Muses of a Wolf

“Are you forgetting we are in this mess because of them?” His voice was low, angry, practically a growl, a growl that didn't dissipate until a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and made the native Ala Mhigan fall silent. If there was one man in this meeting who he had the utmost respect for, one of his own countrymen no less, it was Raubahn, the Bull of Ala Mhigo. His gaze cut to the towering one-armed figure, who even dwarfed Bryn’s six fulm frame, and the look of understanding and sympathy in his gaze had the Silver Wolf relaxing slightly. He understood probably better than most the turmoil in Bryn’s mind being so close to home, all while still shouldering the loss of a friend.

The loss of two friends.

His gaze slid back across to Lyse as Raubahn did his best to cut through the middle with, “He’s right, the false flag attempt by The Griffon has landed us in this situation, and I can understand the hesitance to reach out to the rebels. Which is why we three are here. We all have a stake in this fight, in our homeland. It is–”

Bryn’s hand raises, shaking his head. “I'm sorry, but what stake does she have?” Lyse looked like her long blonde hair might bristle into a porcupine’s back at his words, and Raubahn shot him a look. A look he returned with narrow eyes. Maybe the shock of her reveal still stung. The shock that the woman he had fought with years and years ago was gone, replaced by her sister. The shock at the audacity of the lie… It was all too fresh as he met her gaze and rumbled out, “Your father was a brave man, I don't doubt that, and I don't doubt that you were born in Gyr Abania, but you were younger than us both when your sister spirited you out of this land. So I ask again, what stake do you have in this beyond your time pretending to by Yda?”

He felt as much as saw Raubahn tense at the name, at the mention of the deception, and Kaleh'a coughed from somewhere behind them as the sudden silence stretched on. Until Lyse, staring up at Bryn from across the war table, turned up her nose, let out a breath of air, and turned away from them, marching to the door while throwing over her shoulder, “You can say what you want about me, it doesn't change the fact that I'm going, and I'm taking the Warrior of Light with me! We will have allies! And I will keep fighting for my country!”

The door slammed behind her, leaving the two older men standing there, until Bryn sighed. “She's hot headed, idealistic, and dangerous.” Raubahn grunted, leaning his one good hand against the table and looking over the map.

“Aye, she is all those things. Which the resistance needs.” Bryn’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent, for a moment.

“Maybe. But there will be no resistance if she leads them into a fight they can't win.” That got a heavy sigh from Raubahn, who nodded and pushed off the table.

“Which is why you will go with her.”

“What?”

“What?! Sorry, sorry, I'm just gonna…” Kaleh'a was quick to slip out of the room when both men’s heads snapped his direction, the hard pairs of eyes not softening until he was gone, and Bryn could shake his head.

“I cannot work with them if they planned the false flag.”

“I know,” Raubahn said softly, “but we don't know they did. Look, Bryn.” That heavy hand on his shoulder again, his blue eyes boring into Bryn’s silver. “I trust you. You've proven yourself in the field. You know this land, how dangerous and beautiful it can be. Find out if the Resistance can be trusted, and if they can, guide her.”

Bryn’s brows knitted together, his eyes gleaming with displeasure, but…Raubahn was right about one thing. Someone needed to be there, to work with the Resistance, and to lend a hand to Lyse. Her fire might be what the Resistance needs, but it couldn't be allowed to burn unrestrained. He sighs and the weariness flashes across his face, years of fighting evident on his face, and a tiny kernel of hope.

“We are so close, Raubahn, we are so close.”

“The closest we have ever been,” he agrees, before patting Bryn’s shoulder. “I’ll go ask the Warrior of Light to join you. Between the two of you, surely it will be enough to keep things moving in the right direction.”

What it didn’t act as a natural barrier to was the Miqo’te’s adventurous nature and the hair-brained idea to scout ahead. Why had he raised his hand when the call for scouts had gone out? He had no idea! He wasn’t built for this flat and rocky terrain! He was used to trees, and climbing, and sneaking up on his enemies from the side or above or, on very few occasions, below! The only thing this windswept and nearly lifeless land was good for was seeing any Garlean at the same time they would see him. So he at least could watch his doom approach!

Or, well, not exactly.

