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A Legacy in Blood - Printable Version

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A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 02-13-2014

Wolfsong






He has his mother's eyes.
 
Aylard Greyarm let his boots slip off his feet, the loosened leather straps and the metal buckles crumpling to the floor in a heap. He sank to a seat on the bed, a long sigh escaping his lips. The occasional popping protests from his joints reminded him every now and then that he was no longer the young man he used to be, a fact that he was now reminded of daily when he looked upon his only son, Hroch. The day's worth of walking under the desert sun had taken its toll. Aylard slumped forward in his seat, still dressed in his chainmail tunic. It rattled quietly with each movement, but the weight of it bothered him little, for his thoughts still lingered on the man he had met earlier:
 
Gharen Wolfsong.
 
He had his mother's eyes. Aylard could still envision Aline's eyes, the way she looked at him with warmth and kindness. The memory of her smile brought forth a wistful sigh; he rarely let himself indulge in melancholic remembrance, but seeing the son of Aline and Gregor Wolfsong reminded him of days long forgotten--the years he had left behind. It had been over twenty-five years since he saw Aline and Gregor last, and twenty since he buried them. His mourning had diminished in time, and though the pain never quite healed, he had tucked it away. It was easier to do once he rediscovered love with Heather, who had soon gifted him with Hroch, his robust son.
 
But now, looking upon the face of Aline's only son brought all the memories back to the fore. Gharen had grown tall, and with broad shoulders and a strong jaw, he stood tall as his father did; his bearing spoke of strength and prowess. He seemed to be a man of few words, much like Gregor, but his eyes … they were Aline's. It nearly pained Aylard to look upon it.  
 
The old man shook his head as he stood back up, undoing the buckles of his armor and shrugging out of his chain mail. But as he turned to lay it on the table, a piece of paper floated to the ground, slipping out from its hiding place in his belt pouch. Aylard set his armor aside and bent down, gingerly picking up the folded parchment and opening it. It was a detailed sketched portrait of two women, one drawn by his hand, so long ago.
 
His eyes crinkled with fondness as he held the picture. It was of an older woman standing with her hand upon the shoulder of a younger woman. Eloisa and Aline Windmark. Eloisa was a tall and proud woman, with fiery red hair and grey eyes, whose nobility seemed to exude from her every pore. Her somewhat lighter complexion spoke of mixed birth, her father a highlander and her mother a midlander. Aylard remembered staring at her in awe when he first laid his eyes upon her. He had just fallen off a rambunctious young chocobo, trying to prove that his sixteen summers gave him enough wisdom to tame a new mount. He was a new hired stable boy, eager to prove himself. But instead, he found himself thrown, landing on his ankle at a wrong angle. The lady of the house had been nearby and seen it, and rushed to his side. Her expression was calm and her attention careful as she quickly assessed his injury. She then laid her hand upon his ankle, and a soft green glow emitted from her body, suffusing him with aether to mend his broken bone. That was the first time he had witnessed conjury at work, and he found himself speechless. Eloisa Windmark gained a loyal and stout follower that day.
 
It was only a few suns later that he then met Aline Windmark, Eloisa's only daughter, fourteen winters old. That day he lost his heart. Aline was a gentle and quiet spoken girl, with darker auburn hair than her mother, and piercing hazel eyes. She always treated him as an equal, class and noble birth cast aside. They became fast friends. And one her sixteenth nameday, he professed his love for her and offered her the portrait of her and her mother as a gift.  
 
But it was on that same day that she was sent away to foster with distant relatives. She tearfully asked him to keep the portrait, to remind him of her. He had not understood why then … 
 
It was only later that he learned it was to protect her life.
 
Soon after her departure, he too set out to seek a new purpose in life. He was an angry young man nursing a broken heart, and all things reminded him of Aline at House Windmark. Aylard threw his lot in with a group of young idealists, those discontented with the increasing violence exhibited by Ala Mhigo's ruler, King Theodoric. Soon that small band joined with others of a like mind, and they became an organization who would come to call themselves the Resistance.
 
Aylard had never forgotten Aline; she was always tucked away in his heart, though as his fervor grew for his nation, his new allegiance lit a new fire within him. But his path with the Windmarks was not at an end, for it was within the Resistance that he encountered Eloisa Windmark again, years later. She had joined them after learning that King Theodoric meant to eradicate her family, as he, in his madness, was targeting many of the influential noble families for removal. Aylard also learned that Eloisa had suspected this threat to her family years ago, and had sent Aline away to hide her from the mad king's suspicious eye. When Aylard learned of his, all past wrongs and heartaches were forgiven. And he had to see Aline again.
 
He was going to find her, protect her. And true to his vow, he did, but … when he finally came to look upon Aline's face, when he finally looked upon her hazel eyes--the eyes he had never forgotten in all those years--he could see that she had fallen in love with another man.  
 
He was a good, strong, quiet man named Gregor Wolfsong. A warrior in his own right, from a tight-knit, loyal and fierce clan, Aline reassured Aylard that she was well protected. She also told him she was with child. She would not follow Aylard back to the Resistance, nor would she join her mother's cause to fight for Ala Mhigo. Aline would stay with her husband, and raise a family.
 
Aylard accepted her decision with reluctant sadness, but as he left, he could see that she was happy with her husband, and was brimming with unbound hopes for their first child in her womb. That was the last time he had seen Aline alive.
 
Six years later, he learned that she had been killed along with her husband, most of her village razed by Garleans. Aylard returned to bury Aline and Gregor's body, but the two children that he knew she had given birth to could not be found. Gharen must have been five years old and Kayle was but a babe. He assumed that they had died in the fire that burned the entire village.
 
So it came as a shock when Aylard learned only a few years ago that Gharen, Aline's oldest, had escaped the incursion, and had traveled with the other refugees south, to Thalanan. And it was not until today that he had met the son of Aline and Gregor face to face, and once more looked upon her eyes.
 
Aylard's callused fingers tenderly grazed the edge of the portrait he held in his hand, as he sank back into a seat on his bed. "I was not able to protect you, Aline. But your boy lived. And he is strong." He spoke quietly to the woman in the picture, his gravelly voice just above a whisper. "I will bring him back to the Resistance with me. What I could not do then for you, I will do for him. He deserves to be with his people." Aylard's dark eyes lingered a moment more on Aline, before his gaze lifted to Eloisa's face.
 
"And I will not let your legacy die, Lady Eloisa," he vowed. "I will make him see. I will return him to Ala Mhigo, and claim the rightful heritage of Windmark. As you once did, his name and his blood will lend us its strength."

RE: A Legacy in Blood - cuideag - 02-16-2014

Days before.
 
"A wise man hears the words spoken through silence," he had said once. "Never forget that." At the time, Hroch was still young and impatient and eager to question his roughly aging father. There was a severity to the elder Greyarm that had only hardened as he seemingly greyed three years to every one of Hroch's. It was said among those who knew that he had been a strapping young man once with a proud brow and an easy smile. Hroch Greyarm knew he would never quite understand what had changed him but he would catch glimpses of it now and then, hear it in the quiet that often spanned between father and son.

They had spoken little since the caravan left for Thanalan with the two of them taking up escort duty. With him in dusty linens and Aylard in his creaky mail they had seemed just uninspiring enough to be little more than mercenaries a sun's breadth away from starvation. There were nights when it wasn't very far from the truth at all; for even if the country as a whole was in the iron grip of the Empire there were still those who refused to kneel and for that they suffered. "We walk as ghosts," his father told him once. "Strangers in our home, unseen. Never forget that. We are ghosts."

Hroch had been spared the turmoil of their motherland's fall but never did they escape its echoes. Though his father was a kindly man there was no doubt that he mourned his country, burned his heart for the shackles that bound he and his countrymen under Imperial rule. It was not until his seventh name day that he understood the nature of the lives his parents led.

"We honor her in remembering, that the spirit shall never die," his father told him once. The lines were deep on his face that night, the first night he had taken his young and hot-blooded son to meet with his colleagues, the men and women who mourned his mother in the secret places they gathered. "Never forget that."

Camp Tranquil had been hours past and though the sun still hung high as they breached into the open wasteland of Thanalan, a call for rest did not murmur its way down the length of the caravan. Hroch watched his father as they walked, mindful not to stare for very long for even in his age he was still sharp as the sword he kept at his side. More and more had he been favoring his knees, scowling when he thought no one was looking. He'll regret it later, he thought, And maybe this time he'll learn his lesson.... Or he'll just take it out on me.

Aylard seemed to catch note of the grin that cracked his son's lips. His own expression softened even if the steel in his eyes did not. "Something funny, boy?"

"Oh, I dunno, da." Hroch swung his arms as he walked, a habit his mother once teased him for so many years ago and one which he stubbornly clung to ever since her death. "Did'ya see that sandy-haired lass up a wagon? With eyes as big as the moon?"

"Aye, I did," Aylard said in that measured way of his. "Though I think it's her father you should be looking out for."

"He'd like me," said Hroch and he nodded with nothing short of utter conviction.

"Like you on that sword he's nursing," Aylard deadpanned. "A father's wrath is a terrible thing, m'boy." He paused to sigh and squint ahead along the line. The scrublands stretched out in every direction, pocked and broken here and there by the wind-cut faces of earth and stone. While they were still far from Ul'dah and the Sagolii beyond, they were not lacking for sun nor heat. His voice dropped low enough to be barely heard over the rumble of the wagon train. "Best keep your focus about you. One mistake..."

The younger Greyarm knit his hands behind his head and sighed at his father. "I know, I know, da. Just she's mighty pretty is all. A man can dream, can't he?"

To his surprise, Aylard allowed himself a chuckle. A heavy gauntleted hand clapped down on Hroch's shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. "Aye. So you have been listening. Good, good... A man can always dream." The two of them stared ahead to the rest of the caravan and the cloudless blue skies. Somewhere out there, Aylard's contacts were waiting and despite the confidence with which he spoke of their plan, Hroch could not help but feel an unease deep in his gut. Yet seeing even the brief crack in his father's increasingly solemn demeanor eased his worry, even if only just a little.

"A man can always dream, and some of those dreams may even be worth bleeding for," intoned Hroch Greyarm, who did his best to be a good and dutiful son. "Never forget that."

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 03-03-2014

A Woman In White





Broken Nose spat out the grassweed he had been chewing, his spittle leaving a sticky brown stain on the cobblestones of Ul'dah's main thoroughfare. He gave the blotch on the ground a disdainful glare, rubbing his boots over it to hide the mark. It only served to smear it over more stones, eliciting an additional mutter from the Roegadyn Brass Blade.

Broken Nose scanned the street right and left, crossing his massive arms in front of him. The red chainmail armor rustled as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the hot Thalanan sun more oppressive than usual this afternoon. Also, he had not come across any potentially suspicious activities yet this day - none that might have elicited a bribe, at any rate - and that had made him grumpy. And bored.  

With a grunt, Broken Nose turned and began to make his way back down the street of Ul'dah, passing by Ruby Road exchange, the same route that made up his daily watch along Ul'dah's most traveled street. Back when he had first received this assignment, Broken Nose cursed the Twelve for the seemingly mundane and lowly task. The lowly born Roegadyn had joined the Brass Blades with ambitions of rising quickly in the ranks of the jeweled city's law enforcers, and was dismayed at being given such a seemingly benign duty. 

He soon discovered it was the best thing that could have happened to him. It was walking the streets that gave him the best opportunity to use his job to obtain things. The streets of Ul'dah were never a quiet place; there was always something to be noticed, some dealings behind the corner, and of course whores and gambling on Pearl Street, all of which he could use to gain some extra gil or favor, should he be inclined to look the other way. In the five years of service thus far, Broken Nose had also come to realize that he preferred to do as little work as possible. And properly enforcing the law and keeping the streets safe while climbing the ladder of ambition, well... that could get exhausting. This suited him. His favorite beat was watching the entry way to Ruby Road Exchange, for it was always busy. And there were always plenty of distractions to be had.

His eyes strayed toward the dancers that were always the center attraction on Ruby Road Exchange, drawing a crowd around them, both women and men. Some stared at them with a drunken glazed look, others were on their feet hollering, pumping their fists in the air, as though to exhort them to greater degrees of disrobing or feigned sensuality. As if the dancers ever really noticed. Broken Nose had come to recognize the vapid gaze in the dancers' eyes: they too were there to do a job, and the audience seemed just as happy to leer at them whether or not they were even synchronized. They didn't care, and neither did he. He still could appreciate their frames and forms, their tanned flesh clothed in a manner that seemed to reveal more than complete nakedness ever could. The sight of it certainly passed the time when there was nothing else to do. 

