You want t'know who I am, eh? Fancy yourself an introduction? Lofty titles, pomp 'n' circumstance, that whole bag o' shite?
Then be a trig cove 'n' listen close.I was Gutterborn, Problemsolver, Merlwyb's Ghost.
I was the Sergeant, the Fisher King, Epinoch's Bane.
Now I'm the Wind, 'n' little more.
I've walked the heavens, suffered the hells, outrun the past, and murdered the future.
My path is the Wanderer's, my fist the Destroyer's, and my steel belongs to Thal.The name's Osric Melkire. Lominsan monk, at your service.

• Limsa Lominsa, La Noscea & Vylbrand •
Born on the road which passes through what is now God' Grip, Osric Melkire was raised in the city-state of Limsa Lominsa upon the decks of what was once the Galadion. His earliest summers were happy ones, marred only by the dreary procession of frustrated tutors. This bliss came to an end when a cascade of misfortune drove his father to suicide and Osric himself to the streets.• Thief & Assassin •
Left behind to play breadwinner and driven by circumstance to provide for his family, the Lominsan fell in with the worst that Limsa's criminal underbelly had to offer. Fellow street urchins, at first. Hardened killers thereafter. The young man defied Yellowjackets and Dutiful Sisters alike for many a winter, until such time as he overstepped and was very nearly caught. Forced to flee, Osric snuck aboard a ferry bound for Vesper Bay.

• Ul'dah, Thanalan & Aldenard •
Escaping justice was a simple matter of signing his life away. The Immortal Flames were taking on refugees for their Foreign Brigade. What was one more man in search of sanctuary? One desperate application to the Grand Company and one forged letter of recommendation to the Pugilists' Guild bought the Lominsan a new lease on life.• Soldier & Spy •
All told, Osric spent six years toiling for the benefit of Ul'dah, one for each year he had spent bloodletting to the detriment of Limsa. Scouting and intelligence-gathering suited him, but an incident deep within Halatali saw him reprimanded, demoted, and posted back to the Jewel of the Desert. He spent some time there training new recruits before disappearing from history. Rumor has it that he was reassigned to covert operations.

• Ala Mhigo, Gyr Abania & Ilsabard •
The Lominsan's re-emergence into public life featured a dishonorable discharge, a new family, and a dogged determination to pursue further martial training. This journey led him northward, first to the Holy See of Ishgard where he exchanged his skills and services for living expenses, and then to Gyr Abania in the wake of the Eorzean Alliance. There he passed from one mentor to another, and he spent many a moon torn between his passion for the Art, his love for his family, and his hatred for the Garlean Empire. Though he was not present at Ghimlyt Dark, he later volunteered his services to the Bozjan Resistance as they fought to take back their homeland.• Mercenary & Monk •
The Lominsan's time as of late has been spent earning coin and training body & mind. He travels the length and breadth of Eorzea in search of good works and worthy causes. Letters sent by post find him readily enough, as do those left with the Brotherhood at Rhalgr's Reach. He has been known, from time to time, to travel abroad still when need arises.

Ruminations I: On Balancing Light and Shadow

It is often said, and it has been a widespread and long-held belief, that the Spoken are something more than the beasts of the wild. There is a duality inherent in our natures, fundamental to our existence. We are possessed of both instinct and logic, both emotion and reason. We can be reckless, passionate, driven by fear, by anger, and by desire. We can also be calm, reserved, constrained by morals, by knowledge, and by cold calculation. This duality is to our benefit, and can be harnessed and purposed for great deeds.This outlook was central, it is said, to the many teachings of the Fist of Rhalgr ere that order’s fall. Given the hard truths of these incongruous characteristics of Man, however, it should come as no surprise to those familiar with their ways that the Fist deliberately divided its own house and segregated its membership between two disciplines, each tailored to one of two aspects. To the initiates of the Sect of Shadow, who trusted in and therefore readily embraced pragmatism, was reinforced the notion that the drives and emotions born of our bestial trappings are fundamentally useful: that through the recognition and acceptance of our baser instincts can we channel our fervor and thereby empower ourselves. To the initiates of the Sect of Light, who were from the beginning more inclined towards virtue, was stressed the importance of achieving mastery of the self: that through rigorous self-control can the flaws and burdens of our baser instincts be subjugated before honed skill and polished will.The apparent incompatibility of these twin philosophies was no doubt the driving factor behind the traditional structuring of the Fist of Rhalgr. It stands to reason, they must have argued, that the difficulties inherent in mastering both approaches at once are too far too much for most initiates to handle; ergo, it is incumbent upon us to insist on a course of study and training that focuses on one discipline at a time. Thus were the initiates separated, thus were the two Sects born, and thus was the knowledge of each hidden from the other, save for those who had achieved true wisdom and, with it, true mastery. For it is in the clash between Light and Shadow that a man or woman native to one may unlock the other. The origin of one’s inclinations are beyond our control, and such clashes would have been detrimental to the proposed regimen. So it was that the Fist of Rhalgr was sundered by schism.Unforeseen by these masters of eld, these forefathers of our Art, was the massacre, the near-annihilation of the Monks of Gyr Abania by the Mad King of Ala Mhigo. With them died their knowledge and their imposed structure, and so the pioneers of the modern age were doomed to err, to stumble upon the path not travelled. That path, so riddled with trials and tribulations, was the selfsame road that the Fist of Rhalgr had sought to bury. The ancient wisdom was lost, and so Light clashed once more with Shadow, and more than a few have been cast into the wilderness to find their own way forward.I was, and am, such an individual. It is my hope and my wish, therefore, that these papers, these ruminations, will prove of some use and some assistance to others. I publish them now so that those others may look to one who has walked before them to guide their steps and offer them insights as they walk the path after me. Self-indulgence and self-restraint are not incompatible; they are two halves of the same whole, two sides of the same coin. When balanced, when employed in tandem – with the wisdom to know and to recognize when one is more appropriate than the other – the Light and the Shadow offer no more and no less than the power to shape our destiny.So writes Osric Melkire, Monk of the Seventh Astral Era, on the Importance of Balance.

Ruminations II: On Fear and Endurance

One’s introduction to the Art is a spiritual experience which resonates forever in the halls of the temple of memory. To feel your own heart beating with that of the land, to feel the very energies of the spirit of the fight enter you and flow through you… that is an awakening, a first breath of cool air, so refreshing that the truth of our newfound understanding cannot be denied. And so we hold the opening of our first chakra in special reverence. It is this cornerstone, this first step on the path, which betrays us in the end.Upon this foundation is built the structure. When that foundation fails, the stability of all that rests upon it comes into question. This is the plight with which we are faced, when brothers and sisters descend into Shadow or rise into Light: to let go, or to seize fast. That shift in thought can be paralyzing, and so a close examination of this fraught moment is called for.We must begin with fear.We must do so not out of purported preference or supposed bias, but out of necessity: ‘twas the Sect of Shadow which was stricken from the annals of history, not the Sect of Light, and so it is that most of our brothers and sisters come to struggle conceptually with the usefulness of fear. To grasp that this emotion can lead to more than the sins with which it is commonly associated… cowardice, indecision, and sloth, to name a few… requires both introspection and a willingness to set aside dogma and observe the world as it is, not as we wish it to be. It requires also a willingness to experiment, a prospect which can seem ill-advised to the uninitiated.So we come to the First Chakra of Shadow. Atala is its name, fear is its domain, and as for its properties – and the properties of all other chakra – I must refer you to the works of others. It is enough to recount here the most relevant passage: fear “is not a force meant to ravage one’s resolve, but to inoculate it against the corruption of panic.” This requires some explanation in the face of arguments that discipline would demand we shackle our instincts.To use fear is to recognize that it serves as both warning and measurement. When employed in the proper manner, this emotion helps to inform our decision-making, and the results born therefrom are often more favorable to the cause we pursue than if we had dismissed, out of hand, the indications of danger. Question the sailor, and he will tell you that the masthead flag informs him of speed and direction, by which the navigator and helmsman may steer their course. To ignore the signs altogether is folly, but to allow those signs to overrule one’s better judgment is also folly. The rush that comes from having a firearm leveled at you is a warning. Heed it, and use the energy, but do not permit the fear to overthrow you; give your instinct its head, but do not surrender the reins. The body tells you to take cover, so do so. When a knife is drawn and thrust at you, the fear tells you that the priority is the knife: avoid, dodge, or disarm, but do not freeze. Your training with the Root, the First Chakra of Light, will aid you in this restraint. Seize the serpent fast, but do not constrict your grip overmuch: you do so at your peril. Learn to let go when needed. Consider the coeurl: to embrace fear is to remain alert, to embrace vigilance, and to embody swiftness when the time comes.We now turn to endurance.This marks, perhaps, the most frustrating discovery for those of us steeped in intuition: that there is aught of value to be found and to be had in willful opposition to those selfsame signs. Once again, an open mind is vital, first to recognize the many failings in our natural instruments and then to overcome the habitual dependence upon instinct. The trappings we identify with discipline… arrogance, intransigence, lack of imagination… are not the norm but a common deviation born of rigid adherence. It does not follow that all who seek to attain mastery become inured to themselves and the world about them. What is required, however, is a willingness to set aside impulse in exchange for power.So we come to the First Chakra of Light. Given that its province includes all that is material and immaterial, ‘tis to be expected that the Root, as it is known, is grounded in “one’s right to be” and “one’s longing to live.” At first this preoccupation of the First Above seems aligned with that of the First Below: the urge to persist is the natural ally of the flight from danger. This is the truth! The doubts which arise later are the falsehoods.The key to standing your ground is not to neglect the warning signs of your emotions and instincts, but to set them aside for as many moments as not only can be afforded but must be afforded. The inclination towards flight is at times a flawed response: a volley of arrows, given enough archers, necessitates a change in tactics. ‘tis too late to escape standing at the center of the volley, but the arrow which pierces skin and flesh is an arrow upon which you did not exert an opposing force. Suppress your fear, for you know it well enough to do so, and direct your energies to safeguard your life’s blood. Steel yourself, accept the danger by turning with the blows, and direct your energies towards deflection if not outright negation. You will find that you have withstood the pain to outlast the threat. Consider the adamantoise: to endure trauma is to trust in the strength that has been cultivated over the turns, and to develop that strength is to commit to facing adversity and tolerating affliction.As in all things, seek not moderation but balance. The body is but a singular vessel; no matter their creator, the many parts which constitute the whole are designed to work in tandem. You cannot run from the toil that fosters skill, and you cannot bear the blow which kills you. For the thrown fist to land, the heart and mind must first survive the journey.So writes Osric Melkire, Monk of the Seventh Astral Era, on Methods of Self-Preservation.

Ruminations III: On Anger and Regulation

The most common obstacle is the least understood tool, and the most well-known asset is the least recognized impediment. That these two should share this dichotomy is not readily apparent; as has been affirmed elsewhere, our passions are frequently mistaken for vices and our virtues falsely promoted as necessities. This dogma has, if you will pardon the turn of phrase, dogged us across many histories. Its assertion of a singular incontrovertible state of perfection is a disgraceful abuse of collective ignorance. Consider instead the proposition offered forthwith, as we have offered prior: that no aspect of the mortal existence is, in truth, one-dimensional.I write, of course, of the Second Below and the Second Above, of Vitala and the Sacral, those chakras most concerned with the call to action. Again, we must examine the emotion with respectful admission and acknowledgement as to the matters of scale before we can draw a contrast with its opposing number. Indeed, as written elsewhere, the significance of the Sacral lies in its “two opposing states: indulgence and abstinence,” and in the Sacral’s juxtaposition with Vitala we find the simplest of truths, which is a lesson known to every adult and imparted to every child: anger must be regulated.Let us begin not with wrath and fury, but with that ever present theme of the chakras of light: control. Take note that the aforementioned reference speaks of two states, of two extremes. Implicit, unfortunately omitted from discussion, is the tacit knowledge that there is no chasm, no insurmountable gulf, between one and the other. Indulgence and abstinence are not like a river, which must either be dammed or else permitted to run freely, but like a faucet which might be twisted by degrees to permit a variable flow.We would be committing a grievous error in not recognizing that the Sacral builds upon lessons learned in the mastering of the Root. In recognizing this, we recognize also a likeness in the relationship between Atala and Vitala. If fear is a gauge akin to a windsock, then so too is anger. If fear is fuel for action, then so too is anger. Receptivity is not enough; one must unravel the truth of the moment to discern the rightful cause for anger and to determine the just mark for retribution. Therein lies the purpose of anger, of fury, and of wrath: to direct our attention to that which is wrong with our world, be it in the moment, in the present, or in the near-future.Proportionality is the principle to which we must adhere when it comes to Vitala. If and when retribution is to be meted out is a matter for wise judgment, and so we must strive to restrain indulgence, to abstain from excess. We must not only gauge where to strike, but how fast and how hard. Fear is a guide: we must concern ourselves with unintended consequences, with the perils of delay, with the follies of haste. But anger is the measuring stick: a little hurt deserves a little hurt, whereas a people’s suffering deserves the people’s justice. Be mindful: impatience is the enemy of wisdom, forbearance is the enemy of primacy. To rush is to discard prudence, to dawdle is to forsake initiative.But I return now to the Sacral, for it is the answer to a question few think to ask. To indulge in anger is to expend energy, but to abstain from anger is to retain energy. The Sacral is the reservoir into which flows the excess of better days; there are stored the energies of life which might become growth, given ample time and use, but which might also be employed in the service of necessity. So it is that Vitala and the Sacral go hand in hand, for what is not spent is saved. Look to your coinage! Know that pockets run deep when men and women are frugal, are lucky, and make sound investments.So writes Osric Melkire, Monk of the Seventh Astral Era, on the Spending of the Self.

Ruminations IV: On Envy and Ambition

Survival is paramount. This is a lesson we learn as babes: we must have food, we must have shelter, and we must have safety. The winding path of life begins with the most fundamental of lessons: self-preservation. So, too, does the Art; so, too, does the Body. The first and second chakras of Light and Shadow concern themselves with engagement and disengagement, with action and conservation. These functions are foundational. Not until these have been arranged in their proper place do Art and Body turn to the lesson of desire.The third chakras of Light and Shadow, then, are concerned with the motivations which drive us not to caution but to excellence. By this is not meant the quality of being but the quality of becoming. The Solar Plexus and Sutala, as they are respectively known, are intimately linked to how we look within and without; the former is the ambition to look upon one’s own self and crave better, whereas the latter is the envy with which we look at others and crave more. In this fashion, our constant thirst is not only natural but empowering. Where we struggle is in the transition from recognition to action, but – as we have seen – the lessons learned from the First and Second, Above and Below, can be of assistance here.Mastery requires strength of will. Ambition is what drives us to develop that strength, and ambition is introspective at its core: to recognize failings within ourselves, and to strive for improvement. The Third Above, therefore, disregards all others… our enemies, our associates, our colleagues, our friends, even our family… to reflect upon the self. The acknowledgement of imperfection is critical here, as is the appetite for growth. As is written elsewhere, the Solar Plexus “will always answer to one who is assured of one’s wants, especially if one is prepared to do what it takes to see them realized.”It is for this reason that disciples of shadow, steeped in wisdom hard-won in their struggles with fear and with anger, find this chakra of light quickest and easiest to master: the groundwork has been laid before their feet by their own hands, and what remains is to apply those new skills in furtherance of their own refinement. Question yourselves as to where you wish to go, what you wish to do, and how you wish to do it, and the answers shall come. The path will never be painless, but the path will be clear. All that remains is for you to walk it.Envy is the difficulty. Insecurity is the tall grass in which you walk, in which lurks Jealousy, the unseen snake snapping at your heels. Beware, lest you are seized fast by Resentment, the constrictor which grips you by the heart and fills your throat with bile. Sutala is all of these things, and for this reason is the Third Below one of the most difficult chakra to master: we are at war with our own shortcomings. This is a never-ending story of internal strife, born from the comparisons we draw between ourselves and others. It is insufficient to advise resignation and contentment, for it is in the nature of all beasts to feed until they have had their fill, and the Spoken are no different. Hunger is the taskmaster which breaks us all in the end: we bend the knee, or we perish. The danger is not in indulgence but overindulgence, in excess.Here we find a solution: envy must be expressed and its energies put to use “to remove the gap between one and what one covets,” its impulses acted upon responsibly so that we do not lash out, having starved ourselves until such a time as we resort to gluttony.. The hound sated with frequent offerings devours no lamb, but returns again and again for the nourishment it craves, and in so doing grows tame. The wild nature of the thing can never be purged in its entirety, but a balanced relationship can be established, symbiotic and to one's benefit. This can be difficult for disciples of light to accept, but reflect and consider: limitations define not just the inner and outer workings of our star, but of ourselves as well.Note the synergy between the Third Above and the Third Below. They are each informative and productive. Covetousness informs us as to our needs and desires, whereupon strength of will carries us down the path towards our aspirations. Note, too, how this flow works also in the reverse: our resolve can ignite our envy, and in so doing tap hidden wells of strength which would otherwise lay dormant. The first lesson of desire, then, is this: envy and ambition are fuel for the same fire. Manage that fuel with care, and do so with intent!So writes Osric Melkire, Monk of the Seventh Astral Era, on these Wellsprings of Power.

Ahctwyrn & Achtwyrnfyst: An Introduction

I have never given any serious thought to developing a style of my own. That entire enterprise smacks of arrogance. The passing moons and seasons have done little to change my mind. That said, I must confess that it has become apparent to me that others might benefit from a certain outlook and certain observations of mine which I would be remiss to not share with them. Therefore, I beg you to pardon the inevitable frequency with which this humble author will refer to himself in these works: they will no doubt include a veritable torrent of “me,” “my,” “mine,” and the despicable “I.”How to thrust to the heart of the matter? Any such undertaking must needs be recorded in order to be conveyed, and so my thoughts must be committed to writing. More difficult, however, is that, to convey them properly, I must first ground them in an intellectual concept so that author and audience might share the same framework and therefore the same point of reference. I spent many a sleepless night tossing and turning, but at last I hit upon it:I am the River Snake.When there is danger, I drop into my element. When there is not, I emerge to perch on the best branch. Every motion serves a purpose. Every action is taken from a position of strength or else a vantage of opportunity. Where there is no such place to stand, I permit the flow of events to carry me downstream. I engage where I may, when I want, and how I wish. I coil and uncoil to meet the circumstances. My foes cannot catch me: I slip through their talons and fangs. My prey cannot elude me: I find them in the tree, on the grass, in the stream, in the riverbed.There was my concept, then, but the framework itself needed a name. Well, I thought, it cannot be helped: I am a product of my upbringing, and so it is only appropriate that my childhood home make some contribution. ‘Twas from Limsa Lominsa whence came this particular river snake, ‘twas from the Galadion whence came Limsa Lominsa, and ‘twas from the Sea Wolves of Aerslaent whence came the Galadion.Thus, the conceptual framework is Ahctwyrn, the River Snake, and the conceptual contents are Ahctwyrnfyst, the River Snake Fist.Friends and acquaintances of mine who’ve a rightful claim to this heritage: please forgive me.Before we delve into the substance of the matter, I must make something clear to you: what you are about to consume has no practical form nor physical shape until you give it one. You must take what I convey here and devise your own applications. This is no instructional paper, no exhaustive document. You will find no sketches, no diagrams, and there is good reason and good cause for that.Ahctwyrn is not a style of fighting. Ahctwyrn is a philosophy of conflict.Ahctwyrnfyst is not a collection of techniques. Ahctwyrnfyst is a compilation of tactics.Let us begin.So writes Osric Melkire, Monk of the Seventh Astral Era.

Ahctwyrn I: The Fundamental Lesson of Amorality

We must unlearn what we have learned. Common knowledge is often plagued by errors, or else it is woefully incomplete. What other explanation is there for the gulf between the layman and the specialist?"A good offense is the best defense."Any sailor worth their salt, any soldier standing over a map with the officers, any assassin skilled enough to retire can share with you the inadequacies of this statement. It is at once too general and too specific. It carries the faint trace of wisdom for good reason in that it abrogates morality. "I will bring my force of arms to bear against them, so as to cripple them before they can bring their force of arms to bear against me." This shocking display of brutality is so outside the norm for so many that they pause and take a moment to consider the costs and benefits. They rarely, however, extrapolate. They don't follow that line of thought to its conclusion because said conclusion is not only discomforting but disturbing.It is that conclusion which I share with you now:Everything Is Permissible.No "if," no "but," no conditionals, no arguments against.It is not sufficient to suppose that the madman will abstain from destroying the village dam, which would save the burning village by flood. It is not sufficient to make this supposition on the grounds that saving the villagers is not possible in this manner, for the madman will attempt to do so anyroad, drowning innocents be damned.Digest that. Take more than a few moments to read through it again. Think on it. Consider the implications.We so often live and reside in one society or another, each with its own rules or laws or other forms of social compact, that too often we lose sight of the truth: there is nothing stopping anyone from pursuing any course of action of which they are physically, mentally, or spiritually capable. There are only obstacles, which serve as deterrents, and limitations, which are set not by you or me or the governance of the region but by the metaphysics that are our shared reality in any given moment. We forget this. We prefer to forget this, because to remember it is to live in constant dread of the knife, or the boot, or the powder, or the staff. We construct systems of morality for ourselves to keep the peace, and we empower individuals or organizations to enforce said systems. We think, "the madman will not destroy the dam, because death by flood is not any better than death by fire."We assume the madman has an interest in saving lives because we assume that the madman, by living amongst us in our society, has agreed to the social compact.We forget that he has not.We forget that he is not obligated to consent.We forget that he very well may have no interest in the common good.The madman, in seeking to put out the flames which threaten the village, destroys the dam not to save lives but to serve his own ends. Perhaps there are valuables in the village which he might lose to fire but which might be saved beneath a torrent and retrieved at a later date. Whatever his aim and whatever his goals, the unwitting bystander has made the grave error of projecting his or her own morality upon the madman, and countless innocents will drown for this fool's mistake.Assume nothing, for morality is a constraint, and for the amoral: everything is permissible.This is both and at once your shield against the enemy and your sword.I am not advocating for amorality in all things at all times. It is simply that amorality is foundational to the Ahctwyrn. To be possessed of such flexibility and strength as to overcome any and all foes, one must dispense with as many limitations as possible. The constraints of social constructions, morality chief among them, must therefore be jettisoned as flotsam when on the verge of violence, in the midst of struggle, or near to the end of conflict. Restraint can be fatal for yourself or for others.The task is a difficult one. The common lesson is not easily unlearned, and the true grain of wisdom sticks in the craw. Few can walk this road, and fewer still can walk it dispossessed of all considerations. In truth, such disconnection might very well prove impossible. A priceless jewel is the individual who can sunder their own mirage; such is their rarity. Nevertheless, if you wish to grow wiser and stronger, smarter and faster, then prepare yourself to think as you would otherwise refuse to:Dispense with morality in the moment. Return to it when you can.So writes Osric Melkire, Monk of the Seventh Astral Era.

• The Ground Upon Which You Stand •

Part One

He sat. He brooded. He fumed.It did not matter that he was seated far enough up the cliffside at Ala Gannha to have a good bird's eye view of the lay of the land; this region had been aptly named, for the mountains rose ever higher to the east and to the south. There was nothing to be seen, from this vantage point, of the war. Ala Mhigo had been liberated at last, and now the Eorzean Alliance fought to hold the ground they had gained. Word had wound its way west, and many able-bodied men and women had passed through as they made to join their brothers and sisters. They were fighting for their homeland, for their families, and for their futures. It would happen at Ghimlyt Dark, they said.All while he sat here, pinned to the map by an obligation he did not fully understand for a life which he had stumbled into. Now he found himself longing for the simplicity he had once enjoyed, back when his mind was fractured and he himself was a desperate, broken husk of a man. He had always thrown himself face first into the fray: he had craved risk, had thrived upon danger, and had never once been given cause to consider the chasm of oblivion. He had danced upon the edge of Thal's own knife with hardly a thought nor a care for his own safety.That had changed. Although he did not resent the family he'd built and did not regret the decisions which had brought them together, there was no denying the facts of the matter, either. Not for him.He wanted to be out there. He wanted to be on the frontlines. He wanted, as any weapon forged for the purpose did, to be useful: to be used.Instead, he had spent the past several moons under Master Beake's tutelage, helping the budding brotherhood here at Ala Gannha find its footing. The weeds they pulled, the seeds they planted, the stone they hauled, the new rooms they built… their instructor had spent as much time, if not more, on drilling them through what it meant to be a monk as he had on drilling them through the forms, the techniques, the applications. 'twas a welcome reminder that there was more to this life than destruction.Osric Melkire had welcomed that reminder. It was not that he minded good works; on the contrary, the physical labour was its own reward, as was the gratitude of the community. Why, just the other sun, after a few sennights of carving out the space, they'd finished decorating the new apartment for an old widow. She'd been misty-eyed as she thanked Master Beake; she'd been living with her daughter and son-in-law, and had been distressed over the imposition she'd been putting the young couple through.They seemed like small, insignificant moments… but Osric recognized that they mattered. The trouble was, there was a part of him that just didn't care. It whispered to him whenever he was alone with his thoughts, be that in the dark of night or at dawn's sunrise. It whispered ugly thoughts, made all the more disgusting for the kernels of truth which they carried. They whispered to him even now.You're meant for more. You're built for better. Your skills are wasted here. Your skills are needed there. No one understands. No one cares. You weren't sent here for your own sake but for theirs. They grow stronger while you whittle the bells away, one sun at a time, with fledglings. The war rages on without you. The war you never had the chance to fight in.The Lominsan scowled at that last thought, and he sat up. Gripping the arms of his chair, he made to rise, and as he stood and turned he noticed the fellow who'd been watching him. The fellow who stood in his way, in the middle of the path that would take him back down into the village.There had been no noise, neither the crunch of footsteps nor the scattering of displaced dirt. The stranger was dressed in whites and browns and the hood of a griffin. He carried a staff of some sort, steel by the looks of it, with the head of a mace. He was of a height with Osric, if not an ilm shorter, and he sounded old, weary, as he spoke."Good evening. Your thoughts are very loud."Osric narrowed his eyes at that. "...evenin', your words are very rude."He kept moving. He tried striding past the stranger, muttering an "excuse me" as he went, but the fellow caught him by the arm. The Lominsan glanced down at the hand which held him fast. The grip wasn't a strong one, but it wasn't perfunctory either. He looked up into the mask of the man's hood."I must speak with you," said the stranger. This close up, that voice and that accent sounded vaguely familiar.Osric tore his arm from the other man's grasp with a jerk of the shoulder. "Ain't interested in what you're sellin'," he spat, as he headed for the room he shared with two locals.He didn't make it more than a half dozen fulms. The stranger smote the earth with the butt-end of his staff and leaned the mace-head in the Lominsan's direction. Aether began to swirl up and down the length of the staff, so dense and potent that the currents were visible to the naked eye. The monk had a moment's warning to act; his growing sensitivity to aether over the past several moons afforded him that much. He spun on one heel, dropping into a low defensive stance.It wasn't enough. The man in the griffin hood thrust his staff back in the other direction, over the parapet. Something wrapped about the ankle upon which Osric had spun, and he was hoisted off his feet and dragged through the air as if by an invisible winch. He let loose a yelp of surprise as he went flying past his assailant. It was only by the grace of the stranger, who lifted his staff a few ilms off the ground, that Osric did not crack his head open on one of the wooden posts; the wind-aspected vise about his ankle hauled him bodily over the edge to hang suspended, upside down, in midair."I am not selling you anything, Osric son of Cenric," said the old man as he walked towards Osric and sat down in the abandoned chair. Given his poise, the staff in hand which so resembled a scepter, and the manner in which he took his ease, the man might well have looked at home at court. "What words I have for you, I offer at no cost."The Lominsan's struggling ceased at once, and his blood ran cold at the mention of his father's name. Cenric of Thanalan was nigh on two decades beneath the earth, having taken his own life by the noose. There were few men and women left to remember him, Lominsans by and large, and Osric had never spoken of him to anyone outside the family. The pieces began to fall into place: Limsa Lominsa, the familiar accent, and the griffin motif which he had overlooked, given its prominence in Gyr Abania."You're… I know you."The stranger leaned forward and dipped his head in acknowledgement of the fact. "I taught one of your sisters, for a time. The guild of arcanists, at Mealvaan's Gate."Osric licked his lips as he fought to think fast and hard, in spite of the blood rushing to his head. "Horace Windwhistle.""Ahhhhh, yes," said the man in the griffin hood. He sounded very pleased to hear his own name. "Horace Windwhistle, as I was known in these parts. Horus of the East, they named me, when I made landfall in Thanalan. Hari, I was, when first handed to my mother.""And you need t'speak with... me? Not… not Danica?""In time? Perhaps with her, too. Perhaps." Horace leaned back and pressed the tips of his fingers together in a tent as he considered the dangling man before him. The staff, disconcertingly, remained upright; aether still traversed its length. "But you, dear Osric, you vanished for a long while… and turned up here, of all places! With the Fist of Rhalgr. Of course I had to come speak with you."Osric stared. With an accentuated sluggishness that spoke to the sarcastic core of his very being, he glanced left… right… up, at his snared foot… down, at the river many dozens of fulms beneath him… and finally at Horace."Can I at least have m'chair back?"The bellyful of laughter which answered him grated with the many coarse seasons of salt and dirt and earth which had accumulated over the old man's life.

