#read2024

“Stop right there!”

The young Miqo’te boy tucked the package under his arms as he ran down the Steps of Nald into the Steps of Thal, his feet moving as fast as they could to get him as clear of the Quicksand as possible, two burly men in Brass Blades uniform slowly gaining.

He looked right. Brass Blade, coming down the stairs. No good; wouldn’t be able to blow past him. His head swiveled forward. A couple of carts were bringing in tradecraft supplies and goods to the stalls. He weaved through the crowd, putting his shoulder as hard as his small frame could into the cart, a poorly-balanced crate toppling into the Sapphire Avenue and stymieing the Blades for enough moments to gain some distance.

A young Dunesfolk girl sat atop the outcropping behind the Aetheryte, looking at the chase unfold. With a grin, she hopped up, swishing her long black hair out of the way of her face, and waved the boy down. She pointed up the stairs with a laugh.

“Make a left!” came the instructions from the Lalafell as the boy cut as hard to the right as he could and ran up the stairs, three steps at a time in big hops, sliding as he got to the top and pivoting as hard left as he could.

Another Brass Blade, this one a massive Roegadyn man, had started to make the run from the passage from the Pearl Lane into the Gold Court and started to give chase as well; the boy’s turn had cut into his speed.

No matter—he moved as fast as he could and jumped up, quickly climbing up onto a stack of crates to his left, running and hopping across others in the path, onto staircases and then onto more crates. Sitting on the steps, a kid with scruffy black hair flopping around over his headband looked up and grinned as the Miqo’te sailed over him.

The Hyur kid stood up, waited until he could hear the pursuers’ footsteps, and shoved a large container forward and toppled it onto the ground, sending countless crystal beads scattering and rolling into path just as the Roegadyn man came.

The next sound was a “DAMNED—" cut short and a loud thud and crash as the Roegadyn slid forward. And the loud crunches and cracks of glass as the two earlier pursuers slowly tried to make their way around the mess on the ground.

The Miqo'te boy kept running, his lanky legs already carrying him down the path to the Miners’ Guild, where he took time to traipse around the corridors, weaving past workers and ducking past crates, looking every which way. Things seemed to be clear until he started hearing the loud commotion of footsteps coming from the Gold Court proper, and a simple loud order.

“FIND HIM!”

He kept running, leaping up some steps before turning right to head to the Coliseum, trying to mix in with a nearby group who were seemingly exploring. The group went down the stairs, and so did he, and as the family turned right towards the Gold Court, the boy pivoted left and ran into the area of the Coliseum. And with a quick dash, a shoulder went into the door of the Gladiator Guild.

He ran in and waved at the receptionist as she blinked at his entrance, and laughed. He went to the railing and slipped under it, landing between the stacks of equipment and the steps to the little practice pit. He sat down to gather himself, trying to catch his breath.

One of the gladiators, a middle-aged Hyur man who was sitting on the steps next to him, noticed him as he was trying to gulp down any air he could muster. He gave him a big, stupid grin.

“Causing trouble again?”

The boy took a few more heavy breaths before giving a little dismissive wave of the hand and a shake of the head.

“Nahhhhh.”

“Mhm.” The gladiator gave him a knowing smirk. “That right? Just runnin’ for fun, then?”

Almost as if on cue, the door to the Gladiators’ Guild swung open, and a helmeted woman looked inside, peering left and right for a few moments before giving an up-nod over to the Receptionist before looking around.

“Oi! Anyone come through here just now?”

The receptionist shrugged.

The gladiator shook his head and shrugged. “Ain’t had no one come through here.”

The woman cursed and bolted off as the door slowly swung closed behind her.

The boy exhaled out a held breath, coughing lightly.

“Riiight,” smirked the gladiator. “No trouble.”

“Not… even a little,” said the boy, finally catching up to his breathing.

He clambered to his feet, gave the gladiator a pat on the shoulder, and grinned. “Owe ya one.”

“Yeah? Th’ fuck are YOU gonna give me?”

The receptionist was trying her best to not break into a fit of giggles as the boy opened the door to the guild, peeked left and right, gave a little wave goodbye to the people inside and snuck off.

