#veracity arc

The letter was left unread for now - after a linkpearl call to her father, who was on his way home from the Magna Glacies with Gridania’s Best and Brightest in the Ilsabard Contingent, Ayla figured it would be best to open it when family other than Anselm was around.

To get her mind off that mysterious letter suspiciously littered with clues - an absence of return address, her full name written clear as day, and an accurate means of address for herself on it - she practiced slinging spells instead of songs.

She had learned the basics from an old friend, utilizing the striking dummies a ways away from the gates of Ul’dah, her least favorite place to be.  The very first spell she cast happened to feel very familiar.

It was the same feeling she got when standing next to her perpetual partner in crime.  There was never a moment when fighting side by side that the static laced blades slicing through the air in such skilled hands caused her hair to raise.  There was likely a scientific explanation for the phenomenon, but a scientist the bard was not.  Her job was to romanticize everything.  And romanticize, she did.

When she finally managed to visualize the thunder, the black magic woven into the red she would soon learn, she felt its pull and cling as she willed the magic elsewhere.  Like a sturdy hand on her wrist, guiding the roiling destruction to its mark.  She could feel it even now as she subjected the little community’s striking dummies to her newfound levinlight wrath.  But she couldn’t keep pelting the poor construct with just jolt… then thunder… verthunder, apparently.  The bard weaved in a few veraeros between the jolts of lightning.  

Balance, he said.  Both white and black magic.

Efficiency, she said.  Draw the remnants back into the blade.  

Ayla could feel the steel seething crimson less than subtle.  She was getting better at this.

Getting better was the goal, after all.

Before their friendship blossomed, after incredible loss on both sides, her irreverent shinobi favored fire to cut down her foes.

The very same sort of fire that caused such immeasurable loss in the bard.

She couldn’t remember why or when Natsumi made the switch, but anymore, whenever Ayla thought of lightning and thunder, she thought of her.  That storm of singing blades, the dangerous crackle of blue, the sharp scent of ozone, and to the uninitiated, the raging cackling and reckless maneuvering of a woman gone mad.  How the blue in her eyes went phosphorescent in the blazing light of her fulmination.  

Ayla knew full well what it felt like to be near such power.  It sent shivers through her every time she played her part, matching her steps to Natsumi’s in all their deadly dances in the middle of dazzling levin.

But she often wondered what it felt like to wield the power of a storm.

And in a way, with her blade and focus and those new neural pathways to shuttle aether through, the bard could finally glimpse what it’s like.

As the spells scorched their target, the training area became washed in blue.  

And it reminded her of their new, shared goal.

A fire that warms, and never hurts.

That flame between their outstretched hands, radiating a constant blue glow.

Her aether and Natsumi’s, together burning so hot as to turn blue.

Ever since those delicately manicured fingers pressed against her temple, transmitted information she would’ve never dreamed she’d even see, let alone know as fact in her lifetime, the bard tried communing with the crystal in earnest.  No longer afraid of how it called to her, because of who called to her.

She always longed to hear her name in her mother’s voice.

The images which flashed through her mind that night under a blanket of stars were written down as accurately as she could. All other visions joined those that her elegant friend showed her in that vineyard mere days prior.  

But now she sat quietly, cross-legged in the living room, where the rugs swayed like flowers in a field.

Occasionally, a dog joined her, sitting right in the ring made by her legs.  Leaning a head on a broad shoulder and sticking a cold nose in the bard’s ear to make things extra difficult.  

At first, the pictures in her mind were blurry.  Not as clear as those that Kowa extracted from the crystal through such fantastical means, like powerful witches from the old tall tales.  The voice she heard within the crystal, the one much like her own, was still fragmented.

And on one of the days she still wore her bard’s crystal while communing - accidentally - the voice became more than crystal clear.  As if the soul within the crystal etched with the deeds of the red was finally reunited with the remnants left in the crystal of the war-bard.  

The memories left behind were too intense to be felt in just one sitting, but with each session, the bard took notes.  Those sweeping curls of ink told a story that none had heard before but the fabled Sharlene Fairlight-Thatcher - or rather, Charlotte Stone. 

This was something wholly new to every Thatcher.  And potentially to every Stone left behind.

Late at night by the light of a candle, the bard took those notes and attempted to piece together her mother’s story, keeping the details to only the facts.  A taxing task for such a theatrical mind, but it was a duty that had to be done diligently.  No flourishes.

As far as she could discern, the story began thusly…

Under cover of night, Charlotte Stone made her escape, with only the clothes on her back, a satchel with necessary supplies and papers, and a bow and quiver.  She ran away.  Away from the cold marble.  The palatial estate which housed her for seventeen long years.  Tears blurred her vision as she snuck aboard a Gleaner’s cargo ship, setting sail for distant shores.  Away from the lonely little island.  Away from the heartbreaking realizations.

But what were they?  Why did seeing through her eyes make Ayla’s heart hurt so much?

The boat traversed the Northern Empty, and the journey was not easy.  Midway through, she was found by furious men in green and hauled up to the decks to explain herself.  

Mercilessly, she was released when they docked in Gyr Abania for a restock, and left to fend for herself.

For days, Charlotte crossed the deserts of Gyr Abania with no heading.  No direction.  A mere child, lost in the desert with no one to help her.  

