Prompt 20: Soul

A toy chest. That was Agatha's first impression of the box of baubles that the merchant and set on the table, and happily pushed her way. As she prodded and poked through its contents, that thought remained. It reminded her of a toy chest, though it lacked a few things to complete the memory. She recalled a few deflated rubber balls she had kicked around her family's yard. A few dolls. Shiny stones that she had recovered from Lakeland. This chest only contained the latter.

Contrary to those rocks she had collected as a child, these stones appeared to be hand crafted, rather than simply pulled from the earth. They could have been organized out by shape and marking, if the merchant had bothered to take the time. He hadn't though, and so they sat in a mixed mess. She presumed it was so that she would have a harder time producing two of the same kind, and noted how inconsistent their designs were in comparison.

There was a reason she had spent the day before researching soul crystals. It was a topic she hadn't truly breached until she had come across it in conversation at the arcanist's guild. Those teachings tended to branch off, she had been told, into two unique disciplines. Practitioners of either discipline would have been disgusted looking in the box.

Both the stones meant for a scholar or a summoner were crude in their craft. It didn't matter which she pulled out, they were all imperfect in their design, and branded with a poor rendition of each discipline's emblem. Worst of all, she felt no resonance with either of them. There was no soul in these crystals, either in the spirit of craft, or the spirit of an individual.

She paused her digging, looking up to consider the merchant. He had retained his confident manner, hands resting in his lap. The bead of sweat on his brow betrayed him. Every moment she looked further into the box worried him. She presumed that he had grown used to fools prodding his wears and buying whatever struck their fancy. By the time they could return demand a refund, he would have skipped town. She resumed shifting through the box's content. It hadn't escaped her mind that this would be a possibility. If it took a few tries to find a proper soul crystal, she would endure. No matter how long it to-

A chill ran down her spine as her hand ran one of the crystals near the bottom of the box. Her fingers curled tight around the stone, and the frost dug in even deeper. Her eyes darted about the room, trying to spot the person she was now certain was observing her. She stared at the merchant, and swore he was about to panic. The shadow behind him agreed.

Ripping her hand from the box, stone still clutched in a dead man's grip. She forced it out of her hand and onto the table, behind the box. The merchant tried to look around the box, to see what it was she had retrieved, before she glared at him. He shot back into his chair immediately. Agatha rubbed her hand. It felt as though if she were to look at her palm, the stone would have left a burning scar, but she knew that wasn't the case.

It sat innocently enough on the table. A jagged piece of an obsidian looking ore, emblemized with a dark red sword. She palmed it again, immediately shuffling it from the table to her pocket, hand burning the entire way.

"Price," she said, looking back to the merchant.

"Pardon?"

"The price for one," she repeated, watching him starting to stammer, "Give me the price for one, you damned fool."

He gulped, murmuring, "A thousand gil."

She stood, flinging her prepared payment on the table, and left the merchant. Her pocket burned. Even walking down the docks of Limsa Lominsa made her fingers curl from the pain. Every now and then she stopped with a shudder, and was forced to look over her shoulders to make sure she wasn't being followed. By the time she returned to her room at the inn, she felt forced to bury the crystal in a drawer, just to keep her distance.

Yet in her dreams, it seemed to call.

Prompt 19: Where the Heart is

There was a number of words that could describe Winttrach Ahldbharwyn's abode. Simple. Spartan. Undecorated. Rather ill-suited to guests.

Such was the way it had always been, and such was the way she had been raised. A few adornments for the walls, including flags of those she felt comfortable flying. A small sitting area next to her orchestration, which she sparingly bought new recordings for. A comfortable kitchen area to cook in, and a similarly comfortable area to sit in. The hallway beyond the sitting and eating half of the house split the remaining space down the middle, into two rooms.

One was an office, with a desk jammed into a corner so tightly that were she wearing armor, Winttrach often had to clamber over it just to squeeze into her rather comfortable chair. This, and her bed, were the only pieces of furniture she had allowed herself to truly splurge on. The office's walls were covered in bookshelves and maps, further shrinking the room to the point where it seemed far too small for its roegadyn resident.

The bedroom was similar. The bed was sizable enough for her, but as the room was small enough as it was, it took up a fair amount of space. Which left barely enough room for her dresser, and chest for her armor to rest in.

The view from the window in the hallway was similarly bland. It was a lovely view, so long as your definition of 'lovely' would befit a long, empty gorge, of which nothing of note could be said. It wasn't even pocked with any foliage.

All was as Winttrach wanted it. There was no need to load the place down with luxury, as she was constantly on the road. She had what she needed for when she was home. And so home it was.

Prompt 18: Panglossian

 Optimism was a difficult thing to manage. Even on her best days, those where she had little more than a care in the world, Frieda was bound to be visited by at least one dour though, if not more. Life was full of such disappointments.

If she managed to keep her focus away for long enough, things were perfectly fine. She was traveling Eorzea, and lands beyond soon enough hopefully, and making a living through song. Eccentric and exciting people had been met, and beautiful locales had been witnessed. What more could she want?

Quite a bit, she had found out. Those things she had neglected while still living with her parents back in Gridania. Such as the fact that, at the end of every day there were so many things to be paid for. A room at the local in, which in some places felt rather outrageously priced. She needed food to fill her belly, lest she starve, which again could fetch an inane amount of gil.

On worse days it was much harder to ignore. Those days when she encountered a woeful individual, those souls who were worth speaking too just for the chance that their stories would make an excellent ballad. Those nights when she had to stretch her gil as far as she could.

But on the whole, Frieda Morrow felt happy. Most of the time.

Prompt 17: Fade

 Fading away into the shadows was far more difficult than romanticized writings have ever implied. It was this thought that filled Perne's head as she sprinted down the empty stalls of Hawker's Alley, constantly shifting under desks, and behind unsold merchandise.

