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before the dawn
The night is always darkest...
Permalink Mark Unread

    "Are you sure this is wise, my Lord?"

"—hm?" Aymeric blinks, and though his eyes had not been shut, they might as well have, so deeply lost in thought was he, watching the scenery pass by outside his carriage.

    "This banquet," clarifies Lucia. "Are you sure it is wise to go? The Dravanian Horde may be planning a revenge strike any time now, and..." She looks uncertain about how to phrase whatever her other misgivings are.

"You don't trust the Alliance," he guesses.

    "I... don't," she admits, a small relieved smile playing at her lips. At least she didn't have to say it.

"Why not?" he asks, leaning forward on his seat.

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    Had it been anyone else asking this question, she would have thought them offended. Lord Aymeric, though, does not play such games. Not with her. He is wearing that expression he does, that earnest smile that makes you think you can confide your deepest secrets to him and he will listen fairly and never judge you for it, that honest expression that makes you want to believe in him. "They... have not been the stoutest allies to Ishgard," she says, trying to pick her words carefully despite it all. She knows he'll understand. "In many matters, though it was clear as day during the attack." A flash of anger crosses her face, and she squeezes her hands into fists on top of her thighs despite herself. "That they dared send as few soldiers as they did and call it a helping force..."

The Lord Commander of the Temple Knights keeps his calm, placid smile, though. "How many soldiers did you count from the Maelstrom?"

    She blinks, and thinks back on that day. The Maelstrom would be Limsa Lominsa's Grand Company. "Six pirates," she says, the anger rising as she recalls that.

Aymeric laughs and says, "I don't think the members of the Maelstrom technically count as pirates... but few would dispute the description anyway. Such is the Lominsan way."

    "...my Lord, with all due respect, it feels like you are toying with me."

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"No." And he's suddenly serious—still honest, still earnest, and he wants her to believe him. She knows he would never lie to her. "Lucia, should something ever happen to me—"

    "Halone forbid—!"

"I would want you to take my place," he continues. She is about to say something but he lifts a hand to stall her objections. "There is none in the world I trust more than you."

    "...my Lord," she says, and she looks down at her knees as a flush creeps up her neck. He had never said so, not in so many words. "I, I am flattered, but the people of Ishgard would never take an outsider like me..."

"Would they not?" And there's that earnest, straightforward tone, again. "Times have been changing. They said the same about me, didn't they?" And they had. She knew that, though she had not been in Ishgard in his youth and as he rose in the ranks despite the rumours. In Ishgard, rumours could be as deadly as swords, and there were so many following this lowborn youth. Outsiders might think that, if Lord Aymeric really was the Archbishop's bastard son, that would have helped him rather than hindered him. Outsiders don't understand Ishgard, like she once also failed to. It was despite the rumours and not because of them that he rose, it was because of his prowess in battle and his skill with a quill. No one could deny his competence, he excelled at everything he tried, and so he rose and rose and kept rising, and even the staunchest, most conservative defenders of Ishgardian tradition could hardly deny that he earned every single accolade and promotion ten times over with his work.

    "It's different," she insists, anyway, because it is. "I am still an outsider—I am not even elezen, let alone Ishgardian—"

"And you have proven yourself as much as I have, if not more. So yes, I would have you stand in my place should the need ever arise, but for that I need you to see the same things I do, and understand why I make these decisions. Even if you come to disagree with them, I would have you disagree in full knowledge of the facts."

    "...yes, my Lord." The flush still colours her cheeks but she's smiling, once again despite herself. She notices her fists have relaxed, and wonders if Lord Aymeric planned that, too, in this conversation. He must have.

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"As I was saying," Aymeric then continues, "the Lominsan envoys numbered six, you are correct. And the Ul'dahns..."

    "Five," she sighs. Five men sporting the banner of the Immortal Flames, the desert nation's Grand Company.

"How about the Gridanians?"

    "Seven. My Lord, I—"

"Seven?" he interrupts. "Those may have been the ones wearing the Order of the Twin Adder's colours, but do you remember how many people were there?"

    That gives her definite pause. "My Lord?" she asks, uncertainly.

"There were thirty-three," he answers his own question. "Not all of them were of the Twin Adder, but all of them were Gridanian all the same." He smiles. "The Elder Seedseer could not be seen officially sending a force larger than Limsa Lominsa or Ul'dah did, but what she could do was make it publicly known to her people that Ishgard was in need of aid, and let those who would voluntarily take up arms do so."

    Lucia understands, then. "Seedseer Kan-E-Senna... secretly sent forces our way?"

"Just so," agrees Aymeric. "In spite of us not being an official part of the Alliance, we have ever been close to our Gridanian siblings. Be it because they're closest to us, out of the other Eorzean countries, or be it racial pride, for they have the highest concentration of elezen outside of Ishgard, we have kept good relations. And that is in spite of Ishgard's shameful actions—or inaction—five years ago."

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This is also the first time Lucia sees Lord Aymeric speak so openly about this. Five years earlier, when the Garlean Empire launched its final assault on Eorzea, Ishgard officially withdrew from the Eorzean Alliance and refused to help. They had to hold their borders against the Dravanians, was always the excuse. They already had their own war to deal with, and could not spare forces to aid in a different, distant war that had thus far not touched them. Lucia had intimate knowledge that this was a misconception planted by the Garleans themselves; it was a clever plan, to never attack Ishgard and thus convince them they're safe, so that they would not offer the other Eorzean city-states their aid. Divide and conquer, in a way.

"If we have few friends amongst our sister nations," Aymeric continues, "it is our own doing. When the Garleans launched the assault that brought low the moon, we stayed safely within our walls and ignored their pleas for help. The eternal winter that now freezes Ishgard was directly caused by the fall of Dalamud. Could we have prevented that, had we joined the fight? Had we pushed the Garleans back? Could we have sabotaged their experiments and avoided the Seventh Umbral Calamity? We will never know, because we were too cowardly to do so. And now we reap the consequences." Despite the passion of his words, he still sounds calm. "United we stand, divided we fall. This I believe.

"And so my answer to your original question, my dear, is yes. I do think this is wise. The celebratory banquet is being held in our honour, and there I will announce my plans to have Ishgard rejoin the Eorzean Alliance. If we have few friends there, it is our own doing," he repeats, "and so it also falls to us to regain their friendship. This is the work we must do."

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The atmosphere of Ul'dah could perhaps be more different from Ishgard if it tried, but it'd have to be trying quite hard. The desert heat is as stark a difference to Ishgard's cold as the opulent decadence of its ruling city is to Ishgard's war-torn militant efficiency. Its people are little better. Aymeric's party is showered with effusive praise and congratulations that fails to ring true in the slightest, and it's quite impressive how many lalafell manage to overcome their diminutive stature to nonetheless look down on their tall visitors. Goodness, this must all be very overwhelming, does Ishgard even know what a party is, do they need help? This is a place where compatriots celebrate the fruits of their mutual labor and have fun! They're afraid the only thing that might be even a little bit familiar is this lovingly crafted confectionery in the the shape of a beheaded dragon, isn't that charming?

(The dragon head made out of sweets and pudding is wildly inaccurate to the eye of Ishgardian dragonslayers, but it nonetheless is very evocative and well put together, mechanically.)

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But aid from this siege of false flattery and condescension doesn't take particularly long to arrive, in the form of the Elder Seedseer and her entourage. The padjal is taller than the lalafell, but she is nonetheless dwarfed by each and every Ishgardian that she's coming to the social rescue of.