And when she stumbled upon a group in dark uniforms, gunblades drawn, she feared that this would be the end…

If not for the flurry of magic and courage from a band of duelists in red.

That had been all the bard managed to piece together in the first few days of communion with the crystals, but it painted a clearer picture in her mind.  When her father told her that he knew nothing of her mother’s life before Gridania other than that she was originally from Old Sharlayan, she wondered why the woman would keep such vast swaths of her life unheard from even the man she loved.  

There had to be more to it, she thought.  This couldn’t be it.  But even finding that much within the crystal was a trying endeavor; the bard had broken into a sweat at some point in the uncovering.  She needed to take a break.

And while she sat for breakfast with the love of her life, she milled through the day’s letters. 

There was one for her, addressed to Ayla Fairlight Thatcher with the fanciest handwriting she had ever seen in her life, with no markings of who it could be from…

The two younger women reached out to father and grandmother, focusing on the chilled crystal in their hands and trying not to get too excited at this new and exciting gift.

Time and space seemed to warp around the four of them.  The muted colors of the Stone estate’s sitting room twisted and mixed into blinding white, which finally bled into the frigid blues and whites of the walls in the new space.

Their feet finally landed upon a dark marbled floor, and as they looked around, they took in the sight of what appeared to be a normal study room, slowly taken over by encroaching ice and snow.  A frozen chandelier shimmered pale, chill light into the main area of the space.  In one corner seemed to be a place to take meals, next to a chocobo chalkboard with the word ‘Welcome!’ written in the same hand that the invitations were.  Amaryllis apparently had this ready for them for a while, it seemed.  The decor seemed to be a mix of soft carbuncle memorabilia and warm wood, contrasted with the cold ice jutting out of the walls.  

One wall seemed to be floor to ceiling shelves of books on various magical theories and instructional books on somanoutics and red magic.  The other wall and corner housed a little study corner with whatever books wouldn’t fit on the wall shelves stacked or spilled over onto the floor.  There seemed to be one other room in the space, which housed more bookshelves and a futon to read and lounge upon, with stuffed carbuncles sitting there awaiting their role of future study buddies.

“This is incredible!” Ayla exclaimed, taking it all in, apparently unbothered by the cold.  Unlike her father, whose teeth began to chatter.

“You weren’t kidding about the cold, though,” Keiran said, looking at Amaryllis, who chuckled politely.

“I had set this up several decades ago.  I had high hopes that I would meet you sooner,” Amaryllis explained to the girls, “So I apologize for the slight grade school decor.  Though I do hope you like carbuncles.”

The two Thatcher daughters nodded, Valencia speaking up, “I do like carbuncles.  I had always wanted one growing up.”

“Hmm…” Amaryllis thought aloud, “Perhaps we can arrange something for you there.  But first.  A tour.”

She gestured to the main room, “This is likely the space you would use to entertain whatever guest you invite to the space.  There are places to sit, myriad books to read, and a table to have meals, should you find yourself unwilling to leave the space for such time consuming corporeal realities.”

Lady Stone led the way into the smaller room with the futon, “This is a reading nook.  There are other books in this room that are not all magic related.  I tried to stock copies of my favorite fiction books, as well as some historical tomes should that pique your interest, and if you would like copies of other books, I can always bring them in for you.  But!  This is not my favorite part of this space.  Come, there is one more room to show you.”

The final room was one that was as of yet undetected.  As the group approached the large bookshelf wall, the older woman gave the Thatchers a little smirk, before knocking on the shelf in a syncopated pattern.  The shelf knocked back twice before it opened, revealing a hidden door to a smaller room.

Valencia and Ayla gave each other a look of amazement, before following their grandmother into the room.  

It had a large rug on the floor to stave off the cold.  A desk pressed up against the wall with even more books set on top of it - literary manuals and style guides for novel writers.  She had apparently done her research on Ayla, it seemed.  A fireplace roared to life as visitors stepped foot in the room, keeping the space appropriately warm, but not oppressively so.  The last feature of this room was the bed set into the wall.  A place to rest in quiet and solitude.  

“We really could just live in here, huh?” Ayla remarked, smiling at this new place to inhabit.

“You could!” Amaryllis said, “Though I would refrain from doing so.  Time in Izotz moves differently than time outside of this space.  I would hate for either of you, or your guests, to lose your sense of temporality.”

(co-written by @redmatches)

The attack on the Thatcher house was the final straw - unbeknownst to Keiran a few days after the struggle at the farm, the Thatcher siblings, with the help of Cyrille and Natsumi, set a plan in motion to finally resolve this dispute.

Perhaps Anselm needed another opportunity to lick his wounds and see the error of his ways.  

Drake and Cyrille were still recovering from the ordeal, which left Ayla and Natsumi the only combatants left to track down the wayward Thatcher.  The two of them scanned the streets of Ul’dah, winding through Sapphire Avenue.  The petty thrills and despairs of capitalism went on around them as they wove through the evening crowds.  The two of them didn’t look too out of place amongst the travelers and wanderers making their way to the Quicksand and other inns, looking for a place to rest after a long sojourn.    Ayla was kitted out in some simple light armor, a red cloak draped over her shoulders and concealing the blade and focus at her hip.  Nothing too fancy, nothing that would make her stand out more than usual.

