#fionh

If it were anyone else, Fionh would have shrugged it off. Her mother had a way of eventually getting everything out of her unlike others. Why fight it? Besides, maybe if Giah got a taste, the topic would be dropped. "It's nothing really, Mam. Now and then I'll get the feeling I'm being followed. I've had the feeling before and my imagination was just running away from me."

Giah's brown eyes practically bored into Fionh with a fierceness borne from her years spent among the Family. "You know you can come and stay here, right? You don't need to go out all the time. Arhoswch yma gyda ni."

Fionh hated it when her mother reverted to the old tongue. Their clan were traditionalists, focused on maintaining some of those old ways they chose to maintain. This included maintaining the old keeper tongues and ensuring they were all fluent. It touched their speech, all of it. Giah using the tongue was a reminder of their past, what they lost.

What they were cast out from.

What they rejected.

Fionh let out a sigh and shook her head. “I’m doing what I like to do,” she said quietly. A half-lie. The best ones always had a least an onze of truth. “I was always a good hunter, and taking on leves is just helps keep me in practice.” Not really a lie, just not the whole truth. “And besides, you need the gil.”

Giah merely shook her head and took on the look of the long-suffering mother. Fingers brushing against Fionh’s cheek, she let out a sigh and shook her head. “As long as you keep coming back, fy cudyll.”

Fionh smirked. “Of course. I know what I’m doing.” Another lie.

Limsa Lominsa was still busy despite sunset being a few bells past. People roamed the streets, some drunk, some in love, even more finishing business or starting anew. The salty tang of sea air was exhilarating for someone newly arriving. 

For Fionh, it was not the smell of home. She doubted it ever would be, but that didn’t matter. Many Keepers of the Moon were still nomadic. Even those clans of poachers in the Black Shroud frequently moved from hunting lodge to cave to follow seasonal game. She was just an extension of her people of eld rather than her old clan, something they could never take away from her.

Taking the maze of walkways toward where she stayed, Fionh pondered her next steps. There were leves, of course; she needed the gil not only for herself but for her family. Giah and Rhesh were capable, but working the mills only did so much. Her mother was getting on in years. Wouldn’t it be better if she were to work less? With matters as they were now, Fionh had no doubt her family would have an easier time if they didn’t need to worry about money.

Arriving at the Mizzenmast, Fionh went straight to the bar of the Drowning Wench. Night had fallen, and she was more awake at night despite her early rise. While her mother might have adapted to being awake during the day, Fionh didn’t see a point in subjecting herself to the bright light of the sun. She ordered a drink and perused the leve listings while she waited.

“There was someone asking about you,” the waitress said as she approached. A seeker, the woman’s cat-like eyes were wide in the dim light of the bar. She offered the tankard to Fionh.

The keeper paused and turned. Taking the drink, she tilted her head, ears tilting back slightly. “Did they say who they were?”

“Only that she were an old friend from back home.”

Fionh froze. They’d come for her, even here. If they found her here, they’d no doubt find her mother and sister soon. Licking her lips, she rested a hand low on her spear shaft. Her shoulders fell just slightly, relaxing as she felt its comforting weight. “Did she mention where she’d be?”

“No, but she left using the lift. I thought she might be heading toward the Zephyr Gate.” The waitress’s brows furrowed. “Is everything alright?”

Looking back at the leve board, Fionh sighed and took a sip of her ale. So much for taking a card tonight. “It will be. Thank you, you’ve been a great help. There’s just something I’ll need to take care of.

The cave ahead was perfect. The Jinjahl of the southern Shroud often found small caverns like this to take refuge in when there wasn’t adequate space for their tents or bedrolls. It was all too familiar, all too real now that Fionh was standing in the mouth. She was in the right place.

Some distance in and the crackling pops of burning firewood and the smells of wild game suffused the air, pushing out the salt of the nearby bay. A young miqo’te woman of perhaps twenty summers stood crouched by an impromptu fire pit. Dressed in leathers and stolen clothes, she appeared almost ragged and unkempt. Looks could be deceiving, confirmed by how her sword and shield rested mere fulm away.

Fionh spear was in her hand as she tapped the flat of her spearhead against the wall of the cave. “Hnaba,” she said just loud enough for the woman to hear.

Hnaba scrambled for her sword, then stopped. “You always were one of our better hunters, Fionh,” she said. Her voice was low, resolute but resigned. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you got the drop on me this time.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Fionh’s voice was utterly even, dispassionate in her address of her old classmate. “Did they think to garner sympathy by sending you after me? Get me to return through sentiment and familiarity?”

Hnaba slowly reached for her sword. Fionh didn’t stop her, and soon she was standing, blade at her side. “They didn’t send me. I left.”

“Why?”

“To bring you back.”

Fionh shook her head. There was no sense trying to convince Hnaba of her foolishness, not when she was here of her own volition. “Why?” She asked again.

Hnaba met Fionh’s gaze without hesitation. “You need to face the justice handed down by our leaders. It’s only ri-”

“It’s not justice. She’s wrong. She’s not even herself anymore.” Fionh’s voice deepened. A warning. She took a step forward.

Hnaba didn’t back away. Instead, the younger woman lifted her sword, point toward Fionh. “Don’t make me do this.” She was nearly pleading. “Come back with me. Join us again. Take your place by your aunt’s side.”

“My aunt is dead, Hnaba,” Fionh replied. Ice nearly formed with each word. Her eyes gave away none of her feelings. She cut off protests as she took her spear shaft in both hands, tip aimed at her cousin’s heart.

Remorse rose in her pursuer’s eyes as she took an on guard stance, sword before her. A beat. Then a second.

Hnaba’s snap cut whipped toward Fionh’s neck. The rasp of steel rung through the cave as Fionh’s spearhead blurred, deflaecting the blow. The butt-end spun, taking Hnaba behind the knee. The woman crumpled. Still spinning, Fionh brought the spear down, point through Hnaba’s chest where she had aimed before.

Fionh couldn’t look. She couldn’t speak. As the last breath stuttered from her cousin’s lips, tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The spear pulled from Hnaba with a sickening squelch. Slowly, Fionh turned and left, leaving the fire burning, the food roasting a little too long. The wilds would handle her cousin’s body. The fire would die down, and the smell of food—even burning—would attract beastkin. After they had their fill, the scavengers would come, feeding the cycle.

No one would report back to her clan. Her presence would be known by no one.