"Lord Commander," she says smoothly, gracing him with a genuine smile. "I and Gridania are delighted to have our Ishgardian siblings represented. Is there anything I can do to help you acclimatize, so far from home?"

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Lucia has not... quite... managed to unglue her eyes from the dragon head. If she's not muttering "What in Halone's name...?" under her breath, it is because she does not want to besmirch Ishgard by being openly disrespectful of their hosts'... thoughtful... homage. But she is not quite good enough at this to be able to stop staring.

Aymeric looks unbothered, however, and turns a wide smile to Kan-E-Senna. "Elder," he says, bowing a quarter of the way to a full bow, as is appropriate when greeting one of similar station. "It has been far too long. Our hosts have been most gracious and we want for no comfort, but thank you for your kind offer."

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The Elder Seedseer matches his bow, looking pleased. She was not expecting Ishgard's representative to handle things so smoothly, but she's quite happy to have her expectations upturned.

"They are uniquely talented at hosting, and their taste for celebration is unmatched," she agrees. "I have a particular fondness for their take on the sautéed porcini, I am not ashamed to admit that my people have been outdone at our own native delicacy."

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He laughs and says, "Well, admitting that takes some courage! The dish must be a veritable delight, we must try it. But speaking of your people, how fare they? The Warrior of Light and his Scions recently fetched a powerful airship from our lands to fight the Lady of the Vortex, I take it she has not troubled you anymore since then?"

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"Relations with the Ixal have ever been strained," understatement, "but the summoning of their goddess as a primal is ultimately a symptom of a root cause borne by fear and mistrust. She herself has not troubled us since her vanquishing by the Scions, but I worry that without mending the undercurrent of bitterness, we are but granted a temporary reprieve."

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Aymeric nods somberly. "Your words are wise, Elder, and your advice is taken as intended. Ishgard has not done a great job over the past few years at maintaining good relations with the outside world, be it with our sister nations at the Eorzean Alliance or the beast tribes that live amongst us, but it is my hope that we will be able to mend these bridges and forge a new future together." Then he smiles and waves at the banquet. "I do believe master Alphinaud was right to suggest this party. An event to celebrate our victory at the Steps of Faith... I hate to be so painfully true to stereotypes, but your people are right when they say Ishgard is not in the habit of doing anything like it."

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"Gridania wasn't either, but lavish parties do turn out to have their charms." Like the food. She enjoys the food. She is totally eyeing some of the nearby snack tables that are currently just for looking at, but soon will be for eating.

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"But they're also good for more nonchalant exchange of information between powers. For example, I'm free to press you for clarification on Ishgard's situation in regards to 'heretics' and their apparent summoning of a primal without it being taken as too grave."

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He likes her.

"Tell me, then, Elder, before I launch into a speech, how much do you know of the history and of the political situation Ishgard finds itself in?"

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"Not as much as I'd like. I understand that your city state is spiritually led by your Archbishop, that more material matters tend to fall under the jurisdiction of your four High Houses, and that tradition and duty does much to cover the gap, but I'm afraid such concepts are... muddled somewhat in the specifics, and where heretics fit into this. I would appreciate a perspective from the inside, instead of clumsy attempts to paint Ishgardian portraits with Gridanian paints."

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"Very well.

"You are correct in the broad strokes. A thousand years ago the dragons, led by one of their Firstbrood, the one called Nidhogg, terrorised our people. The four High Houses are descended from the original four knights who stopped him by stealing one of his eyes. It is not a secret, but not widely known either, that dragons store most of their aether and lifeforce inside their eyes, so taking one of Nidhogg's effectively halved his power, and was the blow that turned this conflict from a massacre into a proper war, that gave Ishgardians a fighting chance. We and the Dravanians have been embroiled in said war ever since."

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She nods.

"And Nidhogg's eye has been passed down through the generations to its most talented dragonslayers, its holder given the title 'Azure Dragoon.' But it is unclear to me if they are beholden to the Archbishop, the church itself, all of Ishgard, or something else entirely. Your country's latest choice of Azure Dragoon seems to treat it more... loosely than many historical examples."

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Aymeric lets out something that can definitely only be called a long-suffering sigh. This is not the first time people have expressed similar thoughts about Jacque.

"The truth is... somewhat more complex than that. While the Azure Dragoon does tend to be amongst the most skilled of their peers, skill enough does not suffice. The previous Azure Dragoon is still alive and active; it is the eye itself that chooses who is fit to yield it."

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"It chooses," she repeats, frowning. "I would have thought that if it had the aether and mind to choose, it would attempt to sabotage you, but it sounds a great deal more complex than that."

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"Rather, yes," he says, smiling. "I cannot say I understand the process. It does not seem anyone else does, either; Jacqueline herself—our current Azure Dragoon—says that most of what she gets from the eye is insight into Nidhogg's mind and emotions. But historically we have never had an Azure Dragoon who failed to show utmost loyalty to Ishgard, and she is no exception. Whatever method or reasoning the eye has, it has unfailingly picked people who have performed great deeds in service of our country and the Holy See."

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Kan-E-Senna... frowns more. "Hm. I see."

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"As for the social role and official powers... The Azure Dragoon operates somewhat outside the standard military ranks of Ishgard. They can often know in advance when a strike is coming, or where to find Dravanian forces. But they are also often sent on missions of greater import, or higher secrecy. Jacqueline officially outranks everyone in our armed forces except for, well," he smiles again, "me."

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“Then I am glad it has shown such good judgment in its decisions, however little I understand its methodology and reasoning.”

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"As am I," he agrees earnestly. "Now... I believe you also had questions about the theology of it all?"

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“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Though Ishgard shares its faith in the twelve with the rest of the alliance, you seem to take it a rather bit more… seriously than your fellows. I am especially curious of—"

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But unfortunately for her curiosity, this is when a large hulk of a hyur man bursts into the dining hall.

"Welcome, friends!" he says in a booming voice, clearly addressed to Aymeric and his entourage. He steps towards them without a trace of discomfort or hesitation; he is quite accustomed to Ul'dahn parties, by now. "Ah, damn, I'd been hoping to meet Ishgard's champion, but it seems like she managed to slip away!"

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Aymeric turns his smile to the newcomer. "General Aldynn, what a pleasure to see you." He offers Raubahn the same bow he did Kan-E-Senna. "And yes, I did extend Jacqueline an invitation, but she had other matters to attend to, unfortunately."

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"Pity! It'd have been nice to have something like a peer at one of these." Clearly, someone is jealous. He does not want to be here. He has, in fact, never wanted to be at any of these (fucking) parties, but he is nonetheless subjected to most of them.

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"You wanted to challenge her to a sparring match," accuses Kan-E-Senna, sounding amused.

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"Damn right I want to! A man could go mad, doing nothing but attending parties, small talking, and drinking expensive wine. Me especially."

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Aymeric looks terribly amused, too. "Well, I'll convey your wishes to her and perhaps she will show up at your doorstep someday."

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"Much appreciated. Has everything been to your liking so far? The regulars not giving you too much trouble?"

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"Everyone has been lovely tonight, this party is splendid. And the food looks delicious, too. A pity we cannot eat it yet. I had hoped the Sultana would be with you so I could beg of her special dispensation for a taste or two before the official banquet begins."

