[He had learned to navigate Lestallum in darkness. It was a slow process, given not only his new limitations, but the fact that the world itself was changing, sunlight having been stolen away so that the daemons were left to roam freely, claiming the land for themselves. Slowly but surely, he'd found ways to make himself useful, to aid in supporting the refugees even if he wasn't quite ready to go out and face the daemons himself. Day by day, he felt himself grow stronger, come closer to overcoming these new challenges, even as the world changed--
Until one morning, it's changed too much, and he doesn't know where to begin.
The people of Ishgard speak in an accent not entirely unlike his own, though nothing of the city is familiar, and feels more lost than ever before. He hasn't the first idea of how he'd come to find himself here or why, no explanation for his sudden change of scenery. It was as cold as Lestallum was hot, sprawling and busy and full of people who commented that his clothing seemed out of place, though he could not see their own to confirm or deny.
Eventually, someone was kind enough to point him in the direction of the Forgotten Knight, and as much as he loathed accepting aid from anyone, he allowed himself to be lead there, asking to be left alone only once he was seated on a stool at the bar with his cane resting beside him, a mug of mulled wine between his hands.
Of all the things he'd experienced in the last year alone, this was perhaps the strangest.]
[Eorzea and its wider continent are founded upon strange things. So believes Gibrillont, proprietor of the Forgotten Knight and listener to tales from increasingly far-flung corners of the realm, now that the gates are open and his tables hum of peace rather than war. When a silent man in starkly unfamiliar attire takes a seat upon one stool and rests a long thin cane against the bar, he hardly bats an eye (though the expression draws a snort from himself). War renders one unable to hide from many grievous and debilitating injuries to others.
They speak at first only to exchange an order of drink. The gil coins the stranger places upon the bartop are too shiny and bear an unfamiliar sigil and relief. Gibrillont thinks to argue and then thinks the better; coin is coin.
'Tis the slowness of the man's drinking, the hunched unfamiliarity with all about him, that draws the most attention. 'Tis clear he has a less than useful sense of where he is, to say nothing of a sightless foreigner wandering into Ishgard at all unescorted. A timely, chipper visitor popping in from the upper level is all Gibrillont needs to remind himself of another outsider he knows, one who might - by virtue of her singular discernment if naught else - get something more out of this fellow than the name of the same drink over and over.
Ignis may overhear the proprietor drum his fingers atop the bar and ask Tataru if the Lady Y'shtola is nearby; upon the affirmative - might he prevail upon Tataru to prompt her presence here? The rest of the conversation is lost easily in the din of a crowd of masons working their way up the stairs after repairing a bit of Foundation's foundations. Once the commotion fades, though, Tataru has gone.
Some time later and a bit quieter Y'shtola arrives; Ignis has been offered a seat nearer the hearth instead, as it seems he's of a mind for a longer stay, and the chance to run up a tab rather than continue drawing attention with his unusual currency.
In this way Gibrillont can converse with Y'shtola upon a few trivial matters at a distance before coming to the meat of the...'tisn't a problem, exactly. But it is very odd, and his people are not known for their appreciation of oddities, as hers are. There's a bit of would-she-mind and the promise of her first warm wine on the house and some booted foot-tapping, but no mention of her particular fit for what might follow besides her greater familiarity with where the hells this traveler might be from, or why alone.
She bristles just slightly when she comes to his table and looks at him. There's no denying several reasons why Gibrillont thought of her, rather than even another of her friends...and her next footsteps fall a bit louder. Now she too cannot deny a certain...curiosity.]
It appears the other tables are fair full this evening, and I've no inclination to brawl with knights and stewards over a countertop stool. [Whether he turns his head her way or not, Y'shtola rests a hand upon the back of the empty chair to his left.] Might I beg leave to share yours?
[She doesn't intend smalltalk or probing questions. Immediate busybodying is no way to make acquaintances...at least not aloud.]
[His hearing was better, he felt, than most people gave him credit for. Even here in unfamiliar territory, having been politely ushered to a place near the fire, he had caught bits and pieces of the barkeep's conversation with Tataru. They were concerned about his presence-- not quite offended, but clearly thought of him as something that needed tending to.
To a certain extent, he he found he was not inclined to argue. Assistance would have been greatly appreciated, even if he was too proud to ask for it, as he always had been.
When he hears the steady approach of booted footsteps, he stiffens slightly, having switched from wine to coffee since his being relocated. He glances upwards at the sound of yet another unfamiliar voice, cup held carefully in one hand, unseeing.]
