When Tataru prepared her a new set of clothes, she half expected something similar to what she’d been wearing beforehand. And now, there she was standing in front of the mirror with an entire new look.
She would a black, collared button up shirt. A dark grey tie that remained untied at the junction of the collar. The blouse was comfortable, ironed and clean. The pants were a dark blue in color, with a thigh wrap around the right leg. Two sets of pockets adorned on each side of the leg. A pair of comfortable shoes, that rose up above her ankles and provided her ample support in her feet.
“How does it fit?” The clerk of the Scions popped her head in.
Azlyn fumbled with the gray tie, before deciding to let it lay limp under the collar. “Pretty good. It’s comfortable.” She twisted, looking at the backside. “Thank you Tataru.”
She chuckled into her hand. “Are you going to leave your hair down?”
“Yeah—it’ll air dry. Thank you for letting me freshen up.”
THe Lalafell in the pink tunic and red feathered beret crossed her arms. “As if we could let you walk out from here looking like you battled a mountain. I’ll see what I can do about your previous clothes.”
The Au Ra nodded. “Okie. If you want, you can just send it over to this residence.” She grabbed a piece of paper, writing the ward and housing information down where their company house resided. “Roll can take care of it so you don’t have to worry about storing it.”
Tataru accepted the note, before she went to pick up the laid out clothes she wore. The hems were already fraying at the seams. “Off you go, don’t you worry about a thing.” She waved her out from the facility, and ushered her over to the storage area. There were more people up now, mingling amongst themselves. She could see Urianger relaxing by his bookshelves, a book in his hands as he read. Papalymo sat nearby, his own nose in a book.
She couldn’t see Y’shtola or Yda—but Noraxia had been floating around the area. Azlyn smiled over to the sylph, who in return twirled in greeting. Then she waved.
A normal morning routine for the Scions, one which Azlyn had been able to witness.
Over in the corner, she found a young Highlander Hyur placing a few crates back up on the stacks. His fellow scions were also helping clean and organize the area. They were probably waiting for something to do.
She walked over, introducing herself. “Good morning, you wouldn’t have to be Haribehrt, would you?”
“You’re speaking to him.” The man in question grinned. “If it isn’t Azlyn, the Scions’ rising star! Is there aught I can do for you?”
Azlyn explained her dilemma as simply as she could. “You don’t suppose you could help me in a bit of my investigation? I have some work to do in Little Ala Mhigo, and it’s been hard to earn the resident’s trust.”
His eyes lightened at the tale. “That is a daunting task, my friend, even for our own countrymen.” Haribehrt crossed his arms, he concentrated on his thoughts for a moment. “I would like nothing more to help, but I’m afraid my name no longer carries weight with that lot.”
“Were you part of the resistance before Haribehrt?”
Haribehrt nodded. “I used to be a member of the Ala Mhigan Resistance, but I left in favor of joining the Scions. Though my allegiances may have shifted, my purpose remains ever the same—the liberation of Ala Mhigo. Yet whatever my reasons were, I abandoned my comrades, and they’ll have nothing to do with me.”
Azlyn bit her lips. Any chance of her getting an in was hard, and it seemed she hit a dead end once more.
However, he presented another option. “Now, while I may have no more friends in the Resistance, I know someone who does. Her name is Albreda, and she is a resident of Quarrymill. Say my name when you meet her, and she won’t lead you astray.” Haribehrt smiled down to her. “Safe travels.”
“Thank you Haribehrt, I’ll be on my way!” Her determination to follow her only lead ignited what little fire had ebbed at each dead end. With a new lead to follow, she hoped this one would lead to a better opportunity to earn the trust of the Ala Mhigans.
She ran over to the table being used by Urianger and Papalymo, she smiled to each of them as she pulled out her maps of Eorzea. She recalled Quarrymill had been located in the Black Shroud, but she wasn’t quite sure if she’d been there. Only, she realized, she had been. During her time looking for the Elder Sylph she had to travel to the South Shroud with Roll and Kida—where Buscarron’s Druthers was.