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"Ehhh, it's fine. She's never been a stickler for tradition." He reaches out and retrieves a cookie, and begins munching. While making eye contact with a nearby appalled lalafell that nonetheless seems resigned to this sort of thing. "She's having tea with the Warrior of Light, wanted me to come check on how her guests were doing. Which is Her Grace for 'Please go away, Raubahn, nobody's going to try to assassinate me while I'm with the hero of the realm, stop worrying.'"

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Aymeric perks up at that. "Oh, the Warrior of Light is coming, too?"

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"But of course," says one Alphinaud Leveilleur, walking up to them. "The Scions and the Crystal Braves could not miss this celebration for anything!"

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"Master Leveilleur! What a pleasure. And I believe I have heard of these Crystal Braves of yours—a new Grand Company, yes? You must tell me all about it later."

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"A Grand Company that is as apolitical as its Scion founders is certainly ambitious," says the Seedseer, "but it seems to have worked out well so far. I hope your group's habit of pulling off the impossible continues, but. I do recommend keeping the two groups separate, I would not the fall of one to lead to the other."

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"Wise words as always, Elder Seedseer," nods Alphinaud, unknowingly mirroring Aymeric's earlier words. "I would not have my own projects endanger my dearest friends like that."

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"Since we are on the subject, there is one question I have been meaning to ask and been too ashamed to not know the answer of." He looks at Kan-E-Senna. "But as the Elder Seedseer herself said, a party is perhaps the perfect location for such." Back to Alphinaud: "What, exactly, are the Scions of the Seventh Dawn?"

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"—oh! Do forgive me, Lord Commander, we are so used to these news travelling the realm we sometimes forget Ishgard's walls can be that high." He pauses and hums to himself, trying to think of an appropriate answer. "I suppose what we are, now, is a loose coalition of individuals who are working for the betterment of the realm as a whole, regardless of any political affiliations. And relatedly, we count many in our numbers that carry the Goddess's blessing, the Echo. The Warrior of Light himself is one such gifted individual."

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"That gift being why they're so damned good at killing primals. Yours was immediately killed upon her summoning, yeah? You're damned lucky she didn't get the chance to temper anyone. That's a gods-damned nightmare."

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"Indeed. The one trait all possessed of the Echo share is the ability to contend with those beings without becoming their mindless thralls, though there are many other gifts they get. When we fought Shiva together, you saw Otohiko's skill in battle? How he seemed to always know where to go, how to avoid every blow, almost prescient? That was in large part due to his gift. He has explained it to me once, he can live through the same battle many times until he succeeds."

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...wait, does that imply Otohiko has actually experienced his own death before? "That is fascinating, Master Leveilleur," says Aymeric rather than voicing those concerning thoughts. "And you actively recruit such gifted individuals?"

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"We do, though not all are as skilled in combat as our Warrior of Light is."

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"And more unfortunately, they are very rare."

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"Yes, although at least they do have the ability to shield others from primal influence, so sending even one to such a fight is already a great boon."

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"Aye, I can attest to that," says the tall roegadyn lady coming over from elsewhere in the party to join them. Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn, current leader of Limsa Lominsa. "Many would have perished to those summoned gods' thrice-damned influence were it not for the help of the Warrior of Light in past fights."

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"Admiral! And now the party is complete."

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"I would have joined you sooner, but I was having a delightful conversation with some of the General's compatriots. They had some interesting views about money and the economy."

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"I," decides Raubahn, "do not want to know."

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Merlwyb laughs. "I would not think so. The Monetarist party seems not so fond of the Sultanate of Ul'dah."

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The opening of the doors to the banquet hall catches Alphinaud's eye, then, and he spots the rest of the Scions' arrival. He excuses himself and walks over to greet his friends.

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The leaders of Eorzea talk for a while longer, exchanging constant subtext, but the Lord Commander is well used to this, and feels right at home with the politicking.

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They are friendlier than Lucia had feared, and it's clear that they all are at least trying to make friends. The condescension from the natives doesn't let up, but it's clear they will grudgingly give the political leaders their space. It's likely the various local powers and businessmen will descend for more personal discussion when the political leaders break ranks, but it hasn't happened yet.

As far as starts go, it's very promising, especially in comparison to some of the others that Aymeric's had in the past.

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As the party wears on, the Sultana continues to not show up, so eventually Aymeric calls attention to himself, and the guests quieten to listen.

"Honoured friends!" he starts, projecting his voice almost magically to carry to every corner of the banquet hall. "Pray allow me to convey Ishgard's warmest gratitude for your part in the defence of our lands. 'Tis upon the success of this very alliance that my recommendation to throw open the Gates of Judgement shall be founded. With the blessing of the Archbishop, it is my hope that Ishgard will soon be reunited with her long-estranged sister nations—and that Eorzea shall once more be as one!"

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There is applause, some skeptical (it doesn't seem the Ul'dahns are very convinced by Ishgardian promises)—

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—and some clearly delighted. Kan-E-Senna is beaming.

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Raubahn also seems pleased, and annoyed enough at the lukewarm and mostly feigned reaction of his own city state to directly step in. Without very much tact, but, well, he's trying.

"Well I for one would welcome Ishgard's return to the Alliance! We stand together, or fall divided."

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"Aye. 'Twas fortunate that the Steps of Faith did not fall, and we are glad of the part we played in its defence."

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But it is then that the double doors to the banquet hall are thrown open and a group of soldiers stride into it, led by a diminutive lalafell.

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But three Ishgardian knights are following on the Ul'dahns' heels, and Lucia is at the Lord Commander's side in the blink of an eye.

"Knights from the homeland?" he murmurs to her. "This cannot bode well..."

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Raubahn seems to agree, for entirely different reasons. He scowls and glares at the lalafell.

"What game are you playing, Adeledji."

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The whole party has noticed it by now, and the guests have once more fallen silent. The lalafell ignores Raubahn, though, and turns to Aymeric. "Lord Commander! We have received an urgent missive from the Holy See," he says. "I am grieved to report that your serpentine foes have resumed their assault. Needless to say, your presence is urgently required. These knights have come to bear you swiftly home to Ishgard!"

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"...a surprise attack?"

    Lucia leans closer to him to whisper: "We've had no such word from our men. And the timing is... most fortuitous... to catch us away from the city..."

"Most fortuitous indeed..."

        "Lord Commander!" one of the Ishgardian knights says. "We must away!"

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"Convenient timing, for such an announcement. Through what channels did you receive this missive?"

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"Why, General," says Adeledji, finally deigning to look at Raubahn, "his own men have come bearing it!"

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Another of the Ishgardian knights walks over to the Lord Commander and hands him a recently-unsealed letter. Aymeric frowns but takes it to start reading it.

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"But why burst in, to announce so loudly and with such fervor, so soon after the Lord Commander's announcement? If it is a letter for him, then bloody well hand it to him, instead of this overly dramatic farce."

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"Oh, but bad news is never unaccompanied! Or," and the lalafell lets out an exaggerated gasp, "do you mean to say you don't know?"

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Aymeric raises his eyes from the letter to narrow them at this man.

A part of him wonders how someone can manage to become so unlikeable in such a short time.

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"Know what."

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"Well, General, while you were here having a jolly good time, enemies of the crown were enacting a plot against it! A viper slipped into her chambers to assassinate her—the so-called Warrior of Light has murdered the Sultana!"

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Another soldier comes in, dressed in blue rather than the normal yellow colours of Ul'dah, dragging Otohiko bound and battered with him into the hall. He pushes the Warrior of Light forward, making him trip and fall onto his face.