Natsumi chose to wear clothing of a relaxing adventurer, wanting to appear to fit in more to the crowds of adventurers in Ul’dah. Fitting in was a better part of a disguise, keeping herself light and hoping to rely on a full ambush or surprise to her advantage, but…

Ayla glanced around, noticing the prevalence of eyepatches the further they walked down the avenue, and then turned down a side street.  

“Shit’s not right. We’re walkin’ into a trap,” Natsumi uttered. “Y’sure we don’t need to call for backup? Like, Elise or somethin’?”

Ayla watched as those suspicious men milled around, “We don’t have much time.  There’s a limited window of opportunity.  If you think we should wait for backup…”  The bard left the decision up to the shinobi.  They’d always been fine as a duo, but the intel on Anselm was slim at best.

“All I’m sayin’ is that I don’t know Ul’dah like the back of my hand, and everyone here always looks ready to stab you over nothin’ when they’re walking around with eyepatches,” Natsumi murmured, “It could be us two versus your dipshit brother, or it could be a whole fuckin’ pack of jackasses and it gets too messy, I don’t know,” Natsumi conceded, “But fuck. We get the jump first, we can do it.”

“Let’s see if we can just get in and get out cleanly,” Ayla said quietly to Natsumi, “If you see a red haired son of a bitch, call him out.”

Through the sea of faces, eyepatched or not, poor or not, many bits of Ul’dah did not seem to really care about the two waltzing through, trying to seek a soul in the chaos of the city of coin, but a handful always seemed suspicious. Keen. Always watching, staring. Every raised hand to a linkpearl made Natsumi suspicious– a shinobi’s sixth sense. But given that she was the blind one this time, this was risky. 

The pair turned down Quartz Avenue, a small, empty wasteland of a throughway with nothing but abandoned buildings and warehouses.  And fortuitously, one man stood at the dead end of the lane - red hair, shaved on the sides, in fancy silks, and holding a relic from an age long past.  It roiled angry aether like a tidal wave.

“There! The fuckin’ piece of shit is there– the fuck is that? That ain’t his staff,” Natsumi gritted her teeth.

“Guess big brother got an upgrade?” Ayla said quietly, “Ready?”

“Yeah, and waitin’ on the end of the fuckin’ alleyway screams he wanted this shit. Be careful, he’s gonna use fire. For sure.” Natsumi reminded, before exhaling. “Ready.”

The bard nodded, pulling a long piece of cloth from her bag.  She tied it around her head, blinding herself, “Okay.  Let’s go.”  She led the way, knowing where to go and where to step based on sound.  The bard unleashed a thin string of aether, latching it to her brother and using it to pull her in, sword drawn!

Anselm felt that tug from the lure, easily batting away the sword and kicking Ayla out of the way.  The bard hit the ground hard, tumbling in the dust,  “Thought it would be so easy, huh?  Oh, you even brought the slavering dog with you.  Wonderful.”

“Shit,” Natsumi watched as Ayla was knocked away from her charge. Midrun, Natsumi leapt into the air, knowing full well that all bets were off. She shifted positions, creating two other clones of her as she dove forward, using the last second to blast lightning into Anselm, trying to buy Ayla time to recover.

It was clear that Anselm had never fought a shinobi before.  His eye stuttered in panic at the sight of two clones appearing, not knowing where the real Natsumi was until it was much too late, getting struck with the lightning.  The monetarist grunted in pain, before upcasting a fire spell at Natsumi, “Get the fuck away from me!”

Ayla quickly got up to her hands and knees, hopping to her feet and suddenly assembling her staff, firing off a jolt, verthunder combo at her brother to create another opening for Natsumi.

The shinobi reached forward, a gust of wind flowing with her hand, cutting the flame in two and dissipating it. In other words– almost basic aetherology, nullifying the flame with the dominant aether. The wind grew, and the downward gust attempted to keep Anselm suppressed in place before she landed down and tried to stick her knife into Anselm’s rib.

Anselm swiped the red magic away, only to be buffeted by wind.  Instead of fighting the suppression, he moved his staff, letting leylines appear beneath his feet.  He caught the glint of a blade coming his way, and slid far out of Natsumi’s reach with the knife.  In retaliation, he cast thunder of his own at her.

Ayla shouted, “I don’t think so!” before casting another jolt, veraero combo, this time it landed, pushing the man off balance.

Here, Anselm could see a glint in Natsumi’s eyes. A seriousness and levity that screamed murderous intent– something she always had towards Anselm, but one brought out fully. “Runnin’ out of room, y’little ingrate,” Natsumi hissed, shadowstepping behind Anselm to keep him pincered before she slammed her knee into his back straight in the center, her knee charged with electricity, before she brought down her knife with one hand and hurled ice shurikens from the other in a perfect barrage in an attempt to bring Anselm down while he was off balance.

Anselm was clearly showing some ineptitude at live fighting, succumbing to the knee to the back.  He stumbled forward, but reacted just in time to slide back into his leylines, letting the shurikens fly unimpeded.  Ayla, using her newfound aethersense, dodged the shurikens that flew her way even while blindfolded.  

The bard unleashed yet another combo, jolt and verthunder, which was yet again swiped away by the black mage.

