(he's very pretty)


<sub>Commission credit: Kanato/Cait ep22kun.tumblr.com

I forgot to turn the HUD off, shut up

cute n' confused</sub>

J’torha was born in Central Thanalan, although growing up on the move made him comfortable calling all of Thanalan his home. His tribe, a nomadic pocket of the J tribe, was always moving, never staying in one place for more than a few days at a time. With a harem of about thirty and a handful of children at any given time, the true backbone of the tribe was their nunh, a strong and diligent male by the name of J’rukoh, who took up the uncommon mantle of leader with ease. J’torha saw how the women of his tribe respected (and even admired) the nunh, and came to idolize the position, if not the man himself. As many young male seekers do, J’torha came to see defeating his nunh and taking up the position himself as the ultimate accomplishment, and being the only tia in the tribe, set his sights on doing just that.

Of course, some are better suited to such endeavours than others, and J’torha always seemed to fall in the latter category. Ever a carefree child, he always had trouble taking things seriously, often showing off or making a game out of everything, getting himself into trouble more often than not. Despite being a fairly skilled hunter, J’torha was still generally outclassed by even his less skilled peers, as he never seemed to put as much effort into catching his quarry as he did into exploring and getting into mischief. His mission to become nunh was no different; in the infinite wisdom of youth, J’torha expected challenging J’rukoh to end as well as most of his other misadventures did, relying more on luck and confidence than raw skill.

His life was happy and calm until his fifteenth summer. J’torha was largely unaware of the conflict on the Carteneau Flats, but J’rukoh could sense an oncoming threat; when the nunh saw Dalamud falter, he wasted no time reacting, ushering his tribe directly south along unfamiliar routes from their position at the time in Northern Thanalan.

The journey south was undoubtedly the most difficult in the tribe’s history, with J’rukoh pushing them harder than they’d ever been pushed before. They moved continuously, stopping only long enough for the bare minimum of sleep and hunting along the way without halting. An adolescent at the time, J’torha was tasked (along with other adolescents) with keeping the tribe’s children occupied as their mothers hunted, to stave off panic and keep their spirits up even as they strained to cope with the backbreaking pace set out by J’rukoh.

Thanks to the nunh’s quick thinking, however, J’torha’s tribe made it as far as Minotaur’s Malm before the chaos of the 7th Umbral Calamity truly took hold. They waited out the carnage holed up in the canyon tunnel, eventually emerging, scared and hungry, to find that a different Thanalan awaited them. Shaken, as all of Eorzea was, by the destruction, the tribe regrouped with the U of Forgotten Springs for a time, doing all they could to repay their standoffish hosts before finally setting out again with the daunting task ahead of them of re-mapping their migratory routes to fit the altered landscape.

No home to destroy meant no home needed rebuilding, and as such the J of Thanalan recovered quicker than most after the Calamity, finding new routes across the desert and new hunting grounds to sustain themselves. Life continued on as normal as could be expected in the wake of disaster until J’torha reached his eighteenth summer, when he decided that it was time to make good on the promise he’d made himself as a child and take up what he believed to be his rightful place as nunh. Against the counsel of his sister, mother, tribemates and even the nunh himself, J’torha went through with his plan, to an unfortunate, yet predictable, result.

J’torha was wholly outmatched and soundly beaten; so easily defeated was he that J’rukoh was able to give him two identical scars, one on each cheek, as both a reminder of his folly and a warning not to act so foolishly again. Humiliated, J’torha knew he would never survive challenging J’rukoh a second time. His tribemates advised him to be grateful that he was spared death and move on, but he simply couldn’t bear the thought of remaining a tia forever; likewise, he knew amassing a harem of his own in Thanalan would be hopeless, at least until the fast-traveling news of his defeat passed out of memory. So, once his wounds had healed, J’torha decided to leave his tribe and strike out in search of new territory and enough glory to prove his worth as the nunh of his very own tribe.

Like anything, this again proved a daunting task. In the beginning, J’torha tried a number of ways to make a name for himself, but the slog of performing menial tasks for random townspeople as a freelance adventurer wasn’t exactly the stuff of songs, and was deathly boring to boot. But over the course of one such task, helping a Gridanian woman round up her class of children for a lesson in ritual dance, J’torha found a new calling. Rather than gil, the woman paid J’torha by teaching him the same dance she taught the children, and offhandedly commented that he was a natural at it. It struck a chord within him that nothing before it had touched; despite their penchant for song, his tribe had never practiced much dance, and he found himself falling in love with it.

Opting to take a hiatus from his mission, J’torha temporarily set out to learn every dance he could find, traveling all over the realm in his search. He was particularly captivated by the infamous dancing girls of Ul’dah, but for once, was less concerned with the supple curves of their bodies and more interested in the way they moved. Infatuated with their craft (lowly as some may have seen it) J’torha set out to learn from them; after some bargaining, some flirting, and a little begging, one such clique of dancers finally agreed to take him on, reasoning that in their line of work it was probably prudent to have a man on their side.

It didn’t take long for J’torha to come to love the busking life. Within a few moons he graduated from pseudo-bodyguard, to instrumentalist, and even up to performer in his own right, relishing every moment. The music, the movement, the joyful cheers of onlookers, it all easily eclipsed the meagre gil as reward for his performances - not that the attention of female admirers was anything to scoff at, either.

However, J’torha had never been good at staying in one place. Eventually he was struck with the itch to get moving and parted ways with his Ul’dahn group, setting out on his own again. It wasn’t long before he crossed paths with another, a woman from the Steppes who soon became a dear friend and traveling companion (not that she’d ever admit it out loud). They traveled together for six moons, traversing the realm and teaching each other about their respective cultures, until their paths diverged in Limsa Lominsa, and J’torha was on his own again.

J’torha would contribute the following events to some lingering good luck from his companion; not a day after she left Limsa did J’torha attend a performance by a troupe of foreign dancers, exhibiting styles and techniques that eclipsed his Ul’dahn partners’ skill by far. He threw every gil he could muster into their collection basket and sat at the pier that was their stage until two umbral cycles had passed. He was among a handful of enthusiastic onlookers who stuck around to gush at the performers as they packed up to move on, but as he spoke animatedly to the lead dancer, the troupe’s leader apparently saw something in him; when she asked, almost offhandedly, if he had any interest in learning their craft, J’torha’s “yes” flew out of his mouth before he even understood the question. The leader explained that their method of dance merged beauty and combat, and after he agreed to help the troupe spread their art in the hopes of bringing a measure of comfort to the still-recovering realm, they welcomed the weak-kneed and delighted seeker into their ranks.

J’torha studied his troupe’s deadly art of dance more fervently than any other undertaking of his life, working each day until his fingers bloodied his chakrams and his legs melted beneath him, all the while hungry for more. Several moons into his training, his leader and troupemates deemed him ready to fully adopt the true art of the Dancer, and gave him what is now his most treasured possession: his soul stone.

Imbued with the wisdom and skill of generations past, J’torha became a force to be reckoned with. His body seemed to know what to do without his mind ever sparing it a thought, and his performances could embolden his partners like no other skill he’d ever seen. Soon enough, the troupe leader decided that there was no more they could teach him, and bid him strike out and hone his newfound power with all of Eorzea for his stage. Swearing to uphold the troupe’s mission, J’torha agreed, and has been traversing the realm with newfound vigor, light of foot and bold of heart, ever since.

Laughter and cheers echoed through the cool night air outside of Ul’dah proper, bouncing off the hulking city walls as a merry group of strangers took refuge from the crowds. J’torha was still a little lightheaded from the skin of wine being passed around, but that didn’t stop him from showing off.

“This time for sure,” he declared, to the great entertainment of the three taffeta-clad ladies at the top of the steps.

“Fifth time’s the charm,” drawled the lone midlander of the group, backed by the giggling of the two seeker girls who accompanied her. J’torha couldn’t remember if they were twins or just friends who looked really similar, but he wasn’t too worried about it either way.

“Five tries, those were your words,” J’torha called up, doing a few stretches mostly for show. “And then your five gil are mine.”

The midlander scoffed, but looked on in interest just the same, tossing her gil up and down in what J’torha could only assume was rapt anticipation. Thankful for the wine that dulled the throbbing in his shin and elbow from his previous attempts, he took a few quick breaths; on the third he jumped, propelling himself backwards over the bottom flight of steps. Bringing his knees up to carry his momentum, he caught his first touch on his hands on the middle step, bending at the elbow and kicking up his legs to bounce back up again. This time he actually managed to bring his feet down in time and landed the handspring at the bottom landing, skipping backward on the sandy stone to catch his balance but managing to stay upright.

He held his position with knees bent and arms out for a moment to let the world stop spinning before straightening up, tail curling with pride. When he was sure his company had seen the spectacle, he jumped up to pump his fists in the air with a triumphant, “Ha!”

The ladies at the top broke into applause, laughing and cheering all at once at the man’s antics.

“Incredible!” called the seeker girl with the red earrings, hopping in place.

“And you’re in one piece!” her sister (possibly her friend) added, in a tone that J’torha chose to interpret as amazement rather than smugness.

J’torha gave the women a theatrical, exaggerated bow from the bottom of the steps, and only barely straightened up in time to catch the glimmer of gil flying down towards him. He managed to catch four of the pieces, scrambling hither and yon as the midlander girl made no effort to make it easy for him, but when he reached too far for the fifth he stumbled, tumbling into a cackling heap on his rump.

Musical laughter cascaded down the steps to meet him, and J’torha let himself fall back, sprawled wide on the warm sand as laughter quaked in his own chest. His chuckles eventually faded to long, worn-out breaths as he stared up at the glimmering Ul’dahn night sky, a wide - if not still just a touch inebriated - smile still splitting his face.

“Just like a man to fall asleep in the middle of the fun,” the midlander girl teased, probably sore at losing her gil to such an extraordinary performance.

J’torha raised one arm as far as the elbow and lazily waved the thought away. “If this is how hard you drive your men, then they deserve the rest,” he called back, chuckling at his own joke as he let his hand fall. After another long look at the sky, though, he did pull himself to his feet, a heaviness of the limbs creeping in to replace the giddiness of drink.

He was upright just in time to see another few figures step through the Gate of the Sultana and saunter up to the ladies he was treating. “If the kitten down there can't keep up with you, then I'm sure you'll be more than satisfied with me.”

J’torha’s ears perked up to listen better, and the midlander girl gave the newcomer the sort of half-hearted chuckle that only comes out (as he knew from experience) when a woman wants to end a conversation. “I’m happy here, thank you,” she told him curtly.

“Come on, gorgeous,” the stranger drawled, stepping closer. “I can pay, if that’s what you’re after…”

J’torha started up the steps, tail twitching with irritation. Meanwhile, the midlander girl was having none of it, tossing her hair and turning away. “You can’t afford me.”

As she tried to walk away, the man - either a tall midlander or a short highlander, from this distance J’torha couldn’t tell which - followed her, catching up to her in two long strides and reaching out to roughly grab her by the arm. “Listen you little—”

SHING!

The chakram flew before J’torha even realized he’d drawn it, flying true to its mark and colliding with the stranger’s wrist all the way from a flight and a half of stairs below. The man cried out and stumbled back, clutching his bleeding wrist as the chakram returned to J’torha’s outstretched hand. He bounded up the last few steps to the woman’s side, ears flattening menacingly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I-I—”

“Get going before I give you a matching set!” J’torha threatened, gesturing with his chakram to the man’s injured wrist.

The man and his companions, miners by the look of them, didn’t need to be told twice; the injured one scrambled to his feet and away, grumbling something angry and unintelligible under his breath while his two companions in tow carried on about how a woman wasn’t worth a fight in this heat.

J’torha glared at their backs until they’d faded back into the crowd inside the gate, then turned back around to find the seeker girls fussing over the midlander’s arm as the woman herself tried to quell their concerns.

“Are you alright?” J’torha asked.

The midlander rolled her eyes. “Please,” she sighed, “how fragile do you think I am?”

J’torha’s smile returned at the reassurance and he visibly relaxed, though the midlander’s friends seemed worried. She paid them no mind, however, instead placing a hand on her hip and looking J’torha up and down. “But… thank you, adventurer.”

J’torha’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head, uncharacteristically humble. “Oh, I’m not an adventurer,” he clarified.

The midlander raised an eyebrow, giving J’torha another long look before shrugging. “Maybe you should be.”

Eyebrows shooting up, J’torha had no time to reply before the midlander and her two friends took their leave back into the city proper, responding to J’torha’s plea for their names with only a chorus of giggles before they, too, melded into the crowd. J’torha followed them as far as the arch of the gate, watching the sway of their hips as they left, until he was alone again.