Azlyn tapped the map with a growing smile on her face, “Hah!” She exclaimed. “This should be a walk in the park.” She gathered her maps, rolling them effortlessly and thought of the crystal in Quarrymill. The strange look she received from the Lalafellin scholar as she left made her feel a bit bad for not explaining—but she was eager to follow her only lead.
The quaint, quiet of the small hamlet welcomed her. The temperature had cooled exponentially comparatively to Thanalan’s weather, the shade from the towering trees above offered plenty of shade. She immediately jumped to work, asking around to the officers and residents of Quarrymill for anyone by the name of Albreda.
She was directed to a Highlander Hyur woman, who was a bit near the outskirts of the hamlet. “Excuse me, are you Albreda? I was told you might be able to introduce me to the Ala Mhigan Resistance.”
The woman scoffed, her eyes narrowed like daggers. “You want me to introduce you to the Resistance?” She laughed hard in her face. The thought seemed funny to her. “Why the hells should I do that? Give me just one reason!”
Azlyn was hoping it would be easier, but all she could do now was drop the Scions name to her. “Haribehrt sent me to find you.”
The name caught her off guard, as she stopped her laughing and stammered in shock. “H-Haribehrt sent you?!” She angrily kicked the ground, letting a rock sail up and over the mound into the river below. “Grrrr—that worthless whoreson—he abandons his comrades—his woman—and now he has the gall to ask me for a favor?! Simply incredible!”
She exclaimed in anger, and it made Azlyn wonder if they had a bad break up over what happened. Seeing as she was rife with anger, the answer seemed obvious. “I just—I mean—ugh” She sighed heavily, shaking her head into her hand. “I realize Haribehrt was only doing what he felt was right. He’s a good man. And if he trusts you, then that’s all I need to know.” She pointed to a tall Highlander dressed a bit differently from the officers in Quarrymill. IN fact, he was hardly dressed at all. He wore baggy khakis, with boots, but his chest was laid bare, showing his extensive tattoos and markings. “You see that bloke there? That’s Meffrid, a captain of the Resistance. I hope he can give you what you need.”
Azlyn thanked her, before running off to introduce herself the the Captain of the Resistance. If there was something that she felt comfortable with, it was her persistency to see a job done.
“Meffrid, of the Ala Mhigan Resistance?” Azlyn approached him, and performed an eastern bow to him. “My name is Azlyn, and I’m hoping you can help me in my investigation.”
The man turned from the railing of the bridge, placing his hands upon the waistband of his khakis. “Aye, I’m Meffrid, a proud man of the Ala Mhigan Resistance. What business is it that I should help you with your—“ Before he had started to decline her another Ala Mhigan in his company ran over in a hurry. He stammered, calling to him.
“C-captain! It’s—It’s Gallien, sir! His wound’s gone an’ festered, an’ he’s burnin’ up! I don’t think he’s got much time!”
Meffrid throw his fist down, the echo of his fist impacting the wood of the bridge emanated in the entire village. “Godsdamnit! I asked the villagers for aid! Got on my knees and begged—but they refused to lift a finger! If Gallen dies, his blood is on their hands!” He stared at his fist, his anger evident. “These Quarrymill cravens would turn a blind eye to our plight, but they might listen to Albreda. I fear my anger will prevent me from rightly convincing anyone at the moment. I realize we scarce know each other, but this is a matter of life and death.” He bowed his head to her. “Please, go to her and try.”
Azlyn looked over to Albreda’s location, and then back to Meffrid. “Let’s put a pin on our previous conversation. I’ll do what I can to help your friend.” She nodded, and turned to walk back over to Albreda. She wasn’t going to press someone pushed into a corner. She wanted it to be on fair grounds, and the other person willing to work with her.
Albreda must have overheard the conversation, as she was already shaking her head at her arrival. “One of Meffrid’s in bad shape. There’s naught that I can do. I want to help, truly I do—they’re my countrymen, after all—but that’d mean going against the elementals’ will.”
Azlyn frowned. The elementals’ were saying it was no good? “If not you, then what about someone else?”
Albreda pointed over to a small hut in Quarrymill. “If there’s anyone who can help, it would be the hamlet’s resident hearer: Charline. If you take the matter to her, might be she’ll listen—though I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” She directed her over the bridge and then sighed. “Good luck.”