In any book she had bothered reading, whether it be a story of Limsa's own rogues or the far eastern shinobi, the author always seemed to presume that there was some mystical aspect to it that allowed one to simply drop from sight in the blink of an eye. Perhaps that was the case for the shinobi, Perne had never closely associated with any, but for her, it was a much greater task. It also helped that in every one of those stories the guards had a gourd for a brain.

"Turn the place over," she heard one of her pursuers say, followed by the group picking through the stalls at the end of the market.

She started to crawl to a neighboring stall, the sound of shifting boxes and boots drawing ever closer. Quietly cursing to herself, she half considered dropping the loot this entire chase was over. A small box, containing a ring. Important to the client, but dead weight to her. For a moment she wondered if they would give up if they found the box and not her.

"Can't wait to wring that elezen's bloody neck, got me out on the docks at this hour," another pursuer grunted. There was a shared sound of agreement.

Guess not.

One of them was at the stall directly next to her. The end of the alley was close, and she had ran out of stalls. With another curse, uttered only to herself, she sprung out from under her current hiding place, and bolted for the end of the alley. She plotted out a path back to the guild, but none of her estimated routes felt safe enough to dedicate to. Especially after an arrow went flying by her head, fired by an individual who was far too tired to do this the clean way anymore. That narrowed her options down immediately.

Swerving straight to the edge of the plaza she had emerged out into, she took a running leap out over the edge, arcing herself down into the water. A few more arrows followed after, but no one left above her seemed willing to take the plunge themselves.

Much like one of those stories, she mused, she was allowed to swim away without much more resistance. What those authors always failed to note, she realized, was walking back with the prize not looking impressive, but as a dripping mess.

Prompt 16: Lucubration

 The lalafell looked up from the page presented to him, and to the elezen sat in front of his desks. He took a sip from the glass of water on his desk, organized a few of the other papers he needed to sort through, and prepared to take his quill and ink to the page the elezen had presented.

Frieda smiled nervously, feathered hat clutched tightly in her hands, "Well?"

The lalafell looked up again, and gave a half-hearted service smile, "I believe we will be parting ways, miss Morrow. We'll pay you for your time," he trailed off scribbling a few things on the page, "And perhaps we can work together in the future."

Frieda's heart dropped, her hat drifting from her hands and into her lap.

"Oh." She gulped, trying to find the words to follow up, "Was something wrong?"

The man adjusted his glasses, and tried to sound as polite as possible. It was clearly a trained method of speaking, one that had been practiced for years, "We're running a business here, miss Morrow. It's entirely possible that your piece here is a wonderful bit of poetry. But we're looking for something catchy. A jingle that gets people spending gil here. If it were closer to Starlight, then we'd want more sentimental, so perhaps we'll consider you closer to then."

"B-but," she said, her stuttering ceasing as the man slid his writing across the desk.

"Take this to my secretary. He'll make sure you get paid for your time. Good day, miss Morrow."

Prompt 15: Ache

Spoilers for Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers setting and lore.

Never in her life had she believed it would be possible to miss Norvrandt of all places. She had spent a not inconsequential amount of time attempting to flee from it. And where she still there today she would have nothing but contempt for its blighted landscapes and sorrowful people.

And yet, staring out across Limsa Lominsa's endless view of the ocean, she couldn't help but feel a longing. The sight itself was beautiful, there was no question about it. Eorzea's full moon serving as the centerpiece for a dark blue canvas, full of stars. The water rippled gently as boats maneuvered in and out of the ever busy port, their lanterns reflecting off of the water, giving the harbor the appearance of a colony of fireflies going to work.

There was something about the scene that she hated. Something about it that made her heart cry out for home. But she couldn't put her finger on it. The ships of Eulmore had never moved around as such, with a sense of purpose. In fact she couldn't recall if she had ever seen the ships of Eulmore leave the dock. Likely because she couldn't think of another destination for them to shore up. Perhaps Lakeland.

It most certainly was not the night sky or the ever watching moon. She had never witnessed such until coming to Eorzea, except in illustrations. It had occurred to her earlier that it was a pang she had felt everywhere. In Ul'dah, in Gridania. Every street she walked had struck at her differently, but all in the same spot.

All of it felt so unfair. For all their troubles, the denizens of Eorzea had managed to avoid the worst possible outcome. Their streets were in one piece. Their people able to go about with their lives,  unfettered by the ever encroaching end times. Of no fault of their own, she presumed. No one here would have been able to bring about such a catastrophe if they tried.

So called 'calamities' had apparently plagued Eorzea for some time, but they had survived. Almost like roaches, she mused, before feeling as though the comparison was too cruel. She wanted to hate them, and yet she felt it was undeserved. They had not caused her people's woes, but to watch them mill about their lives felt cruel. It felt fake.

Were she to describe the scene to someone back home they might have hailed it as a grand tale from the past, or a silly dreamscape. To think that the fleeting wants of a flooded world would be to see the water active again. She could only hope that her hand would soon be on the spout.

Prompt 14: Part

 Fredrick took a hesitant sip from the coffee mug, taking a moment to savor the flavor of the contents. Perne gave him an annoyed look as he ummed and ahhed, mockingly deliberating with himself on the results of the thermoboiler's attempt at coffee.

"Not bad," he finally settled on, taking the opportunity to continue drinking.

Perne rolled her eyes, pouring herself a cup. "Next time'm askin' Georgie to help me carry this shite."

After yet another dramatic sip from the cup, Fredrick set the cup on the workbench, filling it back up from the thermoboiler, "There is no way in any of the hells that you're gonna ask Georgie to help you carry any a this stuff."

Taking a sip of her coffee, Perne shook her head in disagreement, "If I don't want my shite criticized I will."

"I know for a fact that you aren't gonna ask Georgie to help you haul six boxes of scrap from Limsa all the way to the Mists."