He had a bow, and the wide open swaths of rocky sand actually offered him some incredible sight lines. In turn, given his training in spaces that required precision so something like a branch didn’t knock his arrow flight off, this space was just asking for him to try for a longest shot. As long as he got the wind right, it would be relatively easy, and since the mountains liked to block a good section wind, he could probably wait for it to die down and then loose an arrow. He had already spied some viscous looking vultures he could try it on, or rather large grizzly bears that had somehow adapted to the harsh climate. But neither of those creatures was why he was sitting atop this little knoll of sand looking out towards a creek.

According to the locals, they had dubbed it Mirage Creek, and he could see why. The water seemed to throw up a spray in the heat that made the rockface behind it shimmer and wave. He had grown bored watching the colors shift, and instead laid flat on his chest to track a wild dodo, idly watch it wander closer to the creek, disappear into the shifting mirage, and then…

Both of his blonde ears shot up in surprise as a small group of quickly moving, well garbed Ala Mhigan fighters appeared from seemingly nowhere. His eyes tracked the group as they stuck close to the creek and the walls of the cliff behind them, shifting his weight to keep his head pointing their direction while using his eyes as much as possible, until they were distant specs in the distance, and he shifted back to stare at the Mirage Creek.

Something was back there. Something, behind this shifting spray, was back there and harboring rebels. He had something to report! As he was shifting his quiver on his back, the sand around him jumped, or maybe more accurately quivered, and he froze, staring at it in surprise. He watched, waited, and then again, the sand trembled, grains falling down the knoll he was on, and in a moment of instinct, perhaps from his sand dwelling cousins who preferred the sun over the moon, he pressed an ear to the knoll and sand.

Steady, like a heartbeat, something was disturbing the sand, the land around him, with heavy, mechanical foot falls that set the sand dancing against the inner fur of his ear. It was something big, something Garlean made, and something he had no intention of sticking around to find out what it was, or how far it could see.

A stupid name for a thing so serious, but it felt odd to just try and describe it without a name. And despite his attempts to come up with a better one, The Gloom had stuck. Perhaps it was more apt than he had realized it was, or maybe he was just too lazy to come up with a different one, but even now, after the forced taking of Baelsar's Gate, he had to tip his non-existent hat to his younger self.

Gloom described everyone far too well.

When the primal had risen, forced screaming into existence by The Griffon’s sacrifice, panic had swept the ranks of soldiers on the Shroud side of the wall. A panic that had subsided when it seemed as if the primal appeared and almost immediately disappeared. Or so they thought. Things happened fast, faster than most knew, that Bryn only knew because he was there, in the meetings, side by side with allies and friends who were mourning the loss of one of their own, and yet, pushed on. Pushed on and rallied to finish off the primal a life had been given to stop.

All of which led to now.

The Eorzean Alliance held Baelsar’s Gate.

Bryn was walking among the soldiers stationed within the gate with heavy, tired footfalls, and no matter where he looked he could see it. The Gloom, the realization of how many had died to take just this tiny piece of Garlean tech, to breach a wall that had separated the Black Shroud from Gyr Abania for years. And now they were expected to hold it, while Garlean attacks against it were nearly constant. It weighed on too many a soul, and Bryn knew it. They couldn’t hold this fortress if the men and women in it didn’t believe they could.

Overwhelming aether. It was something he had felt before, how many times exactly? Too many. The surge, the pull, the answer from within that wanted him to unleash, to let skin become fur and man become monster. His gaze lifted, his bayonet dripping with blood, as his eyes found the Castrum built into the wall. Where the Scions had gone.

He should have gone with them. He couldn't be tempered, he would be the perfect fit for this, but that surge of power felt far more powerful than any primal he had seen or felt before. Would they even be able to handle it? With or without him...

It didn't matter, he wasn't there, and it wasn't the task he was responsible for. No, his goal was not at the Castrum, although the surge of power he felt changed it slightly. Gone was the need to provide a quick and rapid report of Garlean spillover, instead replaced with a frantic and all more important task of removing all potential people who may be tempered.

"Bryn!" One of his scouts, panting, on foot with red coat darkened, from sweat or worse he did not know. "Garleans are fleeing in greater numbers! They know what this means, and they are abandoning the wall!" The dark haired Hyur tsked, grit his teeth, before he glanced towards the wall and gestured for the scout.

