Prompt 5: Symptom

 Working with the ill had its benefits. Not many benefits, now that she thought about it, but a few. Even after their emergence in Eorzea, after she could finally feel comfortable removing her glamour, people still had a tendency to stare at Viera from time to time. Some went further, for better or for worse. Mostly worse.

She had had people throw themselves at her feet, usually bards she had found, praising her beauty. When she prompted them to move on, she found them doing to same to others in a crowd. Others had choice words to say about their new long eared citizens, which were unkind. Those who were sympathetic made it clear this wasn't the first time that Eorzeans were distrustful. The Domans feeling their nation had encountered similar distrust, and Ishgardians had gone so far has to shut themselves away for years.

It went against the more open feeling of the nation, she found. In a time when the city states were forming a larger pact with each other, that they could still feel that sense of alien fear. That there was still that other from beyond. Perhaps it would permeate for some until the Viera had helped save Eorzea, she mused. That may be the true deciding factor.

The sick did not have such an issue, she found. Most of the time. Often enough they felt too weak to make any complaint on who was treating them, and those who clearly wished to either couldn't or wouldn't put up a fuss. In general there was just minimal talking when dealing with a patient. They didn't want to be there, and frankly neither did she, which meant both parties wanted any sort of appointment or checkup to be done as soon as possible.

She removed a small vial from the satchel slung around her shoulder, letting the liquid contents collect on into her palm. Making a fist, she allowed her gloved hand to get drenched, before reaching forward to slather the old man before her's forehead. He ground his teeth and grunted, trying to not complain of the stinging sensation that prickled across his skin. She stood, and removed her gloves.

Returning to the front room of the little hut, Kodiana sat next to the man's granddaughter. She removed another vial from her satchel, this one larger than the last, and set it in front of her.

"A drop of this in his drink every mornin' and every evenin'. After a week, if things haven't gotten better send word," she said.

The girl nodded, motioning to a pouch of gil, "Your payment."

It was with some reluctance that Kodiana took the money. Many families she helped couldn't afford what they were even giving, and she tried to be as reasonable as she could. But the unfortunate fact of the matter was that she had her own needs to watch out for as well. She offered the granddaughter a pat on the shoulder, and waited to see if there was anything more that needed to be said, before she opted to take her leave.

There wasn't.

Prompt 4: Baleful

 Agatha held the crystal up, letting it catch the dim light of the tavern's torchs. The seller looked on, seeming rather pleased with himself. He sat across the tab, hands clasped as he rested back in his cheap wooden chair.

"No imperfections," he said, pride seeping into his voice.

"So it would seem," she responded, retrieving a few more from the pouch she had been provided. She checked them much as she did the first crystal. "Very well."

The merchant's hands greedily went towards the sack of gil that was offered to him. He stood, offered Agatha a short bow, and left the tavern as quickly as he arrived. Her eyes rolled at the display. She replaced the crystals into the leather pouch, and set them off to the side of the table. Leaning back in her chair, she returned to nursing her drink, and debating if she felt like making a few scribbles in her journal. The book was becoming rather full, and she would likely need to pick up another one at the rate she was going.

Her eyes scanned the few people remaining in the bar, settling in on a man fidgeting in the corner. She had to lean to her left to get a better look, straining her eyes to see in the dim light. He sat alone, and fiddled with his hands. Rarely he picked up his drink, bringing it up to his lips for such a short time she could assume he barely had to take so much as a sip. His clothes were ragged, save for the hood he had pulled up around his face. And while it was certainly of a higher quality than the rest of his attire, it was clearly recently bought in a rush. It barely fit him, as though he had pulled it out of a pile and had only the time to check that it was not too small.

An ache began to grow from the back of her mind. On instinct her hands ran to her temples and she bent forward. The pain ingulfed her entire head until it disappeared into a bright light, along with the rest of the bar. The images her surroundings were replaced with were crisp and clear. A series of scenes, each shorter than the last. First the man sitting at home, debating financials with his wife. Next he stood in an Ul'dan alley, hesitantly opening a door. A bag of gold being presented. Weeks later men arriving at his home.

Just as soon as the sensation came it had left. She continued to sit there with her eyes closed, taking short breathes. For months she had lived with the visions now. There was no way to control them, no way to predict them. No rhyme or reason on what it was that triggered them. They were vivid enough that when she opened  her eyes she feared she wouldn't be in the same place. Her eyes opened to reveal the tavern still around her, its creaky floor still under her feet, and an unfamiliar hand on her shoulder. Looking over her shoulder, her eyes met with a short miqo'te man's. She couldn't help but feel as though she had seen him before.

"You alright there ma'am?" he asked, looking rather concerned.

She took in yet another breath, and nodded, "Yes, fine. Drink was a bit too strong."

He released his grip on her shoulder, and returned the nod, "Perhaps try something lighter. Have a good evening."