Staring wistfully after where the trio had disappeared, he leaned against the cool stone of the gate, only to hear the crinkle of dry parchment under his shoulder. When he looked to see what he’d touched, J’torha found a leaflet haphazardly pasted to the wall, advertising a free company called “The Blessed Twelve” to adventurers young and old. He examined the poster for a moment, glancing between it and the spot where the trio had gone. The gears in his head started spinning.

Maybe...

Being born in Gyr Abania made one accustomed to the heat of northeastern Aldenard. It did not make one accustomed to the entire nation collapsing in on itself. It also did not make a young Miqo'te child accustomed to being uprooted and moved along with some several thousand refugees fleeing from the Garlean occupation that came afterward. Certainly, it hadn’t been his choice at the time, nor does he remember the time spent before the move. X'gihl Tia's earliest memories are of groups of people traveling together, as nomadic as any Miqo'te, surely. He hadn’t known why or what lay behind them, hardly even knowing what was ahead.

The choice, of course, had been that of his mother. Whatever she'd done, X'gihl couldn’t remember or comprehend at the time. He just knew that they'd never be welcomed back home. And what a time to be exiled, with the Garleans taking over the land and Ala Mhigan refugees rushing across the Velodyna to find some new place to call their home and lay their burdens. His mother had thrown her lot in with them and followed the caravan of fleeing Hyur, she carried her weight as an experienced hunter and hard worker, earning a place for her and the boy she'd taken with her.

By the time they'd reached the Shroud, X'gihl had a vague recollection of events. He knew that people had fear and desperation. That it drove them to move and move and move. He didn’t know why it made them move, just that the group would keep running. Why? He asked one of the men once, one of the older ones who didn’t have the strength to hunt with the group that provided meat. “You wouldn’t understand,” was the answer he'd gotten. The old man was mean. Why wouldn’t he tell X'gihl? The boy wanted to know. He pestered the old man. Asked him question after question, some of them a hundred times over.

The old man just laughed. He said to X'gihl, “you're like my grandson. He was an inquisitive little brat, too.” A look of sorrow crossed the man's face, like a candle winking out of existence before it'd begun to burn. X'gihl knew that feeling too, by now. He wanted the old man to laugh again. How? He looked up at the man again, from where they sat against the trees in the Shroud. “What’s that mean?” the boy asked. And the man smiled down at X'gihl with sad, nostalgic eyes. “Inquisitive? It means you ask a lot of questions, little one.”

Of course, that question led to more questions. Which led to more. The hunting party came back before X'gihl was done with his inquiries. The man spoke with his mother, who seemed all too happy that he'd made a “friend" in the group, or at least someone else the boy could talk to while she was gone. The man, Mennis, had been a teacher and a member of the Fist of Rhalgr before the invasion, but was now long past his prime. He couldn’t fight, couldn’t hunt. All he could do was run, along with the rest of the group. That meant that, if nothing else, he could keep an eye on a young Miqo'te boy, surely.

But it hadn’t stopped there. With X'gihl now under Mennis' care when his parent was out hunting, others were beginning to look to Mennis as something of a caregiver as well. There were other young ones in the caravan, and as things were looking, they would be on the road a very long time. For all their traveling on the hard road already, the residents of the Twelveswood were adamant they not stay for long on account of these nebulous Elementals they spoke of. The hard road continued onward.

By the time the caravan had made it into Thanalan, Mennis had become a teacher again. His classes were entertaining and he'd earned the respect of his students. Many looked to him as a fatherly-sort of figure when their own were handling other duties in the caravan. Rationing supplies, hunting, medical care, there were many necessary duties to handle to keep the other adults busy. To have the security that their children would not grow up wholly ignorant was a welcome respite from a burden that few admitted to openly. Mennis was happy with his place in the caravan.

Happiness is always fleeting for the many, however. The group made it to Ul'dah, and they were not a kindly people to the lost and the hopeless. Refugees didn’t exactly make things easy for a people ruled by coin. Naturally, they were shunned and written off by the masses as a sink hole for coin. Luckily, they were not the first refugees to have arrived, however. Those who were similarly shunned or couldn’t eke out a life in Ul'dah had begun a new settlement in Southern Thanalan.

This group that that finally arrived in Little Ala Mhigo was a fraction of that that had originally left from Gyr Abania. But the extra hands the caravan provided helped to bolster Little Ala Mhigo nonetheless. The adults worked, Mennis taught, children learned. Life went on, even when some adults chose to forego the hunting and travel back to Ul'Dah, rationalizing that Little Ala Mhigo had enough mouths to feed and enough hunters. There now needed to be a way that the settlement could earn coin to build and trade with. X'gihl's mother was among those who went back while he stayed.

X'gihl became a teenager before he had known it. He wasn’t tall, but he was strong enough to work, to hunt, to care for others. And there was something he had his eyes set on. Mennis, as mentioned before, had been a member of the Fist of Rhalgr. What that meant, was that he was a trained Monk with knowledge and techniques that Little Ala Mhigo could benefit from. That X'gihl could benefit from. He approached his longstanding teacher and requested mentorship. Mennis agreed, against his better judgment.

So it went that where one student had come, more would follow. Mennis gathered a small following who wanted to learn to fight with their bodies, instead of with swords and shields that they could not afford. X'gihl used those years to practice and spar. The better he was, he believed, the better he could do in Ul'dah. Or anywhere else for that matter. He would be a hard worker, he'd get a steady job, earn pay, send supplies and money back to Little Ala Mhigo. Maybe see more of the world beyond, too. As far East of the Velodyna as he could go.

The time passed like sand through his fingers. Ul'dah was no longer a star on the horizon, as it remained as unfriendly to the refugees as ever. And yet, with so many Ala Mhigans trying so hard to make a life, there were few jobs to go around for them. X'gihl never met his mother in the city. The city was used to mean opportunity, provisions, more for the oppressed and his people. But hard truth came with tears and disappointment.

Becoming a gladiator didn’t suit X'gihl, nor did street dancing or other seedy businesses. Instead, he turned back to Little Ala Mhigo with a heavy heart freshly filled with lead. After working to his late teens, his eyes set on Ul'dah all that time, he would need a respite. If he could not come to this city for an opportunity, then where? Mennis might have an answer. With all his worldly knowledge, perhaps there was an alternative. If it involved becoming a merchant, something that X'gihl considered only with much apprehension, then it would take more time, more work, an entirely different specialty than a hard back and a willingness to do…well, not anything as it turned out.

“Vylbrand. The city state of Limsa Lominsa may have need of sailors.” Mennis stared up at a bright red night sky with a smile as he said it. “It would be hard work. Maybe not what you're used to, but there’s a chance.” X'gihl turned it over in his mind. Limsa Lominsa was a place for pirates, right? Did Mennis mean to send him away to piracy, thinking that it would prove more profitable? But then, Ul'Dah surely hadn’t been that far out of the way of immorality either. Perhaps it wouldn’t be much different, or maybe it'd be more different, for the better.

“Be careful, when you go. There’s no telling what danger lies that way, with the way of the world right now. Garlemald wages war with the Alliance, and suddenly the sky is falling. Whatever's coming our way, we need to be ready. Prepared.” Mennis turned away from the falling moon of Dalamud. He held a hand out to X'gihl, offering out a small yellow stone. “No Monk worth his salt is going anywhere without one of these. And boy, you better not lose it anywhere. Else my old self will hunt you down personally and stick it somewhere it'll never come out.”

A Monk needed a Soul, after all. X'gihl kept it close to his heart as he traveled to Vylbrand from Vesper Bay. The trip itself was frightful, with the seas acting dangerous due to Dalamud's descent, but Meteor was still weeks away yet, not that X'gihl would know it at the time. He arrived in Limsa Lominsa with nothing more than wobbly legs and a new paranoia for keeping hold of his property (long story, lots of chasing and punching, then deck swabbing). The young man found lodging at the Drowning Wench, naturally, whilst he tried to find work. The city, however, was in a state of uncertainty due to Meteor edging its way closer each day.

Then it happened. Fire, desolation, ruination all about. The roar of a mighty Primal filled the sky on the Carteneau Flats. And with it, came everything else. Limsa Lominsa was not protected from the Calamity that followed. Terror like this didn’t have a word in X'gihl's vocabulary. Screaming, explosions, the sounds of splitting wood en masse and stones being shattered as much crumbled into the surrounding sea. Cries heard all around. It all became a blur after a certain point.

What X'gihl remembered after that was the sky above being smoky and cloudy. He was a part of a crew formed to help with the wreckage and reconstruction. He still didn’t quite know how it happened. What mattered is that he had a job, had work, something to focus on after the Calamity had ravaged the people, the land, and the city. He worked as hard as he could and kept going. People needed the help. Whether or not they were his people at the time didn’t matter.

The next few years passed, X'gihl made sure to keep correspondence with friends in Little Ala Mhigo, made sure to send money and supplies as he could. There was lasting consequences to the disaster, including people in the streets who would have to steal and con and more to make their living. X'gihl made the conscious decision that he couldn’t afford to help them all. Other people needed what he could provide. Instead, he turned to privateering on behalf of The Maelstrom. The Galadion Accord having come into play to outlaw pirating, those actions would no longer be tolerated. But privateering meant it was open season on the Garlean ships. For their part in the thrashing the city received, X'gihl was more than happy to loose some payback upon them.

The Gallant lurched and pulled as the water beneath began to rile. Brine sprayed across her deck while her crew prepared their positions. Up at the helm, Captain Blynanka held a private conversation amidst the unsteadiness with his quartermaster. To and fro, the Gallant rocked as she ebbed over the next wave and the wave after. Crewmen scuttled this way and that, both beneath and on the galley. Within the hull, on port and starboard, men and women prepared the cannons for volleys or hurried to man stations that wouldn’t yet be needed until the fray broke free.

X’gihl Tia, or Gill to his mates, hung from the riggings with a spyglass aimed at the northern horizon. He wasn’t the only one keeping watch. The crow’s nest, of course, had a spotter of its own. As did the rigging opposite Gill. As did the prow and the bow. If the information had been correct, then the Gallant’s target would be somewhere within this area, to the North or East by some degrees. If they could bag this vessel and its cargo, the payout would keep them aground for a few weeks before they were back to the seas again. Besides, the dear old ship could use some maintenance. Wear and tear were nipping at the rudder and hull. They’d last long enough to get them back to Limsa Lominsa, but without maintenance, no one would trust them for another voyage.

Something felt wrong, however. Their captain had seemed shifty, uncertain. He hadn’t been himself on this voyage. Part of Gill, the part that had learned not to trust just anyone in Limsa Lominsa, wanted to find a way out of the situation. But they were too far out to escape. Every other hair on his body stood at attention, as if waiting for the ball to drop and the entire ship to come down on his head. He itched to let go of the riggings and run for a life boat. Duty told him not to. Duty held his arm around the ropes, kept that boot in place and spyglass to his one good eye. No, he wouldn’t turn tail just to die of starvation or dehydration or sickness out in the middle of nowhere on some dinghy.

Down below, a sailor called his name. “Ya see anything?”

The question stirred X’gihl back to the horizon, where nothing but more water could be seen. With an angry groan he yelled back down to the guy, “Nothing. Just sea, clouds, and yer great aunt’s whiskered cheeks.” Gill raised the spyglass in mockery. “Oi, my mistake! S’just catfish off the bow!” He lowered the glass again and looked at the crewmate below with a smirk. The Hyur he recognized had been a member of the Gallant since before the Accords had been put into place, a pirate before it had become reputable. Before, even, the Calamity.

That being said, Birstul had never caused X’gihl any harm. Had never stolen or stabbed at him, and any misleading was done in jest. In return Gill tried to give him the same respect one would pay a friend. He remembered Birstul’s nameday, some relatives, recalled stories the man had shared, even his favorite drink (which happened to be a pint of anything that didn’t knock him out in one go). It didn’t take much to enjoy a person’s company, just a little attention and some consideration. With that, the two shared barbs time to time and, at least in X’gihl’s mind, they had enough to trust one another.

Birstul, being himself, smirked right back up at Gill and traded a remark for another, though X’gihl never heard it. What all happened at once was the crow’s nest yelling out a sighting, the captain calling the men to arms, and footsteps pounding at the galley as men scrambled to assume their stations or straighten up where they’d gone lax. X’gihl knew why; just off to port, a ship had begun to close distance between itself and the Gallant, a ship that had approached more quietly and suddenly than what seemed reasonable. How had no one seen it? How could no one have noticed? What in the hells were the other spotters doing?

“Navigator save us all!” Cried the captain. The other ship’s flags were lost to a darkly clouded retinue and the shadows that came with them. Whatever this vessel carried, whomever it held, must’ve brought with them something horrifying. And it had intentions of not being found out.