Perne had set her cup down and was beginning to sift through said boxes of scrap, setting out certain pieces on the workbench to be hammered away at later. "Yeah? An' why's that?"

"'Cause Georgie's barely a yalm tall, and can barely see over these boxes."

Perne didn't honor that with a reply, only offering a short dismissive gesture over her shoulder. She pulled a set of goggles from above the workbench, putting them on as she started to tear at a few pieces of metal. She had seen enough people with eyepatches to walk the docks of Limsa Lominsa to risk taking a flying piece of metal to the eye.

Fred paced the length of the elezen's workshop, admiring a few of the pieces strung up here and there. Unfinished pieces of Garlean armor, magitek, and more. Here a rifle, there a helmet, most of them half-finished at best, and barely started at worse.

"You ever worry about your place getting raided? Maelstrom saw this stuff I feel like they would hang you down in the square."

She snorted, "Nah. I send reports on this shite in so that the Alliance can deal with it better. Got my permit for the lot of it."

"The Maelstrom has permits? Sounds like a lot of paperwork for a bunch of pirates."

"Figure of speech."

He smirked behind the coffee mug, pacing towards the back of the workshop. He craned his neck to see up to the top of the centerpiece of the entire place. The still in-progress set of reaper magitek armor. Large patches of the metal beast were missing, revealing a mishmash of innards, all of them in different states of repair. Some panels look like they could have rolled straight off the line at whatever factory Garlemald used, while others looked as though they had been left out in the woods to be chewed on by a goobbue. Some of them, Fredrick knew for a fact, had been left out in the woods and had been chewed on by a goobbue.

"How's this thing coming along?"

She turned somewhat, looking at the armor. All she could muster about it was a shrug, "Some stuffs working, most stuff isn't."

"Yeah?"

"Tried firing it up the other day, and the legs almost snapped off since the servos got locked up."

"Damn," he said, pacing around it, "Any of these parts for it?"

"That's the plan."

He nodded, and began on the path back through the workshop, stopping at the bench and the thermoboiler again. Perne glanced up from whatever it was she was working on, and looked at the hyur.

"If you put your mitts on that damned thing again, it better be after complimentin' the damned coffee."

Prompt 13: Repairs

In spite of all their subterfuge, it should never be said that the rogues of Limsa Lominsa were nothing if not upstanding members of society. They were, after all, the keepers of the city's obscure set of rules. Quiet, respectable, and if anything just a bit rough around the edges. A truly well oiled machine of pure cohesion.

"You ain't allowed to have two of those damned cards in yer deck ya little gobshite."

Perne Iseterre pressed her hand of cards against the table with her left hand, and pointed angrily at the current state of the Triple Triad board with her right. She wasn't wrong. An honest game of cards meant that only one such powerful card could reside in anyone deck. But even on its best days, Limsa Lominsa only passingly resembled anything honest.

"Got no idea what you mean," the lalafel on the other side of the table said, his teeth flashing, the few golden inserts shining brighter than the others.

She narrowed her eyes at him, prepared to start one of the many arguments that were currently proceeding inside the Rogue's Guild, before a slamming door cut her off. Every head at every table turned to watch the trio that had so suddenly arrived awkwardly stumble through the tables and chairs. Two hyur and a roegadyn slamming through everything in the most awkward way possible.

The hyur were carrying the roegadyn, one struggling to hold up the giant man's shoulders, the other grimacing as she hauled him forward by his legs. Perne had seen them all running about in here before, albeit the roegadyn had been conscious then. Her eyes rolled when she saw the gash in the roegadyn's tunic, and the fact that they were winding their way towards her.

The lalafel across the table from her had long stopped caring, and was instead using the time to reach across the table to try to get a peek at her cards. She slapped his hand away,  which he reacted to innocently enough.

It was with a thud that the roegadyn was dropped in front of her. She looked between the two hyurs, fraternal twins, and then down at the unconscious brute of a man.

"The hell ya want me to do with this?"

The pair exchanged a glance, quickly looking from each other, then to her, and then down to the man.

"Well," they said in unison, before looking at each other again.

"You go," said the boy, waving his hands at the girl before she could argue.

"We reckoned you could fix him," the girl said, rolling her eyes at her brother.

Perne snorted, "Shoulda taken 'im to the damned Arcanist Guild then. Probably woulda been closer to the town gate anyway."

"But you were in the Arcanist Guild," the boy said, suddenly regretting that he'd put himself on the spot.

"Key word in that sentence bein' 'were'," Perne said, looking even more annoyed now.

Not wanting to drag the matter out any further, she produced her satchel, and slowly went through it until her hand fell upon a dusty arcanist's tome. She slapped it on the table, dust filling the air above it, and began flipping through the pages. It was an older volume, and the arcanists had surely made a few improvements since the publication of this book, but it would have to do.

Focusing on the roegadyn, she settled on one page, and summoned the rune from it as she had been trained to do. It was a shoddy job, done by someone who didn't want to be doing it and didn't seem particularly good at it even if she had wanted to. But a shoddy job was better than no job in this case. The gash in his chest seemed to start closing. His breathing steadied. He would live.

Before they could utter a word of thanks, Perne motioned them away, "I better not have to do this again."

Without another word, the pair nodded, dragging the roegadyn away, this time by his arms, to find a good wall to settle him on. Perne turned back to the table after watching them go, once again having to slap at the hand of the lalafel and fend him off from her cards.

Prompt 12: Tooth and Nail

 The greatsword felt good in her hands. That was always the problem. The greatsword felt amazing in her hand. The heft of the weapon, the broad reach it gave her in combat. It was liberating. Intoxicating. She would dare say it was freedom. She was not bound to be a stalwart wall behind a shield.

So like a rabid dog being let off the leash, she lunged.

She had long told herself, especially as a member of the Sultansworn, was that she was meant to uphold a standard. As her mother had taught her, Winttrach Ahldbharwyn was the rally point. The wall. Not now. Now she was a whirlwind with a blade caught in the midst of it. And it felt amazing.