“You haven’t trained enough, Ayla,” Anselm said, seething, before loosing another upcast fire spell, right at her.

She sensed what that was, felt the death and screaming careen straight toward her, but she slid forward on her knees, avoiding the haze of fire sent straight toward her.  Not seeing it happened to be a huge benefit against a man who seemed dead set on setting her on fire.

Natsumi growled in fury. As the beat upped in tempo, so did Natsumi’s relentlessness. Anselm would need to withstand a growing amount of pressure from the shinobi and her increasing speed. No knife, not yet, as she appeared in a burst of sound right beside Anselm, bringing a sudden ball of lightning surging forward and attempting to jam it into Anselm’s chest.

The black mage wasn’t expecting straight lightning to enter his chest, but it did.  The smell of burnt flesh and the sound of a surprised scream rang out, “Fuck!  Fuck fuck…”  He reached out, feeling for that familiar aether…

There’s a blast of aether, with Anselm being the midpoint– not that Anselm is affected. It hurls Natsumi against the wall and Ayla flying out of the alleyway, as a hooded man appeared from the darkness, clutching the staff that Anselm held. Slowly, he tilted his head, before activating some of the latent energy within the staff that suddenly reversed the damage of lightning on Anselm, the same aether that lashed out at him returning to the staff in equivalent exchange.

Kurax breathed in the air, snickering, “I see, I see. Fret not, my new friend, we can even the scales.” He snapped his fingers, and the space between the two seemed to slow, the world moving at a snail’s pace. “Listen in deep, Ambrose. To your heart. Close your eyes and see the new experience. The technique.” Kurax remarked.

Whatever this feeling was, it was a surge of knowledge. Power. It was unlike what Anselm’s current soul crystal ever gave– it was a true burst of knowledge, widening his mind. It all flooded Anselm’s mind, before Kurax disappeared, apparating in the air above to watch this unfold, smiling with confidence to Anselm.

And then– time resumed.

The bard got up from her spot on the ground yet again, “What the fuck… how is he even keeping up with this?”

Anselm called out, “You should have handed that soul crystal to me.  Clearly it’s not being put to good use.  I could’ve done more with it than you ever will.” “Shut the fuck up!” Ayla shouted, bracing herself into a sprinter’s start, the blade in her hand seething crimson aether.  She’d done as Asharielle told her, absorbed the remnants of the aether around her.  She figured the next step was to stab him with it.  Again, she zipped toward him, quicker this time, and sliced thrice - an upstroke, transverse, and then a stab, which was parried by the powerful staff.

Natsumi stood back up, grunting and huffing, rubbing some blood from her lips from the sudden explosion of aether she just took in utter surprise. She squinted. She didn’t land the hit? The fuck just happened? She felt herself nearly stabbing her fist through Anselm’s chest. It didn’t add up. Still, back on her feet, another thunderclap before she was above Anselm, trying to axe kick down onto him with slicing wind buffeting her momentum and lightning crackling at her heel.

Ayla supplemented Natsumi’s lightning with thunder of her own - the two of them a complete storm.  Though it didn’t seem to take, due to the shimmer of a new shield around the black mage.   Anselm smirked at the two women, before unleashing something even he didn’t know he could do - a flare.  As the aether burned up into a lethal conflagration, hissing in a peculiar way, Ayla grabbed Natsumi by the back of her armor, yanking her down behind some crates, “TAKE COVER!”

And then, the aether exploded outward.

Natsumi’s eyes widened– having sensed some sort of powerful magic. But before she reacted, Ayla did, and she was yanked down unceremoniously to cover. Wind did not work, ice would melt, and she slammed the ground in desperation, raising a mudwall through the stone around them to block the powerful spell. But the Flare still burned through, blasting the duo out from cover and skittering onto the streets.

Nearby, panicked civilians and cries for help began to sound. Terror set into the air.

And those terrified screams terrified Anselm.  He had never once had to face the grim reality of the power he coveted so heavily.  The highly illegal power he held in his fingertips.

Ayla crawled up to her hands and knees, singed by the flare, “Anselm.  For fuck’s sake.  Stop!  Stop this!  I don’t know why you’ve been on this power trip.  I don’t know why you would want to act like this.  But you need to stop, before you cause even more mass panic!  Don’t–”

Before she could get out the rest of her words, he flung sharpened ice crystals toward her.  In her impassioned speaking, she didn’t sense them coming.  They hit hard, going through her chest, shoulder, and abdomen, and the words she was going to say only came out as croaks, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.  Slowly, the bard slumped over…

Natsumi rose up, witnessing the ice crystals. She had surged forward, screaming Ayla’s name– and with no recourse, she leapt in front of Ayla before any of the lethal vitally aimed shards hit Ayla. These shards cut through Natsumi’s hand, ripping across, through her left shoulder as she attempted to redirect it elsewhere. Panting, she gripped her knife with her good arm, furiously hurling the knife towards Anselm in an attempt to bulls-eye it through his head in a scream of rage.

The knife soared across the field of battle, doing only a little damage.  It grazed his temple, cutting the eyepatch which covered his eye, revealing an empty socket.  No eye was housed there.  

It only held the soft glow of materia.

