agentlelog | walking in a field of fog

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walking in a field of fog

Who: You and Fayura
When: Today, a week after the Strangers' arrivals
Where: The Queen's Residence and the Old Town Bazaar
What: Q&A
Warnings: n/a

EARLY MORNING, THE QUEEN'S RESIDENCE
The morning is cold and dark. Inhaling the frigid air is so shocking that those who aren't expecting it cough and wheeze with their first breath. No one really wants to make their way to the training field. Even the Queen's court moves sluggishly, but move they do with muttered recriminations against Allairavar. Cold weather doesn't stop training.

A warming spell around the field keeps it warm enough to practice, and bobbling witchlights and steady e-line floodlights keep the darkness at bay. All along one side of the practice area are weapons with blades live and dulled. The court eases onto the field alongside the Strangers with sighs and grumbles aplenty. No one likes practice on chilly mornings, but they like Allairavar's retaliation against tardiness even less.

Everyone has paired off by the time Allairavar strides out of the manor home with his arm around a woman's shoulders. In the harsh e-line lights and softer witchlight, it's clear she hasn't been well and still isn't entirely healed. Sunken golden eyes scan the field, and her expression is vaguely nauseated. She trembles, either from weakness or discomfort, as Allairavar pulls away and calls in two bladed sticks—weapons caught somewhere between sword and ax.

"Let's go," he tells her, and she takes one stick from his hand as court and Strangers alike look on.

Another male follows them in, sleekly predatory in his slow prowl around the practice field. A dangerous look glazes his eyes, and he circles the whole field once before making a second, tighter pass around the marked off area where Allairavar and the woman square off.

Members of the court trade wary looks, sharing them with the Strangers. More than a few murmur things like, "Verim will go for his throat if he pushes her too hard," and, "Should she even be out of bed yet?"

It seems Allairavar's rule for training is absolute. Even the Queen takes part. Under his watchful eye and tutelage, they run through a warm up that clearly exhausts her, but when he asks if they should stop, she snarls at him and pushes on for another five minutes. Only then does she sit off to the side of the field and begin stretching.

As she lifts from a leg stretch, she catches your eye and offers a small, shy smile. "Would you like to stretch with me? Allairavar's workouts are always hardest the first day back," she says softly.

Allairavar's exercises may be hard, but she looks like she's seconds from collapsing from exhaustion. If she spent this last week resting and still looks so wan and thin and weak, her initial injuries must have been severe.

MID-AFTERNOON, THE BAZAAR PAVILION
Snow drifts lazily through frigid air. Though temperatures hover around freezing, the Old Town Bazaar bustles with activity. Slowly, people rebuild homes and shops burned by the Hunter Guild, and for perhaps the first time in the past fifty years, sentiment has turned against the Hunters.

Strangers out and about in the Bazaar hear:

A landen woman, to her friend: It's not right what the Hunters did, burning down our homes, too.

A well-to-do Blood male, at a food stall: …believe what that pompous Grand Master has to say about a Queen of the Blood.

There's some commotion toward the center of the Bazaar, where the Queen has settled at the pavilion with a group of landen and Blood children. Her only guard seems to be the elegant man seated across from her at the pavilion's wooden table, his eyes watchful as the people pass by.

The Queen herself looks unwell. Though she wears a bright smile and her golden eyes glitter with laughter, they are sunken and dark smudges circle them. Her arms are thin, little more than skin wrapped around bone. In spite of the freezing weather, she wears a tunic with wide sleeves that pool around her elbows as she holds up a small plank of wood and tugs at a ribbon embedded in it. Here, in the chilly winter morning, the woman who brought some twenty Strangers across the vast distances of many worlds looks very human, very mortal, and very fragile.

Her eyes meet yours as she looks up, and you feel a gentle brush against your mind. No matter how familiar or strange mental communication is, no matter how disconcerting or easy you find it, the touch strikes you as incredibly polite. *We can talk, if you'd like,* she tells you over a psychic thread.

Should you join her, you find respite from the cold. A warming spell makes the pavilion pleasantly toasty, explaining why no one wears a jacket and, maybe, the Queen's clothes. She's dressed plainly in a loose, knitted tunic and fitted breaches. She wears no coronet and no visible jewelry except for a golden chain that tucks beneath her tunic.

Fayura offers a quick smile in your direction as she guides the end of the ribbon in her hand through the thin strip of wood in a twisting loop. She offers a soft-spoken explanation to the children before inviting them to try—and inviting the Blood to explain the magic to the landens, too.

As the children turn to their task, Fayura turns to you. "I'm glad to see you made it through the Hunters' attack relatively unscathed." She sets her plank down and taps her mug. Steam beings to rise from it and she lifts it to her lips with a sigh. "And I apologize that I wasn't there to greet you." A wry smile tugs at her lips; her appearance is, in her mind, enough of an explanation for why. "How have you found Draega?"

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"Lady," Fay cut in smoothly. "But Fayura is fine when we're not in court." Fay didn't bother to stand overmuch on formality unless she was actually holding court and needed to make a point. Usually with Grejor or Niall.