• The Ground Upon Which You Stand •

Part Two

“You are not satisfied. Though you lead a good life, with a loving wife, delightful children, many friends… though you have a home, and you do not go hungry, and you want for little… still, you are not satisfied. You desire recognition. You want to be useful. But you have been told, and you have convinced yourself, that such things are bad, are selfish. So you sit, and you wait, and you… squirm.”“...how long have you been watchin’ me, Horace?”“Turns upon turns, dear Osric.”The skies were choked with smoke. He could practically taste the ceruleum fumes. The horizon was a deep bloodshot red as the sun receded, and the promise of nightfall was written in the deep violets far above that distant vanishing point. Traversing the blasted landscape before him was proving difficult, what with the broken pieces of magitek strewn about the battlefield. Everywhere he looked was a corpse, be it flesh and blood or scraps of iron and steel. Shards of glass… torn leather… ash.He followed as the man before him led him over the hills and through the wreckage into the epicenter of this desolate place. Would that they’d been alone, but here and there could be seen others moving with a purpose. They were retrieving their dead, no matter how mangled or unrecognizable the bodies. This alone made him want to retch, and it was a difficult thing when they pulled the mutilated remains of an Immortal Flame from beneath the Reaper which had collapsed upon it. Torso caved in, limbs shredded, half the skull blown away… he mistook it for a child at first before he recognized the Lalafellin physiology, but in that moment’s confusion he felt his stomach lurch as his thoughts were driven to Isabella and Amelia at home.Twelve Above… why had he come?“You are… consuming yourself, from the inside out. You wish that you knew what to do, yes? Then I will help you. Go to your mentor. I have spoken with him. Ask him to take you, tell him you are ready. When you return, you will have more questions for me and I shall have more answers for you.”“You’re a difficult bastard, you are. I’m t’speak with him, then? And he’s to take me. Take me where?”“To Ghimlyt Dark.”Down into the crater.The earth itself seemed to have undergone a series of tumultuous catastrophes: rent asunder here, gouged out there, dirt and stone ejected and disgorged from the sheer weight and mass of fallen gunships. He was led down into such a caldera; it must have been fifty yalms or so, all told, in diameter. The fires here were still ablaze; ruined circuitry sparked on occasion. They could hear gunfire in the distance. The frontlines could not be far off. They had long since left the Alliance recovery teams behind them.The man before him strode to the crater’s center and turned to regard him. This man was everything that he was not: as large as an aldgoat, as strong as a minotaur, with the teeming confidence of hard-won experience and hard-earned wisdom for which no boasting was necessary. The man said nothing at first, but his meaning was plain: whatever they had come for would be found here. The midlander’s stomach lurched again, and the bottom seemed to fall out, as one powerful fist opened and the fingers uncurled to point at the spot at the center of the crater, before the highlander himself.“Stand--”This was it, then. Here, now, was the test which he’d been dreading, the trial in which he would either prove his worth… or fail, and be forgotten, left behind like oh so many who dreamed to be great but were destined to be small.“--and fight.”He stepped forward.“You could tell me everythin’ now.”“I could.”“But you won’t.”“Does the bluebird, knowing that the chick is too much the infant, push her child from the nest early, the better for the chick to soar? No. As you are now, with your doubts and your concerns, there will be little understanding. Faced with answers not to your liking, you will grow angry, you will resent the truth, and you will run from it. This would not be helpful, I think. You agree, yes? That with one weight lifted, you carry less burden, and so can pick up another?""...aye, I suppose that I do, at that."His swiftness availed him not. His strength availed him not. His cunning, his wiles, his tricks, his tactics, his immorality, they availed him not. He had never faced this man before, not like this, had neither sparred with him nor witnessed him spar. The indignation of instruction and training beneath this man had festered, giving rise over the past several moons to a seed of arrogance which had taken root and grown within the aspirant.A seedling which was now withering away before a truth too mighty to ignore.Strike, parry, counter, reset, strike, parry, counter, reset, strike, parry, counter, reset. The highlander's movements were minimal, his demeanor calm, his attention present, his regard respectful. Try as the midlander might, he could not win advantage. The other man evaded danger, endured pain, confronted weakness, and conquered ignorance.Never once did either disengage from the other. They remained within arm's reach of one another, and the cacophony of their blows -- struck with such force as to thunder throughout the battlefield -- was relentless. Six points of light and six points of shadow danced back and forth across the scorched earth of that crater. He could hear his heart beating, could feel his aether surging, could think of nothing but attack and counterattack.The awe which had risen up within him ebbed, and the jealousy which had been mounting within him flowed. He embraced that ugliness, drowning himself in the indignant outrage that he was not as good, not as exceptional, not as divine. He reached deep within himself, channeling everything he had down into that pit of anguish, and with a cry he threw a fist into the highlander's chest with all of the force and fury which must have been the Destroyer's when He rent the skies and the earth asunder with His coming.The strike did not land.A fist closed over his.The world exploded.“There are a great many subjects of which we must speak. Your family, your friends, your past, present, and future. Myself, as well. But before we have those conversations, you must finish the conversation you have been having with yourself! Bring me your answer, and you shall have mine. One for all."Aether coursed through him, far faster and in far greater volumes than a few moments ago. He was only tangentially aware that he had fallen to his knees, and that his mentor stood over him, nursing what looked to be a sprained wrist. He was only tangentially aware because a new world of possibility had opened to him. His mind was racing. He could do nothing but breathe and process. Even the exhilaration of having thrown open Talatala was not enough to drag his focus back to the present.He thought back to the Sea of Clouds, when he had opened Sutala. He thought back to the promise he had made to himself.I’m better than the rest. I’ll prove it.No. It was not enough for him to be the best of students. That was a position which he had coveted, but that longing had been the product of a juvenile desire. The goal which he had set for himself had always proven insufficient to the task of satisfying him.He had his answer now, the one he owed Horace. He had seen it in his mentor, had seen it because of his mentor. So simple and yet so profound. How could he not have seen it before? It explained everything, and why shouldn’t it? Was it not something which everyone wanted? It explained the zeal with which he had taken to his old life, back on Vylbrand. It explained the irregularities strewn throughout his military career. It explained his frustration, when he had left first the Dauntless and then the Astral Agency behind. It explained why he doted over his daughters so much. It explained why he had always been so adamant about returning to Limsa Lominsa, about washing clean the stain upon history which was his legacy there. It explained his envy where mentors past and present were involved.The Fourth Below, that chakra of shadow, thrummed within him in tune with the other gates he had opened. A comforting hand fell upon his shoulder, patted him with all of the reassurance his mentor could muster. The man leaned down and whispered eleven words to him, eleven words that should have been star-shattering… and yet weren’t. Osric Melkire was too far gone to do aught but register those eleven words so that he could think on them later.He had the key to the rest of his life, and he had Horace Windwhistle to thank for it.He was dimly aware of the receding footsteps of his mentor. He was dimly aware that he’d have to leave that tutelage behind. He was too focused.He was too focused on his answer.I want to be remembered.I want them to think well of me when I’m gone.For that… I’ll do whatever it takes.

• The Ground Upon Which You Stand •

Part Three

"You must go East. To Othard, and to the Azim Steppe.""...you're not makin' a lick o' ruttin' sense. That's… that's thousands of malms. Everyone I care for is here… 'n' you're wantin' me t'leave? Cross the Sea o' Jade? Why? Why should I? Why would I?""You want to be remembered. This is what you told me. It is a good answer, but it is a difficult quest. This task and this journey will be easier, I think, once you know who you are and where you come from."He crested the last hill and looked down. He stood there a long while as he gazed at the sight before him. At last, he'd arrived. The long voyage was near to its end, and he was glad about that. Half the difficulty might have been convincing his wife that the trip would be worth the journey, and the other half might have been keeping their children entertained as they crossed the Sea of Jade by merchant galleon, but -- despite the ease of all which had followed -- the worst of it had somehow been this last stretch. On his own, a stranger in a strange land, asking questions of the locals and trekking across their homeland."Piss on that, I know who I am. I'm Osric Melkire, 'n' I'm Lominsan--""Yes, yes, you are Osric son of Edith. But you are also Osric son of Cenric, and of your father you know very little."He looked back, over his shoulder, as he rolled up the map he'd been given. He could not see Reunion from here, but even at this great distance the towering sight of the Dawn Throne was as unmistakable as the skies were clear. To think that he had leapt across the wide chasm known as the Wound… his younger self would have laughed in derision and scorn at the prospect.“I have made some markings on it, I think it will be rather obvious when you get to those points. Steep climbs and some shortcuts that were discovered. Do keep a careful eye out at all times, and even to the skies. Some Xaela travel by large birds called Yols. Quite big, they are hard to miss.”Roen Deneith's advice and counsel had served him well. He'd been accosted by mounted Oronir not long after leaving Reunion behind him, and they'd been flabbergasted to hear that he was heading east, along the Path of the Craven, in pursuit of one particular cluster of Xaela. When their shock had faded, they had jeered and seen fit to test him. It had not been a fair fight.He turned back now and looked upon the small collection of tents before him. He ought to have been nervous, was one thought that crossed his mind. His father had never been forthcoming about his personal history, and here now was the son come to dig up the secrets of a man long since forgiven. What ought to have been some measure of trepidation, though, was instead some measure of relief. At last, he would learn a great deal. Where had his father hailed from, if not Thanalan? What did his father's past have to do with his own future? Why was Horace Windwhistle so invested in this? The answers to these questions awaited him down below, and so he spent no more time waiting: he hefted his pack to readjust the weight slung over his shoulder, and walked down the slope towards the Iloh."He--""--was not always Cenric of Thanalan. No, he was not. Unless you think he sprang forth from the dirt a full-grown man, eh? If you wish to know, then you must go East to learn how the man made his fortune and his family."He was stopped short by a warrior on patrol. Introducing himself as Osric Melkire of Limsa Lominsa elicited only a raised eyebrow. The name "Cenric of Thanalan," however, seemed almost to shock the young warrior. He was told that "Mother has waited a long time for this news," and he was asked to wait while word was sent on ahead. "The khan will wish to speak with you" was the only explanation he was given for the delay. One bell later, word came back, and he was led into the centermost tent. It was not an ostentatious one, but it was the largest and the most fierce-looking.Its occupant matched it in these qualities.The khan was seated not upon a throne or a lesser chair, but upon a large woolen throw which covered the dirt. Seated before the khan was a low wooden table. With a gesture, he invited his guest to be seated across from him, and Osric obliged his host."You look like him," were the first words spoken… in Eorzean Common, no less, the man's speech halting at times but never broken. "But you come to us later in the span of your life than he did. Still, the resemblance is there. It is in the jaw, and in your colors, though not that of the eyes, which I would suppose were your mother's before they were yours.""Please," Osric said, finding his voice after a stunned silence. "I know so little about him. They say he named me for your people. If it ain't too much t'ask… I'd like t'learn more. About him… and about you."The khan grinned as the other flap of the tent opened behind him and a woman stepped through. She was austere in her bearing, and regal to behold. She looked of an age with the khan, and he did not seem surprised by her entrance. He held up a hand in a gesture of introduction."This is Gerel, and I would tell you that she is my woman, but the truth is that she is her own. She will be khatun, should I ever fall, and we two together, Khudus Khan and Gerel Khatun, knew your sire, Cenric of Thanalan, very well. He bested me when we were young men, and though we started as rivals we became friends."She bowed to the midlander, and then turned to fetch something or other from what looked to be a cabinet or armoire of some sort. From within, she removed a circular game board, and this she set upon the table between the two men. Next came the pieces, Xaela warriors all, which she arranged along the edge of the board."I am told you are Melkire," Khudus said. "This name was, by right, your father's to bestow. But now that you are here, it must be earned. Kharaqiq is not sacred, but it is close." He leaned forward, hands on his knees, a wolf-grin baring his teeth. "Are you man or beast, Osric of Limsa Lominsa? Challenge me. Prove your worth, and you shall have your lessons.""To the Steppe…?""To the Malqir, for which you are named."

• The Ground Upon Which You Stand •

Part Four

He threw Horace Windwhistle through a wall."Cenric came to us out of pain. Not only for wealth but also for relief. He was a changed man when he left. So says Khudus, Gerel as my witness! Changed for the better. His dam and sire had treated him so poorly."The wall was stone. The wall was not so much a wall as it was a cliff, one of many which overlooked Ala Gannha. The falls could not drown out the sloshing of his steps, nor the crumbling cascade of rocks from the impact crater."He… never spoke of 'em. M'grandfolks, that is.""He did not speak of them to us, his tribe. But we could tell. Heartbreak leaves its own mark upon a child. So spoke Gerel, long ago, with Khudus as her witness! We grew close, we three, and he confided in us. How he hoped to press advantage, by the sale of our wares. How he wished to woo a certain woman, by his charm and by his wits. How he had left Thanalan as he came to it, taking a great risk on his chances for success--""Beg pardon. 'Came to it?' My father was from Thanalan.""No, Osric of Limsa Lominsa. Cenric chose to make his home there, and so he was of Thanalan, yes, but he was not from Thanalan."The conjurer's mace flew out of the cliff at him, head first, as if propelled by a great force. Perhaps it was; being somewhat wind-aspected, he knew better than most to not underestimate aether currents. He backhanded the thing to one side, and that was when the river itself rose up to engulf him, to encapsulate him.Horace Windwhistle, looking little worse for wear, climbed back out of the cliff."Where did he come from, then? Where was he born?""He gave us no name. It was not important to him, you see, as it is important to you now. But he came from wealth, and from power. He came from warriors, and from sorcerers. He chose to leave, you see. What was being forced upon him, he did not want, and so he left. The herd-need would have been upon him soon, and so he chose not to graze but to move on to better pastures. Yes, even blighted Thanalan, of which he spoke a great deal. A difficult land, he would often say, but he would say it with such fondness."He screamed his rage. Vitala answered him, as it always did and always would. He let it out and then brought all of that energy crashing down. The bubble burst apart under the pressure, and he pushed off the runner's stance into which he'd fallen to sprint at the old man. He reared back with a fist for a mighty blow--But the mace-staff-thing came twirling back into Horace's outstretched hand. The man in the griffin hood caught it by the lower half and, with an ease of timing that was nothing short of miraculous, swung the mace at Osric's head.This had the unfortunate effect of sending him tumbling and splashing end over end through the river shallows."Khudus Khan. Gerel Khatun. You have been very kind to me, more than I've deserved. I lost t'you, 'n' yet you still found me… adequate.""Man, not beast. A Malqir in truth.""Aye, as you say. I'll want t'know more of him, but--""But you wish to bleed the wound of the asp's venom, yes, before the rot overtakes you and the fever drives your reason from you. This, we understand.""Then you'll tell me. Please.""You need but ask, Osric son of Cenric.""What did my father tell you of the land of his birth?"He regained his feet, and with footing renewed, he took off. The river boomed behind him with the force of his departure, and the water before him parted for the pocket of air he'd gathered about himself. The conjured stones which soared through the air at him missed, parried by the thinning layer of swirling wind, and -- by the time Windwhistle stripped him of his layer of protection with a gesture of his staff -- it was too late.Osric Melkire seized him by the front of his coat and carried him in a rush which ended with the Lominsan slamming the old man into the cliff alongside the west end of the falls, opposite the crater. The cliff cracked from the impact and the conjurer cried out in pain."You bastard," Osric snarled. "You bastard… how could you?"Thoughts of his own children at home, and how he would never, how he could never--"How could you?!""Your father hailed from a land of beasts, both those which walk and those which soar. Of these last, the ones which brought a smile to his face most often were feathered in white, winged and beaked and taloned like the yol, but with the graceful limbed form of the bara. Griffins, he called them, and they were his first happy memory, sitting atop the peaks with Horace, his father."

• The Ground Upon Which You Stand •

Part Five

"I came to Eorzea by way of Thavnair, from Radz-at-Han: the place of my birth.”The gate guard took a few moments to look over the wax seal, and took a few moments more to unfurl the letter. He frowned at the contents, and for good reason. Foreigners were not forbidden access to the city, but it was a rare occasion indeed for an outsider to seek entry when they had no wares to sell, no intention to trade, no family or friends to visit, but were instead looking to visit for the sole purpose of….Well, the contents weren't clear on the purpose. This was, however, an authentic letter of recommendation. There was no mistaking it, and there was no chance that it was a forgery. It was written in the usual mode, and met all of the long-standing requirements of the Radiant Host for such things.He looked up to consider again the foreigner in question. Hyuran, on the short side, shoulder length hair, scarred visage. The fellow's garments were strange in that they possessed a passing resemblance to local fashions, but they were obviously of a cut, make, and style from elsewhere; the clothes were a uniform of sorts, perhaps that of a religious institution or monastic order."I must ask, who gave you this?""Hari Nurani, known as Horus of the Reeds to his friends."That name was not familiar to him. "Al-amal al-a'zam?"Apparently someone had prepared the foreigner, but not well enough. They frowned and said, "No, I don't know that phrase. Kimiya, I was told."The guard nodded, satisfied. "Very well. You may pass. Behind me is Gajasimha Bridge. You will take this to the Gate of First Sight, and passing through you will come to Alzadaal's Peace, a great fountain. Turn to the right and keep to the wall on a straight path past the aetheryte plaza. You will find there the High Crucible, and the people there to whom you are to be introduced."The foreigner bowed, placing one fist in the other hand in a gesture that was one part gratitude and one part farewell. The guard stepped aside and watched them go.“A promising student, my instructors would have told you, with much to teach and so much to learn. There came an opportunity, and so I went abroad. An exchange of ideas. I was not alone; there were many of us, and we were sent to every corner, every city, every realm with their own culture and wisdom to share."The city was quiet and not at all its usual bustling self. There was a troubled air to the place; people walked the streets, aye, and the stranger marveled at them: men and women of the Matanga, Raen who were not of Sui-no-Sato, and a mixed community of Hyur. They all seemed to get on well, and everyone he spoke with was not only cooperative but inclined to be helpful, if they had the time and energy to spare. Many did not; clearly, the appearance of the tower was taking a toll even here and not just in port towns such as Yedlihmad."I was sent to Sharlayan first. Old alliances, you know. There is much knowledge to be found in Sharlayan. Remember Noumenon, if ever you have cause to go. I studied there, for a time, and learned a great deal. Astronomy, astrology, aetherology, and more. But as much as I would have enjoyed spending the rest of my days in that peaceful place, my services were needed elsewhere. So it was that I sailed to Vylbrand, to the great port city of Limsa Lominsa."Radz-at-Han itself was a marvel. It called to mind Eorzea's Jewel of the Desert, but whereas the majesty and grandeur of that place served to highlight the disparities between the well-off and the have-nots, here in Thavnair those same qualities spoke well of both the populace and their governance. Glittering tiles, colorful fabrics, open courtyards and fountains, an abundance of landscapes… it was not perfect and could not have been expected to be, given the contrast with the coastal villages, but within these walls was a growing society that appeared far more egalitarian than not. It was not even a matter of expense, necessarily: the Thavnairians cultivated joy of life with simple pleasures by surrounding themselves with vibrancy. This was evident even in the markets, and he could not help but smile at the sight."Thavnairian alchemists were in great demand when I was young. This is still the case today, but less so. I met some of my fellow exchange students there, and we learned something of arcanima while we plied our trade for the benefit of the three great pirate powers. Our task, you see, was to make ourselves indispensable to foreign peoples. To ingratiate, yes, but more to demonstrate that there was so much mutual benefit to be had in open trade. We were missionaries of a sort, sent out by our elders and with the blessing of our satrap… that is to say, one of our great leaders… to engender good will."Nuhashir looked up from the unfurled scroll. The stranger looked distracted, and little wonder as to why: this place thrummed with noise. Great apparatus were at work as they boiled, mixed, or otherwise refined various elixirs according to specific formulae. Here, too, was activity on a scale not found elsewhere in the city at present; there was work to be done and a great many people toiling for good cause."Welcome to the High Crucible of Al-Kimiya," she said, "which others name alchemy. This is… quite the letter.""My grandfather is… quite the individual," the stranger replied as he turned back to her. "He sends his apologies; he could not come himself, for he's in convalescence, 'n' so he bade me come in his stead.""His apologies are welcome, but not necessary. We were not expecting to hear from such a decorated alumnus, as you might call them, especially not after so long," she explained. "But you must forgive me; I am but a record keeper here, and knew not your grandfather. He was before my time. That said, one of his peers is still hard at work here. If you would please follow me, I will take you to him."He nodded, and she stepped out from behind the table to lead him to the northwest, where they would descend the staircase to the large chamber below."We spent a little time in Limsa, but it was a stepping stone. From there, we diverged and spread across Eorzea, across Aldenard. No few of my friends were sent to Ul'dah, and there begat that jewel's own tradition of alchemy. Others were sent north to Ishgard and to Ala Mhigo, but I myself journeyed to Gridania. I need not tell you of the Twelveswood's peoples, but they came to trust me through coming to trust our products. Potions, elixirs, poultices, many such things and more. In return, they taught me much concerning herbs and natural remedies: that is to say practical skills and application, whereas Sharlayan had but given me the theory."The Matanga leaned forward and squinted at the stranger from behind his spectacles. The beastman, as the stranger was struggling to not think of him as, differed from other members of his race in small but subtle ways. His tusks were perhaps a little longer on average, his worn skin a duller and less vibrant shade that tended more towards grey than blue, the stole hanging over his shoulders an unusual affectation, and he seemed to rely heavily upon his glasses.“Yes, I knew your grandfather. We were admitted here at the same time, and we saw each other often during the course of both work and study. My name is Murtaza. I am pleased to meet you…?”“Osric,” said the stranger, “Osric Melkire.”He paused for a moment, and then stuck out a hand. Amused, Murtaza accepted; the Matanga’s thumb and index finger more or less engulfed the Hyur’s hand, but the shake was a gentle one.“Sorry, not used t’, errr… I’ve been to the Azim Steppe, y’see, and–”“The Gajasura. You need not say more on the subject; there is an adjustment period, naturally, and while our young men and women might take offense at times, we who have known decades have made peace with that fact. Not every person from outside Thavnair can be expected to have met those of the Arkasodara first. I ask only that you do your best to set aside prejudice and preconception.”“Of course.”“Now tell me, how does my old friend fare?”“None of this has anythin’ t’’do with me or with my family. Get to the point. I've half a mind to pick m'arse up off this bank t'give you another thrashing, otherwise.”“It is context. Please indulge me a little while longer. It matters a great deal. Who I was influenced the decisions that I made.”Osric reached into his belt pouch and produced an envelope, the prodigious size of which now made a great deal more sense to him. He held it out. “He asked me t’deliver this, and t’assist in whatever manner I could for as long as I wished, should that be acceptable to those in charge.”Murtaza accepted the envelope, and stared for a few moments at its wax seal. “Horus was never a forgetful one, but I must say, it is impressive that he has not misplaced his stamp after all this time.”He opened the envelope and withdrew its contents: several sheets of paper. Murtaza held them up to the light and adjusted his spectacles.“Ahhhhh. Recommendations… ingredients, reagents… much of these look foreign, but Hari my dear, so thoughtful to include a list of local substitutes and equivalents! Very good, very good. More foraging expeditions are in order. There is much to gather before we can send such products to the Great Work. You are welcome to assist, Osric, but I must ask,” he said, looking back down to the midlander, “why he has sent us his grandson when anyone could have delivered this for him. Your help will be appreciated, of course, but would I be mistaken in thinking this is not the only reason for your visit?”Osric folded his arms and shook his head. “You’ve the right of it. He said that I would be needed ‘ere in his stead and refused t’explain further.”A few moments passed in silence.“You sound frustrated with him. So was I, many times when we were young men together. I take it you are… working through some difficulties.”The midlander barked a laugh. “That’s a pleasant way o’ puttin’ it. We’re… a work in progress, but we’re tryin’.”Something in the eyes, in the sudden hitch of the ears, and in the general shift of Murtaza’s face suggested he was smiling. “That is good. Welcome, Osric grandson of Hari. There is much to be done.”Murtaza thanked Nuhashir, who took her leave of them. Then the old Matanga beckoned Osric over to one of the tables nearby and set about explaining the present circumstances.“I took to conjury like a swan to water. To the Padjal and to those at Stillglade Fane, I owe a great debt for the introduction. Magic was like a new language to me, and conjury yet another tool for healing, another means by which the lives of others could be improved and safeguarded. Walking the Twelveswood brought me greater understanding, better control, and more strength with each passing sun. I might have remained there for the rest of my days, but a missive came to me from Gyr Abania: one of my fellow students, Jamshid, stood accused of a crime, and I was needed to speak to his character.”The foraging expeditions were a welcome change from his usual jobs. The work was easy, he learned a great deal, and the alchemists were a social bunch, eager to exchange not just ideas but stories. He was not much help in the actual foraging at first, but they found in him a competent escort: he often stood guard against the local wildlife while others saw to the gathering of his grandfather's recommended herbs and reagents.They paid him well, too, but that was something he marvelled at only in the late hours of the night, when he could not muster the anima for another round trip home and stayed instead at Murtaza's. The old Matanga was insistent, and he was a gracious host: tea was ever-flowing, so too biscuits, and Osric did not want for anything while he was a guest there, save only the warmth and the smile of his wife.“You met my grandmother there.”“Yes, I did. Miluda Redwolfe was her name, and she was the love of my life. But we stood apart at first; her father had levied the accusations against my colleague, and I was a stranger in a strange land. It took time to argue our case, and a great deal of misadventure. By the time my associate was cleared of the charges, we were well-respected in Ala Mhigo and we had come in turn to respect them and their ways. Miluda and I had become fast friends, though her parents disapproved. They did not care for their daughter's dalliance with a sorcerer of the woods, you see, and would have preferred her to show interest in another of their order."Not everyone could make themselves understood to him, so Osric took on the task of learning Hannish, or as much as he could of it during his stay. It was a daunting task but he applied himself and made steady, if slow, progress. His best assistants in this regard were his two most frequent companions, Firouzeh and Sudarshan. As alchemists of the High Crucible, they were tasked with the foraging, with taking inventory, and with preparing for the eventual deliveries.He did his best to follow their conversation; once they noticed him listening, Firouzeh took it upon herself to translate. In this way he learned the numbers and numerals, and also many basic words not just for their work but also for common use: greetings, questions for necessities, and the like. There was plenty of opportunity to practice in Radz-at-Han, and out at Palaka’s Stand, too.Sudarshan, for his part, taught Osric place names. The Shroud of The Samgha, where Osric made his keep; they visited Agama Temple in the north and Purusa in the south. Vanaspati, the sacred jungle to the north of Radz-at-Han, was also a wilderness which demanded caution, no matter the pockets of civilization that were its villages and temples. There was the Perfumed Rise, too, less dangerous save only for the pisacas which roamed there. Kadjaya’s Footsteps in particular fascinated the monk, and Sudarshan struggled to answer the man’s questions as quickly as they came."Their order?""They were of the warrior-priests. Do not look so surprised; they were not so rare in those days. Your grandmother was not so ascetic as they, and joined the ranks of Ala Mhigan cavalry at an early age rather than remain a studious fixture of the temples. That was how she came to chance upon Jamshid who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and how her father came to accuse him of wrongdoing."It was some time before the reason behind Horace’s insistence became evident. The foreigner went from being a stranger to becoming a fixture. He was not always available; he visited home as often as he could, given the circumstances. He embraced the work, though, and would not have risen to taunts of “errand boy” had there been anyone so rude and tactless to hurl them his way. Radz-at-Han… and Thavnair in general… was a pleasant place, marred only by the trepidation that came with the ever looming presence of the tower. Trade floundered and, while those within the city were less impacted than the people without, the effects were pernicious. Still, the men and women of the High Crucible, of Ruveydah’s Fibers, of Nilopala Nourishments, and of Mehryde’s Meyhane were always pleased to see him.He was at Balshahn Bazaar when it happened."... go on.""We were happy. Jamshid returned to Thavnair, and I sent my findings and reports with him. Miluda and I were bonded, and we took the name Windwhistle: for me, because the wind ever rose at my beck and call; for her, because Ala Mhigan cavalry were griffin riders, and she had such a passion for flying through the skies. She rose through the ranks, and I… I was recognized for my insights, for knowledge beyond most men, and for remedies, so it was only natural that I soon became a fixture at court.""What went wrong?""...I did."