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"Absurd," snorts Kan-E-Senna, very quietly.

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"What? The sun would sooner fall from the sky! Unbind him, he'd die to defend her, how dare you!"

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Aymeric takes a second to process all that is happening there, but once he does his hand is on the pommel of his sword—

    "Lord Commander!" calls the Ishgardian knight once more. "We must go!"

—he hesitates, looks between Otohiko and the lalafell and his men—

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"Clumsy schemes aside," murmurs Kan-E-Senna to Aymeric, "he would not lie about an attack to Ishgard. Go. See to your people, and trust us to sort out this mayhem."

It is a bold ask from a mere theoretical ally, but it is probably the smart option. Especially with the political fallout of the Lord Commander drawing his sword at a party in foreign lands.

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His hand squeezes the pommel of his sword for a second but then he releases it and says, "Come, Lucia." As he starts walking away he pauses to look the lalafell in the eye and say, "Our thanks for your hospitality. I hope to be able to repay it someday."

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"I look forward to it, Lord Commander!"

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They do not close the doors behind themselves as they leave.

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He can hear the sounds of voices shouting at each other, echoing down the hallway.

But no one stops them from leaving.

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Kan-E-Senna turns out to have been correct. However convenient the timing, Ishgard did fall under attack while its Lord Commander was away.

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The fact that the attack was real makes this all rather more suspicious.

It is for situations like these that Aymeric saves his anima. It's all fine and dandy to go to Ul'dah by carriage on a leisurely couple of days' trip, but for an immediate attack what he does instead is teleport directly to Foundation to find...

...pandemonium. Somehow the Lady Iceheart managed to fully dispel the wards, if only for a moment (and thank the Fury this did not occur for the earlier, heavier assault), and a small host of wyverns are wreaking havoc in the city proper. The arrival of the Lord Commander does help lift people's spirits and give them a second wind, and he moves to action immediately.

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"The Lady Iceheart" her ass, not that Jacqueline can actually say that aloud, or tell anyone about how she could possibly know that.

She has also worked out that this is hella suspicious, and it was in part the suspicion that something like this would happen that kept her from attending the banquet. So despite her newfound misgivings about killing dragons, she figures the kinds who invade Ishgard proper and commence attack are fair game, and slays them with prejudice.

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The stately and refined upper (both literally and figuratively) echelon of Ishgard, where the nobles make their fine home, is shaken, but has its own defenses. Even off duty and caught off guard, it contains many of Ishgard's finest warriors. The streets are cleared of noncombatants in record time. They take shelter in the Saint Reymanaud Cathedral under the guard of the Holy See's Knights of the Inquisition, or take their chances sheltering in their own homes. Regardless of where they find shelter, they nonetheless get out of the way so that their warriors are free to slay the rampant dragons in the wide open spaces

Other districts do not fare so well. The common folk do not build their homes of sturdy stone like their 'betters.' They build in flammable and much more breakable wood, and closer together, in cramped alleyways that do not lend themselves well to containing dragons that breathe fire. Worse, the shelters for the noncombatants are few and far between, making the counteroffensive more difficult, and significantly more costly. The battle is a vicious and deadly game of cat and mouse through twisting, flammable alleyways, civilians caught in the crossfire. Their defenders are few and far between, because most of the trained and outfitted warriors are busy above.

Nonetheless, this is Ishgard, and if there's anything that can bring them all together, rich or poor, it is dragonslaying.

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And Jacqueline is one thousand percent lending the poorer people her help. There's plenty of dragoons up there with the nobles, adding the Azure Dragoon to the mix would just be overkill.

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The major local defense is a bit ramshackle, but Jacque will recognize at least one familiar face down here!

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"Oh, look," says a nearby hyur woman fighting beside him, spotting Jacque. She has crimson red eyes, a half-breed's hint of an elezen ear, and a rather large gun. "We haven't been forgotten after all."

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"Busy," grumbles Cynric, slicing at the dragon that is currently menacing them with a dagger. It's better to have actual reach when fighting dragons, but, well, it's kind of an emergency.

The dragon, predictably, breathes a gout of fire at them and then attempts a retreat down a nearby alleyway.

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The dragon is promptly impaled. More than once, for good measure.

(It helps that most of the dragons that did manage to get in before the wards winked back into place are the smaller ones.)

She lifts her visor and offers Cynric a two-finger salute before lowering it again and hopping off into the distance to kill some more dragons.

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"Damn Azure Dragoon cleaning up the Lord Commander's messes..." mutters the woman darkly.

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"A 'thank you' is more polite, you know." Cynric will leave the dragonslaying to the professional, thanks, he's going to get to work putting fires out.

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"... Yeah. 'preciated, blue jumpy one!"

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The damage was... less than it could have been. The number of wyverns that managed to get in was reasonably small—they're airborne and had advance warning, but nevertheless they numbered few. Foundation was most affected, of course, but the Lord Commander issued a decree that Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral is to take any and all refugees from the destruction, yes even if they're dirty and hungry and poor, no he will not be hearing arguments about it, he does not literally say the Noble Houses can suck him if they have a problem with it but the message is clear anyway.

The Holy See itself has no problem with this. Helping the poor and downtrodden is part of what they do, and they stand with the Temple Knights in this, so all the Noble Houses can do is grumble and whine and let it happen.

(Not House Fortemps. They're cool and 100% back Lord Aymeric in this, for which he is grateful.)

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It is through House Fortemps that he gets word of a set of refugees of a different sort. The missive begging for asylum for the Warrior of Light and his Scion compatriots from political fallout comes accompanied with a mysterious green envelope, addressed to the Lord Commander.

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The political situation of Ul'dah is too complicated to put to parchment, but we're doing what we can. Pray forgive our Alliance's dreadful hospitality, rest assured that your parting promise has already been repaid for you. Neither half of the one responsible is like to do it again.

It isn't signed, but it doesn't really need to be.
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............

Aymeric likes her.

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So this is how Yakata no Otohiko, the famed Warrior of Light and saviour of Eorzea, and Alphinaud Leveilleur, grandson of the great Archon Louisoix Leveilleur and erstwhile leader of the Crystal Braves, find themselves in Camp Dragonhead, bedraggled, mourning, and exhausted, looking for what few friends they still have left.

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(They have many, though it might not feel like it right now.)

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But the one Otohiko turns to first does not wait inside his comfortable keep to greet them. Haurchefant Greystone, beloved bastard son of the Count Fortemps, is not in the habit of disappointing. He does not know the circumstances of whatever struggles harry their steps, and nor does he need to. When his guards inform him of Otohiko's presence and the state he's in, he arrives in the near blink of an eye, armed with warm blankets and a lot of sympathy.

"My friend," he says, throwing the first blanket around Otohiko's shoulders and summarily tossing Ishgardian stereotypes of inhospitality into a ditch somewhere to bleed out, "you know, as flattered as I am that I'm the first person you thought of to go to in times of strife, what in sweet Halone's name happened, and might I assist you in vanquishing those responsible?"

Alphinaud he is less familiar with, but Alphinaud gets a blanket, too. Handed to him.

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Otohiko smiles thankfully at the elezen and accepts the blanket, but his expression looks rather strained. "Someone had a bone to pick with a great many people including yours truly and," he grimaces, "the rest of the Scions. It's a bit of a long story."

