Quietly, quietly

"It'll open when it's open! Which is to say, when it's been re-classified as an Abandoned Ruins. And don't even think about trying to sneak in there--"

Grace resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Justice read her the riot act about the Breach. Again. How he always managed to be in this area when she decided to poke around was beyond her. "I walk down this way all the time, Justice. This imagined notion of me even thinking of 'sneaking in' to the Breach is just that: something you've just made up in your head."

Justice opened his mouth to reply and paused at a sharp clearing of the throat nearby; Grace turned to see Olivia standing a few feet away, hands resting atop her cane and eying them both with a look that would be right at home on a disapproving mother's face.

"Ah, uh, hi Olivia - did Qi have the information you needed?" Justice said instead. Grace thought he even looked a little relieved at the chance to change the subject. ((Continued below cut))

It was such an unlikely problem that neither he nor Nero had considered it at first, which had they it would have saved them three days and roughly seven additional hours of troubleshooting.

The main steering column's gears, which they had sworn were made of pure alloys and couldn't possibly be contaminated with anything...was, in fact, contaminated with minute traces of iron - amounts so small that they had gone wholly undetected during the manufacturing process because its presence was masked by the other metals and, for whatever reason, had not properly integrated into the alloy itself.

Which, ordinarily, shouldn't have even registered as a problem it was such a minuscule amount.

However... When one considered that the tiny, tiny flakes of iron within those gears heated at different rates that meant that unexpected surface wear was happening on a level that couldn't be detected until finally they ran an analysis on the oil and found traces of magnetic particles.

Those were it. Those were the source of the damned steer-slip issue. Incredibly small magnetic particles that were coming loose from the column, getting caught up in the lubrication system, and being deposited at the universal joint where they were causing that ever-so-slightly-perceptible 'slip' in the steering. They'd finally, finally, pinpointed the damn issue.

Now that they had their culprit they needed to figure out the 'why' and 'how' because next they needed to determine where in the process things had gone wrong and allowed this to happen, but for tonight? Tonight they were both heading out for a well deserved drink - it had taken both their brains to get to the bottom of the mystery and to safeguard against this again would take new processes and possibly a new way to analyze their alloys (along with possibly changing merchants -- they couldn't risk this happening again, whether the contamination was knowingly sold or purely accidental).

"Do you think it would be fair to him? Giving him that name?"

Saifont looked up from the pot of loose leaf tea he'd been about to portion into the steaming teapot; his wife Surene, with some effort, stood from her seat at the table and went to fetch the sugar and honey. "Dearest, please - you're due any day now, allow me to-"

"-I'm not made of glass, and despite looking ready to pop like a grape I do not see myself delivering this child in our dining room today," she quipped back at him, giving him a little frown that wrinkled her nose as she went to the cupboard. "Now answer the question."

"I..."

Their first would be arriving very soon -- all had been readied for the baby and now they were in the anxiety-riddled waiting period. Technically the estimated due date had been last week so Saifont was especially nervous any time he spotted his incredibly pregnant wife doing anything at all, which had been a sore spot and the source of several short arguments. Another such argument was likely names. If it was a daughter they had thought Ophonne, or perhaps Adrianne.

If it were a son... It had been Surene's suggestion to name him after Saifont's uncle - that man who had stopped the Final Days... Revkr. At first he'd been delighted at the thought, though he'd thought Goudault as a back up would serve just as well; the more time had gone by though Surene had grown introspective, and less willing to discuss names for a boy. He'd wondered at that but any attempts to broach the subject had been brushed aside as already decided.

And now, this, finally - she was bringing it up herself.

"How could it be unfair?"

"It's quite a name to live up to, isn't it?" she asked quietly, setting the sugar and honey on the table and grimacing as she lowered herself back into her chair. "At first I thought it would be a fine way to remember the legacy and legend of your family, but... The more I think on it, the more I fear it would put too much pressure on the poor thing. Imagine being named for a hero, with all the world expecting greatness from you."

