#aerianger

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She wakes too slowly, at first—more slowly than usual.

It's dark.

Something smells pleasant.

She feels... sad.

Sad isn't the right word, of course. But she hasn't figured out the right word for the empty, gaping hole within that conjures itself anew each time she sleeps; and so she can only assume she must be sad, and that it's the sadness that now makes everything else hurt.

Wait, does- does everything else hurt?

The slow crawl of waking abruptly cedes to an onslaught of fleeting observations:

Her head rests against her arm. She's not in a bed. (That's not uncommon.) She can't recall falling to sleep. When was she last awake? Where was she last awake? She's in pain. (It's not just the sadness.) Why is she in pain? What hurts? Is she injured? Was she attacked? She listens, but- She can't hear. No. She hears her heartbeat. It's too loud. She's panicking. She must calm down. She must lift her head-

She can't move.

No. She can move, but she shouldn't. Not until she reconciles her last known whereabouts and her present circumstance. Not until she knows it's safe to move. She must be careful. She can't hear Hydaelyn anymore, and she's-

"Peace, Aeryn."

The voice that speaks is instantly known to her: Urianger.

She exhales. The breath is unexpectedly cool against her flushed skin.

If Urianger is with her, then-

"Thou art safe within the Sands—in the common room, to be precise. 'Twas but a short measure ago that thou didst unexpectedly succumb to a well-deserved slumber whilst working o'er thy journal."

Her racing heartbeat calms as the melodic poetry of his voice wafts over her, helping her understand. She'd drifted off in odd places before, of course—not least of all at this very table. She can feel the painful impression in her skin where her arm rests atop the pages of her open journal, no doubt smudging some scribble of little import.

Urianger is beside her.

There is no danger here. She's safe.

The scent of candle smoke, warm wax, and old books permeates the air, even within the dim shelter of the crook of her arm—and, too, a faint hint of spice, as there always has been in Vesper Bay, where the aroma of baking Ul'dahn sweet breads fills the air, heavy and mouth-watering in the still of morning, mingling with fresh coastal breezes in the afternoon.

Of course she's at the Waking Sands. Though its walls still occasionally reflect her Echo vision of the massacre here, its warmth and familiarity somehow overpower that loss with an inexplicable comfort—as does the presence of a friend here whose gently flowing words, she's come to realize, offer an equal sense of peace.

She curls her back tight with a quiet groan, working to stretch the aching muscles made stiff by her position, then slowly turns her head without lifting it. It's just enough to pull at a knot of pain in her neck, and it affords her a view—though somewhat bleary—of the man seated beside her.

He peers down at a book open before him, long, slender fingers hovering over its pages. He has folded back the sleeves of his robe and removed his gloves, which lay on the table nearby, casting shadows over the wood in the wake of flickering golden candlelight. She blinks and feels the dancing shadows are not unlike the dark line of damp sand left behind a retreating wave.

"And so it seemeth thou hast now, at last, escaped the realm of dreams," Urianger says.

His voice draws her gaze back to him. Though much of his face is, as ever, veiled beneath the shadow of his hood and the red lenses of his goggles, she likes the way the glowing light and the curve of his smile shift his few visible features.

"A fair morning to thee, Aeryn."

"Is- is it morning?" Her voice emerges raspy with disuse, and she swallows.

"Nay, gentle warrior," Urianger replies. "Mine apologies. 'Twas in jest I didst speak, regrettably at thine expense, for the hour of thy waking seemed of some notable amusement."

He pauses with a contemplative hum, gazing down into the palm of one hand.

"'Twould seem keeping company with a compatriot long-estranged hath elicited some manner of odd influence o'er me. Strange…" he mutters. He then clears his throat and looks her way. "It was not mine intent, nor ever shall it be, to discomfit thee. Forgive me."

He gives a small, elegant bow; and because she can summon no words to form a reply, she nods.

It's enough.

Her wordless responses have always been enough, with him.

"As to the hour," Urianger continues, "though dawn's approach be nearer than not, she shall yet sleep for some bells more… as might present company, if thou shouldst desire."

Aeryn wonders if she could drift away again. Though exhaustion weighs heavily upon her, she rarely finds sleep amenable to her seeking it—least of all in this moment, when the manner of her waking has left her mind and body especially restless.

