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As the sun sets on the arid port town of Vesper Bay, most of the townspeople are beginning to settle down for the night. No children play in the street at this time of night. Vendors close away their stalls, pulling curtains around their goods to protect them from the wind and sand. For the most part, it is quiet. The water of the Rhotano Sea laps against the pier and the occasional boat creaks. A faint chocobo “kweh” can be heard from the local porter stables every so often. Sometimes even a “wark.” Even so, the voices of the birds are beginning to settle as the moon - no longer accompanied by its red companion - rises, casting a beautiful twilight over Thanalan.
Despite this, if one were to listen close enough, they might just hear something else.
The clink of glass. The crackle of a warm freshly-lit fireplace. People laugh and cheer and sing to merry tunes. The sounds are muffled, echoing from a chamber underground. As it turns out, one of the residents of Vesper Bay is holding a get-together. A celebration of the establishment of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, and their new home, the Waking Sands.
“By the Gods, you’d think I was the only one here with a good aim!” Thancred brags, landing yet another bullseye on the dart board. Even after several intoxicating cups, it’s evident that this is a honed skill of his.
“You throw knives for a living. If you performed any less than perfect at a game of darts, I’d have Minfilia throw you from the building herself.” Y’shtola muses in return, twiddling a branch in her hands, gently channeling aether from one end to the other, and it glows faintly as she does so.
“She’d- she’d never do such a thing!” Thancred exclaims, though he clearly takes no true offence. He’s beginning to stumble over his words.
“I would never do what, now?” A gentle voice speaks. Minfilia walks over, carrying some drinks on a tray. Most are alcoholic, though, notably, she hands a glass of water to Thancred. He scowls.
“Oh, worry yourself not. I only jest at Thancred’s expense.” Y’shtola giggles.
“We’re making fun of Thancred? Can I join in?” Yda dances over, having been mingling with some of her associates across the hall.
“I’ll thank you all to keep quiet.” Thancred mutters, readying his next dart. “Papalymo, care to join me for a doubles’ match?” He calls out, trying to hide his Limsan cadence behind drunken slurring. The Lalafell, who’s sitting in an armchair by the fire and peering over a tome, lets out a disgruntled sigh.
“With or against?” He asks, though clearly he already grows weary of the party. These five are far from the only people present - at least ten others sit or stand dotted around the room, chatting amongst themselves and having a lovely time. Altogether, it’s quite the lively environment.
Before Thancred can answer, Yda butts in. “Um - against, obviously. What do you say, ‘Lymo? You and me against Thancred and…”
“I’d love a turn, if I may!” Minfilia says, a smile on her face. She’s excited to get involved.
“Minfilia! Yes, join me.” Thancred hands a selection of darts to Minfilia. “Uh… Right then! Shall we play for 501?”
As the four prepare their new match of darts, Y’shtola becomes distracted. She is acutely aware of someone’s presence… or rather, lack thereof.
Their laughs come crashing against mine eardrums like terrible waves. I am but a small ship in a vast sea of sounds, and sights, and smells, and feelings, and… More experiences than I know how to describe. Even my poetic affinity fails me now. It is too much.
A young Elezen sits curled up on his bed, huddling against an old blanket with a familiar scent. The hood of his cloak is pulled tight around his head, pressing his pointed ears against his skull in a desperate attempt to block out sound. Though he’s taller than the rest of the scions, and has a neatly groomed beard, at 25 years of age he feels more akin to a child. He’s scared.
There’s too much noise coming from the hall across the way. Too many clinks of glass, scrapes of cutlery against china. Too many laughs. Too many voices. Too many footsteps.
It’s so loud.
T’would be imprudent of me to interrupt their celebration. They commit no sin, and yet… I cannot hear. I cannot think. I cannot feel. It numbs and consumes my mind. Why must it be this way, again, and again, and again? Why must I, ordinary as I am, be cursed with such an impediment?
This isn’t the first time Urianger has lapsed in such a way as a result of the world that surrounds him. No, he’s always been aware that he differs from others, though study as he might, the answer as to why evades him. Perhaps he is just awkward. Perhaps he has a fear of people. Perhaps he would be better off alone.
So he hides, in his room, with his special blanket. The scent it holds is reminiscent of the perfume of an old friend from his teenage years. The one person who understood him.
She was pushy and loud - the exact kind of person he would normally hope to evade. Despite this… she was kind. She wouldn’t overstep his boundaries. She would recognise when she went too far. Above all, she was the only one who knew how to cool the fire of anguish that consumed him at times like this.
“Deep breaths for me, okay?” Moenbryda, a teen Roegadyn, whispers gently to her companion - a young Elezen, knees pulled to his chest, rocking his body forward and back, hands shaking and flapping around his head as he wails and panics.
“You don’t have to stay in there. We can go somewhere quieter. That will make you feel better, won’t it?”
Urianger Augurelt, a 16 year old student of the Sharlayan Studium, has just fled from a lecture.
