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[dubiousduskwight]

For absolutely no reason at all please reblog if you think grey or blue skinned Duskwight based characters can be Ishgardian.

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 16: Third-Rate

The rest of the morning was pleasant; once everyone’s nerves had calmed, the Fellows seemed to enjoy nothing more than traipsing about the snow under the overcast sky, admiring the scenery and keeping a close eye out among sparse and scattered trees for signs of a nesting cloudkin. They told bawdy jokes among themselves, received a little chiding from Constant to remember their Enchiridion, and told bawdier jokes about that in reply. Aubineaux remained in the front as befit his nature, stifling the crowd when they made too much noise with a glare over his shoulder, and occasionally stopped them to check a tree for signs of a nest or the ground for any tracks of interest.

Matthieu blended in with the rest of the pack, save when one of the Fellows asked him a question about the politics of the Commons. There, he tried to keep his words light; while he had strong opinions about subjects like the acceptability of priests running for Parliament, he had no interest in ruining everyone’s better mood by delving into them too deep.

Around midday, the group paused to dine. Alort suggested a fire as the weather was growing colder despite the bell, and he found the suggestion denied by Aubineaux, who didn’t want to risk smoke scaring off any prey. The group made a valiant effort to enjoy hard cheeses and knight’s cross buns that weren’t yet stale.

“How you are finding things?” asked Gaspardieux as Matthieu was partway through trying to bite through a large hunk of cheese. He struggled with not choking to death as he tried to articulate an answer.

“Well enough,” he said after a few hacking coughs. “I don’t expect to catch anything, but it’s been interesting enough, and the others have some good questions.” “Aye, not like something you’d get in your aunt’s tea circles, I’d suppose.” Gaspardieux’s face was at odds with the light tone of his voice: Sagging cheeks from age and better food than most, thick and beetling brows, and short-for-an-elezen ears that stuck close to his face. “You needn’t worry about catching anything, mind you: If you did, the others might suspect you of putting on airs.”

“Here?” Matthieu looked around the environs, in a small copse of trees south of the main road to Whitebrim. On sight alone, the scene was picturesque, marred only by the sound of Constant fretting about not having packed enough for his meal and Ophoix’s tittering, nervous laugh at the former’s frustration. “It seems the place to do such a thing, doesn’t it?” “Perhaps, if you were just out with Aubineaux. None of the rest of us try all that hard. Just a good chance to get out from under the city and catch some fresh air. To be sure, there’s the odd catch for the others, but I can’t recall as I’ve caught anything since we started.” He patted Matthieu on the back. “If you bagged something, that’d be worse than if you didn’t.” “As I said, I had no expectations.” Matthieu dusted off a few crumbs of cheese from his gloves, and adjusted the strap keeping his carbine in place over his shoulder. “It’s a strange perspective, isn’t it?” Gaspardieux tipped his head, brows raised in confusion. “Forgive me, I’ve seen too many Temple Knights and their supplicants,” Matthieu explained. “Not catching something would have been shameful, a lack of martial virtue.”

“Well that’s knights for you, isn’t it? And that’s not a one of us, I think.” Gaspardieux picked apart pieces of bread as he looked over the assembled Fellows. “Oh, I’ve no doubt that some of us had dreams as children, of slaying a dragon and joining that august body. But there were houses needed mending, and we can’t all be like the Champion, naturals with spear or blade or spell or bow or whatever we choose. You had that feeling as well, didn’t you? When you were young?”

“...Briefly.” The admission was short and sharp, and Matthieu looked away. “I had a condition. I would have made a poor knight.”

Gaspardieux’s smile was wan. “Not even the chance to see if you had talent, hm. My sympathies. And now we have these, eh?” He patted his shoulder, where his own carbine was slung. “But there’s no more war, not against dragons nor Garleans nor any besides, and the houses still need mending.”

“With Fury’s grace it will stay that way, so I suppose we’ll have to content ourselves with not catching anything.” A sharp whistle from where Aubineaux kept watch caught their attention, and the other Fellows turned their necks sharply in kind. A few hastily wrapped and tucked their meals into their satchels and hurried to his post. Gaspardieux’s pace was more leisurely as he ambled through the snow, Matthieu following besides.

The hunter had laid out a blanket for himself at the edge of copse to settle in the snow and observe without getting his clothes too wet. At the sound of crunching footsteps behind him, he held up his hand. “Beauty of a karakul,” he muttered, tipping his head out towards the open snow. “Must have wandered from a flock.”

Matthieu knelt down closer to the snow, squinting out into the clearing. The black-fleeced sheep was easy to spot amid the snow. It remained a miracle to him that the species had survived the change in Coerthan weather following the Calamity, with their coloration making them easy targets for prey animals. Pack behavior, sticking closer to mountains and their value to Ishgard had managed to keep them alive all the same.

It looked much like any other karakul to him, though its horns did seem impressive, even at this distance. Otherwise, it seemed much like any other puff of dark fleece in the snows.

“Well, go on,” urged Aubineaux. “Take your shot.”

Glancing to his sides, Matthieu saw the other fellows were all looking at him expectantly. Some smirked, some furrowed their brows or offered smiles he supposed were encouraging.

“Yes, of course.” He unshouldered his carbine, and checked the small pouch on his left side to find shot. Padilloux had been very careful in his instructions to not load the gun until he needed to do so, and Matthieu was now thankful for that as he placed a single cartridge in the carbine’s breech. Bracing its butt against his shoulder (“Don’t try firing one-handed unless you’ve got a transformer to offset the kick,” he’d been told), he looked down his sights until it seemed to line up with the karakul’s side. There was silence among the Fellows. Somehow, he expected someone to cough, or make a comment, but there was nothing.