“…He’s going places, that Carran.” The receptionist smiled as she shook her head.

“Yeah.” The gladiator laughed before he focused back on the trainees in the pit. “Gaol.”

Carran had already made a hasty move out through the steps past the Coliseum, rushing past a few more corridors and up some steps to a twisting staircase, where an older boy in a tank top and slacks stopped him for a moment, throwing some robes over him before setting a bent, wide-brimmed, conical hat atop his head. He gave him a big pat on the back, nodding.

“I expect these back tonight.”

And the little fake thaumaturge hustled off with a small group of thaumaturges, headed out the Sultana’s Gate to get some live practice of their offensive magic against critters.

—

A bell or two later, as the thaumaturges continue to practice and talk, Carran is sat off to the side on a crate in the Scorpion Crossing, idly eating through an apple.

A gentleman in long robes, with a pointed, angular mask and a propensity for grinning approached him, his grin already near ear-to-ear.

“My dear friend! It would appear that YOU have made it here… on TIME, after all!” Words spoken in a strange, pitchy voice that could never settle on a proper pace, hitching in odd places.

Carran finished the last bite of his apple and tossed the core over to a refuse pile. He wiped his hands off on the robes before turning to look at him, grinning under the huge brim of the hat.

“Yeah. Sure have.” And from the sleeves of Carran’s loaned robe, he produced a small, thick red satchel. He offered it to the robed man, holding it up for him.

The robed man smiled in turn, taking the satchel in one hand, and opened it with the other. He rifled through the contents with a playful hum. He giggled an upsetting giggle, and his perhaps too-wide grin seemed to get wider. Carran’s ears flattened on his head.

“Yes. Yes! Perfect, my dear friend. Ab—solutely PERFECT! You have done me… a GREAT service! Indeed, indeed, indeed.” He reached to the massive sling bag held at his side, pulling it in front of himself, and as he deposited the satchel into it, he rifled through it. After a few moments, he let out a quick “a-HA!” and pulled from inside of it a small black box that barely fit in the long, lanky fingers of his hand.

“And I… promised you: THIS!”

He laid the box on the crate, then stepped back and did a flourish with his hand, bowing deeply. “Please, please! Inspect it, inspect it, and make SURE. That it… is to YOUR liking.”

Carran reached to the box, holding it for a few moments in his hands, and his eyebrows raised at how much heavier it was than it seemed. He pulled the top of the box off to reveal the contents: a vial rested on a plush bed of red velvet. He took the vial and lifted it above him to examine it. It was  filled with an odd, swirling and colorful liquid that seemed to glow strangely at certain angles and cast odd lights. He placed the vial back into the box, and the lid back onto it to close it before turning back to the robed man.

The man regarded him with a dangerous smile. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Well, WELL! What do you think? A fortune. A fortune. In a SINGLE bottle.” That giggle, again. “Aren’t you EXCITED?”

Carran forced himself to smile. “…Sure. Bet I’ll find a buyer for it in… no time, yeah? If this does what you say it does.”

His smile twisted into a terrible Cheshire grin.

“I am sure whoever drinks it will find whatever price is demanded well worth it.” Smooth, lucid, perfectly spoken.

Carran felt himself swallow right as his lips curled in an uneasy smile. A nervous chuckle escaped him, and he took the box, stuffed it under his friend’s robes, and nodded. “…You need anythin’ else, you—you let me know.” And with a quick hop off the crate, he hustled away, running back to join the other thaumaturge trainees as they got ready to return to the city.

—

She could not believe what she was seeing in the mirror the following morning.

In a quiet moment of privacy, she wrote.

at times like these that i wonder if she tires of the same words if they feel hackneyed and trite as i whisper them into her ear does she know what she means to me? i wonder if my words can carry everything within me i have to express all of the feelings i struggle to share so a kiss, a touch, my warmth, my self all i have to give are hers until words are no longer needed for she will know all of mine

In a quiet moment of privacy, she wrote.

the sweet heat of their breath playing on my lips and sinking down kisses trailing to just under my neck their teeth pierce my skin their mouth wraps around the wound eager to savor the taste my sweat and blood the finest vintage for a thirst they can't slake and yet i am losing myself in the amber glow of their eyes the scent of lavender in their hair and the tingling touch of their skin i let them mark me again and again and again stamping me with the evidence that i let them claim a place in me and their eyes burn brilliant gold as i find my place in them

She didn't know if she was falling into her patterns again. Letting herself be swept up in the easy relief of open arms.

