lucasrajan

[lucasrajan]

Day 30 - Sojourn

Waterfalls. Roving beasts. The cry of strange birds. Prismatic light reflecting off peculiar crystals and the shimmering surface of the shallow spring water. 

It all battered Lucas’ senses.

It had been years now since he had last been this deep into The Shroud. (Danger.) He had sworn to himself he would never return to this mad place. It made his hair stand on end, and his mind race straight into the red as every little detail threatened misfire a defensive instinct. (Danger.)

He heard the hearer (Danger!!!) holding his arm remark upon the vista’s beauty. (Danger). And he had to admit the scene would have been otherworldly if not for all those horrifying little details. (Danger). Was that an elemental sprite simply floating across the brook? (Danger.) Its aura made the tiny stones beneath the splashing, misting waters glow.

“It truly is beautiful,” Lucas remarked. “Dangerous.”

Perhaps he could grow to like it. (Danger.) He felt the hearer (Danger!!!) tug him forward, and he decided to relent, and let her (Danger!!!) lead him along awhile longer. She had brought him this far. (You great fool, Lucas Rajan). A refreshing dew clung to his face as they meandered over logs and boulders, now truly wandering among the font.(Danger)

Horrible. Beautiful. Dangerous. She (danger) smiled at him. He’d never seen her so relaxed. Her head lay against his arm.

"I suppose we could stay awhile.”

[lucasrajan]

Day 29 - Fuse

The revving of a mighty ceruleum engine shattered the silence of a cold Garlean night, the sound echoing down concrete blocks and off the bare facade of metal buildings. Seconds later, a bulky but stylish magitek motorbike shattered the glass on the second floor of a showroom, its pair of riders spared evisceration only by a blast of air expanding out from a broken alchemical bottle.

A clandestine meeting had gone south quickly. Garlean gunfire barked after the riders, trailing after them as the motorbike hit the street and wobbled dangerously on the shock springs.

“How can this be your idea of a clean exit strategy?” called the back rider in a high-pitched, panicked fusion of an Eastern Thanalan and Ala Mhigana accent.

Saffron (or Lucas Rajan, if you prefer) sat in reverse per the instructions of the driver, a quiet dotharl woman who pitched her weight forward. Wrapped in heavy furs with a bandana around his head and a scarf covering his neck, mouth and nose, his bright blue eyes peered stared at the scene they had left behind. Gunners lined up on the edge of the broken window while a uselessly tiny crossbow sprang to life in his hand, the gears powered by goldsmithed magic.

POP-ZWAP!

The dotharl gunned it down the street, driving the fat, dated engine that sat between Saffron’s thighs to madness. A rusty, oiled cylinder popped off a panel atop the engine, flying straight up, so near Saffron’s face that he could feel the heat radiating off it before it carried on. A second fuse (he’s pretty sure that’s what you called those damn things) followed, and a terrorizing pool of magitek lightning sparked inches from the operative’s lap.

But at least they were outranging the gunfire. Perhaps he wouldn’t even need the crossbow.

“Here.”

The dotharl leaned back, shoving some sort of rocket-propelling Garlean weapon into Saffron’s side.

“What in the hells is this for?”

A machina propelled by a rotating blade on its crown emerged from behind the showroom.

[lucasrajan]

Day 28 - Vainglory

It was an austere bedroom with old, darkwood features and furniture standing out against Ul’dahn stone architecture. The owner of the space had never cared much for ornamentation. There were no flowers on display, there was no runner across the oaken table, no paintings on the wall save one of the Sultantree, and certainly no personal items.

This room belonged to a man who had tried desperately to fit a mold — to be his father’s son. To be serious. To be masculine. To fit a certain archetype.

A team of con artists hadn’t had to work terribly hard to find their pressure point.

Leaving the room’s owner (his name soon to be forgotten along with so many on a list), Sabert crept onto the balcony and tied a folded sheet around his hips to form a skirt. Grey eyes and black hair had been made to be enough for his disguise. Makeup wouldn’t do for the intimate intent of his plan.

“I hope you all have not held your breath,” he said, his warm voice all gravel, coy in his moment of triumph.

The voices over the linkshell were relieved, amused, but impatient.