He pulled the trigger, and the loud, cracking report of the carbine shocked him enough to make him stumble backwards, falling onto his rump in the snow. The silence ended then, with a raucous chorus of laughter from the Fellows around him. Alort helped Matthieu to his feet. He was so red in the face it seemed deafening; the sounds of remarks were distant, a vague impression of you’ll-get-the-hang-of-its and you-have-to-watch-the-kick-there.

“Not bad,” Aubineaux remarked. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of the karakul, and the crowd now followed suit. Blood dotted the snow as the karakul limped off into the distance. “Not clean,” he amended, “But we can run it down.” “Just a bit of fool’s good fortune,” murmured Matthieu, lowering his head to hide a sheepish smile. Above them, a light snow started to fall.

[dubiousduskwight]

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 18. Hackneyed

Nobody in the hamlet liked going out to chop wood. It was the most consistently dangerous practice in an otherwise secure and remote place. The high altitude meant fewer trees, which meant going further down the mountain, which meant the risk of running into dangerous fauna that otherwise stayed clear of the paths or bandits that were escaping Doman justice. Rin and Isao had been exempted while the traveler was in the area, but Rin’s mother had thrown out her back that day and the work had needed to be reassigned.

However, the traveler had told them not to worry, as it was an excellent time to place a specific piece of training into practice. And indeed, with his assistance, the practice of cutting down old wood to be cleared and allow new growth was made far more irritating.

“Is it supposed to do that?” asked Isao, who was staring at the very large, entirely static, shuriken where it remained suspended in mid-air after the traveler had made a complicated series of gestures to summon it.

“No, not at all,” said the traveler, who stared at it from the weapon’s other end, hands on his hips and a mild scowl shifting the shape of his beard. “You can see the intent, of course.” “Of course,” said Rin, who, while holding his hatchet, looked at one of the thin trees nearby, then at the traveler, then back again, and had to remind himself that the man was a guest. “Summon them and the spinning blades chop down all the trees at once.” “Yes, at once. It would be very useful.”

“It certainly would, if it worked.”

“In truth, I don’t understand. This is supposed to be the simplest one according to the ma – according to my training. I thought I had, if not mastery, then at least competence.” He paced back and forth around it., observing it from a few safe fulms away in case it suddenly decided to start moving.

“Well, we could always bring the wood to the shuriken,” suggested Isao. “Then when it’s in contact it would cut it apart.” “...And how would we do that, exactly?” asked Rin, tightening his grip on his hatchet. “I guess we’d have to chop – ah.” Isao pursed his lips.

“Right. It’s just a giant hazard in the middle of the copse that we can’t touch. When will it go away?” “It’s supposed to go away once it makes contact with a target,” said the traveler. “I wouldn’t touch it, to be on the safe side. I’m sure it will pass on its own.” He brightened up, squaring his shoulders and offering that same troubling grin. “No use for it but to do it the traditional way. If you could pass me your hatchet, Isao, I’ll take part. It’s necessary. You know the old saying.”

[dubiousduskwight]

memories, farewells

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 14: Telling

The hunting party as a group stopped in their tracks not half a bell after they’d crossed the Gates of Judgment. The game here was less dangerous thanks to the increased military presence, and if somebody was badly hurt or lost in a snowstorm then Camp Dragonhead and Whitebrim were both close enough that aid could be sought and a rescue party summoned. Matthieu had planned to insist on this when his parish’s shooting club had invited him along, but to his relief he needn’t have concerned himself, as this was part of their usual route.

The club was a small one, the product of a few citizens in the parish coming into money thanks to Ishgard’s increased trade volume and deciding to put that coin to use acquiring some of Skysteel’s newest products. None of them were able to afford the aetherotransformer unit that turned the average rifle into a multi-faceted man-portable weapon of mass destruction, but having access to rifle and shot still made them feel like they were part of the new Coerthas and afforded them the chance to go out on hunts without years of training in spear or bow.

They’d insisted on Matthieu coming along at least once, and while he was generally well-liked by most of his constituents, he had to admit that he was most popular with the kind of people who got along with his aunt: older ladies who enjoyed their tea and gossip, found his willingness to help around the store to be charming, and lightly teased him about his relationship with Edda. That was enough of the parish to have gotten him elected, but he had to admit that getting others to like him more would help in the next election. In this case, that meant agreeing to attend one of the Crozier 4th’s Official Club of Jolly Fellows once-a-moon hunts.

The title was not of his choosing.

And so he’d agreed, gotten some assistance from his fellows in the Commons in selecting an easy-to-use carbine and how to load, point, and fire it without embarrassing himself, allowing for the knowledge that this was his first time out, and met up with a dozen of the Fellows at the Gates. The plan had been to traipse about the snows between the Gates and Whitebrim, take a few cloudkin or a wild karakul if the opportunity presented itself, then head back to help themselves to some beet stew and sort out who was the best and worst shot while their catches were prepared.

It was a cloudy morning, and while the cloudwatchers had suggested a mild chance of snow, visibility was still clear. The group had a clear view of the Nail interrupting the highlands in one large series of jagged peaks, and of what had stopped them: a single dragon, perched on one of the larger outcroppings, observing the comings and goings of the wildlife on the ground below.

“Fury, would you look at that.” Alort, the parish cobbler, made a quick sign of prayer to Halone, his tone of voice breathless. It wasn’t clear to Matthieu if he spoke in awe or fear.

“Never thought I’d see one of those without taking to my heels,” said Gaspardieux, the carpenter. “Still feels like I ought to.”

“That makes sense.” Matthieu kept his composure while he replied, simply raising a hand to the dragon in greeting. Events surrounding his election had given him more benign exposure to the Dravanian Horde than the average commoner, and he kept abreast of efforts to repatriate those who had turned into aevis and wished to return to the city. “I’m sure it’s just as wary.”

