[A Long Summer]
The orange rays of the setting sun settled gently upon the sandy shores of Vylbrand's eastern coast. Â
The day had been spent in such simple pleasure stretched out beneath the day's warmth, strolling, reading, and relaxing with the sound of surf and the gentle relief of the sea breeze ever in the background.
She felt so far from the frigid cold of the Tower-City and its prison-like grip. Â The shadows of the Shroud retreated from view. Â Even the bustling energy of the Desert Jewel, with the Quicksand at its heart, seemed distant and silent.
There lay Aya, bikini clad, mistress of little more than a towel and a small day bag. Â
"What more could a girl want?" she asked herself in a playful hushed tone. Â The rhetorical note belied the thoughtful nature that hovered just beneath the bubbly-blonde exterior.
What more indeed...
Poetess? That was one of the stranger titles among the many she had worn in her young life; but it was hard to deny when she was living off the proceeds of one of her poems. Â The Alliance, too, had chipped in their own contribution. Â The success of her poster series had been undeniable, and when there came a request for another recruitment poster (this to celebrate the admission of its newest member) she came away a woman of some means.
Besideds the gil it had made for a strange if gratifying time. Â It was her first time truly feeling welcomed in Coerthas, since the flight to freedom several years before. Â The cold was ever worse than she remembered, and colder yet in the scant lingerie she was asked to wear for the piece. Â There was something about it, though, posing for her home country. Â At least, the closest thing she had ever really felt was home. Â She smiled with a genuine pride, at last: a poster girl for the home team.
Then, from atop the hill she spied the spires of the city in the distance: the air clear with the crystal sharpness of a cold winter day, while freshly lit lanterns heralded looming night. Â It was all so close, but still so far away...
The gil couldn't last, and besides it just wasn't enough. Â Would it ever be enough? Â Her debts in Gridania had been handsomely paid back (a story for another time), but it seemed the more coin she possessed the more everything she liked decided to cost. Â Her tiny room in the Quicksand, once a simple domicile, swelled with new belongings all carefully packed and cared for. Â Dresses, outfits, shoes, boots, jewelry, and a growing collection of fragrances, many of the last had been offered to her free if only she would wear them in public. Â
She loved the Quicksand. Â Momodi is the one who had given her a chance when she really needed it. Â It was just the opportunity she had needed, at a time when she had scarcely been so needy. Â Debts had chased her from Gridania, and she arrived in the desert with little more than the clothes on her back: friendless, gil-less. Â The wily proprietress had taken a deep look at the girl's smile, which strove against the forlorn and nearly desperate expression of her features, and offered her the barmaid position that had come to mean food and shelter: life itself, and the opportunity to thrive. Â It might be too much to say that Momodi had believed in her then, but she had at least seen reason for hope. Â
The hours were few now, far fewer than her old regulars would have liked, but those that she worked remained delightful. Â The tell-tale swish of a little skirt, the sound of hollow heels upon the tiled floor, and an energetic laughter that filled the dome of the tavern during its most quiet hours, all told of the presence of a woman who loved the place ever, even as she saw less of it...
The sun filtered through a high leafy canopy to spread its gentle illumination upon the manicured clearing below. Â A lattice arch, a deep mahogany crafted in a seamless, flowing fashion by the unequaled artisans of this leafy abode, provided the firmament for the growth of an ivy vine whose path wound it as if following a preconceived design. Â Beneath this stood Aya Foxheart at her elegant best: adorned in high-fashion with the finest dress, jewelry and accoutrements available to the costumiers of Otto Vann's Fine Fashion's Gridania line. Â Her long tresses were braided in an intricate fashion to accent the ivy latticework of the garden. Â No strand dare stray upon her feminine shoulders, left bare by the dress that otherwise snugged to her figure. Â The fabric was a mesh of gentle earthy tones, and natural fibers of plant and leather that defied ready description. Â Deeply colored wooden heels put the finishing touch upon a look that sought to emulate the very best of the city it represented: the beauty of nature subtly harnessed and shaped by master craftsmen fully in tune with the primal woodland in which they made their home.
A handsomely dressed Lalafel, possessed of an outrageous mustache that accented his out-sized manner, stood beside her as they greeted the gathering guests. Â This was the so-called Yoyomundi, the hand-picked designer who had done much to master and move the market for Gridanian fashion in the year since he arrived, and a regular client for Aya's modelling talents.
At last, with a smile that spoke of his genuine gratification, he turned to his premier model. Â "My dear," he said with a twirl of his mustache, "I must say, that the dress compliments the lady. Â But, not, I dare say, as much as the lady compliments the dress." He offered a brief and exaggerated bow to accentuate the compliment.