By all means, be my guest.
[He appreciates the fact that she's playing at such niceties, for however long it lasts-- but he knows it's not true. She's been sent to inquire after him, though to what end remains to be seen.]
[To their eyes and ears, a Hyur bearing such obvious and detrimental scars, and a touch less obvious reticence, does indeed need tending. Of equal weight he is not one of them and thus it is hardly their affair until or unless he causes a stir.
It's that Ishgardians, city folk both highborn and low, are so damnably prone to stirring.
Y'shtola says a placid thanks and sits, resting her staff against the table in a manner similar to his cane. She busies herself in the pages of a book, a gentle turn of paper and the occasional triad harmony of ink, pen, and parchment as she takes notes. Another thank-you to the proffered cup of wine betrays the smile in her voice. Not every evening does she like the bustle and woodsmoke of the Forgotten Knight, but the nestling of intriguing guests and warmth and good drink meet well this night.
After a time she sets down the pen to study him. Well, the injuries certainly don't dampen his ability to polish off a coffee. When next he has occasion to pay, she sets a hand on the table nearby and touches his wrist with the tips of her fingers.]
Pray pardon the intrusion, but I've not seen coin the likes of yours before. From where do you hail, if 'tis not too forward?
[Her voice draws his attention once more, though his gaze falls just past her, unfocused. Still, it was rude not to look when one was spoken to, and he offers a wry, weary smile in reply. It must have been obvious well before his coin had made an appearance, but he appreciates that she had chosen to address the issue so tactfully.]
No pardon necessary, I assure you.
[He inclines his head towards the room at large, indicating the Knight's thinning crowd.]
No doubt others have noticed, as well. I hail from Lucis, though I suspect the name means little to anyone here.
'Tis not a port of call familiar to me. Doubtless the name of Sharlayan is likewise unknown to you, though I should hope some communal memory of it yet remains in lands far abroad. [Well before the Exodus, when students of all stripe and homeland came thither to share knowledge and the passion for learning. Though she knew but the tail end of such days, Y'shtola has oft wished to experience the brightness of their apex.]
Lucis. [As if weighing the word, turning it over in mental hands.] You must forgive my curiosity, I'm afraid. Scholars know not how to rest their minds. [Y'shtola folds her hands atop the table then. What she is not telling, nor asking yet, is that the aether twists and bends around him as though ever so slightly repelled, turned aside by some other force imperceptible to her senses. The last people she met thus afflicted were the Warriors of Darkness.
Of course, there are other...intelligences around whom the aether behaves too strangely. She can only hope this man before her is not an Ascian.]
And you must also forgive my impoliteness. [The hand upon his wrist turns to grasp his hand instead, firmly. A handshake, if he accepts.] My name is Y'shtola.
where the hell does time go, I am the worst at museboxes, I apologize :c
[He shakes his head slowly, the name itself utterly foreign to him. There were few lands in Eos that he did not know, even if he had never visited them firsthand, and the fact that he knows nothing of this place sends an uncomfortable chill through him. It would have been bad enough, finding himself stranded here even with his sight. Without it, he felt less than hopeless-- beyond useless.
As she goes on, however, he finds some small comfort in her words. A restless mind is something they have in common, and that is enough to make him feel grounded for the time being.]
A feeling I am well familiar with. I, too, am fond of learning-- precisely why it's so startling that neither Ishgard nor Sharlayan are familiar to me.
[Not knowing in itself is unfamiliar.
He shakes his head again, subtler this time, dismissing.]
My manners have not been what they should be, either. [He takes a firm hold of her hand in turn, offering a shake that's more confident than he feels in this particular moment.] Ignis Scientia. A pleasure, despite the circumstances.
['Tis more typical in Eorzea to bow upon greeting but she thought him unlikely to note the courtesy.]
The pleasure is truly mine, I assure you. [More than curiosity leads to a closer look at him once the handshake ends. Granted, the aether cannot show her everything as he seems removed from it still, but 'tis enough.] How came you into such circumstances? Perhaps we can do aught about righting them.
[Which is presuming a lot, on her part, but he is free to refuse the implicit offer. If Y'shtola were alone in a strange place she should want to manage on her own, too; t'would be a poor excuse for not offering, though.
At her next sip she finds her wine nearly gone, and seeks Gibrillont's attention. When he comes for the glass as if to refill it she refuses, and would he be so kind as to return with tea instead? Though she doesn't say as much, she wants all her wits about her for whoever this man proves to be.]