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"Might we trouble you for a more private chamber where we may discuss it?" asks Otohiko's friend, also wrapping the blanket around himself. He's clearly having more trouble with the cold than the similarly-dressed au ra.

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"Of course, of course, right this way," he agrees, and he begins steering Scions towards shelter. "I've a warm fire and a private room, and if I'm not mistaken some hot soup wouldn't be remiss?"

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Alphinaud's stomach grumbles at this reminder that they got kicked out of the banquet before they could get to eat. "You are most kind."

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"Not any more than either of you rightly deserve," demurs their host, and soon enough they are in a private room with a warm fire, and two hot bowls of soup from the mess hall. It's not particularly fancy fare, especially not after the banquet they just came from, but it's filling and it's warm. Most importantly, no one is kicking them out before they can eat. Haurchefant even gets Alphinaud a second blanket.

"Now," he says after they have the room and comfortable chairs therein to themselves, "I don't need to know all of the details, but one thing I do need to know sooner rather than later is if you would like to petition Ishgard for asylum."

Haurchefant has a faintly smug, knowing smile. Usually, petitioning Ishgard for asylum is a fool's errand.

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"...we were thinking of probably staying, ah, here, for a bit, before deciding on where to go next, but..."

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"But a military camp is hardly fitting hospitality for a hero of your caliber! And you," this is at Otohiko, "went through all of that terrible trouble of finding clothes that fit the prudish Ishgardian sensibilities. Such a noble sacrifice should not go ignored!"

Okay, now the smug smile is a grin.

"Regardless, I will have you here as long as you'd like, but I think you should petition for asylum."

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"Out with it, then, what do you know?"

That's almost a smile!

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"A great many things! Father insisted that I learn the harpsichord, though I warn you I'm dreadful at it..."

Then his cheer fades, and he gives a sigh and turns serious. Clearly, he was just trying to cheer his friend up.

"... Forgive me the levity, I thought you already knew." He leans forward in his chair, setting his chin on his interlaced hands. "The city itself fell under siege. It's not clear how it happened, but. I do not think Ishgard is fool enough to keep out one of their heroes of the Steps of Faith. Not right now."

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Otohiko sits up straighter in alarm, and even Alphinaud looks up from his soup and his self-loathing. "The attack Teledji Adeledji told the Lord Commander about was real?"

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"Is everything alright? How can I help?"

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"Ah ah! No, no, none of that! Not 'til you're done eating. You have been through enough today. There will be no heroing on an empty stomach." He points, very seriously, at the soup. "I will explain, but it is conditional, understand."

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"I have spent much longer without food, thank you very much, sir, if there's someone I can help—"

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"You are a someone you can help, thank you!" interrupts Haurchefant, though he softens his words with a smile. "Besides, all of the important heroic bits are over. All dragons have been slain or driven off, and the wards are so secured I'm not sure any of the knights guarding it can breathe from the crowding. I will not tell you there is nowhere you can help, because you are yourself and I know you, but we are in the dull cleanup stage, not the exciting defense stage. And cleanup requires its cleaners be taken care of."

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He slumps back onto his seat and sighs. "Fine. Fine. Here I am, eating." Slurp slurp.

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That elicits a small giggle from the younger elezen despite his gloom.

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"Thank you kindly," Otohiko's friend says primly. "Now. The problem was not a failure in martial defense. No, our defenders stood tall, without faltering and while showing great courage and dignity and whatnot. The problem was one of sabotage. The wards themselves cut off. Not for very long, mind, but you can guard the walls and anchoring wardstones of Ishgard all you like, and it won't matter one whit if a dragon flies over it all while it's off. And several did. Precisely when the Lord Commander was away."

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"That's... very suspicious."

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"The Lady Iceheart again?" guesses Otohiko. "She has followers inside, doesn't she?"

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"Yes, we think so. Apparently stealing from the Scions, summoning a primal to kill us, and then merely weakening the wards weren't enough for the mad witch. Though it's quite disturbing if she has followers so deep inside the city. I've no idea how she could manage to win anyone's heart at all, with the way hers is frozen solid."

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"...she can turn into a primal. She may... perhaps... have some abilities other primals do, when in that state."

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“Pardon? I’m afraid I don’t understand. How does super powerful ice magic win anyone over with anything resembling subtlety?”

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"Primals can... enthrall people." He raises a hand. "I'm immune, but most people aren't, and just being in the presence of one risks turning you into one of their mindless servants. There's... no known cure. Most primal summonings are performed by individuals who had previously been enthralled."

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“Oh. Oh, I see, that’s. Quite disturbing. So being… whatever it was, part primal, turning into one, summoning it, whatever, would lend itself naturally to bending the will of others. Halone.” He leans back in his chair. “Well. … Then this sounds rather like a job for Scions, doesn’t it. What with it being your specialty.”

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Alphinaud looks away, then, when Haurchefant mentions the Scions.

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And Otohiko himself shuts his eyes, for a moment.

It's... still fresh.

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Haurchefant winces.

“I’m sorry, I seem to have had my foot as the main course. I merely thought something to,” he waves a hand at Otohiko, “be heroic at would be just what you wanted. Forgive me, I want your health and happiness above all. If you are not able or willing to save all the world right now, please, don’t blame yourself. See to yourself.”

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Alphinaud doesn't look up, balling his hands into fists.

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But Otohiko shakes his head and places a hand on Alphinaud's shoulder. "The Scions," he murmurs to his friend's knees, "are no more."

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"... My friend, I'm so sorry, what. What happened, and how can I help?"

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He squeezes Alphinaud's shoulder and then lets go to look up at Haurchefant's face and explain.

Otohiko and the Scions were framed for murder—regicide, no less. He was in a meeting with the Sultana, but her wine was poisoned. Teledji Adeledji, one of her political enemies, arrived just then—

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—("Damned good timing wasn't it.")—

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—and accused him.

It was all a plot—Alphinaud's newly-formed Grand Company had been bribed into turning against them, and so they were all rounded up at the banquet. General Aldynn killed Adeledji, then, and bought them enough time to try to flee, but the whole of Ul'dah had been taken by then. And so, one by one, Otohiko's friends stayed behind to hold the attackers off and buy the others a better chance to escape.

Until he was the only one left.

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Alphinaud managed to escape, too, with the help of the General's son. Apparently Alphinaud's sister, wherever she is now, had caught wind of the ploy and arranged for help.

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"And so... we came to the only place we still had allies at, the only place that would be... for sure... not compromised. Here.

"But now... it's just us. Our linkpearl network has been hijacked, we can't call anyone, and we don't... know... where anyone else could be. The Crystal Braves had full access to our headquarters and have surely taken it over... and the other cities could not host us without drawing the fury of Ul'dah."

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"Drawing the fury of Ul'dah?" The strength of his fury is such that he stood from his chair without realizing it. "Of Ul'dah! Oh, the fury of Ul'dah will be a damned gentle breeze in comparison to the fury of—!"

  There's a knock at the door.

"Later, thank you," he calls to the knocker, recollecting something resembling his cool. "My friend. My dear friend. Words cannot express my grief and anger at the injustice. It's insane, it's unfair, it's absurd, it's, it's."

Yep, no, words are not working. He supposes a hug will have to do. He steps forward, gently takes Otohiko's bowl of half finished soup to set aside on the table, and leans down to hug him.

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His bewilderment at the elezen taking the soup away is not any lessened by the hug, but... he cannot say he does not welcome it. The au ra buries his face in Haurchefant's neck (being careful with his horns) and just breathes.