"A blessing, and a curse. Head back, well out of the range of the wall. We cannot lose our soldiers to the primal. Spread the word." A curt nod, a stumbling run, and Bryn strode the opposite way, rifle at the ready. If they were flooding from the wall, that meant they likely were heading away from The Shroud. Safety lay on the far side, away from Alliance territory, in the occupied Gyr Abania.

Towards his homeland.

It irked him, to no end, that he was stuck on this side of the wall, unable to cross it. He should be across it, fighting, maybe even with the Resistance. But their current tactic, this sudden fight, this trickery.

His head snapped up, eyes wide, a second, equally powerful blast of aether from the Castrum making him bristle. He recognized it, knew the undertones, the careful control of it, and he sucked in his breath. Papalymo.

"No," Bryn breathed out, and he was running, sprinting with heavy boot falls for the wall, green cloak fluttering around him as he picked up speed. Too much, too much power. The Lalafell was too smart to not know his limits, to not know that what he was doing...

"No!" The snap, the sudden disappearance of power, of aether, of both sources. His sprint slowed, then halted, and he closed his eyes, eyes closing, as he leaned heavily against the nearby tree. Gone. Not an inkling of it left. Papalymo...

A thrum, a pulse of power, and Bryn's eyes snapped open, looking up, up at the wall, the Castrum, and a battlefield he never saw, and never would.

The primal still lived.

Something hit her, hard, right in the side and sending her bowling through the underbrush, barely remembering to tuck and roll, before a tree arrested her motion. Her head snapped back against the trunk, vision blurring instantly, eyes watering as she tried to focus, to look up at her attacker, just to see a large, weaponized machine before her. How had it snuck up on her? Why couldn't she make out the face of the man controlling it?

Was this really how she was going to die?

She suddenly felt the intense, nearly impossible to ignore desire to return home, back to the sands and her tribe, to drop the ridiculous last name and beg for forgiveness. The unforgiving metal arm raised, angling towards her, the pilot's face the only thing no longer a blur, as she saw the grin of satisfaction on his face, towering over the small blonde Miqo'te in his seat. All she could do was screw her eyes closed, curl up, arms over her head, and pray.

Azeyma, please, not like this!

She didn't see it, but she heard it. A battle cry, shrill and sharp, the fweeeee of a chocobo stampeding through the underbrush, and the strum of a string, followed by three, firm sounding thunks. A gurgle, a hiss, and a final clunk, Silvia's eyes slowly opening, to find the leering face of her attacker slumped over his controls, the machine cold and dead, and protruding from his chest, three neat, wooden arrows. Stomps beside her, and she turned, finding an archer astride a golden yellow chocobo, pacing nervously as he gave her a grin.

"Taking a break?" She nearly laughed, if she hadn't been about to die, at the sight of Kaleh'a. Unharmed, at home in the woods he grew up in, and at ease. He didn't ask if she was okay, or fawn and dither over her, he simply slid from Chic'let's back, held out a hand, and pulled her up. "Healers are a hundred fulm to the south, if you need them." And he was handing her her spear, heading back towards Chic'let. "Can you make it?"

"Yes," she called after him, nodding rapidly. "I can!" She winced, the pain in her head lancing through her skull, realizing rapid head movements were a small mistake.

"Good! And hey, Silvia?" She looks up at the already remounted Miqo'te, his turquoise eyes gleaming. "Good work!"

And he was off, leaving her to pick her way back to the healers, an uneventful journey thanks to the work of the front line holding off the bulk of the Garlean forces fleeing from the wall. Still, that little kernel of pride burned within her, from something so simple and yet, so meaningful. The man who she had taken her last name after had just told her good work. Maybe she did belong here. Maybe she shouldn't go running back to her tribe. Maybe the healer was right and she wasn't concussed.

Until there was a surge of power, power so intense the woods around them vibrated with it, and Silvia gasped. Her ears lay flat, her tail between her legs, and the healer beside her dropped their tray of medical supplies to the ground, with one terrifying word.

A fwee, from Chic’let, her simple cry letting him know they were there, at their destination, where the small contingent of Maelstrom soldiers, by order of the Alliance, lay stationed near the wall separating Gyr Abania and The Black Shroud.