• The Ground Upon Which You Stand •

Part Six

First came the screams.He looked to the north. The East Balshan Bazaar was a short jaunt from the Crucible, and so he was often sent for supplies on suns when there were no expeditions. He’d been sent out for some quantity of fabrics, and his bartering with Varsra was cut short by the cries.“What…?” she asked, but Osric forestalled her with a raised hand as he took a step and then two in that direction."My position at court and your great-grandparents' status as priests of Rhalgr afforded us a great deal of comfort and privilege. Each passing sun, my star rose in prominence. I set aside all thought of Thavnair to embrace Gyr Abania as my new home. We were happy. They were happy times. But they were not to last, for Theodoric came to power and inherited the reins of the country, the city-state, the nation. The mad king, they called him, and later the King of Ruin for good cause.""You were there when it happened.""Yes."Several people came running, stumbling, or otherwise crawling around the corner which led to Mehryde’s meyhane. Fear, desperation, that much was apparent, but of what...?They weren’t left to wonder. One enormous wet tentacle shot out from behind the corner, coiled its way around some poor man’s leg, and dragged him out of sight. The fellow screamed, hands scrabbling against the tiles for purchase as he went. His cries were silenced as creatures poured into sight, abominations that the Eorzean mistook at first for voidsent. They looked an inhuman menagerie. At least a few were devilish-looking women on wings, and some called to mind the hulking muud suud that plagued Gyr Abania, but that was where the resemblance ended. They all looked wrong in a way that voidsent simply did not. Misshapen, malformed… some appeared to be demonic opo-opos, others were demonic wolves – despite Thavnair lacking anything of the sort! – and at least one was an unholy cross between gaja and scorpion.He and Varsra watched as the suud-looking creature crushed a woman beneath its foot before reaching down, tearing her in half at the torso, and biting down on what was left. The scorpion-thing sunk its teeth into another man and tore his guts out. A third person fell, brought down by a mass of simian demons. What survivors were left ran towards the bazaar.“Go,” he breathed, waving the merchant back. He turned, looked at her shocked face and the shocked faces of the other merchants and civilians, and bellowed, “Go!”"It did not happen right away. The sweeping purge took time. I was afforded a great deal of respect, but I was not in the king's favor. That honor went to Hrodric, Theodoric's cousin. We worked together, he and I. In doing so, we saw to many matters of state… some of them which haunt me still.""Ortolf Forgehands.""The monk, yes. A tale for another time."Panic was setting in, but panic… and fear… was what he needed from them in that moment. They turned, calling out to one another in some cases, but one and all they ran.Not quickly enough. He turned to the north again, but the beasts had already run down the rest of the men and women from the meyhane and now they were upon him. Fear shot adrenaline through his system, and he used that sudden heightening of awareness to grab hold and grab fast onto the first of his chakras, Atala. As he slipped to his left faster than most could manage, the swiping tentacle of the succubus-like demon missed him and slammed into the bazaar’s tilework in an eruption of ceramic. He caught a moment’s glimpse of the stall to the north, as one of the workers upended her counter to fend off the creatures… strange flecks of aether were rising off her coworker, and a moment later the hound he had become was mauling the woman."What is important is that, as the heavens turned, Hrodric found it more and more difficult to manage his cousin. Theodoric felt threatened, for reasons you may or may not--""I've been told.""Then you know. The Fist of Rhalgr had amassed too much power and support for Theodoric to be comfortable with. He bided his time, of course… but the whispering had begun."Another tentacle came through the air towards Osric, even as he was throwing open more chakras and drawing forth more aether. The monk threw up an arm and a fist in a blow that deflected the appendage, sent it rebounding over him. He stepped in, seized the abomination by the calf of one leg, and spun. He threw it… her? …into a wall, which cratered from the sudden application of mass. No time to dwell on whether that was load-bearing; two of the simians came for his legs, and he danced back a few steps. He snap-kicked at one, driving it across the floor, and then he punted the other into a series of stacked crates."We woke one morning to news that he had outlawed worship of the Destroyer, and claimed the authority to do so as his god-given right from the Spinner. Such a rift in the Ala Mhigan people, I had not seen before. The order was furious… but Theodoric had mustered a great deal of support, spent the suns and moons and turns wisely."Something like an owl flew overhead, and he heard a scream from behind him. Another made to soar past him; he leapt and caught it by the leg, and it shrieked as it dropped with him back to the ground, unable to support his weight. He forewent subtlety; he drove one fist with all the aether-enhanced force he could muster into the thing’s torso, piercing its flesh, and he sent a rush of fire-aspected aether flowing into it.It exploded from the inside out, pieces flying every which way as the monk went skidding across the tiles. He forced himself into a roll and came upright just as his back hit a planter. It cracked with the force of the impact. He reached back and used it to pull himself to his feet."Your grandmother, she had planned for such an eventuality. But as for myself… my hubris had not allowed it. Her words had not reached me, so intent was I upon matters at court, and so she had planned alone. She would go with her father and mother to one of the temples, taking our son Cenric with her. When I found out… our child, my son… I thought it the height of foolishness. It would appear as though we were confessing to Rhalgr worship! To remain within the city, to renounce the Destroyer… these things, we could do, and we would be safe. But to flee…!""You fought.""We did. She tried to take Cenric. Gods forgive me, I stopped her. I turned talent against my wife, tore him from her side with my power, and I drove her out."Momentum was halted for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder, even as he heard more screams coming from West Balshahn Bazaar. The other owl-demon had finished feasting on someone, and was mid-leap for a child.“No!”He shifted his feet and his stance sidelong, throwing himself into a snap punch into which he channeled wind-aspected aether. The technique that came with a monk’s enlightenment and was so named in turn was a costly one; he had, in his own time, developed this more efficient variant. With it, he rent the air itself. The blast of aether struck the creature, spoiled its leap, and drove it into an empty stall which promptly collapsed.The child ran. This half of the bazaar was evacuated."What happened to her?""At first? Nothing. She did not come back home. She did not go to the temple. She took to living in the city barracks, and we played it off as a marital dispute. We did not have to work hard at it. Many surmised that it had to do with her family. She was watched, from that sun forward.""And my father?""Furious with me. Rebellious. He was less concerned about our safety and more concerned about our family. To him, we were as thick-headed as the southerners claimed we were. He wanted to go to his mother, to mend the rift between her and I. He did not care for the thought of the temple, and preferred that we flee Gyr Abania altogether. I was… afraid, to leave him alone. Afraid that he would run away, or that Miluda would come back for him. So I excused myself from court and worked from home, as much as I was able. My son needed me, he had come over ill, his mother was away… those were my excuses.""You kept him under house arrest.""Yes.""Is that why he hated you?""...no. No, that came not long after. We were home together a great deal, for so short a time, while I fought with ink and parchment to avert tragedy. Surely, Hrodric and I together, we could manage it! But your father and I, we were… tense, and terse with one another. Every sun, there would be a debate. Near the end, it seemed that Cenric and I might reach a compromise. But we were too late."He stepped into the middle of the street and pivoted north again. More creatures, now, simians and jackals and tentacle-beasts and the not-suud. Ten chakras to his name, ten gates he threw open, and he breathed the Riddle of Storms.Soma-Haoma was a forbidden technique, one which he had invented himself. Breath control and aether control, together, as he employed a mantra-derived technique of the Brotherhood which would pervade the surrounds and tear the very aether from everything, be they Spoken, beasts, voidsent, or the land itself. A perversion, but a weapon: he could and would wield the resulting aether through the very air.They came at him, and the plants died. They came at him while the tiles and the stones lost their color, cracked across their surfaces, or otherwise crumbled. They came at him and the lights overhead went out. He reached for their aether, too, to drain them dry or otherwise bash them with sledgehammers of wind forged from their own fellows……but he found no aether there.They had no aether to take.His eyes grew wide, and he raised his arms in a cross-guard as a suud-demon drove one foot into him. The monk staggered back, still on his feet, and released the technique, redirected his aether. Serpents slithered past him along the walls, more winged beasts flew overhead, and the opo-things shrieked their mockery at him as they passed."Word came in the afternoon. I was still consulted for counsel on other matters, or else we would not have heard at all. The mad king had struck at the Fist of Rhalgr, the messenger said. They would no longer be a problem. My heart pounded in my chest, and I feared for my wife, and also for my son. Once the messenger was gone, we argued, but at last he relented, conceded to wait for me. I went to the barracks first, where I found her gone. The men and women there named her a traitor. I went to the palace next, and there… there, I learned that Hrodric had been named a traitor, had been arrested… they told me that Miluda… my Miluda… had, upon receiving orders, deserted… had flown ahead to warn them, the monks… that she had been outflown, and… and cut down. And then they had put the Order to the sword… many of them in their sleep… families, too, women and children as I had feared…."He could not turn to follow, to stop them, to hold the line; two of the suud were upon him, and behind them the scorpion-demon. He danced out of the reach of one suud's claws, only for the other to backhand him with an upswing. Osric reached for Muladhara as he was sent skyward; his torso, hardened by the earth-aspected aether coursing through it, struck the ceiling shoulders first. The back of his head rapped against the stones. He began to fall, debris cascading down around him, but he grasped Vitala and Anahata as he dropped. The second suud looked up just as he twisted around into an axe kick; it connected with the thing’s head, and its neck snapped from the sudden force.The Lominsan never hit the ground; the first suud had been waiting, and it snatched him out of the air. It took hold of both his arms and it pulled, intent upon tearing him in twain. He screamed his defiance as he pulled his own arms inward to resist. Rasatala came to his aid, and Manipura, too: he sent levin-aspected aether arcing across his skin, and the current jumped from him to the demon. Something skittered behind him. He forced more and more into the creature until its biceps and triceps spasmed, at which point he wrenched his arms down into a cross; the suud bellowed in pain as its ligaments tore, and Osric dropped to the ground just as the gaja-scorpion rushed forward over him and bit into its fellow demon.What followed was a blur. He came back to himself as he had one arm wrapped about its neck, wrenching it back, as he stood atop the elephantine hide of its shoulders; his other fist kept slamming into its skull, like a sledgehammer in the hands of a workman near the end of his shift. He heard something crack at last, and the beast shuddered as it went down onto its stomach. Flecks of… something… rose upward as it began to dissipate."I blamed myself. I still do. Moons upon moons of maneuvering, of clever words, offering sage counsel… all for nothing. So many bells, day and night, spent arguing… instead of reconciling… and then she was gone. I returned home. Cenric had his questions. I would not answer. We packed. It was only when the road turned away from the Quarter that his suspicions forced him to confront me. There, on the edge of the Twelveswood… no place to tell a child that his mother was lost to us, but he made me. He cursed me, cursed our name. He would go on alone, and he would not accept even our meager savings which I entreated him to take."He went on to the south, to Thanalan. And I… I remained in the Black Shroud, for turns upon turns. Alone."Then came a great demon, when he was down to fumes. A winged serpentine thing with the face of a man, a breath of flame, and the strength of a hundred men. He struck it with fist, with aether, with wind, and with power. The abomination laughed its contempt. It cut him, scorched him, beat him and broke him. In the end, it knocked him from his feet as it barreled into him, splayed him out in the plaza to the south as it then circled the aetheryte before flying up and out through the skylight.The last thing he could remember was laying there in agony, looking up at red storm clouds as meteors streaked through the sky, and panicking. His weakened grip on Svadhisthana, most vital of chakra for healing, was slipping. Men and women were going to die. And he was here, in Radz-at-Han, so far from his children, from his wife. Here, sliced open and left for dead. Dying.Red-hot streaks against darkened skies. His heartbeat was hammering inside his ribcage as his panic mounted further. His vision was dimming at the edges.Hear…Kana? he thought, feebly, back at her. That sounded like her voice, not her usual tone but the one with steel in it, to which few others had born witness. Kana, are you… are you here? I'm sorry, I'm… so… sorry…The world went dark as the depths of oblivion swam up and enveloped him. The last exhale left him like a bubble rising to the water's surface, and his final thought was of the heavens and hells which awaited beyond the aetherial sea.

• Steer •

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.The sun shone through the glass panes, illuminating both the window sill and desk before which he sat. Rays of light caught and revealed the many motes of dust still adrift in the air. The pendulum arm of the timepiece hanging from the stone wall of the office kept the time but, in doing so, cast them out of time: it committed them to a purgatory of its own making, in which the seconds passed and yet nothing changed. Nothing but the occasional crrreeeaaak of the Maelstrom petty officer shifting his weight upon the floorboards as he kept watch over his charge from his post by the door. There was nothing to be done for it: the Sea Wolf could not have been a ponze under two hundred and fifty, and was likely over three hundred; his commanding officer was late; and his charge, who sat tailor-fashion upon the only chair on this side of the desk, made him nervous.Who could blame him, thought the Hyuran fellow upon the chair, when we both know that I could kill him in two blinks of an eye? Two shakes of a dog’s tail. Two–As the piece of furniture he’d appropriated lacked arms, he’d chosen this pose so as to meditate to pass the time. His knees were splayed outward, his feet were tucked beneath him, and his hands were not quite folded together in his lap. His dark brown hair, going gray in places, was freshly cut, with most of the length pulled back into a bun to open up his face; two strands, one at each of his temples, had sprung free and now framed his eyes. Said eyes were a dark emerald green set into a mature face; two prominent scars gave further definition, the smaller of the pair running a diagonal line across his left cheek while the larger ran in parallel across his right eye. His beard was full and neatly trimmed. From the neckline down, he looked every ilm the part of a Lominsan jeweler: storm blue vest over a nice shirt, cotton breeches over which were drawn knee-high leather boots, and a belt to hold a lapidary hammer and a waist bag. Only a trained eye taking a closer look at his tools or at the accoutrement of his dress would have recognized the signs which suggested he had come by this respectable profession courtesy a guild apprenticeship in Ul’dah.There was nothing respectable about the course of his thoughts, but those were interrupted by the entrance of one Second Storm Commander Staelhundr Grymkoelsyn.The commander was a man of similar build and stature, having more in common with the fellow seated in his office than with his own petty officer. His hair was pitch black, from the tips of his ears to the loose curls that nearly touched the collar of his Maelstrom overcoat; his tail, too, shared that same sheen. His skin was pale, and his eyes were a brilliant blue over which he proceeded to place a pince-nez that he’d fished out from a coat pocket. Under one arm he carried a large manila folder, filled to the brim with parchment, and he was speaking as he entered the room. Only his mannerisms and his deep voice gave the lie to the impression that he was a young man; there was simply too much experience and too much confidence, self-assured rather than reckless, in his bearing for it to have been otherwise.“Officer Hyrtberasyn, good morning. At ease; you may stay, but please shut the door.” Here, Grymkoelsyn rounded one end of his desk and pulled back his own chair as the petty officer secured the only proper entrance or exit to the office. The window was looking more and more attractive an alternative by the second, to the man across the desk. “There’s a great deal to discuss, and we’re already short on time. The marshals refused to release me until they’d regurgitated both their misgivings and their recommendations; the admiral saw fit to chastise them, and asked whether they’d applied for Sharlayan citizenship, and did they wish for me to file in triplicate?”Grymkoelsyn laid the open folder atop his desk as he sat down and drew his chair forward. “So we’re short on time, and I am not inclined to give a single one of them any excuse to question the efficacy of this project. To business–”Here, the commander drew up short; he’d been flipping through the various reports and documents held within that folder when he happened to glance up and spot the lingering traces of shock, surprise, and confusion upon the Hyuran fellow’s face. The commander folded his hands together, rested his arms against the edge of his desk, and leaned forward. “Is there a problem?”“You’re…” …a Seeker, was what he’d meant to say, but as that was a vapid statement, he course-corrected. “...not what I was expecting. Given your name.”“Ah.” Grymkoelsyn spread his hands. “I’m adopted,” he said by way of explanation.The Hyuran fellow dropped his gaze and raised both arms up, palms out, in a deferential gesture of concession, even as he swung his legs out from underneath him and leaned forward to put his feet on the floor. Who am I t’argue with that? Or with you, Still Hound, Son of Cruel Coeurl? The commander, seated across from him, frowned but nodded; he returned his attention to the dossier before him.“Osric Melkire. ‘Lominsan Monk.’ You’ve adopted this title in a number of publications submitted to the broadsheets, including our own Harbor Herald.” There was the slightest trace of disapproval in the Miqo’te’s tone.“Aye, that’s right.” The man smirked: this was less a pursing of the mouth and more a shite-eating grin. “What are they goin’ t’do? Can’t refute skill. They goin’ t’strip me of my homeland ‘n’ birthplace instead?”“Believe you me,” the commander said as he flipped through a few more pages, “there are no small number of people who wish they could do just that. But seeing as how such a thing is impossible no matter how effective a smear campaign one might employ, let’s put them aside for a moment. I recommend that you either set aside the title or else refrain from publishing through the Harbor Herald for a time.”It was Melkire’s turn to frown. “You recommend,” he repeated. It wasn’t a question, but his inflection suggested that a question was lurking in the wings.The commander, not a daft man by any means as was becoming more evident with each passing second, looked up again as one hand paused in the midst of turning a page. “If you have a question, spit it out.”The other man licked his lips as he took a moment to consider his phrasing. “The letter I was sent. It mentioned that I was t’report in for rehabilitation ‘n’ that I’m required to render services.”“Yes.”“That sit right with you? You’ve read my file. You know who I am. What I’ve done.”“Ah. I understand the confusion.” Grymkoelsyn finished turning the page. “What you should consider is that I value efficiency and that I despise any waste of precious time. I have been tasked with an assignment. That assignment is your rehabilitation and reintegration into Lominsan society. This is no small task and no mean feat.” Here, the commander raised a hand and pointed across his desk. “You spilled a great deal of blood, most of which belonged to your fellow countrymen. There are many families who continue to hate, to despise, and to resent you for that. My responsibility is to sell them on this project, to present you as a net benefit to our society, no matter their personal grievances. The more despicable chapters of your personal history are not my concern; what concerns me are the promising chapters of your future.” The Seeker folded his hands together. “So no matter my personal feelings, Private, I can, must, and will steer you onto the right course and heading with as much wind at our backs as possible. Else it will have been a waste of my time and energy. You do not want to waste my time and energy. Do I make myself clear?”Melkire, who’d been resting his hands on his thighs, smoothed out his breeches. “Aye. Private, y’said.”“Yes. I understand you rose to Chief Flame Sergeant during your tenure with the Immortal Flames.”“Aye.” This earned him a few moments of murderous silence and a glare, so he tried again. “Aye, sir.”“Consider yourself busted back down. This is not a transfer. It is not, strictly speaking, enlistment or impressment. It is unofficial in every sense but this: as a reminder to you that, until I say otherwise, each and every serviceman with the Maelstrom, as well as each and every cannoneer of the Yellowjackets, outranks you. You are to adhere to their orders, excepting only such circumstances as their orders contravene with orders issued to you by the commanding officers I will assign you to.”Well, this was novel. Melkire cleared his throat and asked, “Commanding officers?”Grymkoelsyn was back to flipping through the dossier again, all but confirming the Hyur’s suspicions that the commander had already memorized the contents and was simply employing its presence for psychological warfare. “You recall the case of Dominic Morris, I trust.”“Aye, sir.”“We are trying something new with you. You put in for an appeal on three separate occasions. The first time, someone saw fit to drag their feet for moons on end until the appeal died a slow death; you were with the Flames at the time, and I suspect this was the best substitute that they could muster for a diplomatic ‘no.’ Your second appeal was after your discharge; without the aegis of another Grand Company over your head, someone else laughed and tore up the application. Your third attempt finally reached a civilian panel in our appellate court. What I need you to understand is that when they granted your appeal, this meant that your case was remanded back to the Maelstrom proper along with Haral Kelural’s penned opinion containing the recommendations of his fellow panelists. We deliberated on our own decision for moons… hence the delay between our last missive and the most recent letter to have found you.”Melkire frowned. “What does this have t’do with that poor sod Morris?”Grymkoelsyn finally shut the folder, leaned back in his chair, and stared across his desk at the new private under his command.“The appellate court handed the admiralty quite the predicament. We hadn’t the legal grounds to hang you; even if we still did, you are a formidable individual and we would likely lose promising young men and women in the process of shackling you with chains and fitting the noose. Lashings or similar forms of corporeal punishment would never suffice; the layman may not know that, as a monk bonded to a healer of the Nymian tradition, you would rebound from any such discipline with ease, but neither would they care, because the very sight of you walking free would be galling to them. Reparations, which is to say financial compensation, would set a dangerous precedent which we cannot and will not permit. So we went around and around, until an enterprising commander made a rather curious and ill-fated suggestion.”This was met with a frown and a narrowed gaze. “What did you suggest?”Grymkoelsyn actually smiled, the bastard.“That we employ you, Melkire. Lominsan monk indeed. It threads the needle well enough. The Maelstrom and the Knights of the Barracuda will vouch for your rehabilitation. You’ll be kept out of the public eye. No gods-fearing citizen of Limsa Lominsa will dare gainsay the Admiral herself. We gain a sailor who can shatter hulls and break keels. Saves us on shot. Boarding party of one saves us on blood.”The Lominsan monk in question stared at the commander as if the man in the Maelstrom overcoat had grown a second head. “War with the Empire’s over. Who in the gods-damned seven hells are you sendin’ me after?”Staelhundr Grymkoelsyn kept smiling. “On board, are we? Good.”

• Horizon •

Commander Grymkoelsyn leaned forward and dropped a report on the far side of his desk for Osric Melkire to read.“Dropped” was perhaps too soft a word. It was more that he threw it down with a flick of his wrist and the resulting slap of paper upon wood was as loud as a gunshot within the confines of his small office. The acoustics did not help matters. This served to punctuate his point: the other man was to read, and to do so with all haste.Melkire reached for the report, plucking it off the desktop and flipping it open to the first page. He skimmed it line by line and scowled. Piss ‘n’ shite. Of all people. He flipped the cover page back on top and tossed the report back onto the desk with a shake of his head.“Won’t be handlin’ that for you. Worthy Jetsam always did right by me. This’d be a conflict of interests anyroad. I wouldn’t trust me with this.”Grymkoelsyn sat back and watched him in silence for several seconds. When at last he spoke, it was with the temerity of man enjoying a private joke with his confidantes. “They warned me that you would prove difficult. It’s fortunate, then, that I am not asking you to turn on an old friend. Captain Jetsam is no longer a factor.”“He ain’t–?”“Dead? No.”Melkire sat back, too, and crossed his arms. “Then you’d best explain… sir.”The commander smiled and nodded. “When the Ilsabard contingent reported back to the Eorzean Alliance that the Imperial military’s chain of command had broken down, and that the Garlean capital itself was so destabilized that the Empire was likely to collapse and fracture, the Grand Companies found it prudent to reevaluate our own readiness, to reconsider our deployments. For the Maelstrom, this meant taking another look at our privateers.”“So ends the age of piracy.”Grymkoelsyn scowled and waved a hand. “It was always going to end. It was never a question of ‘if,’ but ‘when.’ The more of the star we chart, the fewer havens there are for outlaws. Rare is the horizon these suns which has not seen a Lominsan, Hannish, or Hingan sail. This state of affairs forces the pirate to turn to nations… for protection, for safe harbor, for license to operate. Granting such license makes a great deal of sense when one is at war… and no sense at all in the absence of enemies or rivals. Perhaps, in time, we will have a new need for privateers. But, for now, every keel in the water is a potential trading partner.”“So you… what? Reneged on their commissions o’ war?”“Hardly. We bought them out. Most of them, that is. There are always a few… reluctant parties… who value their freedom over their financial security. Oftentimes, the only ‘freedom’ they stand to lose is the freedom to visit violence upon others.”Here, the commander leaned forward to press the splayed fingers of his left hand against the report. He slid it back towards Melkire. Frowning, the other man reached for it again.“This is about the Flotsam and her crew, then.”Grymkoelsyn grimaced, his ears wilting. “A childish choice of name for a galleon. Having met the man and his sense of humor, it should not have come as a surprise to learn it moons after the fact.” He sat back again, ears returning to their usual positions, and cleared his throat. “Yes, this is about her crew. I credit Worthy Jetsam his due: he knew his duty, both to his people and to our fair city. He returned to port and checked in, as it were, to turn in his ship. Our offers were generous: fleet commissions, for those who wanted them; letters of recommendation, for those with an eye towards civilian life; and cold hard coin, for those with a bent towards retirement.”Melkire was flipping through the rest of the report, page by page. He did not look up as he asked, “Which did Worthy choose for himself? Not the commission, I take it.”“No. I’m told that he took the coin, for his own share, but that he departed by airship for the mainland. We’ve neither seen nor heard from him since.”“...I don’t recognize most o’ these names.” Dalmascan gladiator, he noted to himself as he scanned the report. Hingan ronin. The hells is a Turali viper?“I should think not. From what we’ve managed to piece together, Captain Jetsam took a rather novel approach to hiring on new hands after you left his crew. He took for himself a smaller share of profits than usual, for a captain, and put the difference towards signing bonuses in order to attract a… different… class of sailor. An adventurer class.” The commander pointedly ignored the reaction this elicited from his new subordinate; over Melkire’s groan, he said, “There appears to have been some difference in opinion as to what was to be done with the Flotsam. Not a sennight after the former captain’s departure, the ship was taken out of harbor in the dead of night. We found one of our men in the water. Another four are still unaccounted for… but given that they were posted as guards for the Flotsam, and were known to have been aboard, they’re likely lost to us.”Melkire, who’d slumped back in his chair and pressed with his feet to lift the front legs off the floorboards, raised his head. He caught the report – he’d left it lying on his face – with one hand before it could slide down into his lap, and he lifted it enough to peer out at the commander from underneath. His eyes were narrowed again as he asked, “What is it you’re askin’ me t’do?”“Ordering.”“Orderin’ me t’do, aye, sir.”“You’re to take three suns to yourself. Settle any ongoing affairs, spend time with your family. Then you’re to report back to me. I’ll have your posting by then, and we’ll have a ship ready to be underway. You’re going to get me our ship back, Private Melkire. You’re going to talk these people into surrendering themselves to us… or you’re going to force the issue. Whichever comes easiest and soonest.”They stared at one another from across the desk; they took each other’s measure.“I do this, and we’re square?” Melkire asked.“You do this, and it’s a start,” Grymkoelsyn answered.

• Tempest •

His oiled coat, held at an angle against the wind, was barely sufficient to keep his head and his pack from becoming thoroughly soaked. As for the rest of him… well, he’d be waterlogged soon enough. As if I ain't that already.He had to lean into the gale, as he walked, in order to keep his footing. It had been a slow and strenuous journey thus far; the storm had struck the city as his airship had landed, so he’d at least known what he was in for. This was far from his first spot of bad weather in Limsa Lominsa, and yet that thought was a cold comfort compared to the memories which buoyed him in this moment: memories in which he’d held his girls and promised better suns to come; memories in which he’d embraced his beloved and pressed a kiss against her forehead, breathed in the smell of her hair. These and more accompanied him from the landing down to the docks. It was a long walk, but at last he could make out the Salvenari moored to the end of the pier, and a short distance later the gangway which serviced her.Boarding the galleon in question was touch and go for a bit, but a hand landed on his shoulder as he reached the weather deck. He looked up and could just make out through the squall a larger figure than he, hunched over and shielding themselves with their own coat much as he was, as they bellowed, “You Melkire?!”His first instinct was to nod, but he hollered back an “Aye!” for an affirmative. This seemed to please the goliath, who barked, “You’re with me,” before leading him aft towards the sterncastle. They passed through a pair of doors into the great cabin; this came as a relief, as it took them out of the tempest, but he was given no time to dry off – he did not expect any – nor to gather his wits – he might’ve appreciated such a courtesy.The captain’s quarters were disorienting because they deigned to exist on two scales at once. The cabinets and tables which lined the port and starboard walls were as they ought to have been, but the presence of stepping stools presaged the sight of the desk, half as tall as it ought to have been, and the presence of the mustachioed Plainsfolk gent who sat behind it while reviewing his charts. This fellow wore no tricorne: his light brown hair was drawn back into a tail and looked not in the least bit coiffed. His eyes were briquettes of charcoal, his skin the tanned and bespotted affair of a weathered old man, and his state of dress the practical sort which confirmed his loyalties only by dint of a splash of color here and there. Osric’s inspection of this personage was brought up short by his escort. “Gottem for ya, cap’n.”Captain Pulado Tunlado looked up. He set his protractor aside, stood up, and rounded the end of his desk to stand before the newest addition to his crew. “Certainly a good stroke o’ fortune,” he said, hands tucked behind his back, “that the Navigator chose tae vent ‘er grievances now, as opposed tae later.” He shook his head. “Private Melkire.”Osric hesitated. He had to fight down the reflex to salute, because it would’ve been the wrong salute: left hand tucked behind his back, top of his right fist impacting his chest with the arm raised parallel to the floorboards, all while his left leg swung out to the side and back in to click his heels together. Instead, he deliberately raised both his right arm and right leg together, before snapping a knife-hand to his temple in a salute and stomping his right foot down. “Reportin’ for duty, captain.” And it’s a wonder that I didn’t choke on those words. Helps that he looks like an old hand.Tunlado nodded. “At ease, and welcome aboard the Salvenari. Won’t stand on ceremony much longer, lad, but introductions first.” His eyes slid past Osric, who had to bite down on an oath as his escort stepped forward and shed her oiled coat to reveal the telltale colors of the Yellowjackets. “This is Cannoneer First Class Swygrael Ubyltuwyn. She’s on special dispensation, reassigned tae assist with this project an’ tae be yer handler when I’m otherwise preoccupied with the demands an’ rigors o’ command. Where you go, she goes. If you’re first over the side? She’s second. You set foot ashore? So does she.”If Osric was double the captain’s height, then the cannoneer was nearly double his own. Her skin was the shade of seafoam, what scant bit of hair he could see was that of seaweed, and her eyes – as they bore into his own – were sapphires so sharp that he could feel them cutting into him. Hope she ain’t anyone’s relation. I’ve enough problems. She did extend a hand, which he shook. There was no contest of strength between them, no vice-like grip leveraged in either direction.Tunlado, meanwhile, circled back around his desk again. “What all did you an’ the commander discuss concerning ‘is plans for this assignment, Private?”This question came as no surprise; it was the usual fare, that of a commanding officer confirming whether everyone was up to speed. Osric stepped forward. “That I’m t’expect us to be at sea for as long as it takes, captain, ‘n’ that the determination of our success or failure is to be made at your discretion, ‘n’ no one else’s, savin’ only your first mate’s in the event that you’re indisposed.”Tunlado’s face contorted as he took that in. “Blunt… but accurate, aye.” He gestured to his charts. “We’re to cross the Indigo Deep, though we’ve a need tae drop anchor in Sharlayan first. We’re equipped tae handle the Flotsam, whereas most o’ the fleet ain’t, so we’ll have no support, unless there’s any tae be drummed up across the salt. In short, this ol’ gal is tae serve first an’ foremost as the deck beneath your feet, Mister Melkire. You’re tae be the payload. Whether we take back a prize or scuttle a wreck remains tae be seen. We’re going a-huntin’, Private, in waters not known by most o’ this crew, save fer meself an’ the bosun.”The captain sat back down. “Until such time, I’m expectin’ a great deal out o’ you. No less than any other sailor aboard, an’ a wee mite more. The risks are tae be yours before they are anyone else’s. You notice somethin’ what could benefit from yer hands, you’d best speak up. We’ll be watchin’. Questions?”Osric shook his head. He was to be a workhorse until such time as they caught up to their prey. Simple enough, that.Tunlado turned to Ubyltuwyn and said, “Take him ‘round tae meet Lyngwintsyn an’ Dederoon.”

