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Thavnair is lively enough that it would be possible to hide in plain sight should he want to; he could likely find some local garb, a suitable task and make his living here. He would disappear in a bustling crowd even in a small village, shrouded by vivid colours and strong fragrances. He is sure he could grow used to the way they tickle his nose. The air is warm and humid, and it clings to his skin underneath the layers of his uniform jacket in a way that is almost comforting in its familiarity. He never did get used to how cold the nights were on the plains of Ilsabard, no matter how many years passed. The damp air here feels more like home, more like the humidity of dew clinging to the thick foliage of a jungle. It is freeing — tempting even — to consider making his home here, but the journey across was far too short. His body does not feel ready to stop, his legs still itching to move, move, move. He feels like he is being pulled at, and when the direction is away he feels no need to fight it.
His uniform is wrinkled and far below acceptable standards after days stuffed deep into the bottom of his pack, but it will get its last round of use before needing to be safely disposed of. He checks his pocket to ensure his identification pass is still in place, shifts his pack higher over his shoulders, and walks towards the pier. There are plenty of risks to his plan — the most obvious one being leaving a trail — yet if it allows him to leave more swiftly without having to linger to gather up the funds it will be worth it. He knows he looks far from believable in his rumpled uniform and heavy backpack, without so much as a single fellow soldier in his entourage, but it is a risk he is willing to take.
The last risk Ruska pyr Onus will ever take.
While it is true that Thavnair is a neutral city-state on paper, choosing to stay uninvolved in the constant war on the continent, it is equally true that this is only possible because Garlemald chooses to allow it for their own benefit. There is much to be gained from controlling such an influential trading hub, but even more so in allowing it to flourish under the guise of neutrality.
The concept is more familiar to him than he would like.
It is clear he is not the first Imperial the traders of Yedlihmad have allowed passage. The large, thick-skinned attendant hardly takes a second look at his identification before his ticket is stamped and he is ushered further down the pier with the piece of yellow-tinted paper in his hand. On it, written in black ink, is his passage to wherever the first ship leaving port will take him. Limsa Lominsa it reads. What must be his ship is being loaded some yalms to his left, Thavnairians dressed in colourful silks even while doing hard labour are carrying boxes of wares on board, seemingly without even breaking a sweat. Soon it will be his turn. Soon, the ship will sail and he will be another step closer to whatever freedom he may find.
Across the star, far away from the entrenched fields he has spent so many years stationed in. Away from the mind games and control of the Empire. Away from their lies and their terror. Realistically, he knows nowhere is safe from the Empire’s expansionist agenda, but at least he will be far from being a living part of it all himself.
Mayhaps this is a cowardly escape, but if it is so he does not wish to be brave.
He takes a deep breath, then slinks down the stairs to the beach and walks along it until he finds some cliffs and trees, just enough to shield him from watchful eyes. With his ticket gained there is no need for an Imperial soldier to board the ship. Nay, he can peel off the uniform piece by piece, and hide it beneath some rocks. He can change into a loose tunic instead, much more suited to a common traveller. Instead of his gauntlets, he pulls on the traditional wrist guards Poehna always insisted on wearing. Maybe that stubbornness was part of what made him a target. They made him stick out, a visible sign of defiance. They are all he has left of him, and he has waited for the day he can wear them safely, keeping them hidden at the bottom of his bag. The metal has been dulled by the years, but the detailing is as crisp as ever. Poehna always wished to return home. Ruska had never understood such a desire. How could a place that traded their freedom away so easily ever be considered home? Poehna was his home.
Finally, he takes out his identification once more. He has saved one match-stick for this last deed, and it is easy enough to have it crumble into ash and dust on the shore of Thavnair. He leaves it there, his name and title disappearing in a slight wisp of smoke. Turning his back on it, he picks up his bag once more, and heads back to the pier.
The Viera that boards the ship headed for the far west is no longer the imperial soldier who bought the ticket. Who or what he is, he does not know yet, but he will have a whole continent to explore and find his way in once they reach their destination. Beyond Imperial indoctrination, he does not know much about Eorzea — only that they say the Mist is thicker there than anywhere else. Mayhaps that is why he can feel it all the way here, far across the ocean. Feel it like it is pulling on him, like a string attached to his chest. He is not sure he likes it; he is tired of the world deciding for him.
But as that is where the first outbound ship from Yedlihmad is headed, that is where he will go.
Mayhaps there Roihu Rehw-poehna can make his home. Roihu, for the fire that would devastate the forest their freedom was sold to protect. Rehw, to reject any heavenly duty they imposed on him. Poehna, because he deserves to be remembered.
At sea, the air is salty and strangely dry. And with every malm they sail, the pull of the Mist grows stronger.
Whether the ache in his chest is fear or hope, he cannot tell.