But she knew how she felt.

“You can’t be serious.” Nenera huffed in disapproval.

“Come on! It’ll be fun. Don’t you want to see if those stories Ilysa told us were true?”

Celica’s bright, amber eyes shimmered in the sparse light of the Pearl Lane, open and excited. Nenera groaned, vacillating with what to say next. Celica grinned wider at the chance.

“You’re the one who kept talking about how romantic it all was. The avenging blades, protecting the weak and punishing the wicked.”

“They’re fighting in a gladiator’s pit for blood and sport! There’s no romance in that,” Nenera retorted, exasperated.

“Listen. If it gets ugly, we’ll go. I just want to watch him fight. Please, Nene. I am begging you.” Celica clasped her gloved hands together at the palms, rubbing them together before pushing them against her lips and giving Nenera the most pleading look she could muster.

Nenera’s shoulders sagged, and her eyes rolled even as a chuckle finally escaped her. Celica’s eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Alright—fine. Fine! Let’s go see this so-called Endymion of the Fury.”

—

The crowd was roaring with excitement, the acrid smells of sweat and smoke filling the air.

“DE-SERT FANG! DE-SERT FANG!” came the cheers, adding to the cacophony

“And the crowd clearly is united in its appreciation for our tall, dashing Desert Fang! The man who has captured the eyes and imaginations of onlookers near and far over the past few moons, amazed by his tenacity and ability to overcome every challenger thus far!”

Celica and Nenera had elbowed, scurried and pushed their way through the tight crowd until they reached the front. Celica crouched low to join Nenera under the stone guard rail, letting Nenera nestle herself right in between her arms.

“…This is a madhouse.”

“I know! It’s great!”

Her head tipped over Nenera’s left shoulder, they both looked down to the two fighters circling each other in the arena.

One was a massive Roegadyn man with sharp features. The announcer had called him dashing—rightfully so, if Nenera’s nod of approval and quirked brow upon seeing him was any indication. Lean and mean, wielding a hooked sword in one hand and a hatchet in the other, dressed in light, dark-brown leathers that clung tight to his body, with several straps and harnesses for other medium or small weapons.

The other was a tall, Elezen man. Compared to Desert Fang, he was lanky. He walked with a slouch; his upper body was turned to always face his opponent. The upper side of his face was concealed by a black, angular mask that hid his features and obscured his gaze from the world, and that made him seem all the more inscrutable. Blue leathers were his choice for armor on his upper body, but his gauntlets, as well as his chausses and boots, were heavy and plated, and as dark as pitch.

Desert Fang’s stride was confident, secure. It projected a level of self-assurance so profound that it quickly drained the doubt of all that lay eyes upon him.

“DE-SERT FANG! DE-SERT FANG! DE-SERT FANG!”

Desert Fang grinned widely and stretched his arms outward, beckoning to the Elezen man.

Celica thought of how unusual the Elezen’s movements felt. How it felt like he was coiled up, as if waiting for a moment to strike. Even in the face of Desert Fang’s taunting.

Desert Fang’s head tilted to the right, the grin on his face still wide. He spun his weapons in his hands and leaned forward just so, before he sprung forward.

The crowd roared.

The Elezen man waited.

“You’re too SLOW!” Desert Fang spat out, winding up with his blade, preparing a low swing that’d rake across his enemy’s front.

He did not count on the Elezen springing forward, faster than he could track, and closing the distance so soon.

Nenera’s breath caught in her throat.

The Elezen man’s shoulder neatly caught Desert Fang square in the chest, and the angle he took robbed his swing of any power. Pushed back, Desert Fang lifted his weapons in a guard as the Elezen man’s right arm lifted the sword onto his right shoulder.

The loud crack of plate against leather was drowned by the cheers.

The raised weapon had been a feint.