But today might be different. Today, Broken Nose had spotted the woman again.  

She was slight of frame and subtle in gesture, with a fall of silver hair that never seemed out of place, always neatly combed and held back from her moon face. Dressed in some white linen robe, Broken Nose had guessed that she was not one for long treks on the dusty desert road, especially by the look of the robe's fine and primly pressed fabric. He had taken note of her weeks before, hungry for some extra gil and looking to manufacture a crime. She was the first person he had come across, seated on a bench, carefully writing onto the thick tome she had placed in her lap with slow, exacting strokes. From her dainty and studious appearance, he assumed her an easy mark.

He was proven wrong, and quickly. Broken Nose was not the most worldly of men, but he was at least keen to recognizing if a person would be susceptible to intimidation, and she was not one of them.  When he approached her, his massive frame looming over the small hyur woman, he found no emotion behind her spectacles when she finally deigned to look back up at him. He could barely discern her eyes as the glasses mirrored the sunlight above.  Even as he cited her for something - he could not remember now what bogus charge he was insinuating - her face remained calm and inscrutable. Her voice held a cool, monotonous tone when she responded to him, each word clearly enunciated so that he would not mistake her words. She recited the names of his superior and his superior's superior in such a way that, to this day, gave him twitches at the memory. To call her "cold" would be a disservice to the word; he believed no ice could ever chill him half so much. Her final suggestion was that he would be best served in moving along and letting her continue her business. He did so without delay.

Broken Nose's fear of reprimand quelled any anger he might have had. The woman was obviously connected to those in the know, and while he had often exercised his own authoritative muscle in this city, he still knew he was but a grunt - the smallest, most insignificant cog within the larger political wheel that turned the gears of the gargantuan jeweled clock that was Ul'dah. She could ruin him with a word, that much was clear. Broken Nose decided his wisest course of action would be to avoid the silver-haired hyur like the plague.

And yet...

He had always wondered what the woman's business was.  He had seen her twice more since, each time with the tome in hand, always writing something into that thick, omnipresent book. If it wasn't for that one exchange they shared, he would never think to look twice her way. She seemed so dull. So harmless. To this day, he still did not know what her actual business was.

So it perked his curiosity on this hot and irksome day when he spotted the silver-haired hyur woman again, seated at her bench, tome in lap, because now her gaze was not fixed on her book as it had always been. Her pale hand and the quill had come to pause in their shared task. This time she was looking straight across the Ruby Road Exchange. Broken Nose could not help but follow her gaze, scanning the street as well, curious to see what would draw the woman's attention. 

It was another hyur woman. This one was crowned with red hair, and dressed in blue grey armor. He knew of her, although he knew not her name, for she was often seen in the company of a particular Sultansworn. Broken Nose usually made a point to avoid crossing paths with Sultansworns, as they always thought themselves above most others, and were, to a man, some of the most elite swords in Thanalan. Broken Nose always spat after he passed on one the streets, ridding himself of the taste of the bile that rose in his mouth when forced into their presence. (Though always after they had passed. He wasn't stupid.)

He did not think the same of the red haired woman, however; whenever she passed him on his patrol, she would give him a polite nod in passing, as if to acknowledge his patrol and give at least some modicum of respect for his duties. He caught himself once puffing out his chest, walking a little straighter and taller in the wake of her recognition, though thought himself just a bit silly only moments after. Broken Nose reminded himself that she would be an easy mark as well, if she was not under the protective guidance of the almighty Sultansworn. 

The roegadyn watched the red-haired woman a moment longer, his eyes following her steps as she made her way to the moogle that delivered mail in the far end of the street. He knew her well enough to know she always seemed to visit the moogle in the early part of each month with a letter in hand. Such routines on Ruby Road Exchange never escaped his notice; Broken Nose prided himself in that.  He absently thought to maybe find out about the contents in that letter. Perhaps it would be of use to him in the future. And anything - or anyone - who caught the notice of the cold woman with the book.

The roegadyn then remembered why he was scanning the street in the first place. He glanced back to the bench, only to find the silver haired hyur woman gone.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 03-06-2014

New Beginnings





"Look what we have here! A new letter has arrived, just for you, Kupo!"
 
Roen Deneith smiled as she accepted the letter handed to her by the mail moogle. Her gray eyes lingered on the tiny flying creature, for it was still an exotic thing to her, this moogle; she had never seen one before arriving on Eorzea, and they still perked her curiosity. White and furry, with small pointy wings that in proportion should not be able to support the weight of the creature's round head much less its entire body, the little thing hovered up and down, seemingly fighting the weight of the large red bag full of mail that hung on one shoulder. It cheerfully dispensed letters to those gathered around the Ruby Road Exchange, seemingly indefatigable.
 
Roen saw the writing on the envelope and stepped away from the gathered crowd, her fingers carefully opening the letter. It was from her adoptive father, Brenden Deneith. She scanned the letter quickly, a smile widening her lips. He was finally coming to Ul'dah, coming to see the royal healer that Natalie, the Sultansworn that was in charge of her training, had arranged for him. And he was bringing the entire family to the capital city as well: his wife Ana, and their two children, Brenna and Brayden. Roen clasped the letter to her chest and grinned.
 
Finally, she thought to herself. Finally her adoptive family would arrive in Ul'dah, and Brenden Deneith would see the best physician Thalanan had to offer. There was still hope that he could be free of the mysterious ailment that so weakened him, shaking his bones and weakening his limbs. Roen had worked tirelessly since arriving in Ul'dah in order to make what gil she could to send back to them, so that he could seek treatments. But no cure was to be found - at least none in Southern Thalanan.  
 
Now, at long last, her father was coming to the city of the Sultana. If a cure was to be found anywhere in Thalanan, it would be here.
 
Roen held the letter close in her hands as she sat onto a bench, inhaling deeply as she looked to the skies above. A canopy of ornate green tapestries hung from lamp posts, providing welcomed respite from the sun, the carved stone walls of the buildings glowing in a golden hue under the sunlight. She remembered gazing upon the sight with awe when she first arrived in Ul'dah, only a short few moons ago. So much had happened since.
 
She had been writing Brenden every fifth sun of each new moon, just short letters and updates, but sharing with him - as much as she could - the wonders of Ul'dah. She had never been one for written words in the past, but Brenden adored letters, and had asked her to write often. So she did, every fifth sun, just to let him know she was faring well. 
 
Though in truth,"well" was a gross understatement of all the things that had happened to her in the last many moons.
 
Roen did not include many details purposefully. She did not want to worry him. She wrote of the mercenary group she had joined initially. She wrote to him about seeking mentors in her quest to become a paladin, and of entering the coliseum to train as a gladiator, and of meeting Ser Jenlyns who would initiate her formal paladin training.  
 
She did not write to him about being fired from said mercenary group, nor of being dismissed by Ser Jenlyns after being absent from the city for a prolonged period of time; the path to becoming a paladin did not account for someone who was also trying to make ends meet. She earned what gil she could by mining ore in the most desolate reaches of Thanalan, sending it back to Brenden and Ana. She did not write of her first two paladin mentors either, both of whom nearly died. 
 
She did write of Natalie, the Sultansworn who had arranged for her reintroduction to the path of a paladin, and was, more importantly, a staunch friend and ally. The letters also mentioned friends she had met, people who had become dear to her; Siha, and Nazeru, and Dandaroun, and more. Roen could not wait until she could introduce them to her family. 
 
A small chuckle escaped her lips. Just five moons ago, Roen would have never entertained such a social affair, so guarded had she been when she first arrived in Ul'dah. She was seeking her new path here, but was so fearful that others may somehow discover her past: the one that led back to her true homeland in Garlemald. 
 
Her previous life seemed so far away now, almost like someone else's forgotten memory obscured in her mind. Memories of it rarely rose to the fore. The past five years in Eorzea had helped Roen forge a new life - the rebirth her heart had long yearned for, following the death and destruction the Calamity had brought, witnessed by her own two eyes. The man who had sired her - the man she refused to call "father" - had been partly responsible for the descent of Dalamud. The blood was on his hands, aye, but Roen felt it on hers as well. The guilt still weighed heavy, still, five years past. Roen had naively volunteered in Nael van Darnus's army at Carteneau. She hadn't known any better at the time, had only been a headstrong girl with no real truths set before her save those given to every person in Garlemald. 
 
But the truth was hard to deny: she had raised her sword against those she walked alongside now. The same people who now she called Sister. Friend. Mentor. Would they call her a traitor if they knew?
 
Roen breathed in deep, dismissing the dark thoughts. They had not plagued her nightmares for many moons now, and she was not about to let them return. Her life is beginning anew, and the letter in her hand had good tidings and a chance at a new life for her adopted family. Roen held onto it dearly.
 
It was in that quiet moment that a small hyur boy ran up to her. Judging by his dark complexion and the broad set to his jaw, Roen guessed him to be a Highlander youth. He wore no shirt, although that was not rare in the desert city, his bare feet padding over the cobblestones without a sound. His ragged hempen pants were torn at the edges. His brown eyes looked her up and down before he leaned forward and spoke quietly. "You are Roen Deneith?"
 
Roen blinked."Aye," she said, nodding. "I am."
 
The scrawny boy kept his head low, as if to escape notice from anyone else. "I have a message from Aylard Greyarm. He received the missive from the son of Wolfsong. He will meet with you in two suns, just outside of Ul'dah's gates after the sun sets, at Fresca's Wash." The boy scanned the street left and right before meeting her eyes again. "So you will meet with him?"
 
"I will," Roen said, but before she could ask him any questions, the boy scampered off, disappearing around the corner.
 
Roen's eyes narrowed as she looked to where the boy had gone. The Resistance, she thought. Members of such an organization would not make a habit of announcing their business or plans for the public to take note. It would not make for the longevity of their career or lives.
 
Roen tucked the letter away, her thoughts set to new purpose. Even with her new family soon to arrive in Ul'dah, she could not relinquish the search of any news regarding her old one, not if any of them were also to be found in Eorzea. The discovery that she was able to channel aether - something pure Garleans were rarely able to do - led her to the fact that her maternal line may have had Highlander blood. Her grandmother could have been a conjurer; Roen began to hope that there might be a trace of that lineage found south of Ala Mhigo. She had traveled to Little Ala Mhigo in hope of some answers, and found out that a conjurer that bore close resemblance to herself was known to the Resistance.
 
This information was still hard for Roen to fathom. Her father had been instrumental in bringing Ala Mhigo under the Empire's rule, yet her mother's mother could have been part of the movement that fought against Garlemald? It was far too strange.
 
'You worry too much,duckling,' she heard a voice in her.
 
The voice belonged to Miss Delial, the Highlander woman that Roen had met during her trek to Little Ala Mhigo. The dark-skinned woman had been instrumental in her providing information regarding her grandmother - including the fact that she may have been associated with the Resistance. Roen had run into Miss Delial a few times in Ul'dah following their first meeting, for the woman worked as a curator at the Hall of Antiquities. Roen had found her helpful, and her confidence charming. Her one good eye was light hazel in color while the other one had a scar through it and was milky white, lending an odd, piercing quality to her gaze. Delial herself admitted she could seem intimidating, but her ever helpful nature had earned Roen's gratitude from the first day they met. They were discussing Roen's search for her family just yesterday when Gharen Wolfsong walked by them.
 
Roen shook her head. Even a small memory of him gave her pause. Set your mind to purpose, Roen, she reminded herself.
 
Gharen, or Master Gharen as she called him since their first lesson many moons ago with sword and shield, had told her that members of the Resistance had once sought him out for his aid. They shared news with him of his blood and true lineage - things Gharen himself was not aware. Yesterday, when he encountered her with Miss Delial on the very same road she was standing on now, he told her that he had agreed to join their cause.  

That made her pause again. What did that mean, to join them? Was he to travel back to Ala Mhigo? Was he going to leave?

Roen did not ask him. Partly because of the company they were in, and partly because...
 
She had resolved to herself that his path was his to choose, independent of anything that she may or may not feel for the man. Roen told herself he deserved happiness when he had found another, and that she was happy for that. She was not going to make things awkward by revealing her feelings - partly because she did not truly know what they were. 
 
And now he was joining the Resistance. They knew of his family, could have been his family. Could she blame him?
 
Gharen Wolfsong. She did not write about him in her letters to Brenden Deneith, either. She told herself it was because she would not know what to say of him.  
 
Mind to purpose. Roen inhaled sharply and stood. She would send Miss Delial a missive regarding this meeting. The woman had expressed interest in making herself known to the Resistance as well, said she was tired of looking through dust and rocks and now sought to do what was right. The Highlander woman seemed eager to look to a new path and new beginnings. Roen understood this instinct well.
 