If the dragon had even seen Matthieu’s raised hand, it didn’t show it, simply lowering its head to rest it on its forelegs. “Mayhaps if we were knights or dragoons it’d be wary,” said Gaspardieux. “But I left my chainmail at home and haven’t perched on any high places of late.” The other Fellows chuckled, the tension easing.

“It’s a lovely color, isn’t it?” said Ophoix, the local gemcutter. “Like sapphires, but a little deeper.” He stepped forward, shielding his eyes from the clouds to get a better look. “I’d love to see it up close.”

“I don’t think you’ll be turning that into a stone fit for a brooch anytime soon, Ophie,” said Gaspardieux.

“I wouldn’t!” Ophoix stepped back, holding up his other hand in protest. “But surely, just a scale. Mayhaps we could ask.”

“No.” The statement was short, sharp, and firm, and came from Aubineaux, the parish tailor. The others took notice; while the Fellows had no official leader, it was Aubineaux who took the hunts most seriously, did most of the organizing, and led the other members in drills to improve their marksmanship. “Let it come to us if it likes, but otherwise we keep our distance.”

There was some grumbling from the Fellows, but Aubineaux stood firm, turning to face them from the head of the group. “No.” Grim-faced, with heavy eyebrows and a stocky build for an elezen, the tailor didn’t match up to the “Jolly” part of the club’s name. Matthieu suspected the title wasn’t of his choosing, either.

“Well, what’s it doing here, anyway?” The question came from Constant, one of the local tutors. Matthieu frowned; to his recollection, Constant had been one of the more reactionary voices in the community in Ishgard’s recent upheavals. Some had thought he was one of the True Brethren, in their brief existence, but he’d denied this ever since their disbandment. “It’s quite far from Dravania.” “I’m sure the knights are aware of it,” Matthieu replied. “If we’re going to be at peace, we have to have some free movement, and simply live with a little suspicion. Perhaps it’s simply enjoying time where it wouldn’t be otherwise.”

“I don’t know,” said Alort. “You wouldn’t catch me going past Falcon’s Nest, let alone Tailfeather, and certainly not out in their own lands simply because I could. It doesn’t mean I ought.”

“We don’t even catch you leaving even the parish, Alort,” said Gaspardieux. The cobbler puffed out his cheeks in annoyance.

“And we already have their dragonets in the Firmament,” said Matthieu. “And the returning aevis and so forth. I simply mean there’s a good reason for it, no doubt.”

“Good or ill, we’re wasting time.” Aubineaux gestured down the trail towards the Whitebrim Front. “And losing good bells when we could be catching karakul with no snow to cover their tracks.”

“What a catch it would be though, eh?” Constant mused on this, watching the dragon with a speculative expression. “In worse times, of course.” “Of course,” said Matthieu. “But only in worse times. Remember what happened to Flaurienne Mollet?”

The Fellows all collectively winced. Mollet, who had stood for another parish in the Crozier, was scandalized to have been involved in the poaching of dragon leather after the conclusion of the Dragonsong War, and had been forced to resign in disgrace.

Before any further debate could be had, Gaspardieux pointed upwards at the dragon. Following his arm, the group saw a pair of smaller figures flitting about the dragon. “Have a look, it’s just brought its children on a little outing, you see? Nothing wrong with that.” There was a long silence among the group as they watched the wyrmlings flit about the outcropping. The dragon briefly snapped its maw in the air, as if to chide them, and then settled down again. After a minute, Matthieu found he misliked it.

“We certainly shouldn’t get close if that’s the case. Aubineaux, could you lead us to some tracks, if you please?”

“Yes.” Despite his refusal, at this point even Aubineaux was watching the dragon. “Come along now.”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 13: Butte

“Is he still up there?” Rin asked the question with an affect of casual curiosity, as if he were patiently waiting for him to not still be up there. He refused to admit his fascination to anyone but himself, and that was as much with Isao’s behavior as the traveler’s. Like the rest of the village, he assumed that Isao’s apparent eagerness was the product of novelty, and that had been strung along somewhat by the outlandish nature of the traveler’s request. Eventually, he would no doubt get bored and go back to lounging around his family’s home and being a shame to his parents.

Yet somehow he was still making himself useful, and even when he wasn’t useful he was still being productive and accommodating to the traveler’s requests. As was the case today, when he’d been told to watch the man from atop his very high perch on the tallest, thinnest standing stone they could reach and make sure he didn’t fall. Rin had better things to do than watch a man stand in the morning light, so he’d left the layabout to it and assumed he would spend the time napping, but he’d come back from cleaning out his family’s cookware to find him still laying flat on the ground, eyes fixed on the traveler’s silhouette against the rising sun.

Isao waved his hand up towards the dark figure, still stuck in its pose. “See for yourself.” Squinting into the sunlight, Rin could see that ridiculous teakettle stance. It had been at least a bell and a half since he’d left to do the morning chores, and as far as he could see, there had been no change. He could see a very slight wobble in the traveler’s position, but no more.

“I think he’s a shinobi.” The tinge of excitement in Isao’s declaration made Rin furrow his brow.

“What, an ijin? Not likely. This is just…” He waved his hand at the traveler’s silhouette. “Foreign nonsense.”

“Komori said a lot of people had to flee last year when the rebellion failed. One could have gone with them, and taught people.”

“Yes, a fleeing shinobi decided to induct a foreigner into their mysteries and the foreigner has returned to save Doma because Doma couldn’t save itself.” Rin rolled his eyes. “One already did that, and I don’t think that ijin was a shinobi. Probably. Why would we need a second one?” He then gestured up one of the paths between the sparse trees to where the hamlet lay. “And why come here instead of a place with a proper waterfall if he’s going to do some nonsense shinobi magic training.”