The Elezen had swung his leg out in a brutal leg kick, smashing Desert Fang’s leading leg aside and causing him to stumble, losing his footing. Desert Fang’s confidence wavered as searing pain coursed through his leg, and for the first time in his tenure at the Coliseum, he had taken a step back.

The Elezen man slowly circled him, blade resting on his shoulder, held in both hands. His empty, masked stare never wavered.

“…By the Twelve.”

“Right?” Celica felt herself grin ear-to-ear.

“…He’s so hot.”

“Never mind,” came the quick retort and Celica felt it was her turn to be exasperated.

The gladiators didn’t give her the time to be. Desert Fang leapt forward with a thrust of his hooked sword that the Elezen parried with a quick motion of his blade. Desert Fang promptly followed that a a step out and another stab at center mass this time, which the Elezen deftly avoided by stepping back. The crowd had begun to get behind Desert Fang again. He swung, thrust and hacked away, and the Elezen man stepped back and out a little more each time. It looked like he might run himself out of room, with Desert Fang’s strikes leading him off to the side.

The Elezen man stepped back one last time and dropped into a lower stance, choking up on the sword as it lay on his right shoulder, once again coiled to strike. When Desert Fang’s thrust came, the Elezen retorted with a short, tight swing, deflecting the blade to the side, and shoved him off once more with his shoulder.

The crowd’s cheers waned for a moment.

Staggering, Desert Fang turned and swung his hatchet.

The Elezen's grip on his sword shifted, his feet dug into the ground and with a twist of his hips, his greatsword lashed out with full force, crashing into the hatchet and smashing it, the head flying away into the wall of the arena. The man brought his blade forward into a new stance, the overhand grip leaving the blade to jut forward at an angle, covering most of his body.

Celica gaze was fixed on his form.

His movements, his decisions. How he weaved a guard into a strike, a parry into repositioning. How he punished mistakes. How he led and conditioned Desert Fang into committing to them.

“It’s over,” she caught herself whispering.

The crack of the Elezen’s pommel across Desert Fang’s skull echoed through the arena as he dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Celica held onto Nenera tight as her blood boiled with excitement.

—

“No.”

“Come on. What is it. Do you want me to pay for the privilege? I’ll do it.”

The Elezen man shook his head and took another swig of his mug of mead. He didn’t even look her way.

“…Please. Listen, okay. I—”

“No.”

“—I’m begging you. I’ll just come for lessons, and I’ll get out of your hair, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“I’d prefer you not bother me.”

Celica felt her blood run hot, and before she gave into any worse impulses, she threw her hands into the air, groaned in frustration and walked away.

The Elezen man let his gaze follow her as Celica shoved the back door of the Quicksand open and stormed off into the Pearl Lane.

—

“A hundred-and-thirty. A hundred-and-thirty-one. A hundred-and-thirty-two.”

The blade wasn’t precisely like his. First, the ricasso was a bit flatter, which didn’t make much of a difference when she tried to choke up on the blade. Second, it was a broader blade altogether, tapering out after the unsharpened ricasso.

She didn’t seem to care. She kept swinging.

Ilysa kept watching from the side on her bench, having completely lost interest in the book she was writing in and just watching Celica repeat swing after swing after swing.

“Yer gonna fuckin’ melt yer arms off.” Ren shook his head before wiping his forehead with a rag. “Why so fuckin’ obsessed? Why in th’ swelterin’ fuckin’ heat, for cryin’ out loud?”

“A hundred-and-forty-one. A hundred-and-forty-two.” She continued to swing, concentrating.

“...There's no way ya suddenly started fancyin' men for a bell, right?” He looked over at Ilysa with a bit of a shrug. Ilysa laughed, shook her head, and went back to watching Celica swing away.

“A hundred-and-forty-nine. A hundred-and-fifty. A hundred-and-fifty-one…”

Ilysa watched. And wondered.

—

Another evening in the Quicksand.

The Elezen man had just sat on one of the stools, arms folding onto the counter as he leaned forward. In the next stool over, Ilysa turned to look in his direction.

She smiled.

“Ser Hector.”