In another part of the room, carving through another pack of cutthroats was the person who had given her the sword. The one she had sworn to never be tempted by. The temptress was doing much the same, carving through their collective foe like they were tissue. It felt good. No laws to be bound by. No steps to follow. The people before her were the scum of the earth, criminals who preyed on others, and now she could treat them as such.

The crystal in her pocket burned, pressing her own. The blade slashed with a mind of its own, never ceasing. She felt the pain of dents in her armor, ruptures in it that required attention, but nothing allowed her to stop. There was no pain, there was no promise of demise, there was only the swift movement of blade.

When this crowd had fallen, their bodies being added to the liter that was Ishgard's streets, she readied herself for the next group that would come. But there was no next group. They had defeated all of them. As though the weight of the battle itself had been holding her up, she collapsed. The sword clattered to the ground. Perhaps, she thought, that was where it should stay.

Prompt 11: Ultracrepidarian

"Consider this," the old man said, still tottering down the road at a pace that just matched speed with a slug. "The barbaric people of the Steppes are faced with the opportunity to fall under the keel of the local Domans. The people of the Steppes will tell you that they would never do such a thing. They claim to be proud people, which is quite amusing in its own way."

Makoto Okeya's eyes were still staring skyward. They had rolled back into her skull so often enough that she was wondering if they were going to sever themselves and roll out onto the road.

Growing amongst the dotharl had trained her to always seek a fight, but she had always presumed it would have been a physical one. She didn't feel capable enough to win a war of words, especially against someone whose brain was more barren than the Burn. Spending time in Eorzea had taught her also not to quarrel with the hand that feeds you, which in this case was the old man. As soon as he was delivered to Ul'dah from Horizon, and the gil was in her hand, she could then consider severing his head with her ax. Until then, she had to keep quiet and bear it.

"I believe I already told you this," the old man started off again, adjusting his thick glasses that were just terrible enough to not allow him to identify his guide's black tail, "But I spent many a year amongst the tribes. The vicious Mol, known for their cannibalistic ways. The kind and gentle oronir, who basked in the light of the moon. The Borlaaq, and their crude, constant gestures masculinity."

There was a vein on Makoto's forehead that felt prepared to burst. With every beat of her heart it felt as though she was a step closer to her brain giving up and exiting the picture. It was with gritted teeth that they finished the walk to Ul'dah. And with unsteady hand that she left the old man at the Quicksand with his neck still intact.

Prompt 10: Avail

The Drowned Winch was in its usual state for the evening. Quiet contemplative older sailors were sipping their drinks, some recording their thoughts. Perhaps for an inevitable memoir, or to send home to their family to remind them of their adventures across the sea.

The younger ones were drunk. Every kind of drunk. Stupid drunk, slumped against a wall and slurring every word that left their simpering mouths. The loud drunks had flocked around a table and were in the process of shouting sea shanties at the top of their longs. A few sleepy drunks were passed out face first on their tables, while a few others hand slumped onto the floor. All of them seemed to be having a good enough time.

Agatha Hargrave was here for none of them. Instead she was focused on two gentlemen sitting quietly in a corner. Her incorporeal companion had informed her of the pair earlier in the week. Niamh had simply told her out of idle boredom, having floated about Limsa Lominsa while Agatha had been spending days inside to come up with some sort of scheme.

A bit of idle watching had revealed the pair to be Garlean defectors. They had taken the opportunity to flee upon the Garlean's failures at the Praetorium, and had made a minor reputation among the locals by being rather open and honest about that fact. They weren't looking to repair past mistakes, and simply wanted to settle into a new life. Limsa Lominsa, with its rough going crowds already, had happened to be the perfect place to do so.

None of that particularly mattered to Agatha. What had interested her was that apparently they had spoken of a stockpile of crystals. And it just so happened that she desired a stockpile of crystals.

Her approach was swift, and purposeful. She drew up a chair and sat at their table with no invitation, and leaned in close so that she could whisper and still be heard.

"Gentlemen," she muttered, ignoring the look of annoyance the pair of them gave her.

On her left sat a roegadyn, a good deal taller than her. He was on the younger side, especially compared to the older hyur that sat across from him. The old man looked calm enough, and waved a hand at the roegadyn to hold off on drawing his weapon.

"Ma'am," the hyur said. There was a gruffness to it, but he remained polite.

"I do not wish to take up any more of your time than I already am," she said, trying to sound professional. "It has come to my attention, per some old reports, that you two know the location of an old stockpile of crystals." The reports were a lie, but a believable one.

The pair shared a look, the roegadyn in particular looking on edge now. The old man kept his cool, and leaned forward. He looked Agatha dead in the eyes as his fingers drummed on the table. "Aye, we might. Started hordin' 'em away from the local beasties so they couldn't summon eikons. What would it mean to you?"

"I've a need for them. There are those who are having issues with aether. I believe they would be useful to resolve such a matter."

The pair shared another look, this one longer, and much more communicative. The roegadyn nodded, and the hyur nodded in agreement. 

"We'd had similar thoughts," the hyur said. "I take it you have plans on where to distribute."

"I do," Agatha said, "Will you be here in a few days time."

"Here every night," the roegadyn said, seeming proud of the fact.

"Aye," said the hyur.

"Good."

And with that she stood as quickly as she had sat down, returning the chair to its point of origin. She now had her source, now it was just a matter of adding in the slight curve of acquisition. She wanted a confused trail if anyone would attempt to follow.

A third party would be required.

Prompt 9: Lush

Among the benefits of returning to Gridania was a night like tonight. Walking through the streets with her family, all of them dressed in their best, heading to what was, in her opinion, Gridania's premier attraction. She was certain that most tourists would have disagreed with her, and she couldn't care less.

