FFxivWrite Day 2: Bolt
There was a weary, yet content atmosphere in the air as Moro’a observed the scene taking place around him: Tailfeather’s residents huddled around clustered fires across the encampment, exchanging smiles and lighthearted banter made warm by the fullness of their stomachs. He watched as a gaggle of young hunters burst into raucous laughter on the opposite side of the river over a well-told joke; another group further down had leapt into the beginnings of a lively tune.
All the signs of a good day’s hunting…save for the unmistakable lack of a certain bard.
If anyone felt it most, it was the man next to him. “I apologise….I fear I have wasted your time. We should have left for Anyx Trine before nightfall,” said Sanson, looking down into his bowl of not-quite-finished stew. “I’ve asked around the encampment all week, but not one soul has seen Guydelot. For the bard not to show himself on such a merry night, where the hunters would surely want for ballads to be sung of their successes – I can only conclude he has returned to Gridania after all.”
“You haven’t wasted my time,” Moro’a assured him. “I could not be here when you rescued Sylviel. Helping you now is the least I can do.” Guilt twinged in the Keeper’s chest as he recalled Sanson’s tale – how he and Guydelot had at last received news of Sylviel’s imminent return, only to have to rush to the scholar’s aid in Lost ast Gnath unaccompanied, for Moro’a had failed to answer Sanson’s linkpearl that sennight. He’d hated that despite this fact, the hyur had only complained of the hunters’ reluctance to help, insisting that his own absence was of no issue; Moro’a saw in Sanson’s words how the frayed nerves between him and Guydelot had stretched to a breaking point under the weight of battle, and how they had at last snapped in the aftermath of their narrow success. He’d had his own trials to deal with, yes, but perhaps if he had made the effort….
Truth be told, Moro’a had never seen the Serpent Captain in a more dour mood, not even when they’d watched Celaine sing for her fallen friends, and the reason why struck him as odd. Their journey to Tailfeather had done little to improve Sanson and Guydelot’s relationship, and when Moro’a had last left them, still they’d been bickering, like hot oil thrown into a cold stream.
Much and more had changed in the past moon. Or mayhaps he’d simply been too mired in his own troubles to notice what was changing.
Sanson sighed, for what may have been the tenth time that evening. “Thank you. Sylviel has told me all that he knows; we can but place our faith in the Moogles now,” he resolved. “We must,” he added quietly, more for himself than for Moro’a’s benefit.
Moro’a was about to respond when a sudden blur of movement in the trees behind them caught his eye. There it is again. And this time, his eyes had caught a flash of teal.
There was no mistaking it now.
Sanson was distracted, and Moro’a thought he could steal away for a quarter-bell at most. “I’d promised to meet one of the hunters over yonder. Some dispute or other, to be resolved discreetly – I won’t be long,” he lied, excusing himself as he stood up and made for the cluster of trees in question. Once he’d made sure that Sanson was of no mind to follow him, he called out to Guydelot as quietly as he could.
“Nophica’s teats – you Keepers and your night-blessed senses,” the bard hissed from the gap in the trees that he’d wedged himself into.
“You got too close,” Moro’a replied simply, glancing behind them. The coast was clear. “Why are you still hiding from Sanson?”
“...You know what happened, then?” There was a shuffling noise as Guydelot emerged halfway from the gap. “Alright, alright. When I saw you’d come, and Sylviel told me what you’d told him – of Moogles atop the Churning Mists, I needed to know….” Guydelot trailed off, shaking his head. “What should I do?”
Moro’a blinked. “What?”
Consternation was plain on the bard’s face, but he looked Moro’a in the eye as he found his words. “You always seem to know what’s best. Tell me – should I come back, after what I said to him? To Sanson.”
There was a pleading note in Guydelot’s voice, and it baffled Moro’a as much as Sanson’s low spirits did. Guydelot felt remorse, undoubtedly, but there was also a great deal of indecision. And something else that Moro’a could not identify.
Moro’a opened his mouth to reply, only to shut it as he found himself hesitating. Did Guydelot really trust him that much? Come with us, then, he wanted to say. The words remained lodged in his throat.
The bard seemed to take his silence for an answer. “You want me to think for myself, is that it?” He’d turned away, closing himself off. “Well, then. I'll do just that.”
“Wait–” But the bard had taken off, disappearing into the dark once more.
