Let the Stars Guide Us

It was easier to think of the divine as shepherds, she thought. They would guide humanity through the dark, watch over them, but the path taken was ultimately up to the flock. She had heard rumors of what transpired during that fateful eve at the Carteneau Flats, of course, but in her mind that only proved her point; the Twelve were not there to intervene directly in the affairs of man, but rather, to lend a guiding hand that may have already been proffered. Who was to say if the people of the current era would ever receive that same offer? It was easy enough to see their influences across the cultures of Eorzea, but at the same time, it was not as if they walked among the people of the realm, continuing to offer guidance and protection. Their presence was felt in different, but no less real ways. Perhaps Halone did not lead a legion of soldiers to face down the Dravanians, but her hand could be felt in every brave knight, in every hard-earned victory, and every bloody loss.

She carried a small trinket with her, something wrapped and hidden deep in her belongings, so that no one would suspect she came from the northern reaches of the continent. It was a small symbol of Halone carved from blue stone and framed in silver, given to her by her mother on her seventh nameday. Despite her mixed feelings about the land she hailed from, Arlanne found she could not abandon its teachings completely. There were times she found herself praying, wondering what should be done, and hoping that the ones she had lost were looking down on her from above.

It was not a question of if it was enough. It had to be enough. If it wasn't, man would just have to make do.

Xalimir believed in gods in a practical sense. He knew they existed, as reports of eikons came from nearly every land the Emperor's radiance touched. Gods were real, and that could not be argued, but not in the sense their believers thought they were. It was common enough knowledge in Garlemald that these eikons were just that, images of the divine crafted from the minds of worshippers. They were gods, but only because they were created to be so, in the same way that a sword was created to be a weapon. He believed gods were real, but he did not believe in them, so to speak.

True divinity did not exist, he decided. This logic had come to him with the help of his father, who had taught him that mankind had always created necessary tools in order to survive. Fire to light up the dark, clothing to withstand cold weather, an axe to cut a tree or a pick to split a boulder. Man also created words to share knowledge, and stories to share wisdom. In that vein, man created gods to answer questions they could not answer themselves, or to give meaning where there was none. Even after deserting his homeland, he could not help but look down on the Eorzeans and their worship of the Twelve, because it was plainly obvious they were not real in a meaningful sense.

Gods did not exist, so mankind had created them. But in the same way you would discard a stone axe for one made of steel, so to should those old gods have been abandoned. Garlemald knew there was no reason to keep them around, and so they were left behind, with men finding those answers and making that meaning for themselves.

Gods were not real, and so man must live for himself, and be his own god. To do otherwise was naive.

Ora knew the gods were real, because she had seen them. That was one of many reasons her tribe chose to wear their masks, because to stare upon the works of the Divine Authors with bare eyes was likely to leave you blind. You could not stare into the sun without damaging your sight, and the gods were much the same. To receive even a moment of guidance from the Holy Script meant one must humble themselves, because those who raised themselves up too high often fell from great heights. The Authors did have a strong sense of irony, after all.

She had seen them in her visions, several times before. They had not taken notice of her, the same way a man would likely not notice an ant scurrying at his feet, and so she had had free reign to watch them work. It was difficult to describe the divine scripts, the stories of what were, was, and would be, all written in an unfathomable hand on an unknowable medium. It was something that man was not meant to see, much less understand, but with practice, she was able to extract meaning from what they did. Ora did not pretend to know the thoughts of the gods, but she could see their hand in every turn the stories of the world took and speak of their intent. Everything in its place, delicately wrought by some divine hand.

Of course, man was not entirely powerless before the whims of the writers. It was known within her tribe that although the Divine Texts held great sway over what happened, it was not impossible to change one's own course. The Authors wrote in order to create stories, and if a story altered itself in a pleasing way, they did not mind to watch it unfold on its own. The simple truth of it was that most people simply did not care to fight against their destinies. One of the benefits of being a seer was knowing if your destiny was worth altering, she often thought to herself.

“It simply... flows,” she said, gesturing from her heart, up her arm, and finally to her fingertips. “Much like a river, and the staff becomes a conduit for the spell.”

“Hm. I don't picture it like that,” said the lalafell beside her. Her name was Tasusu, and they were briefly guildmates before Arlanne had abandoned the arcanists. Thankfully, she hadn't asked about it. “I picture it more like... a cloud. The sigils in the grimoire help me focus it into the proper form.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” said Arlanne, a bit haughtily. “I just didn't have the knack for it, maybe. However, I think this suits me more.”

Tasusu shrugged, then looked over towards the Drowning Wench's leve distributor. The two had taken to working together from time to time, as their magic seemed to make a good match, and Arlanne enjoyed having someone less pirate-esque to speak with.

“Did you want to see if there's anything else worth taking on tonight?” said Tasusu. “Feels like you've been busy lately, so maybe you'd prefer to rest.”

