A Bitter Path, Illuminated - 2

Spoilers for locations and concepts from Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers

Day 82

                I have spent the last few days trying to reach my first destination, the northern side of Kholusia. It being the closest, I presumed it would be the simplest, but going forward I shall try to keep my expectations lower. To reach it requires scaling a sheer cliff face, since the elevator that reaches up so far has ceased to function.

                My first thought was to pursue fixing the elevator, but no one would even consider the thought. Not only was there no one skilled on the mechanical side of things, neither was there anyone to do the damned labor. For ages this place has required on magical beasts of burden, and with them defunct they refuse to raise a finger beyond what they consider ‘acceptable’. What a pitiful bunch.

                The only other option I could come up with was someone skilled at scaling the rock itself. A search for that proved fruitless as well. Those who once had the skills no longer have the equipment, having had other things to maintain in the meantime. Anyone who seemed even willing to consider it looked like they could barely hold themselves in a standing position, let alone climb a sheer rock wall. Most, I feel, were only interested at the prospect of being paid or fed. I doubt they would have even helped, and instead followed me out of town and robbed me blind.

                In a final act of desperation, I sought a potential interested party in Eulmore itself, but was denied entry in any measure. Unless I was being selected by a sponsor, or had the wealth to become one myself, I was to stay outside with ‘the rest’. I assumed on the spot about what kind of prospects I had in getting a sponsor from Eulmore interested in leaving Norvrandt and departed. I have spent the last few days in Lakeland, plotting my route onward.

Day 89

                While traveling through Lakeland once more, I made my way towards that distant forest of Il Mheg. Upon reaching its outskirts, a local guard patrol asked me what my intentions were, to which I explained my goal.

                To say it went well would be the boldest lie I ever told.

                They accosted me, ‘guiding’ back to the Crystarium, the entire time telling me that I must have gone mad with pixie magic. The fools couldn’t wrap their heads around the idea of traveling to into those ‘demon dwellings’ with such a ‘foolhardy’ cause. I made sure to let my displeasure be known.

                I was relieved of them by another set of guards at the gates of the Crystarium, who were ordered to render me unto the proprietor of the Pendants for the next few nights, until I was deemed ‘of sound mind’. I spent a few days cordoned in my room without much to do save re-read the journal. When finally they released me, I made sure to keep mum about my intentions to continue my quest, and went on my way.

                The last few days have been spent gathering up and reading from some arcanist’s tome. Much as I hate to admit it, those uncouth brutes may have had a point in their thoughts on my current venture. Heading into the pixie’s domain without any means of protection is a fool’s errand. I have spent the last few days learning to toss a spell or two about, which will hopefully keep me well enough armed for my travels. I can pick up more as I rest each night.

Day 92

                It is in these words that I fear I must apologize to those who tried to stop me from journeying to Il Mheg. I am willing to eat any number of crow, especially if it could change my path and remove me from this horrid place.

                It was under cover of night that I arrived in the area, as to better avoid the patrolling guards. I presumed from here I would be able to find some semblance of civilization. To me, I thought that surely the tales of the place were tall, and that likely there were people about that did not wish to be found. Oh how I wish that had been the case.

                I had not been here for but an hour before I happened upon one of the pixies proper. After I managed to recover from my amazement, I was forced to contend with this creature, who chattered about with seemingly no end to energy or questions. Before I could even say a word on the matter, a second appeared, and then a third.

                They each proceeded to tug at me, one on each arm and one on my head, to the point where I felt they were going to pull me into bloody pieces. Once I had screamed long and hard enough for them to stop, I calmed them as best I could. That did not stop their trampling on my person, as next they were rooting through my pockets and my bags.

                This lasted for hours, and days later I am certain I have yet to recover every piece of my inventory that they stole. Once they had grown bored of that, they moved onto new games, demanding I play along. When one of them referred to a rather human looking shrub, I realized that my decision was already made.

                The sun had risen by the time they seemed to have grown bored of me and wandered off. If only it had risen sooner. Then perhaps I would have been spared hours of inane games of hide and seek, or other odd pass times they have produced. Not inane because of the childish games themselves, but because they were impossible for a mortal creature such as I to play against my fae foes. No sooner would I hear one of them chuckling behind a tree that they would suddenly turn invisible, and appear elsewhere.