“Yes, yes, I have the information. But you hall have to ask nicely.”

He would have liked to light a cigar, to save each drag in the cool night air as he heard his companions gripe on the other end.

“Oh, very well. I suppose the victor should share the spoils. His old man is on the ship bound for Cutter Island. You had best hurry, gentleman.”

He soon silenced the linkshell and peered back into the room. The owner was passed out, face smashed into his pillow, happily asleep and blessedly ignorant. 

The corner of Sabert’s lips tugged into a prideful grin.

[lucasrajan]

Day 27 - Hail

A dozen names written in black ink stared up at a man.

Lucas Rajan was written upon an official, clean, preserved document of service to The Eorzean Alliance. 

Evrick Nygaard was written in a weathered, soot-covered guild manual that had seen better days but had all the more character for the rough ones.

Saffron was scrawled hastily on a request for supplies dating to about a month before The Griffon made his mark.

Malikah Lancer was printed in gorgeous cursive on a letter asking for a date.

And that was only the start of it. Each felt right in a way. But none quite fit. Staring at the whole of it spread across a sand-worn table in his tent, the man felt himself breathing heavier and heavier as his mind strained for purchase.

Focus. Five things. Name them.

The wind of a sandstorm howled outside. It was familiar.

The glow of an oil lamp cast an orange hue.

There was a hint of honey in the scent of the piss awful camp tea. He didn’t even like tea when it was of high quality.

He pulled a flask from his hip pocket. The taste of whiskey was rich. It stung. It soothed. Ul’dahn was the best.

Yes, no matter what, he was a boy from Ul’dah. A twin flame burned inside of him, warm and ready, bright.

It was akin to the great lighthouse built and funded by so many hands to serve their neighbors and their interests, not needing the coffers of the wealthy and powerful to see such a great work done. It was akin to the light of science kept by the phrontistery, bringing proper medicine to Eorzea’s people and minding the orphans of too many tragedies. It was akin to the hopes of refugees taken in by Ul’dah when they were turned away elsewhere.

Yes. He felt it now: Firelight for those who wander paths in the dark. He was a boy from the land where those who dared to carry their dreams on their back could turn coffins into coffers and stoke new, nascent flames.

That was all that mattered. By any name.

[lucasrajan]

Day 26 - Break a Leg

Sabert Wheeler — or, perhaps, by now he was Lucas Rajan, if not yet in name, but certainly no longer actually Sabert — had never felt more powerful. He’d been dressed in the finest silks and most modern styles more times than he could count, all of them meant to highlight his lovely features. He looked beautiful smiling in such attire

But now Donya’s steady hands pat down the shoulders and lapel of a far more masculine outfit. Standing across the street from mobster’s jeweling operation, she saw to the final review of a heavy dark coat worn to overpower a more expensive tie and golden cuff links as to portray a reserved, abstemious nature.

“You are handsome like this,” she said. Sabert found the Hannish socialite all the more appealing like this, doting, fretting, readying him for a big day as though they were two normal people.

“I am surprised to find it suits me better. Perhaps it is time for a change in fashion.”

“We can shop around with our cut, then.”

“I do like the sound of that.”

He tried to steal a kiss when she looked up from the final adjustment of his tie. She cut him short with a fond hand on his jaw, raising his chin.

“Eyes forward,” she said. “Bring him down first. Then we have fun.”

“Is this not fun?”

“Not when you worry me. This is no time for arrogance. Watch your back in there. You will be alone.” She took a step away.

“You mean I shall have the stage to myself. There is no finer time for a player.”

“Oh? In that case—”

“—none of that. What do you always tell me?”

“Be ready to make your own luck.”

[lucasrajan]

Day 25 - Free Spot

"For me the road is a terrifying, wonderful place to be as a soldier. Every morning when I awaken my heart is filled again with a sense of newfound adventure. The sun greets me. The journey awaits. The world opens up before me. But I know to where I travel. I know what terrors await. These competing feelings cling to my very soul day after day, a potent brew that has me crisp and sharper than ever! This is all true, of course, unless we march in haste to outpace an enemy in a show of our superior mobility. Those days are just fucking awful." — L. Laveldon Lucas Rajan started every new journey with what he had come to caw a “road shave.”