He’s unable to respond with words, struggling to retain control of his own body. It feels as though everything is happening at once. Every sound. Every touch. Every thought. Through the wailing and whining, he manages a small “mmhmm.” Usually his sentences are a lot, lot grander. Moenbryda is worried.
Moenbryda pauses for a moment. She wants to assess the situation. She’s seen Urianger react to stimuli like this before - last time it was after the alarum was raised for fear of a Labyrinthos breach - the trolls were quickly rounded up and taken back underground, but the amplified sound of the bell used to signify danger across the city rang in his ears more than ever. She doesn’t know many others - if any at all - who have the same sensitivity to input that Urianger does. Nevertheless, while others would poke and jab at him for his ‘odd’ behaviour, Moenbryda would do her best to offer him kindness in their stead.
People passing by the hallway where the two sit are beginning to become concerned at the boy’s severe distress.
“Pray tell, what is the matter? The studium chirurgeon should be able to attend to him if he’s been hurt.” One professor remarks, though their lack of true concern is clear - they’re much used to Urianger’s ‘problem child’ behaviours. “You must quiet him down, lest he disturb the ongoing classes. Take him home for the day.”
Moenbryda rolls her eyes at the professor once he’s turned away, and goes back to tending to her friend.
“Can you stand?” She asks, slowly and gently. She reaches out her hand, and then hesitates. She knows Urianger is temperamental in times like this. The last thing she wants to do is upset him further. Then, she continues forward. She entangles her fingers in his hair - it had been tied up, though in his panic, Urianger had pulled the tie loose.
Urianger flinches, and then settles.
Moenbryda continues stroking his hair, scooting up closer to him and, when she feels it’s the right time, moves her arm to rest around his shoulder.
“Let’s take a peek in the library, eh?” She says, a while after Urianger has become still and silent. He nods, and Moenbryda helps him to his feet.
Urianger, almost immediately, leans in for a hug. He nestles his face into Moenbryda’s shoulder before she’s even registered that his arms are wrapped around her waist. Not that she’d have it any other way. She immediately goes to hug him back.
“Are you feeling a bit better, Uri?” She asks as they pull apart.
Urianger nods, still silent. It’s not often the case, but Moenbryda’s going to have to drive the conversation this time.
“So! Library?”
“Library.” Urianger finally chokes out. “Thank you.”
But Moenbryda is still in Sharlayan. She’s not here to calm Urianger’s silent cries - he’s trained himself not to wail nor sob in the presence of company any more. The stares he receives only make it worse.
Still, though he feels so very, very alone, he hears what he thinks might be… a knock on the door.
“Urianger?” He hears a voice. It’s Y’shtola.
Though he narrates his anguish in his mind, he finds himself incapable of speaking once more. Even so, he wants to answer. He wants to call out and ask for help.
So he just manages a single grunt of acknowledgement. Y’shtola takes this as her invitation inside. The room is dark - nary a single candle lit. Urianger sits in darkness on his bed, cradling his blanket as he rocks and shakes.
“Your senses have been overwhelmed again, have they not?” She asks, firmly as ever, though gently. She can tell her colleague is in a lot of pain.
“Mm.”
Y’shtola approaches Urianger’s bed. “May I sit?”
“Mm.”
She sits. Urianger continues to rock back and forth, pressing the blanket closer to his face. He cannot bear to look Y’shtola anywhere near the eye.
“It’s because of our office party in the hall, isn’t it? I’ll go and tell them to lower the noise. I’ll even throw in that it was a complaint from a neighbour and not from you, if you would prefer.” She offers. It’s a kind offer, the sort Urianger had secretly, desperately hoped for. Even so, he shakes his head at this.
“Fun.” He says. “They are having….” He’s almost like a different person in this state, barely able to construe the right words. Y’shtola knows how serious this is.
“Thancred’s drunken mayhem is no excuse for putting our trusted prophecy expert out of his comfort zone, now, is it?” She reasons.
Urianger shrugs. “Tis of…” He swallows a sob. “No import.”
“It most definitely is, Urianger. ‘Tis plain to see you’re in anguish, and high time the party came to an end, besides. A neighbour really may come knocking at our door to complain ere long, and I’d rather not make our arrival in Thanalan too… boisterous.” Y’shtola continues, tail flicking. She doesn’t like it when other people are more stubborn than her.
Urianger sighs. Y’shtola has plainly won the argument. Though it’s hard to see in the darkness, she offers him a sympathetic smile.
“You make yourself comfortable here while I speak to Minfilia. I’ll return anon with a fresh pot of tea, and you may keep me here or shoo me away as you please.” She asserts, heading back towards the main hall. Before she shuts the door, though, Urianger speaks.
“Y’shtola.”
“Yes?”
“I… thank thee. For thine kindness. For… understanding.”
“Of course. What kind of friend would I be if I were to leave you rotting in a dark room while we drink merrily and play games?”
“Thou regard me... as thine friend?”
“Is there a reason why I would not?”
Urianger is quiet. It is not a moniker he is gifted often. Ever has he been a loner, sitting in the corner and minding his own business… Until Moenbryda came along.
“No. No reason.”