Arlanne shook her head, drumming her fingers along the wooden tabletop. “Let me think on it,” she said. “Allow my thoughts some time to align.”

“If you say so.” Tasusu reached for her tankard, almost as big as her head, and took a drink. Arlanne wasn't much for drinking herself, but the Drowning Wench also served as Limsa Lominsa's Adventurer's Guild headquarters, so it was a fine place to unwind between requests. Despite the questionable name, it was a surprisingly homey place, with clean floors, warm lights, and a relatively friendly staff. Arlanne had certainly been to seedier places in her life.

“You're from Gridania, right?” Tasusu's words drew Arlanne from her thoughts, not that they were anywhere important. “Don't see too many elezen out here, and those tattoos ain't the kind pirates like.”

“Ah? Yes, that's- That's right,” said Arlanne, nodding. “From the Black Shroud, down through the desert, and to here. And the tattoos, they were-”

She stopped short as the memory was dredged up from her mind. It had only been several years ago, and yet she had locked it away, determined never to think about it again. Eaufont had done her tattoos, or at least helped with some of the lines. He had a steady hand, good for the smaller details on sensitive skin, and Arlanne found herself very sensitive when he was near. The markings were a point of pride in the people he cast his lot with, a symbol of membership in his group. They were bandits, so they had to look the part, and so naturally, Arlanne took on some of her own.

The vine-like shapes were evident from simply looking at her; there were two purple creepers that trailed vertically from her eyes, but she had a matching set adorning the rest of her body as well, though they were typically hidden from sight. They encircled her shoulders and crawled along her back and limbs, and while perhaps she had gone slightly overboard with it, she had been more than happy to let Eaufont place his hands wherever he pleased. But if she had known what the future held, she might have been less eager to mark her entire body.

“They were... given to me by someone close. That's one way to put it, anyhow.” She traced her fingers along the back of her hand, keeping her gaze down. The tattoos flowed along her body too, perhaps marking the paths where she felt the flow of aether. Even so far from Gridania, she still carried some part of it with her.

“You alright lass?” said Tasusu. “Looks like you were far away, there. Didn't mean to pry.”

“No, it's alright. I suppose I was far away, in more ways than one. I just... don't think much about it anymore. Even the best of times can seem dour in hindsight.”

“I'll drink to that.” And she did.

The wind had gone from Arlanne's sails, and she hardly felt like adventuring anymore. Saying her goodbyes to Tasusu, Arlanne took a room at the Mizzenmast Inn, but found herself unable to sleep.

Sighing, she rose to her feet and made for the window, but a large mirror standing by the wall stopped her mid-stride. She stared at it for a moment, eyes transfixed on the woman looking back at her. Long, verdant hair, and piercing lavender eyes, framed by the violet tattoos she'd been given. Drawing closer, she reached out and placed a hand on her reflection, sighing.

“I've been neglecting you lately, haven't I?” she said. “I don't want to stop moving because I don't know what will happen if I let myself dwell on things. But it's not healthy. It's...”

She didn't even have the right words for herself. Arlanne looked into her eyes; from a distance she looked gorgeous, naturally, but drawing closer she could see the dark circles that had begun to form under her eyes. With tender fingers, she undid the clasps of her tunic and untied the laces of her pants, stripping herself until she stood in her smallclothes. Her tattoos were in full display now, a violet garden adorning her body. But getting closer, she could see the blemishes; the stretch marks around her stomach, the scars on her shoulder, the calluses on her hands. Beautiful from a distance, but the closer you drew, the easier you could see the cracks.

“Isn't that how it always is?” she sighed. “The harder you look, the uglier it all gets. Ignorance, bliss, and so on. But is it really a bad thing?”

She felt aimless, which was both a relief and another source of stress. It was pleasant to not worry too far into the future, but concerning when you weren't sure where you'd end up in a year or two. Arlanne always had something planned out, but here in Limsa, she was simply letting the flow of life take her where it pleased. She wasn't sure how she felt about it.

After a few moments of contemplation, Arlanne looked back to her reflection. “Don't be so hard on yourself,” she said. “You're still young. Plenty of time to figure it out.”

He was about to turn and leave, his silent mourning over, when a sound came from beyond the metal door, the sound of furniture being nudged. Frowning, Xalimir pushed open the entry, and found a familiar figure standing opposite him. Vhanzhin stood towards the end of the room, next to an open window, presumably his own entrance.

Not turning as Xalimir entered, Vhanzhin spoke. “That makes seven, doesn't it? I shall miss her. Perhaps in my youth, I found her endless optimism irritating, but now... I suppose you never know what you have until it slips away from you.”

Xalimir only frowned in response. “Why are you here? You're supposed to be with the IVth Legion in the southern regions.”

