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~ Astral Moon 3 Sun 22 - Aftcastle ~
‘Twas a few bells before sundown when the ship arrived. I’d set out from Kugane, having received an unusual request from the Maelstrom Admiral herself. Something to do with the sahagins, the missive said. But with air travel not yet available and my poor constitution forbidding aetheryte travel, sea had been the only possible choice. The poor sods had had to deal with my daily retching out on the deck.
The towers of Limsa Lominsa glimmered white under the dying light as we finally docked. Giving contrite nods to the deckhands, I immediately made my way to Bulwark Hall, but alas, the Admiral wasn’t home. ‘Twas to be expected, so I asked the Yellow Jacket to inform her of my arrival before heading upstairs to the Drowning Wench. I’d just about to book a room for myself when, all of a sudden, euphoric cries erupted from outside in a noise so loud it’d drawn the attention of every other patron in the bar.
Baderon took notice of my surprise and chuckled under his breath, saying how “they” had been at it since sunhigh. They? Curious, I took a peek.
‘Twas not uncommon to see groups gathered out in the public courtyard, especially during festival seasons, though such festivities should not be till another couple moons. Yes, it should not have been uncommon, but for the fact that, mixed amongst the men crowding Aftcastle, jumping and hollering with glee at whatever was taking place at the center of their circle, were—I wonder if you’d believe me—kobolds. You read true: those very same beastmen living deep in the bowels of O’Ghomoro that’d been locked in a longstanding territorial dispute with the Lominsan Army.
So imagine my surprise seeing these two people together partaking in shared gaiety. A friendly smithing competition, as I heard one say, with the Armorer guildmaster on one corner and a kobold forgemaster on another.
‘Twas something I’d not expected to see for perhaps another twenty summers. And what’s more? The Lominsans you’d reckon to find standing apart from the beastmen were, in all actuality, standing as one, cheering as one, laughing as one. And when in the end the kobold forgemaster came out victorious, even then they all hooted and howled and clapped with nary a grievance spent.
The guildmaster smiled, stood up, and held out her hand. “Well played, sir," she said.
The kobold looked at her hand, then at her face, cocked his head as if to question the meaning of her gesture, before his mouth split open in what could only be a grin.
“Well played, well done, well played, madam.”
When he clasped the miqo’te’s hand with his own, their audience exploded into cheers once more.
~ Astral Moon 3 Sun 23 - Halfstone ~
I’d not seen the likes of which I saw last night in all my years as a mediator. Mayhap once, long ago, when I would accompany the Sultan to the scorching desert of Zanr’ak.
When I met the Admiral shortly after breakfast, I inquired about the nature of the match. The kobolds were, in fact, on a visit to share knowledge and experience on alchemy and smithing. Little steps, Merlwyb said, for a better future. ‘Twas surprising, given the antagonistic relation between the two parties, but then again, they did undo the tempering, and what alliance they now had with the beastmen were thanks to her efforts to mend a broken word.
Which led us to the issue at hand: the Lominsans were looking to trade with the sahagins.
Such was how I found myself at Halfstone, a little ways away from South Tidegate. Why was I asked? Probably due to my former profession.
The sahagin I met was one called Novv. He came with a handful of fishmen, all bearing tridents on their backs. I was escorted by a couple Yellow Jackets, courtesy of the Admiral. To say lightning flashed between our groups would be an understatement. Everyone seemed ready to fight when all we had to do was trade our sacks. I couldn't help but sigh and saw that Novv was doing the same.
I smiled. “Seems like we have muscleheads as protectors.”
“Ssseems that we do.”
His laugh was what broke the ice and we quickly exchanged bags. Spice and vegetables for deep-sea fish, just like the Warrior of Light’s account on the Ondo of the First. Who would’ve thought the two entities were one and the same?
“For a better tomorrow.” Novv raised his arm in farewell, and then he turned, his guards flanking him on both sides.
I’d heard of Novv—a self-isolated clutchfather making his nest on the outskirts of Halfstone. They were his sons—every one of the sahagin occupying his nursery, as well as those guards carrying the Lominsan sacks. I saw them nudge and nod and peek inside the bag, shove it aside as they hissed in what could only be a sahagin’s remark of disgust. When Novv turned to them and snarled, they cowered like a couple of adolescents fearing their father’s wrath.