The ship that now ran aside the Gallant loomed closer with every second. X’gihl raised his spyglass to get a sighting. On the other side, he only found more shadowy smog covering whatever crew might be working the damned thing. “A glamour!” Yelled the spotter in the nest above. “It’s a glamour to conceal!”

“Fire to port!” Called the captain. Men obeyed, and within a second the Gallant’s side was aflame with cannons launching their payloads against the ship. The cannonballs vanished into the smog without a sound of impact or sign of damage done. The ghost ship’s hull remained wholly complete for something that had just taken fourteen shots.

“Captain!” Cried the spotter above. “Another approaches to the starboard!” The Gallant’s attention turned to the right of their ship to see what the spotter already had. Indeed, another vessel was present some short distance away, likely having approached while the privateers had focused on the opposite side. Unlike the first, this one had its own cannons visible. Also unlike the first, this one launched a very physically present volley at the Gallant. The crew below deck screamed in fear and agony as the shot broke through and struck several members. One didn’t easily shrug off a cannonball impact.

Holes made in the deck above made things look worse than they were. The captain called his orders the same as he always had. People ran this way and that to prepare a proper retort. X’gihl climbed the riggings to the mast above. He hadn’t heard his captain’s calls, but knew exactly what they would have been. “Prepare a response, we’re closing the gap”. It didn’t seem like a smart move, but the Gallant’s crew were hardier than her guns. “Loose the sails, ready a volley, and prepare a boarding crew!” Gill knew it by wrote. Someone else would handle the volley, but he would worry about the sails before getting back down to begin their crossing.

“Captain!” The spotter cried again. “They’re moving against us!” X’gihl turned back to the assailant vessel on starboard. The spotter was right, and the ship was moving quicker than expected. What’s more, they were approaching on the side X’gihl was facing. Well, if they were going to do the gap closing for him, then that would save a bit of energy. He could work with that.

X’gihl climbed around the riggings to face the outer side of them, facing the ocean and the incoming ship as it approached. He raised his spyglass to watch the deck and spotted numerous people, real people. Ones who could be seen running hither and thither across the deck, and a man at the helm with the wheel in his hand. If the other ship was just a fake, not a glamour that concealed but an illusion that fooled, then perhaps this one set it. Among the crewmen, he saw robed figures. Ones with wands or scepters in-hand or on their hips. That supported the theory.

Either the captain had already been informed, or saw through the bluff at once. He ordered the starboard cannons fired at this vessel, and in that instant did fourteen cannons fire their shots into it. Through his spyglass, X’gihl saw the damage the impacts caused. Holes in the sides, crewmembers regaining their footing or struggling against their wounds. Real people. Real ship. Real magic. And it was still closing in. He knew the captain’s next order: take the fight to them.

The distance was closing fast. The assailing ship was coming in at an angle but its helmsman was turning quickly to prevent a direct charge. X’gihl’s spyglass told him that some of those robed figures were drawing their wands, his intuition told him that flames were coming next. Distance was short. His spot at the riggings was high. He took a deep breath with a short prayer for his next action.

X’gihl leapt. Arms outstretched, legs pushed behind him, and the riggings of the other ship before him. His hand caught a rope and at once his muscles tensed, squeezing it as his grip let him swing around to the inner side of them before releasing the rope again. Gravity drew him back down, where he landed on one of the mages. His other hand, the one that wasn’t sore from the rope, grabbed a hora from his hip before he drove the front of it against the skull of this fool. Eyes closed, mouth agape, breath freed. The mage was hopefully unconscious, at the least. X’gihl stood with both his fists raised as he roared aloud. The mages beside him might get startled or distracted. He hoped it would ruin their concentration. Interrupt spells, prevent the flames from licking the Gallant, while her crew mustered the first wave of their offensive.

It worked, perhaps, or perhaps the mage he’d stomped on had been enough. X’gihl saw two mages adjust their stance to face him, heard footsteps clapping the deck behind him. He took a breath and went to work, both horas in hand. Stepping forward, turning his hips and torso as he brought a knuckle up to the throat of one mage. Spinning on heel, he faced a Hyur with an axe coming down in a vertical swing. X’gihl dipped to the left, placing the man between him and the mage he’d struck before retaliating with a kick to the back of the calf and, as he fell to one knee, X’gihl vaulted over the man’s back and crouched on the other side as the second mage threw a fire spell their way. The axeman took the brunt of it with a yelp, proving once again that friendly fire wasn’t friendly. X’gihl pivoted around him and sprinted toward the second mage, tackling him shoulder first into and over the railing. Two mages out, one crewman burned. That count seemed off, somehow.

The reason why came in a sudden freezing force striking against his backside. The mage he’d punched in the throat had found their voice again and loosed that frost. X’gihl grabbed the railing to steady himself and turned to the mage. The next spell, it seemed, would be one of flame. A slap of planks and movement in front called X’gihl’s attention back toward the Gallant, where his people were now crossing the gap on gangplanks. His crew had the same idea, neutralizing the mages being a top priority. As Gill watched his mates, two tomahawks flew through the air followed by a javelin. Three mages, including the one that was attacking him, fell to the deck either dead or dreadfully injured with the weapons now sticking out of their bodies.

Absolutely bleeding perfect, thought Gill. The timing couldn’t have been better. He turned around to face the next foe in line, another thaumaturge. They were the enemy’s frontline, given that they were intended to shoot fire across the space between, and so they would be the first to go now that the planks were in place and the ship was getting invaded. This one here, a Lalafell from his size, turned and ran from the monk. A Roegadyn axeman stood in front of him instead and leveled a swing at Gill’s body. The monk stepped back out of reach before lunging forward and delivering a series of punches to the man’s belly and diaphragm. He recoiled away from Gill, trying to catch his breath while the monk pursued and drove both his fists at once into the axeman’s chest. The Roegadyn stumbled back but raised his axe as he regained his footing. X’gihl leapt forward before the axe could be swung, he swept the man’s leg out from beneath him and delivered a punch quick as a snap to his throat. A gurgling sound exhumed from the Roegadyn’s throat as he fell to the ground, whether dead or unconscious X’gihl didn’t know.

As soon as his fist had struck that last blow, however, X’gihl began to feel that strength, that speed, that notion of electricity that flowed through his muscles. It was small, but certainly present. The concept of it was something unique to pugilists and monks, people who learned to work their bodies through these martial arts. “Greased lightning” was named for the sensation it brought; a tingle in the joints and a looseness of the muscles. It coursed through the body, urging the user to move, to attack, to keep going. And that’s just what X’gihl was going to do.

Gill waded through the melee, his crewmates and the enemies alike swirled in tandem as blades clashed on axes, lances and swords. Scepters raised over the remaining mages as flame, ice and thunder manifested in the air to find their marks. Meanwhile, Gill pushed onward. He struck at his foe’s backsides and flanks, helping to get his crew, his friends, his family through the battle. From the bow to the prow, enemies were knocked down or thrown overboard as they bled or breathed their last. Greased lightning welled up in Gill ever slightly more as it drew on. He wasn’t a full-fledged monk, he knew that. But if he kept going, kept getting stronger, faster, working to push his limits, he’d learn to reach further to draw it out.

Flames licked the ship from prow to bow, port and stern, the sails above were coming undone, and the galley seemed to shudder from the force of the men above having crushed its own crew upon it. The thaumaturges, if nothing else, would manage to prevent the Gallant’s crew from using their ship to maintain their own. The enemy captain’s quarters were reduced to naught but a burning cabin, destroying any evidence within that may explain why they had attacked. The Gallant’s men had to hurry across the gangplanks again before the vessel crumbled beneath them.

Once back on their own ship, Captain Blynanka brought the Gallant away from the burning wreckage with a fear like any man would to protect something precious to him. X’gihl could appreciate the swiftness, but he had to wonder if the captain had known more than he would let on. Perhaps he pulled them away so quickly because he didn’t want anything about it known. Those mages certainly hadn’t. They had begun to purposely conjure flames when the battle swung out of their favor. Flames that had been launched to the mast, the sails, the quarters below and above decks. In a way, they’d surrendered to their fate and tried to bring as many of the Gallant’s crew down with them as they could.

The crew. Gill leaned against a support rail on the galley, his legs wobbling beneath him from the excitement, while looking over his mates. Immediately he counted four people missing. He knew their names, knew where three of them had grown up, met the families of two of them, and had been the confidante of the last. R’jhaal Vhig, Ahtzaberk, Neldon, and Birstul. There had been more, Gill could see. But these four were the ones that pained him immediately, the rest would come later.

Up at the helm, Captain Blynanka and the quartermaster made their discussions unheard to the rest of the crew. A feeling of distrust welled up in X’gihl’s breast, animosity, anger, grief, and tears rising to match it. That man in the tricorne had been to blame for this, one way or another. Some decision he’d made, or underhanded trade he’d planned. And it had gone belly up with a good chunk of the crew. Then the man yelled something to the crew on deck. Perhaps something about finding land, respite, and repair. X’gihl didn’t hear him.

The Gallant, having tread malms of sea long after the battle, had begun to wear down to her last, finally. She’d made port without a port to make it in, having made do with an inlet closest to Thanalan. The crew disembarked from her and, X’gihl among many, looked over her wounds with much fear and grief. Yet another casualty of the captain’s poor decision-making. The man himself disembarked last with his quartermaster. “I think this be as far as she’ll take us, boys.” He said to his men.

“It be time to give her a proper pyre. Commit her to sea she walked on and carried us through.” To this, the crew rallied for different reasons. Some believed the Gallant could be repaired. Some thought she could still serve one way or another. Others believed that it was the best decision to let her rest. The captain said it best himself, for another reason entirely. “Lads, we know not who came fer us. Those sails bore no crest or sign! Perhaps it be smarter to let them think we fell to the drink or the flames. Let them believe that we be no more, so that we might be free of them!” He had final say, in spite of the crew’s disagreement.

X’gihl, stoking his anger towards to man, quietly found every reason imaginable to be justified in his feelings. The captain was responsible, the captain had set them up, the captain was at fault for being targeted by these mysterious buccaneers. He’d known that something was going to happen. Of course he’d want to play dead! Was it a debt? Was it getting on someone’s wrong side? Who do we owe? What do we need to know that he’s not telling?

Whatever feelings were in the crowd at that moment in time, they were quieted. Beaten and unhappy, the Gallant’s crew were in a bad position. Crewmen dead, ship a broken burned wreck, and the captain hid something lethal from them all. No one spoke, but more and more seemed to be keeping their backs to the captain. As he hid something from them, they would hide their feelings and suspicions from him. Meanwhile, their beloved, dying vessel was steered out to sea, where they lit it ablaze before taking the dinghies back to land. She burned quietly on the horizon, fitfully, angrily, but quietly. X’gihl suspected it was because no one was close enough to hear her sobs, her creaks, the wood giving way to ashes while its bones fell under. The mast cracked while flames ate away at its support, it fell to the side and splashed into the water. Her crew that she’d faithfully served stood at attention for her from the inlet until, finally, she was sunk.

Captain Blynanka turned to face the crew and looked at each of their faces in turn, his tricorne held to his breast, tears painting his face a glossy green to go with his natural Sea Wolf heritage. “It is today, with a heavy heart, that I declare the Gallant to be laid to rest. Her crew is released from service. Say a prayer to the Navigator for her, lads, and for the ones we lost today. Dismissed!”

A mix of reactions went through the crowd. Angry outbursts, sorrowful tears, and more. X’gihl turned away and began his march further inland, stowing away his feelings until he was in a better place to process them. With him went three other crewmembers intent on putting distance between themselves and this sorrow-scarred place. Together, the four survived making their way to Western Thanalan, where they parted ways at Horizon. Two went to Vesper Bay, one went towards the Copperbell Mines. They all had a plan to find work. If the captain had been right, then it was better to stay away from Limsa Lominsa, better to not be themselves. Not privateers. Not the crew of the Gallant. The crew of the Gallant had burned away and drowned in the seas between Aldenard and Vylbrand

X’gihl took the opportunity to check prices for a chocobo porter. What little gil he had on his person, he would put to use getting further inland before finding a place to drink his worries and wounds away. The Black Brush Station in Central Thanalan seemed as good a place as any. He hired a ride and it carried him through the desert lands with speed and safety. Throughout the ride, X’gihl didn’t watch the sights, didn’t see the sky overhead as clouds and the sun carried on, didn’t see the Brass Blades and the merchants and the people as they went about their business.

