2019-06-10: A Tale Yet Being Told
- A Tale Yet Being Told
- Cast: Ida Everstead-Rey, Seraph Liath
- Where: The Fereshte
- Date: June 10, 2019
- Summary: Recuperating in the Fereshte, Ida runs into an unusual visitor.
============================<* Kilika - Jungles *>============================ The island of Kilika is filled with a massive jungle, which is no stranger to Fiends. The recent attack by Sin has made the jungle a dangerous place indeed; powerful Fiends patrol, and a few Sinspawn are rumored to be sighted. Much of Althena's Guard, having arrived, is devoted to making headway into the jungle and protecting the route to the Temple, which is nestled up in the mountains beyond the jungle. BGM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHw2V0C-D-o
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
Ida Everstead-Rey stands with her back to a bulkhead deep within the Fereshte, gathering her nerves for the trip back to her room. A pair of crutches rest beneath her arms, bracing her body--her right foot rests on the floor, but it's barely supporting anything. Her left hand grips the crutch handle tightly, but the rest of it barely moves. The corridor is perhaps twenty feet long, but it feels like so much longer. The naturalist takes a deep breath, and swings the crutches forward. The supports on the ends come to rest on the deck. Ida swings her body forward, and plants her left foot on the floor.
Ida takes four laborious steps. Every movement takes far more effort than it should. Even to a casual glance, she does not look well. Her face is flushed bright red, but spidery, vein-line tendrils of Hyadean tissue stick out against her neck, her legs, her left arm. Patches of dragonscale mark her neck, face, and collarbone, and her left heel is encased in more conventional-looking Hyadean exoskeleton. Her right arm looks as though it belongs on someone very different, but there's no seam or scar--her skin fades from pinkish-tan to a soft, bronze-like hue at the shoulder. The arm itself reaches to her knees, at least, and it's well-muscled. An intricate red design stretches from her fingers to her shoulder, and vanishes where the skin tone returns to Ida's usual hue. It's all thin, fine lines. Is it a tattoo?
Ida stops. She gasps from exertion. Sweat beads on her brow, and soaks into the fabric of her plain tunic and shorts. "Come on," she whispers to herself. "One more step..."
Ida's left crutch catches a notch in the floorboards. She doesn't notice until she's already swinging forwards. The crutch twists out from beneath her, and she topples to the floor, an indignant cry of "Shit!" on her lips. Ida lies there a moment, a tangled heap of crutches and mismatched limbs. A lock of sweat-streaked hair falls into her face. "God dammit!"
This is not Ida's proudest moment.
<Pose Tracker> Seraph Liath has posed.
If you chance upon a Dragon-headed ship -- that is the Fereshte, the Outreach's home. We've been involved in helping restore Kilika from Sin's recent attack, but we do other relief work around too... you'll often find me there.
Ida Everstead-Rey lies a prone heap of asymmetric extremities and, perhaps to some, humiliation. It is not a proud look, to be sure. But one would be foolish to call it disgraceful. But it is here she lies with her crutches, shouting into an empty void --
"... You are unwell."
--until it is not so empty anymore.
With all her frustrations, Ida might not notice the sound of booted footfalls on the smooth deck of the Fereshte growing louder and louder in approach until there is that voice to accompany them. Gentle, but carrying crisply in the way a natural-born leader's might, it is tinged with an accent hard to place but lending it a noble air.
It's an air that carries to its owner well: Ida only need to look just slightly up to find her there, a woman with gold hair and ends tipped in white, done up in an intricate braid, dressed in a green coat with gold embroidery that lends her a knightly feel all the more enhanced by the sleeve of armor covering her right arm -- and the sword and shield sheathed at her hip and back.
But what is perhaps most striking is that plaintive look that decorates her features as she rests, crouched, several handful of feet from Ida -- as if to try to reside in some way on the fallen woman's level. those gold eyes are expressive in their sympathy -- empathy, even; the cast of her lips a small frown of concern.
"Should you be out in such a state...?"
But despite that painfully plain and painfully sincere concern, she does not offer direct assistance -- not even so much as a helping hand.