• Reticent •

Lyngwintsyn, as it turned out, was the ancient Sea Wolf first mate. He was a likable sort: always inclined to hear you out even when dead set against you; never asked anything of you that he himself wasn't willing to give; and he told fun & fantastical tales, among them that he had once sailed with Ketenramm the Blue and that he’d once fought a kraken at sea & lived to tell the tale. You couldn’t help but like this grandfatherly man, with his beady eyes, warm smile, and penchant for good swill. Lyngwintsyn was a fine fellow.Dederoon the boatswain, by contrast, was a stickler, an uptight arse, a perfectionist, a scandalmonger, and a cheat at cards. The only reason that the crew had to offer for why they’d not thrown him overboard in the dead of night was that he was actually damned good at his job. Wasn’t ever a task that went forgotten or shorthanded, and he wouldn’t hesitate to empty the Salvenari’s coffers for supplies & provisions if it proved necessary. He would make sure you understood why it was necessary, and that your pay was still coming to you. These qualities purchased for him some degree of tolerance which would have otherwise been in short supply; there was not a man or woman aboard who cared for the Qiqirn’s heckling when it came to mistakes.The journey north was a quiet one, once they’d left the cyclone battering Vylbrand behind them. Osric found the time useful: it had been some turns since he was last at sea, and so he spent those suns reacquainting himself with the various responsibilities of the average deckhand. No one trusted him to keep watch, not yet; he was passed around like a strumpet until he was once again familiar with the majority of the work aboard a galleon such as this, and he knew that Lyngwintsyn & Dederoon had arranged this for him.The Salvenari was an odd vessel in that she incorporated, among other things, a number of particular countermeasures. Everyone was instructed in the use of the aetheric converters distributed across and throughout the ship; when activated, they would form a barrier that would shield them against broadsides from the Flotsam’s aetheric cannons. Osric, who’d been witness to a most singular experience with such cannons off the coast of an island named Gloam, was surprised to learn that Worthy Jetsam had seen fit to outfit his galleon in such innovative fashion. Nor was this the only armament with which Captain Tunlado now had to contend; it was known to the Maelstrom that Jetsam had hired on a mage of some foreign school or tradition, the exact discipline of which was also unknown. For this reason, Commander Grymkoelsyn had assigned to them Lieutenant Webb. The lieutenant was first-generation Maelstrom scholar, following the reclamation and documentation of the Nymian tradition by Alka Zolka; serving as her partner and personal marine on this assignment was Sergeant Ostornsyn. She was to safeguard the Salvenari from the arcane; he was to guard her against the mundane.This rounded out the more notable members of the crew, until such time as they were moored in Scholar’s Harbor. Shore leave was heavily curtailed, and granted primarily to those with sufficient anima for teleportation magicks: these individuals were instructed to attune to the local aetheryte and report back. Cannoneer Ubyltuwyn escorted Private Melkire for this short jaunt, and this afforded him his first real glimpse into the city-state of Old Sharlayan, such as it was. He saw nothing particularly noteworthy, and perhaps that was for the best.“There’s tae be no teleportation unless ordered or under the most grave an’ dire circumstances,” the captain had told them all in a general address to the crew. “We’ve no means o’ return, besides the crystal in our last port o’ call, tae which ye’ll also be attunin’. We need each an’ every man an’ woman with us tae see this job done. There’ll be grave consequences for deserters, no less than fer any other postin’. Aye, no less but far worse. Dinnae test me or the commander on this.”The last sun in the harbor was the worst for Osric, because word had gone ‘round that their guide was a young lass of considerable knowledge, herself foreign to Sharlayan, and a student of many fields. No Archon, she, but near enough as to contend with one. This concerned him because he was aware of two such women known to be in Sharlayan at this time, and his regard for their safety was likely to compromise his own mission. Still, he was reluctant to raise this concern with the captain or first mate for an entire host of reasons, chief among them that the slightest interaction with the ladies in question had far-reaching ramifications which were best avoided. He need not have worried: the lass who mounted the gangway at midday was a stranger to him. Miqo’te, she seemed, until he remarked on this and someone corrected him to clarify that, across the salt, she would be known as Hhetsarro. Tan, she was, with dark red hair and light green eyes; she dressed in the traditional fashion of her people, with a great many furs and leathers; her name was Shikoba, and she was well-traveled across Tural. She was to be their guide and interpreter.With everyone thus assembled, they set out from the Old World for the New.

• Stamp •

It happened on the berth deck, not long after Tunlado’s strategy meeting.Lyngwintsyn hadn’t been present; there’d been one hell of a storm on the horizon, and the first mate was needed to keep an eye on the gods-damned thing in case they’d needed to tack to avoid her. The captain would be catching him up now. Dederoon had been there, though; so too Webb & Ostornsyn. Private Melkire was to be kept abreast of all plans, so he & Ubyltuwyn had been in attendance as well. Plus….“I understand you would like to run south along the coast of Loazeniheta,” Shikoba had said, running her fingers along the map so that others would know the region under discussion, “but there is nowhere for us to reprovision.” She had turned from Tunlado to Dederoon. “There are good harbors, yes, but many are frequented by local tribes. You will face complications and delays. Which is to say nothing,” here she had faced the captain again, “of the Stardust Sea. We would need to swing east again to circle around the great chasm.”“Salvenari run dry,” the Qiqirn had assessed. “Stores emptied!”“I understand why most ships head straight fer Tuliyollal, Mistress.” Tunlado had shaken his head. “But my concerns remain. What’s tae say we will not miss the Flotsam entirely, if it turns out they are up north an’ they catch wind of us?”“The chasm itself.” Shikoba had then pointed at the geographical feature on the charts; it bisected the New World and ran a long distance through the aforementioned sea. “If they have turned pirate as you say, then it would be an impediment to them to circumnavigate this over and over. It is far more likely that they are based out of Yok Tural than out of Xak Tural; the Grand Shallows, perhaps, or even further south. They would have a much easier time sailing north from there to harass shipping lanes.”“Why not here?” Webb had stepped forward to jab her finger at a number of islands not too distant from the Turali capital. “This looks ideal.”But Shikoba had shaken her head. “The Shades’ Triangle is an accursed place. Few who sail there ever return. There is a danger in those waters that even we Turali do not understand. We should not risk a search there until we have looked everywhere else.”On and on, that discussion went. In the end, the captain had yielded to their guide: they would sail for Tuliyollal, but they would strike their colors and raise those of Sharlayan ere they came within view of the coast or any other vessel, whichever came first. This would, Twelve willing, preserve their element of surprise long enough for some of their number to put in by longboat and secure the formal cooperation of the local government. They could then reprovision and begin their hunt in earnest.As he’d been at the end of his shift, once the meeting concluded, Osric went down below. He meant only to find his assigned hammock and rest his eyes for a while. His mind was still turning their plans over and over in his head. There was no danger, let alone killing intent, in what happened next. Perhaps these things explained why his instincts and reflexes failed him. Perhaps they were just excuses. What mattered was that it happened.Someone shoved him. Hard.He staggered two paces, no more. He didn’t strike a bulkhead, or run into a pillar, or get caught up on a hammock. He caught himself and remained on his feet. Still, it came as a surprise. His head whipped ‘round and his eyes sought out the offending party.Two sailors had just passed him. Midlanders, same as him, both larger than him. Their backs were to him and they were headed for the ladder. As the shorter fellow was laughing and the taller fellow looked smug, he pegged the latter man for his assailant. Past them, leaning against one of the bulkheads, was Cannoneer Ubyltuwyn. She was watching, arms crossed.Alright, then.He caught up to the two men, came up behind the larger, and shoved him. The shitestain stumbled forward; his friend, surprised, turned ‘round and took a step back.“Touch me again,” Melkire snarled as the man came back upright and faced him. The berth deck had gone quiet, conversations falling away as the other sailors caught wind of what was happening.The shitestain exchanted a look of incredulity with his friend, so Melkire went on, saying, “Go on, you ambushin’ colt fambler. Try it.”The man’s face clouded over; he swung a right hook, with no technique to speak of, and it was so gods-damned slow.Osric stepped in, ducking a little, and raised both arms as he did so. He struck the inside of the thrown arm with the outside of his own left forearm, spoiling the cove’s aim; then he planted his right foot and pivoted on it as his left hand seized the shitestain’s wrist and his right arm snaked under, up, and around the other man’s bicep. Using his left foot, Osric kicked out behind him at the cove’s left leg which bore most of the larger fellow’s weight, and he leaned forward and pulled as he did so.The sailor was thrown down onto the deck, his back colliding with the floorboards with the sickening crunch of so much meat proving insufficient padding for the bones beneath.The man let out a cry of pain. Osric released his hold and walked around the fellow. He looked up at the man’s friend.“Carver, ain’t it?“A-aye.” He was in shock. Others were calling out warnings and beginning to gather.The shitestain was beginning to move. Melkire reared back and kicked him square in the breadbasket; there was a wheeze as the man curled up. “And his name?”“W-w-wells!”“C’mere, Wells,” Melkire snarled as he dropped into a squat, seized the fellow using both hands, and lifted him as though he weighed nothing. The monk took two steps to the side and tossed the shitestain into an empty hammock, where the bastard started flailing for balance.Folks were close enough to reach for them now. Osric rounded on them, raised his voice. “Now that I’ve got your attention!”Everyone froze, except for Wells, who stumbled out of the hammock and onto his feet towards Melkire. The monk slid one step to the side, turned, and clotheslined the sailor. An unconscious body dropped to the floor and stopped moving.“Ain’t got m’self a soddin’ problem with any swivin’ one o’ you,” Melkire spat, turning back around to meet each and everyone one of their eyes. “We’ve no time for this shite. We’ve got a bloody job t’do! If you’ve got a problem with me, I expect you t’come gab it out with me, together, or else you take your grievances to the captain. Wells here is your first ‘n’ final warnin’.”With his piece said, he walked back towards the ladder. No one tried to stop him. No one reached for him. Most importantly, no one touched him.So much for gettin’ some shuteye.Ubyltuwyn pushed off the bulkhead and fell in step behind him as he passed her. He said nothing. She said nothing… not until they were back on the weather deck.“Stampin’ out a fire?” she asked.“Catchin’ it while it’s small,” he answered.She nodded.

• Halcyon •

The Hoobigo squinted up at them, against the bright rays of the sun. She looked back down at their documents and shook her head. “I am sorry, but you will have to submit your request to the Landsguard. We can process your orders here, that hasn’t changed, but all official business must go through them while the rite of succession is underway. Especially matters of security for the palace and for the Vow of Resolve.”Lyngwintsyn looked appalled as he continued to fan his face with his beret. “Ach, yer sendin’ an old man ter his death by heat stroke, ye are!”Shikoba smiled and reached up to pat him on the back. “We’ll stop somewhere on the way for refreshments. Who knows, we might even have enough time for a bowl of moqueca.”Melkire & Ubyltuwyn were standing guard some half dozen fulms beyond them; both were still on edge after this sudden introduction to a society where Mamool Ja were treated no differently than anyone else. Tuliyollal was a pluralistic city, to be sure, but Limsa Lominsa was not so far behind the Turali, and Shikoba had prepared them suns in advance for what to expect. Still: turns of bad experiences, reinforced by conflicts with the Silverscales, were not so easily overcome.All four of them were in civilian dress, as per the captain’s standing orders to eschew their uniforms. Dederoon was not with them, no matter his objections and his insistence that to confine him to the ship when he so loved the Turali capital was a crimel; Qiqirn boatswains were rare, as were Plainsfolk captains for that matter. The first mate was to conduct their business, their guide was to assist him, and their pet monk was to play bodyguard for them both.“You two should relax,” Shikoba told them some time later as the group moved through Bayside Bevy. “This is a peaceful place.”“Habit,” Osric grunted.“Workin’,” Swyrgael grunted.Their guide shook her head, a rueful smile suggesting that she thought them fools but also that she envied their discipline. She took Lyngwintsyn by the arm and led him over to one of the stalls where they were serving drinks. The others followed at a lazy pace.“Been meanin’ t’ask,” said the midlander, one eyebrow raised, “how’d you end up on this assignment, anyroad?”The Sea Wolf pursed her lips as she considered her answer to the question. “Aleport was me station. Good postin’. Good meaningful work ter be done. Not as bustlin’ as Limsa, aye, but ye were more likely t’draw yer pistol, or bust a smuggler, an’ keep the peace there than in the city. Not the greatest o’ weather at times, damned soup when Llymlaen was in a right state, but that was fine by me. An’ the swill was good. I liked it there.” She shrugged. “Commander Grymkoelsyn needed someone strong, someone with experience, ‘e said… but ‘e also needed a woman. Not many on hand who’d fit that bill.” Swygrael Ubyltuwyn glanced sidelong at him, and he could hear the resentment in her voice. “Somethin’ about how you’re less likely ter snap a jack’s neck if she’s fair, was his reasonin’, on account o’ how you’ve always been soft.”He stopped in his tracks; she kept on walking and caught up to the others. He stared after her.“Well, piss,” he spat.

• Morsel •

“I dinnae like it,” he heard Tunlado say.This was the second punutiy-drawn barge they’d crossed paths with on their southbound heading. As before, the captain had arranged for a signal, and the crew had hurried to store the t’gallants & royals so that the Salvenari could pull up alongside the barge in question. Shikoba had gone over the side with an escort to exchange news with the other crew. Tunlado, Webb, Ostorndyn, Melkire, and Ubyltuwyn watched from the aftcastle.“You said that the last time,” their scholar shot back, her tone drenched with exasperation. “She’s the only one of us without a Lominsan accent, she’s perfectly safe with Ashdale and Carver at her side, we’re still running Sharlayan colors, no one will question our gun ports – even the most academic of expeditions require protection against monstrous beasts of the sea – and the moment anything does go wrong, Melkire here will go over the side and woe to anyone holding a weapon when he does.”“Ain’t said we’re goin’ about it wrong, Lieutenant,” the captain clarified. “We’ve known since we left Limsa that, tae hunt the Flotsam, there’d have tae be inquiries made.” He smoothed out one end of his mustache with his fingers. “I know she’s safe. I know this be the most efficient approach. I can know these things, an’ still suffer from a queasy stomach over the whole affair.”Ostornsyn leaned more of his weight onto the hand he’d used to prop himself up against the taffrail and said, in that gruff voice of his, “Easy as she goes, cap’n. Like as not, this one’s skipper won’t know anythin’ more than the last, an’ findin’ the Flotsam’ll come down ter sightin’ her sheets. Can’t be that many galleons down this way, eh, Melkire?”This was an odd choice of individual for the marine to post his question to, given that the monk had no more experience with this part of the world than anyone else aboard the Salvenari at that time and because he had a great deal less experience with sailing in general. Osric turned to his right to face the sergeant, and saw that the Sea Wolf was favoring him with a grin. Webb’s eyes were still on the barge, as were Tunlado’s; she looked unconcerned, whereas he was frowning again. Ubyltuwyn stood to Osric’s left, but he knew by now that the only expression she’d ever wear in his presence was a stoic mask laced with scorn.Since the question didn’t actually call for a response, he turned back to watch the proceedings on the barge. The five of them stood there in silence until, several minutes later, Shikoba came back over the side with Ashdale and Carver in tow. Tunlado walked down to the weather deck to meet her. “What news?”“Blessings from Rral Duxun, captain,” she called in answer, as the punutiy began to pull the barge away and to the north. “and word from the men at Dock Tumu, up the river, that a few barges have had trouble further south with a galleon like this one.”The deck went quiet.“Rral Duxun asked forgiveness for his hesitation to pull up alongside us, which I granted,” Shikoba said. “I asked him what sort of trouble, and he told me that the men of Dock Tumu are a superstitious lot, and their tales much the same. One barge met with a strange accident, after which the galleon appeared and offered their assistance… at a steep price. Another barge was bound for Ty’ak Tyak, beyond Yak Tel, but never returned. They are a full moon behind schedule.”The captain eyed Rral Duxun’s barge as it got underway. “And as fer ‘is own self?”The Hhetsarro shook her head. “No sightings and no trouble, but his business was solely with Many Fires, which he conducted by way of the river Ihuykatumu. They have a great need for lumber after a recent storm. He did tell me that the barge which suffered the accident was said to be carrying potsworn products from Earthenshire.”“Valuable, are they, these products?”“Yes, captain. Gold and silver and bronze and more, sometimes bejeweled, sometimes practical, but always of the highest quality.”Tunlado nodded. “Mister Lyngwintsyn!”“Aye, cap’n!”“All sails, if ye’d please. Get us underway.”The first mate started barking orders. The crew came alive again, with a great din. The captain marched back up the aftcastle and said to Melkire, “Go see Dederoon. Tell ‘im I’m wantin’ four men ready t'go ashore with you an’ Miss Shikoba. Might put in at Mamook, but we’ll put in at Ty’ak Tyak fer certain. An’ he’s tae start yer friend on double rations.”Osric nodded, said, “Aye, captain,” and headed for the ladder.

• Piercing •

Morale was down.As promised, they’d dropped anchor off the Turali coast near to Yak Tel. Shikoba, Melkire, Ubyltuwyn, and four servicemen had gone ashore by longboat. The trek through the brush was not as bad as it could’ve been, their guide knew enough to keep them at a safe distance from most of the wildlife, but it was still slow-going, and ultimately for naught. Mamook was not a hospitable place; the natives wanted nothing to do with them, and their sullen resentment hung over the expedition from the moment the foreigners arrived to the moment they left. Three suns wasted, all told, with little to show for it. First: that the Flotsam could not possibly rely upon the Mamool Ja there for a base of operations, putting aside the lack of an actual port or harbor. Second: that Osric had managed to attune to their aetheryte in passing.That had drawn some suspicion from the Yellowjacket, but she’d tolerated it. Let her report it back to Captain Tunlado, was his way of thinking. If initiative was to be reprimanded, all the more fools, they, if and when his foresight proved fortuitous.The Salvenari had not been idle while the expedition had been inland. They’d left a small force on the beach to reprovision as best they could, and then the captain had taken the ship on a short patrol of the surrounding waters. Alas, there’d been no sightings of the other galleon. Disgruntled but unwilling to leave his people on the coast for longer than necessary, Tunlado had swung back around as scheduled.It was six suns, all told, from their contact with Rral Duxun to the Salevnari sailing into the Grand Shallows.“Dederoon told captain, long time to find Flotsam,” the bosun would tell anyone who would listen. “Must prepare. In mind, in body, and in shinies! Shinies for purchasing stores. Dederoon is thinking many stops in Tuliyollal.”But on the seventh sun – promising weather, at first, until the wind shifted and brought with it a vanguard of thunderclouds belonging to yet another storm as it rolled in from the east – they had, at last, a real breakthrough. They’d just rounded one of the many isles which ran from the coastline to a much larger island – and beyond that was a subcontinent, truly, it was on a scale with Vylbrand according to the charts – when a cry went up from the lookout. This was not unusual, given the constant risk of running aground in those waters, so it took a few moments for the words to sink in.“Sail, ho! Bearin’ oh-two-eight!”The first mate squinted up at the nest as the rest of the crew fell to murmuring. He called back, “Range, Mister Addock?”“...two malms, sir, give or take a length!”The captain was sent for.“Colors?” he asked, wasting no time as he emerged from his cabin and stepped up alongside Lyngwintsyn & Helmsman K’shtah.“None yet, cap’n, but Addock’s got the best glazes of the lot. She’s angled south-by-southwest, ‘long the coast. Navigator’s favorin’ us, so we’ll know soon enough.”Tunlado nodded and headed up to the aftcastle. “Lieutenant Webb tae the bow!” he called aloud. “Someone fetch Miss Fulke. Mister Melkire, with me.”A bell later, Lyngwintsyn had a report for them. “We ain’t gainin’ an ilm. She’s on a bad tack, but sink me in the Deep if she cares a whit.”This news was met with the very picture of composure. “Miss Fulke, if you’d please. Steady as she goes; you’re tae run a marathon, not a sprint.”Miss Lefleda Fulke was a sicky sort, a brunette who spent more time abed than she did topside. How and why the Maelstrom had kept her on, Osric hadn’t a clue… until that moment on the afcastle, when she raised aloft a wooden cane. The galleon’s already-taut sails grew a little more full and the Salvenari picked up another few knots.“...you knew,” he said to the captain without taking his eyes off the sails.“We suspected,” Tunlado clarified. “We’d have standardized this practice turns ago, but Stillglade Fane is a jealous institution an’ guards her graduates well. We’re gods-damned fortunate tae have Miss Fulke ‘ere, else that mage on the Flotsam would be havin’ a right laugh at us.”Osric nodded. That made sense, and he had to hand it to Worthy: the man had been moons, if not turns, ahead of everyone else. Magic was such a common solution to most Eorzean problems that it stretched credulity to think that no one had ever thought to apply it in this manner. Perhaps most sailors thought it sacrilegious to circumvent Llymlaen in this way.Still, it wasn’t enough. Another bell saw Tunlado slamming his fist onto the taffrail.“–gained on ‘er for a half bell, ‘fore someone o’er there noticed,” the first mate was saying. “Little more than a malm between us, now, and Addock swears she’s flyin’ the black, but she’s gainin’ again. We’ll lose ‘er with the sunset.”Tunlado moved forward to regard the weather deck and called down, “Master Bosun! Make ready to shift the ballast, and open the hold!”“Aye aye, captain!” Dederoon, who’d been hard at work and keeping himself out of sight all the while, turned to issue orders to a lad on the ladder. Those orders were relayed below decks as the Qiqirn himself headed forward to coordinate the effort to open the cargo hatch.The captain turned to Osric. “I’m sending ye over, Mister Melkire. You’re tae slow ‘em down. Talk sense, if they’re willing t’lend an ear or two. Bring down a mast or two if they won’t.”The Salvenari lurched abruptly, forcing everyone to brace themselves. The men and women on the lattice hatch were sent sprawling as the wood splintered and two strong forelimbs emerged. Wicked talons clawed into the deck as a heaving brown mass pulled itself into the open air; an enormous white mane reared up, two predator eyes hunting and two feathered ears flickering. The griffin let loose with a piercing cry more common to birds of prey a tenth its size, as its great wings unfurled and it climbed out onto the deck.“Go,” said the captain, and Osric Melkire vaulted from the aftcastle.

• Lend an Ear •

His feet struck the deck, the splayed fingers of his hands touching down to steady himself, and then he pushed off into a run. It was a perilous affair at first, his knees barely fitting under him, his balance precarious at best, but as he ran and as he straightened everything came together. Hayle and Fholfhisyn were in his way; he went around each of them, sidewinding through the middle of them and keeping to the most direct path. He could see the griffin gaining the weather deck, could see those giant feathered ears straining for the familiar, could see the reins dangling from head & beak, could see the saddle worn from many a flight over the turns.“Ansfrid!” he called, and the beast’s left eye found him as his griffin let loose with another piercing cry, this one a touch higher in pitch.Osric leapt for the saddle, pulled himself up and onto it, secured his balance with one hand upon the saddle horn, and seized the reins with his other hand. “Let’s go,” he said, as he braced himself for what was to come. “Eyn.”At his command, Ansfrid crouched down low, wings held aloft, and then leapt into the air with a singular beat of his massive wings. There was, of course, significant kickback from such a takeoff; Osric could hear the strained groan from the Salvenari, the displacement of the water as the ship suddenly lurched to starboard as the beast took off to port, the cries of panic from a crew who’d never had the opportunity to prepare for, much less practice, this kind of maneuver. But there was nothing for it; they were aloft, man and griffin, and several more beats of those brown wings saw them gaining distance and altitude.“A griffin,” Grymkoelsyn had repeated in a deadpan voice, sennights ago. The commander had pulled his pince-nez from his face, tossed the spectacles onto his desk, and sat back to massage the bridge of his nose. “You want to bring a griffin. Your griffin.”“Aye, that’s right.”“Transporting a draft animal is a serious undertaking involving considerable expense. Room must be made in the hold. Ballast must be shifted. Feed must be provisioned. The crew instructed and trained on handling. A griffin is about twice the size of a chocobo, Melkire. Why in the Admiral’s good name should I sanction such a thing?”“Ain’t a gods-damned guarantee, no matter which ship y’choose or who you put on that ship with me, that she can close with the Flotsam. Not with that mage o’ theirs. That’s an unknown factor, that is. You might put a deck beneath m’feet, Commander, but unless that deck can get within a hundred fulms o’ theirs, you won’t have a boardin’ party o’ one goin’ over the side. The odds that we retake the Flotsam intact plummet.” Osric shrugged. “You give me my griffin, though, and that hundred fulms turns into a league. Mayhap two, dependin’ on conditions.”Grymkoelsyn’s hand had journeyed from his nose to the back of his neck. “There’s some merit to the idea, true,” he had said. “But you’d have to keep the beast below decks until such time as you’re ready to play this ace in the hole. That’s a long time to keep such a creature confined. Can you manage that?”“Aye.”“You’ll likely only get one good opportunity out of it.”“More,” he’d promised with confidence.Grymkoelsyn had given it some thought. Then he’d sat up. He had reached for a form, and for his quill too. “The marshals are going to have a field day with this,” he’d said.And so they had. But that didn’t matter to Osric now, not with the wind in his hair, not at the speed with which they were moving. He didn’t bother with the reins much; the griffin knew his own business. They were losing altitude now, trading it for speed: Ansfrid’s wings were spread out to facilitate a glide, and he beat them only to adjust for the low pass that had been asked of him.“Klyng, oefyr,” Osric reminded him. When they’d first met, Ansfrid had only responded to commands issued in an Ala Mhigan dialect. Over the course of their time together, the Lominsan had supplanted those with words from the ancient Roegadyn tongue.Ansfrid brought them in at an angle, crossing port to starboard. Osric had time to glimpse the arrangement of sailors across the weather deck, but little more, and he knew that there could be no return pass to pick him up again: he saw pistols aplenty down there. The griffin let out another cry as he dove and then spread his wings again, gaining a burst of speed that brought them across the bow. The monk leapt from the saddle, knowing full well as he did so that the angular momentum was bad; he dropped into a roll as he hit the forecastle, and above the din that was his body impacting the wooden boards could be heard the confusion from the crew.He heard something clear leather as he rolled upright onto his hands and feet. He swept his arm up and out, in the direction of the noise, and his forearm brushed aside the pistol as it went off. The shot went wide, the ball lodging itself harmlessly into the deck. Osric moved forward as he rose, and he struck once.Were he any other man, slugging the other fellow in the gut might’ve only bought him a few ilms of space and a few seconds more to act, but his tradition was that of the Fist of Rhalgr. Internal manipulation of his own aether came naturally to him. Bells upon suns upon moons upon turns of practice rendered such a thing as reflexive and instinctual as breathing. He’d gathered a sliver of surplus, molded it, and sent it traveling down one arm and into his fist to reach the point of impact at the time of impact. The result was not as devastating as he could’ve made it, but he wasn’t out to kill. Not yet, anyroad. The strike sent the other man stumbling backwards; his backside hit the rail, his weight and momentum sent him over the edge, and he dropped down into the water below.A series of reports preceded the shattering and splintering of the bow’s upper rail. The red-hot searing flame which traced its way across his right arm, in spite of the riddle technique which had hardened his skin since the leap from the saddle, was warning enough. Osric scrambled for cover, finding some behind a small pile of crates which had been tied down just ahead of the foremast. He set his back to the cargo, slid down, and listened. He could hear them, now.“Man overboard!”
“Was it ‘iggins?”
“Reload!”
“What a magnificent beast! Do you think we could–”
“Shaddap.”
“Both sides at once, aye! That’ll do for ‘im!”
“You first.”Another shot was fired; Osric turned his face away as the ball splintered the corner of one of the crates.“Whoa, there!” he cried, turning his face back the other way to address the pirates. “Parley!”The creeping footsteps ceased at once. Voices broke out in a cacophony, but were silenced by another “Shaddap!” from one of the men. The pirates fell to whispering to one another. After some time, two more creaks heralded the approach of a spokesperson.“You’ll forgive us our skepticism, friend,” said a man’s voice. It was Sharlayan-trained, and this made it difficult for Osric to place the accent. “But you did just send Higgins over the side, after a rather unconventional landing… to which, in case you’ve already forgotten, you felt entitled, in spite of the fact that you most certainly were not invited aboard. And you wish to parley. Why should we humor you?”Seven hells, there’s a thinkin’ man if I’ve ever heard one. It was a very good question which had been put to him; Osric hurried to formulate an answer. “On account o’ how I could save you a great deal o’ trouble, potentially speakin’, and all you’ve got t’do is hear me out. Lend me an ear for a few minutes, aye? I’m just one man, and you’ve all your fellows with all their steel ‘n’ shot.” Where’s the harm in that? he wanted to say, but he bit down on that last. It would’ve been too much, would’ve raised suspicion.There was a long stretch of silence. He strained to listen for the reply.“Step out. We’ll talk.”