No, he stayed inward. In his own mind, he kept running through possibilities of his trusted captain’s deception and trying to process his loss of the crew, the ship, the family he had been a part of ever since the Calamity brought down Limsa Lominsa and people worked together to bring it back up. Well now he faced another Calamity. Home gone, family gone, livelihood over with, he would need to find lodging and work and pay if he ever hoped to help the refugees at Little Ala Mhigo again.

Oh dear. Little Ala Mhigo. It hadn’t crossed his mind that he’d have to send a letter at some point. Not to Mennis, who passed years ago now. Not to his mother, who worked somewhere in Ul’dah. But he had to keep in contact with the refugees. Perhaps he wasn’t as close with them as he wanted to be anymore, but they were family, too. The people he’d traveled with throughout his boyhood were there. Maybe he’ll just end up visiting directly. He was, after all, now in Thanalan. It would be just a short venture away from the city. But things had changed somewhat now. In the years since he left he’d become a different man. X’gihl had been a pirate, a salvager, a privateer. He’d fought Garleans and rogues and beggars alike.

Black Brush Station came sooner than he would have liked. The chocobo stopped just around the aetheryte crystal that lit up Black Brush’s plaza-like area. X’gihl dismounted on unsteady feet and sat down beneath the crystal to continue his thoughts, but they were becoming too painful. Yes, the things he did were to support his lifestyle and give the refugees supplies to live on. Yes, he had to protect his own funds and resources, even if it meant killing a group of people who had tried to knife him because they themselves had nothing else and the only help they would accept came from mugging him! Yes, becoming a pirate was better than nothing, even if he ended up hurting and robbing innocents himself at the time. It provided pay, provided experience, and food, and lodging, and protection.

X’gihl didn’t like this train of thought. Rationalizing something despicable meant you regretted it. Once upon a time, it hadn’t seemed so bad. He hadn’t felt like a sinner, just a man surviving. Yet now, it all seemed like a glass globe. Within it, he could see himself committing theft and burglary and piracy. It was all just part of the still, it couldn’t be changed because it was already set, already done. The Gallant was a group of pirates. He met them when Garlemald brought Eorzea low, and he joined them to help pick the city back up. From there, it became about the city, then about the profit, then about taking the fight to Garlemald for what they did. And still, it just seemed an excuse to continue piracy, but at least their targets were justified by then. The Accords fixed that. So why did we get attacked by an Eorzean vessel? Why were we out there, looking for a ship, only to be stricken by one?

Bollocks! Shut up, shut up SHUT UP! A drink. A drink would silence all this infernal bellyaching. Rising to his feet, X’gihl asked a passing merchant about the closest bar. “The Coffer and Coffin, just down the way. Can’t miss it.” He was told. That’s the way he headed, Southbound by no more than a few malms. The merchant was right, one couldn’t miss The Coffer and Coffin settled just beneath an overhanging of stone. The lantern out front looked like it got a lot of use in the perpetually shady spot, and the place it lit appeared refreshingly homely. X’gihl walked in and took a seat at the bar. He had a couple hundred gil left in his purse, it would serve to get him well and duly drunk.

Drink after drink went down the privateer’s gullet. X’gihl took every bit of alcohol gratefully, as if it would eventually make up for every loss suffered in the past few days. A buzz filled his mind and his hands had begun to lose their dexterity. Cheeks flushed, eye half-open, memories leaked free. It was almost like they were hovering before him. As if he could pick one and see it over again. The happier ones were harder to reach, but he found them.

Birstul stood next to him, one arm over his shoulders while Gill had an arm over Birstul’s. The two had mugs in their hands and were singing a jolly song in a tavern with some goofy dance they’d seen performers use earlier that day. It involved a swing of the body and a kick of the leg. Everyone in the tavern was laughing, watching them make fools of themselves. But it made Gill happy to share such merriment.

His mother brought him along on their first hunt together. He had to help provide for their “tribe” of refugees. The first bit of prey they’d spotted had managed to get away because X’gihl was too noisy. It earned him a scolding. X’gihl was just happy to spend time with his mother.

R’jhaal Vhig was pretty, for a pirate. She made sure to tease Gill about his inexperience with women often. Gill managed to make her blush with a comment he couldn’t remember. She challenged him to a duel. She won. He remembered her face as she blew him a kiss afterward.

Neldon’s often quiet demeanor made people think he was a simple midlander. Gill knew the man was more of a scholar. He abstained from liquor and preferred the company of his books. It made him more than a little different from the other crewmen. Neldon never turned away someone’s curiosity, however, and he often became excited and ecstatic when someone inquired on his worldly knowledge. Gill learned many things from him.

Mennis had been a teacher for children in the group for weeks now. Yet it wasn’t until their company had come under attack from bandits that they found out he had been a monk in his younger years. He fought to protect the group with several others. The old man was brave. X’gihl wanted to learn to be brave too.

Birstul and R’jhaal dragged Gill out to face the world. He was grieving over Mennis’ passing. It was heart wrenching. Through his tears and shudders, these two comforted him. They spent the hours out and around Limsa Lominsa, watching the stars, drinking the night away, dancing, singing, meeting strangers and telling tall tales. Gill held a special place for this memory in his heart.

Upon sunrise, he found himself amidst a bale of hay and chocobo dung. Fine bedding for a drunken griever who smelled no better. X’gihl stood on wobbly legs and dusted himself off as best as possible, but when one smelled like these birds, the smell didn’t just go away. He made certain to check his purse, empty though it was now, and to take inventory of his belongings. Luckily, aside from his money, all was present. One less worry to have. With that managed, he walked out of the chocobo pen, waving a thanks to the porter who had, hopefully, been the one to put him there.

The porter, in good sense, called after the strange drunk who’d risen from the hay. “Hold up there, lad.” And before he could get anything else out, X’gihl turned on him.

“If you fear for your birds, mate, don’t. I’ll take me companionship furred before I’ll have’em feathered.”

He made to leave again, but the porter halted him once more and addressed the privateer with a sternly distressed toned. “Now, look here, that’s not at all what I had in mind! I was going to ask if you were the adventurin’ sort.”

X’gihl stopped and leveled a confused stare at the porter’s mask. “Well, I suppose so. Had my fair share of it, and I aim to have more.”

The porter must have thought the privateer was being funny. They clapped a hand to their mask and shook their head despondently. “Well, if you want to earn some good gil, there’s a man back down at the Coffer and Coffin what needs a hand. You look pretty able, and pretty poor. Figured you’d appreciate the opportunity. Now go on, walk with the twelve or whathaveyou. And stop sleeping with my chocobos!” With that said, the porter returned to their post.

To the porter’s credit, they were right about somebody at the Coffer and Coffin needing some help. They hadn’t mentioned it involved a large wagon filled with goods tightly packed. Workers stood atop and to the sides, passing goods along and calling them out to one another as a person with a manifest checked off each good that found its way to the wagon. Last night’s barkeep caught X’gihl approaching from the corner of his eye and walked over to address him.

“Sorry to tell you, lad, but I don’t think you need another drink so soon. You-“, the barkeep was cut off by the privateer and they both spoke over one another for a second. Both stopped speaking and X’gihl took the chance to get his thought out.

“Forgive me of last night’s conduct. I was told you needed some help in exchange for coin.” The privateer set aside his Lominsan dialect that had become so normal to use. He’d try to sound professional, business-worthy. Anything that could possibly make the man overlook the events before, though X’gihl couldn’t remember exactly what happened.

A chuckle came from the Hyur man. “Lad, you had the lot of us laughing and singing! I thought, the way you’d come in, that you’d be cryin’ inta yer cup til we shoved you out. But no! You gave us all a grand time. Bah, I’d be happy to have you over again when ya find the time. Now, about business.” He straightened up and wiped the smirk from his face. “I’ve got this shipment of goods here, ya see it back there.” He gestured with his thumb back to the wagon. “It’s been paid for and needs to arrive safely in Little Ala Mhigo, down ‘round Southern Thanalan. Them refugees, they need any as they can get. This? Needs to get to them at all costs. I might be Ul’dahn, but my heart and good business goes out to them. You manage to bodyguard this here wagon down to Little Ala Mhigo, we’ll talk about payin’ you. Fair?”

“Aye. We’ll call it fair.” X’gihl grinned. Excitement began to blossom in his chest, covering whatever grief had managed to fester again. The idea of getting back to Little Ala Mhigo, even for a job, even for a little bit, would be a perfect change of pace. It’d be the first time in five years that he’d return. He could share some tales, get some rest, and get back on the road to-…what?

Right. No ship. Half-crew that’d been disbanded. Traitorous captain what may have gotten every sailor in his command blacklisted. X’gihl Tia; private privateer, looking for work. In Thanalan, no less. No seas for a privateer to sail. This was the mainland.

His future in the air, X’gihl continued on. If nothing else, he could use the time to think of another plan after he got some gil in his pocket. What’s more, he wasn’t the only man bodyguarding the wagon on its route. Two others came with him, though neither was quite notable. The journey itself consisted of little more than a trek for hour after hour, fighting off a band of dastardly marmots, until they hit the lands of Southern Thanalan. The familiar sight of Little Ala Mhigo in the distance sent X’gihl into a nostalgic tornado. For professionalism’s sake, however, he kept himself solid and focused. They approached Little Ala Mhigo, reaching the mark just before the sun met the horizon.

The faces that greeted the wagon were both familiar and frightening. The ones that frightened him were those he hadn’t remembered, ones that had to be new faces in Little Ala Mhigo since he left. More refugees. Gyr Abania was occupied by Garlemald, but in the five years since it had taken place, even more people had come seeking freedom from the empire. Letters from home had surely told him of it, but to see it in front of himself brought an impact that he hadn’t expected. There were still more people making the journey.

Wagon delivered, the other two bodyguards went back with it after the goods it had were brought into Little Ala Mhigo. X’gihl said his farewells and asked them to let the barkeep know he’d be along days from then for payment. With the job complete, and a warm reception from those who’d known him, X’gihl settled in with the community quite nicely. For the most part, he occupied his days training with Mennis’ other pupils and hunting with the others. It gave him experience he hadn’t had before, hunting in Thanalan’s deserts and crag lands were a far cry from the grassy knolls and forests of La Noscea. He also made it a point to travel to Mennis’ grave, where he got to properly pay his respects.

Grief seemed to fall away and worries withered as the work allowed X’gihl to process the events transpiring about the Gallant’s downfall. It kept him focused, gave his hands and muscles something to work with, whether it was sparring or hunting, or some other labor the community required. As time passed, however, he began to miss the freedom of travel. Little Ala Mhigo was no home for a privateer, no home for an adventurer of one shade or another. He wanted more, wanted better. Having enough of respite, he took a small bundle of supplies and struck out towards Ul’dah. His plan was to properly join the Adventurer’s Guild and work from there.

Ul’dah was a city built on financial gain and blood sport, this much everyone knows. Entering the city for the first time in his life, and truly seeing it for what it was after being turned away at the walls all those years ago, was both inspiring and dispiriting. Perhaps he’d built it up in his mind long ago, consciously or not, that Ul’dah was no place for him. Limsa Lominsa had taken that spot. Yet with recent events reminding him of why Limsa Lominsa may not have been a safe place to be, Ul’dah would have to fill the gap.

X’gihl proceeded with his intentions. The Quicksand, home of Ul’dah’s Adventurer’s Guild, struck him as not so different from The Drowned Wench. Momodi was every bit as welcoming as <Lominsan Proprietor>, perhaps more. Definitely more. She’d gotten him signed up and registered, allowing him an inn room at all hours of the day and giving him access to take what she referred to as “leves”.

Guildleves. Now that was something he’d never given thought to when adventuring had crossed his mind. Mercenary work was one thing. It was easy to work out a contract with people for a job they wanted done. Hells, the job that the Coffer and Coffin owner had given him was mercenary work. But a place where you could go to browse requests, accept work, do the job, and earn the agreed upon weight of gil was…it was…

Why didn’t I do this sooner? Thought the fool. And he did feel the fool. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as profitable as privateering at the time, but it allowed him free lodgings. Allowed him to work his own hours, pick his jobs, and still got him out of the city for an adventure. He buried himself in leves. Worked several day-in and day-out. He would roll in the gil, stashing a little back from each job to send to Little Ala Mhigo, drink a bit here and there (or more than he’d admit to), hit the inn, and get back out again.

It was a feverous process. It was a lonely process. He loved the work. He hated the quiet. Enjoyed the drink and company at the Quicksand. But an inn room was no home. It was something for vagrants, migrants, people who would come and go. X’gihl worked this way for months, he had no intention of going anywhere, exactly. The adventurer just wanted to earn his fill and pay his share. Yet there was more. He wanted more. There was something to the life he’d had before, living amongst the crew of the Gallant every day. The one before that, traveling from Gyr Abania for so long with the entire group being your family. You were never alone. The silence that now burgeoned in his mind became a weight, a truth that changed the perspective of how he went about his life. There was an answer. Surely. Many adventurers feel like this, don’t they? They didn’t all live in silence, coming together only once in a blue-moon to work towards the occasionally common goal.