Just words, for the fallen naturalist.
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
Ida struggles. She plants her right hand on the deck, tenses the muscles, and pushes herself into a sitting position. She reaches across her chest, and pries her left hand loose with long, sturdy fingers. The crutch it was holding clatters to the floor. Ida grabs for it, and pulls it over by its mate. Even this effort is exhausting. She's shaking.
Someone's coming. Ida twists around with great difficulty, and looks up into the woman's face. Her eyes are rimmed with red, and one of them has inexplicably turned a brilliant shade of green. She blinks, once, and then shrinks back, visibly, as if trying--and failing--to hide her illness, her infirmity, her ugliness.
She's right. Get back to bed, if you even can.
"I--I'm sorry," Ida says. Her voice wavers and breaks. She blinks again, as if trying to ward off tears. "I shouldn't be here. Did--did Riesenlied send you...?"
You don't deserve it.
A warm prickle of feeling returns to Ida's right leg. With great effort, she pushes herself upright, bracing against the wall the entire time. Several times, she nearly falls, but she does not ask the stranger for help. Ida braces herself on her crutches again, sweaty and exhausted, and looks into the other woman's face. "...Are you with the Outreach, or...?"
<Pose Tracker> Seraph Liath has posed.
Ida shrinks back. Tries to hide herself. And her newfound companion... does not so much as flinch. There is no judgment or criticism in her gaze, not condescension or even pity. Just...
... understanding.
She does not shine a spotlight on Ida's predicament, but nor too does she look away from it. Instead, she simply watches and waits in the relative comfort of silence until Ida speaks something other than a curse to the emptiness, red and mismatched eyes blinking away the tears that reach her voice more clearly. The other woman watches with vividly bright gold eyes for a quiet moment longer.
And then they shut.
Calmly -- gently -- does she slowly lower herself just a bit more, until she is in a seated position just as Ida is. A slow breath escapes her lips.
"You have nothing to apologize for," comes her first response, unflappably sincere as that gilded gaze is as warm as a ray of sunshine as it cracks open again. "And I would beg you not to deprecate yourself for one such as me."
She watches. And as Ida slowly stands, she waits, until the woman has risen back to her feet -- unsteady and exhaustive as it may be -- of her own will. A smile tugs gently at the corners of her lips.
"Lady Riesenlied did not send me, nor am I affiliated with her efforts in this land. I am acquainted with her, however." And as she speaks, the knightly woman rises crisply back onto her feet, green skirts ruffling crisply behind her as she stands to that full, noble bearing.
"See?" she remarks, visibly pleased. Her eyes fall to Ida, and the crutches she bears -- and the feet she stands on of her own will.
"You are stronger than you know."
Her left, unarmored hand rises. Resting it on the center of her chest, she dips her head respectfully, eyes briefly shut. "Curiosity brought me to this place. It is rather different than I had anticipated." Her gloved hand stretches out, after, towards Ida in an offer of greeting.
"You may call me Liath."
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
Ida isn't sure what she would do if the woman tried to help her. She told herself she'd walk down the hallway and back, and while at the time she'd thought of it as a practical test, she realizes it was also a matter of pride.
'See? You are stronger than you know.'
A shaky smile spreads across Ida's face. She reaches up with her good hand, tries to pull her hair back into place. She needs a bath, she thinks. A nice, cool bath. But even if she can't get that, the presence of someone to talk to is working wonders. "Ida Everstead-Rey," she says. She takes Liath's hand in her own, and gives it a firm shake. "A pleasure to meet you. Are you with the Guard, then?" She pauses a moment. "...I'm... a patient, here." As if it wasn't obvious. "I'm not from Spira, or even from this world."
<Pose Tracker> Seraph Liath has posed.
"Well met, Lady Ida."
Warm. That is the best way to describe her. It's something that goes beyond physical -- it's like a spiritual sense to her, a quality that feels, in a way, like basking in a single ray of sunlight.
Comforting, but strong.