• Stable •

He stepped out with his hands up.Most of the pirates paid him no mind; they returned to their stations and went about their business, which was to keep the Flotsam intact and as far ahead of her pursuer as possible. A good dozen or so kept their pistols trained on him, though, and these men & women fanned out to encircle him as he approached. Two of them ran off and fetched back a pair of small crates; the closer man gestured for Osric to take a seat.He didn’t recognize a single person out of this crew, not one familiar face from his time serving aboard this very ship, and he wondered whether that bode well or ill for him.His eyes scanned the skies as he moved forward, and he found what he sought: Ansfrid was still up there, having converted speed back into altitude. The griffin was circling the Flotsam at a distance. That’s a good lad. Ready in case I’m needin’ you, remindin’ these louts that I’m no greenhorn, and givin’ the Salvenari one more visual on our position.There was no doubt in his mind that, despite most of the pirates having gone back to their tasks, all eyes were on him. So for the last several paces before he claimed his crate, he adopted a little swagger. Nothing much, just a roll of the hips and shoulders with a touch of puffed-up chest. He sat down, smiling as he did so, and looked around again.There were three individuals in a huddle near to the aftcastle. They were speaking in low tones, the pace of their debate somewhat frenetic, and he thought that he recognized them from Grymkoelsyn’s report. The one with his back to Osric was a Hyuran fellow, of midlander build: this man wore something between a cape and a coat, dyed blue, with a feather-adorned turban to match. The one off to the right was surely the Turali lass: Xbr’aal women were no more common a sight than their Bozjan cousins, or so Osric had been led to believe, and this one’s golden fur was so tarnished as to appear a greenish brown. The one off to the left, however, kept drawing the monk’s eye: whereas the Hyur looked of a size with Melkire, and the Xbr’aal half again his size, this third individual dwarfed them both. Large, with bronze skin, dressed in leather harness, an enormous sword riding on their belt, their head encased in a brass murmillo helmet… a pair of floppy ears dangled from each side of their head, and a long bronze tail shook with agitation as the conversation reached some sort of peak.The midlander held up a hand – acquiescence, or a mollifying gesture? – and turned away, crossed the deck towards Osric. This afforded the monk a better look at the man’s features. Long strands of black hair dangled out from beneath that turban, framing a sharp pale face with two pieces of smoky quartz for eyes; a well-groomed petite goatee gave the man’s chin some definition. Beneath the coat was a gray surcoat, dark pants, and a pair of the nicest boots that Osric had ever laid eyes on. Riding this man’s belt was a curved sword of some sort, no cutlass but something resembling an Ul’dahn scimitar.This man sat down opposite Melkire with his legs spread, and between his feet he planted his cane: not a magical focus as favored by conjurers, but the sort of elegant walking stick preferred by posh nobles out for a stroll. The man placed both hands atop his cane, leaned forward, and said to Osric, “Between you and I, we’ve about a quarter bell, give or take, for you to make your case.” His was the voice which had addressed the request for parley. Sharlayan-trained. “Under the prevailing circumstances, I’d say that’s the best you could hope for.”Osric leaned forward, planted his forearms atop his knees, and looked this man in the face as he said, “You’re Kingsley of Berven.”The man’s expression opened up: his eyes widened and a delighted smile was born as he leaned back, brought his left hand up and laid it upon his breast, and said, “You know me!”Osric grinned. “Not as well as I’d like.”Kingsley threw his head back and laughed. “Berven, is it? Not the name I remember using, but it’s not too far off. Well, now, you know what they say: flattery will get you nowhere. But that isn’t quite right, either. It gets you somewhere. Especially with me. Still, you’ve lost, oh, say about fifteen to twenty seconds of your time.” He held up his left hand and used the index finger to mimic a metronome. “Clock’s ticking.”“That’s Bjorn Rockscale of Dalmasca,” Osric said, thrusting his chin out in the Bangaa’s direction. “I don’t see Tanshi Chihaya or Muglio Gamlio, but that man there, actin’ as first mate, is Skarnmhar Pfarskratsyn.” He gestured over his shoulder to indicate the Sea Wolf in question. “As for your viper….” He grimaced. “I’d rather not mispronounce her name.”“Luhui Akoh,” Kingsley said, his expression returning to neutral, his enunciation slow and considerate. He returned the one hand to rest atop the other. “Tanshi-san prefers her privacy. As for Gamlio, he’s likely keeping an eye on your friends from wherever he is. I was given the impression that he’s prepared to fire upon that gorgeous creature of yours, should you give us any trouble.”“That stands to reason.” Don’t you swivin’ shoot my bird, his grin seemed to say.The other man smirked. “You’re a very courteous and a very clever guest, has anyone ever told you that? You’ve enlightened me about a great deal, you now command my undivided attention, and yet I don’t know the first thing about you, Mister…?”“Unimportant.”“That can’t be true.”“Westmoore still here?”“Retired.”“Bloelaksyn?”“Dead.”“Pity, I liked him. Rhiki?”“Who?”Osric went silent and gave Kingsley a look. The fellow’s smirk had broadened into another smile.“Astounding, truly! Might, guile, and valor, all contained within a most singular package.”“Are you always like this?”“Like what?”Osric paused to consider the best word for it. “Verbose.”“The traders’ tongue is my second language,” Kingsley said, and Osric ruled out at once both Aldenard and Vylbrand. No man from either place could ever resist calling it Eorzean Common, so ingrained was a certain kind of patriotism. “I like to wield it with a flourish so as to remind the rest of you that you’re in the presence of greatness. Of a superior intellect, if you will.”Osric swept out a hand, palm up, as if to invite him to continue. Kingsley nodded and went on.“You’re with the Maelstrom. They haven’t taken kindly to their forfeiture of our ship. They’ve dispatched a small force to see Their Brand of Justice done. You’re along for the ride because you once sailed with Worthy Jetsam, our last captain, aboard this very vessel. How am I doing so far?”“Spectacular.”“More of that flattery. Please don’t stop, it’s much-needed air in an otherwise vacuum. Where was I?”“On me.”“Ah, yes. I can’t place you, because the old hands are long since departed. But you’re no mere informant. You’ve a griffin, and you were sent ahead with a message. You’re too confident – and if Higgins is anything to go by, too skilled – a courier to be some lowly serviceman and yet, try as you might to hide it now, your accent marks you as Lominsan. I can only surmise that, should we not heed your offer, you’re to do everything in your power to cripple the Flotsam before beating a retreat, as they say.”Osric nodded. “How many masts would you like to lose today?”“The offer, please, Mister Unimportant.”“Unconditional surrender. You drop anchor and allow us to board. The Flotsam will be returned to service where she belongs. An official investigation will be conducted into the matter of the slain servicemen. Those found guilty will face sentencing. The rest will be considered accomplices but permitted to make amends, terms negotiable.” He paused to accentuate the divide, and then went on. “A rejection of this offer will constitute a breach of contract with your sponsor, the Admiralty of Limsa Lominsa, whereupon you are to be hunted down to the ends of the star and put to death, even if that means that we must sink the Flotsam.”Kingsley’s smile had turned cold. “Verbose, Your Highness.”Osric nodded. He was acutely aware that the circle of pirates around them were shuffling in place and ready to move at a moment’s notice.“There is, as you may have surmised, a problem with your offer,” Kingsley was saying. “A void, as it were. A lack.”Osric snorted and said, in jest, “A lack of incentive?”“A lack of stability.”

• Surrogate •

“Stability,” Osric repeated. He sat upright, slapped one thigh, and looked around at the crew of the Flotsam. “Is that what you’re callin’ this? Sailin’ up ‘n’ down the New World, sackin’ barges on account of you’ve got a galleon with eight-pounders ‘n’ they don’t?” Some of the pirates had the gall to actually look ashamed. “No port t’call home, nowhere t’spend the ill-gotten gains, hounded by a Grand Company.” He turned back to Kingsley. “That sound stable t’you?”“I never claimed that it was such a thing,” Kingsley answered. “Consider who & what these men are, and then compare that to what’s on offer. There’s not a man nor woman on this crew with children. No wives, no husbands. Nothing in life to their names but the clothes on their backs, their brothers and sisters here, and this very ship. Yes, Tural presents a considerable challenge. Yes, we are imposing on the locals. But this is the life they know, the life they are comfortable with. They would die for one another if needs be, Mister Unimportant, never doubt it. And here you are, come to us as surrogate to the great power that is civilization. You are asking these men to turn on one another. To give up the life they know. To… negotiate terms, was it? And what shall those terms be, hmm? Impressment? Indenture? Are we all to become hounds such as yourself? No, thank you. You are proposing to exchange one series of hardships for another. That is no improvement, sir.”“If it was improvement you were all after,” Osric shot back, resisting the urge to snarl, “if it was financial security and a reduction in risk, then you ought t’have taken up the Maelstrom’s first offer, when they were buyin’ out commissions, instead o’ committin’ grand theft ‘n’ then compoundin’ it with murder.”“A mistake,” Kingsley admitted with no hesitation whatsoever, “and one which I argued against quite strenuously at the time. But it’s done. Here we are. The crew have had their taste of freedom, and you come bearing the yoke.”The monk stared long and hard at the mage seated across from him.Oftentimes, Grymkoelsyn had said, the only ‘freedom’ they stand to lose is the freedom to visit violence upon others.“Which one are you?” Osric asked.“Beg pardon?”“Are you the captain or the quartermaster?”Kingsley smiled but said nothing.“Put it to a vote.”The mage seemed taken aback by this. He frowned and leaned forward, placing more of his weight against his cane.“...why should I? Let’s assume that there are some among our number who find themselves tempted by the offer. They are far more likely to find themselves in the minority than with the majority. Knowing that, they’d not voice their dissenting opinions. It would mark them, set them apart. They’ll not out themselves with their votes. So why should I put to them the question?”“Mistake, you called it. Aye: that’s what it was. You know it, I know it. Surrogate, you called me. Aye: that’s what I am. Let me do my job. Send me back. I’ll carry your objections to civilization. See if the great powers that be are willin’ t’compromise. To put the original offer back on the table, with some alterations t’account for the circumstances.”Kingsley looked at him with pity. “Civilization does not compromise.”“No, but she’s made o’ men & women, and they do, when it’s expedient.” He nodded. “Aye, they do.”The mage straightened again and pursed his lips. After a few moments, he called out, over one shoulder, “Luhui.”The Xbr’aal woman came forward and stood to one side. Osric took as many mental notes as he could as to her features: short ears, long hair in a tail, tribal markings in black, short fangs, and a disinterested air about her. She said nothing; she merely waited.“See if we managed to pull Higgins back aboard,” Kingsley said. “Do that for me, will you?”Luhui nodded. She headed for the aftcastle. Osric, meanwhile, eyed Kingsley. The mage sat back and shrugged.“If Higgins is still in the water, then we’ve left him behind by now at the speed we’re moving, and your friends will likely have him in custody in short order. They’re bound to get some value out of him, whether that leverage comes out in the wash as information or as a hostage, in which case you’ll not find them so inclined to revise their terms.”Meaning you’ll have no reason t’let me go, Osric thought but did not say. Instead, he opened his mouth to pose a question… and found himself cut off by the approach of one Bjorn Rockscale.The Bangaa was even more intimidating up close. Whereas Luhui had come up on Kingsley’s left, Bjorn came up on Kingsley’s right. He was tall enough that he cast a tremendous shadow over the mage. Each and every inhale reminded Osric of a sleeping bear; each and every exhale reminded him of a wakeful dragon.“Kingssley,” this giant rumbled. “It’ss time. The ssailss.”The mage squinted up at him, then glanced back at the monk. “Seems your quarter bell is nearly up, friend.” Kingsley rose to his feet, using his cane to do so. “A word first, Bjorn. You’ll want to hear this.”The circle of pirates parted a touch for Bjorn & Kingsley; they headed forward, to stand in the shadow of the mainmast as they spoke. The pirates closed in a fulm or two tighter than before, with their hands still on their swords and pistols. Osric stood up and started stretching to pass the time. It certainly didn’t hurt that the exercise gave him an excuse to keep watch on as much of the ship as possible from his vantage point.That was precisely why and how he noticed Luhui returning from the afcastle. She shot a glance at him as she passed by. Her eyes narrowed, but she kept moving, joined Bjorn & Kingsley.Alarmed, but disciplined enough to keep that from showing on his face, Osric straightened and glanced towards the aftcastle. He could see men and women up there, those nearest to the fore, but no one who was wet. No one looked drenched from an impromptu dip into the ocean. This meant nothing, of course; Higgins could be further aft, could be lying down.Or it could mean everythin’.He gathered his aether.Osric turned ‘round when footsteps heralded the return of Kingsley and company. The mage shrugged; the circle of pirates ilmed closer.“The good news is that we’re amenable to your proposition. The bad n–”They’d been fully eight fulms, perhaps nine fulms distant; three yalms, then, between Kingsley & Melkire. It mattered not a whit, because the monk was upon them in the blink of an eye, skidding to a stop with his left side presented, left arm thrust forward, palm thrust out to strike the mage’s ribcage, to strike at his heart.

• Quarry •

What should have happened was that the palm thrust, with all of the force of the monk’s mass and velocity, should have driven Kingsley of Berven off his feet. There were fourteen seats of power within the Spoken body, fourteen chakras out of which Osric claimed mastery over eleven. From these founts he had drawn, with a swiftness of purpose, enough aether to serve his purposes: wind-aspected, to enhance his speed; earth-aspected, to shore up his natural defenses; and fire-aspected, which he held now, jealously, within his right fist. Into his left hand he had imbued not a drop, trusting instead that mere physics would suffice to knock the mage down. He might break a rib or two, true, and there was always the risk that such an impact would trigger an adverse reaction, but it was a risk worth taking. He didn’t want Kingsley dead: he liked Kingsley, after a fashion, but more importantly he had reason to suspect that the man was more useful to his cause alive rather than dead. No, what should have happened was that the mage should have gone down, opening a narrow path over him – between Bjorn to Osric’s left and Luhui to his right – to the mainmast.Take out a mast, and the Salvenari could catch her quarry.What actually happened was that his hand slipped. Kingsley, having perhaps noticed in time the surge of aether from his “guest” or else having anticipated violence in general, twisted at the hip. Osric’s left hand impacted first on the hypothenar; the palm struck next, but it slipped, as though across a surface slick and frictionless, across the left side of Kingsley’s chest. Something wet and viscous clung to the monk’s hand as he found himself stumbling forward past the mage.He threw himself into a forward roll, even as chaos erupted around them. The mast was right there, no matter that something strange and unexpected had occurred, and all he had to do now was to regain his feet, like so, rush forward, rear back for a right hook–!The behemoth who was Bjorn Rockscale slid into place between the mast and the monk. Alright, then. Osric gave the Bangaa what the bastard so clearly wanted: the full fury of the red-hot sun clutched in his right fist. As he threw the hook, Bjorn thrust his left arm down at Melkire. In that hand was clutched a buckler of some sort, and Osric recognized the peculiarity of the thing in the instant before fist met shield: it was not bronze, as might have been expected, but some lustrous metal heat-colored to a bluish green.Adamantite, he thought, as fist met shield and the air exploded. Smoke billowed outward from the point of impact; he heard the rasp of steel drawn against the inside of a scabbard, so he fell back and arched his torso to draw in his stomach. The draw missed him by ilms, the swing itself parting some of the dissipating smoke, and that was when he heard a rifle report: a single crack, followed by a piercing cry of anguish.Oh, you bastards.No time to dwell on it, because Bjorn was advancing on him. The gladiator reared up, raised that blade of his over his head – this sweeping motion was also enough to disperse what little smoke was still in the air – and did something to send arcs of golden levin coursing up and down the length of the steel. Osric, who’d been with the Flames long enough to learn to respect what men such as Raubahn Aldynn were capable of, wanted no part of that, and he was acutely aware that the Turali viper would be coming at his back at any second. He kicked off to the side, dodging the downward swing to the right so that the blade would be between him and the Xbr’aal: he was hoping to circle around Bjorn’s left to come at the mast again.No such luck. Luhui Akoh had not come at his back because, like Bjorn had done with Kingsley, she had circled around Bjorn from the port side to intercept the monk. He was brought up short by a thrust from her right hand scimitar, and his attempt to close with her – to get inside the reach of her blades – was cut off as she stepped back and swept a slash at him with the scimitar in her left. She clearly knew her business: she regarded him as a living weapon, and the sudden to & fro, the give & take, of their footwork as she would advance, attack, and retreat before he could close resembled in a crude way the spar between two practiced fencers.He didn’t have time for this; Bjorn would be coming at him soon from his left. She was experienced, but she didn’t know what she was up against; on their fourth such exchange, she advanced to slash at him again… and he swung at her scimitar with his fist. The steel shattered, blood-splattered shards went flying, and her eyes widened as he turned with his momentum into a spinning kick that caught her in the gut. The impact took her off her feet for a moment; she crumpled.This cleared the pirates’ line of fire, he was ready for it–Some few thousand ponze per square ilm of pressure struck him from the waist up, a veritable blast of water that knocked him off his feet. He felt his back hit the starboard rail, and he coughed as the stream let up. Osric squinted, and could make out Kingsley there where he’d left him. The mage stood with his left arm up, palm held out. Kingsley’s cane had been lost somewhere; the fellow had drawn that curious saber instead.That didn’t matter. He recognized, hearing and seeing the many pistol hammers being cocked, why Bjorn hadn’t closed in again. Without so much as another thought, Osric turned, hoisted himself up with both arms to plant one foot on the handrail, and launched himself over the side into the sea.

• Butte •

He fell and hit the dirt.The impact kicked up dust particles which were not the cause for his sudden coughing fit. He got an elbow beneath him and raised his head in time to watch the golden spike, the one which capped the end of his grandfather’s Yagrush, slam into the stone a fulm from his face. So Osric looked up.The skies of Gyr Abania were blanketed by a slow relentless march of corpse-brown clouds, and the long-enduring city of Ala Mhigo served as the backdrop against which his grandfather stood. He was dressed as he always was, although he had taken off the griffin hood; with the privacy afforded to them here, the old man preferred to cherish his time with his grandson. Still, looking at him now, Osric couldn’t help but wonder why it had taken most of his own childhood to recognize the old man for what he was.Wasn’t any helpin’ it. Not like we had Hannish walkin’ down the streets in Limsa. Not my streets, anyroad; not the gutters.Thavnairian sandals. Thavnairian sarouel, although his grandfather insisted the word was pronounced shalvar. Palaka vest. Palaka-fashioned gloves. All dyed in various shades of light brown. These were in sharp contrast to the metallic staff – more a mace, really – that he carried in one hand, the star globe which floated over the palm of his other hand, and the feathered pendulums floating about his shoulders.The tan complexion and weathered skin always came as a shock; Osric was too accustomed to seeing him with the hood on. There was a warm smile upon that face as his grandfather asked, “Do you wish to continue?”Scowling, the younger man got to his feet and brushed past the elder. “Seein’ as how you know the answer already… why d’you ask?”“Perhaps because I am still confused,” came the reply, as the Hannish mage turned. “Never would I have expected that my atonement would take the form of ‘training with my grandson.’ It is a curious development.”“I told you,” Osric shot back, struggling to keep his irritation in check, “if I’m ever faced with another mage, I want to be prepared for anythin’. You were the best candidate available.”“Perhaps,” said his grandfather again, irking him all the more. ‘Perhaps’ was one of the old man’s favorite word. “And as I have told you, the arcane arts are not so different from the martial. The road to victory is a matter of who proves the more resourceful, the more deceitful, the more decisive. I appreciate your, mmm, restraint; it must be difficult, to possess a forbidden technique and not resort to it. Still, putting that aside: why is it that, thrice today, I could have thrown you off this butte?”Osric approached the edge and glanced over it. They were up quite high; he had no head for numbers when it came to altitude, but it had taken a great deal of time to scale the cliff that morning. “I wasn’t expectin’ the pendulums,” he called back.Footsteps heralded the old man’s approach… and communicated his courtesy. Osric’s grandfather had no need to walk. Or to climb, for that matter. “True, yes, that is true. I managed to surprise you with them. But that is only because you were intent upon the globe.”“Haven’t ever seen you use one o’ them before, either.”“Is the bodyguard to assume that the assassin has only the one dagger? You do not possess exclusive ownership over guile, Osric. It is as much the purview of mages as it is of anyone else.” The Hannish elder came to a stop alongside him, just as his grandson straightened and took a careful & respectful step back from the precipice. “But come, tell me. The globe was distraction enough the first time, and the pendulums for the second. You lost focus this last time on your own.”“I….” He sighed and shook his head. “Thought I saw somethin’, is all.”A few seconds passed in silence.“Saw something,” his grandfather repeated. “Was this before or after you ran out of your prepared glyphs?”“After. Wasn’t any side effect, if that’s what you’re askin’.” He snorted. “My scrollwork ain’t that poor.”“It used to be,” his grandfather teased. The old man hurried to mollify his grandson, saying, “But you have come a very long way. Kanaria and Amelia have taught you well.”“It… it was like… I saw the sweep of your staff.”“Yes, that is how vision works.”“Before you actually swung it.”Silence again. Then his grandfather turned to him.“That isn’t what you saw.”“No, I–”“Think back. Focus. What did you actually see?”Osric frowned. He raised a hand and looked down at it. He flexed his fingers. He thought back to the moment in question.“When you returned to me, from Thavnair, bearing letters from my old friends,” the old man was saying, “they made mention of something very curious. They wrote that you were there, when it happened. When it started. The so-called Final Days.”“Aye.”“They mentioned that you were found unconscious in the plaza.”“Aye…?”“What did you see?”Something about this line of questioning set off alarm bells in Osric’s head. He looked back up, with narrowed eyes, at his grandfather. “What d’you know?”“I know nothing. But I suspect,” said the old man, turning to walk back towards the center of their chosen arena, “that we have much to discuss. Come; you wish for training. There is now more on offer.”The monk turned to follow, but his delay cost him: his grandfather had rounded on him, swept the head of that staff down and around in a low arc. A curtain of moving air struck him below the knees, taking Osric off his feet; as he struck the dirt once more, the old man raised the globe and rewrote the laws of gravity. The monk was dragged inexorably towards the edge of the cliff, hands scrabbling in the dirt and against the stone for purchase on something, anything–!

• Telling •

He reached up and clasped hands with one of the men.The sailors helped to pull him aboard. He needed the help: drenched as he was, he weighed more than he otherwise would have, and he had spent most of his strength swimming the distance between the Flotsam and the Salvenari. A lesser man might not have managed it, might have passed out and been washed ashore; the monk had managed it, though most of that miserable exertion blended together in his head. He had a vague memory of making some attempt for the enemy ship’s rudder, only to be fended off by… and then, afterwards, the very ocean had turned against him. Great explosions of pressure, followed by the inexorable tugs of a vacuum being filled, like depth charges going off. Kingsley’s spellwork, no doubt. The bombardment had ceased when Osric had turned for the Salvenari.Sopping wet, he hit the weather deck and looked around. Dederoon was at hand, saying something or other, but splayed out across the middle of the deck was the griffin. Ansfrid lay on his side; there’d been a great deal of blood, to stain the deck so, but the beast’s chest was still riding & falling. Webb was tending to him: one of her hands was pressed against the staunch wound, and her other hand held open her codex as she triggered glyph after glyph, the arcane geometries brought to life by incantations to work their wonders on the griffin.Osric tuned back in.“–telling your debriefing to him now,” Dederoon was saying, but the spindly fingers of the bosun’s hands were working their way through Melkire’s garments in search of wounds. “Dederoon said no, check for good health first, send for cook to fetch you something warm.”“Shove off, sir, beggin’ yer pardon,” said the someone looming over them both, and it was only then that Osric realized it had been Ubyltuwyn’s hand which he’d grasped and which had pulled him aboard. “He’ll have plenty o’ time fer all that. Cap’n needs ‘is report now.”The monk turned and squinted at the horizon to the south; he saw nothing there. He scanned further to the southwest: still nothing. He looked west-by-southwest and was shocked to see the Flotsam there looking much closer than she had before. She was still running with the coastline, but the Salvenari had crept up on her hindquarters and was now on a heading to intercept her, perhaps in a bell or two. “Wh–?”“No time, get movin’. Cap’n’s quarters.”A quarter bell later, Osric sat in the great cabin with a large quilt or blanket thrown over him and a bowl of something hot which he’d been attacking with a wooden spoon. Tunlado was pacing the length of the space.“Sahagin,” he said, sounding shocked. “Sahagin aboard the Flotsam.”Osric swallowed down his latest spoonful and nodded. “Aye. Figure they’ve given over the lower hold to ‘em. Struck a deal, or somethin’. Colony in the New World.”“Aye, a good deal that’d be.” The captain looked at him. “An’ they came fer ye, when ye tried fer the rudder.”The monk nodded.“Too resourceful by half,” Tunlado spat. His mood turned, though; he looked more satisfied than not. “Not the results we’d been hopin’ fer, but ye still bought us an opportunity. Ostornsyn’s down below, workin’ answers out o’ that fellow now. Higgins, ye called him. An’ we’ll be sayin’ hello tae his friends soon enough.”“How–?”“Ah. Well. As soon as ye went aloft, I sent for Carver. ‘e’s a bard.”A moment of silence.“A bard,” Osric repeated, incredulous. “Carver’s a bard… the same way Fulke’s a conjurer?”“Nah, not like that. Good soloist, knows ‘is shanties. Figured Miss Fulke could do with a wee bit o’ encouragement, and if song has such an effect fer the Gridanians, why not a little call an’ response fer the lass? We still ended up workin’ ‘er half tae death, true, but with that Kingsley fellow preoccupied, she managed tae get us nice an’ close.”The captain looked pleased to see the private nodding along. He circled behind his desk and sat down in his own chair.“This mage, then. Kingsley. He’s their captain?”Osric frowned and, after a moment, shook his head. “No.”Tunlado raised an eyebrow at him. “No?”“He never gave orders; he made requests. And he wouldn’t make a decision – couldn’t, I think – without consultin’ one o’ the others. Bjorn Rockscale.”“The Bangaa.”“Aye.”“The mage is their quartermaster, then.”“Seems likely.”“Ye mentioned that ‘e seemed open tae reason.”“To negotiation. He won’t give up everythin’ for nothin’. If we were t’put the original terms back on the table–”Tunlado shook his head. “Might be as there are concessions I can make, what with me authority as the commander’s proxy, but what ye’re askin’ fer is a mite too much. Maelstrom won’t stomach it. No, if there’s tae be any negotiatin’, it’ll have to be me an’ this Kingsley across a table. Sounds tae me as if we need tae pry ‘im free from his captain, first.”Osric grunted.The captain stood up. “Fer now, Mister Melkire, get warm. Get changed. We’ll be flyin’ our true colors soon. We’ll see if that reminds ‘em that the sea swallows all.”

• Inland •

“I told you that this would happen,” Shikoba said, as they watched the Flotsam sail upriver.“Aye,” admitted Captain Tunlado as he lowered his spyglass. “Ye said the words, an’ we considered the possibility, but it’s another matter altogether tae see ‘em try it.”Had the pirates been any less competent an assembly of sailors, the Salvenari would have pulled up alongside them to exchange broadsides, as the captain had been anticipating. Melkire’s boarding party of one had cost the Flotsam’s crew the time & opportunity to cut across the Salvenari’s bow and rake her as they passed. Not that this would have availed them: the aetheric converter stations were manned, and Lieutenant Webb was ever present, ready to put her talents to good use. The Flotsam could hardly have turned into the shore, and so they’d been left with little choice but to keep sailing. For, as Shikoba had pointed out, the region of Ty’ak Tyak was serviced by a wide river not unlike Ihuykatumu. The past bell had become a race between the galleons to see who’d reach her destination first: for the Flotsam, the rivermouth; for the Salvenari, firing range.Here, now, there she was: with her stern to them and growing ever more distant by the second. She was already well outside the range of their guns, no matter the powder charge. Tunlado had managed to come about in time to muster two broadsides, to minimal effect. This was no slight against the Salvenari’s gun crews; they’d managed several spectacular shots under challenging conditions. Still, the damage was either superficial or else amounted to little more than bloodshed; the Flotsam herself had not been crippled.Tunlado set aside his glass. “Lyngwintsyn.”“Aye, cap’n?”“You have the conn.” Over the bug-eyed objections of his first mate, he said, “Master Dederoon, ready the launches. Lieutenant Webb, Sergeant Ostornsyn, Mister Melkire, Cannoneer Ubyltuwyn, Miss Shikoba: fetch yer gear. We’re headed inland.”“Beggin’ yer pardon, cap’n, but–”“No, Lyngwintsyn, I’ll not have ye goin’ in me stead. Heart’s in the right place, sir, but ol’ Althyk makes no exceptions for ‘is hourglass, an’ I’d rather not hand ye over tae the Traders jus’ yet. Besides, there’ll be a need tae make some difficult executive decisions, ye ken, an’ it’s not you who’s answerable tae the commander. No, it must be me who goes, an’ you who stays an’ keeps our guns trained on the rivermouth. I dinnae care what comes down this river, Lyngwintsyn. Ye make the barges form a queue if they want out, an’ ye keep ‘em in line ‘til we’re back.”