"Dearest..." Saifont said softly, leaving the tea and coming around to slip his arms around her shoulders. "What ever brought this on? You were so excited for the name not so long ago."

She sighed, resting her hands atop her swollen belly. "I was, and in a way I still am, but even your cousins have wondered if the name would carry too heavy a weight for someone to bear. Aedwen even admitted that that had stopped her from naming HER son after him."

Saifont squeezed her shoulders, then kissed her cheek. "A name may bear a legacy but it will be up to our child to decide their own path. My uncle was a hero, certainly, but he was also a selfless and loving man. I know he'd be proud of any path our child may choose, so long as it is on the side of goodness."

"Aye, you're probably right. It was foolish to let it bother me as it has. I just hope for the best for our little one."

"I know," he chuckled. "I hope for the same. And I hope he or she shows up soon," he added, patting her stomach.

"As do I. I miss seeing my own feet," she grumbled.

Saifont chuckled again and stepped back around to the teapot, adding the leaves to the strainer and closing the lid. Ulmant would be back soon with the sandwiches and cakes - a light brunch as a trade meeting had kept them both from joining the rest of the family for breakfast.

He was content to sip his drink while his wife ate, mind switching between this latest trade agreement and his first child's impending arrival.

"A power so harmful...a task an...armful? Gods, no, that's awful. Ugh...let's see. Harmful...baleful? Unhealthy - no, absolutely not. Damaging, dangerous, detrimental...de...deleterious? That's a good word, but what rhymes with it? Hey-- Hey, Ari, what rhymes with deleterious?"

"Dele-- what are you going on about?"

"What rhymes with deleterious?"

"Wha- why do you need a word that rhymes with that?"

"Do you or do you not know a word that'll work?"

"No! Who would?"

"I guess you're not as smart as you claim to be then."

"Oooh no, don't even start. And, if I'M stupid for not having a word at the ready, what does that make you?"

"Fine, fine fine... I'll just...keep thinking then."

"What are you even doing? Are you still working on that ballad?"

"Yes - what ELSE would I need a rhyming word for?"

"As though I know what you do in your leisure time. What verse are you on?"

"It's...I... I...don't want to say."

"Why? Because it sounds stupid?"

"No! ...yes..."

"Just tell me."

"Fine. AHEM. Within our hero raged Light harmful, burdened, his task an armful - rising to the challenge to save two worlds."

"...yeah, that's kind of terrible."

"Shut up..."

"And you think deleterious would somehow improve that?"

"Shut up!"

"Remi. Whatever you're working on, scrap it. Or at least don't use words that I doubt you could spell much less use correctly."

"Well now you're just being mean..."

"No, I'm being honest. The last time I wasn't honest with you, you rhymed "hare" and "hearth" and got laughed out of the room."

"Don't remind me..."

"Then don't give me a reason to. Set it aside and try again."

It was strange to feel kinship to a place he'd never been before, etched upon his soul as a fractured memory that Sylnan knew he'd never be rid of even when this place finally faded.

The replica of Amaurot still stood - for now - and it still had shades roaming its streets, repeating the same conversations and able to almost, but not quite, give the illusion of independent thought if you interacted with them directly. It was an incredibly intricate, massively detailed bit of magic, and over the coming decades (or even centuries) it would slowly disappear now that the man who had created and maintained it was no more. It was a somber, painful thought, for the city itself truly was a beautiful sight and it seemed like such a waste for it to be erased from existence...but how much of that feeling was simple appreciation for what it was - as it was - right now, and how much was that remaining memory of a home long since destroyed?