From a man as taciturn to his employees as he was dedicated to his craft, the words came as something between a shock and a surprise to her. Â She could not hide a grin, nor the flushing of cheeks as she turned back toward the small crowd that had taken their seats in anticipation of the show.
It was a wonderful day...
As the wind picked up it struck her mostly exposed skin with an abrasive blast. Â She let out a shout, as a fresh wound upon her upper arm caught the worst of this arid menace. Â
"You can cry, missy, I won't tell anyone! Â Promise!" Â The man laughed a grisly laugh, before taking a long drink from an ancient flask. Â He was watching from a reclined position, shielded from the wind by the large rock upon which he lay. Â Old and tattered clothing matched the grizzled appearance of the man. Â His hair hidden beneath a ratty turban, his beard a mixture of matted gray and brown with the slow-growing stubble that came with age.
Aya grimaced, shielding her face with her left hand. Â Her right knee rest upon the rocky ground, a beaten wooden sword rest in her right hand.
She fought back the urge to shout again with as the searing pain coursed through her. Â "I'm... alright!" she hollered back in a less than convincing tone, before struggling back to her feet, while the observer laughed.
A massive highlander stood in front of her. Â Fully clad in leather and cloth he was preserved from the elements in stark contrast to her. Â The larger wooden instrument in his hand bore the sign of quickly drying blood. Â "Uh.. I'm sorry Aya! Â I didna... I mean I didna mean ta..."
"Shuttup, lunk!" Â Hollered the old man, interrupting the stammering apology. Â "You're not here to talk! Â I said to make her cry, and you haven't done it yet!" His expression was one of frustration, if not outright anger toward the young swordsman.
Aya reached her feet, breathing heavily. Â With difficulty she drew the sword back and crouched into a ready position.
The old man's smile returned with a laugh, "Eh! Â Maybe we'll make something of her yet. Â Lunk! Â Make her cry and its a two-steak dinner on the old man!"
Lunk nodded before taking a moment to adjust the mask that guarded his face. Â A precaution not, apparently, given the girl. Â
He'd get his steak before the night were done...
She stood bare before her mirror. Â Eyes passed from one injury to the next. Â She'd never really appreciated mother's tutelage so much before. Â The salves and tinctures did their job. Â Even wooden blades wound, but with time and care they healed. Â Cosmetic could often hide those still fresh. Â In the "real game" healers stood by to aid the combatants. Â But, that wasn't the way Samuel operated. Â No one operated like Samuel--not any more. Â She shuddered, rubbing both arms up and down as she recalled the old man's words of warning:
"I don't teach up-and-comers. Â The sands isn't what it was." Â The voice was gritty and earnest. Â "We used to kill. Â That was the sport. Â Now? Â They're not fighters. Â None of 'em! Â And I don't take anyone new. Â I'm done. Â Done! Â They want to make a show, and that I can't teach." Â He had waved both hands dismissively. Â "Besides, what are you? Â A delicate little flower of a girl? Â I know where ya work! Â And this is a lil' more dangerous than gettin' yer ass slapped by a handsy costumer drunk on Momodi's swill. Â You just don't get it do you?! Â I'm not teaching you, missy! I'm not."
A purse-full of gil seemed to change his mind, but not before a final warning, "You're going to regret this." Â And how she did...
She turned from the mirror with a sigh as her eyes fell upon the open letter resting precariously upon the tiny table that doubles as her desk. Â It had arrived in unusual double-monographed form. One was more than familiar, as dubious as any, the other was unfamiliar but bore the elegant design of an Ishgardian house. Â This was even more dubious than the first.
The letter began, "You are most cordially invited..." Â and ended, "Dubiously Yours, Verad Deauxbois". Â An even stranger name for a strange, yet endearing man. Â Who happened to have the dubious habit of stumbling into every form of honor that Aya despised. Â Still... he was Verad, and she had never declined an invitation of his before. Â
But this was in... Ishgard. Â
She sighed again. Â A deeper, remorseful sound that coursed through her. Â She shook her hair, running fingers through the wetness of her freshly-cleaned locks. Â
She pretended to think about something else, but her gaze fell upon the small ribbon-bound bundle of papers she kept more carefully than any other: the correspondence of her brothers in Ishgard. Â Her eyes followed a well practiced route from the bundle: to the wrought iron weather-crow hung above her door, to the small family portrait that was the only decoration upon otherwise barren walls. Â It bore an empty seat--the only sign of a missing sister, and daughter. Â
The Inquisition had fallen. Â The gates were free. Â The streets were open. Â Orrin Halgren, the dragoon had assured her of all this. Â V'aleera had implored her. Â Osvald had invited her, in his always too-gentle way. Â
Perhaps it was time...