Strolling from his tent in the early morning hours, he set out his kit upon a nearby barrel, squatted on a crate, and watched the east patiently for the rising of the sun. The BFR’s camp was still cool. The warmth of the day’s sun had long since abandoned the earth beneath everyone’s feet. And while officers climbed from their own tents to start the day, they were wise enough to bundle up.

Lucas had his own blanket draped over his shoulders.

When the first colors painted the distant sky, and the horizon looked like a tapestry of silken veils, he reached for his face wash. The ritual had begun.

A “road shave” wasn’t any different than any other shave any other day of the week, not in the slightest. One still had to wash, then apply cream, cut, and wash again.

But while doing so, he tried to imagine the journey that awaited him. He visualized the caravan rounding the edge of The Sea of Spires. He saw the great gap over the Yugr’am River. He remembered how it felt to finally reach  Buscarron's Druthers, and so many other stops.

“All this time around seers and oracles, I must think I have become one,” he jabbed himself.

[lucasrajan]

Day 25 - Make up for Day 24 - Vicissitudes

The steady change from Thanalan proper, into the Wellwick Wood, and across the border into The Shroud had long felt to Lucas Rajan like the world was sneering at him. Atop his mighty (surly) drake, the captain took a moment to stand aside from the road, to watch as the BFR’s long train carried on its journey, guarded by soldiers on either side.

Thanalan was dangerous, of that there was no doubt. But with its broad horizons and vast, open badlands and, yes, deserts, one could see its vistas near and far. The land’s beasts called for slaying, and the ready and able had a means to do so. The dangerous threat of the sun and sandstorms was honest. A man could face both with grit and a clear mind to prepare. And so there was a balance that tempered a soul and made it able.

But The Shroud, it was different, was it not? Lucas turned his head to review the creeping, looming canopy overhead, seeming as though it might swallow up good men and women. This was not a land of honest challenges. This was a land where the land itself might turn on you for no reason at all.

As he fished out his mask from his pack, Lucas supposed that, this time, he could try to admire the alleged balance of this place for what it was. How did she say it went? A balance with nature? As though it were itself Spoken. Very well.

“Mind your flames,” he told his mount as they started forward again. “Extra treats if you do not ruin the day of any poor forest critters.”

[lucasrajan]

Day 23 - Pitch

The laboratory in the basement of the caravanserai was his domain. Here he was god. Peculiar plants grew where he commanded. Otherworldly fish peered at him from the darkness of their tanks. Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating golden walls. Channels of alkahest aligned in neat arcanima helped disperse errant magics. and at the heart of it all, a great furnace churned, slushing and heating materials that should never have physically merged. And yet through force of aether they would.

It was chaos, all lined up in just the right, orderly way and shot wild into the air.

Lucas thrived upon it. Well, he wanted to thrive upon it. He once had when he was younger.

But now the churning furnace reminded him of the rumbling approach of Garlean warmachines. Lightning strikes echoed in his chest the very same way explosive ordinance had so many times. The dead eyes staring at him from the darkness...

No matter how much time passed, those memories were a cold hand on his shoulder.

So he reached for the orchestrion and drowned them out. Madam Canary’s arias made him dream of more romantic struggles.

[lucasrajan]

Day 22 - Veracity

The truth was eternally useful. Lucas Rajan found there was no better tool with which to manipulate others than the truth given in just the right way. But often enough something else was just as useful, if not more so. Not a lie — but speculation.

“Chairman Rajan,” a reporter for The Horizon Sun asked him one day at market. “Can you confirm the rumors that you mean to form an expedition into Ilsabard?”

“Is that what has been said about me?”

Of course it was. He had given careful instructions to his “head of staff” to share such speculation with her “most trusted confidant.” That was, of course, code for “person who shares everything they hear but never gets it quite right.”

The gruff old caravaner Leesa Ferrier was good for this sort of thing, too. She could spin a yarn a malm long and leave the listener sure they knew just what merchant she had bought it from, only just about every listener would be sure of a different vendor in a different market.

Then there were his own contacts — thieves, pickpockets, soldiers.

By the time the question finally looped back around to him, Lucas could be sure of public opinion regarding the rumor. And, so often, speculation led to anticipation. So he would give the people what they wanted: What he wanted.