• Third-rate •

The captain had made the right call. Following the river inland had made that quite clear. From the southern bank, they were afforded a good view of the rather insurmountable challenge which Tunlado had foreseen: when and where the water was clear, rather than murky, they could make out how uneven the riverbed was and how treacherous the shallows. The crew would not have made it far without intimate knowledge, for which they had no proper charts nor a proper guide; Shikoba was not too familiar with this region, and had told the captain as much. They would have torn the Salvenari’s bottom out in making the attempt.Knowing this made the trek into Ty’ak Tyak no less difficult.The region did not receive much in the way of visitors to begin with, and so there was no path, no proper trail, on either bank of the river. Shikoba had argued for the southern bank, as it meant fewer tributaries to ford once they were much farther in. As the foliage ran all the way down to the river, and as the “banks” themselves were little better than vast stretches of mud in most places which did not feature stone, this meant machetes. Machetes meant the strength and endurance to wield them. Strength and endurance meant that Melkire & Ostornsyn found themselves at the fore, side by side, hacking through the brush.Captain Tunlado & Shikoba were in the center of the column, the better to receive reports and relay instructions. With them were most of the men & women who’d been chosen to accompany the expedition, some dozen souls in all. Playing rearguard was Cannoneer Ubyltuwyn, with pistol and handaxe drawn. By rights, Lieutenant Webb should have been with her, to shield their flanks and provide arcane support as needed… but Webb was up front, just behind Melkire & Ostornsyn, owing to certain developments.Said “developments” were two loud reports from a certain rifle, spaced out a few bells apart, and the two injuries sustained by the man and woman who’d been shot. Everyone on the expedition had been briefed on the presence of one Muglio Gamlio, crack gunner, and so no one had worn their bright uniforms which would have made them stand out… but no one had expected him to make them out at a distance through the dense jungle, either, much less hit his targets. They’d dismissed the first injury as luck; after the second, Tunlado had ordered Webb forward, so that she could shield the majority of the expedition from further harm. This did tax her reserves, but there was little to be done about it; everyone agreed, after some debate, that the measure was necessary.“Curious,” the lieutenant had said, “that he’s chosen to wound rather than kill.”“What does that mean?” Shikoba had asked.“It means,” Melkire had cut in, “that they’re still mullin’ it over.”“Whether t’resist or t’surrender, that is,” Ostornsyn had clarified, for the benefit of those who’d not been privy to earlier briefings.“Sound tactics, regardless,” the captain had supplied. “We’d leave our dead an’ keep movin’. The wounded, though: they slow us down, aye.”So Webb had been moved up front and Ubyltuwyn was left alone in the back.Melkire & Ostornsyn took to the rainforest two bells at a time, breaking for a quarter bell in between these shifts and for a full bell at noon. It was late afternoon on the first sun when the second injury had forced the discussion and the change in the column; there was no further trouble that first sun, and they pushed well into the evening before they set up camp. They set a watch, and the night passed without incident, too.They were a bell into their renewed trek westward the next morning when the efficacy of Webb’s barriers was tested and proven. Osric was ready for it. His own bonded wife was a scholar of the Nymian tradition, and he knew what to look for… or listen for, as it so happened. The barrier around Aubrey broke; the crack of the rifle came and went; the man dropped. He was not wounded; they’d drilled this as they’d crossed the salt. Should a personal shield of Webb’s break, the serviceman to which it had been applied was to take cover until such time as she could reapply a replacement or else deem it unnecessary. She reapplied it this time; once they confirmed that Aubrey was good to go, Melkire & Ostornsyn resumed their forward progress.Said progress came to a halt three bells later when Webb went down hard. Her own barrier broke, the rifle made its report, and a puff of acrid smoke erupted where she’d been standing. She dropped, coughing, to the forest floor. Ostornsyn dropped to a crouch and made his way back to her, snarling at Melkire to keep watch. This, Osric did, though a glance over his shoulder confirmed what he suspected; the sergeant had drawn a small bottle of echo drops and was administering them to the lieutenant by way of a dropper. When she could finally manage to speak again, she spat, “Son of a coeurl!”Tunlado called everyone inward for a strategy meeting.“We’re not makin’ good time,” he said. “We know the Flotsam ain’t doubled back down the river, we’d have seen ‘er if she had, but the longer we take, the more time we give ‘em tae work some rook’s cleverness an’ fade on us. Suggestions.”“Burn this whole sodding forest to the ground,” Webb said through gritted teeth. Shikoba looked disgusted.“Impractical,” the captain retorted. “An’ also denied, lieutenant.”“Cross the river,” Shikoba offered instead. “It can be done. We can move faster on the other side, once we have more distance between us.”“An’ what, trust that he can’t make that shot, too? He shouldn’t be able ter make these. Barkin’ mad, you lot,” deemed Ostornsyn. He looked down at the captain. “I say we send two of our best forward, with knives. Can’t be meself or Melkire, he’s expectin’ us ter be visible. Lihzeh an’ Pytte, I think.”“We’d do better t’send the monk, if he weren’t a third-rate piece o’ shite,” muttered Ubyltuwyn.Osric’s blood ran cold. Then it boiled, from his head and his heart outward. He didn’t remember crossing the space between himself and the cannoneer, couldn’t recall actually walking that distance in the moment he came back to himself. Someone had their hands on him; he was rolling a shoulder, trying to throw them off. Shikoba was there, pressing Ubultuwyn back.“What crawled up your arse ‘n’ died, eh?” he was snarling. “Hells y’prattlin’ on about? Third-rate, am I?”“There are holes in two of our best,” she spat back, “an’ not so much as a scratch on theirs, nor a hole in their tub, cutter.”“You callin’ me soft or daft, cully, which is it?”“Useless if ye ain’t goin’ ter do the job, ain’t a woman or man ‘ere who ain’t had family or friends at Ghimlyt Dark, we know what a monk can do–”That place. That gods-damned place.“–oh, y’do, do ya?”Their gods-damned glory and their gods-damned war.“–an’ you ain’t done it yet, which is why we’re out ‘ere, so you’d best get to it ‘fore our people start droppin’!”Everything else seemed to catch up to them all at once, as though the push and pull of hands hadn’t been at work the whole time and as if the expedition’s other voices had been recorded by Allagan node and were only just being played back to them.“Swygrael, you mustn’t–”
“–piss, Melkire, the hells d’you eat–”
“–about time we had this out–”
“–neer, Private, you will desist at once!”Whether or not they might’ve heeded the captain’s order went unknown, for at that precise moment something passed between them, a boulder not ten fulms off made a sound that was cousin to a ceramic plate being struck by a hammer, and Gamlio’s rifle coughed another report across the rainforest.Everyone ducked, and everyone looked around.“Lieutenant,” hissed Tunlado.“All shields intact, captain.”Osric was the first to stand. Someone reached for his arm and tried to pull him back down, but he pulled away, walked the distance to the boulder. There was a crack there, dead center in the part of the stone which was above ground.“Mister Melkire,” hissed Tunlado.“It sounded different,” he said by way of explanation.“Course it sounded bloody different, he missed!” barked Ostornsyn.Osric stopped a fulm shy of the boulder. He cocked his head to one side and squinted at the crack. “He doesn’t miss.”Before anyone could muster a response or, Twelve forbid, another argument, he summoned up his aether and channeled it. He raised his left hand, opened with the fingers pressed together and the thumb extended at a right angle, and set his middle fingertip against the surface. He took in a deep breath, raised his left foot… and stepped forward at the same time as he struck the boulder with a sudden left fist, all in one explosive motion.The boulder broke, rent asunder; the crack expanded in three different directions as chunks of stone broke off from the impact site of his fist. He spread his fingers, dug around, and found what he was searching for in time to step back, before the larger pieces could cascade down to strike him on the shins. He turned and raised his find up to the light for the others to see.It was a linkpearl.“I think it’s for me.”

• Sally •

Osric didn’t answer the call. Not at first, anyroad. He had to wait his turn.The linkpearl had been confiscated. Captain Tunlado had laid claim to it, after a thorough inspection by Lieutenant Webb had confirmed the absence of any traps or spellwork. The logic was sound, no matter that it was reductive.“I’m in charge,” the Plainsfolk had said, “an’ you’re not.”The wait was mercifully short. The distinct chime of a linkpearl going off was impossible to mistake. The captain placed the pearl against his ear and held it there using two fingers.“Aye… Speakin’... As do we, ma’am, ain’t a soul out in these parts what’s havin’ fun, unless it be yer marksman… I’m listenin’... That won’t be possible… It’s necessary fer me tae set certain stipulations… Were ‘e a free agent, there’d be no objections, but ‘e’s on a short leash. There’ll be one other, an’ she can wait at the treeline… Thirty paces at the least, aye, I’ll tell ‘er. We done?”Tunlado listened for a moment longer, and then he grunted. He pulled the linkpearl clear of his ear as walked over to Osric, and then he presented it for the other man to take.“Now it’s fer you.”Amused, the monk took up the linkpearl and slipped it into his ear. The captain was already walking back towards the others and issuing new orders. Since there’d been no instruction to do otherwise, Osric activated the pearl and asked, “Who’s this?”“Luhui Akoh,” answered a smooth melodious voice, in a Turali accent which more closely resembled Shikoba’s than anyone else whom Osric had met thus far. “Are you Mister Unimportant?”“Aye, that’d be me.”“Kingsley says you are to meet us a half malm west of your current position. A clearing. Two hundred ten yalms south of the river. You and two others. They will secure the perimeter. You will join us in the clearing.”“And where’ll Kingsley be?”“Right here with me. You will understand once you arrive. You have our promise of safe passage.”“Ceasefire?”“Until our parley is concluded.”He grunted, said, “See you soon,” and pulled the linkpearl from his ear. He walked over to join Tunlado and the rest of the company.The captain pulled him aside.“I’m sendin’ Ostornsyn an’ Ubyltuwyn along with ye,” he said. “Go an’ see what’s tae be said. You’ve a pearl to the Salvenari’s shell, don't forget, so report in once ye’ve heard them out.”“What’ll the rest o’ you be doin’?”“Makin’ camp,” Tunlado said, as the two Sea Wolves flanked Osric. “Treatin’ the wounded. Seein’ if we can’t narrow down where that Gamlio bastard’s hidin’. Now sally forth, you lot, unto the enemy’s doorstep, an’ don’t keep me waitin’ on the details. I want tae know everythin’.”

• Hackneyed •

“What, that’s it, then? Jus’ the two of ‘em? Smells like a swivin’ set-up.”Ostornsyn’s derision oozed from his every word. The sergeant’s sneer accentuated his contempt as he peered through the treeline into the clearing beyond.The clearing was a clearing in the most classic sense of the word: there were no trees, and what brush was extant rose no higher than a fulm or two off the ground. The space looked natural enough, though there was neither sign of, nor evidence for, cause. It was not lacking in foliage, nor did the sun intrude upon its tranquility; the rainforest canopy was thinner above the clearing but still present.“Mayhap that explains their conditions fer this meetin’, sarge,” whispered Ubyltuwyn. “Ain’t got the numbers fer more of us. Wanted a proper parley what won’t break down inta some kind o’ firefight.”Seated upon an overgrown log at the far end of the center of the clearing was a Hyuran man dressed in a blue coat and wearing a blue turban. Before him stood a Xbr’aal with fur the color of electrum; two hilts protruded out past her shoulders from behind her back. The man sat with his head down. The woman stood with her head turned towards the treeline as she scanned it, over and over, from east to west and back again.“Don’t be daft, Cannoneer,” Ostornsyn shot back, having reined in both his surprise and his volume. “This’ll be either the most hackneyed trap in the history o’ the star, or else it’s a diversion while their mates swarm the cap’n’s position, mark me words.”“I’m still goin’ in there,” Osric announced, not taking his eyes off the man and woman in the clearing.The sergeant snorted. “Course ye are. But give me a few t’start roundin’ the perimeter. Might be as I’ll flush out a cove or two an’ save us the trouble of an ambush.”“Aye,” Osric and Swygrael said at the same time. They exchanged a glare. The Yellowjacket turned to Ostornsyn and said, “Go on, then. I’m t’keep a closer eye on the proceedings.”The big Sea Wolf nodded and then disappeared into the brush. The others approached the clearing.“Don’t go forgettin’ what I said,” Ubyltuwyn told Melkire.“About what?”“About doin’ what’s necessary. These folk ain’t earned yer pity nor yer mercy. Do the job, or else get out o’ the way.”They stopped at the treeline. He turned to regard her.She looked tired. She looked frustrated. She looked determined. She looked, more than anything else, like someone who just wanted to go home.Allagan platinum says that’s the same look on m’own face.He nodded to her. She nodded back and said, “Things go sideways, jus’ holler. I’ll cover ye while ye fall back.”Osric could feel Ubyltuwyn’s eyes on his back as he stepped out and raised a hand to signal Luhui. Seeing this, the viper set out to meet him halfway, which they did. He came to a stop; she came to a stop.Her tail swished once as she said, “We surrender.”“No shite,” he shot back after a moment. It was not quite a question, but not quite a statement either.“There are a few conditions.”“Ain’t one o’ them ‘unconditional’ surrenders, then.”She nodded, unphased by his rejoinder. “The first of these is that you hear what we have to say. Come.”Turning on one heel, she led Osric to Kingsley. The monk was quick to note that her passing did not stir so much as a single leaf or twig; she had a great deal of training and experience, then, in moving through such terrain. He noticed, too, that the second blade to adorn her back was a straight piece of steel. This must have replaced the one scimitar he’d broken, and he wondered how much of a disadvantage this might prove to be for her.Those concerns were driven out of his head by a closer look at Kingsley.The past two suns had not been kind to the man. He was doubled over, his right arm across his torso to clutch at his left side, and supporting himself by dint of his left hand pressed down upon his left thigh. His skin looked jaundiced. His coat was torn: a bloodied bandage was visible beneath it. The man struggled to breath through his nostrils, as his jaws were clenched tight.“What happened?” Osric asked.“What you wanted to happen,” Luhui answered as she turned to face the monk.“He’s wounded. You ought t’have told us, we could’ve brought a medic–” He started forward but was cut short by the Xbr’aal, who raised an arm to bar his path. He glared up at her and said, “He needs a healer.”“He is a healer,” she explained as her eyes met his. “It is taking most of his concentration to tend to himself. You will not touch him, not you and not your friends. We do not trust you.”He worked out his agitation on his own jaw for a few moments. Then he repeated his earlier question. “What. Happened.”“He posed the question. Bjorn was… not pleased.”“Seems a ruttin’ understatement.”“...the crew was divided. It came to blows. We took possession of the ship. Bjorn’s faction had no choice but to continue inland.”“Faction. Where’s yours, then? And where’s the Flotsam?”“In hiding. The Flotsam has been moved. She is somewhere you will never recover her from, not without Kingsley.”“Sounds like bollocks t’me.”“You are welcome,” she said slowly, “to continue your search upriver. Come find us again when you have failed to find the galleon. We will be right here. Waiting.”He stewed on that. Then he asked, “You mentioned conditions. What are they?”She turned to eye Kingsley. He saw her looking to him, and he feebly raised his left hand in an acknowledgement. Luhui nodded and faced Osric again.“The Maelstrom. She wants our killers held to account. You are in luck. The three of them are on foot and heading west. Skarnmhar, Tanshi-san, and Bjorn himself.”“What’s that t’me?”“Everything. They would have seen us dead, and will try again if given a chance. If it were not for Muglio siding with us, they would have managed it the first time.” She shrugged. “You want the Flotsam. Kingsley has the Flotsam. You want the killers. We have told you where they have gone.”“If you’re pitchin’ an offer, spit it out.”“We seek refuge, but we do not trust you. Take Kingsley and I back with you, to your ship. Our people will remain in hiding. Once he has recovered in safety, I will return here and fetch them. But we want your best to deal with Bjorn and his partners. Dead or dealt with, it does not matter to us. Do this, and the Flotsam is yours, and Kingsley will sit with your captain to discuss the rest.”Osric stared at her. Then he stared at Kingsley. Then he stared past them both, to where Sergeant Ostornsyn stepped out of the treeline. The sarge gave him the signal for all-clear.Somethin’ ain’t right here.Mayhap Ostornsyn was right. Mayhap Ubyltuwyn was right, too. The mage was wounded. I could kill Akoh, here an’ now, and then I could kill him. Be done with it. We’ll find the Flotsam eventually… but before that, we can track down Bjorn ‘n’ the others. Put them in the ground, too.No.He’d decided a long time ago.That wasn’t the kind of man he was anymore.That wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to be.He sighed and started digging around in his pockets. “I need t’make a call.”

• Taken •

They clapped Luhui Akoh in irons as a precaution.Lieutenant Webb was ordered to run Kingsley through a thorough examination, over Luhui’s strenuous objections. The mage wasn’t in any position to resist, given his debilitated state. The lieutenant did not once reach for her codex as she assessed the man. Tunlado, Melkire, and Shikoba stood off to one side and watched.“Pfarskratsyn’s a decorated corsair,” the captain was saying, “but fer all o’ that, ‘e’s still just a man. The ronin, though. She’ll be a different matter entirely. Ever faced a samurai before, Mister Melkire?”Osric shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”“Don’t want tae, neither, from what I’ve ‘eard. Luckily fer us, Webb an’ Ostornsyn ‘ave. Slew o’ turns back, this was. If we set ‘em against the ronin, an’ put Ubyltuwyn against Pfarskratsyn, that leaves ye the matter o’ Bjorn.”The monk just grunted.Shikoba was frowning at Luhui, who was at present held back from charging at Webb by Ostornsyn, as she asked, “Are you sure that we can trust those two? We have nothing but their word. Their entire crew might have teleported across Tural by now.”The captain nodded and said, “Remind me again what ye know o’ Miss Akoh.”The Hsetsarro crossed her arms and closed her eyes, as was her wont when she was calling up information. One ear flicked to the side before she spoke. “There isn’t much. She hails from Xak Tural; her name is Tonawawtan, which is unusual because there are very few Xbr’aal communities in Shaaloani to begin with. There were no work orders recording her presence in that region. It is possible that she hails from farther north, or else from the western coast. All that we know of her comes from a single moon-long stay in Tuliyollal, some turns ago, after which she boarded a ship and crossed the salt.”Tunlado nodded. “And Kingsley? Given what we discussed earlier?”Shikoba sighed and shook her head; she placed her hands on her hips as she shifted her weight. “I have seen nothing to change my mind.”“Then we must proceed as planned. We’ll take precautions.” Webb had finished administering the exam and looked ready to provide a diagnosis; Tunlado waved her over. “Lieutenant. Report.”Webb snapped off a salute. “Sir. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. He seems to have contracted a score of wholly unrelated ailments all at once. Half a dozen diseases I can identify. Symptoms are all over the charts, so to speak.” She glanced over her shoulder towards Kingsley and said, “It’s nothing short of a miracle that he’s holding himself together. I’m concerned that any attempt on my part to affect a change might disrupt his own workings and start a cascade.” She turned back to Tunlado. “Aether sickness, failing organs, the works.”He grunted – always an odd sound for a Lalafell t’make – and beckoned Ostornsyn over. The sergeant walked Luhui up to them; from the swivel of her ears and the cast of her eyes, she’d been listening and was chagrined to have been found out.“Explain,” the captain said to her.“A Dalmascan poison,” she answered, “which Bjorn carries. It is most potent and foul.”“Does he also carry the antidote?”“Perhaps. I do not know. We have never seen him need any.”To the sergeant, Tunlado said, “Turn ‘er over tae Aubrey an’ Pytte, then report back.”“Aye, cap’n.”Once Ostornsyn and Akoh were out of earshot, the captain turned back to Webb. “Prepare Miss Lihzeh. She’s t’see tae Mister Kingsley in yer absence. Him an’ Akoh are tae be taken back to the Salvenari, alongside our wounded. I’ll be headed back m’self, an’ Miss Shikoba with me. You’re tae take Ostornsyn, Melkire, an’ Ubyltuwyn west an’ track down Rockscale, Pfarskratsyn, an’ Tanshi. I want ye on yer way within a half bell.”Lieutenant Webb snapped off another salute and went off in search of Corporal Lihzeh.Osric watched her go and asked, in a quiet voice, “I’m t’heed her orders, then?”“Aye, ye are,” Tunlado answered, matching the monk’s volume. “Concerned, are we?”“You seem a good sort, captain, but I’ve had m’reservations about the rest o’ the crew.”“An’ yer just voicin’ this now?” The tsk noise that the captain made was an admonishment, but Osric could’ve sworn he heard some amusement in it. “Suppose there’s good reason for yer concern. Suppose I could grant a provision or two.”“Do I get t’make any requests?”“What, an’ delay us, as ye did when we came ashore?” Tunlado shook his head. “No. Best that it come as a surprise tae everyone, assumin’ it even proves necessary.”“Comfortin’ as shite, that.”

• Duel •

The last dying gasps of the inferno signaled that the flames were not quite finished feasting upon the village. Ruins smoldered. The dull red glow of fire still gorging itself on the vulnerable innards of wooden planks, the black charring upon stone which heralded imminent collapse, the acrid taste and smell of lingering smoke upon the air; all of these things and more were testament to the destruction wrought by one man.Bjorn Rockscale was waiting for them at the center of it all.The Bangaa stood there, helmet raised to the heavens, with his back to them. With that adamantine buckler grasped in his left hand and his pearlescent blade grasped in his right hand, he looked as though he’d just finished razing the settlement to the ground. He’d done a thorough job of it: there was no structure untouched, and there wasn’t another soul in sight.No corpses, either.This sparked a quiet and tense debate amongst the new arrivals. The corsair and the ronin were not in evidence. This was not altogether surprising: they’d parted ways with Captain Tunlado two suns ago, and last sun the many tracks they’d been following had veered into the river. This was the first clue they’d had as to the Flotsam’s whereabouts since the ship had sailed upriver, as only one set of tracks had continued onward to the west. The prints had been reptilian, with four clawed toes, and there were traces that marked the passage of a tail.Lieutenant Webb had called it in. Tunlado informed them that Luhui had no explanation to offer for the discrepancy, other than that Tanshi & Pfarskratsyn had been forced overboard alongside Bjorn. It was possible that they’d gone ashore on the northern bank of the river. It was just as likely that they’d teleported out. Webb’s orders remained unchanged: pursue the Bangaa.The next morning, her taskforce had woken to a column of black smoke rising from the west.They had packed in a hurry and set out at once, double time, concerned that perhaps they’d been lied to after all. Perhaps that column signaled the death of the Flotsam as she was put to the torch. It had taken them the better part of the day to reach their destination. The lieutenant and sergeant had been relieved to find that it was not the Flotsam which was burning but a native village.Ubyltuwyn and Melkire has been horrified. They’d gone ahead, over Webb’s objections; she and the sarge had been forced to follow. What concerns any of them might’ve had were banished by the reality of the situation on the ground.Burning village.No people.No corpses.Just the Bangaa.They were, all four of them, of one mind: this was a trap. But of what kind, was the question. Thus the debate, swift and fleeting. It was decided that they would proceed as planned. Webb & Ostornsyn would search for Tanshi, and they would begin by circling the southern perimeter. Ubyltuwyn was to move along the riverbank om the north side of the village while watching for Pfarskratsyn. Should any of them come across the wrong target, they were to call it in and coordinate their movements before engaging.This left Bjorn to Osric. He was to keep the giant talking for as long as possible; the more time that the others had to deal with the corsair and the ronin, or to confirm their absence, the better. They would regroup with him when that was done, and sheer numbers would hopefully tip the scale if the duel hadn’t been decided by then.His approach drew the Bangaa’s attention: the gladiator turned towards him and that strange helmet fixated upon him. This was a sign of respect: not for the midlander as a person, or as a man pressed into service, but for his skills and fighting prowess.Osric waved a hand at their surroundings without taking his eye off Bjorn and asked, “Was there a point to this?”Bjorn did not move, save for the hypnotic sway of his tail and the rise & fall of his chest, as he answered. “Thiss place had… utility.”“Heartless way t’look at another man’s home.”“Life iss heartless. Sspare me your ethicss.”The Lominsan took a deep breath and let it out slow as he ran the possibilities through his head. “...you wanted us t’find you here.”The Bangaa nodded. “Your besst and brightesst.”Osric spat a muttered oath. Bjorn went on.“By now, we will have taken your ship. Your men and women put into chainss. Your captain, I will ssend back to the Maelsstrom as a message.”“They’ll never stop huntin’ you.”“The message iss not for them.”Silence reigned as one man waited for the other to internalize that.“Kingsley was never sick, was he? He didn’t get that wound from you.”The Bangaa chortled. The noise that made was what a mountain might sound like if it could snore. “Oh, I cut him. At hiss urging. He trustss me; we have known each other ssince time out of mind. Kingssley iss my closest friend… and my most loyal sservant. You ssought to divide uss. But he hass followed me out of the ruinss of our passt. You cannot cleave him from me.”The monk nodded. He shifted his feet and settled into a relaxed stance. He brought his hands up, readied himself, and asked, “What happens now?”The gladiator nodded back. “Now you face Rocksscale, Wyrmtongue, Ironhide, Godssblood.”Bjorn raised his blade, which erupted as a gout of flame poured forth out of the hilt to encompass the steel.

• Shade •

Seven above, seven below: fourteen chakras to master, which was to say nothing of the nadis, those channels through which prana, or aether, flowed through the body. Muladhara and Atala, the First Above and the First Below, answered his call, granting him endurance and speed. Svadhisthana and Vitala, the Second Above and the Second Below, answered his call, lending him stamina and strength. Manipura and Sutala, the Third Above and the Third Below, answered his call, affording him boundless energy and peerless vigilance. Anahata and Talatala, the Fourth Above and the Fourth Below, answered his call, expanding his senses and reducing his reaction time. Vishuddha and Rasatala, the Fifth Above and the Fifth Below, answered his call, attuning his senses to the world of vibrations and intensifying his focus.Mahatala, the Sixth Below, stood alone. It answered his call, and the rush which overwhelmed him drove all thought of guilt or consequence from his mind, liberated him, all while amplifying everything which had come before it.Osric Melkire, Lominsan Monk of Eleven Chakras, stormed his enemy.He leaned to his left, brought his right leg up as he began to fall, and stomped down at an angle as he pulled his left knee up towards his chest. Perfect timing and execution, coupled with the wind-aspected aether which now infused and pervaded his every limb and every motion, kicked him off at blinding speed to the left. Two quick steps, barely contacting the earth, with his left and right foot carried him a distance; he twisted and leaned to his right, slid to a stop while braced with his fully extended left leg, and then he repeated the technique, leaning forward this time as he kicked off again to rush towards his foe from their flank.To his heightened senses and reflexes, he was hurtling along at incredible, but still manageable, speeds. To Bjorn, he must have appeared as he did to any other casual observer: a blur which vanished and reappeared elsewhere to the accompaniment of the sound of a space so swiftly vacated that, when the vacuum was filled by the sudden inward collapse of air, you could only describe the resulting sound as a clap.This was Thunderclap, as the Fist of Rhalgr had taken to calling it. It was a name which Osric disliked, because many associated it, and some achieved the technique, with levin, but he knew its true nature. It was born of the wind.Bjorn had anticipated him. Osric had favored an approach from the other direction, aboard the Flotsam; it stood to reason that such tendencies would be leveraged here and now in a lethal guessing game. The gladiator swung his flaming blade down in a slash meant to cut across or through the monk’s leading left leg, but Osric – forewarned by the Bangaa’s raised arm – bent at the knees, slid his feet together, and leapt up and over Bjorn. He swung his fist in a rolling midair right hook at Bjorn’s head, but his foe was too well-trained: the buckler was already raised to meet his strike, and the impact of the aetherically empowered blow rang out as if an enormous gong had been struck.The monk’s momentum carried him to the far side: he completed his midair roll and landed on his feet, collapsing into a crouch and sending himself into another roll, this time across the ground by way of his right shoulder. Just in time, too: Bjorn had completed his own revolution, sweeping his blade up and around in a half figure-eight to bring it swinging back down from above. The flames had vanished; levin once again crackled up and down the steel’s length, and, where the tip of that blade struck, the earth was smote asunder.Osric turned, rose, weaved from side to side, lashed out with a left jab as he closed in before Bjorn could get his blade back up. The buckler came up again, deflected the blow, but the monk circled further to Bjorn’s left side and struck him with such an uppercut, enhanced with fire-aspected aether as it was and upon the scaly hide between the straps of the leather harness, that he expected the Bangaa to crumple, or at least to recoil.The strike which should have bought him an advantage, which would have shattered stone and dented any plate of steel, accomplished nothing. The gladiator reacted not at all: implacable, impervious, immovable.A backhanded blow caught Osric across the chest and sent him sprawling through the dirt. He rolled onto his hands and feet, rose again, and looked up in time to see an advancing Bjorn thrust that blade at him. He countered the blitz without thinking, many bells of drill and practice paying dividends: he leaned back, thrust upward from below with his left arm, palm open to the sky, his entire hand fortified with earth-aspected aether. The parry came just in time: the steel missed his face by ilms.The monk was already reared back, so there was nothing for it but to follow through on instinct: he leaned forward and drove another right hook down, this time into the earth before the Bangaa’s feet. Bjorn fell back, his footing uneven as he struggled to remain upright in light of the tremor beneath his feet; Osric brought his right foot forward, planted it, and drove a tetsuzanko into his foe. The forward slam sent the gladiator reeling towards the remnants of a stone dwelling; determined to force his enemy into a confined space, Osric pivoted and thrust his left fist forward, sending a great deal of wind-aspected aether spiraling down his arm. That gathered energy leapt from his fist and rent the air as it flew at the Bangaa’s helmet.It never reached him. Bjorn planted his feet and swept his blade up at a diagonal, with impossible speed, and deflected the blast, scattering the aether into the air where the energy dispersed.They stood there, fulms apart, breathing heavily from their respective exertions.“White monk of the Wesst,” hissed Bjorn. “Your techniquess are known to me.”Piss.Aloud, Osric asked, “They practice the Art in Dalmasca, do they?”No response. Suppose he ain’t the quippin’ or banterin’ sor–Bjorn went, in an instant, from standing in the shade of the ruined house to standing within a few fulms of the monk. The overhead slash, from the gladiator’s upper right to his lower left, nearly caught Osric mid-thought; only by virtue of the seats of power which elevated him from a mere pugilist into something more was he able to react in time, ducking and sliding to his own left to escape beneath the arc of the blade. Bjorn swept the sword back, low to the ground; the monk hopped over it––and was struck in the gut by the Bangaa’s clenched left fist, the buckler not in evidence. Bjorn followed through, and the force of that blow shot the monk through the air with the force of a cannonball driven by an eight-pounder. Osric had a moment to mold more aether and aspect it towards the element of earth, to harden his body–Pain. His world, when he came to, was pain and torment. He took a quick inventory, in spite of the metaphorical claws of agony which were digging their talons into the brain beneath his skull. No broken vertebrae: his discs were intact. Good. No broken bones, but he’d sprained several muscles: left ankle, right bicep, left psoas. He smelled blood. Felt stone and wood beneath him.Seven hells was that? Felt like–His eyes fluttered open, and he saw that the giant gladiator stood over him, right arm raised, sword point angled towards the fallen monk’s breast.“You fought well,” Bjorn said. He pivoted to drive the blade down––and was caught in the side by the sweeping blow of a Conquerer-model battle axe, driven by the bellowed rage of one Storm Sergeant Ostornsyn, whose thunderous charge had gone entirely unnoticed by the two combatants, so fixated had they become upon each other.