With a sense of purpose in his gait, the miqo'te continued further into the tavern, before welcoming himself into the nervous man's booth. She watched the nervous man lean further back into the booth. If it were possible, she half believed he were trying to become one with the cushion and wood itself. It was impossible to tell with the miqo'te's back to her, but she could only assume he looked pleased with himself.

Intervention was not required of her. Nor was it expected of her. But she couldn't help herself. From some foreign memory, she counted out a stack of gil from her coin pouch, transferring it into another. Stepping from the table, she followed in the miqo'te's footsteps, and tossed the pouch onto the table between the two men. The nervous man's eyes went wide, and miqo'te's eyebrow raised.

"Double check me," Agatha said calmly.

The miqo'te snorted, and opened the pouch, bean counting in his head. His brow furrowed as he looked up at Agatha. "Right on the mark."

The poor man's face went flush, his has clasping together around Agatha's arms as he spewed an endless amount of platitudes. She tore his arm away from him, and strode out of the bar to leave the two dumbfounded. She paused at the top of the tavern's steps, and took in a breath of the dusty night air.

"Considering what you went in there to get, I find it hilarious that ya did that," a lilting voice from nowhere whispered into her ear. She rolled her eyes, and refrained from saying anything as she stepped into the street.

Prompt 3: Scale

 The winds of Ishgard never seemed to cease, much to Frieda's annoyance. It was particularly frustrating due to the fact that she regularly wore a feathered cap. The cap, along with the rest of her attire, had been recommended by a tailor who claimed it was a signature bardic look, which she couldn't argue with. Many bards, as she had learned from her times in taverns and inns, were easily identified by their hats. But it did mean that her hand was constantly clutching the thing to her head, or she was forced to hold it to keep it from flying off into the deep ravine that surrounded the city.

As of late she had frequented Ishgard. Thanks to an extensive clientele of nobles, all of who seemed to be terrified about their houses being lost to the passage of time in the face of imminent doom, she was making a fair amount of money. Often they were asking her to simply record what they said, but the more intense tasks required her to turn their family's history into an inspiring song. Which tended to be difficult, as it was hard to turn generations' worth of sitting around and drinking wine and disparaging the poor into anything inspiring. Unless you were a drunkard, who might find such a lifestyle aspirational.

Were she to make something out of all of their stories, it would have been how idle Ishgard had been until recent years had forced it to begin making changes. She could not imagine how a city so large could remain the same over such a long passage of time. Compared to Gridania it was massive, and that was before one accounted for the surrounding mountains. It had taken many grave things to make Ishgard begin to move. Perhaps the sheer size of it meant that more momentum was required for it to begin moving down the hill.

She was generally of the opinion that it was better late than never in the case of good change, which on the whole seemed to be what Ishgard had experienced. Where the city had felt so cold when she first visited, in the metaphorical sense as the city always felt cold in the literal sense, now there was a sense of warmth. The people no longer feared for their lives. A horde of wyrms were not at threat of descending over the walls, the issue of equality appeared to be being dealt with. Those who had done historical wrongs had or were being dealt with. The city still needed work, but the ball had been sent rolling.

As if on cue, a quick gust of wind and shadow sped past her. Her hands shot to her hat, and she braced herself as she gazed towards the sun. A dragon, wings spread wide continued on its way past the city. She remembered the first few times she had seen such happen. It was quite mesmerizing to watch, followed by a sense of wonder as she saw the other people on the street breathe a sigh of relief.

With the dragon out of sight, she continued on her way. Something drifting down in the breeze caught her eye further down the road. She reached out to let it fall into her hand, half expecting it to melt away the moment it made contact. Looking back up at the mountain the dragon had soared over, Frieda smiled. She pocketed the scale it had shed as a keepsake for this trip to the frozen north.

Prompt 2: Aberrant

 The beast was large, at least the size of two small huts sitting next to each other. Its horned head reared up, it's deep roar filling the snowy valley. Within moments it was charging again. Axe still brandished, Makoto rolled to side for what felt like the millionth time. She had sliced at the beast for what was beginning to feel like hours, and yet it showed no sign of tiring. Thankfully, neither did she.

The local Eorzeans, she believed they were from Ishgard though she could barely keep up with the different designations of the locals nor did she care to very much, had referred to the creature as a 'Behemoth'. She considered it a fair moniker, given the beast's size, if highly uncreative. Behemoth invoked no true sense of the thing, outside of its size relative to the average person.

Apparently behemoths were not uncommon in the Coerthan mountains. Which meant that adventurers were in constant demand, for behemoths did so love to go where they pleased, and that so often happened to be settlements full of delicious looking people. Thus a fairly regular culling was in order. Makoto had staked her claim on this fiend and after would could barely be called a hunt, for behemoths are not exactly hard to see nor track, their battle began.