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Alphinaud... hugs himself. "'Tis my fault. My... my folly, my ambition, my overconfidence... my lack of caution... My own people, working against us right under my nose..."

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"Oh, hush with your dramatics, you made a mistake but you were trying to better the world," grumbles Haurchefant, and reaches out a hand to drag Alphinaud into the hug, too. MANY HUGS. MOST HUGS.

  There's another knock at the door.

"Busy, thank you!"

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"Pray forgive my interruption, but I don't believe this should wait!" calls a voice that Otohiko and Alphinaud might recognize.

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Otohiko immediately bolts to his feet. "Lady Yugiri?"

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"The very same! I bring your friend Tataru and tidings. We have come from the Rising Stones."

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Okay apparently it is no longer hug time that's fine, uh. He'll open the door.

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And here is a familiar face. Well, proverbially. She'd made the habit of wearing a mask, but she is recognizably the same person.

She clasps her hands before her and bows in the Doman fashion. "Pray forgive me for leaving your bastion to your enemies, but my priority was the swift evacuation of its denizens, most of which have fled to the Waking Sands. Urianger, F'lhaminn, your newer Scion recruits, and the still-loyal Crystal Braves hold the place under a hidden glamour. Lady Tataru, however," and she looks up with the hint of a smile, "insisted on checking up on you herself."

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So she did. The small lalafell steps out from behind Yugiri, beaming a watery smile at her allies. She sniffles and wipes a falling tear with the back of a hand. "I-I-I—" she stammers, then sniffles once more. "I c-couldn't contact anyone—I thought the worst—oh—"

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... Yugiri frowns, looking over the room's occupants with a critical eye. "It is just you and Alphinaud...? Then my work is not yet complete, and my debt to the Scions is not yet repaid. I thought it was only two that were missing."

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"...only two? Yda, Papalymo, Y'shtola, Thancred, and Minfilia all stayed behind, and the other Scions were all back at HQ."

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"Yda and Papalymo were waylaid for a while, but vanished like a candle's smoke in a storm. By the way your enemies have been attempting to tear apart Ul'dah to find them, I do not think they have been captured or killed. The ones at your headquarters are all accounted for, either at the Waking Sands or elsewhere, but not in enemy hands. So, 'tis three that are missing."

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...Otohiko looks away.

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And Alphinaud puts his now-empty bowl of soup down. "They... Minfilia and Y'shtola and Thancred, they..."

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"No!" interrupts Tataru. "We found you, right?" she sniffs. "And, and Yda and Papalymo managed to escape. We know that. So, so... so believe in them. We—you—you've done many more impossible things than that. Minfilia and Y'shtola and Thancred, they, they, believe in them."

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Alphinaud looks up at her in surprise, and smiles faintly. "Tataru... Yes. Yes, you're right. We mustn't give up hope."

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"If anyone can dance with death and leave her wanting, it is the Scions of the Seventh Dawn," agrees Haurchefant, then his voice turns gentle, "and besides, they would hate to see either of you lost to grief."

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"...thank you."

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"Should we... maybe stop crowding Haurchefant's chambers? I'm sure he did not mean to host a party here."

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“Oh, sweet Fury no, unexpected parties are the best kind. And if I’m hosting a party then I insist all of my guests make themselves comfortable! Do forgive the lack of tasteful hors d’oeuvres, but if anyone is still hungry I can fetch more soup from the kitchen?”

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And the way Tataru's stomach rumbles at that suggestion, louder even than Otohiko's, suggests he is on the mark.

"I... I'll accept it, thanks."

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"It is my greatest pleasure to serve." He looks at Otohiko. "But do make sure he eats too, yes?"

Leaving the Warrior of Light to the tender mercies of his companies, he departs to see about dragging a stack of bowls and an entire damn pot of soup in here. He will be thorough! The Scions (such as they are right now) will not go hungry on his watch!

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Elsewhere, someone half collapses into a half-burnt, half-frozen out shack, shivering from the cold. It's shelter from the wind, but little more. Nonetheless, it's better than the open tundra. She should probably finish her rations. Of cold, unappetizing hardtack. Eating helps keep warm, even if the cold steals all appetite with its bite. She wonders if she should risk a fire. The 'Vanya' persona got her this far, and might do if someone comes across her unexpectedly, but she'd rather not rely overmuch on a cheap trick. A mere helmet is poor defense against anyone that isn't overly persuaded by romantic ideals of Ishgardian patriotism. Which, when one is being hunted by what is almost literally the entirety of Ishgard, well. Statistically speaking, she's bound to get unlucky at some point. So, no fire. Even a meager light could give her away in the coming night.

Magic it is, then.

She peels off her helmet, then one of her gauntlets, hissing cursewords under her breath. A quick slip of a dagger draws the blood she needs, and like the heretic she is, she drinks. Once the mere act of blood drinking was enough to incite the requisite rage for this magic, but she's a bit too practiced at this to muster up anything more than a mild desire to brood.

"I am the blood of the dragon," she mutters, irritably. Not, strictly speaking, necessary for this spell, but it helps quite a bit to get the theatrics right. Also, it pisses her off. "Daughter and defender of Ishgard, abandoned and reviled, framed for others' crimes time and time again, still I fight for this stupid fucking nation. For its people, who damn well deserve better than defenders who turn off their own damn wards to make their Fury-cursed point."

Because, from the outside looking in, it is transparently obvious what happened. There are no secret saboteurs in the most well defended sanctuary of Ishgard, waiting for orders from their all-knowing heretic queen to strike when Ishgard is weakest. The simplest answer is most often the correct one. There are only men of power who deem sacrifices necessary to make a point that they believe serves the greater good. That there is danger, that Ishgard cannot afford to look outside its borders, that Lord Aymeric can't go galivanting off to Ul'dah without the city state's populace coming under risk. Like an overbearing parent making a point to their unruly teenager. Look at what happens when you try to do something on your own, see how it all goes wrong? Stay home, stay compliant, be good, and everything will be okay. Everything will stay the same.

That is what makes her angry enough to ignite the flame burning from her aether and her soul's (proverbial) fire. No light, no smoke, just dark fire that burns black and burns hot.

Yeah, that'll do for keeping her warm. She huffs, then gets to eating, because if she is to be her own warmth, she'd best do it on a full stomach.

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That blue, pompous fool.

Not that it's his fault, obviously. He should be allowed to fucking meet with the fucking Eorzean leaders without his own fucking country sabotaging the Ishgardian wards to let dragons in just to give them an excuse to drag Aymeric back with all urgency. It wasn't even a very large attack, it was just scary because it was the first time the city's wards faltered that badly. And while everyone is muttering about the Lady Iceheart being so powerful and having secret spies in the city, it is just as obvious to the Azure Dragoon that this was an inside job as it is to outsiders. Lord Aymeric can't go galivanting off to Ul'dah, indeed, or Ishgard's religious leaders are going to turn the fucking wards off for ten minutes to scare everyone.

To scare him, that blue, pompous fool. And he can't even see it.

She tried telling him this. She dragged him to an empty room and explained it all to him, how obviously it was an internal set up, how obviously it was the city's own defenders making her more vulnerable so that he'd have to come back. And he didn't believe her. He thinks she's too used to seeing dragons in every shadow and now everyone looks like dragons.

It wasn't the dragons.