Free Companies. X’gihl walked into the Hall of Flames one day to ask about it directly. He couldn’t ask just anyone, could he? Momodi had pointed him this way, saying that he should either ask the Grand Company clerk about them, or ask other adventurers. So maybe he could ask just anyone. But would “just anyone” answer? Would they have seen his eyepatch, realize his disability, and say they didn’t want him? Would they have known he was from Gyr Abania and written him off as just enough refugee looking for a handout? He had his reasons to be worried. But that didn’t mean moving forward wasn’t the practical thing to do. He just had to get the courage up to do it. A swig from his hip flask and a deep breath pushed him forward.

The Grand Company Administrator was more than happy to provide information on the topic. But he didn’t have a list of active Free Companies on hand, nor did he handle enlistment in them. “The only way to get into a Free Company is to get invited by a member directly. We may keep track of them, but we don’t handle or administrate them. Here, some companies like to put out flyers like this one. Meetings for potential recruits aren’t uncommon. Mayhap you'll find one that way.” He handed X'gihl a piece of paper.

The flier promised free drinks on a day coming soon, and that “The Blessed Twelve" was opening for recruits. If nothing else, the free drinks were a good way to get X’gihl's good will. Well, he had a place to start now. It would give him a few days to think, not that he needed them, and a little while longer to work. Surely, this would be something life changing.

Before the Calamity, the Golden Bazaar dominated Eastern Thanalan as the primary stopping point between Ul’dah and Gridanna for those without airship permits. A bustling town of merchants, locals and transients, the small hamlet provided anything a traveling caravan could need, from a place to rest your head to chocobo feed to repair services to a touch of entertainment for the oft encouraged longer stays. Anything that happened in the least acrid region of Thanalan was often launched out of this gathering place and housed nearly all the regions local’s, including the members of the Church of Saint Adama Landama who maintained one of Thanalan’s largest lichyards.

Unfortunately, the lichyard’s size became an unexpected problem. The few ponds that the settlement housing the lichyard derived its name from were at risk of contamination from the rotting corpses of those interred due to the heavy rainfall the region tended to experience. Poor organization and insufficient field research put early graves, and thus newer ones that spiraled out from the originals, too close to the water source and the rains recent began bringing some of the sealed diseases in the region’s primary drinking sources. In a bid to correct their mistake in the most cost efficient manner, the Church reached out to the Order of Nald’thal for training in their funeral rituals that should cleanse the bodies of their impurities.

The Order refused. Mumuepo, leader of the Thaumaturge’s guild at the time, threw out the request because a lack of donations to Thal’s church, despite the lichyard demanding the entirety of the Church’s resources. In a panic, the church reached out to anyone willing to help and they received it from an unexpected place.

Kikisuki Lelesuki answered the call, an aetherically advanced thaumaturge whose lineage could be traced back to before the fall of Sil’dah. Her family roamed the Thanalan desert, wandering on the backs of adamantoises, and used their ancient traditions of black magic and thaumaturgy to help those who struggle to help themselves. Kikisuki arrived shortly after the Order’s denial and taught several members of the Church the foundations of Thaumaturgy, helping them purge the afflicted corpses with fire and ice and lightning. Fofojin Sisijin, a gravedigger Kikisuki selected due to naturally elevated aetheric reserves, fell in love with the wandering thaumaturge and courted her for nearly two years before she returned his feelings.

The pair ended up giving birth to four children, two girls and two boys, most with the Lelesuki’s natural inclination for aetherial manipulation and their father’s high aetheric reserves. His older sisters, Lilijin and Shishijin, twins and the oldest siblings, followed closely by Papajin and then finally himself. Lilijin commanded the family’s natural magical prowess, honing her abilities under her mother’s tutelage and eventually leaving Drybones to join the extended Lelesuki clan’s wandering mission. Shishijin unfortunately was born with abnormally low aetheric reserves, unable to safety cast even basic thaumaturgy spells without putting herself in harm’s way, but after a troublesome teenage spell of bitter resentment, Shishijin joined their father at the Church of Saint Adama Landama and helps prepare offerings on behalf of those with no one to remember them. Papajin loathed the Gold Bazaar and abandoned it as soon as he was able. He joined the Order of Nald’thal, welcomed in with open arms due to his easy command of the thaumaturgical arts.

Kajin was the youngest and clearly had minor attachment issues. As a young child, he would follow his siblings and parents around feverently, throwing a tantrum if the current object of his attention stepped out of eye sight for even a second. He never seemed to favor one family member over another but his need for familial affection did stunt his social growth, always staying away from his peers if a family member was present. It persisted as he grew older, scorch marks on the wall when he found out Lilijin was striking out on her own. The family still teases him for it but if not for their mother’s timely intervention, Kajin probably would have burned down their home.

Like his brother and older sister, Kajin inherited his family’s aptitude for magical mayhem but took it further than his siblings. Where as they wielded it as a tool, as something to be used when necessary, Kajin loved magic. He loved the feeling of coaxing form from aether and sending it flying in an explosion of pure will. He hung desperately to his mother’s lessons, always begging for more, pushing his limits as far as they go, and as he got older, started his own experimentation into the arts. If anyone as much as whispered the word aether, Kajin would be there, spouting ideas and concepts before anyone realized what mishap they’d brought on themselves.

The Calamity struck just after Papajin struck off on his own, Kajin’s clinginess once again resulting in an irritable outburst of fire and lightning but this time outside of the home. The extended family scurried around the desert for days, putting down raging sprites and creatures whipped into a frenzy by the horrific events that threatened the safety of the people of Thanalan. Kajin, his parents, and Shishijin watched as the Burning Wall practically exploded with malformed aether and the world burned before them. Many suns passed as they put out fire after fire in Eastern Thanalan, each one burning with Bahamaut's unusually concentrated aether. They rotated, exposure to the intense aether sicking them, as the smothered them with ice and dispersed the aether as best they could.

Two years passed with no word from Papajin. Lilijin made sure to check in afterwards but hurried back with their grandmother. The rest were so busy with the increased dead that it wasn’t until Kajin made the effort to go to Ul’dah and practically break down the Order’s door that he discovered Azyma’s Eyes, an organization dedicated to quelling the turbulent aether and creating safe guards to prevent such widespread devastation from happening again. His brother was at the helm of Ul’dah’s chapter, practically drowning in work. Not that that stopped Kajin from crying in front of his colleagues, to remind him he had a family who was worried sick of course, and then he demanded he be involved. It took nearly six moons and a handful of bells to get Papajin to accept his help, not to mention several letters begging their parents to help because Kajin has no shame, but he eagerly entered the Eyes with full expectations that he’d get to do something useful.

Instead, Papajin stuck him on desk duty and adamantly refused to change his assignment. Not that it stopped the Lalafell from struggling against the tyranny of his elder sibling.

The sun burned low against the city skyline. Crowds seemed to swell as the dry Thanalan heat diffused into the cooling air and a dull roar rang through the city as her nightlife emerged to enjoy the encroaching darkness, the screams and shouting of the coliseum swelling to a crescendo as steel met steel on the blood sands. For all it’s glitter and gold in the midday sun, Ul’dah truly came alive at night, her people slipping out from their shadowy oases as dancers, musicians, and entertainment prowled the streets, eyes set on the heavy pockets of the wealthy citizenry. Gil and wine flowed freely in the city, any pleasure available to those with pockets deep enough to forget their troubles, even if only for the night.

Kajin made his way down Ul’dah’s sandy cobblestones, books piled high as he balanced his staff on the top. He could barely see around the few tomes, each one weighing with carefully transcribed reports on the aetheric movements of every major section of the massive Thanalan desert. His wrist still ached with the last few quill strokes, eyes blurry as he and several other members of the Eyes made copies to send out to the Conjurers and Arcanist guild for safe keeping and comparative analysis. His arms burned with the weight, the dedicated space for Azyma’s Eyes far too far away for a lalafell like himself. Barely brushing three feet tall, more than two of these books stacked on top of each other block his vision and three made his arms burn but here he was, one in a bag and three stacked high. The things he did for this twelves damned group.

Five years have already passed since the calamity brought the world to its knees. His older brother, a member of the Order of Nald’Thal, helped spearhead a collaborative effort between the various magic guilds in an attempt to alleviate the strain placed on the resource starved grand companies and tackle another imposing problem. With the aetheric currents thrown into complete disarray, Azyma’s Eyes rose to watch and prevent further aetheric disruption through its methods of observation, notation, and reaction. Reports poured in over the years, compiled into tomes and sent out across the city states for comparison as the aether settled enough to permit safe teleportation again. Various members were now moving forward to develop safeguards against such events, including theorizing various ways to counter balance severe aetheric disruptions in the event of approaching umbral calamities.

And his own brother relegated him to desk duty!

Admittedly, calling him a shite-face, swill-sodden pile of goobbue vomit was a bit unnecessary but Papajin using his authority to crush his own sibling’s ideas was an entirely different matter! It was abuse through and through and even whining at his parents hadn’t fixed the problem. The world needed people attuned to the aether right now. Teaching more magically experienced people would solve that. After all, it wasn’t like advanced thaumaturgy was all about destruction. Well, it was but it wouldn’t be possible without the intricate process of aetherial manipulation! And that was what advanced thaumaturgy was about. Moving and converting aether from one form into another!

And there were so so many possibilities! Imagine what carefully calculated aetheric conversion could accomplish and then apply that directly to a rapid decomposition of elemental crystals across a general locale and then what couldn’t they accomplish! Of course, there were some problems with that but what idea didn’t have problems at the beginning? He got excited again just considering the possibilities, the books threatening to topple as he practically vibrated but reality came settling in far too quickly. His suggestion had been cast aside, his plans torn to shreds, and his brother punished him with a dead end desk job copying pages as long as he stayed with the Eyes. The monotony of it all was starting to wear him thin, his passion for aetherology crushed beneath the weight of scribe work.

He blinked and suddenly he was on the cobblestones, blinking as a dull pain exploded in the back of his head. A pair of children sped past him, barely noticing the stranger they’d knocked over. He grabbed his staff, a present from his grandmother when they decided to induct him into the family traditions, and picked himself up with a groan. He felt the irritation inside him rise only to bubble back down, too tired from the mind numbing drudgery to care that much, and he passed through the Quicksand to retire to his company funded room. He’d set out on the morrow to home and send his portion forward with a porter to the Black Shroud once he arrived.

He ducked into the tavern doubling as the adventurer’s guild as a Roegadyn nearly shut the door on him. It was a full house tonight, weary travelers and adrenaline high adventurers making merry as was their wont. He could see Momodi cheerily welcoming another group, blood still splattered on their armor from whatever grand adventure they’d returned from, another tale tucked neatly into their belt and a healthy pile of gil to return their good will. He felt the yearning for that kind of freedom pull at his heart, the freedom to do what he wanted without his family crushing his aspirations, but now he barely had the energy to work on his theories. Wake up, work, go to bed, rinse and repeat. He sighed and side stepped a tossed tankard.

“Oye, goobbue feed, fetch that for me!” The same Roegadyn that nearly crushed him in the door shouted at him and Kajin sent a half hearted glare and continued on his way until his books were, again, knocked out of his hands.

“You hard o’ hearing, midget? I said pick. It. up.” The Roedgadyn growled. Kajin picked up his staff instead, the anger from earlier raising its head and curling hot in his belly. Lalafell discrimination was fairly common, the Syndacte and money grubbing Plainsfolk merchants to thank for that, but open confrontation was still rare. Most people had the common sense to realize were the perfect height for the worst type of attack. As he picked up his staff, the screech of a sword drawn drew his attention and he saw the shadow of the blade coming down on him.

