Islith Wynter —

Islith sits in a small, damp room. The door, which is made up of metal bars nearly rusted through but study enough to hold, is locked tightly shut.

It was in its time, and is today, a holding cell.

The only light is a pale ray of sun bleeding through the thick forest canopy outside, illuminating her space through the broken ceiling above. The walls were at least two dozen fulms high and the forest had begun to creep in long ago. Even if she was in better shape than she is, she had little chance of scaling the moss-slick stone for an escape.

She sat on the floor, her back against the wall with her eyes closed. For a while she'd sat there, drifting between wakefulness and sleep, seeing things indiscernible from dreams. She dreamt of things like home. The scorching heat. The sound of a friendly voice. The taste of food and sweet, clear water. A pair of sea blue eyes.

For the most part, she was unharmed. Filthy, exhausted, and with a few scrapes and bruises but she was able enough of body and mind that they'd taken precautions to subdue her. Around her wrists were two unlinked shackles - more bracelets than anything meant to physically restrain her. They pulsed with a sickly sensation, something that gave her a prolonged sense of claustrophobia. Something that stunted her own aether, rendering her a useless mage.

The steady sound of water drops falling on the stone floor was a soothing repetition. In an effort to force herself to try and sleep, she willed herself to focus on it. Drip, drip, drip, until the sound bled into something else. Footsteps. Thud, thud, thud.

Islith's eyes opened, her gaze cutting across towards the door. Firelight filled the corridor outside her cell, the shadows moving as her most gracious hosts approached.

A roegadyn woman stood at the head, flanked by two others.

"Time to wake up, m'dear," the woman called, her scarred mouth curling into a smile.

The following morning, a courier had arrived with instructions and a purse of gil. She was expected at Falcon's Nest before nightfall and the payment for the upcoming month was supplied to her in the here and now.

"That certainly makes things easier," Islith muttered as she opened the pouch to inspect its contents. It was a modest sum, but more than she'd expected considering her accomodations at Falcon's Nest had been paid for. It was enough, anyway.

And so, before the sun reached its peak on a clear and cloudless day, Islith rode out of Ishgard, headed southward and not to Falcon's Nest as she was expected to. She rode slow, on through the afternoon and into the evening until the tallest spire disappeared behind the climbing treetops of tall pines.

The chocobo she had rented would take her as far as Dragonhead. It was a well mannered and steady creature with brown plumage, and it reminded Islith of August, whom she'd left in good hands in Ul'dah. Still, with the reins in her grip and a glimpse of tawny feathers at the edge of her vision if she kept her gaze forward, she could almost fool herself.

"Well, I suppose we're going home," she said aloud, into the cold, to a friend that wasn't there.

Aedric: "How's the day finding you?" Islith: "It's windy," she says, a few stray strands of hair flying across her face.

Inside the folded parchment rests a sprig of dried lavender, along with a simple, short message penned in an elegant hand.

You were a wonderful dream.

"He was valiant."

"Not a soul amongst us knew him as anything but honorable, brave."

"May his spirit know peace in the Halls of Halone."

Islith stood to the side of a crowd gathered at Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral to remember a fallen comrade. A man who died honorably. In battle. With laurels and titles.

She was shrouded in a solemn ensemble of black that covered her from neck to toe, and down the entirety of both arms with little to no embellishments. While the tearful many filtered by her, dabbing at their misty eyes with handkerchiefs, Islith found herself preoccupied with subtly attempting to stretch a kink from her shoulder. She was not here as a mourner - but rather, an assistant to the funerary officiate.

So it was that Ishgard was not a kindly place. There were some forward thinking denizens that welcomed foreigners with a smile and a tip of their hat but, regretfully, no amount of either of those gestures fed a hungry belly or, she hated to admit, allowed her to indulge in her vanities.