There wasn’t more she could do save run over to the resident hearer. She walked over to the front porch, seeing a blue robed female standing beside a masked lancer. Azlyn presented her case for the suffering Ala Mhigan to the hearer, only for the woman to give a piteous glance over the bridge to their group.
“You wish to aid the Ala Mhigans? You are possessed of a kind heart adventurer. I’m afraid I have not the authority to grant you your wish.”
Azlyn wondered why. “But why not?”
The one who had been called Charline explained in a serene manner. “This authority belongs only to the elementals, eternal guardians of the Twelveswood. All outsiders, be they babes at the breast or men grown, are judged of a night whether they may have a place beneath the boughs.”
“So they are condemned to die?” Azlyn questioned, wondering why in blazes that was a thing.
Charline gave a troubled glance to her. “Alas, the Ala Mhigan’s petition has been denied. Harsh though it may seem, they do not have leave to receive of the wood’s bounty. Ever has it been since time immemorial, and every shall it be.”
Azlyn bit the inside of her cheek, shaking her head at the concept. Politics—that was all this was. A man was suffering and there was naught she could do to convince these people otherwise. There had to be another way, Azlyn determined, thinking that if the Gridanians couldn’t—or wouldn’t—in this case, she’d do something instead.
She decided to inform Meffrid of the current situation, and started to run across the bridge over to his group. He was expectant, as he had watched her run between Albreda and Charline. His expression was hopeful—and yet Azlyn did not know how to best address it.
Her own conflicting expression gave it away, as his face dropped from hope to dismay. “That’s how it is then. The bloody Hearer might as well kill Gallien herself!” He angrily stomped his foot, biting his thumb. He was irate, and with very good reason. “Spit on the elementals and spit on their bloody will! I cannot wait until the Resistance is free of this place!”
“Is there anything that I can do? I can’t sit by and leave someone who may need help. I’ll do anything, retrieve a medicinal herb, or concoct an Ala Mhigan remedy for him—I just need to know what might help.” Azlyn offered, hoping that he wouldn’t turn her away. She could tell he was upset at the Gridanians, but maybe because she was an adventurer he might allow her.
“I’ve no other choice but to turn to you adventurer. I came here to Quarrymill with my men hoping to find some sort of refuge—instead we’ve found indifference. The cold-blooded bastards here want us out, and I can’t oblige them soon enough. We need to tend to Gallen first—hells—he can’t even stand.” He bit his thumb thinking of his comrade’s condition. “An Ala Mhigan remedy—In my homeland it is said a long antelope horn has poison-purging properties. If you could bring me, say, four horns, I’d forever be in your debt.”
Azlyn straightened her back, her eyes held a determined stance. “Understood. I shall be back in less than an hour.” She ran off, summoning her archer set to hunt the antelope that grazed in the forest nearby. She stealthily weaved through the trees, notching an arrow and preparing for one-shot kills. After the archery competition against Silvairre, this hunt was comparatively a breeze. With each kill she made, she made sure to scavenge what she could off the antelope. She decided to sell the meat to any merchants who wanted the game, and then the animal’s skin she could either leather it and give it to Roll for her crafting—or sell it to someone belonging to the leatherworkers.
The horns were her only concern, as she carefully harvested the horns from the creature. Four antelope later, and a bag full of extra materials and horns, she made her way back to Quarrymill where she held the wrapped-up horns in a medium sized handkerchief.
He opened the wrap, seeing the horns in perfect condition, and gave a sigh of relief. “You’re a godssend. Praise Rhalgr there’s at least one woman in this place who gives a damn. Now we just need to find a way to prepare them.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Maybe it’s something I can help you find?”
Meffrid looked down to the horns in his arms. “You wouldn’t happen to know a man named Buscarron, would you?”
“Now that’s a name of a fellow I know. He doesn’t turn folks away when they need help. Good guy—reminds me of a long-lost uncle.” Azlyn mused, smirking at the things he had made them do while searching for the elder.
“My men have stated similar notions.” Meffrid nodded and handed her the horns once more. “I wonder if he might have a means to ground these horns down. If it’s possible for him to do so, I’d like it if you could return the dried powder back to Faramund here.” His compatriot gave her a stern nod, his arms held stringently behind him. He looked on edge in Quarrymill, which after their gracious host’s demeanor, she didn’t blame them.
