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Description
Mahji sat outside the Wench on the edge of the Limsa upper decks. It was humid tonight, and he didn’t quite enjoy being inside when it was so… sticky. At least outside, here, sitting on the edge above the rolling waves, there was a breeze. There was the smell of saltwater, the sound of seagulls, of the bustling city beneath. He was leaning back on his hands, gazing up at the night sky, the millions upon millions of stars.

Sometimes, he wondered if he hadn’t been intended to be a Keeper of the Moon rather than a Seeker of the Sun. He loved the night sky. He preferred to work and play at night. He wondered often if this had more to do with a natural love, or because Limsa took him in and shaped him into the man that he was today… or, rather, the man he had been many yesterdays ago.

He flicked his tail, heard it brush lightly over the wooden planks beneath him. His legs dangled off the edge. He was dressed casually tonight in light leather boots, black pants, a light, white button-down shirt that he buttoned up to about mid-chest, showing off his various necklaces. Over that he wore a red leather vest.

When he came to Limsa, he was little more than a runt of the litter, an adult but not done growing or filling out his frame. The scars that he now wore on his face had been little more than freshly scabbed wounds then. His hair had been cut short all around, rather than how he wore it now. He’d come with a beginner’s lance and axe, his ceremonial armor, and the clothes on his back. He’d pilfered some gil from his mother, but nothing else.

Today, he was an accomplished adventurer and mercenary. He wore his hair shaved down short on the left side of his head, long on the right side of his head, with various braids and decorative beads. He was tattooed and scarred, and he had filled out his frame and then some. He was taller than most miqo’te, though not extravagantly so, and his build betrayed the fact that he swung an axe around for a living.

He turned his gaze from the sky to the city below. He was overlooking the main aetheryte plaza. It was crowded, even this late at night. He heard conversation floating up to him, though he caught no specific words. They chattered and laughed. He saw merchants and customers bartering - some more heatedly than others. He saw a cloaked figure discussing something with an unscrupulous looking woman, just off the beaten path but not quite out of the light. He watched the way the lights around the plaza played off the aetheryte, dancing like the stars above, but not nearly as impressively. He saw how brightly lit the marketplace was, and it was remarkable how much detail he could see. He could tell who took care of their armor and who didn’t, he could tell who had the gil for finer clothing and who didn’t.

Mahji smiled wryly. It looked different from up here, but so very familiar. He knew the city now like the back of his hand, but he remembered the day he arrived in Limsa as if it was yesterday. He had been so awestruck.

He had only ever visited small towns or other tribal villages and had never seen an aetheryte so impressive, or a market so bustling. He grew up where currency was - generally speaking - what someone needed and what you had. You needed meat? Well, the tribe member who had the meat needed blankets. And this was only for trading between tribes! If you were within the tribe, everything was provided communally.

Now, however, seeing this marketplace and its people was an everyday occurrence. It had been nearly ten years, but he was still impressed with how quickly he had taken the city for granted, how quickly he had declared this city life as “better” than tribal life. Since then, he had debated that thought often.

He reached out and grabbed his bottle of rum, which was on the ground beside him. He had a bottle nearly every night now - rarely did he drink all of it at once, but he always had one - and it was Limsa that first got him into drinking. Into gambling. His life had nearly fallen apart there. He’d fallen so low that he’d made a bet and lost, became an indentured servant for a time.

His smile faded at the start of this train of memories. He took a long pull from the rum and put it back down, smacking his lips a bit. He loved the taste, the spices, the bite - but even he couldn’t take a pull like that without flinching.

He knew if he thought on such matters for too long, he would have nightmares. If he knew he would have nightmares, he would not sleep. He would simply drink himself into a stupor and pass out, and would wake up either in a jail cell or a ditch somewhere. He wouldn’t feel rested. He would need a bath. And the cycle of self loathing would continue.

He frowned and looked down at the bottle in his hand. He shook it, felt and heard the liquid inside slosh around. The bottle was non-descript. It had a label with the rum maker’s name, some warnings about consequences that carried the tone of bureaucracy, something written because they were required to write it. There was no compassion for the people who chose to drink it..

Mahji swiveled his ears back toward the Wench and then turned as well, twisting his torso to gaze at the entrance to the tavern. There were groups of friends standing outside or headed in, laughing, jostling, teasing, drinking. He spotted a pair of Elezen flirting - he could just tell by their posture, by their smiles. A Roegadyn appeared to be playfully defending a Lalafell’s honor from a Hyur, who looked as amused as he did impressed.