Natsumi collapsed to her knee, turning and desperately cradling Ayla, “No! No, no no no! Fuck! Fuck!” She whipped around, forcing her bad arm up, blood dripping as she flared up a surge of blue flame soaring towards Anselm.

He wasn’t expecting the blue flame again.  It hit him, consuming the flammable cloth on his body and singing his flesh.  But it didn’t hurt as much as it could have - perhaps that had been Kurax’s doing.  He lifted his staff, aiming toward Natsumi and the bleeding bard in her arms… but the staff shook.  Trembled.  With hesitance.

Anselm looked at Ayla.  Stared.  For a long time.  His mouth twitched.  His breath rattled, “I…  I…”

Kurax landed beside Anselm, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You can claim your legacy. Right here.” He urged, a firm reminder of what Ayla had done. “Fix what she has done. What murder she commited, what–” There’s a sudden gasp as a sudden string of aether wrapped around Kurax’s throat, his eyes widening. It lifted him up in the air, before throwing him against the wall. A shadowy figure appeared in front of Anselm, standing between him and Natsumi and Ayla. It was a white-haired Viera, whose aether roared in front of Anselm. It made him, and even Kurax, look dim. The very same trick that was employed to heal Anselm, was used here. Asharielle tilted her head, staring Anselm down.

“You wish for true power?” She asked. “You’ll see it.”

She snapped her fingers, and a shadowy cloud wrapped itself around Kurax’s eyes. “For you, you shall never see my splendor. I vow to you that I will burn your soul into nothingness. For auracite is not worthy enough for my crusade in seeing you die,” Asharielle hissed in envenomed passion. One aetherial blade suddenly impaled through Kurax. Her free hand snatched Anselm by the chin, ripping his face in the direction to watch Kurax. Another blade. And another. And another. He is then ripped apart through a chain of elements, from wind to flame to ice and lightning, before raw purple aether engulfed the body.

But there was not enough time, even if she bought it herself, to finish the job here, and to rid herself of everything. The raw amount of aether to do all of this was limited. Kurax was the immediate threat over Anselm. The obliteration of Kurax’s body was a beguiling act to draw attention to the fact that she had teleported Ayla and Natsumi to her own island to tend to their wounds. Her final aetherial gift to Anselm, was to instead, suddenly blast him through the alleyway with the raw aetherial power– a purple aether of absolute, primordial darkness that blasted him into a wall, before she was forced to recede time and teleport away to tend to the duo’s wounds.

Anselm slumped over in the rubble of the wall he was sent through.  Other eyepatch adorned mages ran out to gather his broken body.  Though still alive, Anselm was not conscious.

“Fuck…” one of the men, a roegadyn, said, “...Boss is not going to be happy about golden boy getting his ass handed to him.”

Although a corpse nearby was utterly decimated, it was instantly vacant of a soul. In the destruction wrought, a new body rose from the rubble. Still donning the same garments as before, albeit in a different body, Kurax stepped forward. Ignoring the other cultists for now, he squatted down near Anselm, snapping his fingers and bestowing enough of a heal to awaken Anselm and settle some of the pain.

“Awaken,” He urged, “This is what we must contend with. The threat we face.”

The former Gridanian groaned as he came to, “Kurax.  That… was her?  How do we… how do we defeat something like that?  She’s… improbably strong.”

“Those with the element of surprise will have the first attack.” Kurax exhaled, gesturing towards his former broken down body, utterly obliterated and decaying into aether. “But I am not without tricks. We must plan, my boy, we must plan.”

Anselm nodded slowly, “We… need to plan.  To… take her down.  To steal back… my… legacy.”  He spit a bit of blood, “Thank you.  For coming to me when I called.”

The bard paced in their living area, in the basement of the humble magic shop in the Lavender Beds, waiting for Natsumi to come home.  The light behind the windows slowly dimmed, as thunder slowly rumbled in and rain pattered against the glass.  Ayla knew to expect the shinobi, she did call her after all.  But she did not expect to see the state she was in as she walked down the stairs.  The bard gasped; underneath the rain water was singed hair, reddened, burned skin, and fire-eaten clothing.

“Natsumi!” Ayla breathed out in a panic, running to her.  Placing careful hands on her shoulders as icy eyes glanced at her injuries, if one could even call them such.  The shinobi didn’t seem bothered by them, or by the bard’s cool hands on her dampened skin.  “What happened?!  Who did this to you?”

“Your brother,” she responded, the tension in her body from the encounter at the Thatcher house lessening.

“What?!  But–” Ayla started, beginning to protest.  She thought she knew her brother, but she was slowly finding out there was much and more that she didn’t know, “But you were there, you would know.  He knows magic?”

“Yeah.  Fire and ice,” Natsumi said, “And his eyepatch fuckin’ glowed.  Well, the uh… whatever’s behind the eyepatch. Fuckin’ weird.  But yeah, we fought.  I fucked him up, but I wasn’t expecting return fire.”

The bard frowned deeply at the news, an unsettling turn for the worst.  She just pressed a kiss to Natsumi’s cheek, “I’m sorry–”

“It’s not your fault your brother’s a godsdamned shit-for-brains fuckface,” she said, “He said some stuff about what that errand was, that he hates the family, hates you, and thinks he’s the one deservin’ of your mother’s legacy.”