It translates all the more clearly in that brief grip, a confidence behind it that feels unshakable in the moments before she releases Ida's hand from her grasp. Her hand finds its place clasped with its opposite number behind her back not seconds later as she turns slightly towards her side, gold eyes sweeping the deck with a sense of wonder. "I am. I am yet a recent arrival, however. I am still acclimating myself, in a manner of speaking." When that gaze falls back towards Ida, that excitement is practically infectious.
"It is rather wondrous, is it not? An entire continent, hidden away from the rest of the world, full of culture and life completely distinct and beautiful in its own way. And yet..."
Her armored hand lifts; pressed to the bulkhead of the Fereshte, her blonde brows furrow mildly.
"... and yet, a profound sense of sadness, too, sinks so deeply into the foundation of this land. Spira... I have seen nothing like it."
A second passes by. Liath blinks; her smile is a small thing when she turns it upon Ida once more.
"But I ramble. You are from the Blue Star, then? I have heard from others who have been there. I am sure you, too, have quite the stories to tell. You carry yourself like one forged by them." She turns to face Ida fully, head cocked.
"You say you are a patient. Your limbs... forgive me if this is too direct, but they are not wholly human, are they?"
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
Lady Ida? The naturalist blinks at the title, but doesn't object. Tension flows out of her body, and with it, the worry that she'd been caught in a difficult situation by someone who would only judge her. Ida nods as Liath confirms that she's with the Guard, but the wariness she'd ordinarily feel doesn't return. "It is," she says, and her smile widens. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen." Ida sobers as she follows the thought to its conclusion. "And that makes its tragedies all the more tragic."
Ida turns herself around, and starts walking back towards her room, one step at a time. She inclines her head, and motions with it, beckoning Liath to follow. "I do," she says. "And if you'd like to stay a moment, perhaps we could... talk? I've had other visitors, but it's been a melancholy day."
Liath's question hangs in the air a moment before Ida answers. "...They aren't. It's... a very long story."
<Pose Tracker> Seraph Liath has posed.
And if you'd like to stay a moment, perhaps we could... talk?
The Light Seraph's smile is a heartfelt thing as she steps in comfortably at Ida's side.
"Lady Ida, I would like nothing more."
And so she follows at Ida's side; Liath's stride is a calm and measured thing, matching Ida's pace without particularly feeling as if she's deliberately slowing herself. More as if she were setting a comfortable pace that she feels Ida is more than capable of matching.
"I am sure," she says, first and foremost, when Ida remarks on her limbs, her tone speaking volumes more than the words alone do not. She does not press, does not demand. Instead, she simply remarks,
"And it is a very long story you have nonetheless come out the other side of."
... before casting Ida a simple, subtle smile.
"Perhaps you can illuminate something for me, though, Lady Ida," she begins again, between the solid sound of her booted heels resounding across the floors of the Fereshte. "This Fereshte hails from the Blue Star as well, yes? Tell me -- are all ships from your land considered dragons, or is it simply this one that stands alone?"
... Even with context, it might be a perplexing question.
"... or perhaps it is that all dragons are considered akin to ships? ... hm. What a strange world..."
And one that just grows all the more perplexing by the second.
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
Ida reaches the door at the end of the hall, plants a hand on it, and pushes. The hinges groan as the door swings aside, revealing a small room illuminated by a pair of oil lamps. The furniture inside is fairly straightforward: a cot, a pair of chairs, a small table, and a trunk. A tin cup of fresh flowers sits atop the table, next to Go board and a paperback book with the title "Courting The Demon".
Ida reaches out as she passes by the table, and tries to scootch the last of those items so it's out of direct view.
"It hasn't ended yet," Ida says, as she takes a seat, and leans her crutches against the chair. She lets Liath ask her question, and manages to keep the puzzlement from showing on her face. "...I," Ida says. Where did she get an idea like that? "This vessel was crafted using Demon--Hyadean--technology, but it isn't a Dragon. It has the figurehead, certainly, but I can't picture Riesenlied using Dragon parts in her flagship."
Ida pauses. She is suddenly very worried she just made things more confusing. "...What do you know of the Hyadeans?" she asks. If Liath knows nothing, then Ida might as well kill two birds with one stone.
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
And if you'd like to stay a moment, perhaps we could... talk?