Her eyes drift back to Urianger's gloves, then to the candle beyond them. Its flame casts waves of flickering light and shadow, ever in flux, across all it touches. She wonders why she had thought them similar to waves and wet sand. She wonders-

The dull pain in her center returns with a swift, cold surge, and she curls her back tight against it. It hurts. It hurts so much, this loss of whatever once filled the gaping caverns within, the sensation of being raw and battered on the shore each time she wakes, wondering what she's dreamed of, what memories linger in the ebb and flow of tides of sleep.

An empty and agonizing unknown.

She wants to reach for Urianger's sleeve, as she has done now some dozen times before—to furl her fingers in the soft folds of warm fabric and glean from that meager nearness all the stability and calm that he evokes with both his presence and his words. But his sleeves are turned back, his focus on his tome, and she doesn't wish to trouble him.

She squints her eyes and bears it in silence until the pain once more settles, leaving behind its signature sadness (that isn't quite sadness). Her shoulders sag. She sighs.

"Ere thou drifteth," Urianger murmurs, "would not a more suitable place of slumber be of preferable comfort?"

She should, she supposes, retire to a room. Seek a soft bed, a warm blanket in which to nestle. But she can't summon the will to stir, because…

Because she doesn't want to.

Though warmer, cozier surrounds would surely beget a more restful sleep, she knows it can do nothing to combat the cold emptiness within. She doesn't want to be alone, and-

Understanding comes to her as a slight tingling sensation at the nape of her neck.

She doesn't want to be alone.

Has she- has she felt that before?

"Aeryn?"

She doesn't want to leave. It's warm enough here. The scents are comforting. The company is-

She wonders when Urianger came to sit beside her.

"Can-" she whispers, then half chokes on her next words before she can utter them. But Urianger doesn't rush her. He is quiet, patient, and still—waiting. She clears her throat and tries again. "C-can I- maybe… stay?"

"Thou art ever free to act in accordance with thy will, dawn bringer," he replies.

Am I? she wonders.

"Though a sounder repose may doubtless be sought elsewhere, shouldst thou truly wish to remain, I would be most glad for the gift of thy company."

Both she and the empty unknown within shudder, and she doesn't know why.

"Might I impose upon thee to allow a recitation of what words I, at present, mean to examine? The hour being late, that it might conspire to steal away with what secrets may be found within this text is assured. Yet betwixt we two, I am certain, we may avert the night's thievery and find what elusive knowledge may be gleaned in yon pages, together."

Aeryn nods, eliciting another pleasant smile from him.

"I am in your debt, gentle warrior."

You're not, she thinks, closing her eyes. She has agreed to this selfishly, knowing it will afford her another precious opportunity to slip away beneath the uniquely calming cadence of his mystical poetry.

Though his tone is pleasant and his words carefully measured, she can't quite follow all he reads regarding surveys on the nature of unaspected aether and its myriad uses. From beneath the fog of her weariness, the complexities of each observation swiftly muddle like ink smudges. Urianger murmurs something about Moenbryda's studies, about Ascians and primals; and though she tries to bring the words into focus, the warmth in the air and the soothing sound of his voice lulls her all too quickly toward inattentive thoughtlessness.

Her breath slows. She lapses in and out of awareness. She must be quite near to sleep again when Urianger's recitations cease. The silence lifts her from near-slumber, affording her a moment of clarity, enough so that she feels the air stir when Urianger rests his hand upon the table, surprisingly close to hers.

"Would that I might do more to aid thine efforts than merely pore over tomes and steward these halls. Yet that thou shouldst return again and again to this place in search of rest…" he trails off, and all is still for one breath, and another, and then-

"Doubtless it must seem to the contrary, when our every request draweth thee nearer unto ever more dire foes and such unfathomable dangers, but… we do care for thee; and we can but wish thee safe." His voice wavers at the last.

Aeryn's eyes spring open. The candle has burned much lower than she'd expected, emitting little more than a soft orange glow. Urianger's head is bowed, his hood blocking her from his view. He- he must think she's asleep.

"Though I can offer no promise of safety, I can but offer this: with steadfast devotion shall I assure thy rest go undisturbed, for as long as thou shouldst seek for it within these walls. Though such aid remaineth laughably meager, I nonetheless am heartened to offer freely of it to one who-"

He stops.

He stops, she thinks, because she has stretched the very few ilms it took to touch his hand with hers. He looks down to where their skin meets, the pads of her fingers just barely pressed to his small finger.

The fading candlelight glints across his goggles as he raises his attention to her.

