bruises on legs, one massive bruise and fracture to the left arm. Recovery incomplete.
I’m growing stronger, and I’ve yet to discover how to apply it effectively. But I do have some ideas.
Dragon Song
An arrow’s shaft protruded from just below the chink in her armor, most of it snapped off but enough left to see that it was yet there. She couldn’t feel it. Besides, she had more important things to focus on. Like not drowning; she could see it through the grate on the deck, water pouring rapidly into the brig, threatening to drag the ship down to a frigid, watery grave. They would have to abandon the vessel, or else be buried with it there in the sea.
“Captain!” a voice called over the din of battle that suffused the air around them, a clamorous chorus of steel against steel. She drew her attention away from the arrow shaft to the voice, mind still a little blurry from the wonder of the steel head embedded in her shoulder. “How near are we to the shore?”
The man addressed as ‘Captain’ thrust his blade into the belly of his unfortunate assailant, nonchalantly tipping the dead man over the edge of the ship’s rigging and directing his attention to the knight. “Too far to swim.” The man’s reply was somber, his face as grave as a funeral pyre. He was a mountain of a man, garbed all in leather and a massive, wide-brimmed hat. As much the vision of a pirate as she had ever heard described, all haggard and wind-worn and pock-marked. He thrust one boot into an oncoming attacker’s face, knocking the man off the deck, and thundered down the stairs from the quarter deck. “But if you want your lass to live, you’ll send her on a’fore these sods take ‘nother shot at ‘er-”
His sentence was interrupted by a cannon ball, which carried only half of him to the stern of the ship. The girl screamed, not in fear, but in a rage and anguish audible even over the tumult of the storm, howling gales quieting just a moment to allow her voice to be heard. The knight scooped her up, sprinting away from yet more massive balls of lead that peppered the drowning carcass of their ship, and thrust her into a dinghy.
“NO!” she screamed, but her protests proved in vain as the rickety little boat careened off of the deck and down to the water below.
It had been at least a few hours when she finally came to, head splitting and eyes burning from the salt of the sea. The slow, steady thud, thud, thud of her little boat gently striking a rock is all she could hear besides the gentle roar of waves crashing against a jagged, rocky shore. She peered up, eyes following the cliff’s edge, looking for somewhere to climb where she might find purchase to grip and clamber up the craggy face. She rolled off of her back carefully, not eager to rock her tiny vessel, and pushed herself to her knees. The climb would not be fun.
Her left arm felt as though it were on fire, but she paid little heed to the throb, instead slowly drawing deep, even breaths as she climbed, mentally cataloging each movement. Her plate armor felt heavy on her shoulders, the steel blade at her hip and bow on her back only adding to the drag of the armaments on her climb. But yet she pressed on, one push and pull after another, pausing only as needed to catch her breath, take a swig from the canteen on her hip, and continue on. She found herself simply thinking to pass the time, dwelling for brief moments on the men and the ship and whether they had survived, only to force her mind to change direction and circle back to those she’d left when her uncle had forced her to be spirited away. The last though was interrupted, rather rudely, as she found herself at the top of the cliff, but unprepared for its uneven footing, which sent her tumbling down onto the rock and sliding into the stone cauldron beyond it; her blade came unhooked from her belt, her bow snapped in twain, and she finally came to a pause as she struck a scaly pillar, abruptly ending her inertia. She lay her eyes on the thing that had blocked her continued descent, and found herself staring at a beast.
The beast, enormous, winged and scaled, leveled two great, slitted yellow eyes at her. Slowly she stood from her perch on the ground, and spread her arms, palms holding the sky, silver gaze locked, unwavering, on those great eyes. Her weapons were out of reach, and she was alone.
“Child of mine enemy, what dost thou seek in the Far Reach?” it purred, almost bemused. The language in which it spoke was foreign, and she knows its not her own, but she could feel the words the thing spoke, the resonance vibrating in the hollows of her heart.
“I seek only to pass,” she replied evenly. The monstrous creature hissed what she presumed to be a laugh, and tendrils of smoke and steam spewed from a sharp, scaled snout. She didn’t blink.
“You are brave to come so far from Ishgard.”