“Perhaps all the others were reserved,” mused Isao. “Maybe that’s something we could advertise.” “You don’t reserve -” Rin snapped before stopping and lowering his voice. The traveler was clearly tough enough to survive at least electrocution, but he didn’t want to be responsible for startling him and causing him to lose his balance and fall. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”

Isao thought about this, rubbing his chin as he considered the silhouette. “Because it’s interesting. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” said the traveler, beside them.

“It’s not obvious, it’s strange,” said Rin.

“Well, that’s why it’s interesting, isn’t it?” said Isao. “You’ve got all these old stories about shinobi and how great the samurai are and it’s always people who are like...effortless, experts. Even when they train, it feels like the training doesn’t matter, like it’s just another chance to show they’re the best. This sort of thing, on the other hand…” He looked as if he was about to let the thought perish in his mind, but squared his shoulders even while laying down. “It feels like even I could do it.”

“You probably could get yourself struck by lightning, I admit, but do you really think you could hold that pose up there for so long?” Rin gestured up to the silhouette. “I bet he at least trained for that.”

“I’ll confess I did spend some time learning to improve my balance on one foot,” remarked the traveler, “But I most likely would have broken my neck by now.”

Rin turned to his right. Indeed, the traveler was seated on the ground beside him, holding a cup of tea in a rough clay mug. He was observing the silhouette with as much interest as Isao.

Once, years ago, a pair of entertainers had spent the time to come up to the hamlet to perform for its residents. It had been a strange act involving one person saying something ridiculous and the other overreacting to it. Rin had to clench his fists to avoid a similar overreaction. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“In this hamlet, or right next to you?” There was that suspicious grin on the traveler’s face again. The light didn’t catch it directly but it still seemed to sparkle, and made Rin feel like he had to say no to whatever question he had just posed. He fought that reaction too.

“Both!”

“I’m right next to you because I stick out.” Rin couldn’t deny that. There were very few people of the traveler’s kind in Yanxia, with his blue-grey skin and widely-pointed ears and too-long neck. “I can’t very well sneak about if I stick out, so I thought to myself I should learn to sneak by sticking out.” He picked up a pebble on the ground beside him and tossed it from his side, up towards the silhouette. Rin had to admit it was a very good shot, and when it struck the “traveler,” the pose dissipated into nothing, wisps of shadow leaving only the morning sun behind them. “I’m accustomed to sticking out, you see, so I thought I ought work with what I know best.” “So you are a shinobi!” Isao looked as if he were about to leap up to his feet in excitement, but the traveler shook his head.

“I’d rather not call myself that if I can help it. Some people in this land treasure that word very highly, and rightly so. I’ve also found that associating myself with a phrase has this curious effect of cheapening it. Let’s say I have learned a few things from a not-yet-ancient scroll, and leave it at that, shall we?”

“And the other part? Why come here?” Rin asked.

“And when will I leave?” The traveler grinned again, raising his eyebrow in a manner Rin found challenging and impertinent.

“I wouldn’t dare ask you that.” “I suppose you wouldn’t ask that, no, but to answer your question, it’s just that - “ He considered the question, and took a slow sip of his tea in contemplative silence.

“It’s just that all the other waterfalls were reserved.”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 11: Surrogate

So the thing about imagination, right, is that it’s not the same for everyone. We mostly all have the same tool, but we don’t all use it just the same. If we had a contest to see which couple of people can draw a tree exactly alike, nobody would win if we couldn’t compare notes, because we’d all be thinking of the same thing in different ways, with different styles. It’s tough to counterfeit a painting even if you’ve got the original in front of you. Even tougher if there isn’t an original yet.

No, look, calm down, I promise I’m going somewhere with this. Just calm down. No need for Blades right now, the problem’ll take care of itself.

So this gets easier if you are both copying the same real thing. Just thinking of a tree? That’s not much. A specific tree you’ve both seen and gotten to take notes on? That helps. We both saw the same image and we’re thinking of the same thing. It’s not exact, but – sorry, can you pass me that canvas over there? Your hands are shaking. Right, anyway, our imaginations are sort’ve synced up with each other that way.

Thanks. Go ahead and have a seat – no, I’m not worried. Honestly, this is good advertising. I’ll explain.

I didn’t plan on getting into this field, you know. I liked art and pictomancy studies seemed like a good way to get my Archon tattoo so I could get a real job somewhere else. What you studied in Sharlayan hardly matters if you’ve got that tattoo somewhere. Job interviews can get pretty invasive up there.

The texts on the subject are mostly from one lady, and she was convinced the most important thing was channeling your imagination into the paint through your brush and using that as a focus. You wave your brush and slop some magic paint everywhere, and hey you got a rendition of a Fire spell that really burns. I hear black mages weren’t in vogue at the time, but if they were I bet they would’ve been seething at her for being a copycoeurl.

Me, though, I wanted a little bit more utility. Her methods work great for something in the moment, but paintings last. You can do something with that – no, I don’t know what they wanted. Somebody’s always pissed at me for something. What are you so upset about? They weren’t even pointing the swords at you.

...Huh, yeah, I guess you are a witness. Don’t worry, it won’t be a problem. I gave them what they wanted.

Anyway, some shite went down and I had to leave the island in a hurry and set up shop and experimented a bit, and it turns out that – I mean, you know how arcanists always have to have fanciest and best magic ink for the books? Same principles apply to paint. You make a portrait, you apply the ink, you imbue it with your intent, and then maybe somebody looks at it and thinks about it later, and it goes off.

Look, don’t ask me about the particulars, I just do the work. You want somebody who can lob a bunch of metababble at you, tickets to Sharlayan are available elsewhere. Now, for example, if, say, you had prepared a portrait of a bomb floating around minding its own business with the right inks, and some pricks came in with swords demanding their money’s worth for whatever, and you gave them that portrait -

Yeah, there we go. Took them a while to take a look, I guess. Could you pick up those pots? Hate it when they fall off like that. They were closer than I thought, too.