This was not her first hunt. Makoto Okeya was a dotharl of the Steppe, and her people were well acquainted with fighting for their food. Many of them lived for the thrill of it, for those times when battling another tribe was not an option. She had never found it very fulfilling. Beasts, she had quickly learned, are quite predictable. Even though some are formidable, and many others simply refuse to die, they work off of simple instinct and behavior.

The behemoth was no exception, its behaviors were very simple. When she was at range, it charged her. When she was close, it became a storm of teeth and claw, one swipe of which was at risk of cleaving her in half. And rarely it called down an elemental bolt. She wasn't quite sure how it managed to do that as of yet. But it was very impressive.

With a few yalms between them, she readied herself for the beast to charge again. The canyon their duel resided in was narrow, which had required her to time her rolls carefully. It lowered itself, and she did the same, waiting for her window of opportunity to present itself. To her surprise, the beast did not charge. Instead it slammed the full of itself against the side of the canyon, sending a quake across the entire formation. She felt the ground under her feet tremble, and wondered if it was at risk of crumbling away. Above her flakes of snow were scrambling downward, as well as a few pebbles. Her gaze drifted upward in time to see the cascade of boulders making their way down.

Eyes growing wide, she scrambled, trying to judge their impact point to avoid being crushed. Just as one rock slammed into the ground her right and she readied herself to dodge the next, she found another projectile slamming into her. Her mind scrambled to make sense of anything as she was flung across the canyon, making contact with the ground just in time for the behemoth to strike again. Her heart began to race, her hands shaking as it continued to rage at her, snapping and clawing as she recovered and fled.

Makoto Okeya was a dotharl warrior. This was a simple truth. The descriptors themselves were also rather simple. Dotharl, those of the xaela who did not fear but embraced death. A warrior, one who channeled their rage into their axe and cleaved their foes in twain with the resultant swing. At the moment she felt like neither. There was no anger in her as she turned in time to bury her axe into the behemoth's shoulder, sending it reeling. Only a desperate panic filled her as she unleashed a fury of terrified blows against the creature.

Even after the beast was felled she felt that fear. Could still see it tearing hell down the canyon as it raced towards her. Perhaps that was meant to be her death. Should she have turned and faced it there? Let out a bellowing battle cry and leapt to what surely would have been her end? She did not know. Slumping against the side of the canyon, she could only ponder. For now, she felt rather tired, and even the freezing stone was not too uninviting.

Prompt 1: Foster

Many consider Gridania's main export to be its lumber. The vast forests, all well kept and managed by the local conjurers, allowed for a healthy logging industry. Others believed that Gridania's value lay in its herbs. Indeed the area was an alchemist's dream, with so many plants to pluck and turn into paste that it made the mind boggle. These too were tended to and documented, making them easy to find. Those in charge of tourism claimed that Gridania was truly great because of her people. The tried and true friendly forest folk were the true cornerstones of their secluded society.

Frieda presumed that it was a bit of everything, really. But her favorite thing about Gridania was that, due to the nature of it (quite literally), there were so many nooks and crannies to call your own. Those secluded spots where one was left with naught but themselves and their thoughts. Or so most tended to think.

The clearing she sat in now was one such place. The perfect place to practice the harp, as she had learned when she was much younger. It was the place she often found her brother during quiet summer evenings. Times when the tasks in the shop could be completed early or late, and there would be sun to burn regardless. Over the years she found him making the trek less and less, until inevitably he had ceased altogether.

She plucked on a string, considering such a moment. When the rocks and trees were so much larger, such that she could still hide behind them. The gentle, if unsteady notes her brother played, her head rested back against a tree, just out of sight. It had always felt like a game, to make sure that she went unseen. Of course, she always won, thanks to the fact that her brother never let on that he always knew she was there.

Just the thought of it fostered a sense of peace. She strummed another chord on her harp. Oh how such a simple feeling felt so rare. She had thought the act of being home would be enough, but she found only a hollow sense of the familiar in town.

The shops still ran, the streets still bustled, and yet many were absent. Marching off to war, as it were, for the fate of the realm. Such seemed to have been the way of things for so long. Even her family's shop hadn't felt right. Her mother and father, ever the charitable and logical pair, and shifted their focus from the shoes of everyday wear to the boots required for an army. They were helping with the effort to equip the Serpents, and when that quota had been met, they moved on to Flames and the Malestrom. Her brother helped as per usual, with little change in his life beyond the fact that the woman he had fancied had marched off to battle herself.

It was only with that serene sense of nothingness that she truly felt at home. At peace. She disliked it. Always had she craved some sense of adventure, of excitement, and to chronicle such. But as things were, all she felt was a pang of longing. The songs ill portrayed this feeling, she felt. Perhaps because many in a tavern's crowd already knew it too well.