“You know what he wanted me to find?”

Natsumi poked the spot under Ayla’s collarbone where she kept her soul crystals, finding the vermilion crystal, “That.”

“Why?”

“He wanted it for himself,” she said, her gaze getting steely again, “And I told him if he tried takin’ it from you, I’d fuckin’ kill him.  It’s with the right person.  And I’m gonna make sure it stays with the right person.  But like I said, hopefully we don’t have to worry about his sorry ass coming around anymore.  Think I scared him off.”

Ayla smiled softly, sadly, at Natsumi, “Thanks for doing that, Nat.  Gods, I’m–”  She let out a frustrated breath through her nostrils, “The fact that he tried to hurt you makes me furious.”

“It’s alright,” Natsumi said, smirking at the bard, “I’m fuckin’ invincible, remember?”

The bard just chuckled, giving the shinobi one more kiss at the temple, “Thank the Gods for that.  Let me tell Dad what happened and I’ll help you with those burns.”

Natsumi nodded, making her way toward a set of doors, Shirokko hot on her heels, “I’ll be in our room.  Tell your dad I said hi.”

Once Natsumi left, Ayla pressed a few fingers to her ear.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey Ayles!  Good to hear from you again, how are you?”

“I… well, first, how are you?”

“I’m alright.  We’re almost home, the airship’s a bit roomier this time.  With the rain going on, I thought it might be nice to catch some sleep.  Now it’s your turn to tell me how you are,” Keiran said, his voice ever fatherly.

“Not great…” Ayla said, “Y’know how you had Anselm watch the house?”

“Oh no, what happened?” he said, voice droll, almost expecting this call.

“Nothing happened to the house… I think,” Ayla said, before muffling the pearl and shouting, “Did anything happen to the house, Nat?”

“Nope!” the return yell rang out from the bedroom.

“Nothing happened to the house,” Ayla reiterated, “But Anselm and I have been having some sour conversations lately and today he told me he hated me because I murdered Mom.” “What?!” Keiran said, voice furious, “Gods damn that boy!”  He took a moment, pausing to collect himself, “You did not murder your mother, Ayla.  Her death was no one’s fault, and I’m just… I’m upset that I didn’t realize that’s what this was about sooner.  You know Anselm… notoriously hard to connect with.  I never had the same connection with him that Charlotte did.  I’ll have a talk with him about–”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Ayla said, voice shaky, “Natsumi got mad–”

Keiran hummed, “Understandably.”

“--And went over to give him a piece of her mind.  Also she says hi.”

“Tell her hi back for me.  Are both of them okay?” Keiran asked, concern in his voice.

“She said she fuck– uh… messed him up,” Ayla said, “But she said he knew magic.”

The line went quiet for a long moment.

“But Charlotte said he didn’t have any potential for magic.  At all, to the point where she thought he was going to be stillborn.  Very weak aether.”

“Wait, really?  None?”

“None,” Keiran said, “So I don’t know why he’s suddenly able to do this.”

The bard hummed, a tense frown on her face, “Huh… I guess it’s a mystery then.”

“I’m sure if I asked–”

“Natsumi said he’s not coming back.  …Or hopefully not coming back.”

The line went quiet again.  And then Keiran sighed.

“And here I thought this house-sitting deal might’ve brought the four of us closer to him.  That was why I asked him to do it.  Ulterior motives and all.  But… gods, maybe I can talk some sense into him.”

“Good luck, Dad,” Ayla said, “I don’t think I want to speak to him anymore.”

Her father hummed, sadly, “That’s fair.  I’m sorry he said those things to you.”

“Why couldn’t he be more like Drake?”

Keiran chuckled, “No one can be more like Drake than Drake.  That boy’s one in a million.”

“Anyway, sorry to bother you–”

“Ayles, don’t apologize.  I’m glad I know what’s going on now.”

“I’ll let you get back to your nap.”

As the boat sailed on, away from the faraway island nation, the Thatchers convened in their lodging on board.  They had just received a text - there was something skulking around the house, according to Cyrille, but they couldn’t tell what.

Keiran set his head in his hands.  The sheer notion that Cyrille and Natsumi had been right, that Anselm was too far gone to be saved, seemed to be nearing reality, and it was something he clearly didn’t want to grapple with. 

“What will we do about this?” Valencia asked, quietly, looking from her father to Ayla in uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” Ayla said, “But Vander’s ward should hold against him if it really is him.”  

“Dad?” Valencia turned to look at him.

“I’m… sure he’ll come around,” he mumbled through his hands.

“Dad, I don’t know,” the eldest daughter said, “Cyrille and Natsumi both have a lot of experience with that sort of person, and–”

“I’m sure he’ll come to realize what’s really important here,” Keiran said, almost trying to convince himself of what he’s saying more than convince his daughters, “He just needs… time.”

“He’s been away for so long already,” Ayla said, “And he’s hurt people - he hurt Natsumi trying to get what he wanted.  We have to do something about him.”

“How do we stop someone like him?” Valencia asked, looking at Ayla with a soft frown, “You’re still learning, but you are a talented bard.  I don’t even know how to fight, but Natsumi, Cyrille, and Drake could probably pin him down–”

“Val, please,” Keiran said, through eyes clenched shut and gritted teeth, “The idea that we’re going to go after your brother…”

“But he’s dangerous, Dad,” Ayla said, “He, at the very least, needs to have whatever power he’s got taken away.”