Mih Khetto's Amphitheater was far from extravagant. The stands, the gates, the seats, the stage, all of it was relatively simple, especially when compared to a theater she had seen in Ishgard. And yet there was something miraculous about it. The acoustics, the soundscapes, all of it was superb. And nothing would ever win out over local theater in her heart.

She couldn't help but smile at the familiar routine of accepting the night's pamphlet, walking down the aisle to her family's seats, waiting with anticipation for the city's choir to fill the air with music. A more peaceful night couldn't have been asked for. A cool breeze passed through the theater, allowing the cloth roof to billow. The trees were beginning the transition into fall colors.

Her brother looked tired, but pleased to be present. Her mother had a soothed expression on her face, head rested on Frieda's father's shoulder. The crowd applauded when the orchestra finally took the stage. Frieda took in a breath as the conductor's baton rose, felt a wave of euphoria when music flooded the theater.

On instinct she readied herself to tap along with the beat, before feeling that someone near her was already keeping tempo. Turning to look at her brother, she saw his foot tapping along. She smiled even wider, nudging him ever so slightly. He looked away from her, but continued on. She leaned back to enjoy the show.

It was good to be home.

Prompt 8: Clamor

A bard had once told her of a clamoring mass of people, much the same as the crowd she was viewing from the upper streets of Ul'dah, in the most romantic of terms. The downtrodden rising up to claim what was theirs in revolt, waves of anger thrashing against injustice. The people forming into a single weapon of righteousness.

That certainly was not happening here.

The crowd certainly was out to claim what was rightfully theirs, but it was nothing so noble as to fight for their rights as an oppressed people. These were not workers tired of poor wages, no, this was far more terrifying. A crowd of angered gamblers who felt they had been cheated.

This was not the first time she had seen the streets of Ul'dah come to life, whether out of anger or happiness. Nor would it be the last. But it was certainly a sight to see. Winttrach leaned over a bit further to get a better view.

Merchants hurriedly picked up their stalls, leaving behind that which could be considered the least valuable. Which for some of the stalls, had meant items that could still fetch a hefty amount of gil, assuming they weren't destroyed in the process. The crowd moved without much regard for the stalls. If it seemed something was in the way, it was thrashed aside in a wave of people, which usually left something in pieces against a wall.

The few guards that had tried to stop the procession were quickly swept up in the crowd. Whatever authority they had on a good day, including the risk of angering the syndicate, was being ignored. Quite a few guards had found themselves caught up in the commotion, having lost their own bets on the fight from earlier.

The fight was rigged, as would be obvious to anyone who could make out the garbled screams of the horde. Again, not the first time Winttrach had seen such. She had been offered a similar bargain on more than one occasion, and each time refused. Never in her wildest dreams could she have put on the spectacle from earlier.

At best fixed matches were overdone theatrics. A put on bout that was made to look as legitimate as possible. Give those who weren't in on the trick the idea that everything was above board, allow them the show they want. Send them home thinking they still had a chance, even when there was nothing of the sort. She had seen those matches. Those where the clear winners were taken down at the last minute in a fight they should have won. It certainly wasn't honest, but if they needed the paycheck, who was she to judge.

This had not been that. This particular fight had been advertised across all of Thanalan. A risky maneuver for a rigged match, but not entirely unusual. The pair doing the fighting weren't so far apart in skill as to make either losing suspicious, though there was a clear favorite. An up-and-coming rookie, one not short in skill at that, against a grizzled veteran. The latter was meant to lose.

And lose he did. He lost in the most dramatic fashion possible. She had seen bards with less skill in theatrics than he who took the dive in Ul'dah's gladiator arena today. Each blow was treated as a mortal wound, even though no so much as grazed the veteran. The audience had sat there dumbfounded, herself included, as the match progressed, until even the rookie was left with his jaw flapping in the breeze.

When his opponent refused to continue with the bout, the veteran fell over with all the dramatic fair he could afford to give. Before the crowd could react, the veteran had sprung up from the ground and strode over to his opponent, and began wildly shaking his hand.  The rookie had looked from the veteran, to the crowd, and back, and bolted for the fighter's quarters.

Now the fruit of that labor was storming through the streets, and was beginning to round the corner out of Winttrach's sight. Turning back from the ledge, she started the long trek home. She gave it a few days before the rabble died down, though she was forced to wonder if anyone would manage to collect their winnings.

Prompt 7: Nonagenarian

 The viera's ears twitched as a drawer slid open. They twitched again when she overheard the sound of coins being counted. She didn't let it distract her from her work, and continued sorting out vials from her satchel.

Every now and again she made a few notes on a sheet of paper, or altered the label on a vial, but the bulk of her work was sorting. She had brought a small contraption for the vials to slot into, slotted out into a seven by four grid. It was a four week treatment of medicine she was still in the process of slotting in.

A midlander girl emerged from the small hut's kitchen, returning to the living room that Kodiana was diligently working in. The viera glanced up at the girl, who she reckoned was still in her late teens. Regardless of her age, she had a tired, weighted look in her eyes.

Placing the bag next to the vial holder, the girl offered Kodiana a tired smile. "Thanks for all of this." She walked over to a chair and practically collapsed in it, "Gran'll really appreciate it."

With a short nod, the viera finished her work. She tore the page from her journal, and offered it to the girl, who took it but didn't yet read it.

"All yer instructions'll be on there. Think it's pretty straight forward, personally, but if there's any problems, don't hesitate to ask me anythin'."

The girl nodded, looking down at the vials but not looking at them. "Right. Again. Thank you." She looked up at Kodiana, that tired look only growing, "Gran's gonna be 90 next month. Can you believe that?"

She nodded slowly, "Yeah? Be there 'fore I know it myself?"

The midlander appeared surprised for a moment, before nodding. "Your people leave for quite some time. I can't even imagine it."

"Neither can I, really, 'til I've seen it myself," Kodiana said, replacing a few items in her satchel.