It was reflex at this point. The first spell any aetherically advanced thaumaturge worth their staff mastered. The sword crashed against the barrier of hardened aether Kajin wove with the ease of experience. Just a simple flick of the wrist and the aether would follow, rushing to fill the void the movement created. Kajin sneered at the “Bloody mages” the brute muttered and the sword swung back. A muttered incantation followed it and Kajin sent a spark of lightning straight into his crotch with a satisfied smirk. The crack of thunder following it silenced the tavern, the clatter of the sword as it fell from the Roegadyn’s hand reverberating through the open space. The gladiator’s mouth dropped and for a moment he was silent until he howled and rolled on the floor, hands over his sensitive genitals. Kajin marched over, fire in his eyes, and he caught a stray strand of lightning aether in his staff, his staff crackling with lighting as it hovered over the brute’s throat

“Next time, I’ll make sure even the Pajal’s can’t save your little sand gecko.” The Lalafell snapped, bringing the staff up and slamming it back down with all his strength. The Roegadyn shut his eyes with a whimper, hands still protecting his sensitive nethers, but Kajin let the aether fade and he paused just above the brute’s nose. The Roegadyn opened his eyes after a few moments to the wicked grin on Kajin’s face and he bopped the gladiator’s nose with a loud “Boop!” He turned, staff safely stowed, as he picked up his books once more. Using magic was always an incredible rush, one he didn’t have nearly enough opportunity to indulge in. He righted himself and something caught his eye. A new poster on the wall for a Free Company called “The Blessed Twelve.” As if he was blessed. Blessed with a prick of a brother. He grumbled his entire way up to his room as his good mood crumbled, dropping the books noisily on the desk and unceremoniously hitting the floor. He laid there for a while, just staring at the ceiling.

He could. He’d get to practice his art again. He’d get to actually test his theories without his family’s deraigned limitations constantly pressing down on him. He wanted to help people, like everyone in his family swore to when they took up the family traditions. Kajin couldn’t help but feel that transcripting aether reports while wasn’t hurting anyone, wasn’t really helping them either. The image of the Blessed Twelve’s crest hung heavy in his mind and he worried his lip for a few more moments. He’d practically be slapping his own brother in the face. Papajin would be furious. The thought made Kajin laugh and he was on his feet in a heartbeat.

He’d never written as quickly as he did in that moment, requesting a transfer. They often encouraged aether sensitives into the company of adventurers. They could evaluate more dangerous areas and performed random checks to verify reports as they moved through the world. His brother held no sway over this part of the Eyes. His only regret was that he wouldn’t get to see Papajin’s face when he walked into the room and discovered Kajin managed to escape his claws.

The realm of Coerthas is a harsh, unforgiving icy wasteland, one where only a sole settlement endures to this day. For countless years, dragons and men have waged war against one another. These bloody conflicts continue without any end in sight, and for the average citizen of Ishgard, the thought of avenging the lost is all that keeps them interested in potentially joining the war. That and the lucrative promise of lordship to dragon slayers.

Of course, lordship is merely a pipe dream. Only the most talented at warfare can effectively fell a dragon alone, and wealthiness doesn't allow one to desert the fields of war. Its a place where one is born to die in a never ending conflict against a foe who swears revenge, and in turn, mankind swears revenge as well.

But, none of that really matters. Not to Theodore. Born to a servant's family for house Haillenarte, the boy's future prospects seemed to be limited to the scrubbing of stone floors, and the polishing of the "brave" men and women of the House's arms and armor. It wasn't a bad life, nor an especially hard one given the house's relatively lackluster estate compared to the other three houses. The head of the house was a bit disciplinary, but that just reinforced the idea in Theodore's head that serving was...really all that he was good for.

But, destiny conspires in peculiar ways. Namely, that Haillenarte was really, really damn bad at actually performing their knightly duties. As Skyfire Locks was constantly under siege, even the serving staff started being allowed to sign on to join the proud knights of Haillenarte. With the prospect of an upgrade from servanthood to lordship on the line, Theodore was excited. He'd often read stories of the brave knights of old in the libraries when he had free time, and the prospect of both letting his family live a life of comfort and becoming a hero was more than tantalizing to the young man of 14 years. It was downright seductive.

Of course, knighthood is anything but glamorous. Parking your fully armored arse in the icy outskirts of Coerthas, often fending off Goobbues and wolvevs more than anything remotely resembling a dragon was just a bit dismaying. Just a little. The Stone Vigil to the north was claimed by the dragonic brood, and Haillenarte didn't have the manpower, nor the support to reclaim it. If a knight was lucky, or perhaps foolish enough, they could ambush a Dravanian wyrm and attempt to fell it alone. Many tried, and so few succeeded, that it started being called the "Haillenarte Retirement Plan". Theodore, thankfully, learned well enough that this wasn't the glamorous crusade with promise of profit that he had assumed. This was a dead end...an infuriating, pointless dead end.

This only tempered the youth's thirst for that glory, that desire to better his family's lives. Three years would pass, each draining his resolve more and more. So much so that when the battle of Cartenau erupted to the south, and the Dragonic army of Midgardsormr fell upon the Garlean airships, Theodore felt a stirring in his soul. Not one devoted to the pursuit of wealth and dragon slaying, but of the desire for glory, and to defend his home. After all, Ishgard was part of the Eorzea that the Empire coveted, so if the Battle of Cartenau were to end in the Garleans' victory, they would be but a stone's throw away from Ishgard. As mighty as Ishgard's walls and wards were, the Empire had every possible technological, militaristic, and resource based advantage poised to overtake the whole of Ishgard. Not even the Heavensward, in his mind, could fight off the world's largest empire.

And so, alone, he would desert his post. Likely, he could never return to Ishgard for fear of execution for the crime of desertion. If he could make a difference then and there, he would. If not...it wasn't like the Empire took prisoners. It was either die then and there, or die knowing his home would be taken. And so he would march, a strange, foreign "knight" armed with the most basic of armor, sword, and shield, a temporary addition amongst the Gridanian Woodwailers. Every hand was needed in the fighting, and as Dalamud's red light began to shine down upon the battlefield.

The Garlean army, mighty as it was, proved a fearsome match for the conscripted armies, as well as the free companies of the adventurers. Theodore himself scarcely managed to square off against one Garlean footsoldier, before he found an arrow impale his shoulder. Now without the use of his sword arm, all he could do was throw his all against the next attacker. With shield striking back against steel, he was certain that he would meet his end at the end of a Garlean's blade. As his shield was splintered and his guard broken, he felt time slow as a blade moved against him, ilm by ilm growing closer. He closed his eyes and braced for the end, before the sound of steel clashing and time passing made him realize his life hadn't ended just yet.

A figure clad in white, an Elezen man that towered over him, had caught the blow with his shield. He would bark something to Theodore that he couldn't quite recall, his memory a haze from the battle. All he could remember was putting his sword in his good arm, and continuing to fight, covered by the Elezen paladin.

When Dalamud opened...that was when he felt the specter of death once more loom. Bahamut, the Primal of the Dragons, raged against the battlefield. Flare spells erupted, splitting apart the earth. There was no point in running anymore...no man could fight that thing. At once, he felt himself surrender, sword dropping to the dirt as he collapsed to his knees. Despair wracked his heart, before he felt a hand clasp his shoulder and shake him violently. Another set of words that he couldn't remember. Another rouse to his spirit that bade him to run. And run he would, as the blue lights erupted over the remnants of the battlefield. Flares pursued all upon the fields, and even the paladin's shield proved insufficient to block the primal's powerful attack.

When he awoke, he was half buried in the dirt, the courageous Elezen laying beside him, motionless. His body ached, his eyes burnt, and his limbs felt heavy as iron, but he bade himself to crawl. A hand felt at the man's neck, only to find nothing. No pulse of life, and no warmth. Only the cold embrace of the end had greeted this heroic man, who'd have most certainly survived had he not gone back for Theodore. Something shined within the dirt that caught his eye. Slowly he would reach out, and take grasp of a brilliant blue gemstone with a shield emblazoned on it.

As he ran his gloved fingers over it, he felt runes inscribed in it, in a language he did not know. But as he held it, he felt...at peace, somehow. He knew this had belonged to the paladin beside him, but...the stone made him feel as if it needed him to carry it. He would grasp it tightly in his hand before losing consciousness.

It was a mere stroke of luck that he survived. In the aftermath of Bahamut's defeat and the Garleans' retreat, he was lucky enough to be tended to by the Conjurers of the Twelveswood. Sadly, healing magic could only do so much on its own, and as such he was cooped up for six months while the wound to his shoulder healed.

After a lengthy recovery period in Gridania, Theodore would turn his back to Ishgard once more, taking up the mantle of being an Adventurer...and a free Paladin, one who would honor the tales inscribed upon the soul stone, and to carry on the unknown will of the man he never knew. Now a member of the Adventurers, he would perform various odd jobs for several years, until the day that a flier stuck to a tavern wall caught his eye.

"BEGIN"

As one man's shout rang out, two fighters within the "arena" of the Lancer's guild begain sizing one another up. One, a Hyuran Midlander with hair white as snow, and eyes focused upon his opponent. His opposite, an Elezen Wildwood Woodwailer, bearing the traditional mask of his ocupation. With hair as black as coals and hands tightening on his lance, the Elezen would thrust forward wildly, using rapid thrusts to attempt to back the hyur into a corner.

The momentum he carried was wild at best. After all, the elezen was only ranked as a First Spear, barely better than a fresh recruit. His thrusts kept missing the mark, often easy enough for the Hyur to track with the steel shield clutched in his arm. With one large step, the Elezen attempted to bypass the shield and disarm his opponent...

*CLANG*

The impact of spearhead against shield resounded throughout the Lancer's Guild, as iron ground hard against flat steel and attempted to slide past the defense of the Knight of the North. He had taken a step back, nearly to the wall even. In one swift motion, Theodore would step forward while lowering his posture, pushing the shield upon his arm upwards and away, effectively leaving the Woodwailer recruit completely open. Now ilms from his throat was Theodore's blade, which slowly sunk back to his hip.

Relaxing his stance, the Ishgardian would smile. "That's the biggest thing you need to watch out for with a lance. Its a really good weapon for keeping your distance, but once that distance is breached then you have no choice but to retreat. And the best way to make sure you're unlikely to be caught off guard like that..." he would explain, guiding the recruit's feet and shoulders, so that his left shoulder was facing Theodore.

"Lead with your less dominant hand to guide the spear, when you're on the offensive, then put your dominant hand at the front instead if you're on the defensive. Easier to parry with more control, but easier to thrust with more force in the back. Oh, and make sure you carry something light as a side arm..."

"I think that's enough, Graham. Thanks for the lesson." The Woodwailer's superior, a midlander woman would say, smiling a bit beneath her mask. "Hard to believe you don't even use a spear with all the advice you spout. You ever thought about joining up? The Twin Adders could use a man that can whip recruits up a bit, she would add, giving her fresh recruit a clap on the back that nearly knocked the young Elezen off his feet.

Giving the thought a quick mulling over, Theodore simply shrugged before sheathing his sword at his hip once more. "Its a good offer, but...I'm still not done searching yet. Besides, its a big world. And someone's always in need of a good sword arm or two," he would say, a smile tugging at his cheeks. "Thanks for everything though. Popping in here now and again has helped me improve a lot. Sorry for messing up some of your plans though, Ywain." the paladin would say, bowing to the guild master of the Lancer's Guild.

The Hyuran lancer would give a slight shrug. All were welcome to learn the art of the lance so long as they had the conviction, but he seldom got a request from someone asking for sparring. Ywain had trounced Theodore thoroughly in more than a few sparring sessions, but the score over the past year had netted Theodore a few victories. "In a way, it helps my students to fight people with other weapons. After all, one can hardly call a lancer who's never fought a sword user 'experienced'. Good luck to you."

With all that needed to be said spoken, Theodore would stride out of the guild, still a might bit sore that he never did manage to even the score with Ywain. It was a bit of gil to rent a chocobo all the way to Thanalan, but performing odd jobs in the Black Shroud, especially near the honey yard, had netted him sufficient funds for that and lodgings for a few days when he arrived. He had heard of a free company's formation...or perhaps "reformation" was a more apt description. The "Blessed Twelve" had posters up all within the Gridanian Adventurer's Guild, so it was no surprise that it caught the young paladin's eye.

Whether he would join or not would depend on the characters seeking enlistment. After all, he couldn't judge a free company until he knew what "company" they kept. With that in mind, he would pay the porter with a small sack of gil, and hop upon his assigned Chocobo. He was no stranger to riding them, there were enough times in Coerthas that he would ride upon the birds...and ever since, he couldn't help but love the feeling of riding upon one. the somewhat soft yellow and black plumes, the adorable way their eyes glittered when something sparked their curiosity...perhaps one day, he'd open a chocobo ranch. Even their smell entranced him, the bird he was riding getting a quick sniff on its neck from the Knight before he hopped on.

With a thirst for glory and companionship in his heart, he would ride to the South. To the city of gold, Ul'Dah, where there were no doubt many in need of one willing to fight for what was right, not just for what was profitable.

River’s past begins further than most, almost 5 millennia further. It all stems from the meticulous work of his mother, an Allagan researcher who helped the empire in creating biological weapons, soldiers of untold destruction, and the binding of primal. She tied all of these paths of aetherchemistry together in order to work on a life long project before the Fourth Umbral Calamity. By spiriting away Sahagin and locking them in chambers, she was able to keep a consistent flow of prayer and aether to help manifest and bind The King of the Whorl, Leviathan.