                I found a suitable enough place to pitch camp, but only managed some few hours of sleep before being shaken awake and pulled into more games. This continued for days, until finally I managed to bore them enough that I be allowed to rest for a suitable amount of time. Half-starved and dehydrated, I collapsed at camp until this morning, at which point I found a proper time to write.

                When I emerged from my tent to begin cooking breakfast, I found a small parchment. I was tempted to rush back into the tempt before being pulled into more games, but still felt alone. Upon reading it, I was surprised to find that it appeared to be a letter of inquiry, offering for some sort of mutual bargain. Below the letter was a crude map. I have recorded the letter below, to which I will be following up on later today:

Outer Thing,

                I inquired into your items and incidentally intercepted one that you will wish to reacquire. Follow to my fallow field, so that we may face as friends. This discussion will likely dissuade you of any detrimental deviations you may have.

A Fae Friend

A Bitter Path, Illuminated - 1

Spoilers for Shadowbringers locations and lore.

Day 37

                It has been what I believe to be seventeen and some days since I departed home. I have decided that going forward, that it is in my best interest to not tell people what used to pass as ‘home’, as all it does is lead into a line of asinine questions.

                “Why would you leave such a place? A place so peaceful, so quiet, so livable.”

                As though anything can be simple in this day in age. People have had to shoulder the world’s burden for nearing a century and are now welcome to settle for whatever is the simplest. I would hope that the world is anything but. I would think that in its new simplicity, that perhaps the world has only grown more complex. We will see.

Day 41

                I grew to feel displeased with my room at the Pendants some days ago. I tried another place of lodging in Lakeland proper, and found that the day after I felt much the same, and so I wandered on. This morning I realized I had already grown sick and tired of all the purple. Beautiful and majestic though it may be, and I would never dispute such a thing, everything is so familiar. I have been to the Crystarium before. I have seen many ends of Lakeland, for better or for worse, when I managed to escape the confines of home. To see it now simply feels tedious.

Day 57

                I struck along with a group trekking across Amh Araeng. They were to deliver their companion to the ‘Inn at Journey’s Head’. A morbid place if ever there was one. The truest place to die, not because it is what those who have caught the affliction wait out the clock, but because one must check their hope at the door.

                The trio of men became a duo as soon as they arrived, they simply refused to admit it. As soon as the reality of the place hit them, the two that would be departing became as distant as could be. They could not even bear to look their friend in the eye again.

                I could not even imagine shouldering that illness, and yet I feel as though we are kin. I too feel afflicted, with a terrible wanderlust. That once I finally stop, I shall grow ill and wither and die. Perhaps not with such a pale face, and perhaps not a true death, but a death all the same. Dramatic indeed, I feel, but the truth.

Day 74

                My path has taken me to Kholusia, as I felt my time had in the deserts had been spent. There is only so long that one can stare at sand and trace up and down it in search of anything interesting. The locals may have no end of wares to hawk at you, but even their shining market grew dull. I feared Kholusia would be much the same, though the fates deigned that to not be.

                Not a few minutes had I stepped into one of the resident ramshackle villages did I discover the locales tearing throw one of the hovels. At first I stood, mouth agape, not even able to comprehend what their intentions may have been. When a passerby noticed my confusion, they told me that someone had recently passed away. As such, anything not nailed down in the home could be considered fair game.

                Out of pure curiosity I wandered in, only to be appalled by the state of things. Each item in the home looked to be of the same disheveled make. Every door to a room or cabinet hung crooked, made worse so by how they were all being forcefully flung open in search of anything valuable. The single chair that existed in the abode was clearly the amalgamation of three different chairs, each scrapped for parts, and looked ready to collapse at any point.

                These were not what concerned the looters, mind. No, they sought food. I saw one pull out a jar of what I believe to have been pickles. At the very least they may have been considered such years ago. Now they looked disgusting and shriveled, as though some poor green creature had shoved its toes into a jar and set them on a shelf. The foragers did not care one bit for their quality though, as they soon took to quibbling over them. While three of them argued, a fourth managed to swipe the jar, and downed the entirety of its contents. Initially I thought she was going to be ill, but she recovered quickly. All four then took to yelling about how she had just eaten three weeks’ worth of food.