“That’s right. It’s everywhere, that you mean to fight for Ul’dah.”

Yes, forget a moment Royalists and Monetarists. Ul’dah.

“It is true that I would like to find a good way to put my skills to use. And I have made inquiries...”

[lucasrajan]

Day 21 - Solution

Lucas Rajan watched through multi-lens spectacles, golden eyes narrowed with interest as a solute binding the aetheric properties of mandrake and viera blood bathed in the blue glow of a Gyr Abanian alchemic.

Saya and Safranloix were more than capable of brewing the appropriate medicine. It was always best not to underestimate the Au Ra’s capabilities. And the elezen had somehow managed to entirely overcome the limitations of his Ishgardian methods.

But Lucas had a notion regarding the appropriate application if they were to see Saoirse Quincy mobile once again.

The blood to target her aether most directly.

The mandrake to swiftly reach the reserves. But instead of restoring them—

As Lucas swirled the alchemic round and round, the solute slowly become indistinguishable. And that was when the alchemic let loose a sigh of relief.

Now to bathe it all in liquid gold and ready the needle mold.

[lucasrajan]

Day 20 - Anon

Lucas stood at the edge of Black Brush Station, watching as trains of carts and wagons escorted by mercenaries followed the trail east, then north. It was a slow procession for now, haste narrowed by the singular stone bridge allowing a river crossing.

But he could be patient. Dressed in his official blues, blacks and reds, he could be patient. With a white stone pulsing with aether clutched in his fist he could be patient. He’d been so patient since The Dark. He’d always known the time would come. And then there was peace. But he still knew.

Soldiers he knew, mercenaries he trusted and auxiliary he wanted to protect — he saw all of their familiar faces, steadily moving north at his command. First Drybone. Then The Shroud. Gyr Abania. Then north — north to the mountains. To bloody retribution.

His arm felt numb as he clenched the white stone tighter.

[lucasrajan]

Day 19 - Turn a Blind Eye

The heat of Azeyma’s light beating down on Thanalan was eased by a cloudy sky, leaving the markets of Ul’dah cooler than usual at around noon. Dressed in fine, breezy attire, Lucas Rajan considered unwrapping his turban and enjoying the cooler air on his brow. It would certainly make meeting with his market watchers a more casual affair. Weaving his way through the throng he—

—oh.

He knew that play. By all means it was a basic one many a pickpocket would think to work on a lone man in Ul’dah’s finest. The boy bumped against his stomach as he passed, lingering only for a moment, as if dazed, but then quickly continued on with a vague, hurried, “sorry.”

And that was it. Even Lucas didn’t quite detect what he knew would follow such a distraction. But he knew a tiny hand had slipped into his pocket. He knew the coin purse was missing, cut free from the tempting bit of string that attached it to his belt by way of a razor in the palm.

He had made similar thefts in his youth.

Lucas wove his way through the throng, and decide he would follow his whims. He reached for the green-and-white turban on his head and plucked it free.

Perhaps he would see this skilled but amateur pickpocket again. The pouch contained as many visibly fake coins as real gil. It also held his business card.

[lucasrajan]

Day 18 - Free Space

AFTER A PLEASANT MEETING

Donya Bozer shivered at the ship’s window. The captain of The Violet Herald had promised her his quarters were the warmest on the ship. The goldcrafted device full of fire did crackle promisingly.

But it made no difference. She couldn’t shake the chill. The dark, deep gaze of Lucas Rajan made her heart flutter in a way none managed these days. The sensation was familiar but long behind her. She’d felt it last as she kissed the Wheeler boy right before the light began to die in his golden brown eyes.

“The color of gil,” she recalled.

Donya had sinned a thousand, thousand times. But that one had cost her something. She thought she’d paid the toll by now. Staring over the blackened night sea of Wild Warden Island, she felt the knife in her hand that was no longer there. She’d left it in his ribs, slick with poison.

“I felt your heart stop.”

She still remembered how it felt against her hand, the sweet boy. The cruel boy. The fool boy. She taught him everything. He’d have been more than a match for this Lucas Rajan.

For The Revolution.