Knowing now his own nature as a fractured Ancient, Sylnan couldn't help but wonder; he'd set Azem's crystal into a wire bracket and had it secured on a chain around his neck, hidden underneath his armor and clothing pressed against bare skin so he could call upon its magics at will without needing to fumble it out of a pocket, and it seemed to weigh heavier than usual as he paused at the corner of an immensely tall building that looked familiar and felt homely. His eye was drawn up to the upper floors where he could spot some balconies that overlooked the city; had he dwelled there eons ago, or someone he knew? He huffed out a sigh and lightly banged a fist against the stonework beside him. This place felt as comfortable to him as the canopies of the Shroud. It was so strange, and he had no language to describe it either. It was an itch that couldn't be scratched, a point that couldn't be reached, a song that had lost a page of its score, something half-remembered with the clarity of waking up from a night of drinking.

Silently he pulled the crystal free and studied it, rubbing a finger over its surface. Azem's memories were within the thing...well, he supposed technically they were his own memories, just many, many, MANY times removed. Perhaps there was a safe way of accessing them and, perhaps if he did, he could be at peace with them and with the thought of Amaurot finally fading away. He'd miss it, but he'd understand what he was missing.

Or maybe it would make things a hundred times worse and he'd spend the rest of his days penning depressing ballads about a long-forgotten paradise. It couldn't be any worse than some of the drunken tavern tunes he'd heard before.

For someone who had claimed to be tired of fish Broti had certainly taken to fishing as a hobby, so Roaring personally wasn't lacking in choice when it came to dinner time. At least the other man was keeping busy (in a way that wasn't constantly tailing and babbling at him) so he hadn't thought too much about it until it crossed his mind one afternoon that the fish seemed to be...getting bigger.

Gradually, granted. But, bigger.

At first he chalked it up to his skills growing better with each catch - it was loads easier to reel in a sardine or perch compared to the larger bass that tended to stick around the submerged driftwood - coupled with a difference in where Broti was choosing to fish, as fresh versus salt water fish varied wildly in size. When he noted the rather large (compared to its angler) sea bass laying on the butcher block one evening a little spark of apprehension flickered to life in the back of his mind; speaking from experience he knew that even a baby grouper could be strong enough to yank a hyur off a pier if they were caught unawares. A lalafell new to the craft might be in...not exactly peril, but definitely at risk of being pulled into the drink if they weren't careful.

Then the fish went back to what he'd refer to as a 'normal' size - nothing really bigger than his own palm. That spark sputtered out and he went about his business of planning production and building up this island as Tataru directed.

One such thing she'd requested was more sea salt; there was a shoreline where salt deposits had built up in great quantity so off he'd gone with a pick, a few crates, and some mammets to carry them back to the workshop, and as he trudged down a small hill dotted with dune grass he could spot a small figure standing on the very edge of a rocky outcrop, pole in hand.

Roaring paused; he knew that outcrop was over a deep hollow that was both connected to the sea by a deep channel and that he suspected led to an underwater cavern - the erosion and formation didn't make sense for it not to though he'd never bothered to investigate. It would be a decent fishing hole but there was no telling what might actually be in there... That little spark flared back to life as he sighed and adjusted his path to walk over there.

And, luckily he had, for as he got within shouting distance he saw the line go taut, then zip back and forth before suddenly going slack -- VERY slack. He could see Broti starting to reel in to tighten the line and knew that was exactly the last thing the man ought to be doing as whatever it was that had hit his line was big, and with a explosion of force that left a crater in his wake Roaring triggered the 'flickering' teleportation spell - a spell he used so often it was as easy to cast as breathing - to hurl himself over to the outcrop in time to catch Broti by the belt as the line suddenly surged and an enormous splash erupted upward in the middle of the fishing hole.

"WAAAAAH-"

Roaring used his free hand to yank the pole of out the screaming lalafell's hands before dropping him at his feet; he didn't even bother trying to reel the beast in and instead used a small lick of flame from a fingertip to snap the line, watching as a massive surge of ripples rapidly made its way out of the fishing hole and out into the deeper water.

With a huff Roaring Whisper looked down at Broti who was sitting on his backside with both hands over his face, shaking. After a few breaths he peeked through his fingers up at him.

"I-I've um, decided I'm still t-tired of fish."