The Thatcher patriarch ran a hand through his hair, looking terribly miserable at the talk, “...I don’t want to lose any more family.”

Valencia sighed, setting a hand on her father’s shoulder as he looked down at the floor, “I know, Dad.”  She looked across the room at Ayla, communicating something else with the gaze.  He won’t stop it.  We have to.

The lady requested private conversations with all three Thatchers, letting those unoccupied take a tour of the estate and grounds and sit for tea.

Keiran was first up in the sitting room with Amaryllis.

“Drake and I?  Oh, we met at the Studium as young scholars.  His pursuits tended toward the artistic.  He wrote exquisite poetry, and the gardens around the estate were planted and tended to by his hand.  He added a beauty to my life that I knew I would miss with his passing,” Amaryllis said, a sadness in her voice that doesn’t encompass everything, “It has been more than a decade or so since his passing.  It does get easier, dear Keiran.  I know it may not seem as such now, and I am certain you will always think about her, but the pain will fade.”

Keiran didn’t say much to that, just nodded.  After a moment, he spoke again, “Would you… like to know more about her?  I find that talking about people we’ve lost keeps them alive in a way.”

“I would love to know as much as you would permit me to know,” Amaryllis said, expression melting into sad fondness.

“I knew her initially as Sharwin Fairlight.  She took on a pseudonym, but I don’t quite know why.  Gridania is so far from here,” Keiran said, “And she never told me why.  She was very secretive about her past - I never even knew about your terrible row with her before she left home.”

“Sharwin Fairlight, hm?” the lady repeated, chuckling, “That child always had a flair for the dramatic.”

They spoke for a long while, sharing memories, laughter and tears together.

– 

After the long conversation, Valencia traded places with Keiran. 

As she entered the room, she saw Amaryllis set a large wooden chest down onto the coffee table.  The two locked eyes, and the older woman gestured to the box. 

“You are an instructor and practitioner of the healing arts, yes?” Amaryllis asked, “A conjurer.”

Valencia knelt in front of the box, hands hovering over top of it, “Yes.” 

“Are you…” the older woman chose her words carefully, “Open to learning other methods by which to heal others?  To supplement your conjury?”

She hummed thoughtfully, “Truthfully, I suppose I am.  Unless you are a hearer or a padjal, there aren’t many ways to advance in the craft.  You can train in conjury all your life and never hear.”  Her fingers grazed the top of the box as she thought, “I’d told Dad before the Final Days, I felt like I wasn’t… really doing much.  That I am never as much help as I’d like to be.  Perhaps further learning will help.” 

Valencia looked up at Amaryllis, seeing in her almost a mirror to the future.  Same hair.  Same eyes.  Same gentle countenance.  

“These are for you,” Amaryllis said, kindly, “They used to be mine, but I no longer have a need for them.  They are yours now, if you wish.”

Hands gingerly lifted the lid of the box, revealing a row of nouliths nestled in red velvet.  In its own depression within the box sat a white, somewhat squarish crystal with blue gently glowing glyphs carved into it.

The older woman smiled, watching Valencia’s growing expression of curiosity, “These are the tools and crystal of a sage.  A practitioner of the study of somanotics.” 

“You– …you’re giving this to me?” Valencia asked quietly, stunned,  “How… do I learn?”

Amaryllis just smiled, a twinkle in her eye, “Oh, do not worry.  I have a gift in mind for both you and your sister, to help with that.”

–

Ayla was the last to walk into the sitting room, glancing curiously at the wooden chest that Valencia carried out with her, before seeing Amaryllis sitting at a well-loved piano in the room.

“I didn’t know you played,” Ayla said, smiling at the woman.

“I do, on occasion,” she replied, “Less often now.  I live alone in this estate, and there are moments where I indulge in practice.  Though it does get lonely playing piano for only oneself.”

“Did Mom ever play along with you?” Ayla asked, slowly approaching the piano.

“Oh, often!  The two of us would sing together even without instruments,” Amaryllis said, recalling those memories with a fond smile, “In fact, I kept her concert harp.”  

She gestured to the grand instrument.

“Is it tuned?” Ayla asked as she walked toward it, not having to be told twice about an instrument in the room, rowing an arm gently and letting her fingernails graze the strings.

“Yes, I have kept it tuned all this time, in her honor,” Amaryllis said, “In my research on your family, I heard tales of your storied musical ability.  Both from the Twin Adder representatives I contacted, and from your father earlier.  And I wondered… would you like to play together?”

The next step before their visit to the Stone estate was to secure food.  The trio decided sampling the local cuisine would be in order, so as not to inconvenience their host with their hunger.  Each Thatcher took a different approach to this, and agreed to meet back up at the aetheryte plaza once they found something to share.

Keiran perused the stalls in the Agora, figuring street food would be the best way to find something good to eat.

Ayla wandered around, finding the Baldesion Annex instead of food, easily getting distracted by the towering stone buildings.

And Valencia found the Studium, polling the students there for their opinions on food.

After a while, two of the Thatchers managed to meet up where they said they would.