Aeryn sucks in a breath, half-strangled, and draws her hand away. She twists her face back into the safety and shadow of her arm, curling her back tight—so tight. There erupts from the emptiness within a vortex of far, far too many sensations: myriad feelings interwoven like tangled yarn, such that she can't seem to pick apart the ones she's come to recognize from the ones that remain undefined.

She can't make any sense of it. She knows she couldn't bear to hear him speak of her any further—and she knows she wishes now that he would speak of anything else, if only so she can find peace once more in his soothing tone.

She- she doesn't know why she reached for him.

His skin was colder than she expected.

"Forgive me," he says quietly. "I had hoped not to wake thee."

Aeryn can think of nothing to say in return.

After a lengthy pause, Urianger resumes his reading. He continues without interruption, and his voice is still a wash of low, velvet calm when she finally, finally drifts back to sleep.

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When she wakes to a proper morning some bells later, the candle has long since been snuffed. Urianger and his tome are gone. But his cowl is draped over her shoulders, like a shawl. The flood of feelings tangled in her center come alive at once, no more easily discernible for the daylight.

She folds his cowl over the back of the chair beside her own, then departs for the Rising Stones and the next mission.

The scent of candle wax and spice accompanies her.

Don't ask me what part of the expansion this is from or who they're fighting. (It's probably just a bunch of sin eaters.) Especially don't ask me who's there and who's not, idk except for Urianger. This is just a nonsense snippet of maybe-fic I wrote when I initially came up with this concept. There is nothing else inside my brain.

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The veil begins to descend, and with it, a curtain of blazing fire. The stars pulse and shine amidst the searing heat as the hoard crashes into the shield again and again, snarling and shrieking and pushing hard enough against the magic that she stumbles, briefly, against the burden of holding it stable. The others speak swiftly, riddling out ways of combating this insurmountable force that already has them at the disadvantage—but Aeryn tunes them out, so wholly focused as she is on keeping them, however briefly, safe.

A prison of healing that she can only hold for so long.

She looks around her, realizing the evident. They have no means of escape, no tricks up their sleeves. One or more of them will fall the moment the veil dissipates. And she- And she can't do anything about it but try desperately to buy them more time. Time to figure out a miracle, if only there was one to be found.

Sweat beads upon her forehead with the effort, not only of maintaining the spell's significantly larger-than-normal size, but of keeping control of the wash of celestial fire swirling around it that she-

She huffs a tight breath, looking up.

That she can use.

It's a fool's hope at best, but she-

She doesn't pause to think—there's no time. Her mana is all but spent. The curtain will fall, and when it does...

Though she groans with the strain, she hefts her planisphere up high into the air toward the burning light at the center of the spell, where it sparks and blazes, sending a ripple of yellow-white, hot power across the entirety of the magical veil.

She grits her teeth as the force of it descends around her, spreading out both arms—as if the motion could do anything at all to help her keep the power at bay.

"Aeryn! What are you doing?"

"No. No, this spell is not meant to-"

"Please-!" she gasps, struggling to speak, trembling with the effort of keeping the magic where she needs it to be until the right moment. She half-sobs, blurting out like a plea to the stars swirling around them, "Not them-! Please, not- not anyone! No one else!"

Then she pushes with all her might on the veil of power meant to protect them, thrusting it outward like a flaming celestial hurricane, one with everything she wishes to protect at the epicenter.

The screams without are horrifying, monstrous, and she- she wishes she could cover her ears against the shrieking and sizzling and crackling. The sound crescendos and fades, and when it has passed, it leaves naught but a foul stench and an echo of agony in her ears. Aeryn releases the veil with a quiet wheeze.

A cold, ash-filled wind swirls back on them, blessedly cool against her fire-warmed skin—and it's then that she feels herself falter. Her planisphere clatters unceremoniously to the ground, and then so does she.

She thinks she hears her name on the cold wind, but then all is silent. She knows only a brief moment of not having the strength to lift her own limbs... and then she knows nothing.

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The sun creeps slowly toward the line of the horizon, its warm rays flushing her skin and painting the waters a sparkling golden hue. Aeryn draws a deep breath of the misty sea air. The breeze is filled with gull cries and the din of myriad voices shouting all along the dock. Bells ring to signal the coming and going of ships, and their creaking hulls cut through the waves, stirring them into cresting foam and swirling froth.

