She could smell it before she saw it. But that's how it had always been down here.
The city above, the Ishgard best known far and wide, sung of in the tales and legends, all was defined by sight: spires of cathedrals and towers reaching ever toward the heavens, magnificent architecture to inspire awe, the looming instruments of defense against the vile Horde ever beating at the gates, nobles and merchants strutting meticulously paved streets in colorful finery, and gallant armor clad knights ever marching to and fro, faceless and vigilant.
But here in the lower parts of the city, the place of her birth and origin, the sights all blended together. Gone were the many colors of the high born, replaced by dull and practical drudgery. And each building seemed to blend into every other; hulking gray masses of stone and concrete, build in shapes easy to conceive, simple to mend, and utterly uninspiring. The knights, however, yet occupy this place as well. Always faceless, always vigilant. This place, so deep within the heart of Ishgard, was not to be ever distinguished by its sights but rather its smells. And there were few Ishgardians born better able to appreciate the roiling fragrance of this place than the out of place woman standing in front of an indistinct brick of a building on an indistinct corner.
The strongest scent was that of sweat. Though the people of this place, and many places like it within the city, were hardly unaccustomed to a grueling work ethic the eternal winter did wonders at keeping one dry in the midst of perspiration. Not so with this particular place. V'aleera wrinkled her nose. Alongside the sweat was a smell just as familiar to the knight: metal, of all kinds and in all states. Noxious sulfurous fumes prodded at her nostrils from within the bustling smithy, the scent of molten iron and furite pummeling her senses the hardest. The strongest agents in play, perhaps, but they were hardly alone: oils of many likes and varieties applied to finished steel along with the sweet scent of paints and waxes used to adorn the less lethal segment of a freshly created instrument of death teased her with each breath.
With a set brow and a trained stoic gaze, the miqo'te stepped through the thresh hold of the shoppe. Immediately her ears flicked upon her head in response to the suddenly strengthened barrage of noise; hammers crashing down upon heated steel, the screams of steam as blades were tempered, and the low growl of powerful men and women plying their arduous trade. She paused, her tail flicking quickly back and forth, basking in the irony of how having lived a life upon the battlefield could not in and of itself steel her against this uniquely cacophonous experience. Shaking her head to clear her mind of battling scents and sounds, she stepped forward.
Garbed in a white armor regalia more fit for wearing at a table of officers than a raging battlefield, the miqo'te approached a midlander who looked to be more than ten years her younger. Chest thrust out, thus prominently displaying the demarcations of her rank and place within the distinguished order of the Knights Dragoon, she spoke to the fledgling apprentice loudly and over the din of the workshop , "Boy! I have come to consult with your Master Dunois on a matter of significant importance. I sought to send word ahead several days past, but have yet to hear reply to my plea. If he is not presently engaged, I would have you fetch him. If he is not present at all, I should like to speak to whomever has been left in charge of this shoppe."
The city above, the Ishgard best known far and wide, sung of in the tales and legends, all was defined by sight: spires of cathedrals and towers reaching ever toward the heavens, magnificent architecture to inspire awe, the looming instruments of defense against the vile Horde ever beating at the gates, nobles and merchants strutting meticulously paved streets in colorful finery, and gallant armor clad knights ever marching to and fro, faceless and vigilant.
But here in the lower parts of the city, the place of her birth and origin, the sights all blended together. Gone were the many colors of the high born, replaced by dull and practical drudgery. And each building seemed to blend into every other; hulking gray masses of stone and concrete, build in shapes easy to conceive, simple to mend, and utterly uninspiring. The knights, however, yet occupy this place as well. Always faceless, always vigilant. This place, so deep within the heart of Ishgard, was not to be ever distinguished by its sights but rather its smells. And there were few Ishgardians born better able to appreciate the roiling fragrance of this place than the out of place woman standing in front of an indistinct brick of a building on an indistinct corner.
The strongest scent was that of sweat. Though the people of this place, and many places like it within the city, were hardly unaccustomed to a grueling work ethic the eternal winter did wonders at keeping one dry in the midst of perspiration. Not so with this particular place. V'aleera wrinkled her nose. Alongside the sweat was a smell just as familiar to the knight: metal, of all kinds and in all states. Noxious sulfurous fumes prodded at her nostrils from within the bustling smithy, the scent of molten iron and furite pummeling her senses the hardest. The strongest agents in play, perhaps, but they were hardly alone: oils of many likes and varieties applied to finished steel along with the sweet scent of paints and waxes used to adorn the less lethal segment of a freshly created instrument of death teased her with each breath.
With a set brow and a trained stoic gaze, the miqo'te stepped through the thresh hold of the shoppe. Immediately her ears flicked upon her head in response to the suddenly strengthened barrage of noise; hammers crashing down upon heated steel, the screams of steam as blades were tempered, and the low growl of powerful men and women plying their arduous trade. She paused, her tail flicking quickly back and forth, basking in the irony of how having lived a life upon the battlefield could not in and of itself steel her against this uniquely cacophonous experience. Shaking her head to clear her mind of battling scents and sounds, she stepped forward.
Garbed in a white armor regalia more fit for wearing at a table of officers than a raging battlefield, the miqo'te approached a midlander who looked to be more than ten years her younger. Chest thrust out, thus prominently displaying the demarcations of her rank and place within the distinguished order of the Knights Dragoon, she spoke to the fledgling apprentice loudly and over the din of the workshop , "Boy! I have come to consult with your Master Dunois on a matter of significant importance. I sought to send word ahead several days past, but have yet to hear reply to my plea. If he is not presently engaged, I would have you fetch him. If he is not present at all, I should like to speak to whomever has been left in charge of this shoppe."
V'aleera's Wiki - https://wiki.ffxiv-roleplayers.com/pages...eera_Lhuil
V'aleera's Tumblr - valeeralhuil.tumblr.com
V'aleera's Tumblr - valeeralhuil.tumblr.com