But she's gonna go off into the wilderness to kill some dragons to blow off some steam. Making sure it's only the evil ones, of course, not the ones just minding their own business not hurting anyone. Dragons that are about to eat someone are the best, she has to admit the slight hero worship is kind of soothing.

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Soon enough, the Scions have their allowance to climb the Steps of Faith they once defended.

"Mentioning that you're both healers expedited the process quite a bit," adds Haurchefant, practically dancing as he escorts them to the entrance gates. He has taken leave for this occasion, leaving Camp Dragonhead to the stewardship of his younger, much less well liked and qualified brother for the occasion. Because there is no way Haurchefant is not going to personally introduce Otohiko to his city. It's not happening. "Father wanted me to start with a tour of the city, bless him and his sense of hospitality, but I cannot think of a quicker way to drive men mad than to parade about while others suffer below. So! Do forgive me for being an atrocious host, but who wants to go perform some philanthropy in the lowest part of our beloved city instead of seeing our wondrous sights first?"

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"—surely you jest—" starts Alphinaud...

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...but he catches a glimpse of Otohiko's dawning hope, that he seems to not want to trust...

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...he needs to give Haurchefant more credit. Clearly having something to do is exactly what Otohiko needs right now. And Alphinaud understands it, he thinks—they've both just felt... very helpless, very lost, without control of anything while things happened around and to them that changed their lives forever and that they could do nothing about.

Being able to do something, to claim control over one tiny thing, anything, to be able to feel like their existence still matters and there is still good they can do in the world...

Yeah. Yeah, Alphinaud understands.

"Lead the way."

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"Well, I think that's not where my particular talents are best put to use," says Tataru, who has spent the last few days after Yugiri left to do more recon trying to be relentlessly cheerful about their prospects. The doom and gloom of the other two will not help anyone, it won't. "So why don't you give me that nice letter of introduction I'm sure you've got in your pocket and let me go smooth the feathers that will undoubtedly be ruffled by the Warrior of Light's mysterious tardiness to whatever social encounters he was meant to have, hmm?"

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"No scheduled social encounters," corrects Haurchefant with a smile, and then he offers the letter of introduction to the lalafell with a flourish and a bow. "But you are quite astute that many might expect so, and I've no doubt you've more than enough charm for any situation that might happen to crop up."

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"Charm, ruthlessness..." he mutters.

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Tataru baps Otohiko with the envelope before tucking it away into her own jacket. "Don't get on the bad side of the hand that feeds you."

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"Words to be remembered! Though if I may, ruthlessness is its own kind of charm."

He gives the little lalafell a wink.

The last time they crossed the great bridge (confusingly called the Steps of Faith, but 'Bridge of Faith' must have had less of a ring to it) to Ishgard, they had rather more to worry about than the view, and the wards under siege concealed the city hiding behind them. This time, there are no obscurations or distractions.

The city's a damned fortress, but it's certainly a pretty one.

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Otohiko was definitely going to say something but the view of the city... almost literally takes his breath away. "Wow."

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"Yeah," agrees Alphinaud.

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The entry gates are as large and impressive as the vista of the city itself, and the guards that open them look to be some of the finest in Ishgard, and armed and armored to match. They are proud and silent, and barely deign to give even the great Warrior of Light (and nevermind his companions) the barest of nods. The impression is that they are receiving a great honor, to set foot into the holy city of Halone.

Past them, however, it's immediately obvious that this city has seen better days.

The only things still on fire are the braziers built for light and warmth, but some of the lingering blackened scars of dragonflame remain. Large chunks have been taken out of the masonry, and it even looks like a couple buildings have been entirely toppled. Wooden scaffolding has been haphazardly placed over the more dangerous parts, but that seems to be the entirety of the repairs that have begun. There hasn't been time for much else, when its people are just as injured as the city itself. While the guards on the other side of the gate looked perfectly hale and hearty, the ones here are... less unscathed. Several of them sport bandages to match their polearms. And beyond the guards are the ordinary citizenry, who seem to think the arrival of foreigners is a once in a lifetime spectacle, despite the clear disapproval from the guards. Even the peasantry manage an air of aloof condescension, watching in stony, judgmental silence as these strangers enter their midst. The younger generation is more honest. Several dirty children peek out from behind a bit of rubble, openly glaring at the Scions, as if they're somehow the ones responsible for the state of their home.

But there is a more formal welcoming party than the onlookers, and Haurchefant steps easily forward to greet them.

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Alphinaud... really should have expected this, honestly.

He's not sure why he didn't. Or perhaps more accurately, he's sort of wilfully trying to fail to see the pattern that would allow him to expect this, and as soon as he notices that that's what he's doing he can't well keep doing it. Not out of some virtue or anything, it just completely fails to work once you see it for what it is, because if you notice that that's what you're doing that means you already noticed the pattern you were trying not to, and Alphinaud in particular is very very bad at not giving his thoughts words so now he has words.

The world is just much worse than he wants to believe it is. People are more treacherous, war is more dangerous, logistics is harder, recovery more expensive. He wanted to believe that all you needed was sufficient initial resources and a desire to do good, and the ability to find likeminded individuals, and then everything would fall out naturally from this. Surely, he thought, surely everyone wants the same. Surely everyone sees war as a terrible cost to achieve their goals, and if only they found a way to resolve their differences peacefully they'd reach for it. Surely no one terminally values hurting other people. Surely no one only selfishly cares about themselves, and will literally not consider it a cost at all to hurt others to achieve their goals.

Well. He was wrong, about all of that and more, wasn't he? And he needs to update, fast, unless he wants to keep getting... upset... and hurt... whenever he sees reminders that the world, actually, does in fact suck.

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Otohiko is either oblivious to Alphinaud's suffering or politely ignoring it. Regardless, he faces forward and puts on his best Warrior of Light look of Strength and Confidence while facing the welcoming party.

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The welcoming party: includes what looks to be a retainer, or perhaps manservant, and a couple knights that greet Haurchefant like he's their own. He similarly remembers them by name (Abront and Edrene) and returns the greeting. Clearly the manservant means to usher them off to the noble's quarter and past all of the dirty, glaring commoners, but Haurchefant deftly avoids this trap, too.

"Veyeux, Could you escort Mistress Taru," he motions to Tataru, "to the Jeweled Crozier and make the necessary introductions to the local merchants before taking her up to meet Father? She is the Scion's coinkeeper, and I expect having a lay of the land would be quite helpful."

  "Oh? Yes, of course," says the manservant, bowing slightly.

"Edrene, your uncle is a chirurgeon tending to the injured, is he not?" continues Haurchefant. "Perhaps we could go and see him posthaste, it'd be remiss of us to let our countrymen suffer any longer than they already have. Where does he work?"

  "Oh, ah, it's not far from here," says the knight, blinking with surprise, before a coy smile dances on her lips. "I'm sure he'd be happy to accept help."

And so the party is split in two: Tataru with the manservant and one of the knights to go handle introductions and niceties, and the other knight with Haurchefant and Otohiko to go running off to help the injured. Haurchefant gives Alphinaud an out if he wants it, saying something about how he's likely to put many people at ease with how at home he looks in Ishgard (read: how he is elezen and of high birth) but doesn't perform any social maneuvering to pressure him either way.

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"I'll come with you", he tells Haurchefant immediately.

Healing people... there's a part of him saying that it's something he needs, right now, but actually that's not quite it. It's not about him at all, or what he needs. It's about doing something that's actually, undeniably, fundamentally good. There are no ifs or buts, no caveats, no long-term strategising, just doing good by his own hand.