“You weren't told, then. Toxaeus does value his reputation, even among his children. I deserted, Xalimir. I discovered a dark truth meant to be hidden from us, and so I left. And I have been scouring the lands, eliminating targets one by one.” He finally turned, and Xalimir saw no spark of the cruel joy in his brother's visage that he typically saw. This cruelty was cold, unforgiving. He took a step back, almost involuntarily.

“I won't bother explaining it all,” he said, drawing his weapon. It was a long, wicked lance, whose head divided into three barbed points. “I'm not here to reminisce.”

He hardly needed to explain it. Xalimir understood the most essential thing; he was next. He dove forward as Vhanzhin lunged, moving for the armory rack that adorned the wall next to Behka's old bed. She had preferred large, two-handed swords, but in Xalimir's grasp they almost seemed small.

The clash of steel rang through the room, and there was no one left to hear it but the two brothers. Vhanzhin's spear bit down on Xalimir's sword, sending sparks into the air as the weapons ground against each other.

“You abandoned your post... to kill our family?” growled Xalimir, still pushing back.

“This isn't a family. This is a guilty man's idea of penance. I mean to show him the pointlessness of it all.”

Vhanzhin whirled in the air, scooping his lance up and nearly knocking the sword from Xalimir's hand. He began his assault in earnest; long, flowy strikes that seemed to melt into one another, not leaving any room for a counterattack. Xalimir settled back into his typical defensive position, warding off each blow without flinching.

“I don't want to kill you, Vhanzhin,” he said, not moving his eyes from his brother's.

“You won't get a chance. I intend to win this match, as I typically have.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I want him to suffer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You've always been curious. It's annoyed me.”

With each word spoken, Vhanzhin's assault seemed to grow more vicious, and soon Xalimir found himself struggling to keep up. In a test of endurance, he might lose, and to lose meant never understanding what was happening, in addition to becoming another tally mark on Vhanzhin's weapon.

“And you've always been stubborn,” grunted Xalimir.

“Me? That's rich, coming from you. You've always been content to sit and watch the world pass you by! All that you have, and you've squandered it! That's what I want to show him! How meaningless it's all been!”

Xalimir saw an opportunity. A crack in Vhanzhin's poise, an opening to exploit. He brought his sword up at an angle, watching the lance slide across its length, and closed in. Vhanzhin saw it too, and pulled his weapon back. Xalimir felt the cool steel scrape across the side of his face, passing right over his eye, but his weapon came down at the same time, swinging down on Vhanhzin's hand. The lance dropped from his grip, along with two of his fingers, cut mid-knuckle.

Cradling his bleeding hand, that old anger returned to Vhanzhin's face. Something white-hot and venomous, intstead of that terrifying coldness that had been present only moments ago. Biting back curses, Vhanzhin laughed. “You've gotten better.”

Wasting no time, Xalimir brought his sword up below his brother's chin. “Explain yourself. Maybe I'll bring you to father alive instead, if it suffices.”

“Please. Another dead child won't mean anything to him at this point. You can lop my head off and it won't make any difference.” Clutching at his severed digits, Vhanzhin shook his head. “He's the one who made us orphans, you know. I found some old reports from a weapons division, all with his name on them. Each test a success, total obliteration of the enemy encampment. Of course, encampment is used very liberally...”

Toxaeus had told his children that they had all been orphans from newly-conquered territories. In his words, he had brought them in to his home out of both pity, and a desire to show that life under Garlean rule was not the end of things. See how the children flourished under his care? It could be like that everywhere, if they would allow it.

“He destroyed what we had, so I intend to do the same. It's that simple. Does that satisfy you?”

There were no words that Xalimir could find to accept what his brother had said. He only shook his head in reply. “I don't believe you. But what you think you're doing doesn't matter; I'm putting an end to it.”

“No, you're not.”

Still grinning, Vhanzhin stepped backwards, towards the open window. Xalimir followed, blade still outstretched, but found himself unable to move closer than he already had.

“You don't have the will to end it,” said Vhanzhin. “But I do. I won't rest until he has nothing but regrets.”

“Don't do this.”

“I've already begun, brother. I can't stop now.”

He stood at the window now, and the smile vanished. “There's three of us left. Don't forget it.”

Xalimir moved forward, but it was too late. Vhanzhin jumped backwards, out of the window, and into the snowy darkness of Garlemald. Leaning over the windowsill, Xalimir strained his vision, but all he saw was a curtain of blood slowly descending on his right eye. Pressing his hand to his face, it came away bloody; how had he not noticed? Vhanzhin hadn't taken his life, but he'd left a mark all the same.

A chill wind blew in from the window, carrying snow onto the bloodstained tiles. Xalimir closed it and turned around; seeing his sibling's room marked with hate and conflict, it no longer held that same warmth anymore. He couldn't believe Vhanzhin's words so easily, but he also saw no reason for it to be a lie, either. There was much he didn't know, and no easy way to find out.