• Resilience •

Bjorn Rockscale was possessed of monstrous resilience, for certain, but there were obvious limitations to his fortitude. For one thing, it was clear that he could be harmed, else he would have had no need to defend himself with that buckler of his. For another, while his natural defenses were far in excess of anyone Osric Melkire had ever met, his more incredible feat of withstanding the mightiest of blows seemed to require a conscious & intentional effort on his part.At no time was this more in evidence than when Sergeant Ostornsyn drove his battle axe into Bjorn’s side and launched the large Bangaa halfway across the village.The Sea Wolf followed, giving pursuit at once. This left Osric on his back atop a small mountain of rubble, which he’d come to recognize as an exterior wall which had collapsed inward when this particular abode had gone up in flames. He could hear, at a distance, Lieutenant Webb’s voice as she issued orders. Good; that was good. It meant that he’d been gifted precious time with which to knit himself back together.He eased his hold upon most of his chakras and focused upon five in particular: Sutala, the Seat of Jealousy; Atala, the Seat of Fear; Muladhara, the Root; Svadhisthana, the Sacral; and Manipura, the Solar Plexus. He drew from these, and the aether which he wrested from them he sent up and down the Vishvodhara nadi, time and time again, until he felt starved. Starved… but no longer hurting. No longer weary.He tested his left ankle, his left hip, his right arm. Fine, fine, and fine. He could hear spellwork nearby; he ignored it. He got one arm beneath himself, rolled over onto his side, and pushed himself up onto his knees. From there, he got one leg up, and then he stood. The mere act of standing was disorienting for a moment; his weariness may have fled, but his body had still registered the damage. He’d pushed his digestive system into overdrive, and it had just finished accelerating his metabolism. His metabolism, in turn, had driven the repairs… but that entire process had done nothing for how the impact with the ruins had addled him, and in fact had done a number on his bloodstream. He needed to breathe.He stumbled towards the part of the stone wall which was still standing, and he leaned against it as his eyes adjusted to take in what was happening.Ostornwyn had Bjorn on the back foot. The warrior’s relentless swings kept chipping away, parry after parry, at the enclosure of ice which had swallowed up and reinforced the gladiator’s blade. Blood was seeping and spilling forth from the Bangaa’s helmet; Bjorn coughed and kept coughing, over and over. With dawning comprehension, Osric looked around and found Webb some score of fulms distant from the two men. The lieutenant had her codex open, the splayed fingers of her other hand hovering over the pages filled with enchanted ink, and muttered incantations poured from her lips. She’d cursed Bjorn with a sickness by way of arcanima, and that was taking its toll on the gladiator. It slowed him down, enfeebled him, allowed Ostornsyn to match Bjorn blow for blow and to keep the murderous Bangaa from reaching Webb. The tactical mastery of Nymian-trained scholar and Nymian-trained marine working in tandem had proven itself a match for the Dalmascan; all that was needed was one more push to tip the balance.That push was coming in the form of one Swygrael Ubyltuwyn, Yellowjacket, who was approaching Bjorn from the rear on the side of his right flank. She’d drawn her handaxe and had her pistol lined up for the kill shot. She walked closer… closer… closer….Bjorn tried to round on her, but Ostornsyn swung from left to right, catching the Bangaa’s blade and shattering the last layer of ice. The gladiator’s weapon was forced up and around to Bjorn’s left, exposing his right side, and that was when Ubyltuwyn fired.The ball must have hit its mark, because there came a small and brief gout of blood. The bangaa swayed for a moment, and the sergeant drew back his axe for one more blow.That proved a fatal mistake.Osric might’ve warned them, but he was still getting his head back on straight, still filling his lungs with much-needed air. He watched, horrified, as the gladiator swung his blade with the speed of lightning itself. The levin-enhanced swing, from earth to sky, caught the haft of Ostornsyn’s axe in the middle and severed it. The sergeant lost his footing, stumbled back a step. The cannoneer spat an oath, rushed forward with handaxe at the ready, but Bjorn spun in place, swinging his tail high. Her focus was so intent upon that blow, and upon anticipating a followup from the blade, that she missed the Bangaa’s approach while the tail obscured her view; he kicked out at her breadbasket and, like Osric before her, she was shot across the village as if from the Salvenari’s cannons.The sergeant roared and flung the axehead half of his ruined weapon at Bjorn, but this was neatly deflected; the sergeant bulled forward to come to grips with his enemy, but found himself hoisted up by his coat. The Sea Wolf swung fist after fist at Bjorn; no change. He reached out and clawed at that strange helmet, and succeeded in tearing it off its owner.The Bangaa, orange head exposed, glared up at Ostornsyn with baleful rust-colored eyes. Webb was sweating, mid incantation, as she tried to shift from biological warfare to something more direct, but she was too late to act. Bjorn drew in a deep breath, thrust his head forward, and breathed over the sergeant.He breathed fire.Defiant growls turned to screams of bloody murder as Ostornsyn disappeared from the clavicle on up into that unending gout of flame. Webb was screaming, too, tears in her eyes and terror in her voice.“Rysstyl?! Rysstyl!!”It was, Osric realized with the numb detachment of someone in shock, the first time he’d ever heard Ostornsyn’s given name.Bjorn dropped him. The sergeant’s knees buckled upon impact with the ground, and the Sea Wolf fell onto his back. He was unrecognizable from the neck up; ugly knots of what might become burn scars but were, for now, blackened flesh left him heavily disfigured. He was struggling to breathe, and mewling from the pain.The gladiator raised his blade up into the sky in preparation for one more downswing. Motes of violet coalesced out of nothing, gathered together out of the air to be drawn into the blade which, in turned, glowed with an ominous arcane light.“Witness,” spoke Bjorn–Osric, who’d once been Chief Flame Sergeant Melkire and thus present for Operation Archon and the devastation which had been wrought there in Northern Thanalan, bellowed, ”Move!”Lieutenant Webb had not needed to be told. As soon as that sword had been drawn back, she’d sprinted forward. She slid into place over Ostornsyn, her eyes wide, her tome raised over her head, the last word of her incantation summoning a barrier between her and the gladiator.“–Ultima.”The blade swung down.The world exploded and vanished into a field of white.When the world returned, Osric found himself squinting, peeking through the splayed fingers of his own raised hand, at the outcome.A shard of steel, about half the length of Bjorn’s blade, lay in the dirt between the monk and the others.Ostornsyn was still… intact. Webb stood over him. The arcane shield was nowhere to be seen, having been shattered, perhaps, or otherwise dispelled.Bjorn stood against her the remaining length of his blade driven into her side up to the hilt. She opened her mouth as if to speak; she gurgled and coughed up blood.The Bangaa reached over her shoulder, grabbed her by the back of her coat, released his hold on the blade, and turned to hurl her across the village square. She ragdolled, rolling across the dirt, and came to a stop. Her codex had been thrown wide, some dozen fulms or so distant from her.Bjorn turned his head, regarded the sergeant in the dirt at his feet, and hissed. No words, just a long, drawn-out hiss. He stepped over the Sea Wolf, straddled the man, and started beating the man’s face, breaking open the man’s skull, bashing in the man’s brains.“Ryystyl… Rysstyl!” cried Webb, sobbing, as she tried to drag herself towards her codex. She left a smear of blood behind her. “Oh, you bastard! You rat-swivin’ bastard! You… y-you….” She collapsed, still several fulms distant from her tome.Smack, smack, smack became crunch, crunch, crunch became an ungodly wet noise to which no sane nor pious man or woman could ever willingly give description.Osric Melkire wanted to hurl.By the time Bjorn Rockscale rose to his feet over the corpse of Rysstyl Ostornsyn, former Storm Sergeant, the Lominsan monk’s training had taken over and was nearly finished running through a mental checklist with the dispassionate objectivity of the coldblooded killer whom Osric had once been.Sacral’s damned near dry. The rest are gettin’ there. Head cleared up about twenty seconds ago. Everything’s in working order. Ubyltuwyn’s down. Sergeant’s dead. Lieutenant’s out cold. And on top o’ everything else this gods-damned bastard is capable of…Bjorn met his eyes. Corrupted rust on one side. Green growth on the other.Both Hyur and Bangaa raised their fists and adopted a stance.…he’s also a monk.

• On Cloud Nine •

He ran.Not from the village, no matter the temptation; to do so, to flee, would have been to consign Webb and Ubyltuwyn to certain death. Not towards the Bangaa, either; Osric needed to draw him out, to draw him away from the others, to have any hope of victory. No, he ran for the pistol which the cannoneer had discarded after she’d failed to bring Bjorn down.It wasn’t loaded. They both knew this.What Bjorn didn’t know, couldn’t know, was whether the Lominsan monk had any spare powder and shot.The blast which rent the air between Osric and the pistol came as no surprise to him; Bjorn, in his arrogance, had said too much, and said it too soon. The midlander stopped short of the sudden curtain as it blew past, heels dug in. He stepped into the vacated space and, just as the Dalmascan had done a moment ago, Osric thrust his own fist in his enemy’s direction. Wind’s reply rushed past its target as Bjorn sidestepped and thrust his other fist at the ground before his feet.The Lominsan was already running again, leaning to one side at a precarious angle to snatch up the weapon, when the earth between him and Bjorn buckled and burst into the air. It was as if a long cable had snapped, or as if some humongous worm was tunneling beneath the ground towards Osric at an astonishing pace. He placed a hand down over the pistol and threw himself into a handstand; in the second before the wave of earth caught him, he bent at the elbows and pushed, converting some of his momentum into a change in velocity as he launched himself off the ground. The wave buffeted him as it passed, and his feet slipped upon touching back down as a result. He fell onto his back.Something screamed at him to move, so he did. He rolled to one side, got one foot on the ground, and pushed off, launching himself a few fulms to the side. Just in time: Bjorn had swept a fist in an arc over his own head and brought it swinging down. Existence itself, many yalms distant, responded as if an invisible stone golem had brought one enormous hand crashing down into the earth. The impact formed a crater at least three or four fulms deep at its center.Osric scrambled to his feet, scurried into one of the ruined buildings, and set his back to a stone wall.He had the pistol; he set about his business. Half-cock. Safety notch. Reach for a ramrod. His hands were trembling. It had been some time since he last worked a flintlock.Breathe.Breathe.Breathe.He sensed more than heard the approach. He pushed himself off the wall, set the gun to full-cock with his thumb, turned, and raised the pistol. He pulled the trig–Bjorn’s left hand swept the pistol aside, throwing Osric’s arm out wide, the gun tumbling from the Lominsan’s fingers as the man lost his grip. The Dalmascan’s right fist rushed at Melkire’s head, at his face, at––his shite-eatin’ grin.No ramrod. No powder. No shot.Breathe.The Lominsan unleashed his technique.Fourteen brilliant points of light surged into being within the Hyur, the embers buried within the smoldering planks of wood went out, the dirt beneath their feet dried up, and Bjorn Rockscale reeled back, struck by an unseen hammerblow. His harness fell to pieces, lacerations tore open across his scaled hide, and – the moment he found his footing again – his legs buckled beneath him as he was driven down to one knee by many thousand ponze of pressure.The will of the heavens demanded that he kneel.Within a fifteen-yalm radius, everything lost its luster. Moisture was stolen, aether was stolen: from the earth, from the air, from all that lived or breathed or dared to exist. Nothing was spared save for Osric Melkire himself, who stood at the epicenter of it all. The man shone like the sun, resplendent and untouchable, fueled by an inner fire to which every last mote of aether was fed.This was Soma-Haoma, the Riddle of Storms. The forbidden technique was the culmination of many turns’ worth of research and development. Bells upon bells within the confines of the Arrzaneth Ossuary spent consulting thaumaturgical treatises on black magic, and then comparing those against ancient Gyr Abanian manuscripts. Suns spent converting arcane theorems into applied skills. Moons spent attempting and refining the technique until, at last, he had achieved… this.He had become a funnel, drawing in all the surrounding energies for his own consumption. He stole aether after the fashion of black mages, to repurpose it all for his own ends. The effect was localized and centered upon him, a veritable half-sphere exposed to the sky. All around him, everything died… but he was a cup overflowing, filled past the brim again and again. Life spilled forth from him. Where his boots touched the earth, new shoots sprouted forth. The merest glance, the least bit of focus of intent upon his surroundings, stirred the air and brought it down upon his foe: as a hammer, as many hundreds of blades, as weight unyielding.He shone like a star: from Sahasrara, which Crowned him divine, down to Patala, which demanded movement and thus Murder. For in this form – in which all fourteen chakras were forced open like sluice gates before a great flood, and from which he banished thought, lest he manifest as a primal entity – it would take but a single brush of his fingertips to end Bjorn Rockscale. He could, and would, administer that which lesser practitioners, in their haste, had mimicked but never truly perfected.The touch of death.He took a single step forward and registered that the great many bloody cuts upon the Bangaa’s hide, which kept growing in number, were closing up again. There was a discernible delay, between each laceration and regeneration, but it was enough for Bjorn to hold fast to consciousness. Motes of aether drifted from the surface of that orange skin and were drawn into the storm. The Dalmascan monk drew on his chakras as much as he could, using what little aether he could muster – that which did not slip through his metaphorical fingers – to heal his own wounds.The divinity redoubled his focus. The cuts opened faster, wider, longer. The paired ears on the right side of the Bangaa’s head leapt from his skull, severed in an instant. Bjorn struggled and managed to raise his arms, left hand leading the right, in a gesture that appeared one part defiance and one part supplication. The divinity reached for the left hand, to take it with his own. A single touch would impart such an abundance of aether, while ripping the man’s soul from his body… a single touch–Bjorn swept the two foremost fingers of his right hand in a cutting motion, in a warding gesture, from left to right in the space behind his upraised left hand. Aether, white and pure, shone forth from both hands and trailed behind them in the air to form a sigil of faith so ancient and profound – a cross, a holy sign – that its worship had persisted across the ages into the present. The potency of that worship was unrivaled. A blazon, there and gone in an instant, burst into being and then vanished.The storm died, as if it had never been.Osric doubled over, left hand withdrawn to clutch at his chest, as he coughed up rivulets of liquid aether.Bjorn forced himself onto his feet and rose; his cuts kept closing, accompanied by the never-ending hiss of what sounded like steam… or boiling blood.Both monks straightened. Osric looked up; Bjorn looked down.What followed was the fastest, most vicious, and most desperate exchange of blows that the Lominsan had ever experienced in his life. Hook, duck, elbow, parry, knee, block, straight, deflect, grab, headbutt, lock, stomp, break–What decided the outcome was nothing less and nothing more than two factors in one man’s favor.First: Bjorn had been shot.Second: Osric had stolen most of his aether.The Bangaa threw a right straight. The midlander ducked, took a single step in and to his own left, swung his left arm up into an uppercut, and plunged his spear hand into the bullet hole which was Swygrael’s doing. The force behind that thrust tore hide and flesh; Bjorn roared and, reaching back, seized Osric’s head in one enormous clawer hand. The Lominsan grabbed the giant’s belt with his right hand and, screaming, pulled down and to the right with that arm while he pushed with his left.He brought Bjorn down. They collapsed onto the dirt, Hyur atop the Bangaa, and Osric was still screaming as he channeled everything he could. Bjorn was trying to crawl away, trying to push Osric off him. The Lominsan curled his left hand into tiger claws and clutched at his foe’s innards; the Dalmascan screamed. Osric Melkire channeled aether, and he aspected every last drop to fire.Fire which formed in the palm of his hand.Fire which he condensed.Fire which gave birth to a sun.He let go.Bjorn Rockscale convulsed like a fish as his side and lower rib cage exploded outward in a shower of blood and giblets… and then he went still.Osric rolled onto his back, shaking wet residue off his left arm. The smell hit his nostrils, and a moment later he was rolling further, away from Bjorn, onto his hands and knees. He retched, trembling, and spat out more liquid aether. Unforeseen side effect. Soma-Haoma had never been interrupted before; he had always released the technique of his own volition.An eternity passed on his hands and knees. He was still trembling when he heard footsteps.Thank the Twelve, she’s still alive.He opened his mouth but couldn’t manage so much as a word. Too much, too soon. He tried to stand up and–His back hit something solid and unyielding.He raised his head a little and saw, sinking into the earth around him, the circular edge of a green Nymian barrier. It was pressing down on him now, slowly but inexorably forcing him against the ground. Down against the ground where he would be crushed.He pushed back, or tried to. No good, too weak, chakras empty, the last vestiges of his strength little more than dribbled aether. He threw an elbow against the barrier, repeatedly. It held.The footsteps stopped. Someone spat. On the Dalmascan’s sizzling corpse, no doubt. Then more footsteps. A pair of Maelstrom boots came into view.“I hate this jungle.”He said nothing. He was too preoccupied with keeping his chest and stomach off the ground. Fetal position was buying himself a little time.“I hate this place. It reeks. Its people reek. There’s this… stench. And then there’s you.”She dropped onto her haunches. Osric knew without looking, but he needed to look anyroad. Look this gods-damned treacherous wench who’d be his killer in the eyes. He couldn’t raise his head, so he twisted his neck and glanced up instead.Storm Lieutenant Webb looked worse for wear. She’d lost her tricorne, and her bound hair had come loose. Light blond hair hung from her scalp in wet tangled strands, slick with blood from a head wound and spotted with clumps of dirt. There was a gaping hole in her disheveled uniform where Bjorn had stabbed her; her skin looked flawless, evidence that she’d patched herself up with the codex she now held open in one downturned hand.None of this would have seemed ugly to him had it not been for her disgusted sneer.“Killer,” she intoned. “Traitor. Thug. Hatchet man. They ought to have flayed you with the captain’s daughter and then quartered you. But now here… we… are. Rysstyl. Is. Dead. And you’re still here. The world’s unfair.”The barrier ‘s pressure doubled; Osric slipped from his hands onto his forearms.“I’m going to do something about that,” she went on. “Crush you to a pulp. Like. A. Grape. Then I’m going to march myself back to that swiving shoreline, teach that Kingsley a thing or two about the gods-damned pox, and broil my way through every last one of those piratical whoresons.”Rolling onto his back bought him a few more seconds, but the barrier descended further in the split second that took. His got his arms up and braced against the green light which ilmed closer… closer….“And who knows? If I’m lucky, Tunlado will already be dead. I take command, I sail both ships back to Vylbrand, and they’ll promote me for it. Then, maybe, finally, he’ll push that pair o’ teats on legs Torrael aside and find himself a real right-hand la–”Her head tilted forward as if pushed, and her eyes grew wide.Ubyltuwyn pulled the trigger on Ostornsyn’s double-barreled flintlock and blew Webb’s brains out.The headless corpse teetered for a moment, Osric’s view of it obscured by the brains and blood which had splattered across the lingering barrier. The tome slipped from the corpse’s fingers and fell shut as the corpse itself fell to the side. The barrier vanished, taking with it most – but not all – of the mess.Yellowjacket Cannoneer First Class Swygrael Ubyltuwyn stared down at her kill and said, deadpan, “Cap’n sends ‘is regards.”

• Bar •

Shikoba stared long and hard, from where she stood on the beach, at the Salvenari.The galleon represented life across the salt. Life which included people. People who had crossed the Indigo Deep to reach Tural, where they could, would, and had caused a great deal of damage. That damage, thankfully, was mitigated by the very existence of Tuliyollal, the first city that she had called home. In many ways, she followed in the footsteps of the Second Promise. Like him, she had crossed the salt out of curiosity. Like him, she had attended the Studium in Sharlayan. Like him, she saw the potential for good which might come out of international trade and exchange. Unlike him, she had very little power to change her homeland. He had funded aetherytes, devised airships, coordinated routes and funding. She… was out here, helping to hunt down pirates.She tore her gaze from the sea and the ship upon it to regard two such pirates as they were escorted past her.Kingsley & Luhui had been searched, bound, and then gagged for the trip back to the Salvenari. Their weapons and their gear had also been confiscated. The mage was the beneficiary of slightly better treatment, owing to his condition, but the Maelstrom weren’t taking any chances.As they very well should not. If he is even half what we suspect him to be, then this is very dangerous.Captain Tunlado would have seen them blindfolded, too, if he could have justified it. The rigors of Yak Tural’s southernmost reaches of rainforest, though, had demanded that the prisoners retain their sight. It was the only way that they’d been able to make good time. That had, after all, become their most precious commodity.Kingsley still hadn’t said a word. Luhui had stressed, in those few moments when they’d seen fit to raise their guard and lower her gag, that this was owed in part due to his deteriorating health, true, but they had other reasons for their recalcitrance.“He won’t speak to you until he’s better. No negotiations. Not until we’re at sea, where Bjorn cannot reach us.”“I dinnae see what he has tae do with it, your captain,” Tunlado had said. “There’ll be a reckonin’ for ‘im soon enough, if there ain’t been one already. ‘e’s just a man.”“He’s a monster.”Back on the gag went. That was how the conversation had gone each time. After the third such occasion, just before they’d breached the treeline near to the shore, Shikoba had pulled the captain aside.“This is a trap,” she had said. “Why are we humoring them?”“Aye, it is, an’ we are.” The Plainsfolk had sighed, crossing his arms and glancing towards the sea. “There’s little in the way of decent alternatives, so far as I can see. Followin’ the Flotsam upriver with the Salvenari is a non-starter. The trek inland might’ve proven disastrous, if they’d all set upon us at once; ye saw what that Gamlio fellow could do on his own. But this way, we’ve hostages, an’ a good chance tae talk sense into their quartermaster.”“He wants to be taken aboard–”“–our ship, aye, Miss. We ain’t daft. He’s got ‘is secret reasons. We’re bein’ tested, an’ they’ve set a low bar. Best we can do is tae play along an’ watch ‘em close.”“You know what he can do! I have explained it to you.”“Aye, ye have. Decision’s been made, Miss Shikoba,” Tunlado had said, his tone curt. “I’ll hear no more on the matter.”Now she stood on the sand. This strip of coast to the south of the river mouth was pockmarked with stones; she’d approached the largest of these, which reached to about waist height, and stood alongside it, her fingertips running along its surface as she watched Pytte & Aubrey escort Kingsley & Luhui to the launches.Very dangerous.

• Perpetuity •

Kingsley turned to the edge of the launch, retching as he did so.Despite Corporal Lihzeh’s best efforts, the mage had been in a slow but steady decline since he’d been taken into custody. He’d taken to shaking, to small fits, and to the occasional stretch of unresponsiveness. He’d not yet broken out in a fever, but it was only a matter of time. The corporal had sounded certain that if Webb did not return soon, there would be little that she or anyone could do for him.Shikoba watched him from the far side of the same launch. He was seated at the rear, facing forward; she seated upon the front bench, facing back. The captain and Luhui had taken the other boat, and theirs was nearing the Salvenari first. That left the Turali guide with no one to talk to – the men were far too busy rowing, and Lihzeh had her hands full – and nothing to do but keep a weather eye out.This latest development had Lihzeh calling for the captain; Shikoba was not much surprised to see Tunlado relent with a reluctant nod. Kingsley’s gag was removed as the launches pulled up alongside the Salvenari, and he continued to dry heave for several seconds. He thrust his bound hands into the sea, trembling as he did so, and splashed some water against his face.“That’s enough o’ that,” Aubrey said, grabbing the mage by the arm and hauling him to his feet. Pytte, in the other launch, already had Luhui up on hers.Captain Tunlado was already halfway up the side of the Salvenari, courtesy a rope-ladder. Spry, for such a small man. After a moment, the crew dropped a second rope-ladder down the side of the galleon for the second launch; the corporal ushered Shikoba to go first. This took some doing: her time aboard the Salvenari thus far had not proven particularly strenuous and therefore not particularly educational, so it took her a minute to gain the weather deck.Lyngwintsyn was there, briefing the captain, and Wells, who offered Shikoba a hand and pulled her aboard. The deck was a bustling affair: sailors were readying the Salvenari for whatever course her captain might set, and they had very little time with which to do so: the sun was descending from the heavens and would soon vanish beneath the forest canopy to the west. Dederoon was nowhere to be seen, but his presence was felt everywhere as men and women of the Maelstrom double- and triple-checked their handiwork despite their rapidly approaching deadline.“Walk with me,” said the captain to his first mate. The ancient Sea Wolf grunted and fell into step with the mustachioed Plainsfolk as they headed for the aftcastle.She had half a mind to follow them, but the moment passed her by: Wells was asking her to step aside, and then he was reaching over the starboard rail to haul Kingsley aboard. Aubrey soon followed. Further astern, Fholfhisyn and Pytte were repeating the maneuver with Luhui.“Evenin’, corporal,” said Wells as he snapped off a salute. Shikoba looked back around: Lihzeh had gained the deck. “Cap’n say what’s to be done with these two?”So different, thought the Hhetsarro, for what was likely the thousandth time since she’d first boarded the Salvenari back at Scholar’s Harbor. Seekers of the Sun looked different, moved different, sounded different, smelled different, and behaved different. Lihzeh was already marching on over to Luhui; Shikoba followed her. The corporal removed the Xbr’aal’s gag, saying, “The captain will be wantin’ the full story, now,” as though Miss Akoh herself had not set that timetable.Luhui had neither eyes nor for Lihzeh, though. She was staring off into the middle distance, to port, to the east. Her left ear kept flicking, as though to protest an itch or ward off a fly… but there was something odd about that motion, as if––she’s keeping time.The Xbr’aal looked to Kingsley and said, “You can let go now.”The mage sagged, as if a great burden had been lifted, and he let out a long sigh.The groan of a thousand timbers under pressure and the swell of displaced seawater served as harbingers. The Salvenari was rocked to starboard; Aubrey, Fholfhisyn, Lihzeh, Shikoba, Wells, and Pytte caught themselves against the rail, with the latter two men holding fast to Kingsley and Luhui, respectively. Cries of alarm went up across the deck; cutlasses were drawn and pistols were cocked as the Salvenari rolled back into place.Three masts had appeared to their larboard side, with the aftcastle coming up alongside the Salvenari’s bow. Many of the men sounded confused, and some were cursing the name of magic, that she’d been hidden from their sight, but Shikoba had glimpsed for a split second what they hadn’t, had smelled the change in the air. Magic, aye, but it hadn’t been a spell of invisibility. Rather–She grew. Those masts grew to that size. Sails too. Which means…. That bastard. The water, the dry heaving.She tried to call out a warning as she backpedaled towards their own aftcastle, but she wasn’t heard over the din. There was simply too much happening at once, and it was only later that she had the time to piece together her best guess at the sequence of events.They went as follows:She heard Lyngwintsyn roaring at his sailors to man their stations, but he was too late: the triple report, crack-crack-crack, of a rifle sounded out from the other ship’s crow’s nest at almost the same time as the two tings and the following cacophony as the centermost portside aetheric converter exploded into an inferno, blasting shrapnel every which way.She saw Aubrey & Fholfhisyn, weapons drawn, rush to larboard, but Aubrey went down hard as a pistol report went off; dropping onto the deck, having swung by a line from his own ship, was a massive Sea Wolf with a long black beard and a doublet bound by a leather harness teeming with pistol holsters. Skarnmhar Pfarskratsyn discarded his pistol and drew his own cutlass in time to parry a thrust from and face off against Mister Fholfhisyn.She noticed Kingsley reach up with his shackled hands, take hold of Wells by the tunic, ask, “Pardon me, but could you please–,” and then vomit a noxious green gas into the highlander’s face. The mage’s complexion cleared up as he did so, his skin losing that jaundiced color almost at once, but Wells fell to the deck, foaming at the mouth and shaking as though from an apoplectic attack.She saw Luhui elbow Pytte over the side, and Lihzeh level her pistol at the Xbr’aal. Someone else had swung onto the Salvenari’s weather deck, though, a woman in some sort of tight-fitting dress; this dark-haired stranger landed alongside Lihzeh and laid a delicate hand upon the hilt of the beautiful scabbard tied to her own waist, but she did not draw her sword. Lihzeh’s pistol fell into two pieces to the accompaniment of a sound not unlike a blade drawn twice across a whetstone; the corporal cried out in pain and fell to one knee, clutching her other leg to stop the sudden bleeding there.She felt more than heard the Flotsam’s bow impact farther astern on the Salvenari’s larboard side, and everyone but Tanshi Chihaya and Kingsley of Berven rocked on their heels for a moment. Pfarskratsyn recovered first, drawing a fresh pistol and firing a round into Fholfhisyn’s gut; the serviceman went down.She heard Kingsley snap his fingers; a shriek of winter announced the arrival of sudden frost, localized to a small area. She saw him raise his hands, his face contorted as he twisted his arms to strain against the chains which were now white and encased in a layer of ice. They snapped and fell into pieces, leaving only the manacles themselves in place. He did all this while walking over to Luhui; she proffered her own binds, and he simply formed a fist and rapped her chains once with his knuckles. They broke as if they’d been subjected to tremendous force.She saw more men boarding the Salvenari–She saw the Hingan ronin lay a hand upon her katana again, and the three Maelstrom men who’d encircled her went down–She saw the gleam of a telescopic nest from the Flotsam’s crow’s nest, and heard more reports–She turned and ran. Lyngwintsyn was by the helm, shielding Tunlado with his large body; he grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her behind him too, bellowing, “Stay down!” as he did so. Another aetheric converter exploded under gunfire, this one the foremost starboard; moments later, the Salvenari lurched again, this time from the Flotsam’s broadside as her aetheric cannons unloaded into the Salvenari’s belly from point blank range.Pfarskratsyn came at them while drawing another pistol. Lyngwintsyn took his shot, and missed; he did not quite manage to clip the other Sea Wolf in the shoulder. The corsair laughed at this, cocked the hammer on his pistol as Lyngwintsyn discarded his own to draw a cutlass, drew a bead on the first mate–A strange pink tentacle, whip-like in appearance but with a bulbous end to it, lashed out and wrapped itself around Pfarskratsyn’s pistol in time to tug the weapon to one side before it went off; the aftcastle wall splintered as the shot drove the ball harmlessly into its new home.“That’ll be enough of that,” said Kingsley, as he stepped forward holding the other end of that strange whip. His words echoed Aubrey’s from mere minutes ago, from a lifetime ago.Pfarskratsyn grunted and stepped aside so that Kingsley could move closer. Shikoba saw, past Lyingwintsyn’s bulk, that the battle for the Salvenari was over: men and women of the Maelstrom had either thrown down their arms, or else lay bleeding upon the deck. Only Fholfhisyn and the three men that the ronin had struck looked to not be moving.Kingsley stepped up to Lyngwintsyn and, with a fluttering wave of his free hand and a muttered, “Shoo, shoo,” waved the first mate to one side. After a moment, the big man obliged, which left Tunlado – still armed – to glare up at the mage.“The trouble with most militaries, and most nations, in fact,” Kingsley said with a beaming smile on his face, “is that they’ve deluded themselves into thinking they’ll last forever. Now, then. I believe you wished to discuss terms?”