“I’ll be back.” She promised. She wrapped the horns back up in the handkerchief, placing them gently into her sack and headed west from Quarrymill into the familiar grounds of the forest. The weaving paths and same monsters were a sight for sore eyes as she finally came across the sole alehouse in the South Shroud. A rowdy establishment, but one she was not unfamiliar with.
The walk itself probably took twenty minutes, and she entered like any old friend would. She approached his bar rail with a smile, pulling her satchel off. “Buscarron, how are you doing?”
The Alehouse proprietor gave her a smirk, his one eye trained on her as she leaned against his bar. “Azlyn, I’m doing pretty good now that those Garleans are out of my neck of the woods. How fares your adventures. Last I saw, you were sicker than a dog.”
Azlyn pulled out the horns from the antelope, a wide smile on her face. “I’m on the mend—actually I’m on a bit of an adventure right now. You wouldn’t know how to grind these horns down into a fine powder, would you? It’s medicine for a sick man.”
Buscarron crossed his arms, giving her a look up and down. “Why the hells are you asking like I’m going to deny a sick man’s medicine?”
She chuckled, “I like to ask. Oh, speaking of.” She started to pull out the small cuts of meat that she collected from her hunts. “I have all this game for you—I hunted with my bow and arrows. Nothing too crazy.”
Buscarron took the meat off her hands, examining the pieces. After the third batch, he just started to yell for his kitchen help to put all the meat in the cooler. “Better write on the board for next month that we’re selling Antelope stew and steak!”
“With all that meat I feel like I should pay you. How about I save you some time by giving you the ground up powder for the horns instead?” With the meat put away and safe from spoil, he smirked. “Bring your horns with you. You can leave them in the workshop.” He gestured for him to follow her into his storeroom, and she obliged. When he opened the back room, she could see how organized all his things were—from vases to jars. They were all filled with different stuff. Buscarron reached up to one of his high shelves, one labelled antelope horns, and passed it over to her.
Azlyn traded him the whole horns, as she stared at the powder within. “Thank you Buscarron.”
“I’m no stranger to the remedy. An Ala Mhigan friend once used it to treat my festering wound, years and years ago. Safe to say he saved my life.” Buscarron explained, laying the horns down on the counter to fix up later.
“Actually this remedy is for an Ala Mhigan.” Azlyn safely stowed the powder in her bag and smiled. “You’ve been a big help.”
He gave her a mildly surprised look. “Heh. So, it comes full circle—well I hope it helps the poor sod as needs it.” Buscarron walked to his workshop door, opening it back up and holding it for her. She followed him out. “And the next time you come, we’re going to have to settle my debt to you. I still owe you a deal more than you owe me, I reckon.”
Azlyn laughed. “In a year let’s drink that firewater—we’ll be square after that.”
Buscarron raised his fist up, waiting expectantly for her to fistbump him back. She caught on, tapping her knuckles to his with a bright smile. “I look forward to that. Come by and get a bowl of stew next time you’re in the area. It’s getting a bit colder at nights—you better dress warm.” He pointed to her thin shirt and pants. “Twelve forfend you die from a cold before a year comes by.”
She shrugged to the comment. “If I die from a cold, that’d be ironic.”
“Don’t chance it—the universe works in mysterious ways.”
Azlyn waved goodbye then, settling her bag on her shoulder. “Won’t know until it hits me, I guess. Alright, I best be on my way. Thanks once again Buscarron!” She smiled, before running off from the proprietor’s shop and back out into the forest. She took the same trails she took before, jumping through the bushes, weaving in between the lush trees until she arrived in Quarrymill. She was only gone for fifty minutes, and yet it felt shorter than that.
She approached the Ala Mhigans, producing the glass bottle of dried powder to the one known as Faramund. With the medicine in his hands, he bowed deeply to her. A look of relief appeared on his face. “God bless you. I’ll see Gallien receives treatment at once!” He looked to his Captain and then back to Azlyn. “You’ve done us a great kindness, friend. I’m sure our Captain will rest easier now, knowing that our comrade has been taken care of.”