She shook her head. “I’m not of Ishgard. I am a child of the ice and sea. Please let me pass.”
The creature stared at her long and hard, a piercing gaze she could feel in her chest; she could feel it burning her, but she stood fast, unwavering and unbroken. “A child of the ice and sea,” the rumbling voice echoed, a deep shudder of boulders crushed together. She nodded, and the creature continued to stare.
She inhaled deeply, parted her lips, and began to sing; the beast, though watched her with the intent of a hungry predator, amused for the moment but prepared to pounce. “And old man by a sea shore, at the end of day,” she chorused. Her voice trilled and sailed. The great creature watched on curiously, canting its head. “He gazes the horizon with sea winds in his face. Tempest-tossed island, seasons all the same. Anchorage unpainted and a ship without a name.”
One great, clawed foot stepped forward; its eyes were perfectly level with her, growing closer and closer, eying her like a cat might eye a shiny bauble or trinket: curiously, but without the need to bat the thing.
“A sea without a shore for the banished one unheard,” the song continues. Her voice wove through the air like a serpent through the sea, a lovely dance of lyrical notes waltzing and dipping and swimming through sound. “He lightens the beacon, light at the end of world. Showing the way lighting hope in their hearts, the ones on their travels homeward from afar.
“This is for long-forgotten, light at the end of the world. Horizon crying the tears he left behind long ago….”
The yellow eyes narrowed in scrutiny, absorbing every detail of her fair visage, her armor, her wild, red hair, and the silver eyes that held their gaze so defiantly. Another hiss of laughter, this time filled with mirth, escaped its maw. “You share with me your songs,” it observed, encircling her with its great body and long, armored tail. “What is your name, child of the ice and sea?”
“Enambris,” she replied, and bowed.
“It is a great pleasure, little rose of the north,” the creature offered its own bow, dipping its massive head. “I would ask that you sing for me again. Share your song with me, and I will share my wings with you.”
Nightmares and Ice
Another salve gone and the pain has yet to subside. Between oceanic waves of unbearable torment that sear their way up crisscross patterns of angry, raw red flesh, Enambris works, trembling fingers diligently crushing herbs, mixing and grinding and eventually applying. But each one does naught to quell the pain, and after another failed attempt, she braces herself for the coming fire.
Right on time it begins. The stick she had broken off of a now-defunct wand is all she has to grit her teeth and bear what comes next. It starts at the tips of her fingers, rapidly snaking its way up her arms to her shoulders, jumping over the parts of her skin that had been fortunate enough to have cover from the whatever-it-was, down to the tiger stripe lines on her stomach. Her eyes clench shut as it blazes its path across her skin, tears coming unbidden and streaking along trails down her cheeks. Enambris screams through the stick clenched desperately between her teeth, the howling winds that blow over the height of Zenith the only sound by which her pain is muffled. Healing magic is no good here.
One, two. One, two. She counts her breaths again to focus her mind on anything else. One, two. The last rays of sunlight dip below the distant horizon of soft white and painted clouds. Her heart skips a beat, she can hear it pounding in her head, the blood rushing in her ears. One, two. Another scream rips from her chest, long and feral and pleading. She would pray, but the gods were not wont to answer the calls of the desperate. Only the diligent.
One, two.
Trembling comes next, the pain-wracked tremors like an earthquake shake her bodily. She draws her knees to her chest, presses her forehead against them and screams again. How long has it been since she slept? One day, perhaps two now, though she does remember managing a short respite sometime early in the morning. She needs rest, needs to find someone to treat this madness.
One, two. The burning fades, the trembling slows. She rubs her face dry with the remnants of a dress she’ll never wear again. It’s gone, subsiding for now. It will be back.
“I want you to sing to me.” The words are simple enough, a statement, not a request. They hang on the air behind a bloody hand and icy eyes. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes forth; there’s ice in her throat. Silver eyes are wide, they see the ice, the mist, the wind. They take in the details of his face, the resonance of his voice, the sudden change behind blue that drew ice from fire. Silver eyes are full of fire, blue eyes full of ice.
“For me.” She tries again, coughing. The ice is choking her, it fills her chest and heart, it tries to fill her mind. Silver eyes see something black on periphery, never quite able to glimpse it fully it but certain that it’s there. The black, the void, the yawning maw of oblivion. It waits around the edges, ever-moving, ever-watching.