It should be overwhelming, this explosion of discordant sounds. Anywhere else it likely would be. Yet in spite of its chaos, Limsa Lominsa has always felt strangely comfortable to her, as if the wind welcomes her with its constant push and pull, and the noise folds over her like water over sand.

On the dock some short distance away stand her companions: Lyse, Alphinaud, and Tataru. The shortest of the three scurries underfoot of the Misery's crew as they hurry this way and that, some gathering ropes and nets, some hauling crates, still others with wrapped bundles slung over their shoulders—all busily fitting the ship to sail. Every so often, Aeryn catches a glimpse of Carvallain on the deck above, gazing into the rich gradient of the late day sky as one transfixed.

She adjusts the pack slung over her shoulder and leans against the rail to peer into the swirling waters. Their journey is meant to take two moons, at best, and more realistically close to three. Carvallain has assured them they may cut that time by navigating wild aether currents found deep at sea (a trick the good captain claimed to have a knack for), but they remain, nevertheless, uneasy about the duration of their expedition.

And yet…

Aeryn draws a deep breath again, feeling an odd tremor low in her back. It's neither apprehension nor wariness. No, though it defies all reason, she is, somehow, in spite of it all…

She's thrilled.

Her limbs shiver with excitement. She's restless and impatient. She wishes to be aboard now: out on the open water, surrounded by the waves and wind, with nothing but the sky overhead and the ocean below. To let the current carry her where it will—to brand new places where there will be so much more to see and learn and experience.

To lie under the stars of a different sky.

The winds pick up as the sun sinks low enough to tickle the distant waters. It whips her hair to and fro, causing small wisps of it to tickle her face, such that she moves on reflex to pull it back and re-twine her braid-

Only for her hand to meet with nothing long enough to gather.

The missing weight to one side of her face again becomes evident. Her fingers twitch in the air where her braid once was. She lowers her hand.

It had been so easy to forget her recent defeat, here. To allow the buzz of dockside activity to drown out all else but her excitement over their imminent departure. So easy, and ephemerally blissful to, for but a moment, release the weight of their staggering losses—the reason why they sail east at all.

To fight a war that's been lost more than once before.

To once again cry the same rallying chorus to those who no longer wish to hear it. A chorus that had been so swiftly silenced at Rhalgr's Reach.

She wonders if it will really work. She wonders-

"Well! That took significantly longer than expected!"

Aeryn turns to find Alisaie moving with haste across the white stone path toward her. There's a leather satchel at her hip, and she has a bundle in her arms not unlike those carried by the Misery's crew, which she deposits on the ground between them with an exaggerated huff.

"I'd begun to worry I'd be late!" She leans back to brush a sheen of sweat from her forehead, then looks just over Aeryn's shoulder with raised brows. "And I thought I was traveling light! Surely that can't be all you mean to bring, can it?"

Aeryn briefly examines Alisae's bundle. It's not oversized by any means, though it is roughly twice the size of her own bag. She looks back up at Alisaie and shrugs with a sheepish smile.

"Oh, don't you dare make that face," Alisaie mutters, folding her arms. "At least tell me that sack of yours is magicked to carry more than it seems, or something else to make me feel better."

Aeryn covers her mouth to hide a breath of amusement, then turns to look back up at the deck.

"Alphinaud and I set sail on a vessel not much larger than this when first we came to Eorzea, you know," Alisaie says, smiling up at the great mast and its white sails. "Gods, but that feels such a very long while ago, now. Mind you, ours was a ship of trade and not some ramshackle pirate's vessel."

Aeryn's smile broadens. "She doesn't look so ramshackle to me…"

"Hmph. Well, I suppose not," Alisaie concedes. "I suspect you must've sailed a great many times before this, hm?"

I don't know, Aeryn thinks, but before she can settle on a less complicated response, a voice she would never expect to hear over the hustle and bustle of the Lominsan docks cuts through the breeze:

"Twelve be praised! Full sure was I that I had come too late."

Aeryn whirls, eyes wide, to watch as Urianger descends the steps to greet them.

"Urianger?" Alisaie blurts. Aeryn notes her brief look of shock, which Alisaie quickly hides. "Whatever are you doing here? Tell me you haven't come all this way just to see us off."

"Nay, my lady," Urianger replies, offering them both a small bow. He nods toward Aeryn before addressing Alisaie again:

"Though I would feign deny my desire to bid thee a fond farewell, 'twas an additional matter that didst so direct my feet hither."