[lucasrajan]

Day 18 - makeup for day 15 (Row)

Captain Lucas Rajan made his way alone among the rows of sandy tents at the BFR’s main encampment on its final day in Sagolii. For the most part, everything looked perfectly in order. By all means, he could have left well enough alone, and there would never have been a single problem.

But he remembered well the words in his ancestor’s journal: “Always be seen to check. Always be known to make certain. Do not call out anything petty. Inform the appropriate officer and let them command it made right. And on the other side of that coin, do not call out anything that would embarrass your officers. These walks are not to shame your staff. What you call out should be useful.”

With his arms folded behind his back, he took note of one soldier sitting within his tent, ready to escape the chill of night that would soon be upon them. And yet, in the shade, he had removed his shirt, and he panted, guzzling water as though he was standing out int he sun. Worse. Aha.

“Soldier,” Lucas called to him seriously, but kindly. “When your sergeant commands you to collapse your tent in the morning, it is more than routine. It is important advice. No doubt you are baking in there. And your fellows will be just as miserable when they join you.”

Caught between misery and sheepishness, the private crawled out to his feet and snapped a shirtless salute. Lucas couldn’t help a small, soft huff of amusement at the image.

“Yes, sir!”

“Best to make yourself presentable again and wait it out in the sun until the sands cool. I will have the water cart sent by again.”

[lucasrajan]

Day 17 - Novel

“The family will support you as well.”

Atwell’s words rung in Lucas’ ears. He need not need such support. He hadn’t asked for it. It wasn’t necessary. And yet the words, not to mention Simon’s earnest expression beside his lover, struck Lucas so hard it left him clawing to take back control of his mind.

It was everything he could do to lace his fingers together and review anew these two father figures in Emeline’s childhood home. Support. He hardly knew how to expect or demand or even appreciate such a thing. There was the faintest dumbfounded expression upon his features as he assumed an unusually closed posture. About a half second later he realized he was letting his body language do something other than what he demanded of it. What the hell was this!?

He would need to get used to this.

Perhaps it was something he could grow to love.

Or perhaps it would make him vulnerable and be his doom.

Shit.

He forced himself not to insist upon his capabilities. He had made it this far, after all. He hadn’t needed anyone. Well, no one but — damnit. He cast that all aside as quickly as he could. For Emeline and for Cassandra, he tried to figure out how to talk to fathers instead.

“Thank you. I must confess I am struggling with this...”

[lucasrajan]

Day 16 - Deiform

Five seconds.

Sabert Wheeler could feel his heart racing. It beat in his chest in time with the Thanalan sun throbbing overhead. Sweat beaded down his bare chest. He could feel the moisture in his roughspun pants. The towering walls and looming domes of Ul’dah felt as if they were stetching over him on both sides, watching. Waiting. Fill your coffer, boy, they said. Or you may as well be with the dead already. He was the youngest in the crew at nine. He could still fit where others couldn’t and had a long enough reach to climb.

Four seconds.

The other boys were nearly in place. One of about 16 years already had broken his nose a dozen times over much to the chagrin of a put upon priestess three blocks closer to The Dunes. He approached The Brass Blades, his high strung voice already mocking their dirty uniforms. Another boy, a pale elezen, could have been just about any age. You could never tell with them. He approached the market stall of a fruit seller. But the dunesfolk squirreling around behind the market stall, Totoboni, was the oldest at 18. He still ran with the crew to pay for their schooling. He were going to be a player on a stage one day.

Three seconds.

The throng of shoppers up and down the avenue were mostly foreigners. Or caravaners. The other locals had work to finish up so near noon. The foreigners probably wouldn’t get involved. But a caravaner might step in if he wasn’t fast enough. Even a foreigner might try something if they brought with too many ideas from home. But they didn’t know the fruit seller liked to sell local, desert fruits at an upcharge to Gridanians and Ala Mhigans, claiming them to be imported fresh from La Noscea.

Two seconds.

Sabert tried to steady his breathing. He would be quick enough. And if he wasn’t — well, he’d been taught a few things, hadn’t he? Where to grab a man. Where to fling your weight. Where to grapple and twist. And when to bail and run again. His lungs still felt like they were burning, tough. Was Azeyma angry with him? Why was it so hot?

One second.