“Only me.” There’s a finality in that statement, and she tries to sing, frantic, her lungs devoid of air again, ice clinging where oxygen ought be. The grip on her throat tightens, the ice spreads hoarfrost across cheeks smeared with blood, eyes full of fire. It threatens her, the blackness, tries to swallow her.
“Hello darkness, my old friend…” the words finally come, soft as a prayer and they reverberate through the ice, through the air. There’s a shiver there, it hangs on the wind, paints it red like her hair. “I’ve come to talk with you again.” Tears roll down porcelain cheeks, dragging trails through the hoarfrost blooming there. A plume of steam escapes icy blue lips. “Because a vision softly creeping, Left it’s seeds while I was sleeping…”
Another gasp, another cough, more steam issues from her mouth. Ice gives way to a gentle flame, she feels it in her core as it tears through the frost that coats her slow-beating heart.
“And the vision that was planted in my brain… Still remains within the sound of silence.”
The world swims back into focus, and she finds herself clawing at grass and dirt and stone. The pain surges again, fingertips onward, another trail blazing up painful, now-bruising bands of deep red and purple. She grits her teeth, fire blooming where silver used to be. She won’t cry this time. She pushes herself to her feet, fists clenched tighter than her jaw, and she screams, a raw pulse of aether exploding from her body, radiating outward. The stones tremble, and the storm begins anew.
Kindling
Burned
The poultice smells herbal, vaguely fragrant the pungent odor stings her nose, an aroma that mixes with the sweet smell of hot iron that is her blood. She walks, limps rather, one foot before the other delicately, as though she were floating across glass. Perfect stitching runs the length of her leg, her back, and her collarbone, her stomach, expertly-knitted flesh held fast from where the tip of a blade had seen it separated.
As she guessed, it was more telling than she could have imagined. She just isn’t sure what to make of the soul she had glimpsed. The cascade, fire and ice, just like he’d said. Except where she was all fire, kindling threatening to become an inferno, he is a war of ice and fire, a battle done in his heart, the equilibrium threatening to tip and send all into darkness. It’s a precarious line he walks, the edge of a knife.
“My lady, are you quite well?” asks the haggard-looking gentleman behind the counter as she passes. She waves a hand dismissively, offering the ghost of a smile and a nod.
“Aye, well enough. Just need some rest.”
“You’ve a guest in your room,” he calls after her. She pauses, stiff, breath caught in her chest.
“Thank you,” she says over her shoulder, and limps through the door.
Warsong. The music encompasses the bridge, fills it with light and color with each note. She feels herself sing, feels the words leave her lips, but she doesn’t hear the song. She feels the music shiver on the air, hears it vibrate through her chest, from her lips, into his ears.
The fire envelopes them both, ties them together, blankets the stone beneath them. But the ice creeps in, choking out her song. She gasps for air, but no air comes, her lungs remain painfully devoid of oxygen. The ice swallows the fire, snuffs out the warm light and blazing heat, replacing it with cold and silence. The song stops, the wind goes still. She falls, all the while staring into frosty blue eyes.
“NO!” she shouts, startled, snapping upright from her prone position on the stone. Wind whips red tangles around her face, only the glimmer of a sliver of moon casting a dim light onto the great structure around her. Despite the low light, she knows where she is. How she got here, however, is another story altogether. It’s not entirely unwelcome, finding herself at the summit of Zenith, but unsettling it most assuredly is.
Burns. That’s right, she was burned. Haleine hadn’t appeared to treat the burns beyond a layer of salve or poultice, but now they’re on fire. She strips off the pauldron coat rapidly, fingers fumbling for the fasteners and nearly ripping them apart, desperate to remove the cloth from her skin. The moment the burns are exposed to the air, though, her vision becomes white, the world turning to snow for two heartbeats, and another two heartbeats more. The pain is unbearable.
Trembling hands search for a piece of cloth, a discarded stick, anything, to absorb the sound. But she finds nothing in time, and throws her head back to loose a guttural, heart-wrenching scream. Shuddering breaths. One, two, one, two, she tries desperately to count out her inhales and exhales; her arms are shaking, body-rocking tremors. It’s only a wave, it will pass, she tries to tell herself. It will pass.