It was unnerving to say the least, this falling through the emptiness between the shards. Gitawen knew she was flying toward a specific coordinate and trusted that she would end up where she was meant to be, but she couldn't fully shake the concern of drifting into the perpetuity of nothingness out here with only...she wasn't sure what to call them. Memories, or echoes of the past, drifted past her at varying speeds - some slowly enough she could figure out what she was looking at and others were gone in a flash of sound and the sort of familiarity that was more of a feeling than a conscious recognition.

What could she even do if the spell didn't work as intended? Attempting to hurl herself back to an aetheryte wasn't an option here as while she could sense aether around her there weren't any of the known beacons within her vicinity so she couldn't trust that she'd end up anywhere at all, much less somewhere she was familiar with -- and that was assuming there was even enough aether around her to carry her, period. Would it be better to slowly starve to death or jump into the unknown and hope for the best? Neither was a promising option...

"Hey, hey! Not in here!"

Most folks who frequented the Druthers knew when Buscarron raised his voice you'd better listen, unless you wanted him or any of the other patrons to toss you out on your backside (if you were lucky to land upright, anyway). The argument between two men at a tiny table in the far corner immediately quieted down, with one getting up and stalking away to an empty one; soon after the chatter picked back up again and while the atmosphere wasn't entirely back to normal it felt closer than it had been these last few days.

Granted, Buscarron was just glad they still had days to pass -- all that talk of the civil war in Garlemald with the worry that their bullshit would engulf all the surrounding regions again, and then the world ending setting folks on edge and raising tempers and fears across the Shroud, made even worse by rumors that bad emotions were turning people into monsters that would turn more people into monsters... Bad business all around. Luckily there hadn't been too much fuss here in the forests so he was secretly pleased to see a majority of his regulars had trickled back in (and was trying not to think too hard about where the others might be. If fate had decided to be kind they had just run off, and not...anything else).

Speaking of fate, t'was almost like something had read his mind as the chatter suddenly died down briefly before there was a shout - a drunken one, so not coherent enough to really recognize it as speech at first so Buscarron finished drying off a mug before he bothered looking up at the man that had just crossed his threshold.

"Well I'll be damned..." he muttered, face breaking into a wide smile as the tavern erupted into noisy cheers and movement, all heading to mob the elezen before he'd gotten more than two feet through the doorway.

Sylnan took several minutes to extricate himself from the worst of the crowd and head over toward the bar proper, with Buscarron already pouring out his favorite ale and leaning in close to hear him over the clamor.

"Welcome back home, eh?"

Though there had been a "public" ceremony conducted at the cathedral (more for the spectacle and, in Aymeric's own words, so that other self-important nobles could continue to feel self-important) the actual wedding was a far more private and personal affair. Those that they trusted and loved had received an invitation to the exchange of vows, and Gaelle had felt so giddy at the time that she'd had to stop and get her thoughts back into order when it was her time to speak.

She'd said much the same thing at the public ceremony but here felt more intimate and genuine -- less stilted, less formal. And she definitely enjoyed the fact that there weren't nearly a hundred sets of eyes on her as she spoke.

Aymeric's vows were the same as before as well but uttered with more conviction, and at the final verse his hands tightened around hers as if to really drive home the promise in his words: I am yours, now and forever.

And she was absolutely his, as well. There was no question in her mind.

At the public gathering their kiss had been chaste and proper, as was expected. Here, in front of their closest friends, Aymeric had gone a bit further; there were a few hoots and whistles, and a sudden burst of clapping and laughter as Gaelle was pulled in close and kissed with fervor.

There was a large party waiting on them (planned by Tataru so Gaelle knew it would be one more to everyone's liking rather than the elaborate social dance that had been Ishgardian traditions) and then afterward they would be disappearing for a week (the Scions knew where they were going, and so did Lord Fortemps, but they'd kept their destination a secret from everyone else) and they planned on taking advantage of every moment.

(And they had been, uh...practicing for their wedding night and honeymoon already.)