"The Spinner has greater things in store for us," Delial had said to her in their last meeting.  
 
For us all, Roen added to herself as she began to make her way toward the Quicksand.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - cuideag - 03-08-2014

Ul'dah was a city of faces, Hroch quickly discovered. It came as little surprise for even before they left their home for the city of gold their peers were not shy about drowning them with warnings. Had they heeded every single one they would have found themselves never leaving their rooms for fear of being snatched off the streets, robbed, and murdered in no specific order. Ul'dah was beautiful and that beauty came at a price.

Aylard understood it better than their allies knew and when they walked the city streets to seek out one contact or another, his steps were careful and his gaze was sharp. They were foreigners after all, foreigners seeking aid in a city ruled by faces brittle and false. It were the friendly ones he shied away from, men and women who smiled too much for petty things. "Honest men never smile that much," he told his son. "Though the city may be wealthy, its people are starved of honesty." It was said that the markets sold anything anyone could ever desire, and there was no telling who would be willing to sell out a pair of out of place Ala Mhigans.

There was some advice they picked from the pile they'd been given. They kept separate rooms at the Quicksand just to side with caution, and when business did not require it, Hroch and his father often kept themselves occupied apart from one another. In truth, Hroch was grateful for having time to himself. The last few of their meetings were stressful affairs, and while to any onlooker he may have looked to be a brute of a young man, the company of strangers in a city of strangers did terrible things to his nerves.

Never mind that their meetings thus far had him headbutted roughly right in the face, yelled at (by the same man!), insulted, and promised for a time to a silent, hulking Roegadyn man. Only Wolfsong asked for nothing save information of his family, and it was father who knew anything about that.

Then there was, of course, Daena.

As was often the case than not lately, Hroch found his father's room to be empty when he woke. The faint smell of tea and a mostly empty mug resting on the bedside table affirmed that the older man hadn't gone too long ago at least, most likely to solidify the last of the details of their mission. Might miss supper again, he thought as he straightened out the bed sheets and made his exit.

Left to his own devices, Hroch took to cautiously exploring parts of the city, rarely daring to go too far beyond earshot of the Quicksand just in case his father ever had need of him. It was during these brief walks that he came to better understand his father's warnings. One trip into the thickest parts of the nearby markets on a particularly busy day put him at the mercy of many of the city's less subtle thieves, all of whom hardly bothered to hide their intentions while far more hands than should ever rightly find themselves on his posterior did just that. One would be pickpocket even had the gall to complain as he slunk back amongst the crowds, shouting something about "useless shirtless men" and their lack of pockets and coin purses.

Hroch had shouted back that technically he was wearing a shirt ("It's traditional!"), even if it left the vast majority of his torso bared. The sudden stares of the crowd sent him scampering back to the less hectic main streets nearer the Ruby Road Exchange, safe and whole save for a new bruise on his pride. He didn't get what he meant to get while he was there: a gift for the firey-haired girl with whom he would become comrade in arms, the breathtaking Daena Ghurn.

Even thinking of her made his heart ache in ways he didn't quite understand. For all his nineteen years he had seen his fair share of lovely lasses, yet none had caught his eye as much as she. Her father was a fierce bear of a man who may as well have had molten iron for blood. It was he that knocked him flat on his rear with just a headbutt, he who snarled warnings about advances towards his daughter. She was just as fierce and headstrong as Old Man Ruva, however, rarely cowing away from him even at his loudest. Proud and strong and perfect.

Aylard picked up on it immediately. "Best keep your focus, boy," he'd said as they walked back to Ul'dah.  "If she be a distraction to you..."

"I know, I know." Hroch couldn't help but grin then. "But maybe it's for lasses like that that we ought be gettin' home back, y'know? I mean, for everyone, really, but.... especially for beautiful, firey lasses."

His father didn't have to look at him for Hroch to hear the grin that lightened his tone. His head nodded once and he rumbled, "Aye. Especially for the beautiful, firey lasses." Though Hroch didn't know it at the time, there was a woman just the same and dear to his old man's heart that drove him to seek out the last of the Wolfsongs. Aylard Greyarm simply understood.

Hroch took a deep breath as he wound down the final steps into the Quicksand and then out into the sunny streets. There was no way he would be approaching the market again, especially not after word that there were people actively searching for them. Far, far too many empty smiling faces, never mind the wandering hands. His footsteps veered towards the nearby gate out of the city and he clapped his hands together in determination. The time was drawing nearer and nearer still and while his father was out rousing allies and making plans, it was up to him to be prepared for action. 

"We'll bleed for the cause," Old Ruva had said the last time they had met, the last time he had seen Daena.

Aylard only nodded, giving his son the barest of glances. "Aye, ol' friend. Our blood will nuture the soil of Ala Mhigo."

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 03-09-2014

Allies and Enemies





"She's a beauty, eh?"  

Shaelen Stormchild crossed her arms as she stepped up next to him, her face shining with pride.  

Aylard studied the small ship before him, his deep set eyes squinting under the desert sun. The skiff seemed ordinary to an uncaring eye, but he could see that it was small enough not to attract the attention of pirates, yet well made and weather worn enough to have seen more than its share of voyages through the seas. Peregrine was one of the smaller ships docked in Vesper Bay, but from the way Shaelen spoke of it, one would think none others mattered.

"Is she fast?" He stepped forward onto the dock and turned to face the captain of the ship, the woman he has known since she was a child.

Shaelen arched an eyebrow at him. "Fast? Peregrine here can outrun the best of Limsa Lominsa's battleships! Isn't that right, Shooey?" The woman looked over her shoulder as a tall looming figure came to stand behind her.  

Aylard glanced to the enormous roegadyn and was greeted with a bright, toothy grin. Aylard knew the dark-skinned roegadyn's chosen name was "Thaliak's Axe," and he preferred to be called "Axe" by his close friends. But Shaelen called him "Shooey" for reasons unknown to the Highlander - a remnant nickname from his past life, perhaps, but Aylard did not know. (Shaelen never said, and Axe wasn't talking about it - mostly because Axe had no tongue and did not talk at all, save for a grunt or growl here or there, or the occasional temperamental roar.) 

Axe let out an affirmative grunt and nodded in agreement with the Highlander woman who stood in front of him, her head just reaching the roegadyn's midchest level. The old man raised a skeptical bushy brow at both of them. "Faster than a Limsa Battleship. That I have to see to believe."  

"Well, I only have to prove it if we are caught, ol' man." Shaelen smirked. "And that's the point, isn't it?  Not to get caught?"  She stepped toward him, leaning in. "The speed comes from something special. But we will keep that between us, eh?"  She winked at him, her chestnut bangs falling over her mischievous blue-grey eyes.

Aylard shook his head at her. "You've not changed one bit, lass." He regarded her contemplatively, one hand scratching his bearded chin. "Reckless."

"I prefer ... bold. Or daring!"

"Whrf!" Axe chimed in behind her. It sounded like a purr from a four-hundred ponze coeurl. 

"Daredevil!" She looked at Axe and gave the roegadyn an agreeing thumbs-up. "I like that one." When he answered her again, this time with a low snarl, she wrinkled her freckled nose. "Kooky madcap?  Who you callin' kooky?" Axe yowled with laughter, his massive frame bouncing.

Aylard's expression softened, lines appearing around his aged eyes. He had known the two for years, and the friendship they shared seemed unwavering as ever.  And Shaelen still seemed to be the only one that understood the various noises that came from the tongueless roegadyn.  "As long as she's fast and gets the cargo where it needs to go, that is all I need to hear."

Shaelen turned back to Aylard, nodding with confidence. "Don't add more worry wrinkles to your forehead, ol' man.  You can't afford to get any more lines on ya." Her tone was teasing, but there was a hint of affection there. "It'll get there. I am good at what I do."

She was. Aylard knew this already. It was why he sought her out in Ul'dah. Shaelen was no longer with the movement; she had left years ago to chase her ambitions of fortune. But she always had an eye for opportunities, and a knack for getting in and out of places undetected, even when she was young. And now, as a woman nearing thirty winters in age, she had gained a reputation within the underground that she could transport things across the borders of the Empire. This was not a trek many were willing to make. And she charged a near fortune for it.

But this particular cargo was special. A stolen ceruleum core from Northern Thalanan, one so refined that it fit in the palm of Aylard's hand yet held enough energy within that when unleashed it could demolish a large Garlean facility. It would be a powerful weapon for the Resistance. Aylard needed someone reliable to get it back to Ala Mhigo, and Shaelen was the most reliable smuggler he knew. The Resistance would pay the fortune she asked, and gladly so.

"I looked over the papers," she continued. "It should get us through the Flames at the port."  Shaelen stepped up next to him and shot Axe a pointed look; the massive roegadyn turned to face the center of Vesper Bay, giving them cover behind his broad back. Her voice was kept low, easily drowned out by the vender shouts off the port. "I could have gotten these myself."

"Alabrous could get it faster." Aylard narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening. He always had an uneasy feeling whenever Alabrous Tane was involved, but much like his need for Shaelen Stormchild and her ship, he also needed Tane's unique services. Only difference was that Aylard trusted Shaelen.

"Al?" The highlander woman cocked an eyebrow and gave a snort. "How did you get that slimy spawn of an eft to come back to the fold?"

"He didn't. He's like you, lass. Loyalty bought with gil." That was not entirely true, Aylard would never question Shaelen's loyalty once agreement was made. But he still remembered the day when Shaelen left the cause. And it still stung. Sometimes he had to remind himself he no longer begrudged her for it.

Stormchild paused, her eyes fixed on her ship, her long bangs hiding her gaze from the old man. If she was irked by his words, she hid it well. When she turned back to him, it was with her usual smirk in place. "I hope you didn't pay him the fortune you offered me. He ain't worth it."

Aylard turned his head to the shorter highlander. "He knows what his service is worth. And asked for double."  

"Ha! He's losing his touch! I would have asked for thrice the amount."

It was the old man's turn to snort. "Aye.  And I would have paid it." His eyes crinkled with amusement, which was rare. "And I told him so." That sent Shaelen into a fit of laughter, tossing her head back.

"That probably still gnaws at his crotch." She sighed, shaking her head. "Well, he has his contacts alright. The documents are quality. And I looked them over carefully too. Al is always looking to short change people to his advantage, if he can."

Aylard nodded. "He hasn't turned us in yet."

"Probably because you told him you would have paid him more." Shaelen grinned. "You whet his appetite for the next score. Well done, ol' man."

"These papers will get our cargo past the Immortal Flames and out of Thalanan after we will meet up for the exchange," Aylard said, glancing to a lalafell at the nearby vendor table, dark eyes exchanging a look with the merchant there. He glanced behind him to spot a few mercenaries who had approached within earshot. He narrowed his eyes and began to casually walk toward the docks, as if to take closer look at the ocean. Shaelen fell into step behind him without a word although Axe did not. The roegadyn lumbered closer to the group of mercenaries, who were now giving him a wary eye.

"There also has been word that we are being sought after," Aylard said in his low gravelly voice as they reached the end of the dock, the lapping waves drowning out his voice. "There have been inquiries made in Little Ala Mhigo. Someone looking for a father and son." 

Shaelen bent down at the edge of the pier, squinting her eyes towards the water as if to spot any fish. She pointed at nothing in particular and looked over her shoulder at Aylard. When he bent to his knees, she lowered her voice even more. "Garlean? Or Immortal Flames?"

"I am not sure, lass. It was a Highlander doing the asking, although there were others with him, another Highlander and a Midlander, both women. The cargo is hot. Both would be after it. Although I don't think the Flames have been made aware of it... yet."

"Are you bringing backup for this exchange, just in case?" Shaelen crouched low, her eyes still on the rise and fall of the waves. She rested her elbows on her knees.

"Aye. I have the Ghurns and m'boy, Hroch." Aylard shifted slightly, ignoring the cracking protests from his right knee.

"Ruva Ghurn?" Shaelen raised her brows, turning to him. "He's back in the fold. Huh. I've not met him, but ... I know of him." Aylard remembered how Shaelen liked to know everyone who she was potentially dealing with. "Anyone else?"  

"And one other. He's capable." Aylard nodded, his deep set eyes squinting again.

"Can we trust him?" Her voice was low but determined. "I need to know this exchange is going to be secure."

"Wolfsong. I knew his family. His blood. I can speak for him." Aylard turned to meet her eyes steadily. She regarded him a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. They rose together.