The girl shook her head, "I just can't imagine living to be that old period. So far away so...Tiring." There was something in that last word.

The healer let out a sigh, "There any family around to help you with any a this?"

A long look took over the girl's face, "If there was, I wouldn't be here."

"Maybe ask around town. Plenty a folks in Gridania seem kind enough."

"Maybe so," the girl muttered, with the tone of someone who knew better. She shook her head, "'It's a pretty far walk', 'maybe we'll come visit next week'." Her head fell into her hands, "I hate this."

Standing up, Kodi made her way across the living room, and knelt down next to the girl. She already had a good deal of height on the girl, but now she felt even larger. Her arm extended around the girl, and she pulled her as close as she could manage with the arm of the chair in the way. "It's rough, I know it's rough."

"I just," the girl said, words starting and stopping abruptly through tears, "I hate it. I just. I want this to all be over, but then I feel terrible because." She gagged.

Kodi's head tilted towards the floor, resting against the girl's, "We'll get you through this. I promise."

Prompt 6: Extra Credit (List)

• Pick up order of gysahl greens. (KWEH! - the bird)
• Check in on patient from last week.
• Had to reset shoulder, idiot can't follow instructions.
• Left three vials of pain killer, recommended shot a night (do all of these people measure things in booze?).
• Wrote letter, left with postmoogle for delivery to Golmorre Jungle.
• Gave SPECIFIC instructions on where to leave it JUST outside the jungle. Can't say I didn't try, kupo.
• Gather herbs.
• Still need a few more to fully stock, cross off tomorrow.
• Restock potions.
• See above.
• Pay monthly rent in Lavender Beds.
• Check postmoogle again for letters.
• None.
• Go to market for weekly meals.
• House visit appointment at 5.
• Racist git, told me to get out the moment my hears poked through the door.
• Pick up order from the book store.
• Some stuff coming in tomorrow.

Prompt 5: Matter of Fact

The exchange was short as always. Which was far from the optimal way to describe it, as the person passing off the item was a lalafel.

Winttrach hunched over to press a sack of gil into the lalafel's palm, accepting a folder from his hand. Prying the seal on the folder off, she started leafing through the papers held within. After a few minutes of review, she glanced down at the lalafel who had conveniently just finished counting out his pay.

"How recent is this?"

He shrugged, running a hand through his onion shaped hair, "Probably a couple weeks old at this point."

"Do you know if the situation has improved at all?"

That got a derisive chuckle out of him, "Lady, nothing up there is improving right now."

Her eyes narrowed as she skimmed the page again, picking out a few details. Eventually she replaced the page in the folder, tucking it away into a bag. "I suppose I will not be traveling there soon."

Again the lalafel scoffed, turning to walk away "Unless you wanna carve a path through Garlemald lady, fact of the matter is you aren't getting to 'er. See ya next month."

Prompt 4: Clinch

 Knife met steak, fork met chunk of steak, chunk of steak met mouth. She chewed for a solid minute, eyes focused firmly on the clock on the wall for the entire duration. If she had to give Eorzea anything, it was that the quality of its food was absolutely sublime. The thought that this was considered low rate was impossible to fathom.

Brushing her white hair from her eyes, she leaned against the table, and continued her staring contest with the clock. Low rate as the establishment apparently was, she could do nothing but lavish it with praise. The food was intoxicating to her impoverished palate, and the staff had been more than accommodating when she had asked for a private corner. All it had taken was a bit of extra gil.

The same praise could not be given to the individual who was meant to meet her. They had been difficult to establish contact with, which was the nature of speaking to a thief. She was willing to dismiss that as the realities of her work. But that was where the difficulties were meant to end. Since their initial meeting, she had struggled to keep up the correspondence. Even establishing the details of this meeting had been difficult.

She stared at the clock for another fifteen minutes, setting her knife and fork on the table with an annoyed sigh, and raising a napkin to pat at her lips. Her currently incorporeal companion gave her the slightest taps on the shoulder, and she drifted to the hallway leading up to the private section. Someone was most certainly about to arrive. She could see the shifts in the hallways lighting, noticed the slight steps in the carpet. Even if the footsteps were silent, the signs were obvious.

"Do not waste any more of my time," she said coldly.

The raen emerged from her hiding spot in the hallway, grinning like an idiot. Her long pink hair shifted around untamed as she took her chair, and began digging into the steak that had sat there for an hour now.

Without waiting for her food to finish making its way down her gullet, the new arrival looked up at her contact, "When are you going to tell me what it is you wanna talk about lady?"

Bringing her napkin from her lap and setting it at on the table, the white haired woman took in a breath, calming herself from an outburst. "Now. And you shall not interrupt me, unless I ask you a question." There was no uncertainty in the words. Rolling her eyes, the raen motioned her to go on, loudly chewing with her mouth open.

"You are planning to steal something quite valuable," the white haired woman said flatly. The raen's face changed somewhat, looking more serious at the accusation, but any sort of response was cut off by the woman's raised finger.

"I will help you. You either accept my help, or you do not. If you do, you follow my plan to the letter. That is the offer. Do you accept it?"

The raen's face curled in offense, "Lady, I barely know you, and I don't need you to do my job. I don't even know your name."

"Angela Harkness," the hyur said flatly, leaning against the table. She didn't even offer the raen a moment to consider if it was an alias, "And you do. Else you will fail. You desire a rather expensive jewel, which is currently being toured around Ul'dah. You will try to steal it. You will fail." Again she slew the raen's opportunity to respond, "Yes or no. Answer now."

Sliding back in her seat, the raen clearly felt threatened. Her arms crossed, and she tried looking defiant, but whatever dismissive interest had been in her voice had vanished.

"Okay."

"Then we have a deal." 'Angela Harkness' stood, "I have supplies to gather, and will share further details with you at a later time. You will not make me wait the next time."