                It reached such a point where I could stand it no more, and began to depart, only to be stopped by a rather weathered looking journal sitting near the door. Covered in dust, I presume no one had even considered taking it. I relieved the place of it myself. It sits in my pack currently, and I have yet to open it.

Day 77

                I believe this is the longest I have stayed in one location for some time. I could not bring myself to leave until I had finished the journal cover to cover. How I wish I could have met its author, as I know we would have been kindred spirits. They too sought the road on every occasion, and travelled Norvrandt far and wide. Their tales spoke of pixies and monsters and any number of excitements, but their most thrilling piece lay in their goal.

                Supposedly an associate of theirs had filled their head with a terrible though. That there might be a place beyond Norvandt. Beyond this light filled hell. The thought consumed them. They went to every corner they could find, though some they never had the opportunity to reach. They were kind enough to include a list of these places, before whatever it was that took their life came along.

                They spoke of how their friends and family grew concerned for them. How their desire to depart stole every thought they could ever have. I fear that just by contact with such an idea, I too have contracted this plague. Already I can feel it nibbling at me, gnawing at the edge every emotion.

                The sorrow I have known all my life is burned away by a spark of hope. The wanderlust finally has a direction. The joy of the number of places to travel only grows. And I feel absolute disgust. The people of Kholusia, the people in Holminster, the entirety of the Crystarium. They are content to sit about and wait for the end. A truly pathetic existence.

                No savior will come for them, and that is nothing that can truly be called life. The journal has revealed that terrible truth to me, and I can no longer settle for it. I must find a way. A means to travel abroad, beyond Norvrandt’s borders, those walls of the Flood.

And Yet

She was Dotharl.

Those who chased battles to their dying breathes. One of many among a proud xaela steppe tribe, that had not seen victory in the Naadam in felt like ages. Whose number could never seem to grow. From an early age she had been trained in battle. Not just in this life. But in the previous, and the next. She was not allowed to fear death. She could never fear death. In death would her soul sing.

And yet.

In her previous life, she had been a mighty warrior. That was what she had been told. An imposing figure that strode across any number of battlefields and laid low countless foes. That person whose name she now carried could strike fear with a single stare, or so the stories went. An elder of the Dotharl, as much as one could be an elder among the Dotharl, even went so far as to regale her with the tale of her death. How she had saved his life at the cost of her own. Especially detailed was the moment when an ax had entered her back, and the scream the Mol who had done the deed let out upon realizing that he had caused her last breath. She had been fearless to the end, as all Dotharl should be. As she should be in this life.

And yet.

By the time that elder had died in the next Naadam, she had begun to see that perhaps she was not the perfect Dotharl. She reveled in combat, as she should. The thrill of battle was like nothing else, the scene of blood, the pumping of adrenaline. It was ecstasy. Yet part of what drove her was that wonder, what worry. Whenever it seemed possible, when it was called to fight or flee, she felt the pang to flee. To falter. But she could not. Dotharl did not flee, and thus she could not flee. So she would continue to fight tooth and nail out of obligation. Hoping that she could erase that doubt from her mind.

And yet.

When the first Naadam she would be of age to join approached, fear finally clutched her. She could see it in her technique with an ax. She was strong, but far from the strongest. From afar in the camp she had saw what she would be facing, some stoic Eorzean and a set of Domans. Outsiders that the Mol had brought in to even their odds. It was obvious how this would end. A blade to the chest, a blast of fire to the back. She was to die again.

And yet.

If the Mol would draw from outsiders, so could they. She took a grand task upon herself. To cross the sea and venture to Eorzea. To forge herself anew there, among its many warriors. The land there had been shaped by conflict for what felt like decades. From warring armies, to the summoning of gods, there was no end of battles to be had. An endless amount of information to be gathered. When she was ready, when she knew truly how to fight, she could return, head held high. No fear. No worry. She would be as expected out of her. She was Dotharl. Destined to die, and live, and die, and live. But she could insure that the path to her death was long, and bloody.