Mahji’s ears slowly lowered, pressing to his head more with each passing second. He had once been like that - energetic, social, willing to let go for a few hours. There was a time where he would flirt with anyone, where he’d tell stories and show off his bravado. There were still times he would now, truly - but they were rarer, to the point where he could not call it regular, where it no longer felt like him. He would have to know someone, or be exceptionally drunk. It was nothing like before.

He desperately wanted it back - he wanted himself back, the adult he remembered, who was so enamored with the giant aetheryte and the crowded market, the man who wasn’t afraid to fight anyone on the spot if it would earn him the attention of women or earn him some extra gil (preferably both). He wanted to trust again, he wanted to love again. He hesitated, and then suddenly he was on his feet. He walked with budding confidence, familiar steps that he had followed so often just a few short years ago.

And then he faltered. He didn’t stop, not at first. His approach just slowed. His mind raced.

What if no one wants to talk to you? You are scarred and broken, you would never be wanted. You are not interesting. Will you show them card tricks? Will you pick a fight? You are not the boy you once were, the voice in his head caused him to stop entirely, his throat and chest tightening. He fought it off, as best he could.

It was a bar full of people, someone there would be bound to want to talk to him. Everyone had scars and he was not broken. He was an adventurer, a mercenary, he knew a hundred different stories.

Perhaps you are right, the voice said, as if giving up, But are you strong enough? I seem to recall that for all your bluster, you have lost not one, but two lovers… You failed your tribe - multiple times!

Mahji had stopped walking by now, frozen in place, bottle of rum in one hand. His eyes were wide and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was still a good twenty feet from the Wench proper. He was close enough to garner a couple of curious looks. He knew that the thoughts in his mind were irrelevant. He could not heal if he did not try.

But who would have the patience to help you? Who would care?

There was always someone willing!

There have already been two willing. One is dead, the other gone.

Mahji blinked, eyes suddenly damp. He turned on his heel, away from what he assumed was a bar full of awkward stares and judgmental whispers. The anxiety was too great.

He made his way back over to the edge of the upper docks, sat down in his familiar spot, comfortably far away from the Wench, but not so far that he couldn’t get another drink if needed. He wiped his eyes with the back of his forearm, looked up at the night sky, and took a long, satisfying pull from the bottle of rum.

This time he did not flinch.

Description
Mahji sat outside the Wench on the edge of the Limsa upper decks. It was humid tonight, and he didn’t quite enjoy being inside when it was so… sticky. At least outside, here, sitting on the edge above the rolling waves, there was a breeze. There was the smell of saltwater, the sound of seagulls, of the bustling city beneath. He was leaning back on his hands, gazing up at the night sky, the millions upon millions of stars.

Sometimes, he wondered if he hadn’t been intended to be a Keeper of the Moon rather than a Seeker of the Sun. He loved the night sky. He preferred to work and play at night. He wondered often if this had more to do with a natural love, or because Limsa took him in and shaped him into the man that he was today… or, rather, the man he had been many yesterdays ago.

He flicked his tail, heard it brush lightly over the wooden planks beneath him. His legs dangled off the edge. He was dressed casually tonight in light leather boots, black pants, a light, white button-down shirt that he buttoned up to about mid-chest, showing off his various necklaces. Over that he wore a red leather vest.

When he came to Limsa, he was little more than a runt of the litter, an adult but not done growing or filling out his frame. The scars that he now wore on his face had been little more than freshly scabbed wounds then. His hair had been cut short all around, rather than how he wore it now. He’d come with a beginner’s lance and axe, his ceremonial armor, and the clothes on his back. He’d pilfered some gil from his mother, but nothing else.

Today, he was an accomplished adventurer and mercenary. He wore his hair shaved down short on the left side of his head, long on the right side of his head, with various braids and decorative beads. He was tattooed and scarred, and he had filled out his frame and then some. He was taller than most miqo’te, though not extravagantly so, and his build betrayed the fact that he swung an axe around for a living.

He turned his gaze from the sky to the city below. He was overlooking the main aetheryte plaza. It was crowded, even this late at night. He heard conversation floating up to him, though he caught no specific words. They chattered and laughed. He saw merchants and customers bartering - some more heatedly than others. He saw a cloaked figure discussing something with an unscrupulous looking woman, just off the beaten path but not quite out of the light. He watched the way the lights around the plaza played off the aetheryte, dancing like the stars above, but not nearly as impressively. He saw how brightly lit the marketplace was, and it was remarkable how much detail he could see. He could tell who took care of their armor and who didn’t, he could tell who had the gil for finer clothing and who didn’t.