The raen nodded like a scolded child, staring at the steak on her plate, no longer feeling hungry. A chill ran down her spine as she felt a hand creep across her shoulder followed by what seemed to be high pitched laughter, long after her point of contact was long down the hallway.

Prompt 3: Muster

Her face was in the dirt. Again. So often had this happened when training with her mother, she had started to wonder if this wasn't the proper state for her face to be in. Perhaps if she tried hard enough she could learn to live like this. To siphon off nutrients from Thanalan's many varieties of dirt.

Someone was standing over her. It was obvious from the fact that the blazing sun wasn't burning her back. Said someone was tall, just based off of the sheer length of their shadow.

"Are you going to lay there all day, or shall we go again?" Her mother's voice was firm, but amused.

Winttrach brought her head up, twisting her neck to peer into her mother's armored boots, "The former does seem appealing."

Summer Lily clicked her tongue, nudging at Winttrach with the toe of her boot. "Get up, little dragon."

With an overly dramatic sigh, Winttrach brought herself up from the dirt, brushing off waves of dust from her leather armor. Her wooden sword and shield were retrieved soon after, and her feet spread in the stance that had been battered into her.

Her mother did much the same, producing a wooden set of arms herself. There was no question as to how Summer Lily was able push Winttrach into the dirt so easily. The former was as tall as a roegadyn woman could come, while the latter still had so far upward to grow. Winttrach's eyes lingered off to the very real sword and shield that sat off to the side of their little arena against a shriveled tree. The sound of wooden sword hitting shield brought her attention back to the fight.

"Eyes on your foe, attention on your foe. Survey your surroundings when given the moment," Summer Lily said, sword pointed straight at Winttrach. Winttrach nodded, bringing her shield up, bracing herself. Her mother refused to move.

"What is the item in your hand, little dragon?"

"Uh," Winttrach muttered, looking down at the wooden shield as though it might be something more, "A shield?"

"Correct." Her mother strode forward, slamming her sword into the shield in question as though to prove that point. "What does that shield entail?"

The stinging in Winttrach's arm quickly returned as she bore the brunt of the blade against the shield. Shifting her stance to follow where her mother retreated to, she prepared for another blow, "Restricted movement, improved defense."

Another sprint, another blow, another retreat. "Correct, to a point." Summer Lily leveled her sword at Winttrach's face, "What does it mean for you?"

"I don't know," Winttrach said without a clue. The wrong answer. This time the charge ended with a shield bash, which left Winttrach stumbling, though she managed to recover her balance.

"You are a shield," her mother said flatly, blade prepared to run again. "You are the protector. The wall between friend and foe." Another strike, which Winttrach managed to deflect, even though she was clearly wavering. "You are the rally point. A creator of courage." Her mother's voice grew louder as she spoke.

Provoked by those words, Winttrach took a more stoic stance, ready for the next blow. Her mother charged again, with her most fierce strike yet. The younger readied herself, and stood for as long as she could against her mother's blade. Which once again placed her flat on her back.

A sigh escaped her mother's lips, "We have a long way to go." 

Prompt 2: Sway

 "Down winding road and darkened wood,

Nestled in trees,

Doth stand a lonely manor house

Can you feel the frigid breeze?

For when the moon departs,

Specters walk the halls.

Pray you keep away,

When lonesome darkness falls."

-

Their chocobo had been restless for what had seemed to be the last few malms. Now the beasts' sense of unease had reached a fevered pitch. Their yellow feathers ruffled the longer they traveled down the dreary path, mostly dirt with few patches of cobblestone peppered in. Beaks clicked, wings fluttered, and at times their mounts refused to move at all.

"Think we'll have to leave 'em here," the roegadyn said, climbing down from his mount and turning to tie it to a tree.

Frieda did the same, pulling her bow and harp from their perches on the bird's bags.

"Is there far left to walk?" she asked, trying to peer further down the road only to be denied by its numerous twisting bends.

"Nay," the roegadyn replied, trudging on down the path. "Be there in a couple minutes."

Harp and bow slung across her back, the elezen followed in step behind the roegadyn. His name, as he had abruptly told her in the middle of their initial meeting, was Quiet Breeze. She recalled thinking it was tame for the wild looking man who had asked to speak with her after a song. His long hair was peppered with grey in it, and his beard had likely not received any sort of decent trim for some time.

His demeanor had not matched with such a gruff appearance. Even now, trudging down this aged trail, his footsteps were soft and light. The movements of his head as he double checked his surroundings was swift and clean.

"You never mentioned exactly what it is you wanted to do, sir Breeze," she said, trying to spark up the conversation again.

"I do believe I did, miss Morrow." His brow furrowed as though he was uncertain of that. "I wish to commission you for a song."

"Well yes, but you didn't specify anything further," she added meekly.

They rounded yet another bend, bringing a wrought iron gate into fence. Frieda stopped in her tracks, while the roegadyn continued on. Beyond the gate sat a large manor, that looked to be in the process of being swallowed by Eorzea itself. The entire house sagged, creating a wave effect to the wood. Windows had broken inward, sections of the roof had vanished, and the entire structure was one strong wind from blowing entirely inward.

-

"In younger times,

In timid woods,

A gentle couple's love,

Did bud inside that grand estate

As blessed from gods above.

To feast and dance

The night away,

Came neighbors near and far,

Enthralled by the grand duet,

Of the pair of beaming stars."

-

Quiet Breeze approached the gate, producing an aged ring of keys, and slowly flipped through it. Frieda watched him fiddle with the keys, stumbling with them, and trying a few more than once. Eventually he managed to open the gate, and stepped inside. They crossed the decaying grass in silence, Frieda in quiet observation, Quiet Breeze in mourning.

Picturing the grounds in their grander state was an easy feat for Frieda. To see the paths complete, the fountains flowing, and the hedges finely trimmed must have been a luxurious sight. The path they walked was wide, perfect for a carriage to be pulled, of course by only the most illustriously bred chocobos. Those that were not beasts of burden, but instead signs of prestige.