• Zip •

They made the trip back to the coast in two suns when it should have taken them three and a half.The circumstances allowed for it. They made good time because they could move at speed. They’d been twelve strong when they’d set out from the Salvenari; they were down to the two of them, Melkire & Ubyltuwyn, on the way back. The company had carried a great deal of gear for the purpose of striking camp; the two of them eschewed the packs which had belonged to Webb & Ostornsyn, and instead took with them only that which was absolutely necessary. They’d been breaking new ground as they’d moved inland; they now had a clear backtrail to follow on the return trip.Most importantly: Bjorn had intimated a trap, and neither Melkire nor Ubyltuwyn cared to dawdle if there was something they could do about it. In this, they’d proven to be of like mind.They were far less united when, upon reaching the coast at dawn, they finally glimpsed from the treeline what was waiting for them.“We’ll go around,” the cannoneer said. “If we can make it to the ship–”“–to do what?” Osric could not keep incredulity from his town. “They have the numbers, and they have hostages.”“I’ll distract ‘em. That’ll leave ye t’reach our people an’ set ‘em–”“Don’t care what sort o’ distraction you’ve got in mind, it won’t be enough. I’m fast, but not fast enough t’loose at least the dozen or so men it’d take t’make a stand in the time they can start blowin’ off heads–”“–then what are ye suggestin’? That we sit here? Give up, an’ walk back to civilization?” She scowled at him.He shook his head. “I’m goin’ t’go out there ‘n’ talk him into surrenderin’.”“...you’re daft.”“Am not.”“What about the–”“–I’ll be makin’ use o’ that, sure as piss.”It was Swygrael’s turn to shake her head. “You’re talkin’ about goadin’ him into it. Ye are mad.”“Not mad. Just desperate.” He turned to look at her. “Now are you goin’ t’play along, or not?”Ten minutes later, they walked out of the rainforest together.Kingsley of Berven was waiting for them. He was seated upon the largest rock on the beach, and he was facing the treeline. His cane was still missing; in its absence, the man had driven his curved sword point-first into the sand, leaving it near at hand. He sat with his left leg pulled up and tucked underneath him while the other dangled over the side of the rock.Standing a few yalms off to one side with her arms crossed was Luhui Akoh. She, too, had her weapons back; they could just make out the hilts protruding past her shoulders. The Xbr’aal woman looked amused, as if she’d been let in on a joke while everyone else had been left out.Behind them, out at sea and lined up stern to bow with their larboard gun ports presented, were the Salvenari and the Flotsam. Those ports were open.Osric took the lead as they crossed the sand. Luhui was off to Kingsley’s left; seeing this, Swygrael moved to Osric’s right to position herself across from her opposite number. The Maelstrom’s hound and his Yellowjacket handler came to a stop some thirty fulms distant from the pirate’s quartermaster and his trusted co-conspirator-in-chief.Kingsley was smiling as he raised one arm up and our, palm to the sky, in welcome.“What a surprise this is!” he said. “If I were a betting man, I would’ve lost a great deal of coin on this wager, I daresa–”Osric had tossed something underhanded. It landed on the sand before Kingsley’s feet, and it was the sound of this impact which drew Kingsley’s eye and stopped his everlasting mouth. The mage frowned down at the sight of two orange Bangaa ears which had been sewn together at one end.He looked back up. Osric said nothing.“That was a mistake,” Kingsley told him. “You’d have done better to cut out his heart.”“Would that’ve pleased you?” Osric asked.“Not particularly, gruesome to present me with such a thing, but it would have spared your lives for another few suns at least.”It was the monk’s turn to frown. “How d’you mean?”The mage shrugged, letting his upraised hand drop back into his lap at last. “Four of you set out after Bjorn. Two return. Unless I’m mistaken and both Lieutenant Webb and Sergeant Ostornsyn are skulking about in the service of some clever ploy – I am rarely mistaken, mind you, whereas you people are rarely clever – then they are very much deceased, which is to say slain at the hands of our captain. You are a difficult one to puzzle out at the best of times, Mister Unimportant, especially given your newfound talents, but Miss Ubyltuwyn looks like she took a thrashing a few suns back. Thus I surmise that he beat you all within an ilm of your lives, and that you managed to get lucky. Very lucky indeed.”Osric flashed Kingsley his teeth. “Care to try your own luck?”The man from Berven snorted. “It’s not my luck you should be concerned with, but your own. Bjorn has never cared for men and women who collect grisly trophies.”“He’s stopped carin’, I think. On account o’ dyin’ from a big gapin’ hole in his side.”“And the round I put in his head afterwards,” Ubyltuwyn put in. “Good policy, or so I was taught.”Kingsley favored them with a little smile, as though he found them pitiful. “Bjorn Rockscale is many things, often different things at different times, but one thing he does not know how to be is dead. The man is a veritable dragonheart. In a few suns’ time, he is going to walk out of that jungle after you. He will be whole and hale, as good as new: headcase intact, torso in one piece, and boasting all four of his ears. And then he will kill you. The both of you. And me, too, if I prove foolish enough to let you have your way.”Osric held the man’s gaze, as if enough scrutiny would force the facade to break and give the lie to this nonsense. But Kingsley did not wilt under pressure. Nor did he flinch, or confess, or ramble on. He’s serious, then.Aloud, he asked, “Known each other long, have you?”“Him, Muglio, and I, yes. Longer than I care to admit, Rings.”Osric went very still. Swygrael cocked the pistol she’d been holding in its holster all this time. Luhui’s hands snapped up to wrap around the hilts of her blades, but Kingsley held out a hand to her in a placating gesture.“How,” Osric asked, “d’you know that name?”“It wasn’t too difficult. I’ve had an entire crew of Lominsans at my beck and call; someone was bound to know your story, at least in part. Rings, who sailed two seasons under Worthy Jetsam. Rings, otherwise known as the infamous Dirk Problemsolver. Merlwyb’s Ghost.”The monk shifted his weight where he stood, and he flexed all of his fingers. “Aye, that was me. Long time ago, that was.”“You don’t know the meaning of that expression,” Kingsley all but spat, “and I don’t care to enlighten you. You’re a dead man, Melkire, whether I leave you to Bjorn, or I order the ships to open fire, or I settle our account myself.”“Then why are we still talkin’?”“I have yet to decide what comes next. Whether to sail away from here, and find out how long we can outrun our captain, or to embrace him and accept his leash once more.”“...you’re that scared o’ him.”Kingsley spread his hands out wide for a moment. “The man returns from the dead, over and over. I’ve borne witness to this, countless times. I’ve seen him eviscerated from a sword in the belly. Burnt to a crisp by hellfire. Drowned in the Uladon Bog. Reduced to pieces by the most violent magicks imaginable. I don’t know the secret behind it – that belonged to Lucas of Sprohm – but I know that the technique is inviolable.”“And y’know this how?”“Because I’m capable of something similar,” the mage admitted, “but the pain he exacts for failure is intolerable, and one of these suns I’ll have missed my window for preparation, and I won’t come back from it.”Silence reigned for a long while. It was broken by the most curious sound, utterly at odds with the circumstances. It was so out of place that Luhui Akoh swung her head around to stare at its source. Ubyltuwyn, though, merely smirked.Osric Melkire was laughing.It started out as a chuckle. Kingsley soon joined him, and together the two men laughed as though they’d shared a grand jest between them.“You,” Osric managed to say, “ain’t dawdlin’ while y’considerin’ your options.”“I’m not?” The mage’s teeth were brilliant when put on display.“You’re waitin’ t’see if I can give you a reason t’mutiny.”Kingsley swept out a hand, palm up, as if to invite him to continue. It was an exact motion, mimicking the same gesture which Osric had used aboard the Flotsam nearly a sennight ago.“It’s a question o’ competence,” the monk explained. “Was it truly just luck what bested Bjorn, or could the Maelstrom manage t’do so again? She ‘n’ the other Grand Companies do rely a great deal upon adventurers these suns, and I’m about as close t’such a thing as you can get, under the circumstances. Could the Maelstrom shield your men from Bjorn’s wrath, from his vengeance against them for whatever perceived slights or offense they’d have given?”Kingsley simply sat there, hands back in his lap again, smiling and swinging the one leg.“You’re both deathless, or so y’claim,” Osric went on. “You make it sound as though you’ve lived through several lifetimes together. That tells me it ain’t your own safety you’re concerned about. That’s been the same, each time we’ve met; it ain’t been for your own benefit, but for theirs.”Clap. Clap. Clap. Osric’s reward was slow applause. “Well done, Your Highness,” Kingsley said. “It’s as you’ve said. I’m waiting to find out whether you can impress upon me that your victory wasn’t a fluke.”Osric nodded. “You’ll release our people and relinquish our ship? Unharmed and undamaged? Sit down at the table to discuss the arrangements?”“Some of your people and some parts of your ship are already harmed and damaged. But I’ll sweeten the pot for you: there are only two individuals among my crew responsible for ending the lives of Maelstrom sailors. They’re currently topside, managing our affairs and keeping an eye on this little meeting of ours. At a signal from me, Muglio Gamlio will end of the life of Skarnmhar Pfarskratsyn. Tanshi Chihaya will take this as a sign to surrender, and she will do so; she knows better than to cross me and expect to live. The rest of our number have done their utmost to refrain from crossing the line, so to speak, from passing the point of no return where the Maelstrom is concerned.”“I did not lie to you about this, back in the clearing,” Luhui said, drawing eyes. “Bjorn, Skarnmhar, and Tanshi. They were the ones to clear the decks back in Limsa Lominsa.”It was Kinsgley’s turn to nod. He turned his attention back to Osric.The monk frowned and asked, “And if I lose?”“Then I shall kill you, or else cripple you and leave you as a gift for Bjorn. Luhui Akoh will take the head of Swygrael Ubyltuwyn. Then Luhui and I will wait to see if Bjorn returns to us. The Salvenari will serve us as a new ship, signaling the birth of our pirate fleet. The fates of Captain Tunlado and his men will then depend utterly upon who remains in command. We might drop them off in Tuliyollal. We might keelhaul them. It’s difficult to say which is more likely, or if it will be something in between. Either way, you’ll have failed and you won’t be around to see it.”The cannoneer bristled where she stood, but Osric waved her down. He reached for the knives secreted upon his person, and he drew two of them from their hiding places, held them rogue-fashion. He stepped forward, and Kingsley beamed at him.Luhui inclined her chin in Swygrael’s direction and said, “Come.” The Xbraal turned and led the way south along the beach; the Sea Wolf shot Osric one last glance and then turned to follow her opposite number. That look spoke volumes: if Osric lost, her own life was forfeit.So don’t lose.Kingsley pushed himself forward and slid off the rock onto the sand. He stepped forward, laid his right hand upon the hilt of his strange sword, and drew it forth. A flick of his wrist scattered the grains which had clung to the blade.The monk raised his fists and bent at the knees; the mage left his sword-arm at his side and raised his left hand, palm out, to face his foe.“Engage as you will,” Kingsley said, so Osric kicked off with his back foot and sent himself hurtling forward in a clap of thunder.

• Memory •

“Blue magic,” Tunlado had said.“Yes.” Shikoba had sounded exasperated; she’d already been over this with him once before, and the shoveling noises which were serving as background to their conversation were not helping. “The tradition has its limitations, but it also has its strengths. He must cast his spells and he must use a focus to do so, the same as any other tradition, but there are far more variables at play here. Blue magic is, fundamentally, the magic of beasts. His only other limitation is the breadth of his experience. The more creatures that he has encountered, the more magicks he can bring to bear.”“You’re wrong,” Osric had said. He went quiet for a moment as he plunged the shovel back down into the sand; he pressed at the back of the blade with one foot, forcing the shovel deeper, before he took a firm grasp of the handle and pulled up as much sand as he could. This, he tossed to the side. “About his tradition.”The three of them were gathered on the beach. Sergeant Ostornsyn stood guard some yalms distant, forbidding anyone to approach, while Lieutenant Webb was busy elsewhere, coordinating their upcoming foray into the Turali rainforest.Shikoba turned to Osric and waved one of her hands, saying, “You might have missed–”“I know what I saw,” he insisted, plunging the shovel down into the sand again.. “Forget what I didn’t see for a moment. He wasn’t holdin’ anythin’ other than his sword.”“Then perhaps that, too, serves as a focus for him,” Shikoba conceded.“Then it’s like red magic, ain’t it,” Osric said as he continued to dig. “Magic what’s been… performed, or enhanced, or processed… through or by the body.”“The point, Mister Melkire,” prompted Tunlado.“Don’t think his tradition is from Xak Tural. Don’t think he needs a focus t’cast.”“A tremendous an’ most unprecedented advantage, if true.”“And one which, I must stress, we cannot be certain that he possesses,” Shikoba said.“Of course, of course,” Tunlado relented as he stepped over to the large rock and rested his back against it. He turned his eye back to the man who’d dug his own small little hole not four fulms distant and asked, “But what does this have tae do with diggin’ up half the coast, Mister Melkire?”Osric, who’d gotten down on his knees in order to bury a slip of parchment, looked up.“Insurance policy.”

• Deleterious •

Kingsley raised his left hand to the sky, a bluish-white light held within his grasp as it shone forth, and he called down lightning.More accurately, he flicked that upturned wrist in Osric’s direction. The monk was afforded a split second in which to recognize the danger; he threw himself into a roll to his left, and not a moment too soon. The ball of levin cracked and then exploded outward from the impact site, filling the air with arcs of lightning which erupted like thorns or spears. Where the energy touched sand, glass formed in little clusters of crystal.Rolling back onto his feet, Osric tossed up the knife from his right hand, caught it by the end of the blade between his fingers and threw it. The knife flew end over end; Kingsley swept his saber up in an elegant parry which deflected the monk’s weapon over his right shoulder. The mage’s eyes widened; he’d seen the slip of parchment wrapped around the hilt, the slip of parchment with a glyph of arcanima drawn upon it in enchanted ink.The light in Kingsley’s left hand shone forth once more as he drew his hand down and clenched it into a fist. Just in time, too: the spell upon the thrown knife went off, superheating the surrounding air and enveloping Kingsley in an explosion which buffeted him from behind. Osric rushed at the plume of steam––and felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt since facing down coeurls in Raincatcher Gully; a feral instinct had just been born of necessity, and he heeded his gut when it told him to duck. He raised his left hand, braced at the wrist by his right, to present his remaining knife for a parry––which caught the descending slash of Kingsley’s saber at an angle and forced it to pass harmlessly over Osric’s head. The slash dispersed the steam, and the monk caught a glimpse of what had shielded the blue mage from the explosion: transparent scales, lined with silver at the edges, encased Kingsley’s form like a second skin.“Draconic constitution,” Shikoba had told him. “A common feature amongst the Whalaqee.”No time to dwell on it. He drove his remaining knife down at Kingsley’s right foot but missed; the mage drew his foot back, and the knife found purchase only in sand. Kingsley responded with a left uppercut which caught Osric square on the underside of his chin. Reinforced with earth-aspected aether as he was, the impact should have been minimal… but in the moment that fist met chin, the monk felt the mage’s strength double somehow. Osric found himself drive up to his full extension and then some, balanced on the toes of his boots. Kingsley released his sword, whistled through his teeth – a strange noise which sounded more guttural than it should have, and reverberated somehow – and then drove his right fist into Osric’s sternum.That doubling sensation happened again but, as there was more force behind the blow at first, there was even greater force behind the blow in the end.When Bjorn had hit him, Osric had managed to cling to consciousness. When Kingsley hit him, Osric found himself jolted awake by the disorienting and painful experience that was an uncontrolled roll across the beach. He caught himself by plunging an arm into the sand, and struggled back onto his feet. He’d ended up fifteen, perhaps twenty yalms north from the blue mage, who hadn’t moved more than a few fulms from the rock. Osric had lost his other knife, too.“Disappointing!” called Kingsley. “I’ll spare you any further embarrassment, Your Highness! Ta-ta!”The blue mage held his left hand aloft again, arm thrust towards the heavens, and that bluish-white light was pulsing. The sky grew dark, no matter that the sun was still rising over the Salvenari & Flotsam towards her zenith, and the distant cries of chocobos were heard as if a great flock was approaching, though there were of course no such beasts in evidence.The monk had heard rumors of this, as though they were old wives’ tales. He slowed his breathing, threw open his chakras–Kingsley brought his right hand up and his left hand down. His saber dangled from his right wrist by a strap. He arranged his hands as though he’d taken hold of a vertical cylinder by both ends, though there was naught but air between his palms, and he twisted his hands as if to twist open that cylinder. A blue light flashed once.Beneath Osric’s feet and over his head appeared two large, separate, but identical triangles of shimmering rainbow light. The one beneath him rotated counterclockwise, the one above him rotated clockwise, and he felt something happen to his innards. He stumbled forward onto his knees and, for the second time in less than a sennight, he vomited liquid aether.He felt weak, as though he’d taken a fast from food & water for several suns longer than was advisable. He was exhausted, starving, stricken with thirst. Worst of all, he was filled to the brim with aether. He could feel it leaking out his eyes and ears, rising into the air from his pores, spilling over his tongue and lips and chin. His chakras, he couldn’t close. He might’ve exploded on the spot, had he not the discipline and inner mastery to prevent it.“Did you know,” asked that irritating voice in a sing-song cadence, as the sky grew darker and the chocobos continued to kweh, “that we had adamantoise in Dalmasca once? Our strain had this curious little piece of magic. Matra magic, we called it. A defense mechanism gone wrong. It turned them all into carnivores.”Deep breaths. Regulate your heart rate. Feed it all to the Sacral and to every nadi which passes through it. Don’t let him distract you.“This is a kinder end than Bjorn would have given you. Farewell, Mister Unimportant! Truly a footnote.”He forced himself back onto his feet. Exhaustion fell away. Fear and hunger were driven back. Thirst was slaked. The Sacral did its work, converting excess aether back into strength and stamina, but it would be some precious seconds yet until he was well again. He looked up at the sand between himself and Kingsley, at the sands to his left and right. He focused, and he heard a voice out of memory: his grandfather's.“What you saw was not my action but my intent. Not the genesis but the outcome. In knowing the future, you will learn the path to walk through the present.”Kingsley bowed.The meteors fell.There had never been any need for a broadside, nor two ships’ worth. The blue magic of Kingsley of Berven fell upon the beach, raising hell and ending hope. The meteor shower brought about a great tumult of fire and earth, a sight not seen on that shore since the beginning of time.

• Guile •

He saw them all. He knew where they would fall. He saw where not to stand, knew where not to be. The echoes of the future filled his mind, telegraphed across his eyes, informed his steps. It didn’t matter that he was still too weak to run. He didn’t need to fly.It was sufficient to walk.A few steps here. A few steps there. Sand and stone were thrown upwards in waves which burst forth from each impact, but even these were no concern; he saw when it was safe to step inward, and so he did. Grains would have torn at his skin, heat scalded his flesh, but for this fact: he was a monk who had solved the Riddle of Earth, and he drank from a reservoir so full to bursting that what little damage was done was, in an instant, undone.It went on for an eternity.And then it ended. Osric Melkire staggered out of hell itself bruised, battered, singed, missing half his clothes, but still intact and still alive.The blue mage, to his credit, stood stunned, eyes wide, for no more than a moment at most. He brought his left hand back up almost at once, bluish-white light shining as he called up more magic. His hesitation had cost him, though. He needed time to cast; Osric needed but a moment to raise his left hand and flick, using his thumb and middle finger, a speck of aether at his enemy.On its own, that speck wouldn’t have achieved a thing. It didn’t need to; it just needed to be there. The slip of parchment wrapped around the hilt of Melkire’s second knife, which he had plunged into the sand beneath Kingsley’s feet, reacted to its presence: the glyph unleashed its stored payload, which was nothing more than a single pulse of a much larger share of Osric’s aether.That, in turn, set off the geometric spell inscribed upon the parchment which Osric had buried beside the rock nearly a sennight ago.A dark triangle spun to life beneath Kingsley’s feet, its corners accentuated by beads of red and blue and green. Cords of byzantine light shot up, snagged the blue mage by the arms and neck, and then were twisted around him by the momentum of the triangle’s spin. His arms were wrenched down to his sides, his spell sputtered out, and he found himself bound in place.This was Tri-Bind: an older geometry, but serviceable.Kingsley sneered as he struggled against his bonds, but the monk paid him no mind. Osric reached within himself as he dropped into a runner’s crouch. He reached for a latent power, one which had lain dormant and undisturbed, untapped, after the fall of Bjorn. It had been quickened by that conflict, but he had not reached for it, anticipating that he would need a reserve to fall back on.He fell back on it now, seized fast to Ajna the Third Eye, otherwise known as the Sixth Chakra of Light. He pushed off, vanishing again, clap.The blue mage, sensing danger, flexed both his hands. Light peered through his fingers as he conjured a splash of acid, yellow and foul, which fell upon and ate away at his clothes, his skin, his bindings. Freed, he snatched up the saber which had dangled by a strap from his right wrist–Too late. Osric had closed to within arm’s length of the other man, skidding to a stop such that a mere fulm separated the two men. Kingsley felt the sudden press of the second joints of the first two fingers of each of the monk’s hands against his chest. He opened his mouth in reflexive protest, but he was too late, too late, too late.One ilm punch.One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Each blow was dealt to a different set of nerves as he moved from pressure point to pressure point up and down the mage’s body. From femoral to sciatic to sternum to supracapular, and ending with the temple. With each blow, Osric stripped away another layer of arcane protection from Kingsley. The mage’s mighty guard broke, his draconic strength fell away, his toad oil evaporated, his aetheric mimicry was ended, and his feral instinct was sealed.The flurry of blows drove Kingsley onto his back against the large rock, the final rap against his temple tipping him over. Osric spat on him, liquid aether splattering the other man’s chest and face. With a defiant cry, the blue mage rolled to his left, drawing his saber in a slash across Osric’s midriff as he did so, but he never quite completed the motion: the monk seized that wrist in his own right hand and twisted such that the sword fell from Kingsley’s grasp again.Osric reached across his right arm with his left hand and took hold of Kingsley by his arm. He spun, dragging the lighter man after him; Kingsley’s back scraped and skidded across the rock, but Osric kept going, pulled the mage through a two hundred and seventy degree turn and, with a cry, released him.The throw hurled Kingsley to the southwest, where the man was sent tumbling across the sand until he rolled to a stop––where another slip of buried parchment registered the traces of Osric’s liquid aether upon him and promptly exploded, a broiling plume erupting from the sand and crystallizing the sand as it was kicked into the air.The force of that explosion threw Kingsley’s body off to one side… where another explosion went off, killing his momentum and ragdolling him in an entirely new direction. A chain reaction went off across the beach, over a large patch of sand which Osric had been avoiding, where the monk had, nearly a sennight ago, buried a score of pages. Arcanima had never been his strong suit, but a series of events long ago had driven him to seek tutelage from his wife.At last, after the seventh or eighth or ninth such explosion – all witnesses had lost track – the blue mage rolled to a halt. His coat was torn to shreds. Burns scarred his skin. His turban was missing. His hair was disheveled. His face was masked with blood. His eyes stared up at the sky, dull and lifeless, while his mouth rested in an open position.Something glowed within him, something emanating from his chest at first but then expanding outward to encompass his entire form: a pure white light which flashed once with intensity and then faded away. Kingsley sat up, gasping for air, reached up and out with his left hand––something closed around his left arm like a vise, rolled him onto his stomach. Something sharp, like a knee, pressed into his back, and a hand forced the side of his face against the sand. He could hear footsteps approaching, people running his way, but they slowed to a stop after the distinct sound of a pistol being cocked.“As good as did yourself in, y’know.” There was, perhaps, the faintest hint of smug satisfaction in Osric Melkire’s tone. “No arrogant arse could resist sittin’ on that rock and starin’ into the jungle while waitin’ for me t’come back out of it– nuh-uh-uh-uh-uh!”Kingsley had been calling up more blue magic, but his arm was twisted further, the knee dug in harder, and his head was pulled back by the hair until he feared that his neck would break. A cry of pain slipped past his lips, and he splayed the fingers of his left hand, the light fading from his palm, to signal his surrender.“None o’ that now, cully. Yield, will you? And tell me how y’were goin’ t’signal Gamlio.”The blue mage grinned performative defiance into the beach. “You are something else, Your Highness. Why, I do believe–”Twist.Once he’d managed to struggle past the pain again, Kingsley gasped, “Belt. Right side. Holster.”Osric released the man’s head and searched his belt. He drew forth– “You’re jokin’.”“He’ll know the difference. Good with sounds, that one. Can tell a flintlock from a matchlock from a wheellock at I don’t know how many paces.”The monk grunted. “I want t’meet this man.”Then he lifted the parrotbeak revolver, aimed it at the sky, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger. He listened. A moment later, the revolver’s report was answered by a rifle’s. One shot, one kill.And just like that, it was over.

• Two Heads are Better than One •

Commander Staelhundr Grymkoelsyn sat back in his chair, cup and saucer in hand, and drank his tea as he looked out over Limsa Lominsa.This was, by all accounts, a beautiful sun. The sky was a gorgeous blue, with little more than a smattering of distant clouds to give it character. The seas were calm – tranquil, even – and the bustle to and from Hawkers’ Alley posed a delightful contrast. There was no impending calamity, there were no incursions from Sahagin or Kobolds on the horizon, and there was no concern so pressing as to imperil or marr this perfect day. Life was, for the moment, as it should be.Life as it should be, he thought, will put me out of a job. And yet striving for such a thing is my very purpose in life.Someone bid him good day, so he turned from his pristine view to favor them with a smile and his best wishes for wind in their sails. ‘twas Mr. Yarborough, and Mrs. Yarborough too; they were taking their leave of the Bismarck, having arrived to dine a great deal earlier than Grymkoelsyn himself, who preferred to take late luncheons rather than to partake of brunch and spend the afternoon hungry. They, like a number of other welldoers, were quite fond of the Maelstrom and saw fit to pay their respects to the commander on their way out.He drained his cup to the dregs, sat forward to deposit it and its saucer upon the table, and said, “You know, someone put a good deal of effort into brewing this tea. It seems an unfortunate waste to me to let it go cold.” Grymkoelsyn flashed a smile across the table. “Drink.”Seated across from the commander, one knee bouncing from the ceaseless oscillations of a restless leg, eyes and ears on his surroundings, flinching at every salutation or glance thrown their way, was Osric Melkire. “Ain’t thirsty.”It had been four suns since the Salvenari & Flotsam had crossed the salt and put into port. Matters had transpired at so rapid a pace that this meal was the first true opportunity for relaxation in the time since, and yet here sat this… monk. Forever on edge. Never truly at ease.The Maelstrom had been presented with little choice but to honor the accord between Tunlado & Kingsley, especially once the commander had thrown his weight behind it. Luhui Akoh had disembarked at Ihuykatuma, to make her own way; as she’d had no hand in the mutiny which had seen the Flotsam commandeered, nor was she an Eorzean national, there’d been little reason to hold her and risk diplomatic tensions with Tural. Muglio Gamlio had never been found; the crow’s nest he’d inhabited showed ample evidence of his presence, and yet he'd vanished without a trace. Skarnmhar Pfarskratsyn’s corpse had found its way into the Maelstrom’s possession; as he had no next of kin, all were spared any further legal or emotional labor. Not so with Tanshi Chihaya, whose sentencing was on hold pending missives to Hingashi; until they heard back, the Maelstrom was holding her prisoner, as they were holding the rest of the Flotsam’s erstwhile crew.As for Kingsley of Berven….“He’s goin’ t’slip loose, y’know,” Osric said as he fidgeted in his chair. “Someone’s goin’ t’blink and he’ll just disappear right out o’ his gaol cell.”Grymkoelsyn shrugged as he reached for a bread roll and his knife. Both men had eaten; there were plenty of emptied plates to testify to the devastation they’d wrought, and yet the commander still found himself quite peckish. “The silencing potions are having the desired effect. Our going theory at present is that he subvocalizes, as many are wont to do. No new theories forthcoming thus far as to his lack of need for a focus; your theory continues to prevail. We’ll hold him, rest assured, and we’ll see if he’s been honest about ‘becoming another hound,’ as he put it. But he’s not who you’re worried about.”“Can you blame me?”“He’s on another continent. He doesn’t know your name. He only knows your face. He’s a Bangaa. We don’t get many of them in these parts. He’s too distinct. You’ll have ample warning. He’s hardly going to walk up to you at the Bismarck to cut you down. Now do relax, we have business to discuss.”Melkire made a face. “More business.”“Aye. I find myself in need of assistance. In need of field operatives, so to speak. You’re the only one thus far to pass their trial period. I’ve made the arrangements: room & board have been set aside for your use at the Mizzenmast. That should suffice until we can arrange for more permanent accomodations for you and your family.”The monk came upright. “Now hang on–”“Oh, you needn’t move back right away. I’m putting you on ‘extended leave’ for now, as it so happens. Go home to your family. Enjoy life. But you’ll need to stay in contact. I expect you to respond to my letters. You’ll be sent paperwork. There will be deadlines. Endeavor to meet them, or else I’ll be calling upon the Adders to march you back out here.”Osric looked flummoxed. “Now I’m your gods-damned secretary?”Grymkoelsyn smiled. “Something like that. Now drink your tea. It will help you look the part.”

Potential Story Hooks

  • Limsa Lominsa & La Noscea - Natives, pirates, scoundrels, fences, you name it!

  • The Sisters of Edelweiss - Used to be in hot water with these folks. Osric's brother was one of them!

  • Ul'dah & Thanalan - Spent many turns here, while enlisted. Known Royalist.

  • The Immortal Flames - Love/Hate relationship with his old service. Great comrades, though.

  • Grand Companies - Went on many a mission with many a task force. Maelstrom, Adders, etc.

  • Free Companies - The Red Wings, the Dauntless, the Astral Agency, Aramitama Vault.

  • Lavender Beds, The Shroud, & The Twelveswood - Resident! Keeps his addresses secret, friends only.

  • Eorzea Writ Large - Chance encounters are common enough on Aldenard and Vylbrand.

  • Ala Mhigo & Gyr Abania - Frequent visits as of late, ever since embracing monkhood.

  • Fist of Rhalgr - Longtime monk but recently initiated. Temple Cyclas, etc.

  • Kugane & Shirogane - Does occasional business overseas, mostly with & through Aramitama Vault.

  • Othard & The Azim Steppe - Once visited the Steppe on personal business, long trek northward.

About the Player

  • Balmung Server on Crystal Data Center

  • Currently Available for Roleplay on Weekends

  • Please Reach Out to Me via Discord to Schedule Scenes

  • I Work 40 Hours and Take Up to 12 Hours of College Coursework a Week

  • In a Loving & Committed Relationship

Roleplay Boundaries

  • Mature Themes OK

  • Combat RP OK (Dice Rolls & Freeform Both Acceptable)

  • Placeholder NPC Work OK (Please Discuss with Me First)

  • No Character Death

  • No Maiming (Possible Exceptions, Please Discuss with Me First)

  • No Godmodding

  • No Metagaming

  • No OoC-IC Bleed, I Am Not My Character

  • No ERP, Osric is Taken and So Am I

Lore Adherence

  • Lore-Compliant OK

  • Extrapolation OK

  • Lore-Bending OK

  • Lore-Breaking Maybe (Please Discuss with Me First)