Anyway, if you go outside I think the results’ll speak for themselves. Now, you still want a commission? Tell me what you want and make it quick. Pretty sure I’m gonna have to move soon.

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 10: Stable

10. Stable

“All right.” Matthieu rubbed his cheeks, both red from the cold, and shook his head, trying to remember what he’d been taught. Two Skysteel rifles had been laid out on a heavy cloth in the snow in front of him. There were small differences in their ornamentation and the size of their barrels, but to his eyes they looked othererwise identical. “Let me see if I have this.” He pointed to the one on the left. “Musketoon,” he said, then pointed to the other. “Carbine.”

Padilloux chuckled in a low sound, the kind of guttural noise brought about by years of too much fatty meat and wine. “Completely backwards.” Matthieu’s shoulders fell just as Padilloux patted one of them with a thick hand. “But it’s hard to tell from the outside, all about the loading mechanism. Doesn’t matter as much if you’ve got an aetherotransformer on your hip, but if you don’t know your muzzle-loader from your breech-loader you’ll never get that shooting club to listen.”

“I know.” Matthieu grimaced. He had nothing but respect for the Manufactory and supported their movement to arm the commoners and revitalize Ishgardian military tactics in general. But an adolescence spent learning the finances of a family haberdashery meant he wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to be part of that same movement. “Which one is easier for me to use?” “To load? The carbine, I’d say. You don’t have to know how to shoot well now, though, you just show an interest, maybe go along with a hunt for them, I’m sure they’d give you their support come the next election.” Padilloux knelt down with a grunt and plucked the carbine from the snow, handing it to Matthieu with care. “It’s not loaded, but you never know.”

He gave a wan smile as he took the carbine from his fellow representative’s hands. “It’s not about a specific election,” he corrected, looking over the ornamentation carved into the rifle’s stock. “I know the lower tradesfolk in the parish well enough, but I need to expand my range. Easier to work with the Brume speakers that way, you know?” Padilloux gave a quick look of distaste. “I suppose if you have to, just don’t forget that there’s the Commons and there’s, well, commoners. The city’s changing, and we don’t need to go upsetting any apple carts by changing it too much, you know.”

Matthieu returned the look, his sharp grey eyes the only thing of note in an otherwise-plain face. Both men represented different parishes in the Crozier, so there wasn’t that much difference between the two of them in the estimation of some. But Padilloux loved his hunts and he loved tasting expensive wine, and he often found himself invited along to do both by members of the Lords, while Matthieu still kept his office above his aunt’s haberdashery in leftover storage space, so there was every difference between them.

Edda had offered, in the gentle way that Matthieu loved, to correct this. But it hadn’t yet felt right.

“No, I suppose we can’t,” he agreed. “But a little bit is fine. Now show me how to use this without a tragedy.”

[dubiousduskwight]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 9: Lend an Ear

His feet struck the deck, the splayed fingers of his hands touching down to steady himself, and then he pushed off into a run. It was a perilous affair at first, his knees barely fitting under him, his balance precarious at best, but as he ran and as he straightened everything came together. Hayle and Fholfhisyn were in his way; he went around each of them, sidewinding through the middle of them and keeping to the most direct path. He could see the griffin gaining the weather deck, could see those giant feathered ears straining for the familiar, could see the reins dangling from head & beak, could see the saddle worn from many a flight over the turns.

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 9: Lend an Ear

Every time he heard the chime of the linkpearl, Rorogino shut his eyes in what was now instinct. Most of the time this wasn’t an issue, but it never failed to interrupt his flow when it happened while painting. Sighing, he looked past his reference picture, gave his patron an apologetic look, and set down his brush to bring his hand to his ear, daubing it in a sandy brown while he did so.

“Hey, ma.” His eyes remained closed as he listened to the conversation on the other end of the line. She was still arguing with his youngest sister, he could tell, but didn’t question why she’d call anyway. Hamletfolk had weird habits. Came from living under a dome with a fake sun, and he couldn’t say he hadn’t picked up a few of his own.

“Yeah, ma,” he replied. “Yeah. No, coin’s coming in.” He opened one eye to look over at the new client and winced, again in apology. She held up her hands to signal a silent understanding. “No, no grant money.”

The tone shifted, and his voice took on a note of annoyance, concealed under surprise. “Wow, a new vilekin? He did? That’s great. Hey, listen, I’m painting, can you call me in a bell – no, of course I’m not doing that. I said I wouldn’t.” He gave a flat look at the canvas. “Ma, it’s a landscape.” This was true: a sketch of the southern Shroud between the forest proper and Highbridge was taking shape on his canvas. “I’ll call back. I will. I mean it. All the best to the rest.”

He ended the call, and exhaled. “Only way she’d let me off the island without a panic,” he explained, tapping the ear that held the linkpearl. “Never calls at a reasonable hour. I told her when I was free, but you think she remembers? Nah.”

“That’s family, I suppose,” said his client, who offered him a small smile and kept her hands folded in her lap.

“Yeah, I suppose.” He picked up his brush, paused, and put it back down before reaching for his pallette. “’New vilekin’,” he said, sneering. “He’s a research assistant. Probably just cleaned up the writing. Or just cleaned up the lab. Always acting like he was working on the Ragnarok. But it’s in the sciences, it’s a good job. It’s not - “ He gestured at his canvas. “You know.”

“Of course. We do value the sciences in Ishgard, but we’re an art-loving lot. It’s a shame there are people in Sharlayan who can’t see that.”

“The poetry department does all right for itself,” Rorogino conceded. “Somehow. But I mean. I’m out here making money, doing something practical, but I gotta act like a guy who stands up to take a shite is the smartest man on the isle.” “...Did you mean ‘sits down to -' “

“I know what I said. Sorry, sorry, we should get on with this.” He pointed at the canvas, where a bare patch of the winding road between Thanalan and the Shroud hadn’t yet been painted in. “You want the pit to go here?”