Though her first trip home after stopping the Final Days had been received with as much warmth as a Coerthan winter, Gaelle had made it a point to regularly visit in between everything else that had followed and as she became more of a presence back home slowly but surely it seemed apparent that Gaethan was trying to make up for allowing jealousy and spite to drive a wedge between them. Whether that was because he felt bad, or worried about the consequences of treating the 'hero of the realm' poorly, or even because he worried Aymeric would ream him over his treatment of his betrothed Gaelle couldn't be certain; she did feel that Aymeric had something to do with the sudden obliging attitude - not because the man had said anything to her brother but perhaps because Gaethan knew being an ass in front of someone in a position power, that he would soon be related to through marriage, was probably not the best idea.

Regardless of the reason Gaelle was just glad he was behaving himself, and was busying herself with showing Aymeric around the Shroud. He certainly looked different dressed in regular clothing; Gaelle had joked that she barely recognized him out of his armor, to which Aymeric had agreed that he hardly recognized himself and expressed hope that they would find more time like this together in the future to simply exist as regular folk, rather than Lord and Hero.

"Will you miss it?" he'd then asked her one evening as they laid in soft grass watching the stars come out. They'd spent the day exploring and relaxing; she'd delighted in seeing Aymeric so at ease this far from all the pressing responsibilities and a city that knew him by sight.

Would she miss this peace? Yes, certainly. Or would she miss the Shroud itself? ...she would definitely miss the weather, compared to the frigid chill of Ishgard. And, yes, she'd been born here so it was the only home she knew, and due to that she would miss it, and her brother would still be here...

It all wasn't enough to make her dread the thought of leaving though. 'Home' was as much a feeling as it was a physical place and laying here beside Aymeric under the night sky as the nocturnal creatures and insects started to fill the air with buzzes and chirps, she knew wherever he was was where she'd feel most at home. Whether it was here or in Ishgard, she'd be content (and if she needed to she would find a way to make a space in Ishgard that was just as peaceful and quiet as here - a refuge for them to retreat to when the weight of the world became a bit too much).

A great deal of information could be gleaned about one's immediate environment if the time was taken to sit and simply listen.

Sylnan was stretched out, cat-like, on a wide bough about halfway up an enormous elm; around him was the ever-present whisper of wind through the leaves and he'd tipped his hat forward to shield his eyes from what sunlight managed to make it through the shade of the canopy above his head. There was birdsong, the buzz of insects, that particular sort of rustling of small beasts moving through the underbrush, and the creak of trees shifting in the breeze.

There were also footsteps approaching - far enough away at first that he could have convinced himself he'd imagined them, but as he'd dozed there on the branch they were growing closer and more pronounced. He was confident he could rule out poachers and bandits as they didn't sound like someone cutting a rough path through the woods, and the Wood Wailers walked with more care... If he had to guess, it would seem a traveler had gotten lost.

Sylnan remained where he was and listened as the steps came closer; he heard a few stumbles then a tumble, which was followed up by a burst of colorful language. With a sigh he sat up and pushed his hat back onto his head, leaning to retrieve his quiver and box from where he'd hung them off a broken limb, then nimbly scaled down the tree and landed lightly on his feet at its base as the lost traveler came into view between the trunks.

It wasn't anyone Sylnan recognized; the male roegadyn was dressed in fairly new looking leathers (if a bit dirt and grass-stained now) and was carrying a heavy pack on his back. A merchant, or maybe someone here to forage?

"You're quite a ways off the path there, friend," Sylnan called out.

The man's head snapped up, gaze sweeping around until he spotted the elezen. "Not by choice. I was trying to reach the Bower and got attacked along the way."

Sylnan nodded. Gabineaux's Bower was to the east - far to the east. "I see. Well, you've managed to stumble your way between both Bentbranch Meadows and the Bannock, and are too far west."

"Godsdamnit," the man muttered. Out of a pouch at his hip came a rough-looking map, as stained as its owner, and he held it up. "Where in the hells am I exactly?"