"Hm," Alisaie folds her arms. "In that case, it's good to see you."

"Thine sentiment be most assuredly mutual."

"Well? Out with it then. I daresay we'll be leaving, soon."

"Aye, and ere thou quitteth these shores for eastern climes, I wished to share some words of seeming import." The lingering sunlight glints off his goggles as he recites what sounds like verse in his soothing timbre:

"Look ye where the sun doth rise, see crimson embers, dark'ning skies. Look ye where the sun doth fall, see azure lost amidst the squall."

Aeryn can make no sense of it, but she finds herself, as ever, caught up in the little spell woven by the rise and fall of his voice—and in the calming sensation brought by his arrival. His presence soothes the wound of her defeat and eases the rising sensation of inexplicable excitement all at once, as if she has stepped ashore and found not shifting sands, but solid ground.

"Well, that sounds suitably foreboding," Alisaie says. She's pursued her lips, though the curve at one corner of them suggests she's withholding a smile. "Another one of your prophecies, I presume?"

"Of Far Eastern origin, aye," Urianger nods. "'Tis mine earnest hope that this ancient wisdom may serve to guide thee on thy journey, for what dangers lie in wait upon those distant shores are yet beyond my knowing."

"A parting gift befitting of your roundabout ways." Alisaie sighs dramatically, but she finally smiles. "Thank you."

"To thee, my lady, I would bear more than words," Urianger replies, to which Alisaie tilts her head. He draws from a scabbard Aeryn had not noticed hanging from the back of his belt a rapier, its blade forged of some glowing element she doesn't recognize. "Though it be undeniably powerful, thine aetherial blade taxeth you greatly in the wielding. Not so this rapier, which shall serve thee just as well 'gainst all but the most formidable foe."

Urianger offers both the weapon and its scabbard to Alisaie, whose awe at such a gift is evident in her gaze. Aeryn smiles when she tells Urianger she'll treasure it. Amends have begun between them, and it's just as warming as the parting rays of sunlight on her skin.

When Alisaie has finished affixing the scabbard to her belt, she nods to Urianger, then says:

"While we're on the subject of gifts, I've a slight confession to make."

She then kneels to open her bundle, from which she retrieves a familiar parcel that robs Aeryn immediately of her good humor.

"I do hope you'll forgive me for being so remiss in my promised duty," Alisaie practically sings, pushing the parcel into Aeryn's hands. The latter is so startled she very nearly drops it, which Alisaie ignores, bending to gather her pack into her arms while speaking quickly:

"It simply didn't feel right for such a gift to be delivered by my hand in place of yours. It would seem that might now be remedied, hm?"

"Ah- but-" Aeryn gasps.

Before she can speak further, Alisaie interrupts:

"Farewell, Urianger, and do keep out of trouble in our absence this time, won't you?"

Urianger smiles and bows low, which seems all the parting that is needed between them. Alisaie grins at Aeryn once more, then takes off at a quick jog to join their companions on the dock. Aeryn hardly sees as Alphinaud, Tataru, and Lyse all wave and call farewells to Urianger from the gangplank, nor does she properly notice when Carvallain disembarks, shouting orders at his crew.

She's still clutching the parcel she had thought long-since delivered, hardly moving, when Urianger's shadow appears beside her—and then, too, so does he. She turns, peering up at his goggles. Urianger reaches as if he might touch her ruined hair, but he stops and lowers his hand.

"Would that there were, in such a moment, yet anything I might do to aid thee."

Though she means to keep her composure, her brows knit.

"Let not thy brilliant light be smothered by the shadows of defeat, Aeryn, but press on, that all might follow in thy gleaming wake."

"Honored guests!" Carvallain calls behind her. "Say your farewells, for the moment of our parting draws nigh! A fair wind blows, and I mean to follow it!"

The sounds of bells clanging and sails billowing overhead signal a quick end to this moment she now wishes could last. Aeryn steels herself and looks down to unwrap the parcel in her hands, revealing the intended gift within: a long blue scarf. She draws two measured breaths before holding it out to him, head bowed low.

"I-In the- in the evening," she begins. "On- on the roof, when you- um, when you stargaze. I thought- maybe, you might-?" Her voice breaks, then fails her entirely. She can't bring herself to look up, but she watches, fixated, as Urianger's hands reach for the scarf to draw it slowly from her trembling hands. He brushes the pattern, his fingertips sinking low into the plush fibers.