The Elezen man turned and looked at her. He studied her features for a long moment, then nodded. “You look well, miss Ilysa.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“Maybe not.” He nodded and leaned back onto the counter, staying quiet.

“I heard you’ve met my friend.”

“…Mm.” He shook his head.

“Oh, no? I suppose that red-headed firecracker’s made it all up, then?” A quirk of the brow was joined by an incredulous smirk that crept upon her face.

Hector winced in his seat and lifted his left hand, leaning against it to cracking his neck to the left, then to the right. “Her. Yes.”

“Ah! So you have, then. Good.” She clapped her hands together, grinning.

“She's been after me every single day this past sennight."

"She's very persistent, isn't she?"

"I’m not doing it.”

Ilysa reached over and put her hand on his arm. Her grin softened to a smile.

“Please, Hector. She’s aimless right now. She has tried in so many other ways. She has no star to guide her." Her grip tightened. "But you…”

Hector let out a long sigh and turned his head. “I’m no Paladin. You realize this, yes?”

Ilysa’s smile remained. She nodded. “Neither is she.”

Hector’s eyebrows raised for a moment. A woman on the other side of the counter set a frothy tankard in front of him and slid it over to him. He reached out to it and pulled it close, nodding quietly as he gripped it with both of his hands.

“No promises.”

She ran as she always did each morning, along the outer rung of the Goblet, quickly dashing up stairs and maintaining a decent pace.

She was not expecting to see the Elezen man from a distance, sat in the open space that she normally used to practice. She couldn’t see any of her friends. She hadn’t seem him in the Quicksand in days. Was she in trouble?

Wait. Were any of them in trouble?

She pulled up a distance away, her jog slowing to a walk as she did, the sword Ilysa had let her borrow strapped to her back. She gave him a serious look, and she felt a knot in her chest catch in her throat as she spoke.

“…Mornin’, Ser... what was it. Endymion of the Fury, yeah?" Her brow furrowed deeper. "Anything I can help you with?”

Hector chuckled and slowly rose to his feet, not bothering to dust himself. “No.”

“…Then?”

“Your friend is as stubborn as you.”

Celica’s eyebrows both rose.

“I expect you here every sun at the crack of dawn.” He folded his arms across his chest.

Celica stepped up to her apartment building. The Sultana's Breath was a nice place to live in—access to pools, right in the city she grew up in. Away from the constant gaze of her adoptive parents—that, of course, was key.

But it is a lonely thing, to be in a city where the people you most care about aren't around to reminisce with.

She'd gone on a few jobs already, and they were all the same routine. Escort caravan from one city to another. Escort people through troubled areas. Act as a bodyguard. Protect rich folk from other folk. Again, and again. A monotonous routine, only made bearable by the fact that the jobs paid well, and she had enough of a reputation with the Flames that she was often requested by name.

Still, they'd started to catch on; her focus was on people, not on goods. She was so prone to negotiation, to letting part of the cargo go if it meant the safety of the rest of the crew. The Guilds weren't liking that, and work was starting to dry up.

She had gotten offers and suggestions to work elsewhere. Vex had insisted that she could come out to Thavnair, maybe join in hunts. There had been interest from some folk from East Aldenard, who needed several strong arms on a ship to Kugane.

Celica could never make herself comfortable being so far from home for so long. Something about being back here seemed... safe. Maybe she just wanted to see the streets every day, like she used to. She wasn't sure, anymore. At least here, she figured, it was familiar enough that she could keep it together.

So she walked up the stairs to her apartment. Some nights, if she got there not too late, some of the neighbors would be outside in the hallways, making conversation. Tonight, one of the neighbors a few doors down was talking about taking care of her children with one of the others. Celica gave them a little wave as she walked by. They waved back, and she kept walking. Another nice thing she'd noticed was a couple of cats had taken up residence in the building. They'd spend their days chasing things around the halls, perched in curious places, or just half-asleep in a stairwell when a convenient sunbeam had seeped through the decorative gaps in the stone. Tonight, she only caught eye of one or two, chasing each other out of her sight.

Must be nice, she thought. Being that level of carefree.