“No need for thanks. I’m glad to see that this will help him start to feel better. Please, let me know if you need anything more.” She returned a bow back to him and smiled. When she stood back up, she could see him having a faint smile grace his lips. It was faint, but it was a smile nonetheless. Faramund rushed off to where Gallien was no doubt resting. She turned her attention to Meffrid who gave a long sigh of relief. The tension in his shoulders softened as he looked to the trees above them.
“You mentioned something about the—”
The pounding of feet as Faramund came rushing back to them, his breath haggard. “Captain!” He shook his head, eyes wide with worry. “Gallien has disappeared!”
Meffrid and Azlyn were both alarmed, looking between one another and then back to Faramund.
“He shouldn’t be walking about, not with those wounds!” Meffrid exclaimed with shock. He tapped his boot against the wooden slates fervently. “If he doesn’t get the proper medicine and rest, his condition’s like to deteriorate even worse.” The Captain of the resistance group looked to Azlyn now. “We need you to help find him, and quick. Check around the town, maybe someone’s seen him.”
Azlyn decided to check in with Albreda, first and foremost, to ask. By some stroke of luck, the woman had seen him. She had been told not to say anything until someone came looking for him, and she brought forth a sealed letter. Azlyn waited for Albreda to open the note, and then began to read it aloud.
“My brothers, I cannot bear to be a burden any longer. That is why I must leave you all. Do not worry for me—just find your way safely to Little Ala Mhigo.”
Albreda gave a long sigh, crumpling the paper into her hands. “Would I had known what he was thinking, I’d have stopped this folly myself.” She shook her head, “The love for his brother’s is so strong, he’s willing to sacrifice himself for them. Make no mistake, entering the wood in his weakened state is suicide.”
The Au Ra stared out into the wood then, seeing that they’d lose daylight in a few short hours. “I’ll go look for him. Please, inform Meffrid of what you have told me. We shall find him and prevent this tragedy.”
Albreda nodded, and Azlyn started her sprint into the forest. If his wounds were bad, he couldn’t have gone too far, and given the status of the sealed letter and how handled it was—he probably couldn’t have left no more than thirty minutes prior. He probably had just enough time to secretly leave when Faramund and Meffrid were fretting about his condition in Quarrymill’s junction.
She sprinted through the tall grass of the Silent Arbor, rushing past a herd of grazing antelopes. She was trying to determine any recent signs of footprints, broken grass patches—anything that would indicate a wounded man had gone through.
She spotted a trail; one where heavy footfall had broken a clump of freshly rooted shrubs. Further from that, a footprint that looked as if it was dragging. Azlyn felt she was getting warmer to the location of their runaway patient.
A set of tents were pitched nearby, an encampment of some sorts. She could see the lingering trail had led closer to that temporary settlement. Upon closer investigation of the area, she found several large groups of goblins in the area, yelling to one another about eating properly. Her comprehension of goblin was a touch on the rough side, as she continued sneaking up.
“Proper eats. Meats to cook. Well done meats.”
A discorded conversation occurred, where the goblin’s fellows started to argue amongst themselves.
She backed away from the goblin grounds, seeing that the Ala Mhigan she was looking for was not there. A movement, behind her, drew her attention southward—to a cavern path that led into a darkened area. Not sure what it was, she decided to investigate it, just to make sure it wasn’t Gallien sneaking off.
She stayed low, keeping quiet as she now could see a lone goblin holding a hunting knife out. The creature was stalking something in the caverns, further and further away from their encampment. Azlyn notched an arrow, keeping up with the Goblin. The walls reverberated a wounded man’s groan, and immediately drew her bow up into an offensive position. Not bothering with stealth anymore, she sprinted into the cavern where the Goblin had now cornered a wounded man.
“Stop right there!” Azlyn released her arrow, letting it sail through the air and the impending thud of it impacting the Goblin’s back echoed.
The Goblin cried in pain, reaching back to snap the arrow off their back. It turned to her, the knife that they had was ready to be used. The creature charged at her, giving her small room for error. She reached over her shoulder, clasping three arrows in between her fingers, and confidently notched them.