Sylnan came over and looked the map over; whoever had created it hadn't kept to any particular scale so it took him a moment to actually determine what he was looking at. "I would fire your cartographer but you're about here-" he tapped a finger to a spot just west and slightly north of the Bannock. "Where you were intending to go is here." As the scale was off Sylnan knew he would need to go further than the map shown.

"What? But it's..." The man sighed heavily as he took out a wax stick and made a crude circle around where Sylnan's finger had indicated. "Damned bloody... Right, thank you, stranger. Now that I know where I am I can get to where I ought to be."

"You're welcome to walk a straight line there but if you cut northeast from here you'll find the road that'll circle around and take you back to the Bannock. From there you'll continue following the road east across the river, then take the southern fork when you come to it."

The roegadyn huffed and crammed the map back into his pouch. "I'll follow the road. Less damned...violent...plants."

Sylnan chuckled. "Safe travels then."

The other man nodded and oriented himself then started walking toward the northeast. Sylnan waited for him to get out of sight before climbing back up to his shaded perch; he'd thought to follow the man at a distance to make sure he made it to his destination but if he was on the road then the Wood Wailers would more easily spot him and would be able to come to his aid if he got attacked by anything again.

Being as neither of them were used to the training weapons in hand a few accidental blows that had gotten through their defenses had landed with more force than intended.

They were engaged in something between a spar and a duel; Kazutane had fought alongside Alisaie several times now and was somewhat familiar with her fighting style, but in the heat of battle there had never been a time to truly observe it. Here, with her as his 'opponent,' he was able to appreciate it more and was slowly learning to read her movements, reacting more quickly to her already incredibly fast movements and doing his best to overcome her razor-sharp reflexes.

She was doing the same and despite holding back and using wooden 'weapons' they were both peppered with bruises and a few tiny, oozing cuts, though it was becoming less frequent as they became used to the blades; nearby Alphinaud and Hien conversed quietly, sometimes watching them and sometimes not. There was a small voice in the back of his mind urging him to press more, to push further, so he could see more of Alisaie's style and learn how to handle an enemy who chose to fight in this manner. He probably COULD push harder but there was an underlying worry of one or both of them actually becoming injured, and thus unable to help in the final battle to liberate Doma. It would be disappointing and immensely stupid to come this far and fail at the final moment.

((For context: Gita's personal canon differs in a few key points from the usual ARR story. One detail is soon after the destruction of the Ultima weapon she found and actually convinced Gaius to work with her (not Eorzea, just her specifically) so their bond was close enough by Shadowbringers that he too got yanked away to the First.))

The drink F'lhaminn had brought her had long since gone cold and the room was silent save for the ticking of a clock, and not for the first time in her life Gitawen wished she could halt time itself; to give herself as long as she needed to puzzle through something, to solve it with either words or violence. Who was targeting... Well, who was targeting her? And she knew it had to be something aimed at her, specifically. It was one thing to have the Scions afflicted all at once but whatever this was had affected Gaius as well. He was neither Scion nor especially friendly to any of them either -- his only tie to them was through Gitawen...the only common denominator of the whole stupid equation.

The fear of it gnawed at her. In a most general, tactical sense, having all her allies stripped away one by one was not ideal. On a personal level she wondered, would Cid or Nero be in danger next? Would Aymeric or Kan-E-Senna? Was everyone she'd ever befriended on the proverbial hit list of whoever was behind this?

She clenched her fists hard enough to leave little crescents in her palms (in the flesh between her pointer and thumb she'd drawn blood as well). So frustrating to have this weighing on her while the world was falling apart outside. She was needed on the front, she was needed here, she was in desperate need of more sleep (when had she even last slept? Or eaten a proper meal?) -- too many things to juggle but there was no one else who could. The word 'need' had almost become meaningless to her with as many times as she'd heard, thought, or said it recently.

Though it made him smile to see the affection laid so bare, no small number of hackneyed phrases and sayings running through his head dulled the moment. Better to have loved and lost. Fortune favored the bold. Plenty more fish in the sea.