Shaelen patted him on the shoulder, flashing him a grin. "Well, good seeing you again, ol' man! As always! You still owe me that tankard of ale! Maybe next time at Black Brush." she said boisterously. He nodded to her and they parted ways.

Aylard remained at the end of the pier until Shaelen rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, Thaliak's Axe soon after. The mercenaries he had spied earlier also seemed to have gone their own way. Reassured that their conversation was not overheard, Aylard began to make his way out of Vesper Bay, returning to Ul'dah. The impending journey back north preoccupied his thoughts, the possibilities of what waited them beyond giving his aging body a burst of excitement. The ceruleum would open many more possibilities to the Resistance, and with the kin of Windmark agreeing to join them on their return back to Ala Mhigo... 

Old blood would surely call more to their cause. The Windmark name would lend them strength, as would any of the old blood who had stood for Ala Mhigo but had fallen to the wrath of the Tyrant King, or forced to kneel before the might of the Empire. It was time to gather their strength again, to remember the pride that used to run strong in their veins and retake their home.

It was with such hope that Aylard approached Fresca's Wash, the Highlander pausing to squint at the distant horizon as the day was coming to a close. He had not appreciated the beauty of the setting sun for as long as he could remember, and he tried to recall what the last sunset looked like in his homeland.

And it was on the gold and red painted canvas that his attention remained, that he did not notice the long elongated shadow grew next to his from behind. It was only when a purring voice greeted him that he turned, and his eyes widening at the face he saw smiling at him. "Haven't we been busy?" It was not the woman he had expected to find.

"You...!" was the only word that escaped from Aylard before his breath was choked out of him.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - cuideag - 03-14-2014

She could hear him breathe. It irked her but he was of more use alive than dead. A name unexpectedly found, a face she'd seen years ago when he was a younger thing. In those days he could cut men like they were cloth, shred them like wet paper. His eyes were the same: cold, hard, ancient for the body he wore, worn down as it was.
 
He was smaller without his armor, grey and coarse, a mere ghost of the son with whom he often walked. He strained against the chains that held him, pinned him down sitting up against an ancient and heavy armoire. (She didn't think to explain the weight, nor the smell.) When he first woke she stroked his cheek and flicked away the spittle that had gathered at the corners of his mouth. They never talk about this, she had thought to herself. There is no romance in this war of ours. We all become such ugly things.
 
Delial Grimsong smiled. There was a dagger in her hands and she spun it idly in her fingers, blade hanging loosely towards the floorboards. There were splatters, too, rust red and thick that looked too fresh to be coincidence. His skin was cold.
 
"Hello, sweetling."
 
He favored her with no response. Cold and hard as his eyes may have been, they were still glossy and mildly addled from the drug she had cut into his veins. It took but a spell to steal the air from his lungs but even that would not keep him down for long, not while he was moved to--
 
"Where am I?"
 
"Does it matter?"

"Where?"
 
"Darling," said Delial with a click of her tongue and a slow, pitying shake of her head. She tried to sound sad but sorrow was tricky, difficult to fake. "Don't you understand what this is?"
 
The fog was clearing from his eyes. She knelt over him in robes stained dark while her smile glinted white, glinted like the blade in her hands. It was dark where they were, a cluttered and dusty room with no windows, no light but a single lamp bathing them in dim amber. His skin was cold but it burned. The fog was clearing and Aylard Greyarm remembered why the face that smiled at him (leering, mocking, laughing with venomous eyes) struck a blistering chord inside.
 
She touched his cheek, brushed fingers over his lips. He growled and tried to recoil but he was bound too tight to move. His skin was cold. "It will be easier if you are still, my dear. Now, do you understand what I want?"
 
"Rot in the Seven Hells," was what he meant to say. The witch had smiled the same way at Heather just as she was cut down, the twitch of dark lips ugly and wretched. "An eternity to each and every one." Aylard could feel the tongue in his mouth and the hot words in his brain but neither came together quite as he wanted. His voice instead emerged as a choked groan as felt a piercing pain in his side. When he looked down he understood why his skin was so cold.
 
His body was marked by lines and coils of that same rusty red. Circles circled and repeated over his lungs and his heart, dashed through by lines that crossed artery and vein and organ. It chilled his skin but burned where the marks were echoed by the shallow lacerations that raised long bleeding welts over his upper body.

The pain in his side grew. The numbness flowed away rapidly, bled out with every thud of his heart. She listened to him breathe and took a moment to appreciate the way that very breath caught hard in his throat. His skin was cold but her fingers were slick and burning as she squeezed and reached further in. The knife was on the floor but he could not see her hand.
 
"Do you understand," Delial Grimsong whispered, "What I want?"

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Shael - 03-15-2014

"Something's wrong."
 
Shaelen's blue-grey eyes narrowed, her gaze a darkened, stormy hue. She crossed her arms and stared down the road again. The fairway past the Coffer and Coffin tavern remained as dusty and dry as ever, desert winds sending the sands up into an occasional swirling, chaotic dance. From her vantage point at Black Brush Station, the smuggler could see down the road, well past the run-down tavern, following the trail back to the Gate of Nald. She glared at the long desolate road, as if her will alone would make the missing Highlander materialize out of thin air. But as time ticked by, Aylard Greyarm was nowhere to be found.
 
A growl behind her made her turn. She frowned at Axe, her stalwart companion and bodyguard. Shael shook her head at him. "He wouldn't forget. The tankard of ale was always our trade word. Meet up five bells before the actual arranged time, to finalize things. Aylard never forgets."
 
Thaliak's Axe let out a pitiful gnarling whine, his thick brows furrowing. Worry was clear on his expression as well, which only made that knot in her stomach tighter.  
 
Where are you, ol' man... Shaelen turned back one more time to the road, her fingers tapping lightly on her arm. Now it was four bells before the meeting at the Nanawa Mines for the exchange. Aylard was never this late.
 
Shaelen tried to recall the last time the Highlander had not shown for one of their rendezvous. It was just before the Battle of Carteneau, and she was to meet with him to discuss smuggling out some Garlean magitek weapons. There was a war going on, after all, and who was going to miss a few weapons from a vast arsenal? But Aylard had gotten wind of something else that would happen that day, and he did not show five bells before the smuggling operation was to take place. Shaelen did not hear from him why or how, but his absence was signal enough to abort the mission. So she did.  
 
It saved her life. Dalamud fell from the sky that day.
 
But something else troubled her about his absence now. Was it the fact that there were too many involved in this deal that she did not know? Or the involvement of Alabrous Tane? Or the fact that Aylard mentioned he and his son was being sought out after? Something nagged at her thoughts and it made her uneasy.
 
"That's it. We've waited long enough." She looked to the sun above then back to the road. She turned as Axe gave a displeased howl. 
 
"What do you want me to do, Shooey? We can't wait here all day!" She placed her hands on her hips. "What, look for him? I don't even know where to start."
 
Axe jutted his chin forward and let out another rumble. He was looking to the Gates of Ul'dah.
 
"That’s not our deal. If he doesn’t show up five bells before to reassure me everything is okay, the deal is off." Shaelen snorted as she walked past him to the Aetheryte crystal. "That's how we work. That's how we make sure we don't get screwed. Have you forgotten that?"
 
The tongueless Roegadyn murmured behind her. He had the same bad feeling about this as she did, and did not like it at all. But still, he liked to complain.
 
Shaelen grabbed her pack from the ground, dusting it off. She patted it down harshly, her own movements betraying her apprehension. "I'm sure he's fine. He'll let me know tomorrow what happened. Or whenever he is good and ready to set this up again." A part of her didn't like how much his absence bothered her. Usually an aborted mission slid off her back like water. But this was Aylard. She didn't like admitting she owed anyone anything, but...
 
Aylard. She did owe him. Big time. He took her in when she had no home. He gave her a family when she had none. He had to be fine.
 
Another grunt from the Roegadyn drew her eyes back towards him. She shook her head. "I don't know, Shooey. Maybe it's off altogether." After a pause, she muttered under her breath. "Maybe the Flames found out."
 
To that Axe said nothing. And that meant something entirely different. Shaelen turned back to the Roegadyn, a deep frown twisting her face. "No, Shooey. We don't go look for them. They don't need our help. That's not what we do." She held up a hand at Axe to stop any further arguments. "I know it's Aylard. We gave him over a bell to show. But this is how we conduct business. This is how you and I survive."
 
Axe murmured again, quietly. She just shook her head again.
 
"Let's go, Shooey." She slung her pack over her shoulder and started out toward the chocobos, her fists swinging angrily by her side with each determined step. 
 
"The deal is off," she muttered. "Pretty damned sure no one is gonna be at those mines now."

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 03-21-2014

Trouble at the Nanawa Mines






Roen struggled to fight off unconsciousness, her vision blurring as she stared at her hands, spread and braced on the ground. She could feel a sensation of warmth rising from her back, just inside her right shoulder blade. A part of her wondered if someone had poured warm water on her back because it was starting to run down her arm. Then the searing pain hit and jolted her out of her daze, nearly buckling her right arm. It was all she could do to remain on her hands and knees. She blinked to try to clear her thoughts, to get her bearings. 
 
What just happened?

She had been shot. The piercing ache in her back told her that she had been struck by an arrow from behind. The sentry she had failed to knock unconscious had done it too -- the one she had thrown off the side of the bridge when she saw more people rushing up towards her, weapons drawn. It had not been a far fall, only a few yalms down. She was just trying to get him out of the way, out of the way as more armed people came charging up the wooden stair leading up to the Nanawa Mines. 
 
These people -- they were not the terrorists or smugglers she and Natalie had been led to believe. They were--
 
How did this happen? 
 
 


 
 
"Roen, what do you think about laws?" 

Roen arched her eyebrows at Natalie. It was an odd question to be sure. Was this part of her Sultansworn trial? Her mentor had gathered both she and Kage, a lalafell who was also aspiring to be a paladin that Roen had been helping to train, for a special meeting. And it had started with this cryptic question.

"They are what we uphold," Roen answered earnestly, looking to the miqo'te Sultansworn standing under the canvas shade of Ruby Road Exchange.

Natalie nodded, regarding them both. "I could use some assistance, and I am hoping both of you can help me. But... it might not be entirely legal."  When she was answered with a questioning look from both of them, she shrugged. "Think of it as an undercover operation." Natalie chuckled quietly. "Just one that isn't sanctioned by my superiors. If something goes wrong, it will be mostly on my head."

"Well if it is on your head..." Kage grinned.

"Alright." Roen agreed, not needing to hear more.

Natalie raised a brow. "That was easy, Roen. You agree already?"

Roen gave her a shrug and a smile. "I trust you. You ask for help, I say yes."

The miqo'te Sultansworn seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment, and that did not happen with Natalie often. 

"A dangerous thing, that... but thank you." Natalie nodded, then leaned in towards both of them. "A shipment of ceruleum has been stolen. We suspect that the primary purpose is to make explosives." She kept her voice low. "This almost went completely under my notice, but I managed to get hired as a mercenary for the heist. So we will have to go in not as ourselves for this deal."
 
Roen blinked. With a glance she could see that Kage was surprised as well.
 
"If the Flames or the Sultansworn stormed in, they would just scatter and we would never figure out who was ordering this and why." Natalie's green eyes flicked to each of them in turn, making sure they were still with her. "I need to know this explosive is not meant for Ul'dah. We are going to go in disguised, and first prevent casualties. So aim to disable, not to kill. Then we try and figure out what where this is headed. And we will stop it if it will endanger Ul'dah."
 
Roen nodded. Her heart was racing already; this would be her first undercover operation. With disguises. She knew she did not do well with any lying or play acting, she had hoped to just stay silent and follow Natalie's lead.

They gathered later that afternoon to meet with their "handler," their disguises in place. Roen could not help but be impressed by how different everyone looked.  Kage was wearing a caster robe and a large pointy hat that covered most of his face, and Natalie wore fierce-looking face paint, and had colored her hair. She also wore a long thin lance on her back, her plate armor and breast plate traded for a light leather armor. Roen chose a chainmail shirt with boots, and a mask over her face and hair. She left her shield and longsword in her room, opting for a shortsword at her belt. She thought the disguise was good enough, so long as she did not have to talk.

Not talking came easy enough, for she was stunned to silence when she met their "handler." He was a dark skinned Keeper miqo'te, with a dark bob of a hair and a sly smirk that she did not forget. Roen had met him before. Many moons ago, in Gridania. Erik had fallen ill, and she and Siha went to try and cheer him up. The miqo'te, Cicero, had walked up and introduced himself as a poet, joining them at their table without an invitation.
 
And here he was again, under a different guise.