Mahji smiled wryly. It looked different from up here, but so very familiar. He knew the city now like the back of his hand, but he remembered the day he arrived in Limsa as if it was yesterday. He had been so awestruck.

He had only ever visited small towns or other tribal villages and had never seen an aetheryte so impressive, or a market so bustling. He grew up where currency was - generally speaking - what someone needed and what you had. You needed meat? Well, the tribe member who had the meat needed blankets. And this was only for trading between tribes! If you were within the tribe, everything was provided communally.

Now, however, seeing this marketplace and its people was an everyday occurrence. It had been nearly ten years, but he was still impressed with how quickly he had taken the city for granted, how quickly he had declared this city life as “better” than tribal life. Since then, he had debated that thought often.

He reached out and grabbed his bottle of rum, which was on the ground beside him. He had a bottle nearly every night now - rarely did he drink all of it at once, but he always had one - and it was Limsa that first got him into drinking. Into gambling. His life had nearly fallen apart there. He’d fallen so low that he’d made a bet and lost, became an indentured servant for a time.

His smile faded at the start of this train of memories. He took a long pull from the rum and put it back down, smacking his lips a bit. He loved the taste, the spices, the bite - but even he couldn’t take a pull like that without flinching.

He knew if he thought on such matters for too long, he would have nightmares. If he knew he would have nightmares, he would not sleep. He would simply drink himself into a stupor and pass out, and would wake up either in a jail cell or a ditch somewhere. He wouldn’t feel rested. He would need a bath. And the cycle of self loathing would continue.

He frowned and looked down at the bottle in his hand. He shook it, felt and heard the liquid inside slosh around. The bottle was non-descript. It had a label with the rum maker’s name, some warnings about consequences that carried the tone of bureaucracy, something written because they were required to write it. There was no compassion for the people who chose to drink it..

Mahji swiveled his ears back toward the Wench and then turned as well, twisting his torso to gaze at the entrance to the tavern. There were groups of friends standing outside or headed in, laughing, jostling, teasing, drinking. He spotted a pair of Elezen flirting - he could just tell by their posture, by their smiles. A Roegadyn appeared to be playfully defending a Lalafell’s honor from a Hyur, who looked as amused as he did impressed.

Mahji’s ears slowly lowered, pressing to his head more with each passing second. He had once been like that - energetic, social, willing to let go for a few hours. There was a time where he would flirt with anyone, where he’d tell stories and show off his bravado. There were still times he would now, truly - but they were rarer, to the point where he could not call it regular, where it no longer felt like him. He would have to know someone, or be exceptionally drunk. It was nothing like before.

He desperately wanted it back - he wanted himself back, the adult he remembered, who was so enamored with the giant aetheryte and the crowded market, the man who wasn’t afraid to fight anyone on the spot if it would earn him the attention of women or earn him some extra gil (preferably both). He wanted to trust again, he wanted to love again. He hesitated, and then suddenly he was on his feet. He walked with budding confidence, familiar steps that he had followed so often just a few short years ago.

And then he faltered. He didn’t stop, not at first. His approach just slowed. His mind raced.

What if no one wants to talk to you? You are scarred and broken, you would never be wanted. You are not interesting. Will you show them card tricks? Will you pick a fight? You are not the boy you once were, the voice in his head caused him to stop entirely, his throat and chest tightening. He fought it off, as best he could.

It was a bar full of people, someone there would be bound to want to talk to him. Everyone had scars and he was not broken. He was an adventurer, a mercenary, he knew a hundred different stories.

Perhaps you are right, the voice said, as if giving up, But are you strong enough? I seem to recall that for all your bluster, you have lost not one, but two lovers… You failed your tribe - multiple times!

Mahji had stopped walking by now, frozen in place, bottle of rum in one hand. His eyes were wide and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was still a good twenty feet from the Wench proper. He was close enough to garner a couple of curious looks. He knew that the thoughts in his mind were irrelevant. He could not heal if he did not try.

But who would have the patience to help you? Who would care?

There was always someone willing!

There have already been two willing. One is dead, the other gone.

Mahji blinked, eyes suddenly damp. He turned on his heel, away from what he assumed was a bar full of awkward stares and judgmental whispers. The anxiety was too great.

He made his way back over to the edge of the upper docks, sat down in his familiar spot, comfortably far away from the Wench, but not so far that he couldn’t get another drink if needed. He wiped his eyes with the back of his forearm, looked up at the night sky, and took a long, satisfying pull from the bottle of rum.

This time he did not flinch.