Thus, Islith offered what services she could to make her way - to find a purpose amongst them and despite their recent change of state, came to see that the people of Ishgard were no less fervent in their prayers than they had been before. Likewise were there no shortage of men dying to protect their country in the name of a cold and distant cause. War seemed ever present these days, especially so in the shadow of the Fury.

Crack.

Finally. The stiffness in her neck gave way as she tilted her head just so but the sound of it broke the heretofore dull and droning, white silence of the cathedral. The funeral officiate - a deacon - stood above her on a podium to her right, and she felt his eyes turn to bore down on her.

Islith responded by tilting her head down and clasping her hands neatly in front of her. Twelve, it was frigid here.

The remainder of the service went by without incident. The majority of her work was done behind the curtain, so to speak. Preparing the fallen. Reading rites that were not meant for the ears of those other than they who stood at the threshold between this existence and the endless sea. She was trained in a different school from that which Ishgard drew its customs, and yet the task of preparing the dead was much the same as she knew it in Ul'dah. Death was death, it would seem.

After the funeral, Islith was tending to her menial duties of collecting linens and candles to be put away - a task she had long since graduated from in Ul'dah - when she was summoned to the deacon's solar.

"I've been made aware of certain…concerns…circulating regarding your service here. I believe it's in your best interests as well as that of the Church's to reorganize and move you to a more suitable post," the deacon explained. He was an older elezen but still had enough youth in him to sit upright, unbothered by the weight of his shoulders and his voice was only beginning to crack with age.

"What do you mean a more suitable post? Has my work not been sufficient?" Islith asked, taken aback by this unforeseen change in pace.

"Your work is exceedingly sufficient, which is what makes this a difficult and unpleasant conversation to have. I am not a man who appreciates gossip, Islith, and yet my duty requires that I navigate the sensibilities of my patronage. This is more to do with your acquaintances since arriving here in the city."

"My acquaintances? I barely have any."

"You have at least one," the deacon insists, looking at her quite pointedly. "A particular man who has a sordid past, and many people here are burdened with a long memory. I won't mince words, Islith, it's regarding Helcaire."

Despite her irritations, Islith's shoulders loosen and she lids her eyes to fend off the throbbing of a coming headache. Of course. He was likely married to the woman she'd seen and all along, their relationship had been doomed to be an unsavory one from the beginning.

"But-" the deacon continues. "…As I said, your work is undeniably good and we are, admittedly, at a point where anyone well acquainted with what you do is someone who can be put to use. To speak nothing of the Church's charitable nature. This is no one's fault but my own for thinking to bypass the Scholasticate's time-tested methods. Alas, I must apologize for that."

Islith's jaw stiffens at the notion of being a case of 'charity', though she refuses to voice her displeasure.

"There is work to be done outside of the city. Falcon's Nest in particular makes a semi-frequent request for a visit to lay their fallen to rest and we…"

The deacon's voice trailed off in her mind as Islith stood there, listening to her superior prattle on about her worth and what use she might be to the people of Ishgard despite her faults. Her sins. Her failures. What had she left home for?

"More clearly," he continues, the words now coming back into focus as he leans forward and peers at her from over his half moon spectacles. "…I would like for you to be my eyes and ears, and only my mouth if you're instructed, by me, to speak on my behalf."

After watching her a moment more, the deacon sits back into his seat and plucks up a quill, dipping it briskly into an inkpot.

"You will go by porter," he goes on. "I will expect reports at least fortnightly."

Islith interjects. He lifts an aged, pale hand to silence her, his signet ring glinting in the candlelight.

"A report on what, exactly? You've told me nothing of what I'm reporting on and -"

Islith speaks over his quiet refusal for a beat more before stopping herself, giving him an expectant and irritated look.

"You will be informed upon your arrival," he answers. The look on her face spoke volumes for her dissatisfaction with such a vague response. "I've arranged for room and board and you will be given a stipend for the month upon your departure from here, and then another at the beginning of each month thereafter in exchange for your services."