"Call me Rose." The miqo'te said, his white grin splitting his features. He wore a light tunic and breeches with leather vest and boots, for easy travel. He gave them a flourishing bow. "Shall we?" 

The Cicero that she had met spoke of flowers and things of beauty, that first day. And he had made them laugh. It didn't seem as though this was the same man at all.
 
"First, some info." Natalie held up her hand. "Who are we stealing this from?"
 
The Keeper miqo'te arched a brow. "Simple smugglers," he purred. "It should go off without a hitch."
 
"And what will you do with it?" Natalie pressed. "I'm fond of this city. It would be bad for business if you blew a hole in it."
 
"So many questions." Cicero said languidly, peering at Natalie. "For a hired mercenary, you sure do ask a lot. Are there perhaps aphids in the garden?"
 
Roen was glad for the mask that hid most of her expression as she felt herself stiffen. But Natalie seemed unfazed. "I'm a mercenary, not a terrorist. I have no problem fighting or stealing from smugglers. But if you have a problem with my questions, speak plainly." 
 
Cicero rolled his eyes. "Well, I can guarantee you that the item in question will not be used for any terrorist plot. I would not be so open about my face were I concerned with being named a terrorist."
 
"I'm fine with terrorism." Natalie laughed. "As long as it's not in my backyard. Hard to get a drink if people are blowing shit up." She looked over the Keeper miqo'te and finally nodded. "We're with you then."
 
"So there is honor amongst the thieves of Thalanan," Cicero drawled. "Who would have known." Quiet footsteps behind him drew his attention as he turned around to spot another miqo'te -- this one a Seeker -- approaching the three. "Ah, the star of the show has arrived," Cicero said. "That must mean it is time to raise the curtain."
 
Roen blinked as she recognized the Seeker, again thankful that her mask hid her expression. It was C'kayah Tia, one she had met some time ago through Siha and Erik -- and a male who had also recently become Natalie's beau. She resisted the urge to glance to her Sultansworn mentor as he joined them. C'kayah had been investigated by Natalie in the past and cleared, although the two shared a ...complicated history. Roen has suspected that C'kayah's connections in Ul'dah were vast, and now here he was, working with them on this undercover case. Things had come a long way, it seemed.
 
The group was led by Cicero to the Nanawa Mines. The sun was setting when they approached, and from a distance the mines looked deserted. Cicero held up his hand up to have them stop just behind a large cropping of rocks. Four figures stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the mines, with two sentries as lookouts on the top of the stairs. The two sentries both had bow and arrows. Roen could not see the figures clearly in her quick glance towards the mine, but they were facing east, as if looking or waiting for something.

"We can go around to the west, I know a path that leads up to the mines." Natalie squinted at the two sentries up top. "Then even if a fight breaks out, they would have to come to us. We would have the higher ground."

"I can get into position at the bottom to cover the sentries." C'kayah added, pulling out his bow.

"And you can put them to sleep?" Natalie looked to Kage.

"I need to be somewhat close." The lalafell nodded. "And I need to be covered so I can finish the cast. I can put down the most dangerous-looking one first."

"We'll cover you." C'kayah nodded to Kage, rising slightly to scan the mines over the rocks. He ducked back down. "Six in total," he confirmed. "I'd like it if we can do this without any fatalities. We don't need that sort of attention. Although they look like smugglers after all."

The miqo'te who called himself Rose grinned to them all. "This is where the script ends. I leave the rest to you all." He bowed. "I shall remain here, waiting for the news of your success."
 
Natalie set her lance aside, pulling out her sword and shield. "I did not want to be seen using these, but..." She gave C'kayah a look. "It looks like we might need it."
 
Ckayah answered her back with a nod of his own as he drew a blunt-tipped fowling arrow from his quiver. "What's your take on this?"

"Let's sneak around from the west, and take out the sentries first." Natalie poked out her head again from behind the rocks, her sharp miqo'te eyes narrowing. "One of them looks like an Ishgardian with that armor and lance. But why Ishgard would need ceruleum..." She shrugged and glanced to Roen as if to sense her nervousness. "I guess I am about to find out. You ready?"

Roen nodded, inhaling sharply to steady her nerves. And then...

Then everything happened too quickly.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 03-21-2014

A choke hold. That's what Natalie said to do. A hand over the mouth and an arm around the throat. They both quietly approached the two lookouts from behind, and before Roen could blink, Natalie was dragging off one of them without a sound. 

But hers was on the wooden stairs, and when Roen stepped onto the plank, it creaked. It was just enough sound to make the sentry turn his head slightly, his eyes going wide in alarm just as she reached him. She felt him struggle as she wrapped her arm around his neck, his feet kicking the wooden ground. It was loud enough to be heard by those below.

"The sentries!" came a cry, from where the other four were gathered below. Roen began to drag the man in her arms backwards, and as she did so she slowly felt his struggle lessen from being robbed of air. But her eyes shot to the first figure that charged up the stairs, an older man, armored in chain coif and mail, his blade drawn.

"Ruva, wait--!" came a call from below.

"ALA MHIGO!!" The first man let out a booming cry, heedless of the protests behind him.

"Curses! You cover me now!" Kage yelled, standing up and drawing his staff.

Natalie rushed forward with her sword and shield, ready to meet the man they called Ruva, trying to place herself in front of Kage. Roen heard a sharp split in the air as an arrow sailed by, just missing the charging man. She quickly spotted C'kayah down below near the base of the stairs behind another outcropping of large stones; the miqo'te was drawing another arrow. Roen shoved the man she had been holding to the side, and he fell to the dirt landing a few yalms below the wooden planks. She drew her short sword, readying herself for combat as the other figures charged up the stairs.

She recognized one of them.

The gleam of the dark blue armor and the frighteningly large lance he carried... Roen had seen that armor and lance before. 

It was her Master of Arms. Her mentor. 

Gharen Wolfsong was rushing up the stairs to meet them, his lance drawn.

She froze. Her spinning thoughts held her limbs hostage. She saw Kage casting with his staff in hand, sending crackling dark aetheric energies towards the lancer. With a sinking feeling, Roen saw Gharen falter for a moment in his ascent, one hand going to the wooden stair to steady himself. But Gharen shook his head and remained upright. Kage muttered something about his spell being resisted.  
 
Another sharp whistle broke the air; this time a blunt tipped arrow finding its mark on the third figure rushing up the stairs. Roen could see he was a younger highlander, perhaps eighteen winters by his face. He had no weapon in hand, he was rushing up armed only with his bare hands. C'kayah's arrow sent him stumbling forward on the stairs, a low grunt escaping his lips. He looked dazed, but not down. Past him clambered up a highlander girl who also had no weapon in hand. She looked no older than sixteen, but was charging up the stairs to meet them in full fury nonetheless.

"Pa!!! They are shootin'!" the girl yelled, her eyes going to the first man who had charged up. She had nearly reached the top of the stairs when she fell forward. "Kuugh!" She grunted, clutching her side. C'kayah's blunt arrow had found another mark, cracking the girl in the ribs. The miqo'te archer leaped over the rock he had been using for cover, running to the base of the stairs.
 
Natalie met Ruva's charge, ducking low with her shield aimed at his legs. That sent the older man stumbling to the ground, but he quickly recovered with a swing of his sword aimed at her midsection. Natalie leaped back just barely dodging the edge of the blade. Their swords clashed, the metallic ringing echoing into the night. And yet Roen could still not move.

"Wait--" She finally managed, holding out her hand towards Kage who was preparing another spell. Things were happening too fast.
 
Natalie glanced back to Roen, and she could see that the Sultansworn seemed confused as well. Clearly their war cries and makeup did not speak of smugglers or profiteers. She swung her sword hard at Ruva's trying to knock it away. She backed up a step and planted her weapon into the wooden planks. "All of you! Stop for a moment!" she shouted.
 
Her calls for a pause did not go heeded. Indeed, things were still happening at a breakneck pace. Ruva took a moment given by Natalie to look to the girl -- his daughter -- coming up behind him. "Flee, girl! The boy too! This deal's done!" He began to circle Natalie, seemingly trying to find an opening or buying his daughter some time.
 
The girl did not stop. "Can't, Pa! They are still shootin'!!" As soon as she was back on her feet, she charged for Natalie, trying to tackle the miqo'te. The girl was quick, and had impressive momentum. But she was still no match for a trained and battle-hardened Sultansworn. Natalie caught the girl in her hands and used her momentum to swing the girl back around, sending her crashing into her father.
 
Roen's eyes widened at what followed. The older man was too close to the edge -- and it looked as though they were both going over the side of the bridge. 
 
Ruva kicked back at his daughter, shoving her forward and himself away, trying to get her back to the edge of the bridge as much as possible... before he hurtled out of sight, plummeting to the ground at least twenty yalms below.

"Daena?!" came another call, the younger man on the bridge sounding panicked. He had risen after being knocked down by C'kayah's arrow, and leaped down to face off against the archer, who now had a barbed arrow trained on him. 
 
The highlander girl twitched for a moment, looking at Natalie. There was retaliation in her eyes and her white knuckled fists shook with anger. But when she glanced to the empty space where her father had been, she froze with horror. "Pa!" With a choked sob, she turned and made a dash down the stairs. "I'm coming," she called out, her voice hoarse.
 
"Please... wait. Stop!" Roen cried out, her hands going up, dropping her sword. Even as she did so she saw Gharen leap over them all with quickness and height that seemed almost supernatural. She saw him swing his lance at Kage's feet, knocking him to the ground. But he paused, his helm turning her way. It was obvious he had recognized her voice despite her mask.

That was when she heard that familiar sharp hiss in the wind, another arrow let loose. Except this one was not from C'kayah. It was from behind her. She realized too late that the sentry she had released and pushed off to the side had regained his bearings. That's when the piercing pain from behind robbed her of breath and sent her to the ground.
 
"Damn it!!" She heard Natalie cry out. The Sultansworn's face twisted with rage, and in an instant she spun with the swing of her shield, sending its sharpened tip into the throat of the sentry who had just let loose his arrow. The sickening crunch of the spine churned Roen's stomach as the highlander archer crumpled to the ground, blood spurting from his throat.

Gharen let out a low feral growl, his lance spinning and slamming onto Natalie's sword arm, stunning her, then spinning and crashing his haft against her feet, knocking her to the ground. He pointed the tip of his deadly lance at her throat, and let out an ear splitting whistle. "Stand down!" 

"There has been a mistake..." Roen began to say between gasps, but her words were drowned out by a low rumble behind them that also shook the ground. It was all she could do to steady herself on her hands and knees. Natalie fell on top of her protectively, shielding her with her own form. 
 
Roen looked back up towards Natalie and Gharen. They both had their hands up to shield their faces, and were looking over their shoulders towards the mine. 

From the mine entrance now billowed black, ominous smoke. Tendrils of flames could be seen licking out out from the mouth of the cave. Natalie held up one hand towards Gharen as she curled the other under Roen's, helping her to stand. Gharen lowered his lance just a little, and motioned with it toward the descending stairs.  

That was when the next explosion boomed, deafening them all.
 

RE: A Legacy in Blood - cuideag - 03-27-2014

On his third time through the room, Hroch Greyarm finally stopped himself. There was nothing left that could identify the man who had slept here, nothing at all to even say that anyone had stayed aside from an unmade bed and a piece of whetstone left on the table. Brynnalia said there would have been nothing to find: Aylard kept his contacts in his head and only in his head, memorizing names and faces and occupations of acquaintances new and old alike. The man was no fool. He was careful. That was how he survived.
 
Hroch rubbed his face with a hand, catching himself pacing about in tiny circles. That was how he survived, he echoed in his mind, doubt sinking deep and dark in the pit of his stomach. It was the third sun and counting since Aylard had failed to meet them at their mark and no one had so much as heard a thing from the old man.
 
"This isn't like him," they'd say. "Something is wrong. Where could he be?" Angry, accusatory eyes had sought him as if it was Hroch himself that was behind Aylard's disappearance. It was his father, after all. How could he possibly lose sight of his father? "What are we going to do?"
 
What are we going to do?
 
Tensions had been high among he and his peers after their catastrophic failure to secure the ceruleum he and his father had been sent to Thanalan for, after the attack and explosions and fire, after Ruva took a fall that may very well have cost him the ability to walk and most certainly cost another man his life. Somewhere along the line something had gone wrong and none of them could decide what it could have been. The attack itself had come as a complete surprise: they'd snuck up from behind, their presence detected only as one of them made a false step on the bridge as they attempted to neutralize the lookouts. Only after Ruva had fallen and one sentry was murdered did they retreat, both parties licking wounds and wondering what exactly had just happened.
 