[Indeed, the tactile approach is both practical and appreciated.]
Would that I knew.
[The offer might have been presumptuous, but he picks up on the sentiment all the same-- this woman is interested in offering aid however she is able, even if an immediate solution seems highly unlikely. He pauses long enough for her to request tea from Gibrillont, taking another sip of his own wine as he waits, speaking when they're alone once more.]
The world as I know it has been a tumultuous place as of late-- dangerous and ever-changing, and yet this is far too much change even for the current state of Eos. [He pauses, briefly.] If I continue, you're sure to think I'm mad.
[Thus far he has given her no news or surprise. The world as she knows it is just as unstable and roiling, the very foundation of all knowledge shaken and spreading like petals are wont to do across rivers. It is a frightening and exciting time in which to live, for a scholar.]
It is said that only men in possession of at least some of their wits have the wherewithal to question losing them. [Her wry smile is audible, and the intrigue probably is too. Y'shtola has no way of knowing what she may be about to hear, but it will hardly be boring - or mad. If Ignis is touched he is of the most dangerous sort and the game has barely begun...but she doesn't think so.] You've my word that I shall listen even should your concerns prove an unfit mind.
Edited (HA I caught a typo before the reply came go me) 2017-04-07 13:54 (UTC)
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no subject
Hides face runs away]]
OKAY HERE WE GO
Until one morning, it's changed too much, and he doesn't know where to begin.
The people of Ishgard speak in an accent not entirely unlike his own, though nothing of the city is familiar, and feels more lost than ever before. He hasn't the first idea of how he'd come to find himself here or why, no explanation for his sudden change of scenery. It was as cold as Lestallum was hot, sprawling and busy and full of people who commented that his clothing seemed out of place, though he could not see their own to confirm or deny.
Eventually, someone was kind enough to point him in the direction of the Forgotten Knight, and as much as he loathed accepting aid from anyone, he allowed himself to be lead there, asking to be left alone only once he was seated on a stool at the bar with his cane resting beside him, a mug of mulled wine between his hands.
Of all the things he'd experienced in the last year alone, this was perhaps the strangest.]
no subject
They speak at first only to exchange an order of drink. The gil coins the stranger places upon the bartop are too shiny and bear an unfamiliar sigil and relief. Gibrillont thinks to argue and then thinks the better; coin is coin.
'Tis the slowness of the man's drinking, the hunched unfamiliarity with all about him, that draws the most attention. 'Tis clear he has a less than useful sense of where he is, to say nothing of a sightless foreigner wandering into Ishgard at all unescorted. A timely, chipper visitor popping in from the upper level is all Gibrillont needs to remind himself of another outsider he knows, one who might - by virtue of her singular discernment if naught else - get something more out of this fellow than the name of the same drink over and over.
Ignis may overhear the proprietor drum his fingers atop the bar and ask Tataru if the Lady Y'shtola is nearby; upon the affirmative - might he prevail upon Tataru to prompt her presence here? The rest of the conversation is lost easily in the din of a crowd of masons working their way up the stairs after repairing a bit of Foundation's foundations. Once the commotion fades, though, Tataru has gone.
Some time later and a bit quieter Y'shtola arrives; Ignis has been offered a seat nearer the hearth instead, as it seems he's of a mind for a longer stay, and the chance to run up a tab rather than continue drawing attention with his unusual currency.
In this way Gibrillont can converse with Y'shtola upon a few trivial matters at a distance before coming to the meat of the...'tisn't a problem, exactly. But it is very odd, and his people are not known for their appreciation of oddities, as hers are. There's a bit of would-she-mind and the promise of her first warm wine on the house and some booted foot-tapping, but no mention of her particular fit for what might follow besides her greater familiarity with where the hells this traveler might be from, or why alone.
She bristles just slightly when she comes to his table and looks at him. There's no denying several reasons why Gibrillont thought of her, rather than even another of her friends...and her next footsteps fall a bit louder. Now she too cannot deny a certain...curiosity.]
It appears the other tables are fair full this evening, and I've no inclination to brawl with knights and stewards over a countertop stool. [Whether he turns his head her way or not, Y'shtola rests a hand upon the back of the empty chair to his left.] Might I beg leave to share yours?
[She doesn't intend smalltalk or probing questions. Immediate busybodying is no way to make acquaintances...at least not aloud.]
Y'shtola, you are truly a queen.