The Light Seraph's smile is a heartfelt thing as she steps in comfortably at Ida's side.
"Lady Ida, I would like nothing more."
And so she follows at Ida's side; Liath's stride is a calm and measured thing, matching Ida's pace without particularly feeling as if she's deliberately slowing herself. More as if she were setting a comfortable pace that she feels Ida is more than capable of matching.
"I am sure," she says, first and foremost, when Ida remarks on her limbs, her tone speaking volumes more than the words alone do not. She does not press, does not demand. Instead, she simply remarks,
"And it is a very long story you have nonetheless come out the other side of."
... before casting Ida a simple, subtle smile.
"Perhaps you can illuminate something for me, though, Lady Ida," she begins again, between the solid sound of her booted heels resounding across the floors of the Fereshte. "This Fereshte hails from the Blue Star as well, yes? Tell me -- are all ships from your land considered dragons, or is it simply this one that stands alone?"
... Even with context, it might be a perplexing question.
"... or perhaps it is that all dragons are considered akin to ships? ... hm. What a strange world..."
And one that just grows all the more perplexing by the second.
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
Ida reaches the door at the end of the hall, plants a hand on it, and pushes. The hinges groan as the door swings aside, revealing a small room illuminated by a pair of oil lamps. The furniture inside is fairly straightforward: a cot, a pair of chairs, a small table, and a trunk. A tin cup of fresh flowers sits atop the table, next to Go board and a paperback book with the title "Courting The Demon".
Ida reaches out as she passes by the table, and tries to scootch the last of those items so it's out of direct view.
"It hasn't ended yet," Ida says, as she takes a seat, and leans her crutches against the chair. She lets Liath ask her question, and manages to keep the puzzlement from showing on her face. "...I," Ida says. Where did she get an idea like that? "This vessel was crafted using Demon--Hyadean--technology, but it isn't a Dragon. It has the figurehead, certainly, but I can't picture Riesenlied using Dragon parts in her flagship."
Ida pauses. She is suddenly very worried she just made things more confusing. "...What do you know of the Hyadeans?" she asks. If Liath knows nothing, then Ida might as well kill two birds with one stone.
<Pose Tracker> Seraph Liath has posed.
It's a small room, by any means. Simple in arrangement, perhaps as spartan as temporary furnishings ought to be. But as Liath enters, it is nonetheless with a look of insatiable curiosity and unabashed fascination. Hands clasped just underneath the shield at her back, she looks around that small room as if she was absorbing every detail, committing every inch to memory.
Her gilded gaze swivels about just as Ida begins to innocuously sliiiiide away that book. Her brows lift.
"... 'urting the Demon'?"
Blonde brows furrow mildly.
"Ah, are you by chance a demon hunter, Lady Ida?"
It's a misunderstanding that, of course, just feeds further with only a brief, contemplative respite for Ida's words of that story being unfinished. Liath does not remark on it yet, however -- instead, she just frowns in deepening thought as she stands near that Go board. One hand lifts from her back to tap at her cheek.
"So it is a dragon-headed ship made from demons--?" Bright eyes narrow into a confused squint as so many increasingly unrealistic possibilities cross her mind.
"... it seems a bit unnecessarily convoluted, does it not?"
At least, Ida's follow up staves off any further descent down whatever tangent Liath has happened across. She turns crisply towards Ida, her stance as confident as her smile is enthusiastic. "Let us assume I know nothing. I am eager to hear your fullest view, and hopefully, learn. Would you indulge me?"
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
Ida meets Liath's gaze, and a blush rises in her cheeks. "Just a silly little something I asked for to keep me busy," she says, managing a smile that's not quite convincing. She folds her hands in her lap. She does not immediately answer Liath's question, and the blush in her face only deepens. Ida looks relieved as Liath asks her to share her views, straightening a little as some of the tension drains from her.
"I would be happy to," Ida says, "even though it isn't... a very happy story." She puts her hand to her mouth, and politely clears her throat.