Ruva. Hroch's eyes pinched shut at the stinging chill in his chest every time he thought about Daena's father. He could still hear the painful crunch his body had made when he fell, and the terrified look in his red-haired daughter's eyes. That should never have happened. Never. We should have been careful. What are we going to do?
 
They set the leg as best as they could but there was no telling if it would ever fully heal. But he's alive and accounted for, Hroch caught himself thinking bitterly. Never would he have dared say it aloud and the mere act of having thought it filled him with shame and loathing. Battered as he was, Daena still had him. No self-respecting Ala Mhigan would let himself die tumbling off a catwalk and Ruva Ghurn was as proud an Ala Mhigan as any.
 
But so is da, and where is he?
 
His breath left him in a heavy sigh and he felt all the more empty for it. The compulsion to sift through the drawers and comb through the armoire hit him once more but he knew there would be nothing to find, just as there was nothing to be found at the mines after the attack save fire and rubble and just as he was left with fewer and fewer leads left to follow. Gharen Wolfsong spoke of to them of a student of his that had participated in the brief battle but was insistent that he be the one to speak with her. "We've enough wounded an' dead o'er this," he said to Daena in particular. "Rushin' in blindly with youthful anger an' stupidity won' help either."
  
"Things are nae add'n up," he said, shaking his head. It was an obvious truth no one else wanted to admit, for admitting it would have only proven that they were not as in control of the situation as they had previously believed. What do we do?
 
Hroch Greyarm fidgeted and tugged at the bed sheets into some semblance of order. Then he swore and messed them up just as they were. He'll come back and I'll have a word with him about responsibility, Hroch told himself. A man's nothing without discipline and making their beds is what responsible people do. Quietly he sat himself down on the edge of the bed and, alone and in silence, Hroch waited. It was not until bells later that he would realize that he had been weeping.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Gharen - 04-01-2014

Sparks flew in all directions as the hammer repeatedly struck the Cobalt billet with the rhythmic ring of metal striking metal. Gharen had folded the billet what felt like hundreds of times in the creation of this blade; he was using this time to think, to replay events in his head and weigh the information out. Days earlier he’d returned to Nanawa mines, the scene of the explosion, figuring he would not have much time before the Brass Blades, Immortal Flames, or even the Sultansworn arrived.
 
He’d removed his armor and changed into something less conspicuous; to the passing observer he looked like one of the refugee miners who were attempting to douse the few remaining fires that were still going. Hauling a bucket of water, he moved to where he guessed the explosion had come from. Gharen scanned the ground; the blast had done well to cover the evidence at its epicenter. But amongst the tracks, he spotted footprints in the dust and dirt that didn’t match the more recent tracks of the miners attempting to put the fires out.
 
Kneeling down to examine the them, Gharen could see that they were lightly made, as if someone was moving with speed and intent coming from the flanks of where their scuffle had been. He surmised them to be Miqo’te or Midlander possibly, based on the size and weight of the print, and they were heading toward the epicenter of the blast. He followed the footprints until they emerged from the mouth of the cave again, this time heading away from the site. The steps now carried more weight, as if carrying something it had not before.
 
Gharen plunged the billet into the forge, preparing to fold it yet again. Why in the hells had she been there? On its face, the facts pointed to betrayal, he had put members of the Resistance in contact with her at her request. Now the man who had intended to meet her has gone missing, and she had been part of the group that had ambushed them at the Nanawa Mines.
 
His initial response had been one of raw anger, but then he started asking questions: why had they called for everyone to halt their attack? They were expecting something, or someone else, but by the time they realized this, things had already spun out of control. Then there were the foot prints he’d found at the blast site, her people seemed every bit as taken by surprise by the sudden blast indicating that wasn’t part of their plan. A third party? Who then?
 
Gharen pulled the billet out of the fire with his tongs and placed it over the anvil and began the process of hammering it over onto itself again. It was only when he saw her step into his line of sight that the echoing ringing stopped, the hammer coming to rest against the glowing metal.
 
Roen Deneith stood there, dressed in plain cotton tunic and breeches, with only a dagger at her side. She was not dressed in her usual paladin armor, nor had she come as one. One hand rested on her stomach, and there was a look of nervousness as she regarded him. But despite whatever her intent may have been, Gharen could feel his rage quickly rising even at the mere sight of her. He let out a low growl and looked to the doorway behind him then back to her. A part of him expected to see armed backup waiting outside.
 
“What did ye do?” He demanded, jaws squared. His words were direct, to the point, and were filled with anger. He did not wait for her to answer as he turned and plunged the billet back into the forge. Perhaps he thought that continuing to work would cease the rising fury he felt within. He gave the bellows a pump, feeling the heat growing hotter from within the forge.
 
"Master Gharen. I... we did not know." Her voice was quiet. Uncertain. "Are you alright? Did the man who fell... did he live?"
 
Gharen withdrew the glowing billet, setting it back on the anvil again. "He'll live, likely with a limp." His hammer struck the metal once more. He glared at her accusingly, "Nae so lucky fer th' young man with th' crushed throat."
 
"We thought... we were told that..." Roen bowed her head. "We thought we were going to find terrorists." She shook her head, her expression dark with sorrow. "I did not know we would find you. And the Resistance."
 
His hammer answered her with an unforgiving ringing blow. "Aye then how'd ye know?" The glowing metal spat out more sparks. "An' what of Aylard, hmm?" Another strike. "What'd ye do with him?" A part of him knew he should not be this angry, but striking the billet was all he could do to keep from exploding.
 
"I..." Roen looked confused. "Aylard... Greyarm? What of--" His words and strikes came fast, and the anger that fueled them made her flinch.  "What did I do? I... I do not understand." She blinked rapidly and gave him a look of surprise and disbelief.  "What do you think I did?"
 
The hammer struck the billet again harder than before, cutting her question off. He turned and kicked shut the thick wooden door behind him. Gods, how he wanted to yell at her. "He's missin', I put ye in contact with him… he turns up missin', an ye show up with an armed ambush." His voice was barely controlled.
 
He grabbed the tongs and plunged the billet into the fires again and worked the bellows. He was keeping his hands busy else it would have shook with anger. He'd gone over the facts in his head repeatedly and suspected that her group didn't know they were running into The Resistance. Then why in the hells was he so angry at her?
 
"What do you think I did... Master Gharen?" Her question came slow, and her voice shook. "What do you think me capable of?"
 
Gharen stopped the bellows but his grip never left the handle. "I can tell ye what it looks like on th' surface." He took a breath. "But tha' dinnae explain th' calls te stop th' fight, which indicates tha' ye dinnae know who we were… or th' fact someone circled aroun' durin' our scuffle an' took somethin' from th' supplies before they went an' exploded." He took his tongs and moved the billet, flipping it to ensure it is heated evenly. He gave her a hard look. "So I'll ask ye again, fer yer account o' things. What did ye do?"
 
"I do not know about Aylard Greyarm, Master Gharen.” She stood there, stalk still and stiff, but with her chin lifted. “He sent a boy to set up a meeting with me. But he never showed. I waited for him at Fesca's Wash. I did not know he went missing." She sighed.  "As for the mines, Natalie got a tip. About smugglers who were possibly going to sell stolen ceruleum to terrorists. We thought we were looking into see someone threatening Ul'dah. That is what we were told!” She looked to him beseechingly.
 
Gharen's jaw tightened as he moved the billet again and gave the bellows another pump. His eyes looked over to meet hers. "Who then provided tha' tip? Because if'n they took what I'm fairly certain they did, we've all got a whole other problem on our hands."
 
"A miqo'te. I met him once. He called himself Cicero. That day, he called himself Rose.” Roen answered earnestly. “He had contacted C'kayah for this smuggling job. So C'kayah told Natalie, who then recruited me and one other to help. We were there to make sure the ceruleum was not sold to terrorists. But after fire... Rose could not be found."
 
Gharen used the tongs to pull the glowing billet from the forge. He could feel his anger slowly abating, as he started putting puzzle pieces together. This Miqo'te, Cicero, was the likely thief and source of the explosion and resulting fire. And, there were other potential players. "What do ye know o’ this Delial woman?"
 
Roen blinked, clearly surprised. "Miss... Delial? I met her while I was at Little Ala Mhigo. She helped me find out more about my mother's ancestors. Why would you ask me of her?"
 
Gharen's hammer struck the billet. "Because she's the only other person who knew I'd be arranging fer ye te meet with Aylard. Unless o'course ye let others know?" His movements had become more rhythmic, more controlled.
 
Roen shook her head,her own voice steady. “She told me she wanted to join the Resistance. That she found her current job tiresome and meaningless. She wanted to do something that was right. Her gaze drifted to the anvil in thought. “I let her know when I was going to meet with Aylard Greyarm. I thought she could meet him for a chance to join the cause for her homeland."
 
"Did ye tell her where ye'd be meeting him?"
 
"I did."
 
Gharen reached for a thin plate of steel and inserted it into the center of the folded billet, bringing his hammer down on it a few times to lock it into place before plunging it back into the forge. This task allowed him to think. This Highlander woman had the time and the place; another potential ambush would be simple to set up and execute especially if he'd arrived early. And only few suns ago, "Miss Delial" had sent a missive, wanting to speak to him directly.
 
He looked at Roen,"I'd be wary of any information ye share with Miss Delial. I have a feelin' she's nae as trustworthy as ye might think, considerin' she's want'n te talk te me now."
 
Roen stared at Gharen for a long moment. Disbelief was clear in her eyes. "She-- but...” She shook her head. “Every word she has shared with me was that of encouragement and comfort.” Silence fell between them as she considered his words. Her deep frown betrayed her conflict and reluctance to believe him. "What will you do, Master Gharen?"
 
He shifted the billet in the forge, “I’ll talk to her. See what she has to say. Might see about put’n a tail on her, I’m nae sure.” He watched the metal turn bright orange with the heat. He’d long since lost count of how many folds he'd made in the beginning of this blade. This was likely going to be one of his best.
 
"Also, I'd like fer ye te pass along a message." Gharen paused, turning back to Roen. He gave her a firm look, his tone darkening. "Tell tha' Miqo'te lass... Natalie was it? Tell her had it been anyone other than ye on the ground there she'd likely nae have walked away from tha’ fire let alone continued breathin' after what she did."
 
Roen nodded, clearly conflicted. "I am sorry, Master Gharen. For all that happened."
 
"Tis what it is." Gharen answered, resigned. His anger had completely faded. He returned to the task at hand.
 
Roen regarded him for a long moment. "You thought I betrayed you," she said quietly.
 
He stopped hammering the billet but his gaze didn’t leave it right away, "Initially, aye. Th' thought had crossed my mind, but th' events dinnae add up te tha', I needed te hear it come from ye te confirm tha' it was nae true."
 
Roen took one step closer, despite the heated metal that hissed between them. "I would never do that. I would never betray you." She looked to him with a steady gaze, intent. "I just needed you to know that." She said quietly, stepping once more towards him.  "If you were to leave for Ala Mhigo… I did not want you to leave thinking I would do that to you."
 
Gharen looked at her fora long moment then nodded. Newly arising guilt made him grip the hammer tight. "Aye lass. I thank ye," he rumbled low.
 
They met each other's gaze for a moment longer, before Roen bowed. "I will leave you to your work, Master Gharen." She turned to leave, then glanced over her shoulder. "I hope you are wrong about Miss Delial."
 
 Gharen kept silent on the matter of the Highlander woman, instead glancing at the cooled billet and shoving it back into the forge. He looked back to Roen, his hand on the bellows. "Aye lass. Take care o' yerself alrigh'?"
 
Roen nodded. "Staywell, Master Gharen."

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 04-08-2014

[sub]This post follows the events from this post.[/sub]



Bitter Ashes




Roen threw the drawers open, snatching up her tunic and breeches, and threw them haphazardly onto the large bag that awaited on the bed. Her eyes darted around the room, wide with panic. She ducked under the bed, pulling out a pair of leather boots; if there was walking to be done, she would need them. She stood, and her eyes caught sight of the white and blue embroidered fabric that still laid on the bed: her Sultansworn tabard. Roen found her breath caught, her body unable to move. What was she doing? Was she really worried about walking through the desert? Did it really matter what she put into that bag?

In a flash of anger she threw the boots in her hand across the room, knocking plates from the table. The dish crashed to the wooden floor, the glass shattering. Roen cared not. She crumpled, sinking to a seat on the floor, her head buried in her hands.