I couldn’t help but smile.
I’d not been in this position for nigh on twenty summers. I’d not seen such a display of normalcy from a beastman in so long—ever since the Garleans came and any connections we had with the local tribes were severed.
Just before we turned to leave, I spotted a small sahagin rushing out from the other side of the wall of rock. Novv lifted his son high into the air and I swear I saw him beam.
Mayhap ‘tis high time we stop calling them beasts.
~ Umbral Moon 3 Sun 16 - Hawthorne Hut ~
My travels brought me to the Shroud, where I heard the sylphs were hosting a celebration. I was invited, as were the Seedseers and Twin Adders. For what purpose, I could not say, only that Kan-E-Senna was humbled to have me attend.
They brought me to Hawthorne Hut, much to my surprise, where the sylphs were decorating the place with swaths of garland and baskets of fruits and vegetables. One saw me approach and waved its leafy hand high before joining the others up on the roof. ‘Twas nothing out of the ordinary, they said. The sylphs were prone to tease their neighbors—human or otherwise. But Rolfe Hawthrone didn’t look as vexed as I would imagine someone who’d had to deal with unwanted revelry in his home—though content might not be the word to describe him either. Resigned, I would say, albeit in a positive way. There was a little smile on his face as he watched his forest friends frolic.
Peace has come to the Shroud, it seems. Activities in Sylphsland continue, though not as you might assume. The tempered have been untempered and the once hostile people have come to receive outsiders with—well, slightly—open arms. But the banestools are gone, as is the sickly gas they emit, so travel through Larkscall is easier than ever. (I would still caution against the treants and morbols).
Those self-same purple folks even flitted and floated amongst the green ones around the Hut. Slightly reserved, a little quieter than the rest, and prone to sudden angry outbursts. The only casualty, thank the Twelve, was a mild singe from a lightning strike on a fellow named Voyce, who appeared to be a scholar under the employ of the Adders. The sylph had quickly apologized, to which Voyce claimed was nothing new, which earned him a series of laughter from his audience. I wonder what sort of mischief he had to put up with during his stay in Little Solace.
‘Twas a sight I never thought to behold. Laughter and merriment encapsulated the air. It reminded me of the days before the occupation: when the sylphs were one and they helped merchants in their trade of crystals. I saw one by the Hawthorne daughter, telling her the best uses of a fresh milkroot by squeezing it to attain the sap. Thankfully her father was quick to stop her from drinking it, said ‘twas liquor strong enough to make one inebriated. The little folks giggled innocently and flew away when Rolfe gave them an ugly glare. Others I saw by the tables, surrounded by curious mothers, who watched in rapt attention at the way their neighbors weaved fibers out of…well, everything. Their ooh’s and ahh’s joined with the boisterous laughter of a couple Adders, who apparently had been listening to Elder Frixio’s tales of Voyce donning a chocobo suit trying to bring the Chosen One back to Little Solace. Voyce scratched the back of his head and laughed nervously.
When everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, a voice called from above: ‘Tis ready! All eyes moved upward, and in that split moment when even sound ceased to exist, a blast of magick exploded. Flowers, brilliant and white, rained down amidst sparkles of crystallized light. Then from amongst the petals emerged a small green pod which sprang to life and twirled in the sky.
Apparently they’d wanted to celebrate the coming of age of the Chosen One. I would say ‘tis an honor to witness it.
~ Astral Moon 4 Sun 5 - Ehcatl Nine ~
In all my forty-seven summers, ‘twas the first time I’d heard of an Ehcatl Nine—a division of Ixals living in seclusion and exile deep in the heart of North Shroud. A small clearing, set between tall walls of rock; one would need to look very carefully to spot the entrance, and even then, the gates made of wooden spears were guarded by bristling, growling direwolves. “Wouldn’t they give the location away?” I asked, as surely anyone within a fifty-yalm radius would have heard the howls every night if not by passing by the narrow path leading to the entrance. But Tataramu said they actually kept prying eyes away.