In doing so she would attempt to create a soldier beyond compare, someone who posses the strength and power of a Eikons, one that can help Xande in his conquest of Hydaelyn. At the time of her experiments she was with child, siphoning as much of Leviathans water aspected aether into her own would be son in order to bestow him as the first Eikon Soldier. At the time of his birth, he was taught how to siphon aether from such beings and thus did so for many years. These experiments caused physical changes to his body, replacing an Allagan red eye with that of a pool of blue, like the aether he was suffusing to himself. His hair began to take aspects of the whorl and his power of magic grew stronger than any soldier currently in existence.

His time in Allag and The Crystal Tower was cut short however. Xande’s greed for the voidsent began to start the Fourth Umbral Calamity, and all of his mothers work would be for naught, it was this that brought her to seal her child in a stasis chamber and use her magicks to send River away to an undisclosed location. His chamber appeared in the South Western side of Eorzea, hidden from prying eyes. Calamity’s came and went, soon burying his chamber under the seas of La Noscea where he remained dormant until the fall of Dalamund.

Though the fall of Dalamund was a tragic moment for most, it turned out to be a lucky one for River. A blast of the moon careened into the waters, sending a massive wave towards the shores of Limsa, carrying his chamber onto its white sand beaches. The blow damaged the capsule, breaking River free from its clutches and breathing new life into him. He awoke there, stranded in small clothes, no memory of his past nor any inkling as to where he now was. The only clue he had was a small golden plaque with his name engraved into it.

River’s legs wobbled and caved beneath him from the many years in stasis, his body not used to having to move. A kind stranger found him wandering the shores and took him in, gave him clothes, and sheltered him as well as others from the calamity currently taking place. River watched as chaos reigned outside the window, watching the sky fall even from this distance and it burned something inside of him, a great need of power to help those who cannot help themselves.

From that point forward River had acquainted himself with the Arcanist Guild, doing all he could to study and learn the power of magic that they weilded. A combination of mystical arts and mathematics, woven together to create something new. There was a familiarity to all this for him, yet he simply brushed it off as destiny, something he was meant to be. From the moment he was able to cast his first spell, River took up any and all quests that he could find. Gaining as much experience as he could as an adventurer in order to become sharper in mind and body so that he may be allowed to learn from the tomes hidden away for higher students.

As time went on his skills grew sharper, his knowledge of the arcane stronger, and his grasp on efficiency tighter. Now at his career he has gained something that seemed like such a far fetched goal, a soul stone. This stone marked him as a summoner, a conjurer of beasts of power and master of aether manipulation. Or at least that’s how it seemed, though there was still a long road ahead of him in uncovering more spells, theologies, and traits that would help him better himself. When the moment came to attempt his first summon, he crafted a peculiar egi. A Levi-Egi. This was a small being that looked akin to that of the Whorl Eater, created from the aether aspected in water, yet unknown to him that it was all due to the workings of millennia old magic long lost.

The scent of the salty sea air permeated the Drowning Wench as River sat there with a tankard of mulled tea and a stack of tomes filling the other three chairs that sat at the table with him. It was a morning like any other, he sat there studying geometric shapes, looking for a way to improve on what he already knew, potentially tweaking some of the shapes by adding arrays, or layering more effects atop them to help make his magic more potent, faster, or less energy consuming. He reached for his tankard and took a moment to breathe in the spices that lingered in the drink, such exotic things should be enjoyed and savored after all. He took a sip as he flipped to the next page in the tome that he has read over a dozen times, each time hoping that something new might stand out to him. Baderon came out from behind the bar, making his way towards River with a plate of warm La Noscean Toast setting it down on an empty spot near the tea.

"Yer readin' that bloody book again? How many times is it now?"

"Not enough times it seems, I still haven't an inkling on how to move forward...There must be more to it than this, this can't be it."

Baderon gave out a hearty laugh as he clasped his hand on Rivers shoulder. He shook his head slightly at the lalafell as he began to gesture towards the tomes and sea while he spoke.

"Yer never gon' find what yer lookin' in there. Only so much a book can teach ya', why not try yer luck out there, in the world. Yer bound ter find more knowledge or least different techniques beyond your dusty tomes. Here, I just got this notice. Was 'bout ter put it up but I figure I could let you see it first."

River took the parchment out of Baderons hands and examined it thoroughly. There wasn't much information posted on it, just a name, location, and date really. He scratched his head as he turned the page over hoping to see more information but finding nothing of the sort. He was aware that the Quicksand was where Ul'Dah held their adventurers guild, so it'd be quite the voyage there, however Baderon was right in that he should explore the world more, see a wider variety of beasts to hunt and study as well as look at cultural magics and use that to help further his study on summoning, or at the very least find older beings for which to skin and tan to help create a better grimoire. He gave the notice back to Baderon with a smile and then turned to look out at the view of the sea, gulls flying in the distance just above ships that were coming in to dock. The cold sea breeze blew in, chilling River as his pages flipped rapidly and he could feel the call to adventure once again.

River grabbed three leather belts, tying the books together and hoisting them over his shoulders and onto his back, making the short walk to the aetheryte crystal just outside of the Aftcastle and taking it to the Arcansit guild. As soon as he was whole again he waddled his way into the guild and told the receptionist he'd be returning the books indefinitely as he was going on a journey. Excitement filled him to the brim and River couldn't keep himself from grinning the entire time. He ran down Hawkers Alley visiting a few stores in order to gather ingredients for his journey as well as some non perishable foods mostly consisting of bags of raisins. The shopping always proved to be a bit more tedious than it should be, having many Roegedyns manning the stalls meant that a good portion of them didn't see the small lalafell when he stood right at the counter, often times needing to jump to grab their attention. However once it was all settled, River wove himself between the legs of the passerby's in a manner much akin to how a baby coeurl does, almost tripping a few patrons but having them only get a childish tongue sticking out to them if the bothered to grab his attention.

Once he had made his way back to the Drowning Wench, he was horrified to see he had forgotten his plate of La Noscean Toast, a delicacy he would soon miss once he was abroad. He snagged his plate and took it with him upstairs into his inn room where he slowly munched on the rich, buttery bread that despite its name was exceedingly soft. There wasn't much to gather, his grimoire, spare sets of clothing, his battle robes, and what was gathered at the markets. The last item he had was a map of Eorzea, hung up on the wall with notes scribbled all over the La Noscean area with a grading scale of monsters that could be found, their difficulty in battle in relation to his current strength, as well as ingredients, landmarks, and other such things that he deemed of importance. The only other marker placed on that map was near Thanalan and Mor Dhona, a circle area labeled "The Flats of Cartaneu" a location said to be the source of where Dalamund fell, causing massive aetheric irregularities as well as the supposed location of the Sons of Saint Coinach, a group he knew only by name that studied the ruins of Allagan civilization; a subject matter that always interested River and called out to him like a beacon in the night. This guild, whoever they may be, would be a wonderful opportunity for River to be able to find residency in a major city that happens to be near the epicenter of the last calamity. He stared at the location longingly for a moment before finally rolling up the map and tying it to the bottom of his satchel and making his way to the docks.

Frigid sea water splashed up high into the air, dissipating into tiny flecks of mist that sprayed against his face as the ship pressed on. There was a certain calm about River when he was out in the sea, as if it was home to him, inviting him to stay a while and live out his days surrounded by the mass of water. River stood there at the port side, hands against the wooden railing as he stared out into the ocean. He'd miss having this view, having to trade out a glittering sea that danced as if they were thousands of diamonds shimmering in an endless blue. A deep longing began to take him as he realized that he would be trading this out for nothing but an expanse of desert and heat beyond belief, a change he was not looking forward to. During one of the nights, River could've sworn he felt something stir beneath the ship. Running out to see if he could spot the source he found that no one else had stirred awake, no one felt the slithering that threatened to ensnare the ship. He saw nothing in the dark blue water, save for the reflection of the stars and moon on its surface. Just as he was about to turn back in for the night he saw a pair of red eyes, glowing beneath the waves just in his peripheral. His head snapped towards the shapes and there were two red beads, glowing and staring straight at him. The slithering stopped and a large serpent like figure loomed in the shadows, its dark body barely showing up within the black of the night.

A voice called out to him, though only he could hear it. Fear not young one, for the Whorl issss alwaysss with you. Even in the depths of that arid place.

Confusion filled him as the voice echoed in his head, the pair of ruby eyes sinking further and further into the depths as the words continued to resonate within him, growing more and more distant until the eyes were gone. Suddenly River jostled awake, cold sweat running down his face as he looked about the room. It was all a dream...an incredibly vivid dream. He got up and made his way topside, taking in the cool night air as he attempted to calm his nerves. Was the dream referring to his egi? Or was there more to the meaning behind what it seemed? He made his way port side once more and looked out into the sea in search for those eyes, ones he'd soon not forget. The waves were surprisingly calm as was the night, and he figured there was naught else to do but to return to his cabin and rest.

The next few days on his voyage River spent his time primarily searching the seas for a sign of the King of the Whorl or whatever that deep sea creature was in his dreams. Flashes of visions would pass through his mind at night as he slept, the closer he got towards Ul’Dah, the more vivid these images seemed to be. Beautiful crystals the likes he’d never seen, inlaid with golden designs and very rarely he would see flashes of cracked containers; a Celeste green liquid spewing out and scaled hands with claws falling limp against glass. He knew naught what any of this meant, only that it seemed his adventure would bring more questions that would hopefully get answered.

On the final day, Vesper bay was in sight and the tan-red stones of Thanalan were a great reminder to the loss of sea life he would soon obtain. He began to wonder what the local garb would look like as well as how his battle set would fair in this heat. Full glad that there were many openings to allow for more aetheric contact, and now air flow. As the ship docked and he bared his farewells, River made his way through the arid landscape, through Horizon and finally to Ul’Dah. More than a few creatures dared to stand in his way, each one taken down as they were no stronger than the beasts back home. River, however, was not aware of the more insidious characters that lurked within these lands, falling prey to a few too many thieves and Brass Blades who conned him of his Gil, leaving his coin purse lighter than he wished.

There was still a week before the meeting took place and River used that time to survey the lands. Seeing its aether for himself first hand while taking in the local beasts, flora, fauna, and more. Unsatisfied with the age of many of the creatures, making it difficult to find a skin that would be useful to enhance his grimoire. He quickly learned to take the citizens words lightly, and to keep his coin purse hidden and out of reach. Many times walking around with his Egi summoned so that the more weak willed of assailants would be deterred from even attempting to mess with him. The local food was adequate but nothing like his meals from home, and he was more than delighted to find out that they sold Mulled Tea here as well, a taste of home to help quell the home sickness.

He often times reminded himself of why he was here, to help establish a base of operations to continue his line of study, hopefully get a chance to meet the fabled Sons as well as learning more about the most advanced civilization who’s hubris was their own downfall. But their knowledge and control over Primals was like none other, and that was a power he wished to obtain for himself. Egi’s were fine and well, but nothing compared to having the full power of a Primal at your disposal to do with as you pleased. Surely such talents would have helped against the last Calamity, perhaps weakened Bahamut to once more imprison him back within Dalamund. All these speculations would have to wait, the week was up and he was needed at the Quicksand to apply for a position amongst the ranks of The Twelve.

Born in Ishgard to the minor house of Desrosier, early life was one that straddled the line between the two classes of the city-state, not quite within one or the other. While she and her family were considered nobility of a sort, keeping a home of their own in Falconrest and never wanting for the necessities, nor were they truly considered true nobility. Part of this owed to how her parents Marseille and Sebastian became citizens shortly before her birth, and through circumstances she is not inclined to speak of, if she even knows. Regardless she was able to acquire a decent education, attending with the children of the major houses and from an early age she was taught the martial skills that would form the foundation of her adventuring career.

Where life became interesting was when she started to come of age, and for many reasons at that. Isabella's schooling had always been rather moderate, her studies where they should be and competent even if her arcane ability had been found rather lacking. She was always rather quick with picking up a concept and understanding it, able to get the grasp of something usually well ahead of her peers. The only problem came to when tasking her abilities and determining how best she would serve the Holy See when the time came. With no shortage of knights and dragoons to combat the Dravanian threat, the inquisitorius had been rather keen on selecting new pupils to take into their ranks for seeking out the dangers from within. Her keen intelligence and quick wit drew their attention rather swiftly, and it didn't hurt that her martial ability was above average for her age as well. All that stood in their way were two rather minor issues. First was that her father had strongly objected to the idea of her joining into the Inquisitorius, going so far as to take the issue up with the Lord Commander of the temple guard.