They had her father. Ana Deneith had found Roen in Western Thalanan, just as she was returning from her Trial of Courage, to relay the shocking news. Roen had bid farewell to them that morning, kissing young Brenna and Brayden on the forehead and embracing Ana and Brenden warmly. Brenden had been treated by the royal physicians of the court suns before, and he was feeling stronger. He felt well enough to return to their home in Southern Thalanan; the medical corps had done their job well. 

But the Deneith family never completed the journey. They were set upon by Garleans who materialized seemingly out of thin air in the middle of the desert, and were taken away. From Ana’s harried description of the events, Roen surmised that they were teleported away and taken to a Castrum. Ana, a farmer by trade and the wife of a simple merchant, did not know which Castrum it was, only that she had been surrounded by large, dark, frightful machines, and technology she was not familiar with.

What Ana Deneith did understand, however, was what they wanted. Why the family was taken. The Garleans made their demands clear to her when they let her and the children go: releasing them was their sign of good faith and willingness to let her father go eventually. But the only thing that would free Breven Deneith was Roen herself. She would need to trade herself for Brenden Deneith. She would need to return home. To Garlemald.

When Ana told her this, the woman’s brown eyes were fixed on to Roen, unflinching. Her gaze held sadness and despair, but also unbidden accusation. Ana never voiced it, but Roen knew. She had always known. Roen believed as much, even as they took her in for all those years after the Calamity, they never asked where she had come from. But her armor, her uniform, her foreign accent… they knew. But they did not care. Brenden never cared where she had come from, only that she was in need of a home.

And now the man that saved her life, who made her part of his family, were in the hands of the people who had brought death and destruction upon the land Roen now called home. Her adoptive father was being held by her birth father’s people, demanding for his daughter return home.

How naive was she to think that her past had been forgotten? That Dorien van Luraes had forgotten about her? That where she had grown up, the army she illegally joined, the fact that she was from a land that all of Eorzea considered their one true enemy? She was foolish to think it didn't matter.

It did. All of it. And now it had caught up to her. Now the life of Brenden Deneith was at stake, and she was the one who had put him in harm’s way. It was up to her to see him freed, even if it meant her own freedom.

Roen stared at the pile of her belongings, haphazardly thrown onto the bag on the bed. She looked to the blue tunic, the tights, and the dress shoes. Erik had given them to her many moons ago, telling her she needed to step out of her armor every so often. 

Then there was the longsword, the hilt made of mohagony with an ivory falcon taking flight set upon it. It held a beautiful and fine cobalt blade that had been meticulously hammered and smoothed; the sword given to her by her Master in Arms. And the white and blue royal tabard and armor, laid out next to the sword on the bed, granted to her through the trials of becoming a Sultansworn--trials she had completed a short few bells ago.

She was packing them away, as if to bring them back with her to Garlemald. To bring something to remember them by, all those who mattered to her. But as Roen continued to stare at the contents on the bed, the things that spoke of love and friends here in Eorzea, her breath slowly left her, her chest sinking with the realization.

She would not say goodbye to them. How could she? What would she say? Could she bare the look of shock, anger, and maybe even hatred in their eyes when she told them where she was going and why?

Natalie had said time and again how she would happily run a sword through any Garlean she came across. Each time she said it, Roen felt her blood run cold, but she had never intended on the Sultansworn finding out about her past. It was a thing of history, it mattered not to the friendship they had forged. And yet were the truth to ever come out… Roen doubted that Natalie’s hatred for Garleans would remember who Roen had been for the many moons they have known each other. Natalie had always been about duty, and duty would call upon her to arrest her apprentice who had been lying about who she was.

And even if Natalie and the others could see beyond her place of origin, no Sultansworn would ever have a Garlean apprentice. The ranks of the Sultansworns would not accept Roen's past, even if her friends and mentors did. And the consequence of that would ripple beyond just Roen herself. It would fall upon everyone she knew; it would cast a traitorous shadow upon all who cared about her and called her friend. Roen could not allow that.

Pushing herself from her knees, she finally rose from her seat upon the ground, making her way to the broken plate on the floor. As she gathered the scattered bits of glass, she also took a cloth napkin to grab up the half eaten marmot steak that had fallen. 

Roen paused at it as she looked to the cold brown meat, recalling the night when she was taught how to cook it by Master Gharen. Her fingers tingled with the memory; she had accidentally burned herself, and remembered how he had held her hand as he wrapped it with a cool cloth and an ice crystal. 

She could not say goodbye to him either. Not after he had forgiven her for all that happened at the mines. Not after he then gifted her with the sword that he had forged during their talk. That very thought twisted her stomach and robbed her of her breath. The thought of leaving him, and her friends, never to see them again...

It brought an emptiness she had never felt before. Pinching her face, she refused the tears that threatened to rise, instead steeling herself with resolve as to what must be done.

I have to.

All that was left was to meet with the Garlean agent, to negotiate her return to Garlemald for Brenden Deneith’s freedom. She was told that she was being watched, as were her friends and the Sultansworns. She was told that if she dared to inform anyone or to gather help, the contact would cease and Brenden’s life would be forfeit. And she was given only two suns to prepare.

Roen carefully set the remnants of the broken plate and food wrapped in a cloth napkin onto the table. She looked to the contents on the bed again. It would all remain here, all the things that brought her joy and hope in this new land. She would leave her new life behind to return to the old. All that would be left were the bitter ashes of sweet memory.

Roen pulled her cloak tight around her and walked out of the room.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Shael - 04-12-2014

 "Let's go hunt some Garleans."

These are words Shaelen never thought she would say. And yet here she was, looking at people she hardly knew, hearing herself say the words she swore she would never say again.

Who were these people anyways? She knew Hroch, son of Aylard. It was because of Aylard she had come to seek out his only son, to demand where he was. (As if it was the boy's fault.) But it felt cathartic to throw him against the pillar in Black Brush station and demand angrily to know where his father was.

Just because it wasn't right didn't make it any less cathartic.

He didn't know, of course. If he knew, she wouldn't be looking for him. But too many suns have gone by without a word from the old man, and even on that first day, when Aylard failed to show for their rendezvous, there was that hollow feeling in her gut that told her something was wrong. And Shael's gut was never wrong.

Her gut told her this was wrong now, and, being bullheaded and (on occasion) stupid, she was ignoring it. The fire that burned in her chest tensed her muscles, making them jumpy. She needed to do something about it, and hunting Garleans was the best idea she could come up with at the time.

It wasn't as though it might not lead to Aylard, after all. It very well might! And it would let her release the knot that twisted her up inside. The blackness that she thought she had let go long ago when she left the Resistance.

And what was left of this faction of the Resistance anyway? Hroch seemed like a lost puppy at times, trying desperately to hide the despair and doubts about his father's fate behind a puffed-out chest and false bravado. Then there was Ruva and Daena Ghurn. Once proud -- no STILL proud and damn stubborn -- old man Ruva could barely walk, his leg a mangled, patched up mess since his fall at the mines. And Daena, his daughter, hot blooded and overflowing with conviction, with anger brimming just beneath the surface about her father's state. Gods, she reminded Shaelen of herself when she was that young. Too much so.

Then there were two complete strangers. One was a Midlander bounty hunter named Xydane Vale who Hroch met and hired to help find his father. Shaelen knew it was mostly out of desperation, and being that Aylard Greyarm had been missing for so long, she could not argue against it. But the midlander was quiet and kept details of himself out of the conversation. Brynnalia, another member of the Resistance, noted he acted like a knight of some sort. As if chivalry would win any trust with me. Shaelen snorted. But it was good enough for the rest, so Shaelen went with it.

She also knew nothing about this Gharen Wolfsong, a Highlander who had only recently joined the Cause. She had seen him a couple of times at the Grindstone tournaments, but knew nothing of the man. But she gave him some measure of trust because Aylard seemed to trust him implicitly. But things had gone to shite since his arrival. Shaelen could not in honest blame him though, they were dealing in the city of Ul'dah after all, the land of corruption. Too many ways things could go wrong here. She hated dealing in this town, but it was her biggest source of income. What with greedy bandits, Syndicate, and Monetarist abound, smugglers were always being sought after. And now... there were Garleans as well.

Hunting Garleans. Shite.

Shaelen hated the taste of the bloodthirsty bile that often rose in her mouth when she thought this way. When she felt the need to hit something, beat it to a pulp, to release some of this pent up anger and frustration. But that was her way of life when she was with the Resistance. And it left her feeling so hollow after years of serving The Cause. So she left. Against Aylard's wishes, even though a part of her always hoped he had understood, somewhere deep within. Sailing free on the seas, letting the whims of fortune dictate their destination, that had calmed the fire within. Traveling with Shooey by her side, it had brought a lightness to her being, as if lifted by the same winds that fed the sails of Peregrine.

But now that Aylard had gone missing... and learning that there were Garleans about, it woke that fever within her again, one that devoured her thoughts until she could do nothing else but look to feed it somehow.  It had not helped that she had sent Shooey away to stock up Peregrine. The Roegadyn always had a way of grounding and calming her and his absence reminded her of it all the more. But it was with hopes that she could just turn around and leave after meeting up with Hroch, to leave this matter behind once she knew what had happened to Aylard. Leave Hroch and the rest to figure things out themselves.

But she could not. Shaelen delivered the news to the Resistance of a secret Garlean rendezvous in Central Thalanan, and the next thing she knew she was leading the ragtag group up the railroad tracks to the hidden spot only she knew how to find. She held up a hand when she came to the mouth of the cave, hearing voices echoing from within.

"Do I have your word that this exchange will go as you say?" The woman's voice was barely audible.

"My orders are direct from Garlemald. We need to ensure this will be a secure and incident-free transaction." A man's voice. Clipped dialect. Shaelen recognized Garleans accent easy enough. "You have the word of my superiors. The Empire was not built on lies."

Shaelen nearly snorted then as her hands closed around the cesti at her side, drawing them from her belt. They could not take over Ala Mhigo without lies. False promise of peace and freedom. She glanced behind her to motion to Wolfsong to make his way towards the other mouth of the cave. "Make sure they don't escape," She whispered. But the cursed wind carried her voice too far into the cave. Just as she rounded the corner, she saw the cloaked male turn her way, as if hearing something.  "Shite..." she muttered.

"Traitors!" The male Garlean hissed, drawing his blade and raising his shield. It immediately crackled to life, flashes of electricity shimmering on its surface. Magitek.

Shaelen leaped over the wooden fence that stood between them, slamming her fists into the ground with fury and might. Her chakra flowed from within, cracking and shaking the earth around her. She heard Daena yelp behind her as she was tossed back by the impact, but Shaelen cared not, her stormy eyes on the two Garleans. They too both stumbled, trying to regain their balance. She saw Xydane rush forward with the blunt end of his axe swinging, having recovered remarkably quick from her move. His swing struck the bladed Garlean in the head, sending him stumbling to the side. She could see the blood trickle from his lips.

Then the Garlean did something she did not expect--though she's should have. One Garlean suddenly turned on the other, slamming the cloaked woman as she too was regaining her bearings, knocking her down. He leaped over her onto the boxes behind them, and activated something else on his wrist. The fallen woman was in the way of Shaelen's pursuit. She could do nothing as she watched as the familiar blue aetheric energies formed a circle around the man, and he disappeared from sight. Garlean teleportation. Shaelen cursed.

"Damn it ta hell!" Daena shouted from behind her. "Get the other one!"

The Garlean woman seemed stunned as the rest, as she looked to where the man had teleported away. Xydane quickly brought his axe upon her, putting the bladed end just before her throat. The cloaked female froze, and wisely held up her hands in front of her, showing them all that she was not armed. Shaelen could see the grey eyes of the Midlander woman. She looked more horrified than fearful.

"Ha! Stinks ta be a Garlean, don't it! Ya dogs don't know the meanin' of loyalty!" Daena ran up behind them. "Keep them hands high!"

Shaelen gave Xydane a glance, and he seemed to recognize her meaning as she said, "I am not taking any chances." He lowered his axe just enough, as she delivered a lightning quick round house kick to the woman's head. The Garlean crumpled to the ground unconscious without a word.

"Think she'd have more coming? Reinforcements?" Hroch trotted up to join them, as was Gharen who still kept his eyes on the other end of the cave.

"Can't be too sure with Garleans," Daena muttered as she delivered a hard kick to the unconscious woman's ribs. "Let's get 'er sorry arse back for questionin'!"

"Aye. Let's not stay here for long. One of you pick her up and let’s get out of here," Shaelen said coldly as she rehooked the cestis onto her belt. She watched Gharen bend over the Garlean to pick up the unconscious woman. That's when the hood fell away. It was a pale Midlander woman, with red hair. Shaelen narrowed her eyes. She looked familiar.