His patron stepped around him to peer at the location, and gave an approving smile. “Just so. We’ll lead the ambush from there.” “Great. If you got that soil like I asked, we can get started.”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 7: Morsel

Watching well water cool on ice shards wasn’t Rin’s idea of a productive day, but doing it for the past week had at least let him finish his piece work at the same time. Weaving baskets together out of well-prepared reed felt good for him, even before he received his payment upon delivery at Namai. Letting water cool was just...observing. It didn’t take anything but time. And when it was all ready and put to use – that was just stupid, no matter how much coin he was getting.

“It’s taking longer,” grumbled Isao, who had no other use of his time. That was fine in most cases – even the tiniest of hamlets like theirs needed a layabout to make everyone else feel better about not being that person – but he’d taken to the request too eagerly, and all week he’d been troubling others with his enthusiasm. “I think the shards are running out of charge."

“It’s crystal, it doesn’t work like that,” said Rin, who didn’t know any better himself. “Get more from Kimora when she stops by today if you’re so concerned.”

“What, and lose some of the coin? No, thank you.” Scowling, Isao dipped his finger into the bucket to check, and brought it away quickly. “Seems good. Let’s haul it.”

“Come on, this basket’s almost done.” “He’s already waiting. We don’t want him to fall asleep out there. You remember the last time.” Isao was already hooking one of the buckets to his carrying pole, ending the argument by action. Rin couldn’t recall another time when Isao had done this of his own free will without at least some scolding by his mother.

“I remember,” he said, and with an exasperated and silent plea to the kami, put down his half-finished basket and reached for his carrying pole.

Their hamlet was in one of the taller mountains of Yanxia, where the earth had seen fit to lay enough flat ground and decent soil for a couple dozen people to make their living farming roots and hunting the local game further down in the hills. Apart from getting what they needed from Namai on infrequent downward trips or peddlers willing to make the climb, the concerns of Doma and the Empire hadn’t mattered much to them. They knew a rebellion had failed because of a hungry year and little to buy or sell at Namai, and had preferred to stay up in the mountains where airships and soldiers wouldn’t bother them. It had mostly worked, and once the king was back in place they had gotten on with things as they always did.

The climb up the hamlet, further along the mountain’s side, wasn’t an easy one, but the pair were used to steep terrain and careful movements. There was a path, of course, but a stray root might cause the unprepared to lose their footing. Rin and Isao took their movements slowly, each carrying two buckets of water hooked to the poles on their shoulders. In these circumstances, even Isao wasn’t concerned with making haste.

“Oiiii! Wait up a moment!” Rin stopped in his tracks and chanced a glance over his shoulder to see a rattling backpack filled with necessities and so large that he never failed to marvel that its owner could carry it. Then again, she too had wondered how they managed to live so high.

“Good to see you!” Isao waved back cheerfully. He stopped in his tracks, stopping Rin as well since he’d taken the front, and let her catch up. “What’s up? The old man’s back in the square if that’s who you’re seeking.” “No,” said Komori, bending forward to catch her breath. “No, it’s your guest. Asked me to come up to the top and help.”

“What, you too?” Isao drew up his shoulders, trying to raise his chin. “I can’t allow it,” he said. “It’s a ritual. Locals only. You’d anger the kami.”

“He paid me separately to help.”

“Oh, well, come on then, the other buckets are already in place. Do you have any spare ice shards, by the way? I think ours aren’t cooling anymore.”

He certainly had money to throw around, thought Rin to himself as the trio resumed their climb, haggling their way up the mountaintop. In the last week a traveler, some ijin from abroad, had climbed the mountain with Komori’s aid inquiring about their waterfall. The villagers had been very confused, of course, because they hadn’t had a waterfall in generations, only a ritual. Many years back, perhaps before there was a Doma, a great conflict between kami of earth and water had led to the mountain’s rise, with a great pool of water that slowly drained away like a kappa losing its skullcap over the years. But it had been water enough to grow the land and make it fertile enough to keep the people alive, they said, so when it had all drained away the rain was enough to help them. Every year, they thanked the kami for this battle with a small sacrifice.

It was nothing, they had told the ijin, who had said he was looking for unbelievable things. Barely a ritual. But he had been quite excited, and asked if he could make use of it.

“As a participant?” the village elder had asked. But that hadn’t been what the ijin had in mind. Instead, he’d wanted to know if it had to happen only once a year.

The villagers had all agreed that they did it as tradition, to be sure, but it wasn’t as if the kami would be upset for getting even more thanks. And so the traveler had paid them all well, and explained what he wanted them to do. Isao was the only one willing to do it. Everyone agreed this was fine – the plan was ridiculous, but it was the kind of job a layabout wanted – and Rin, to his displeasure, was set to mind him to make sure he did it right.

Now, at the mouth of the dead waterfall, where the grooves where water had once flowed had softened over centuries, a dozen other buckets were already in place, still cold from a shard-based cooling in the higher elevation. Setting down their carrying poles and unhooking their buckets, Rin and Isao put them in place with the rest while Komori peered over the edge. “She really must be one of us,” muttered Rin. “Where’s the fear of heights?”

“That’s peddlers for you,” said Isao. “Anywhere for a sale. Is he looking all right down there?” Komori gave a thumbs-up without looking away from the edge.

“Just sitting there. Does he even know the right pose for that? It looks like he doesn’t.” “He doesn’t, just humor him.” Rin had already seen the ijin pose this way, as if he had heard of the meditative positions of shugenja but had never actually seen them. “At least it’s not the other one. He’ll fall to his death looking like a teakettle like that.”