She walked into her apartment and closed the door behind her, when the sound reached her. A constant meowing, persistent and almost desperate. It felt… distant, but close enough to hear. She looked around, leaving her things by the entrance, curious as to the source of the sound. She looked around the chairs, the sides, and the windows outside her kitchen side, but couldn't work out where the sound was coming from. Until she noticed the meowing started get louder as she approached her bed.

She blinked, and drew the curtains aside, and pulled the window up. There, on the tiny perch, nestled in between two of her plants, was a small, black kitten, no bigger than her hand, meowing so loudly that Celica thought her voice would go hoarse. She blinked at it, and its tiny, sightless blue eyes swung around as it continued to meow loudly.

Celica reached down and took the tiny ball of fur in her hands and brought it into the house. She swung open a dresser and pulled several blankets out, looking for a warm enough one to ensure it could be wrapped up in. She made a little pile of blankets for it to use as bedding. When she looked down, she noticed the tiny baby had latched onto one of the little bits of the blanket, suckling on it, its ears wiggling as it had hoped to find food. She immediately picked it up, wrapped it up in a little towel, and stepped outside. The two ladies were still talking.

She wandered right up to them, bringing the little cat to them and giving them a smile. "…Excuse me for botherin' you this late, but, ah."

Her muscles were sore. Her back felt tight, overworked. Her ears were ringing and her headache was getting worse. Her sword arm in particular was exhausted beyond belief. Every single fiber of her being roared in pain, and exhaustion had threatened to lay her low several times over, but she figured that stillness, particularly in those moments, would be death.

She had never felt more alive than in the past bell.

She didn't really know what was happening. Horizon was just another stop for work, as far as she knew. But the sky had turned red and flame descended from the sky. No sooner than she had started to help unload that cart than she noticed a massive, hulking beast had turned the corner out from behind an alleyway, roaring before charging at the cart she was protecting. It swung its heavy arm and crashed into it, destroying it and sending goods flying everywhere—and people running.

"Run! I'll hold it off!"

Blade swung up to meet claw the next time, but Celica's long sabbatical had taken its toll on her strength and reflexes. The claw sent her careening off into a crate, smashing it.

No time to recuperate; it was upon her again. She ducked and tumbled under it, running her sword across its underside as she did, causing it to howl in… something. Pain? She could not tell, it was nothing like she'd ever heard. She turned to see a woman, panic slowly setting in as it faced the two of them down. She turned and barked in that commanding tone she hadn't used in so long:

"Get yourself together! Go, grab them and run!" She pointed, directing her to a huddled mass of people; children within. "They need safety! Go!"

The woman gasped, focused, looked around, then with a sudden focus in her eyes —purpose, she thought; when was the last time Celica had purpose?—she ran off to help the stragglers.

Just in time for Celica to get slammed aside by another swipe of the claw. She grit her teeth, coughing up blood. And yet she stood again, defiant, blade held in the way Hector had taught her so many years back, a wild glint in her eye and a grin. If she was going to go, this was as good a way as—

CRACK! CRACK! Gunfire echoed through the streets, over the din of on-going chaos.

The aberration's head rocked away, then swung as the two heavy impacts collided against the side of its massive head. It bellowed out another incomprehensible roar—frustration, Celica thought. She turned to look at the source of the noise, and saw a Viera clad in turquoise garb strafing around, firing round after round from a handgonne while she fiddled with an aetheroconverter at her side, preparing for a follow-up.

"Come, darling! The show's not over yet!"

Spurred by those words, with a grit of her teeth, Celica dug her feet into the ground and sprung forth, and lunged, a loud roar escaping her as she brought her blade up, challenging the unholy beast with blade bared forward.

—

She sat there, looking up at the still-red sky. Well, can't be Dalamud, she thought. That's long passed.

What was it? Who could be sure. She swallowed again and shifted her weight, still trying to deal with the soreness. She saw the woman she had earlier helped and shot her a smile. She nodded in return, and the family she had helped returned the wave. One of the children came back with a jug of water, which Celica was all-too happy to drink.

The Viera from earlier approached her again. Now, she got to get a good look at her: darker skin, tall, a carefully-styled head of dark brown hair and self-sure expression, clad from head to toe in brilliant turquoise and earthen tones. In her hands, a pair of skewers. She reached down to offer one of them to her.