Takame's concern touched her, and she smiled faintly. One hand brushed gently against his shoulder, a reassuring gesture, but before she could say anything, Verim interrupted them. "See? Even the Strangers agree that you need to rest more."

Plastering a polite expression on her face and meeting neither males' eyes, Fay smiled tightly. "Prince, if you insist on fluffing one more pillow for me, I will rip it out of its case and shove it down your throat."

Verim's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he gauged whether or not Fayura could (or would) actually follow through on that threat.

Since they both knew she would certainly try, he fell silent and, looking like a kicked puppy, started running a coin back and forth over his knuckles.

Fay's gaze turned back to Takame. "I will lose my mind if I spend one more moment inside, but I appreciate your concern. May I ask you a question that might be rather forward?" She reached her hand toward her head, in the same general area as the horns that grew from his head.

“Lady.” He repeated with a nod, committing it to memory. “Or… Fayura, then. Ah, I am Takame. Takame Kesi. My apologies for not introducing myself sooner.” Though she may have known already, it would be rude to not give his name properly. From his sister did he learn to forego the use of formalities in names for the most part, and most he had met seemed to prefer it that way. Though it felt strange to address the woman known as Queen so casually, if it was her wish then he would follow it.

Takame didn’t shy away from her touch, he didn’t mind it at all. If she was so intent on trying to reassure him, he would press the subject no longer. His brows did raise ever so slightly at the threat against Verim, however.

“I see… if you insist.” He looked confused a moment at what she might ask of him. “But of course. What might that be?”

She pressed her lips together and, for a moment, looked everywhere but at him. She twisted her hands in her lap, visibly uncomfortable. This seemed a hard question to her to ask, even though it shouldn't be. Maybe because to the Blood, this question would have been seen as foolish. Childish. At her age, she really shouldn't be entertaining flights of fancy.

"Are you a dragon?" The question explodes out of her.

Across the table, Verim fumbled his coin.

"I know, I know it's ridiculous," she said quickly, the words pouring from her mouth at a rapid clip. "The Blood revere dragons, you see. It's kind of a long story, but I could tell you, I just want to know if you are a dragon because if you are, well, we're going to have to do a lot of expectation management and at some point you might have to meet Grandpapa, and he's a surly old man, and I just want to make sure I'm not... rushing to conclusions?" She sure was rushing.

“Ah--” Somehow the question caught him off guard, even though he’d been asked it several times before. Sometimes not even asked, it was just assumed he was. That made up most of the reason he avoided Ishgard. Really what threw him off was not only how abruptly it came out of Fauyra, but the rate everything else came out too. He didn’t know what information to absorb from it. He raised his hands from his lap then brought them down slightly in a motion to soothe the situation.

“I-I can see you’ve been sitting on this question for some time…” He shook his head before continuing. “But I am not. Though my people, the Au Ra, are often confused with them we have no relation to dragons.” The way he responded is as if reading from a script he’d prepared and recited more times in the past than he cared to admit.

She drew back immediately, chagrined. "I'm very sorry," she said, lifting both hands and extending them toward him, palms up. A second later, she scoffed at herself, her fingers curling. The formal gesture would be lost on him, but not on Verim. "I'm sorry, that was exceedingly rude of me. You were kind to answer." But she heard the weariness in his voice, how tired he was to repeat this same message yet again.

Giving him a weary smile of her own, she folded her hands in her lap. "The Blood... Ah, there are so many old legends that say we come from dragons. You may find some of the Blood treat you strangely." An old hurt flashed in her eyes.

Immediately he felt the pain in his chest he got when he says something incorrect. He shook his head again, repeating the soothing hand gesture and bowing his head. He didn’t understand why she sounded so frustrated at herself after the gesture, but he hoped he hadn’t offended her deeply.

“No, not at all. I am the one who was rude, my deepest apologies.” He was barely aware of how he may have sounded explaining his race, only proceeding under the assumption that he offended. But if he really did, he would probably not be long for this world.

He looked contemplative when she shared the legends of the Blood’s origin. Auri creation myth was similar from the stories he’d heard, but he didn’t pay much mind to those claims. He had no need to.

“I see. I’m no stranger to such treatment, Au Ra are uncommon in Eorzea you see. But you are most kind to tell me of this.”

A little laugh spills past her lips as she realized how quickly this could turn into an endless circle of them both apologizing to each other. "Let us agree we were both out of line and that we will be better in the future," she suggested, gesturing at the coffee pot on the table.

Using Craft, she poured Takame a mug of coffee and topped off her own. Even with the warming spell, the coffee had cooled, and so she warmed both cups with little tongues of witchfire so the coffee would be palatable. "Here." She pushed his mug toward him. "And if anyone gives you trouble, please let me know? Be wary of Lord Grejor. He, in particular, believes the Blood... should be pure." Her expression twisted with distaste.

Takame simply nods at that rather than continue the cycle of apologies. Funny that he was often on the other side of this equation when with his old group. But he accepts her offer of coffee, reaching over to take the mug in his hands.