It had been just barely a crush, if Roaring was being honest with himself; not much more than an idle thought from time to time. There were moments where he thought about acting on it but he was content with her company in general so there never seemed a reason to pluck up his courage and see if there was more there.

And now, here was Runar. Someone she'd spent just as much time with, who she seemed to like as much as he liked her. A pessimistic part of his mind was aware that eventually they would need to leave the First and Runar could not follow them; a likely "rival," as ridiculous as it felt to consider it, that would not be a rival for long. Hopefully.

But again, not really. He wasn't even certain about any of it, and later as he reflected on it he found he didn't mind it all that much. And if he didn't mind it, there must not be much there aside from a friendship he didn't want to risk losing. A friendship, a brilliant research partner, a sharp wit he appreciated in their conversations, a powerful sorceress whose prowess he admired, a--

"Come come! Sally forth! Charge! Let's get moving!"

Kazutane watched with some bafflement as Emmanellain hurried off with determination - to do what he was still not entirely clear, and judging by the exasperated look on Lady Laniatte's face she may not have been certain either.

"Oh for the love of..." he heard her mutter as she closed her eyes and inhaled slowly before turning back to him. "Could I impose upon you to keep him out of trouble? Make up a simple patrol route and see that he doesn't get himself killed or wander off an island?"

Kazutane nodded, because he felt he should and Honoroit was starting to fidget in place; the Sea of Clouds was a strange place, full of strange creatures, but for the most part the connected islands had good visibility so he didn't think the man could be THAT distracted as to walk over an edge.

And yet, from what he'd seen of the man so far...

They should probably hurry before he angered a bird or fell into a pond or managed to find the one thing in the entire region that was big enough to eat him, or something.

Comparatively the Sea of Clouds was less dangerous than his homeland at least; Emmanellain would not last an hour wandering the steppes, and at the thought he felt a little pang of homesickness. He'd even welcome a fight with a pack of morbol if it meant he could see his tribe again. He knew it would not be so bad if he knew what task the gods wanted him to complete - the reasoning behind why he'd been told to leave and seek what it was he was meant to find and bring back. As he eyed the back of Emmanellain's head in the distance he had an amused thought that maybe he'd been sent out to keep this simpleton in one piece, but he doubted the gods would give him such a simple task.

The letter had left him doubled over in laughter for several minutes straight -- almost to the point he was seeing stars from lack of air getting in.

Cid was fairly certain the letter was meant to insult him and his Ironworks; it had prattled on about third-rate alloys, shoddy craftsmanship, ugly design, so on and so forth. When he'd finally caught his breath Cid had gone back to tally up the number of barbs and came up with 27 total. If anything, he had to applaud the man's imagination for coming up with all these slights about nothing in particular, for no specific item had been named. The fact it was so general made it even funnier.

He recognized the man's name, of course: Rumbald. Tall fellow, short dark hair, dark eyes, a constant dour expression with protruding teeth that had given him a rabbit-like appearance. He'd come seeking a job with the Ironworks and Cid believed he'd given the man a fair shot, it was just...his work was so sloppy by their standards. A few degrees of deviance might not seem like a lot but being off 'a bit here and there' when it was in multiple places in a piece resulted in the sort of mediocre work that Rumbald himself was accusing Cid of producing.

Cid had tried to guide the man and teach him better techniques and to care about precision but nothing had stuck. Rumbald had barely lasted two weeks and had turned his dismissal into a shouting match that didn't end until the entirety of the workshop had squared up against him, all with various heavy objects in hand and further armed with the promise of using them if he didn't leave or decided to get violent himself.

It was sad, pathetic, and oh so amusing to have the man's pettiness laid out in parchment.

Chirurgeons debated on whether it was the sense of touch or hearing that faded last as one died - at least, when it came to dying peacefully. A violent end was something else entirely, often too quick for anything to truly 'fade' before life fled.