Isao signaled to the other two. “Okay, I’ll take the front.” They quickly arranged themselves with Isao holding a bucket near the mouth of the dead waterfall, Rin in the back to grab new ones, and Komori in the middle to pass them forward to Isao. “We don’t need to give him a signal, just start shouting once we do this. All right?” Komori nodded.

“All right.” He held up his first bucket. “Kami thank you for your service!” he shouted, before dumping its contents off the mouth of the old waterfall and onto the ijin. He threw the bucket away and waited for Komori to pass him another. “Kami thank you for your service!” he repeated.

This was in no way the ritual they usually performed to thank the kami. The hamlet wasn’t willing to profane the spirits that led to their founding that way. But it was an appropriate substitute for a traveler who didn’t know any better and was willing to pay. Rin had suspected, in checking on him after the second day of this, that the traveler did in fact know this, and was actually happy that was the case. Either way, Rin expected he was doing exactly what he’d done the last few times: staying in his awkward pose, and making furious gestures with his hands as if they had some hidden meaning until the water ran out. Then they’d go down the path to collect him and dry him out, and do it again the next day.

As the contents of the last bucket were flung over the side, Isao paused, and looked down at the traveler, saying nothing. “Everything all right?” asked Komori. “Yes, yes, I just thought I saw a spark - “ From nowhere, a bolt of lightning nearly shattered the ears of all three as it arced down from a clear sky to strike the foot of the dead waterfall, exactly where the traveler sat. All three looked at each other in mutual and immediate horror. Even if the bolt had missed him somehow, they’d just spent an unreasonable amount of time dousing him in water.

Their flight down the path to the foot of the old fall was frantic and done without caution. Komori stumbled, and Isao had to catch her and apologize for all the goods that would surely spill out of her pack in order to keep moving. They veered to the right, where the path diverged, and a shallower slope led to the foot of the fall.

Stumbling over small, loose trees and pebbles, the three stopped and picked their way across the now damp, slippery rocks leading to the traveler Rin cursed aloud at the sight: somehow, he was alive, though rolling around on the ground in obvious pain. His clothes were scorched, and perhaps the man himself was as well. It was hard to tell given the blue-grey of his skin.

Isao took point and rushed to the man’s side, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Sir, sir!” He tried to shake some sense into the man. “What the hells was that? Are you well? Do you need medicine?” The traveler grinned. Rin had seen that expression on him quite a bit. It had a suspicious quality he couldn’t quite define.

“Oh, just wonderful,” said the traveler. “That worked just as well as it could have.” “Nobody is going to believe me if I tell them about this,” said Komori. The traveler pointed a finger at her.

“Exactly!”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 6: Halcyon

They were all looking at the same map with the same pins dotting a trail from Limsa Lominsa to just east of Thavnair and, despite having different reasons, they had all come to the same conclusion: go home. Holskstymm wasn’t happy about that.

“I think we need to consider the ship lost,” said the captain, who had grown tired of having the Bhaldarhm docked in a harbor two continents from home. “Given their cargo, anything could have triggered its destruction between here and Othard. If they’re anywhere, they’re at the bottom of the sea.” She pointed to the open space between Thavnair and the southern tip of Othard. “And Llymlaen can keep them.”

“There would have been a disturbance,” said the first mate, an arcanist of some skill and frustrated that wasn’t being put to use. “That much corrupted crystal going off would cause a surge of aether in the destruction that somebody would have picked up and reported. Or somebody would have seen the explosion. I think we’ve been misled.” She pointed to Ilsabard. “They could have doubled back and offloaded their cargo elsewhere, with a different rendezvous point. They’ve had time to arrange it, and they might have known we got ahead of them. It’s a failure, but the whole damn operation has been.”

“Then somethin’ would’a happened in Corvos or somesuch, right?” Bodvar had no commission, but as the Commander’s bodyguard he’d been throwing his weight around in discussions, and was still a bit sore about how close they’d come to losing even a part of their quarry to the Confederacy. “Nah, they’ve got Ruby Sea contacts. There’s dozens of little coves they can hide with protection, but if they’re hiding there, that’s that. Best to cut our losses, Commander.” This was the beginning of a loop, Holskstymm could see, and they’d go back in another circle to the same arguments soon enough. They weren’t the exact words, but everybody agreed they’d missed their shot, and the Halcyon had managed to slip away from the Maelstrom while bearing its dangerous cargo. It was a loss, and an embarassing one, but not on the Bhaldarm and its crew, nor on the Commander, who’d gotten them ahead of the vessel they pursued and at least prevented a complicated legal tangle by stopping a wanted Eorzean smuggler from joining the Confederacy. It had been hard enough for the Maelstrom to convince pirates to sign up under a single banner and become a proper nation. It would be even harder if they thought they could go freely be other pirates half a world away.

“We really thought we had it easy, didn’t we.” Holskstymm rose from his seat, and was forced to stoop his neck; the Bhaldahrm was a small ship, and clearly hadn’t been built quite right for Sea Wolves. “With the Scions and all those adventurers tracking crystal shipments, they just had to give us the information and be in the right place at the right time. Now they’re disbanded, so we flounder and...what, quit the first time we get tested? No.” He shook his head. “Besides, this is new ground. We’re testing how we can negotiate these issues with at least two parts of the Grand Alliance. Even if we don’t catch the Halcyon, we have to at least put in the work to move forward with that.

“And, respectfully, I disagree, with all of you. The Halcyon is on the way. They may be cautious, or they may have word there’s a Maelstrom ship in the Kugane harbor waiting for them. But this was their rendezvous point, and where the cargo should have gone. We just need to find out why.”

[dubiousduskwight]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 5: Stamp

It happened on the berth deck, not long after Tunlado’s strategy meeting.