A once grand staircase worked its way up to a large open door. Once again the key ring emerged from the roegadyn's jacket pocket, and once again he fiddled and fussed with them. Throwing the door open with a sorrowful creak, he entered into the sagging foyer.

-

"Until a night of darkest moon,

Did foulest souls descend,

Upon that gloried place,

Whose guests would meet their end.

Gold and jewels were their demand,

Sharpened blades did swing,

A herd pressed through the hallowed halls,

Which echoed hollow screams."

-

She stood at the precipice of the darkened foyer, arms drawing around herself. What light found its way through the door served to illuminate an ancient scene. Numerous expensive tables and chairs lined the halls, framed around a formerly grand staircase that lead up to the second floor. Silver and gold platters and wares lined every table, their metallic sheen stolen by the layers of dust that the years had covered them in.

The old man found a turned over chair, brushed a few years of dust from it, and took a seat. He looked at the bard expectantly, motioning her in. With a few hesitant steps, she allowed herself to enter the desecrated place.

Spreading his arms dramatically, a motion he had practiced since devising his plan, the roegadyn turned to Frieda. "This is what I would like to commission."

Frieda took in the room once more, before her gaze settled on the man. "I don't understand."

He produced a handkerchief and wiped at his nose, "I can't claim to understand it either. But what I do know is this, miss Morrow. My lord and lady did meet their end in this house, many years ago. And they have not been allowed to rest since."

Her eyes went wide with fright as her mind gripped those words. Ghosts or spirits had never been part of the bargain she had entered. She shuddered backing away again, "I still do not understand what part you wish me to play in anything."

His large hand flew up, halting her for a moment. With even greater hesitation, she drew herself back into the foyer. "It is not truly you I seek, miss Morrow. But adventurers. And yet I have never been able to draw them in myself." She nodded slowly, prompting him to continue. "But what draws in those with a sense of adventure more than the thought of being framed in legend by the song of a bard? What would pull one to this place faster than a slot to be filled in song?"

She felt herself nodding, understanding.

-

"Forever moored in mournful place,

Chained at very soul,

Still stands a couple,

Hands locked in horror's pull.

For a set of those, brave of heart,

To enter their domain,

And slay their cruel facsimile,

Else ever they'll remain."

Her hands continued across the harp strings to sustain the note, voice drawn out for effect. When finally she released the note, she bowed her head dramatically, and laid her harp upon her lap. The inn was silent for a moment, before breaking into applause.

Smiling, Frieda stood and bowed, eyes scanning the crowd. She let out a sigh of relief as she walked off stage, noting a party at the back. A serious looking man was nudging his cohort, and pointing towards the notes he had made in his journal. Said cohort was nodding thoughtfully, before producing a map. Taking in a deep breath, Frieda found her way back to her seat near the wall.

The scent of adventure lingered in the air.

Prompt 1: Crux

"Call it," he said, holding the gil between his fingers, head side faced towards her.

She smirked and rolled her eyes.

"Heads."

Winttrach's eyes followed the coin as it spiraled through the air, finally landing in the midlander's sweating palm. He turned his palm slowly, as though the contents of it could bite him. His face fell the moment he set eyes on it, feeling the sting of the coin's result.

"Tell me how you do that one of these days," he muttered glumly, turning to motion one of the barkeeps over. To both of their surprise, one was already approaching.

The elezen, hair covered fully by a wrap, leaned down to look at Winttrach. His thumb jerked backwards towards the entrance of the Quicksand. "Fella out front's lookin' for ya."

Her eyebrows knitted together as she leaned over, trying to get a glimpse of who the requester might be. "Who is it?"

The elezen shrugged, standing back up, "Hells if I know, standin' out on the street now I think. Won't miss him, trust me."

She and the midlander exchanged a glance, before she shrugged and stood. "Can't hurt, I suppose," she said, making her way out the door.

Bustling as the streets outside the Quicksand were, the barkeep had been correct. Winttrach identified the man without a second glance. His aged face, with both his hair and beard graying, stood out against the bright white and blue of his armor. He was leaned back against the railing near the entrance, eyes locking onto her the moment she stepped out of the building.

His hand raised in greeting, motioning her closer. Bright as his smile seemed to be, she felt drawn to the tired look in his eyes. Her stance stiffened as she approached, leaning against the railing as to look out on the street. He turned to follow suit.

"Long time no see, girl."

"Same to you, old man."

There was a pause as he turned to size her up. "How have you been?"

"Best as I can mange, I suppose," she said. Her mind ran over the proper response to that. Was she well, was she doing alright for herself, she had never been able to decide.

"Figured as much," he said, fingers tapping against the railing. "Watched you fight in the arena the other day. Did pretty well, all things considered."

That managed a laugh from her, "And what is that supposed to mean?"

His armored boot nudged at her shoe, "Feet were a bit wide, stance a bit broad. Nothing that can't be worked on."

"Still won," she said dryly, "So it couldn't have been that bad."

He chuckled in return, preparing to comment of further, before she cut him off, voice serious.

"Why am I out here, Gideon."

"Well," he began, choosing his words carefully, "Watching you fight made me think of something."

"Did it."

"It did," the rhythm of his fingers on the rail picked up tempo. "I've a few positions to fill for the Sultansworn. I thought perhaps you might consider it again."

Her eyes closed and she let out a deep breath. Much to his surprise, she didn't immediately dismiss the notion. It almost disappointed him. He had prepared a rebuttal and everything. Instead she stood there in silence, staring out at the passersby on the street.

"Give me time to think on it," she finally said.

His eyebrow arched, "Do you mean that, or do are you just hoping to run me off?"

"Both," she said.

Gideon considered her for a moment. With little hesitation, he reached up to put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed, and turned to leave. "You know how to reach me."

"I do," she said, gaze not diverting from the street.