“Message! Message!” The young Miqo'te yelled, hand in the air as the guards at the camp entrance snapped to attention as he barreled past. “Baelsar’s Wall is under attack! Baelsar’s wall is under attack! Orders are to move and protect the Shroud! Do not let the fighting spill onto the civilians! Where's your commander?”

“Here.” Kaleh'a’s head turned, taking in the mountain of a man, missing an arm but still carrying himself with the air of practiced authority, easily recognizable as the Bull of Ala Mhigo. And beside him, a familiar, rugged face. He was off Chic’let, slapping the sealed missive into Flame General Raubahn Aldynn’s hand, who cracked it open as the camp came alive, and Brynhorn Fiske stood slightly behind him, reading over his shoulder.

He wasn't sure which of the two cursed, but Bryn was gone, barking orders towards the small detachment of Maelstrom scouts he undoubtedly held command of, while Kaleh'a took back the missive from Raubahn. He could see it, in his eyes, that anger, and something else. Something like hope.

The sound that left her body was a grizzly reminder of just how strong her was, the gag, rush of air, the spray of blood, and he knew, knew he had done more damage than he meant to. And yet, in war, there was no such thing as too much damage. Only death, or spared life. And yet for some reason, he had pulled his punch, just enough to do likely deadly damage, but not enough to end her quickly.

He was not one to spare a life like this, not one to miss a shot or throw a warning the way of the enemy. His days as a scout, as a member of the Maelstrom had taught him better. And against an enemy as viscous, as deadly as her, he should have killed her. Quickly, without mercy, without doubt. Yet, there she was, still breathing, barely, as he gritted his teeth and snarled.

Only to recoil as she screamed.

A sound of death, pain, blood, and promise, promise of worse to come as her body contorted, and his ears slammed back flat against his skull in horror. Those were not movements any mortal on the star could make. He stepped back, pace by pace, putting careful distance between them as she fixed her sternum as best she could, but the blood, the ichor of her body still flowed from her mouth, even as limbs cracked and snapped back into place as he lowered his body close to the ground. His hands brushed the muck beneath, ready, flat, prepared for whatever this supernatural creature would wrought upon him, yet the last thing he expected from the collared creature was words.

Both his ears shot up, straight, careful, twin satellites of white directed her way as the voice did not match her body, her actions meaning flattery but portraying something all the different, and he rose, to his full height, and growled. She could taunt, she could say whatever she wanted, but it was just a matter of time until those injuries, her blood-logged chest, caught up with her.

But that thought didn't stop the chill that ran down his spine and set his tail twitching at her final words.

Fast.

Too fast, unnaturally so, as he felt the claws carve through his tendons of his left leg and sent him roaring down to one knee. Already it was healing, but it would take time, time he didn't have as his claws arched through the air, but missed the return strike, leaving his back exposed. A fact she took full advantage off as her claws and feet latched onto the broad expanse of fur, and slashed. His howl ripped through the air as she slashed and tore, twisting, turning, raking claws back towards her legs, her body, anything he could reach, but she wasn't there. She was darting in, landing hits, falling back, a death by a thousand cuts, and it enraged him.

Each blow stung, each snarl in pain eating at his control, until she went for it, went for the kill, and he snapped.

She came for his front, fast, with a snap that didn't make sense, a sound that should have left her as immobile as he was, but it didn't stop her from reaching her target.

Him.

The feeling of her claws and fingers dug into his skin, as her jaws wrapped around the fur of his neck, snapping, shredding, snapping at the life blood that flowed there, had a surge of pure rage, pure survival instinct, as she practically clung to the front of him by claw and jaw. His hand swung up, fast, hard, wrapping around her neck as he pulled, straining against her hold as he felt his flesh, his fur tear, as he peeled her head back, palming her head, fingers wrapped around her neck, dragging her back with as much force as he needed. His other hand raked down her back, splitting flesh deep and long, leaving streams of blood from her shoulders, the center of her back, curling to her side as he snarled. He didn't care if he forced her jaws open through pain, he pulled and let the damage bleed into his white fur, until all she had him by was her claws, her hold on his fur, as his jaws opened and snapped before her face, teeth gnashing as the wolf claimed control.

No more games.

No more mercy.