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 5: Stamp

Fishing off the edge of Pier #2 was an everyday kind of farce in Kugane. A good catch wasn’t impossible, but the anglers that congregated around the dock stuck near boats where they were unlikely to get a bite. Many didn’t even bother to bait their hooks. During the day it was a place for those with someone to avoid and nothing better to do beyond gossip with the locals. At night, it was a useful place for calm and quiet, and many a henpecked spouse stayed out late “fishing at the pier” only to come home empty-handed.

Calm and quiet also made the pier a useful place for clandestine nighttime meetings, something the Sekiseigumi also knew, which is why Suzume only went fishing during the day. Despite the bustle of daytime business, it was harder to be observed among the business at the docks. Don’t do anything outlandish, focus on the rod and water, and every so often, cast and recast, and blend in. Few would notice a ragged-looking peasant woman in a frayed and old-fashioned sugata, and fewer would care. The common folk of Hingashi were much like those of Doma in their desire not to trouble themselves with what did not concern them. She appreciated that.

Beside her, Ryūsai was trying, and failing, to avoid outlandishness. He’d made the effort to blend in, trading his robes for a cheap outfit from the shops, one so bland and grey she felt inclined to ask after the tailor. The failure was in his reaction beside her. She’d delivered the prints to him for review as planned but his loss of composure was not: From the corner of her eye, she could see his curiosity change to revulsion as he flipped between each thin piece of parchment in the pack. By the third one, his mouth was half-open and his brow had knit in upon itself in disgust, lip curling up his and hiding his thin mustache, and by the fifth he looked as if he might retch.

Wordlessly, she took one hand off of her rod to place it on his left shoulder. It wouldn’t do if he dropped them the goods off of the pier. He didn’t bother looking through the rest of the papers in detail, simply packing them back up with shaking fingers and placing them back in their case. “It’s perverse,” he said, his voice trembling to match his hands, which carefully tied a set of twine string and wrapping paper back into place around the set.

Suzume shrugged, drawing back her fishing rod. “It’s art.”

“It’s sick. How could you stand to see it?” “I didn’t look for long.” She had seen worse in the Resistance, but there was no point in mocking Ryūsai for his reaction. Suzume envied his disgust; when she had reviewed each piece of the set, in detail, she had felt an anger, a tightening of her chest and a desire to strike the artist that she still suppressed. She would gladly have traded that for disgust. “But they work, don’t they?”

“I don’t see how they won’t get a reaction, no,” said Ryūsai. “Put them in the right places with the right people and the Enclave will have no end of complaints. It’s a small set, though, so we’ll have to be careful.”

“What do you mean, small?” Suzume tipped her head just far enough to get a better look at him, her mouth twisting to the side in irritation. “The artist said the same thing, but that’s nine-hundred pages.” “Right, and they’re nine to a set, so you have a hundred sets. That’s not bad, but it’s mass distribution. And the people who use these most, they hide them away. It’ll work for a test run, and that’s what we asked, but soon enough we’ll need ten times this many.”

“Oh.” She looked away from Ryūsai, keeping her eyes fixed on the water. “I thought he was trying to gouge me.”

“...Did you tell him that?” Ryūsai asked, but Suzume didn’t respond. He turned his head and bent forward to look her in the eye, causing her to twist her face farther and farther to the left to avoid his gaze. He gave up when looking any further would risk him tumbling off of the pier. “Do I have to apologize for you?”

“No.” Her sigh was soft and exasperated, and some chatter on the pier behind them, and the call of a ferryman looking for passengers, filled the silence. “Maybe.” “If he’ll still take our money, I’ll check with him after the test run. I meant to see how he block prints anyhow, or get something designed.”

“Fine. When you see him.” Suzume’s lip curled and nose twisted in frustration. Without warning, her head fell to the side, landing on Ryūsai’s shoulder and loosening the ill-kempt bun that tied up her hair. “I want to see her again,” she murmured.

“You’ll see her soon, you know that.” Ryūsai’s shoulders tensed, and he continued looking straight ahead. His voice dropped to match hers; the moment she had made her request, secrecy trumped the need to blend in. “It won’t be much longer.” “You see her all the time. It’s been weeks for me.”

“Not as often as you say,” he replied. Suzume kicked the side of the pier with her feet in response. “I know, it’s tough. You have the worst job. Somebody has to keep an eye on things here. Please, endure it.”

“We don’t endure.” Her reply was sharp and icy, and Ryūsai flinched, seeming to regret his choice of words. “Stay in my place,” she continued. “Just for a few days. I’ll deliver the prints and come back right after.”

“Right after, of course.” Ryusai placed a hand in the folds of his kimono. Shortly after, a small card passed from his hand to Suzume’s, that of a bright, white full moon on a red background over a dark hillside. She was quicker with her hands when she placed its identical counterpart in his palm.

“Thank you.” She lifted her head from Ryūsai’s shoulder, and looked back at her fishing pole. “Why didn’t you bring your own, anyway?”

“Was I supposed to? I thought we were only making the exchange.” “We were, and we did. You can’t just get up and walk away right after, though, that’s suspicious. Here,” She passed the cheap bamboo rod into Ryūsai’s hands. “Just cast for a little while. Anyway, you still look a little pale, it’ll take your mind off of things. Please, just end - “ She stopped herself mid-sentence, and Ryūsai gave her a wry smile. It was a difficult phrase to overcome, beaten into both of them as citizens of Doma.

“We don’t endure,” he said. “But it’s a nice day. Show me how to use this.”

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 4: Reticent

Rorogino looked down at the Twin Adder poster, back at his would-be patron, down at the poster, back at the patron again, then handed the poster back. "Absolutely fucking not."

[dubiousduskwight]

another prime lancelot moment is when guinevere walks out of his line of sight so he can’t see her anymore and this upsets him so much that he almost throws himself off a building