Revkr was dying peacefully, or as peacefully as one could expect. Despite his good health old age had caught up to him this last year and he'd been slowly declining with a sudden, sharp decline just last week that had left him bedridden where the chirurgeons had then solemnly informed the family that there was little they could do except keep him comfortable. His time had arrived.

These last several decades had been wonderful; at Revkr's urging Edmont had eventually reconciled with his ex-wife -- not to the point of remarrying (he would not have have done that even if he was not partnered with Revkr now) but she finally understood her error and while they were not what he would have called friends she at least was not maligning him any longer. They had been freed up to be a little less guarded in public and soon all but the most spiteful had turned their attentions elsewhere; rumors still circled but not nearly so often or as widely. Things still had to be kept behind closed doors - an open secret among their families that was wholly supported, which was gratifying - and Revkr, for awhile there, was still called away to handle various crises but any time he was home his time was Edmont's.

He'd cherished every second and lamented the years he'd missed out on due to societal and noble duties and expectations, and now as he sat at Revkr's silent bedside watching each halting breath Edmont found himself reminiscing -- from the fateful night where Revkr had carried him to safety where their friendship had first begun to just over a week ago where they'd had a wine tasting in the basement of the tiny cottage Revkr had bought specifically so they'd have one relatively unknown refuge away from prying eyes. He was quite honored to have known the man and even more so to have loved him as well, and knew it wouldn't be so long before he followed him in death (old age had been stalking him like a predator in the night for some time now and frailty was beginning to take its toll on him). Here beside him, after the seemingly endless parade of family members and friends coming to see him for a final time, before they would next see him laid out in a casket and put to rest, Edmont silently placed his hand over Revkr's and struggled to tighten his fingers.

Revkr inhaled another shallow breath; they had been slowing steadily. He would likely pass this evening, or so Edmont prayed; it was so hard to see him struggling in these last moments... Did the man fight to continue out of fear of the finality of death, or was he fighting to remain for family's sake? And what a large family he had, and how dutifully he'd served as their patriarch when his own parents had passed on. He'd handed those responsibilities over to Halstein and Cillionne on his 70th birthday but had still been so active in their lives -- in all of their lives, as he'd made himself open and available to Edmont's sons and family as well, for whatever they may have needed to seek him out for. ...was he still thinking of others even now, with his last thoughts and breaths?

Did he, perhaps, stay because he knew on some level Edmont was there?

Slowly, painfully (arthritic bones protested most movements now) Edmont bent to put his mouth at the man's ear. "...you needn't cling for my sake, or theirs. You're loved. You'll be missed. By me, especially, on both accounts. But don't think you must hold on and suffer to ease my soul."

He turned his head to then press his lips to Revkr's temple, right where he'd always kissed the shorter man. Revkr sucked in another breath and Edmont swore there was the faintest sign of a smile on his face as he then brushed a shaking hand over the man's head to brush aside hair that had fallen over his eyes.

For the next hour or so Revkr continued to breathe until finally, after a long and hissing exhale, there was simply no following inhale. He'd gone.

For a time Edmont stayed there alone; a chirurgeon, accompanied by Revkr's youngest brothers Erik and Gapheaux, had just been in to check on both men. He knew someone would return to check again soon and he wanted these moments to decide whether the relief that he'd let go or the sorrow at the loss would win out when he was forced to greet the next persons to come into the room.

It would be the sorrow. He knew it would be the sorrow.

With some effort Edmont managed to keep himself together when Gylda, Finia, and Igriane had come in to bring him tea; Finia had hurried from the room to...do whatever it was she intended to do - inform everyone, bring in the men to carry the body away, whatever would need to come next, while the other two had helped him from his chair and comforted him on the way out of the bedroom and into a little sitting parlor (he remembered getting to hold Erik's youngest daughter in here a few months after her birth). He'd settled into an armchair with a cup of the tea, hardly able to feel the warmth through his hands, and allowed himself to go numb at the activity in the house with Revkr's passing, not thinking of much aside from that little smile he'd seen in the final moments.