I remember the Adders mentioning it during our celebration with the sylphs: how the Warrior of Light had successfully bridged their people together. I’d made trips to Peacegarden and Treespeak, even as far as Alder Springs, but never once had I encountered these stray bipedal birds—until a fortnight later, when I was on a visit to Hyrstmill and chanced upon the preeminent heir of Highwind Skyways. One would think he’d be accompanied by attendants, but nay, the lad had been alone and he’d gone to the village leader asking to borrow their crafting station. They said he was a regular there, crafting and hammering and bending metal to his will. He’d create the most splendid metalwork any of them had ever laid eyes on and when they learned of its purpose, they’d all gasped in shock.
An airship right there in the middle of the shroud. And not just any old Highwind Skyways airship. Nay; a true Ixali airship.
‘Twas for that reason the young lalafell visited the village that day, and ‘twas for that reason also I found myself helping him carry the carts and linens along with the rest of the village back to Ehcatl Nine. Granted, ‘tis not their first attempt, as Tataramu later elaborated. Their first one couldn’t fly very far. Their second one had been lost in the clouds. But now they’re very sure it would fly and take them where they wanted.
“And where is that?” I asked.
“Our promised land.” Sezul Totoloc, their leader, looked as proud as any father as he squawked and guffawed at their little band’s achievement. “Not even the great chieftain could have come up with such ingenuity—gone through with it. But we have. And we shall fly.”
They looked so passionate. Mayhap the people of Hyrstmill did know about these exiled Ixals—heard the howls and hoots of excitement. I saw no fear on their faces as they passed through those gates and filled the airship with provisions. The fervor was contagious. ‘Twas not long before I was cheering and clapping my hands alongside them as the leader of Hyrstmill shook hands with Sezul and wished him godspeed.
~ Umbral Moon 5 Sun 13 - Zahar’ak ~
‘Twas not my first time in Zahar’ak. I used to come here often, as part of an entourage or by myself. I was a translator and mediator, but the amalj’aa were as familiar with Ul’dahn language as they were with animal husbandry, so in truth, my role was not truly needed. However, the sultan would ask for me to come, and come I did.
The trek felt familiar, as well as the blinding sun and scorching heat. A couple amalj’aa flanked me as they led me deeper into their ancestral land. I met the warleader at the top of the ridge overlooking the Sagolii Desert, where he stood with one arm on his side while the other held a staff. He wore red, like the rest of his brethren.
“‘Tis been a long while, friend.”
Friend.
‘Twas not always so, but I remember when men and beastmen held hands and worked together for the greater good of the realm. A history long forgotten when the Empire marched on our doorstep and hunted us for our belief.
I’d not expected him to greet me as a friend, but hearing him so made my chest quiver. He nodded at his soldiers, who promptly bowed and turned to leave. I joined him by the precipice and watched the sand sparkle.
Times were changing. Everywhere I went, Eorzeans have started working with the tribes. I told him as much, but the warleader only nodded.
I glanced at him. “I spotted you at the palace.”
He wasn’t surprised, only confirmed, said that the Sultana had found the Sil’dihn royal palace and hence the catacombs. She’d asked of a ritual to send the dead. Apparently, she’d managed to do so afterwards.
I was surprised. ‘Twas the first I’d heard of it. Though then again, rumors mentioned of Nanamo’s secret forays with the Warrior of Light. Nothing to be concerned with, knowing she was in capable hands. But I see. The Sultana has found Sil’dih.
In all honesty, ‘twas bitter truth better written off from history. ‘Tis the same with our tribal folk issues too. Conflict was not something that was born in a fortnight, yet we’d let fear for the empire seep into our hearts, and as fear begets more fear, it’d created a rift deep enough none of us knew how to cross.
The worst villains are always the ones who turn their backs on his kin, and we did just that when we called them beasts.
“Tell me, friend, where does the wind now blow?”
I watched the golden sand dance in the Sagolii Desert. The breeze was warm; bitter against my mouth. Twenty summers have passed and there I stood in amalj’aa territory once more, not as a foe but as a friend. As tendrils of hope swelled in my breast, I looked at the gold-tinged horizon and smiled.
“A better tomorrow.”