“I didn’t find much,” Keiran said, holding up a bag of raisins, “But I’m happy to share.  What did you two find?”

Ayla unwrapped a cloth package, unveiling a small loaf of bread, “Smells weird, but it’s bread, right?”  She held it out to Keiran, who gingerly took a slice of it and held it up to his nose, recoiling hard.

“Eugh,” Keiran groaned, “Is it fish or is it fermented vegetables that I’m smelling?”

“DROP THAT BREAD!  DROP IT RIGHT NOW!” an unfamiliar voice shouted from across the plaza.  

With wide eyes, Keiran dropped the bread, letting it plop on the ground.  It crumbled into smaller bits at the impact, its nutritionally balanced components plainly visible when broken apart.

Valencia ran right behind a short raen woman, clad in scholar’s robes, and they stopped right in front of the redheaded duo.

“You’ll regret putting that in your mouth is all I’m saying!” the student said, working to catch her breath.

“This is Keiko,” Valencia said, introducing the woman, “She wanted to come with because she figured you’d find something awful to eat before we could find actual food around here.”

Keiran nodded slowly, as Ayla stowed the rest of the bread away into her backpack out of habit, “Thank you for the heads up on the bread, I guess.”

“Of course,” Keiko said, “No one should eat Archon Loaf unless they absolutely have to.  And… honestly… you really don’t have to.  There’s a spot by Scholar’s Harbor that’s popular with all the scholars at the Studium.  I’ll show you there - I need to pick up some food for my research group anyway.”

The trek to the harbor didn’t take long, and soon the group was at The Last Stand, said to be the island’s only defense against bland and tasteless food.  The Thatchers thanked Keiko and wished her well as she picked up her food order.  

After a meal consisting of omelets packed with veggies, salads, and adorable jam sandwiches to go with their tea set, the small family spent a few moments relaxing and savoring the afternoon together.  

“How bad is the bread, anyway?” Ayla asked, considering the loaf of… something… in the cloth wrapping, now sitting on the table rather than in her pack.

Valencia wrinkled her nose, “Keiko told me they use some sort of strange flour… fish flour I think?  And fortify it with a lot of nutrients.  You’re supposed to be able to subsist on that alone.”

“Why would you?” Ayla asked, voice hoarse in disbelief, “When you could have a fluffy omelet.  Or these cute little jamwiches.”

“The Last Stand is relatively new to Sharlayan, apparently,” Valencia said, “Younger folks, mostly students, got so tired of having to eat things like that.  And thus, the Last Stand was born.”

The bard narrowed her eyes at the loaf, humming conspiratorially, before turning blue eyes on her father, “I bet you 100 gil that you won’t eat a bit of that.”

“Done,” Keiran said, throwing his napkin down on the table in challenge, before ripping a corner off of one of the slices of ‘bread’, and popping it into his mouth.  

Both daughters gawked at the man, slowly chewing the mush with pearly white teeth.  Chewing.  Chewing.  Stopping.  The muscles of his jaw clenched hard, thin lips frowning unpleasantly.  His fur-covered cheeks began twitching, bowing out as if filling with too much saliva.  Or bile.  Or both.  A scarred hand reached for the thrown napkin in panic to evacuate his suffering mouth of the horrific ‘nutritionally balanced’ mush.  He coughed and scraped the remains of it off of his tongue with an unsullied corner of the cloth napkin, before trying to wash the taste away with his tea.

Ayla just stared at her father in horror, pulling the loaf back into its cloth wrapping and packing it back into her things, “...Y’know what?  I owe you 200 gil.  As soon as we get home.  I’m so sorry, Dad.”

“Do not eat that bread,” he said, “It’s godsawful.”  He sat and thought a moment, before his shoulders jolted in a small chuckle, “But, you know.  Now that I’ve tried that… things are starting to make a lot of sense now.”

“How so?” Valencia asked, setting her tea cup on its saucer with a small ‘clink’.

The beardly man looked from one daughter to the next with a twinkle in his eye, from mischief, a sudden bubbling of sentimentality, or the remains of psychological damage from the attempted consumption of Archon Loaf was unknown, “When I first met your mother, wandering into town from the Twelveswood, she was…”  He stopped, searching for the best word to describe it, “I don’t want to say emaciated.  That’s too severe, but… close.  She was rather thin.  As she adjusted to life in the Twelveswood, first in the Adder barracks and then with me in our own little house, I noticed she started putting on more weight.  She looked a lot healthier.  Seemed a lot happier.  And I asked her one day, ‘It seems like you really love the food here!’ And she said, ‘Oh, it’s a lot better than the food back home’.”

Both Valencia and Ayla laughed at that.

“That’s… really saying something, because our food?” Ayla said, elaborating, “I’ve traveled all over, and I’ve tried to eat a whole bunch of foods to help me experience the cultures and… the food in Gridania in comparison is…”

“Bland,” Valencia finished, “Not very well spiced.  It’s wonderful for patients recovering from gastrointestinal distress.  Not so great for the average culinary palate.”

“It’s sure a hell of a lot better than whatever I just tried to eat,” Keiran said.

“Who would’ve thought a crappy loaf of fish flour and vegetables would’ve brought you a better understanding of Mom?” Ayla said, quietly.