"A thousand years ago, people from a faraway star came to Filgaia, seeking a home. They called themselves the Hyadeans, but Filgaia called them 'Metal Demons' for their metal-laced flesh and ferocity in combat. They brought with them an entity called 'Mother', a being of profound might--insofar as they worshipped anything, they worshipped her as their Goddess incarnate. Their home had been destroyed in some great cataclysm, and only Mother could grant them a new one--and then, only if they conquered Filgaia and cleansed it of human life. They brought war machines unlike anything seen for thousands of years. Some of them even made themselves into war machines--Metal Dragons. Draconic creatures made from Hyadean stock, but draconic in form, and armed with terrifying weapons." Ida nods a little, indicating what she feels is the answer to Liath's question.
"They lost that first war, a thousand years ago, but Filgaia was devastated. Mother was captured, and sealed away--and the Hyadeans spent a thousand years without any purpose beyond survival. A few years ago, they finally found her, and... destroyed the kingdom that stood atop her prison. They made war on other nations to try and reclaim the tools they needed to awaken her. They tried to destroy the ancient seals keeping her in torpor, and succeeded in destroying some. I was... one of the people who fought them, then. I wanted power to--to stop them, to beat them, and this is..." Ida swallows. She looks down at herself, at her mismatched limbs, at the bits of exoskeleton and dragonscale on her flesh. "This is what I got instead."
<Pose Tracker> Seraph Liath has posed.
As Ida accedes to her request, Liath offers some small words of gratitude before gesturing wordlessly towards the unoccupied seat. If allowed, the Seraph removes the intricately-wrought shield from her back, and then that ceremonial blade next, resting them against the arm of that chair before she crisply takes her seat.
And, hands in lap, she listens as Ida recounts a tale that has been in progress far longer than the young woman has even been alive. 'It isn't a very happy story,' she confides, and Liath's expression, while still so warm, takes on an understatedly bittersweet note as she listens in the comforts of polite quiet.
"Ah," marks the only noteworthy addition to Ida's tale from the otherwise unburdened silence; it comes in just about as Ida helpfully elucidates about the nature of dragons and demons, a small frown pressing to the Light Seraph's lips.
"So a ship, dedicated in their name and image, then," she muses. And unlike those times where disappointment strikes her when her extreme imagination is proven wrong, Liath looks... satisfied.
It is only when Ida is finished though, that Liath speaks up again. Attention on the woman rather than those mismatched limbs, the knightly Seraph lets silence linger for a moment longer between them as she leans forward, the bright intensity of her otherwise gentle gaze never once wavering from Ida.
"And what," she begins, gesturing with her armor-clad hand towards Ida's own, naturally armored limbs, "does that mean to you, Lady Ida?"
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
"Riesenlied has always been close to Dragons, as long as I've known her." Ida still remembers that Dig in the Hillside Ruin, and the reverence she showed to the draconic remains they'd found inside. "As for me, I grew up in a city built into one of their fallen strongholds. The Hyadean people were always present, in a way--their writing, their architecture, their ARMs. The bodies of their dead, preserved by science or repurposed by industry. As a little girl, I wanted so badly to meet them, to befriend them."
Ida's breath hitches in her throat. She swallows. Liath asks what it means.
"I'm not--not wholly human," she says. "Not anymore. This happened to me because I wanted the power my ancestor wielded against them--and I didn't know she'd literally taken their flesh and grafted it to herself. This arm--" Ida raises her right hand, flexes the fingers. The red design stands out against her skin. "--it came from the man who took everything from her. And now it's me, and it's... it's spreading. It didn't do this to her. I know she--she gave this to me because she believed in me."
"But I'm so scared." Ida's voice is tiny.
<Pose Tracker> Seraph Liath has posed.
"Lady Ida, you misunderstand."
The words preface the Seraph Liath's smooth rise from her seat. She is a shadow cast over Ida as the younger woman lifts that unnatural arm, as her voice grows tiny.
A shadow swiftly dispelled as Liath promptly and immediately kneels in front of Ida's seat, armored arm draped over one knee.