"Thank you, my lady." He says, referring to both the drink and the offer of help she would graciously provide even if he could handle a fair bit of trouble. He didn't realize that he'd fallen back on formality, especially after she mentioned a name he'd not heard yet.

"Lord Grejor..." he repeated, again to commit the name to memory. "Is he part of the court?" It was good enough to have a name to be wary of for Takame, but the decision to press came out of him by reflex. He did need information after all, but just by mention of this lord's belief of "purity" did he already imagine an all too familiar sort of person.

Fay visibly recoils at the question, her lip curling. There's a combination of loathing and anger on her face, though it's not directed at Takame.

"Mother Night, no," she says quickly. "Lord Grejor will never be a part of my court. He's not mine." A pause. "We don't get along." It's far more than that, and the severity of her reaction belies her mild words. "He finds me uncomfortable. Disquieting." Which seems to make her a sad.

Verim, though, just looks pissed off at the last. "You're not weird," he mutters darkly.

That makes Fay laugh, and she shrugs. "Oh, I am weird by most standards of the Blood. But I'm not like him. Grejor and I... we aren't the same."

"Hmm." Takame wouldn't press on the dislike between the two. It didn't take a genius to pick up on just how deep the dislike between them ran by that reaction. Takame could only imagine what someone who promotes purity among a race would have against a woman like Fauyra. Even if Takame wasn't sure what to make of the woman yet either, thus did he not comment on the weird remark, instead taking a slow sip from his mug without adding a thing. But she reminded him far too much of both members of his family for him to dislike.

"If you are not the same, he must be quite cruel." His basis for this is on his knowledge of more inflexible Garleans he'd encountered, but kami forbid anyone should learn of that. Least of all Fauyra and her Steward. "He holds influence elsewhere, then?"

"Grejor is the First Chair of the Ebon Council. He's been First Chair for... thirty years? That sounds about right." That was one of the reasons he detested her, too: she'd come in ten years ago and undermined all his power.

Fay sips her coffee, thinking. She hesitates to call Grejor cruel because she hesitates to speak poorly of anyone, but Grejor is not a nice man. "He's indifferent," She finally says. "Grejor sees suffering and doesn't care unless calling attention to it helps his agenda. He looks at the schism between Blood and landen and sees the landens as a useful tool. They're his favorite scapegoat for all that goes wrong. If we didn't have the landens to feed, there would be more food—and this is true. But it presupposes that the landens aren't worth the food we eat. And they are."

The word Fayura used to describe Grejor conflicted with the his actions. From what Takame had been made to understand, blaming an entire group for the pains the world was facing would be considered cruel by many. Or necessary by others. It would bind the people, the Blood, together to fight against a common foe, in this case the landens. People walk this path until their death likely by the opposing side.

But to do so through demonizing the lesser... that isn't what a good person does, is it? It certainly wasn't the path Fayura wished to walk. There is a long pause and another sip of coffee from Takame before he responded again.

"It is clear how the rift between the Blood and landen was driven so deep then. But shifting blame solves nothing."

"Hating someone is easy," Fayura said with a sad smile. "If the Blood and the landens continue to hate each other, they don't have to change and they don't have to admit where they've done wrong. That's easier than taking responsibilities for failure and changing. Hate is convenient. When bad things are always someone else's fault, you don't need to feel guilt or remorse for your actions."

She ran a hand through her hair and exhaled heavily. She was sighing a lot, these days. But she knew this would be hard. "It's my hope that people's views will change, but I worry there isn't much time left before the Realm has nothing left. I might be able to put off the final death, but if they don't change, I'm only delaying the inevitable."

All came back to change and people's refusal to adapt to it. And the reminder was a weight on Takame's chest that never wanted to leave. He knows as well as anyone that change is necessary, but he wondered again if what Fayura sought was feasible.

Even if not, he was brought here to see this wish Fauyra had to reality, to help her dying land. Him along with many others. They would not have been brought here if it were completely impossible. He would see this duty done, it didn't matter how far out of reach it was.

"Is that not why you brought us here? We... Strangers. To make this change possible?"

"It is. It's what I hope you can help me do. You're not Blood even though you wear the Jewels, but you're not landen either. My hope is that both parties will see you as separate and thus be more willing to trust you. Common ground, if you will."

That was a heavy ask and a great burden, but she knew it. Until she brought the Strangers, she'd borne that on her own shoulders.

With another heavy sigh, she set down her cup. "If you don't have any more questions, I think I should return to the residence." As soon as the words left her mouth, Verim was on his feet with a blanket in his hands. He draped it carefully over her shoulders, as if he might wound her grievously if he moved wrong. "It was a pleasure, Takame."

"Ah, by all means. Do not allow me to keep you."

Takame didn't want to get in their way. He had kept her for a long while after all. He didn't mean to, but she insisted upon remaining outside. He would keep her for no longer, after all he's been given a good sum of information on this place. He would need time to process it all. Either way he bowed respectfully to both of them.

"The pleasure has been mine, my lady. You've been most kind to teach me more of Draega. May the kami bless you with a swift recovery."

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walking in a field of fog

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