“Die!” The Goblin shouted, just as her arrows thumped, a series of three thuds, landed. An arrow to his leg, an arrow to his chest, and an arrow to the eye—which promptly dropped the attacking Goblin once and for all.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Azlyn stowed her bow, running over to aid the person whom she thought was Gallien.
“Just a moment.” Azlyn closed her eyes, imagining her grimoire for her arcanist. With her book at her side, she began a series of simple physick’s. “I know it’s not a proper healing, but it should hold you.
Azlyn explained, and then turned to the mouth of the cavern.
A group of Ala Mhigans had rushed in, out of breath and harried. They seemed to have followed her trail from Quarrymill to here with ease.
The injured man saw Meffrid’s approach, as he gasped. “C-captain! But—why? You should be on your way.” The one known as Gallien weakly replied.
Meffrid started to yell at him. His concern evident as his voice escalated and rung off the walls. “Who do you take us for?! We’re Ala Mhigans, and Ala Mhigans never forsake one another, hardships be damned!” He tapped his chest, his fist pounded upon the breast that protected his heart as he called to his brother. “Remember the oath we swore, godsdamnit—the oath to reclaim our homeland! We’ll set foot on Ala Mhigan soil again—together—or not at all! Do you understand me?!” His fervent wish, a Captain’s call to his men in hopes of a future they could yet see. Azlyn watched this interaction with mixed emotions—how conflicted it must be to not be able to do anything else beside just watching.
“Yes sir!” Gallien’s weak reply came, as he dropped his head. The grief he must have felt, the way his face contorted in agony.
Meffrid nodded. “Good. Let us return to our brothers.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his voice dropped an octave lower now that he wasn’t as heated. “Oh, and don’t even think that you’ll get off lightly. As soon as you’re healed, I’ll give you such a thrashing, you’ll wish we didn’t find you!”
Gallien broke down into sobs, not from the threat in his sentence, but from overwhelming emotion of being found by his brothers once again. Azlyn worried with Meffrid being as irritable as he was, it might come to blows now—but it seemed he had some patience regarding his men and when it was appropriate to discipline. She looked to the Captain, and wondered if he always talked like this to his men—or if it was just a guy thing to do.
She would never know.
“I can’t thank you enough for saving Gallien.” His voice broke her from her thoughts, as she blinked in rapid succession.
“Oh no—I just caught sight of the goblin—I’m glad everything turned out well.” She looked to Gallien who was still sobbing into his hands.
Meffrid walked over to Gallien, clapping his on his shoulder to help him walk back. The rest of his Ala Mhigan brothers came running over, wanting to help escort their brother back to Quarrymill. When they were gone, only Meffrid and Azlyn remained. He turned to her. “We’ll remain in Quarrymill until Gallien is fully recovered. As much as I dislike that place, beggars can’t be choosers.” The Captain of the resistance lifted his hand to scratch the back of his neck. He looked to the dead goblin on the ground with the three arrows in it.
He spoke to her with a sturdy resolve. “You’ve proven a true friend to my people. I believe you were wanting to ask me for something before. Ask my anything, and it’s yours, so long as it is mine to give.”
Azlyn started from the beginning of her tale—her search for a black robed person with a mask—and how her long investigation brought her to Little Ala Mhigo. “I worry because this man who has been seen speaking with the Ala Mhigans—he’s not a good person. Wherever he goes, he has brought nothing short than disaster. I want to prevent that—please, if there’s anything you can do to help me gain the cooperation of the people in Little Ala Mhigo, I’d be most grateful.” She bowed to him and waited until he let a long sigh from his lips.
“You desire the cooperation of the people of Little Ala Mhigo? And you wish to prevent our people from disaster…very well. I will provide you with a letter to show to Gundobald.”
Azlyn snapped up from her bow, her face barely could contain the joy she felt in that moment.
The Captain of the resistance continued. “The old bear was my mentor when I first joined the Resistance. He’s intimidating to those who don’t know him, but he takes care of his own. I’ve no doubt that he will do all in his power to aid you.” He then gestured for her to follow him. “Let us return to Quarrymill. There I will draft you the letter, and you can go.”
She smiled, nodding her head happily. “Yes sir!”
Meffrid smirked, turning away and leading up the path back to Quarrymill.
