The Mantle

"Pointless", a voice called out as a scroll was flung from the heights of the loft. Bounding off of the upper railing, spinning head-long as it soared, ultimately landing with a soft thud on a bed black of sheet and trimmed in floral red. Another was quick to follow, flying in much the same way before joining it on the bed. Then came a sound not unlike the sweep a broom across soft flooring, followed by the jingle of my bejeweled tail as another scroll was swept out from the loft. It came to rest just before the sliding door of the foyer, soon joined by a similarly useless book. The source of this utter chaos, a Raen deep in her research, accompanied by naught but her feisty tail. This tail, this notorious attention-seeking fiend, one quick do away with useless scrolls and books. A moody thing when left unstimulated and lonely, not that I can blame it, I likewise had something of a mood. Outside of my den, a terrible storm had moved in and the Miqo'te of my heart was out of town for the week. No amount of fluttering and cheeks flush by way of sultry thoughts would change that. But despite the distraction of frustration, I had made good time and would soon be finished.

From atop a comfortable Zabaton cushion, I sat in a red and white gown, skirted, gartered and sandaled in a similar red, my head bare, a rarity but my tail had thrown my hat from the loft some hours ago. Over said last few hours, I had been sifting through notes and testimonies to aid in my search. This once barren loft, transformed and dedicated solely to said search. When not otherwise occupied by romance or commission of cloth, I would spend my time here, piecing together the man, or the myth of the man as it were. I had traveled long and far these last few years but his is a tree light of fruit. Nearly all is hearsay and rumor, with evidence of his mere existence being slim outside of a few choice artifacts and myself. To the right hung a map of the lands, strung up and ornamented by twine and pushpins. The pins traced his supposed path, and the places where I had searched, those that produced fruit and those that did not. The most notable fruit, a katana respectfully enshrined above my fireplace. It is attributed to a magical swordsman, "red of whisker and topknot" hailing from the East. It is said that in the wake of a battle most-grand, the locals found his sword and kept it as a reminder of his deeds. When I spoke of him and my relation to him, the katana was gifted to me under the promise that I would keep it safe, and so I have. I see fit to return it to him once we are reunited. Aside from the katana, there is a metal skullcap among other minor bits of cloth attributed to a wandering swordsman or at times, a mage of some renown, "red of whisker and topknot" as they all say. Others call him the "Levingall", thinking him a Ramuh-like primal due to his prowess with lightning magic. Nonetheless, if even but a fraction of the accounts are true, his accomplishments are many. As of late, he has again been spotted in Doma, his fourth round trip soon to be completed. The only difference is that this time, I am close and a full step ahead of his projected path. A meeting is bound to happen if my calculations are correct. I expect to find him on the road toward the charred ruins of my homeplace in but a week. I suspect it is a pilgrimage of sorts for him, visiting that terrible place. If that is the case, does he think us dead or could word of what transpired there have met his ears? I do wonder. It is a tale even I know not the full of, but my Mother is just as distant now as when I left, she speaks little of it and it is no small task to urge her to divulge more. I still see her occasionally, we will reminisce if that is the proper word, but I feel that the damage can never be truly undone. Not without a great deal of effort at the very least. Perhaps once we are all together things will mend. It is a great hope of mine. Though, I hardly have room for another Mother in my life at the moment, I will have to carve out a spot for her when such a time comes. Dhana fills that void quite nicely, though with her measurements she is like to fill most any void you put her in. Such a thought brought about a fit of laughter rivaling her own.

I saw fit to conclude my studies for the evening there and turn my thoughts inward. To the scent of incense, I ran a Dalamud-red finger nail across the cover of my journal, picking at the engraved lettering. "The Life of Yarti Windstorm, of the Eastern Skies", the latter five words and punctuation being etched atop my true last name, the cursed thing. Scratched and burned out, covered in a bit of plaster and resurfaced such that I could scribble my chosen name atop it's charred remains. It is fitting in a way. Every time I fill one volume, I replace the pages and move my story to storage. When full, this would be the seventeenth tome. Some day, I will combine them all but that day is not today. The leather cover itself is that of my first journal, near twenty years of wear and tear mark it's face. but it one of my only keepsakes from that time. I shut the journal and contemplated for a moment with swish of tail, simply listening to the rain continue it's assault on the building. I sat there for some time as though I was waiting for something before at last realizing what that something was. Memories of a former-neighbor and friend of mine that had recently passed. Once my studies had concluded for the night I would often be shaken from my thoughts by a gentle knock at the door and once welcomed inside, we would share many a drink and tale. We were never lovers but good friends none the less. I still have half a crate of his favorite whiskey and various notes we had shared over the years. It pains me greatly to look at them, far more so to taste the whiskey again, but it eases the mind to know that a part of him still visits on nights such as these. Wiping away a tear, putting away my journal and returning quill to inkwell, I rose to my feet. Crossing creaking floorboards, my tail traced a path across the etched corner-vase as I descended into the bedroom proper. I retrieved my hat, tidied up the mess, tended to the fire and made myself a fiery drink, as the room had grown quite cold as of late. Giving the contents of the cup a swirl, I turned my attention to the shrine above and what I saw there. Crimson ringed eyes darting from one object to another as I began to sip slowly. My Father's katana, a cigar, a bowl of Koi bones, a sprig of dried Lavender, and an empty whiskey bottle, among many many others. It truly is a mantle, in more ways than one. I carry their memories and stories like a cloak about my shoulders, heavy at times but always a comfort in bad weather.