More gasping breaths, more frantic counting, another surge of pain that runs up her arms along solid red tracks of flesh. She’s never had burns like this, and Enambris is more than familiar with flame.
A flash of lightning illuminates the horizon, a bright, sudden surge of aether across an umbral sky. There’s a storm brewing. And just like that, the pain subsides, the rapid rise and fall of her chest eases, the thundering of her heart softening. There’s a lull in the pain, and she must take advantage of it. Whatever this is, whatever was waiting inside the starglobe, she knows the pain is only just beginning.
FFXIV; Balmung; Kindling
Stoking Embers
She’s been sitting there for some time now, cross-legged upon the hearth, quietly staring at flames licking the fireplace, dancing to and fro across smoldering logs and lapping hungrily at fibrous flesh. The pub around her is mostly noiseless, the occasional murmur of conversation the only sound beside the crackling fire, none of it really loud enough to wake her from her trance.
It’s not until a few bells have passed that a man enters the pub and stands over her, bronze skin becoming copper in the firelight. He drops down to sit beside her, the thunder from his movement rattling her awake. Eyebrows raised in surprise she grins widely.
“Where’ve you been, Kra’yg?”
A massive hand sweeps over pitch braids and loops and he simply shrugs. “Away. I see you have been getting into trouble.” His accent is thick, but his deep bass carries with it a nobility that his tribal heritage might otherwise suggest. He called himself “Warden’s Blood”, which she could only surmise had something to do with his people’s line of succession, but had never really wanted to pry too much. Kra’yg is an intensely private man.
“A bit, yeah,” she says, patting the damaged helm in her lap. “I’ve been hoping you’d come around again, actually, I’ve been meaning to speak with you.” Her silver-grays rest on his face a moment before turning back to the fire. They’re a little brighter than they were before.
“Speak and I will listen,” he says mildly, the vestiges of a grin playing across his face as he settles in, back leaned against the stone of the hearth and legs crossed.
“I have some… concerns. Well, ‘concerns’ isn’t really the right word. Thoughts? Anyway. I’ve been set back on a course I had thought lost to me. The path itself doesn’t bring me any great concern, but…” she trails off, chewing her lower lip, and her words. “I feel that I’ve been overlooking something, and my trust, as you know, is not often easily won.”
“Of this I am well aware,” he confirms with a nod.
“The man responsible, I know very little about. I hadn’t thought to question his motives, his past, even his driving fire. He’s worked so diligently to rekindle my flame that I hadn’t though to look at the kindling itself.”
“I feel you are beating about the bush with so many words,” Kra’yg interrupts with a hand. “What you need is not to ask questions. What you need is to know a man’s soul. True intentions, flowery words, they are nothing. Know the man’s soul.”
She blinks and turns her eyes back to meet his amber ones. “Know a man’s soul?” she echoes. “I don’t follow.”
He leans forward, palms facing the ceiling as though he were effecting the great scales. “When man is still, or with inaction,” he begins, the words coming a little broken, “he finds himself able to wear many masks.” She quirks her head as he speaks. It’s clear that he possesses a great intelligence, trapped beneath the barrier of language, one that is slowly breaking away. “But when a man enters into combat, true combat, it is then he undresses his soul and his heart is laid bare. You remember when we met?”
She grins. “Aye, and I remember it fondly. One of my favorite brawls, as I recall.”
“That day, you laid bare your soul to me. I saw your heart’s inner workings, those things that drive your passion. Warriors see warriors. Do you understand?”
She gazes at him for a long time, almost scrutinizing. “I think I do,” she says at length. “There are many kinds of intimacy, and few understand that it is more than simply physical gratification. Engaging in a real fight… I see.” She closes her eyes, a new smile flickering across her lips. “Thank you, Kra’yg.”
He nods and pushes himself back to his feet, arms folded over the expansive musculature of his chest. “Always a pleasure. Now, maybe you can repay me by pointing me in the direction of a particular feline who stole something of mine?”
FFXIV; Balmung; Kindling
The Cold North
Roses and Ashes 