Chapter Text
Gridania was much as she expected, much as she dreaded. Though the Greenwrath no longer threatened them as before the Calamity, its inhabitants clung to their bigotry; Leana found it difficult to simply be within the city, but she was determined to stay until she'd strengthened her skill with bow and arrow. She sought out the outcasts—refugees, Keepers of the Moon, other Duskwights like her—and found a former goldsmith, now making a living selling viands to adventurers, to give her a third tattoo: the bramble again, over her left eye, a perfect reflection of the right side.
Still, she was not prepared for just how difficult the Archers' Guild would be; she did not realize she had been carrying the hope of meeting some decent people there until it died in her breast. Instead, the Guildmaster let one of her senior apprentices harass everyone who was not a Gridanian Wildwood. By the time Guildmaster decreed that Leana subject herself to Silvairre's instruction to continue to advance in the guild, she'd had enough of the rotten city and its people and set to the road once more.
The next afternoon, after consulting with Momodi about a secretive group she's been invited to join, Leana lets her feet take her to the Hall of Flames. Raubahn must have left word with the guards—they let her in without a word of protest. It does not occur to her that people have started to know who she is.
"Champion," he greets her, standing behind the imposing desk.
"Just Leana, if you please."
"As you wish, Leana," he smiles. "Ah, but where are my manners—have a seat."
The office is simply furnished—desk, modest cupboards, a couple of armchairs; Flames standards hung from the walls, braziers to keep the cold away in the mild Ul'dahn evenings—but everything seems oversized, as if to fit its occupant; it's easy to forget that the man is only a Hyur, but he is taller than even she—a veritable giant.
"It was a kind gesture last night, General" she says, making herself comfortable on the chair closest to the door.
That look again—half-surprise in his eyes, not hidden fast enough—that she's coming to be familiar with.
"If you won't take a title, then allow me to be just Raubahn here," he dissembles, but her eyes are insistent. "'Twas nothing, lass."
And he's right—it's a small gesture, to buy a tavern a round of drinks, even to pay for the meals, in the grand scheme of things. Surely he can afford it—anyone who's anyone in Ul'dah could. But few would, and even fewer would do so quietly.
"Aye, a small thing," she agrees, and startles a small noise out of him, amazed at the frankness of the accusation in the moss-green eyes. "But kind nonetheless."
He looks at her a moment, and she holds his gaze; he sees no malice there, only honesty, and gives her a nod.
"Ah, but I believe I promised you a proper glass of arak," he says, placing the palms of his hands on the desk.
"And have you ever heard of a self-respecting adventurer turning down a free drink?"
"That I have not," he chuckles, standing. He walks to a cupboard by the wall and busies himself there, returning with a bottle of clear liquid and two small glasses on a tray; he turns back to the sideboard and fetches a pitcher and a small covered bucket with tongs, placing them on the table. He seems... downright enthusiastic and Leana can't help but smile.
"Now," he starts. "First, the arak." He pours a couple of fingers' worth into the glasses. "Then, water," he says, pouring from the carafe. "And last, the ice." He opens the lid on the cylindrical bucket with a twist, and adds a couple of small pieces of ice to each glass. "Always in that order, mind, or it turns oily."
Leana looks at the ice bucket with curiosity.
"Ice crystals?"
"Aye; double-walled, with a layer of shards between the metal walls. A small luxury."
She raises an eyebrow at that; simple, perhaps, but no small luxury in the desert heat. Raubahn's voice brings her back to the present.
"Try a sip, lass," he urges, and she does.
"Oh! It's lovely!" she says, letting thoughts of dusty encampments leave her for the moment. "Still strong but... refreshing."
Raubahn raises his own glass to his lips, a satisfied look in his face; he feels a little proud, truth be told, to be able to share a little of his homeland with someone without having to fight every step of the way.
"Where are you from, lass?"
Her face lights up, and it's surprisingly lovely this way.
She thought at first she might simply ramble in the Twelveswood for a time. But setting foot in the Central Shroud felt too close to her old home; she followed the roads south instead, retracing the steps of her first journey to Thanalan. Perhaps she just wanted to see how the places she last witnessed in desolation had rebuilt, to wipe the images of death and horror she could not admit still haunted her at night.
And they did rebuild—roads, aetherytes, settlements. But some places were now completely unreachable and some losses were irrevocable—Eastern Thanalan, where she first picked up the sword, was riven in twain: a massive cliff ran through its center, a scar both soothed and rubbed raw by the inexorable flow of the waters. It put her too much in mind of home, and she moved on quickly.
The people made do with what they could; she avoided beasts and bandits with ease, but they did seem more prevalent than before; perhaps it was her own mood, but there was now an undercurrent of desperation, helplessness, that survivors of the Calamity—and they were all survivors now, were they not?—seemed to share.
Much to her chagrin, upon returning to Ul'dah she found herself embroiled in Crown affairs almost immediately. It started with a small request for help with chores from an old stationmaster, and ended with her recovering the Sultana's crown. The Sultana herself seemed to take some liking to her, and offered a banquet in her name, to raise Leana as Champion of Ul'dah and friend of the Crown. It was enough to make one wonder about the Gods' sense of humor.