"Well, darling, I've never quite seen anyone fight like that. Here, my treat." She grinned down at her.

The sun had yet to rise.

Taalamihi took a deep breath.

The smell of the sea filled her lungs as she turned her head east, looking deep into the horizon. She'd been on the ship for almost a moon.

"But finally," the First Mate had assured her, "today? We'll see land, lassie. I can feel it."

Today, she would finish something very important.

A trip across the salt she had waited on for thirty years.

Suruputwi had listened to stories told to them of Ketenramm's people. About the world across the salt. He had dreamed of such a world, a place where he and Taalamihi could go to explore the rest of the world and sate their wanderlust. When Taalamihi had bore him a child, Suruputwi was even more emboldened to make such a trip. He had no idea, of course, of what the dangers of being at sea actually might be.

With little Taawa approaching his second sun, he'd managed to convince Taalamihi to take the plunge with him. They had secured passage for themselves: a merchant ship, the Aergwilf, was due to leave within a sennight, bound to a place called Limsa Lominsa, and was in need of extra hands. Suruputwi figured after they made it over, he could pursue work as a crafter and tend for little Taawa while Taalamihi learned about the dangerous game of the region.

As luck would have it, Taalamihi would fall ill two suns before the ship was set to sail. Their carefully-laid plans had been thrown into disarray, and the window of opportunity to be able to cross the salt threatened to slip out of reach.

Taalamihi doesn't remember why she decided to tell Suruputwi to go on ahead without her. She said she'd figure out a way to get on the next ship. She said she'd join them after. That they would learn about the New World and carve something out for themselves there.

She was tough. She'd get better.

And so they set sail, Taawa a little bundle of joy in Suruputwi's arm as he pumped his fist in the air and promised they'd see each other again soon.

She remembers watching the Aergwilf slowly get lost in the horizon, running away from the sun and fading from view into the vast ocean of salt.

And so, she waited.

Three moons had passed, and no ships had sailed out of the Tuliyollal port headed across the salt. The few that did refused to take Taalamihi, citing any number of excuses.

Just a few days later, a ship came bearing news.

The Aergwilf had sank malms off the coast of Limsa Lominsa and only a few survivors had been recovered, and many were still unaccounted for.

She nearly died from grief on the spot.

The next sennights were a haze. Regret over the decision she'd made to stay behind. To send little Taawa along with Suruputwi, as if she had condemned the two to their deaths. She wondered if her presence would have made a difference; if they would have made it simply by virtue of having her there.

Finally, when the opportunity came to sail across the salt…

She couldn't take it.

Fear and despair had taken deep root, to a level Taalamihi found impossible to resist. The thought of traveling and confirming the terrible truth—that maybe Suruputwi had died, and her little Taawa along with him… it was too much to bear.

But her body demanded she do something. Anything.

She did the only thing she knew: she returned to the Hunt.

She didn't return to her tribe. She couldn't. What would she say to them, when she eventually faced them? What could she tell them about the terrible tragedy that befell her family?

The thoughts simmered in her mind over the years.

She could never forget the two. But more than that, she could never forget the day she heard the news.

Many were still unaccounted for. Words that rang in her head, over and over again. She had no hope that she might ever see Suruputwi again. He would've sent notice or letter or something if he had made it, she reasoned. She could only honor him in her thoughts and pray for his passing.

But what of her little Taawa? What had become of him? Did he grow up to be big and strong like his mother? Did he grow up to be compassionate and kind like his father?

Did he get to grow up?

Now, thirty years after the tragedy that had robbed her of progress, staring out into the horizon as the sun began to rise from the East, she felt something in her chest. A knot, almost like a messy mixed yarn ball of emotions, the threads of which she could not possibly begin to disentangle without making an entire mess of herself.

Taalamihi knew it was hoping against hope. But that hope, painstakingly put back together over years and years of silent suffering, was all that she had left.

She wanted to know the answer to her question. Did he get to grow up?

Her arms folded under her chest and an uneasy smile cracked her lips.

"If you're somewhere out there… then I'm coming. Let's see what my little Taawa grew up to be."