"Damn it." She heard Gharen mutter the words under his breath.

"Need help there strong man?" Daena hovered over the prisoner.

"Go! I got her," Gharen barked.

Shaelen gave Gharen an odd look for a moment as he lifted the unconscious woman in his arms. Then she remembered where she had seen her before: it was at a number of the Grindstone tournaments. Stormy eyes flicked between the Garlean and the Highlander that now bore her in his arms. She would sort this out, but not in the cave. Fates would be decided at Lost Hope when they held the prisoner to question. She motioned them out of the cave, taking up the rear, eyeing the surroundings for any reinforcements that may come. Her fingers closed and unclosed around the cesti at her hips. But as she glanced back to the Garlean prisoner, she once again felt that hollow feeling rising in the pit of her stomach.

Hunting Garleans.

Shite.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Shael - 04-14-2014

The group began to make their way back to Lost Hope, Daena and Hroch looking hopeful with a Garlean prisoner in tow. Xydane remained aloof as usual, but Wolfsong was strangely silent, looking over the prisoner in his arms. Shaelen tried to convince herself that this was at least a mild victory; they had captured a Garlean and would put the woman to question. Certainly she would know something about Aylard’s whereabouts.

“She don’t look so tough.” Daena glanced back to Gharen and the woman. “I bet she’ll sing like a bird.” She gave a grin to Hroch who was next to her. “We’ll get some answers for yer pa, maybe.”

The group came to an abrupt halt when they came to the mouth of the cave at Lost Hope. A tall cloaked figure had been exiting--a duskwight with a heavy hood drawn low over his face. Shaelen narrowed her eyes, as silence fell over the rest of the group. Suspicion was immediate. Who in seven hells...

“Oi! Who goes there!” Daena called out.

Shaelen walked out in front, her hands resting on her cesti. “Hey!”

The tall duskwight nearly loomed over her. He held out his hands to the side. “Am I being robbed?” His voice was calm, but cold.

“Whatcha doin’ ere,” Daena said. “Yer trespassin’.”

Shaelen glared at the elezen under the hood, then her eyes glanced beyond his face to the sharp lance that hung on his back. The bladed tip… was bloodied. 

“Shite…” she muttered as she reached for her cesti. But it was too late; the tall elezen had seen her eyes go to his weapon behind him, and he bolted away from them, with surprising speed.

“Where’s…” Hroch began in surprise, dread clear in his tone.

“...Pa?!” Daena immediately called out, darting into the cave. “Pa! Answer me!”

Shaelen did not wait to find out. The duskwight was getting further away with every tic. She left Wolfsong with the prisoner, and Xydane with the rest as she took after the fleeing lancer. But as she exited the row of tents, she saw the duskwight on a chocobo, riding off in the distance. She was not going to catch him.

Dread constricting her throat, and she ran back to Lost Hope. Inside, she found what she was fearing: Ruva Ghurn lay dead, his throat pierced by a lance. The look on his face was pure fury, even in death. Daena was bent over on her knees, holding her father’s bloodied corpse. But it was not just an assassination; crates were opened, boxes overturned, and tents and canvas ripped.

Shael passed the two younger Highlanders to a deeper cavern in the back where she found Gharen and Xydane. They were both looking over the prisoner who had been laid on the floor, still unconscious.

“The elezen was an assassin," Xydane was saying to Gharen. "If they are not hesitant to kill the old man, they will not be hesitant to kill their prisoner. We must find out what we can from this woman, and we must do it fast. I will not fail the boy.”

“Aye, I’m aware. I’ll speak te her when she awakes,” Wolfsong answered, just as the woman started to stir.  

Shaelen came up to stand behind the two men, her eyes going to the Garlean. The woman was just regaining consciousness. As soon as her lashes started to flutter open, Gharen knelt down in front of her. 

His tone was stern, but not hostile. “What were ye doin’ there? An who was that’ ye were talkin’ to?” 

Shael gave him an odd look; he just expected her to answer him, just like that?

The woman blinked, her brows furrowing as she looked to Wolfsong. There was recognition in her face. But when her eyes cleared, they widened with a look of horror. 

“Oh… this.. he… no!” She sat up quickly, then grabbed her head where she was struck. Xydane moved as if to restrain the woman, but Gharen held up a hand.

“Best answer his question and best answer it fast,” Xydane hissed.

Garlean woman shot a look to Wolfsong, one hand grabbing his arm. “They are going to kill him,” she gasped.

“Kill who?” Gharen asked.

“The boy’s father?” Xydane stepped closer to the woman.

“The boy’s… who...?” The woman glanced from Gharent to Xydane, confusion in her bent brows. She shook her head and looked to the Highlander again, her eyes wide. “They are going to kill my father.”

Shaelen has had enough. The woman was not giving information fast enough. She pushed past the two men, kneeling in front of the prisoner. “Were you just bait? Was I fed bad intel?” She didn’t care how distraught the woman looked.

“I know this lass,” Gharen interjected as if to calm her down. “She’s my student... an’ a prospective Sultansworn.”

“I knew there was something between you.” Shaelen spat, arching an accusatory brow at Wolfsong. She had seen her at the Grindstone tournaments when the Highlander was overseeing it. But that only raised more questions. She spun back to the woman on the ground. “You were meeting with a Garlean. Are you a Garlean?”

The woman froze at the question, her eyes wide. Shaelen recognized that stunned look all too well. “Garlean,” Shael repeated, this time it was not a question. Both men fell to silence behind her.

“Give me a few minutes with her,” Gharen sighed, finally breaking the silence. Xydane seemed to oblige easy enough, slipping out of the cave and saying he would try and ask the locals about the elezen.

But Shaelen stood her ground, her stormy eyes narrowing on the taller Highlander. “She’s our only lead to Aylard. And now Ruva is dead. She’s gonna pay for that.” She could feel that hunger grow inside her again.

“No, she’s nae.” Gharen met her gaze with a steel of his own.

Shaelen’s brow twitched. “What do you mean, she’s not.” Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “She’s a Garlean.”

Gharen did not flinch, a low feral growl escaping his throat. “Let me clarify. I was nae askin’ fer a few minutes te talk te her.”

“She’s awake. Good.” Daena stormed in behind her with Hroch not too far behind. They both looked angry and eager.

“Out!” Gharen barked at them all.

“Don’t think so.” Daena cracked her knuckles. "I got as much right ta question ‘er as you do.”

“That woman’s got a lot to be answerin’ for.” Hroch added.

Gharen stood in front of the Garlean prisoner in a defensive stance, his fists clenched. “I’ll be th’ judge o’ tha’ now unless ye feel like hobblin’ out, I suggest ye walk out now!”

Daena was seething. “No,” she rasped. “She ain’t yers. She’s ours. Me pa is dead. I want answers.”

Hroch crossed his arms, sounding very much like his father with his jaw squared and his eyes taking on the calm that Aylard used to have. “We ain’t here to make small talk with this filth. We’ pilin’ corpses all over and she’s got to know something about it.”

Daena stepped forward, her hands in fists. Her glare at Gharen was pure fury. “I dun care who you are. Ain’t no one standin’ in me way on this.”

Gharen growled. “Ye want te take a crack at ‘er, ye’ll need to go through me then.”

Shite. Here we go. Shaelen saw the invitation snatched up without hesitation by Hroch as the younger Highlander rushed Wolfsong, with his fists sailing to strike the bigger man. She could sense that the young ones were getting restless before, and now with the old man's murder....

Hroch still unable to find his father, and Daena had just lost hers. Wolfsong’s strange and inexplicable need to protect the Garlean was all the spark they needed to explode into action.

Hroch’s fist went sailing wide as Wolfsong smoothly sidestepped him and leaned away from the swing, grabbing his arm and turning his momentum to the side, sending him towards Daena. The man’s had extensive training, moving like that. There was no mistake; this was going to be tougher than she thought.

“Who’s side are ya on?!” Daena shouted, frustrated, as she staggered back, Hroch crashing into her. She stumbled back up, grabbing the nearest ceramic pots that lay around her. She began to hurl them towards Wolfsong and the Garlean woman behind him, who was now trying to stand.

“I’m on th’ side tha’s think’n clearly,” Gharen said as he took one pot on the shoulder as it shattered. Another he ducked, and it crashed just finger width from the cloaked woman. The Garlean raised her hand as well, to shield herself from more flying pots, some breaking against her arm.

“He’s a fuckin’ traitor!” Daena screamed in anger. “How’d the elezen know where me pa was, huh?!” The girl had a good arm, she was shattering those pots against whatever they hit. Shaelen took a wider course not to be in her missile path. But she was eying the Garlean woman. She would settle this whole thing.

“Wait!” The cloaked woman pleaded with her hands held in front of her. “He is not a traitor! He had nothing to do with why I was there!” More pottery crashed and broke around her as she ducked out of their path.

“Ngh. Shut yer trap, Garlean!” Daena snarled ferally, her eyes wildly seeking out more things to throw. “I’ll deal wi’ you in a bit!”

“He’s innocent!” The cloaked woman edge out from behind Gharen, who was still blocking what flying pots he could while keeping Hroch and Daena in front of him. “I will go freely!”

Shaelen curled her hands around her cesti by her side. She was not going to let the youths battle a trained fighter alone. From what she could glean of his skills so far, they would be no match for Wolfsong. Shaelen would even the odds a little. But as she approached, the Garlean woman turned to her and stepped in between her and Wolfsong, holding up her hands. Too easy.

Shaelen snatched the woman by her wrist, swinging her around with the other arm going to wrap around her neck. Her eyes went to Wolfsong who was still engaged with Hroch, spinning and sending the youth back into a pile of crates and dodging a spinning brazier that now Daena had taken up. The girl was enraged. But Gharen caught the view of Shael and the prisoner she now had well in hand.

“So tha’s it then, any Garlean will do? Eh?” Wolfsong scowled. “Dinnae matter if she had anythin’ te do with it or nae?”

“I don’t know why you feel the need to protect a bloody Garlean, Wolfsong, your student or no, but she’s ours," Shaelen snarled. "Let’s get on with it and find out what she knows!” Shaelen aimed her words at the two still engaged, even while she tightened her hold around the woman’s slender throat, pulling her back forcibly away from Wolfsong. Hroch was still stumbling in his pile of crates. 

Shaelen put her other hand on top of the woman’s head, preparing to break the woman’s neck if she needed to. She could tell that Gharen realized this as well. The woman’s hold on her arm tightened, but she was helpless now in her grip. “Now I don’t wanna kill her. But you know I can. So both of you stop, eh?”

Wolfsong’s expression turned dark in a flash and he growled. With surprising speed, he launched to his left, dodging the brazier and sending a punch to the back of Daena’s knee. She fell forward as he stepped behind her and wrapped his arm around her in a rear neck choke. “Yer a little too eager te visit yer father, lass.” He put her to the ground, even as she struggled. But his gaze was quick to return to Shael and her prisoner.

Shaelen narrowed her eyes, but could see that he was only holding Daena until she was unconscious. She watched the girl struggle, but eventually her kicking stopped and the she fell unconscious. Satisfied, Shaelen shoved the Garlean woman toward Hroch who had come up behind her, walking over to kneel by the unconscious youth.  

“The girl’s just lost her pa.” Shael knelt and put a finger to Daena's neck, feeling for a pulse there. “She’s gotta hit something.” She hovered her hand in front of the girl’s nose to assure herself she was breathing evenly, and once she was satisfied the girl was just unconscious, stood again, glaring at Wolfsong.. “She’s going to want a piece of something. And we have a Garlean. Why shouldn’t she?”

"All th' more reason she's nae goin' te have anythin' te do with her." Gharen met her gaze steadily. “An' if we had Cid Garlond here himself, ye think we should hand him over te her jus' cause he's Garlean?"

Shaelen arched a brow at him. “You saying that’s what she is? A traitor to his own kind? What has she done for Eorzea?”

“She's soon te be Sultansworn, an th' father she was talkin' about is an adoptive one from Eorzea. Course yer all so bloody hotheaded ye'd rather beat her bloody." Gharen's words were cold.

“With Garleans, best hit first and ask questions later.” Shael wrinkled her freckled nose. “Even though they don’t give us the same courtesy.” She glanced over her shoulder to Hroch, where the younger Highlander still had a firm hold on the cloaked woman. But as the situation was calming, she could also feel that anger giving way.

“So. Let’s hear out the story then,” she said with a sigh, glancing back to Wolfsong. “And if we don’t like it…” Shaelen gestured between her and the taller Highlander. 

“Then we have a problem.”