While that alone would normally have been quite enough to forestall the attempts, especially as it has been said that the shouting match between her father and the other lords was quite spectacular, some were not as easily swayed. No, she was still pulled from the potential knights and tested for her abilities, which then proved the second issue. To their incredible embarrassment, the inquisitors responsible for the over-zealous attempts to bolster their ranks issued an apology to the Desrosiers and the matter was settled within a day of it starting. Some favors exchanged hands over the next few months, her father spending some extra time with the Skysteel Manufactory and curiously it seemed everyone in the Pillars forgot that anything had happened. On her part, Isabella simply focused on her studies and picked up the lance with the intention of potentially becoming a Dragoon, something which she found a passion for not too long after.

Those years would find themself quite active though, and only partially due to the shenanigans around the Holy See. There had been a shift in the order of the world, something that even Ishgard couldn't fully isolate themselves from. Rumors persisted of a coming disaster, the moon Dalamud seemed to act strangely, and the monsters about Coerthas even stranger. In particular as she was finding herself coming of age with all the changes that come with it, she recalled of how concerned her parents were looking up into the night sky. Neither had ever spoken to her of where they came from before Ishgard, their homeland a mystery to her that had always been a curiosity never quite sated except with a promise of some day. On the eve of her fifteenth year, the day came. Being a more idealistic sort she had nevertheless feared darker secrets, and as all know children are wont to give in to their imaginations when there are blank spaces to fill. It was almost a relief to her then when she learned of the reality, something she has kept to herself in the years since.

Then came Calamity. While all of Eorzea it seemed had come together to take a stand against Garlemald, life continued as a parody of normal within Ishgard. If not for the far reach of that event, Isabella might not have even been aware it had happened. Yet a chill wind blew while the earth was rent asunder to the south, destruction like none she had ever seen wrought across the land. Ice and snow enveloped her homeland for reasons that still remain unknown, and when all was said and done she couldn't help but wonder if it was some form of penance against Ishgard by Halone for refusing to aid the Eorzean Alliance. That thought sat ill with her while she tended to her studies, while she practiced the lance and eventually became a full-fledged Dragoon, and even as she tried to fish the icy rivers to settle her mind. Life within Coerthas seemed different after the Calamity to her, as if the peace of before had been a lie, and that there was something more that could have been done. That something could still be done.

So it was that three years after she would set out for lands south, taking her lance and rod with a pack and as brief a goodbye as she could bear to her parents. From place to place she offered either a hand in fending off monsters, or providing food for stay. Either sat well enough with her, though her preference had led her to make friends on the way and learn of distant lands, strange peoples and stranger happenings. One in particular had stuck with her long enough to provide rumor of something she couldn't quite ignore, and set her on the road to meeting with the Blessed Twelve.

"Pray cease your chicanery and return to whencever you two came at once!"

Somewhere, she thought to herself, a bard was telling a joke in a tavern that began with a description of this very moment. An uncomfortably warm Ishgardian squatting at the edge of a ravine, a fishing rod in hand. One rather irate yet bewildered Amal'jaa. Then there was of course the one who was the cause of all of it, the aloof woman in yellow and silver arguing with the lizardman. All of this in the Sagolii desert of all places, perched atop the far side of a ravine across from a settlement of the beastmen, a few of whom were observing with some degree of curiosity. Yes, she was there fishing. Fishing in sand of all things, while her companion was arguing with one of the beastfolk.

"I've already told you that we'll be on our way once we've confirmed the rumor!"

"And I am telling you, that by Ifrit's flaming arse, you are wasting your time Rey'na!"

"Reyna! One word! How would you like it if I called you Sasha instead of Sau'Sha?!"

She wondered exactly how long the two had been going at it, casting a weary glance at the equally spiteful sun hanging high in the sky. It was casting a rather intense heat upon the land, and she was dearly wishing that she had insisted a little more to Reyna when the skywatcher told them of the impending heat wave. Then again, it had been altogether far too warm for her since departing Foundation several years ago. If only she had thought to pack shorter sleeved shirts… A long sigh passed her lips as she quietly hung her head and tried to focus more on her own thoughts and the task at hand instead of the bickering beside her. When they first got there things had been simple enough. Talk to their Amal'ja contact, get a lay of the land and an understanding of the tribe's attitude at the moment. If everything was good, then make a trade of fish for some time on the dunes near the settlement and be on their way once all was said and done.

Part one had gone well, relations between the Amal'jaa and the local settlement were at a state of indifference at the moment, likely due to the heat keeping most people out of the desert proper and closer to the springs. The fish had been easily taken care of as well, a basket of harbor herring from Limsa relatively fresh caught and preserved. Apparently their tribal leader had a taste for it, and providing some smoothed things out enough to allow both Isabella and Reyna safe enough passage to the village with their guide. A guide who seemed to be shifting from friend to acquaintance in a hurry, and none too pleased with the shenanigans of their impromptu quest. If she was being honest with herself though… She kind of agreed with Sau'Sha. The very absurdity of fish in the sand had her dubious from the start, and if it hadn't come from Reyna, she might have called her a stupid bint and been done with it. Yet here she was.

Yes, here she was. In the sweltering heat. Wearing long sleeves and dark leather pants. Fishing rod in hand, remaining as still as it was when she first cast… Again she couldn't quite recall just how long she had been squatting there. No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't that she couldn't recall how long it was, it was that she couldn't be assed. Yes, that was it. Sweat dripped from the soaked bandana across her forehead into the sand, sizzling and evaporating almost as soon as it hit. That was perhaps the sign that enough is enough, a pomf sounding as she stuck the rod into the sand and sat back for a long moment to try and steady herself and focus on anything that could help cool her off. Water sloshed around in its pouch as she brought it to her lips, glancing up and to the side to see those two still arguing.

"Three! Three of your kind have already attempted this in the last week!"

"Three amateurs!"

"How do you know, you weren't here and you didn't see them!"

"Because they didn't catch the godsdamned fish!"

"Or maybe there's JUST NO FISH HERE."

"I wonder if the fish aren't biting because there actually aren't fish in the sand, or because you two are scaring them away."

Her first comment in at least an hour reminded them of her presence, both turning to look down at the blonde woman sitting in the sand beside them. For a moment it had them quiet as well until irritation crossed her features from seeing Reyna struggling to hold back laughter and their Amal'jaa friend turning away with what she swore was the same effort. "What?"

"You are going to burn so bad."

With a quick reach into the side pocket of her pack she fetched out a small hand-mirror, turning it to face her and look at her reflection. Such were the pains of being fair-skinned it seemed, circles around her eyes where the sunglasses she usually wore had protected them and strips of pale skin surrounded by red. Not just red, but an angry, sunburnt red. Isabella groaned as she knew she should have taken the advice of the puntable peddler back in Ul'dah, now regretting not having purchased some ointment to protect against the sun. Lesson learned it seemed, just like that of how to dress in Thanalan. At least next time she would be prepared… If there was a next time, as it only felt hotter when her attention was drawn to just how much she was going to suffer in the days to come.

"Yeah… Thanks."

"You know, I heard that free company the Blessed Twelve is looking for new members and supposedly they've already got a few offers to join by some competent healers."

"Reyna. Are you suggesting I join a free company for free sunburn care? You know that's not what the free in free company stands for, right?"

"Free is free, is it not?"

Both women paused for a moment as they turned to regard Sau'Sha, all before bursting out laughing at his rather blunt observation. It helped to alleviate the tension that was building, something she was glad for as she wasn't sure she wanted to see if he could actually toss her clear across the ravine as he had somewhat, yet not entirely joked about earlier. What it also did was distract her for just long enough to miss the subtle tug on the line. Reyna though did not, and her eyes went wide as she leaned in close, jabbing at the Amal'jaa's side to grab his attention. For her part though, it was completely lost on Isabella. "What?" Both pointed as once more there was a gentle tug, and this time she saw it. Then another, and as if losing patience whatever was on the other end of the line gave a yank that nearly dislodged the rod and pulled it into the ravine.

"Holy shit!"

"There's actually something down there?!"

"Stop gawking and help me! By Halone it's a strong one!"

Isabella had managed to grab the rod in time, but just about fell into the ravine as she was pulled to her feet and the reel screamed as it loosed ilm after ilm of line. Close to a dozen yalms of high-strength line had disappeared into the sand, the steel fibre straining and bending the rod when finally she managed to brace herself into the rock at the edge. Her fellow Hyur was first to put hands to hers, assisting as best she could with the little room they had. Every moment was a fight now as the hook set, sand whipping up along the ravine floor to trace the path of whatever was at the other end of her rod. "Sau'Sha! Find your footing and keep us from getting pulled in!"

"My strength is yours! Ifrit guide us to victory!"

True to his word he braced himself just behind the two, one claw grasping her by the shoulder and ensuring that she wouldn't be dragged down just yet, while the other reached out to take hold of the rod and begin pulling backwards. Yet even with all three of them it resisted with all the might of Leviathan, an audible creak sounding as wood bent in a way it was most certainly not supposed to and the steel reinforcement started to bow outwards. Reyna was the first to see it, her eyes widening behind her goggles as she swore under her breath and momentarily lost her grip. That allowed them to slip just an ilm forward, all three shouting as a rather unceremonious end was ever closer. But Isabella would not let that be her fate, determination setting in her sunburned features as she widened her stance and leaned back into Sau'Sha. Across the ravine others of his kind had gathered to watch, what once was merely curiosity now a battle for survival as a growing mound formed racing along the bottom and kicking up sand the entire way.

"Hold! We need only hold until it tires!"

Screeching line continued, a building crescendo that was steadily ticking down just how much time they had left until the end. Smoke was even rising from the reel, the mechanism simply not built to handle this kind of strain, and if there was one thing she would resolve herself to do assuming they did not get pulled down, that was to get a new one as soon as she could. For now their fight continued, and to her relief what was once a fierce and intense pull ever so subtly shifted, signaling that indeed the beast was tiring. That meant only one thing and Reyna saw it as well, moving closer in to assist in the long process of reeling it in. Back and forth they went, drawing back ilm after ilm of line back into the reel, allowing it to take a little back when they felt the struggle renewing.

Finally though, after what felt like forever, something broke the surface of the sand below. Neither fisher dared to take a look, but the Amal'jaa on the other side cheering them on was all the proof they needed as one last effort was made. For that they depended on the strength of their comrade, who with a mighty bellow put all he had into yanking back on the rod, pulling all three back into the sand. At first as Isabella lay there staring up at that scornful sky, she thought perhaps that the rod had snapped and they had lost. It would not have been the first time, and she almost started to laugh in defeat until a shadow crossed her vision. There it was, their prize. Sailing through the air from the momentum of Sau'Sha's last effort, it was truly a magnificent beast that rivaled any she had caught before. It must have been several yalms in length, confusion in its eyes as it flailed about with fins and whiskers until landing with a thud just behind them.

"A desert catfish?"

Once more her impromptu and rather deadpan comment brought no small amount of laughter from her comrades, though this time she joined in with them as at last they had managed what they set out to do. It was a good feeling, this win as she lay in the sand for a long moment, Reyna sitting up beside her and wiping at her goggles as the faint cheering from across the ravine signaled their audience's enthusiasm as well.

"Alright, so maybe there actually was something down there."

"Hey Sau'Sha, don't worry about it. That's half the fun of it after all. Just finding out if there's actual truth to the myth."

"Yeah, it was a good catch too, couldn't have done it without you. Why don't you take it to the village? It's a bit big for us to carry back to Ul'dah, and besides I don't think we could finish it in a year between us."

"I'll do just that, you two take care on the road, and know we count you as friends."

"By the way, just as a quick question Sau'Sha."

"Yes, by all means ask."

"Is Ifrit's arse really on fire?"

---

It took them a bit afterwards to recover, burning muscles and stinging skin from being out so long in the sun delaying their efforts, but eventually both women would find themselves on the road north and to different futures.

"So, about that free company?"

"The Blessed Twelve? What about them? Still trying to get me to join up?"

"Well it wouldn't hurt to join up with one at some point. They don't seem too bad, certainly better than those guys going around calling themselves Salt."

"I mean, I suppose so. You off on another job then?"

"Yeah, got some things to take care of up in Ishgard with some nobles or whatever. I know how you are about that stuff, so figured to keep you out of it. Take some time to make a name for yourself and we'll swap stories later, kay?"

"Alright, you got it Reyna. Take care of yourself up there and be careful. They like to plot and scheme."

"Hey, careful is my middle name! Well, it's not actually but I'll be fine. Certainly better than you will be in the morning with that sunburn."