"Doubtless crafted by thine hand," he says, and she nods. "That thou hast toiled in efforts to create a gift of such consideration with what few moments of peace art known to thee begets a gratitude which defies expression in this fleeting moment. Yet though such words be wholly insufficient, with brevity, they must do for the present: my thanks, Aeryn. My deepest thanks."

Aeryn reaches out to curl her fingers in his sleeve and holds fast to it.

"Aeryn! Hurry up!" Lyse calls out behind her.

"W-will you- will you walk with me?" she asks.

"Aye, Aubétoile."

They reach the gangplank sooner than she wants, contrary to her previous impatience. She takes two steps up the ramp but finds, as the moment of their parting draws nearer, that she doesn't want to release Urianger's sleeve. She turns and looks down at it, then up at him.

"'Twould not do to try the patience of they whose steps are guided by the coming and going of the tide," Urianger says, smiling down at her. "For wild as the wind and current fly such souls. They may be like to depart without thee."

I could catch them, Aeryn thinks—but that's so unbearably foolish, as is the thought which follows:

I don't care.

In the end, the only response she can offer is to curl her fingers just a bit tighter into his sleeve.

There is another cry of, "All board!" just over her shoulder. Another clanging bell rings out on the deck overhead.

Surprisingly, Urianger offers no further suggestion to hurry her departure. Instead, he reaches with his spare hand to brush the stars on her cheek. Then he slides his fingers past her ear and through her uneven hair, this time without hesitation.

It's pleasant, the sensation of his fingers in her hair.

She doesn't understand how she can simultaneously like and dislike closeness such as this. Were it anyone else, she would have avoided their reach and sought for a comfortable distance. But like his voice and the scent of his robes, Urianger's reserved nearness seems uniquely suited to put her at ease, and she once again welcomes it in spite of how strange that makes her feel.

She's going to miss him. And this time, when the sentiment occurs to her, she doesn't withhold it:

"I'll miss you." Aeryn doesn't stumble over the words. She speaks surely, and after a short breath (an effort to calm her pounding heartbeat), she looks up. The way his lips have parted in surprise warms her as surely as the sinking sunlight. "I, um- I'm really going to miss you so much."

"And I, thee," Urianger replies, his voice low and quiet. "Proceed with as much caution as thou mayest. Be safe. Pray, be safe."

When the bell sounds again—along with a cry from Lyse not far behind her—Aeryn drops his sleeve and folds her hands together across her middle, holding close a sensation within that, as usual, defies any definition she can fathom.

Urianger's fingers slide away from her hair, then slip down to his side.

"I shall remain to see thee safely departed, mon aubétoile," he says, and though her skin flushes anew over this slight alteration to his name for her, she nods, and turns.

At the urgent waving of Lyse at the end of the gangplank, Aeryn takes off at a quick jog. But she tucks close the sound of Urianger's voice wishing her well—calling her his—that she might carry it with her until next they meet.

"Gods, but you do love to cut it close!" Lyse blurts when Aeryn joins her. At the latter's shrug, she chuckles. "Have a nice chat, did you?"

Aeryn ignores, taking a moment to get her bearings—to feel the rock and creak of the ship beneath her feet—before she spies the stairs she suspects lead to the deck. She offers Lyse a little grin, then turns and bolts up both flights, taking the steps two at a time, such that she's breathless when she breaks free of the lower decks. Stars have begun to twinkle in the watercolor wash of the early evening sky. The wind careens wildly through her hair, whipping in her ears.

There is just as much activity and noise up here as there had been down on the docks, and she is curious to watch it all, but-

She moves to the edge to look back toward the dock. Urianger has backed away to safety behind the railing. He peers up at the ship and gestures in the air with one hand. She thinks, perhaps, he's drawing spell runes.

The scarf draped over his arm sways in the breeze. It matches his robe.

The bell sounds once more, insistent, and the ship comes alive with such noise, bustle, and motion—but she can't look away.

She watches until Urianger is a blur, fading into the atmosphere of the evening Limsan sky.

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Took a lot of liberties with both the existing dialogue and some story elements. Annnnd I definitely use Limsan and Lominsan interchangeably and haven't been able to determine if one is more correct than the other. (Or neither? Possibly neither.)

I feel a bit bad still calling these WoLianger Week. I'm determined to finish!!! ...but maybe I should stop using the tag? ^^;