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You won't see Otohiko complaining, here.

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Nor Haurchefant, even though he would have been absolutely delighted to have the party that contains himself and the (very attractive) Otohiko to be smaller rather than larger. But Alphinaud clearly needs this, too. The whole point of being a bastard of Fortemps is not socially maneuvering to get whatever you want, regardless of who it hurts.

They don't have very far to go in order to reach their destination. Just down, mostly. It's easy to tell that they've entered an area of the underclass, by the darkness (since Ishgard is a very vertical city) and grime and pervasive bad smell, and that's even before they get into the damage the dragon attack did. Which is... extensive. This whole area will likely need to be rebuilt.

There are many injured who could use healing, and almost all of them stare at Otohiko and Alphinaud with open disgust, disdain, or outright hostility.

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When he was just a novice adventurer people were less hostile than this. What a weird feeling.

No matter. The grimoire he carries with him everywhere is soon in hand and a short burst of magic into the right arcane diagram creates his fairy.

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Alphinaud's own helper construct is a land-bound quadruped, something like a cross between a hare and a fox, blue with a red gem on its forehead.

He almost instinctively spots the person in charge and walks up to them. "My friend and I are healers," he says without preamble. "He can cast an ambient effect of enhanced regeneration, with your permission. And we would be thankful if you could point us at where we could be most useful."

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The person in charge turns out to be the uncle of the knight escorting them. He chews his lip and looks torn.

"We could certainly use the aid, and Halone knows we're grateful for the offer, but..." he glances at the distrustful underclass. "Lad, I'm not sure you'll have many volunteers. Not without more backing reassuring that it's not heresy, or at least someone that these people trust. I'm only barely more credible than you, and if I lose too much then half of these people will leave and lick their own wounds in private."

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"Oh thank the Fury I was gettin' real sick of being infirm," says a familiar voice, looking a little worse for wear. He's sporting a couple bandages and the warmest smile they've had since they've entered the lower level. "Welcome to Ishgard, sorry for the mess, I would absolutely love to be your demonstrative test case for healing to prove that it won't turn me into dragonspawn or something."

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—Otohiko raises a hand up to self-consciously touch one of his horns. "They're actually worried about that...?"

At least the knights he met when he first came to Coerthas didn't just assume—though he has heard the tales of the first au ra immigrants to Ishgard, and it's not pretty, so he supposes it would make sense for the commonfolk to still see his race with suspicion and fear...

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Cynric winces.

"... People actually do. Turn into literal dragons sometimes. So. Uh. Yeah. Sorry, mate."

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His tail, already not particularly animated, goes very still. "But I'm not—"

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An armoured dragoon appears out of nowhere! Well. The sky. She appears out of the sky. Still!

"Not a dragon, yes," Jacqueline agrees, lifting up the visor of her helmet. "Hey, Cynric, hey, Edrene." She looks past them at a woman looking injured on a cot. "Hey Noelle! How's little Mathi doing? He get out safe?"

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(The noise that comes out of Alphinaud at her sudden appearance is not a squeak. He's much too dignified for that.)

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Honestly, Cynric is used to this now.

"Hey, Jacque. Good, you're here, that'll be the other half of lookin' trustworthy. Uh, third, I guess?" He looks at Haurchefant, a little dubiously.

(Little Mathi is doing okay, he made it out just fine. He's even got it into his head to help the chirurgeons, even though he's far too young to do much besides 'fetch water.')

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"You know, Otohiko, I thought this would have been harder. The Azure Dragoon herself and, uh, a levelheaded well-known spokesperson of the people? Marvelous!"

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Cynric snorts and looks bemused with this characterization.

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"I saw the commotion and made a wild guess," Jacqueline says with some amusement before turning to Otohiko and Alphinaud. "Welcome to Ishgard, please don't let the stuffy lords up there," and she vaguely points in the direction of The Pillars, "sour your impression of us too much, I promise we have some good people," and at that she nods in the direction of the Ishgardians around. "Now, since it seems like you want to cement your image of insufferable do-gooders as your first public act in this city, how can a humble dragoon help?"

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Wow this woman is... a lot.

"I... think you're fine? I guess if, if there's still anyone who doesn't trust that I'm not—" And he touches one of his horns self-consciously again.

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Alphinaud shakes his head (and tries to regain some composure) before turning to Cynric. "Any nonobvious injuries?" he asks as he quickly flips through his book to find a specific diagram and then send a pulse of aether into it. The aether gets shaped and filtered through his carbuncle construct, who does a little backflip as it sends Cynric a waft of concentrated healing. Not just generic healing, though; Alphinaud tailored the spell to target Cynric's most visible injuries specifically, to kick up his immune system by a hundred right around wherever he could conceivably get an infection and accelerate his regeneration by who even knows how much. Also a painkilling effect to top it off. "I am afraid that when the injuries are this old it takes longer for them to fully heal."

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"Just the painkilling's a blessing, mate, thanks. Uh, nonobvious injuries, er, probably my lungs? There was some breathing in of nasty hot smoke and dragonfire's piss for all I know, I've had a persistent cough since. That'll be a good thing to watch out for too, with anyone else that lets you at them."

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He glances at Otohiko out of the corner of his eyes then back at Cynric. "Do you think the others would be receptive to area-of-effect healing? I believe the Warrior of Light's fairy could help deal with that more efficiently than my carbuncle, that way."

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"... Maybe. If you designated a spot where healing went on, perhaps with," he waves a hand vaguely, "places that people could sneak in range without being seen? Instead of just surprising them."

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"That's doable. Do you have somewhere I could do that?"

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"Uhhhhhh the common location for alms-work is over - let me just show you, giving directions would be like asking you to navigate an aetherstorm in a paper airship."

Up he gets!! Painfully!! Ow ow ow ow ow it's fine he's fine ow thisaway!

The alley he leads them to is very centralized, and slightly less cramped than the rest of the Brume. Even so, it's very claustrophobic, with layered makeshift buildings towering over the space. The alley itself is empty, but it's very clear that just about anyone could easily see anyone here. (And even more easily ambush, this place would be awful to try and defend oneself in from archers or the like.)

It's also rather smelly, like sulfur and smoke and other, even less pleasant smells.

"Right, uh. Hereish is probably the best spot."

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"O-kay. ...would an aetherial splint help? Uh, it would shore up the structural integrity of your... everything... and help you put less load on your actual body so you can recover more quickly."

That's sufficiently nontechnical, right? He still does not have the hang of explaining magic to people in a way that reliably enlightens rather than confusing.

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".... Pppppprobably? I'll take it if it won't be using up any, er, general stuff that could be used on others? But I'm your test case, so. Go for it, mate."

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"Everything I have is renewable, and outside of combat I can concentrate enough to make it last a lot longer and be more personalised."

He goes for it. The casting of this spell does take substantially longer than would be feasible in combat, any mage that took this long casting would be a sitting duck, especially with the flashy arcane geometries emerging from his book to float around him and build the aetherial construct. Once he's sufficiently confident in it, he pushes, and the lights vanish...

...Cynric will feel it immediately. It's not healing, exactly, it's not directly helping him regenerate or recover from damage. What it is doing is serving as a myriad of micro-crutches all over his body to lighten the load of using muscles. If you're not used to the feeling it's kind of weird, the way it selectively protects some parts of his body, but the overall effect isn't unpleasant.