"You said your story is not yet finished. That is true," begins Liath, her voice measured, calm -- and full of a resolve too easy to miss in those serenely warm or slightly absurd moments. But it's been there. Always. "And there are very few stories in this world that are ever fully happy. But as long as we hold the will, we hold the quill of our tales in our own hands. There may be sadness, but there will be happiness too. There will be failures, but you will always find triumphs. It is as true for the Hyadeans as it is for you."
And in the midst of her words, Ida will, perhaps, feel a singular warmth at that would-be unnatural right hand, if she can feel it -- the sensation of both of Liath's clasping fearlessly around it as she looks up towards the woman from Guild Galad unflinching.
"There is no shame in fear, Lady Ida. To be able to express it is a sign of strength. It is our denial of it that gives it strength instead." It is a thing Ida doubtless knows, by now.
A small squeeze of her hands emphasizes her next words.
"What is this to you, Lady Ida? I cannot answer that. Your ancestor cannot answer that. Only you hold the quill. If you see it as something monstrous, then monstrous it shall be. It is fine to fear. But when I see this hand, I do not see something monstrous.
"I see a story still being written. Do not forget that."
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
Ida looks up at Liath as she rises, but doesn't shrink back, like she did in the hall. When the other woman kneels, Ida's gaze follows her, her eyes widening a little in confusion. Why is she coming so close? Part of her is still terrified that the arm will act of its own will--that it will reach out to try and strangle Liath, or sharpen into a blade and run her through. Neither happens. Ida clasps her fingers loosely, and listens to Liath. Tears well up in her eyes as the Seraph takes her hand. Ida returns the squeeze with one of her own, firm but gentle--there's no weakness there, but nor is there monstrous, crushing strength.
It's just a hand. It's Ida's hand, and Luisa's hand, and Fafnir's hand.
"Thank you," Ida says. "For having faith in me." Warmth flows through Ida's hand, through the amalgam of human and Hyadean flesh. It's power.
It's a tiny fragment of the flame that sustains the world, granted to her by a dear friend, flickering to life for a moment.
<Pose Tracker> Seraph Liath has posed.
"Of course. You need not thank me, Lady Ida."
No attack. No feebleness.
Just a grip. Simple and profound, all at once.
It is a statement true in more ways than one; in the moments before that contact breaks, Liath can feel the ebbing pulse of power, like a tiniest flicker of a heartbeat in time with the pulse of a place a literal world away. She can't help but feel it, so similar yet so different to herself.
A tongue of flame, part of a vaster conflagration. A force of destruction, and creation.
Her brows tick upwards in momentary, guileless surprise. It is soon replaced, however, by a wordless smile of approval, as her fingers slip from Ida's with comfortable assurance.
"And it would seem you are far from alone," she notes as she slowly rises to her feet again. "You have great purpose, indeed. I can feel it, like the spark of a flame. Another story, perhaps?"
She moves smoothly, retrieving her sword and shield and re-holstering them both anew; but the look she turns Ida's way is an inviting one when she faces her again.
"I mean to discover where the kitchen of this dragon's ship" she does actually understand the difference now right "lies. I am very much excited for the opportunity to potentially sample Hyadaean cuisine."
She moves to the door, but pauses. A glance back towards Ida is spared.
"You ought to join me, if you are able. We may share more stories yet. Of that power within you, or otherwise. I may have some of my own to share, though I fear they may pale in comparison."
A hand lifts to her chin, her brow creasing in worried thought.
"Perhaps I am simply in need of inspiration. Lady Ida, might I sample your literature? I often find the best method of inspiration comes from art, and the cover upon that tome seemed very creative--"
It might be best to just agree to come with her, to derail her train of thought.
<Pose Tracker> Ida Everstead-Rey has posed.
"Another story," Ida says, her lips curving upwards in a smile. Her gaze flicks down to her hand and lingers there a moment, as if she could see the spark within. She looks back up at Liath, and nods. "...Food would be lovely," Ida says. "As would more conversation. I'd be happy to show you to the galley." She sets both feet on the ground, and grips her chair's armrest. Slowly, deliberately, she pushes herself to a standing position.
The matter of the book comes up.
no, Ida thinks.
"Perhaps some other time," Ida says. She retrieves her crutches, settles her weight atop them, and sets out towards the door.