To a certain extent, he he found he was not inclined to argue. Assistance would have been greatly appreciated, even if he was too proud to ask for it, as he always had been.
When he hears the steady approach of booted footsteps, he stiffens slightly, having switched from wine to coffee since his being relocated. He glances upwards at the sound of yet another unfamiliar voice, cup held carefully in one hand, unseeing.]
By all means, be my guest.
[He appreciates the fact that she's playing at such niceties, for however long it lasts-- but he knows it's not true. She's been sent to inquire after him, though to what end remains to be seen.]
no subject
It's that Ishgardians, city folk both highborn and low, are so damnably prone to stirring.
Y'shtola says a placid thanks and sits, resting her staff against the table in a manner similar to his cane. She busies herself in the pages of a book, a gentle turn of paper and the occasional triad harmony of ink, pen, and parchment as she takes notes. Another thank-you to the proffered cup of wine betrays the smile in her voice. Not every evening does she like the bustle and woodsmoke of the Forgotten Knight, but the nestling of intriguing guests and warmth and good drink meet well this night.
After a time she sets down the pen to study him. Well, the injuries certainly don't dampen his ability to polish off a coffee. When next he has occasion to pay, she sets a hand on the table nearby and touches his wrist with the tips of her fingers.]
Pray pardon the intrusion, but I've not seen coin the likes of yours before. From where do you hail, if 'tis not too forward?
no subject
No pardon necessary, I assure you.
[He inclines his head towards the room at large, indicating the Knight's thinning crowd.]
No doubt others have noticed, as well. I hail from Lucis, though I suspect the name means little to anyone here.
no subject
Lucis. [As if weighing the word, turning it over in mental hands.] You must forgive my curiosity, I'm afraid. Scholars know not how to rest their minds. [Y'shtola folds her hands atop the table then. What she is not telling, nor asking yet, is that the aether twists and bends around him as though ever so slightly repelled, turned aside by some other force imperceptible to her senses. The last people she met thus afflicted were the Warriors of Darkness.
Of course, there are other...intelligences around whom the aether behaves too strangely. She can only hope this man before her is not an Ascian.]
And you must also forgive my impoliteness. [The hand upon his wrist turns to grasp his hand instead, firmly. A handshake, if he accepts.] My name is Y'shtola.
where the hell does time go, I am the worst at museboxes, I apologize :c
As she goes on, however, he finds some small comfort in her words. A restless mind is something they have in common, and that is enough to make him feel grounded for the time being.]
A feeling I am well familiar with. I, too, am fond of learning-- precisely why it's so startling that neither Ishgard nor Sharlayan are familiar to me.
[Not knowing in itself is unfamiliar.
He shakes his head again, subtler this time, dismissing.]
My manners have not been what they should be, either. [He takes a firm hold of her hand in turn, offering a shake that's more confident than he feels in this particular moment.] Ignis Scientia. A pleasure, despite the circumstances.
no subject
The pleasure is truly mine, I assure you. [More than curiosity leads to a closer look at him once the handshake ends. Granted, the aether cannot show her everything as he seems removed from it still, but 'tis enough.] How came you into such circumstances? Perhaps we can do aught about righting them.
[Which is presuming a lot, on her part, but he is free to refuse the implicit offer. If Y'shtola were alone in a strange place she should want to manage on her own, too; t'would be a poor excuse for not offering, though.
At her next sip she finds her wine nearly gone, and seeks Gibrillont's attention. When he comes for the glass as if to refill it she refuses, and would he be so kind as to return with tea instead? Though she doesn't say as much, she wants all her wits about her for whoever this man proves to be.]
no subject
Would that I knew.
[The offer might have been presumptuous, but he picks up on the sentiment all the same-- this woman is interested in offering aid however she is able, even if an immediate solution seems highly unlikely. He pauses long enough for her to request tea from Gibrillont, taking another sip of his own wine as he waits, speaking when they're alone once more.]
The world as I know it has been a tumultuous place as of late-- dangerous and ever-changing, and yet this is far too much change even for the current state of Eos. [He pauses, briefly.] If I continue, you're sure to think I'm mad.
no subject
It is said that only men in possession of at least some of their wits have the wherewithal to question losing them. [Her wry smile is audible, and the intrigue probably is too. Y'shtola has no way of knowing what she may be about to hear, but it will hardly be boring - or mad. If Ignis is touched he is of the most dangerous sort and the game has barely begun...but she doesn't think so.] You've my word that I shall listen even should your concerns prove an unfit mind.