The dunesfolk were busy in a calculated half retreat. Every time the merchant looked their way, they scurried off, only to approach once again the second the merchant turned his attention back to the elezen who seemed to only want to buy a necklace for his girlfriend. But he signalled to Sabert with a thumb between his index and middle finger. He understood. The boy with the oft-broken nose still had The Brass Blades busy with a shouting match.

Go.

In Sabert’s head his feet thundered across the stone street. But they were practically silent in the din. He scurried alongside the crowds, hopping crates and scurrying under awnings. He had to weave his way between two customers turning back from a neighboring stall. He heard Totoboni’s words as he ran.

When Nald and Thal finished building their grand city with Azemya’s help, do you know what they did with all the left over rubble?

The Brass Blade was growing suspicious. He shoved broken nose aside and peered at the fruit vendor. The elezen was asking if he could please make a purchase. Totoboni looked about ready to actually hurry off. But not just yet. The merchant was shouting.

They made a hell of flames. That’s where all the dishonest people go. You know, like those who bribe guards and trick their customers.

The Brass Blade spotted Sabert. “Hey!” But broken nose took him out at the knee and beat it. The elezen turned away from the stall in frustration. Totoboni threw his boogers at the merchant. Sabert leapt straight up, landed flat on the fruit stall, and sent a plate of agave flying while stomping his dirty foot down on another. He tumbled forward, spilling over fruit and reaching so his fingers grazed along the back lip of the stall until they found a nail. There. He snapped his hand out further, closed his fist around a bag of gil, and ripped it free as he rolled off the stall and landed on his feet.

But do you know who that doesn’t include, no matter how much The Order says otherwise?

Sabert never gave up his momentum. The instant he was on his feet he was already off at a sprint, diving under an interfering caravaner with a laugh and twisting away from two Gridanian goody-goodies with another. By the time he reached the the dark ally he had forgotten how the buildings loomed in judgement. He had forgotten Azeyma’s burning gaze.

Thieves!

He crammed the bag of gil in his teeth, ignoring the shouts of the pursuing Blade, and leapt straight up. His fingers caught the top of a window, and he hauled himself up just far enough to *hup* and lunge himself about a half foot over to an awning. He reached just far enough to get a grip on the edge of a balcony, and finally he scrambled up its wooden balustrade.

So lets get out there one more time and fill our coffers. Let some other bastard find himself one step closer to his coffin for once.

At last he made the final leap from the balcony across the alleyway, seized the edge of the stone rooftop, and flung himself over the edge to lay flat. He stretched out with his arms and legs, filling his lungs and basking in Azemya’s light.

The sun no longer felt so oppressive. If she really did help The Brothers build their heaven, maybe she actually had his back.

[lucasrajan]

Day 14 - Attrition

Rage — white, hot rage — erupted from the basement of The Caravanserai.

In The Shade of Mount Yorn sounded wrathful in its longing when Lucas Rajan found his fingers playing — truly playing for the first time — the old song of yearning. The mountain may as well have been a volcano, fiery and fierce in all its indignation as the mazurka played on, the beat whipping and whirling in such a way as to terrify anyone who dared visit the quiet club for a dance.

At last his hurt fingers spoke of those buried pains: Saul killed fighting Garleans for a brother who’d never actually died, Donya’s poison, the suffering of true Ul’dahns under the sneering gaze of the monetarists, the Ala Mhigans who bore Garlean aggression while the rest of Eorzea wrung its hands. He played for all of it.

And now he played for Walden of Harbor Avenue, too. And Cyriak of Harbor Avenue. These two boys had been sold into slavery by their poor parents in a land Lucas claimed to love. And… and what? For all his scheming, vaunted brilliance, tactics and patience, just what was he doing RIGHT NOW for the next children in their shoes?

You’re not actually who you have to be anymore. Just who you want to be.

Cyriak’s final words to Lucas haunted him. They were a specter of his own mind somehow given voice by a mad man. Too many of the lunatic’s words had been true. The world taught those without to be happy to have nothing and to be afraid of their own strength. And the rich — and Lucas Rajan was just another person who could do more, but was unwilling to take those terrifying, dangerous steps.

When the last, somber note of *In The Shade of Mount Yorn* faded in The Moonlit Oasis’ dim expanse, Lucas could sit no longer.