[Naren had excused herself from the squad strategy meeting by saying she needed some air, but the faintly rotten salt breeze ruffling the merchant stalls outside is no better. The sea smells so different from that vivid memory of brimstone down the back of her throat, she finds herself lingering on it more.
She should shut it out. Minfilia told her so, or at least that's what she heard. The Scions won a decisive victory, so what is there to grieve? It's Ifrit who was slain, Ifrit who caused all these merchants' and sailors' countryfolk to be put down like rabid dogs.
She should go rejoin the meeting. Well, she will. Soon.
Keeping one hand on her sandals beside her, she clasps the other to her chest. The murky water laps over her bare toes.]
Nald and Thal take their souls, and... [No, too hesitant. She exhales slowly to steady herself yet again, and ignores the footsteps she thinks she just heard somewhere close to the dock.] May they... rest. May they find the Matron's peace.
[Fat lot of good peace did them before they were done in.
But you just don't say things like that. Not ever, and especially not now.
It's odd how fragile everything looks, all of a sudden. It was like that before, sort of, when Rosalind first came to Ul'dah and opened her eyes to the city like a babe to the world. Less so then than now. She comes up from the Waking Sands hoping to throw off the brittle cast of the walls and the voices, but it's all the same above, too, and taking down her turban and letting the salt breeze into her hair just makes her feel unkempt.
Gods, she wants a fight. One that doesn't matter, mind you, before they get any ideas.
And then there's Narengawa (she thinks she's got that right), and to be perfectly honest, she's not sure what to do about her. Wasn't before, when she was just an odd-looking stranger sent along with her for the same work. Now she's - you can't call someone a stranger after fighting alongside them like that, that's just common sense.
She's something.
Rosalind ought to go and sit and strike up conversation. But, oh, she'd rather not. She knows she'll get to the point of sitting down and have nothing to say, and then they'll both wonder why she's barging in on prayers just to sit. Narengawa isn't a stranger, but she's a mystery, and Rosalind is no inspector.
So she hovers for a little too long, a few steps out onto the pier. Gets over herself, eventually, and says a little loudly:]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
earthshard) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
shoutfire2018-01-10 06:33 pm
ARR, post Ifrit | Vesper Bay
She should shut it out. Minfilia told her so, or at least that's what she heard. The Scions won a decisive victory, so what is there to grieve? It's Ifrit who was slain, Ifrit who caused all these merchants' and sailors' countryfolk to be put down like rabid dogs.
She should go rejoin the meeting. Well, she will. Soon.
Keeping one hand on her sandals beside her, she clasps the other to her chest. The murky water laps over her bare toes.]
Nald and Thal take their souls, and... [No, too hesitant. She exhales slowly to steady herself yet again, and ignores the footsteps she thinks she just heard somewhere close to the dock.] May they... rest. May they find the Matron's peace.
no subject
But you just don't say things like that. Not ever, and especially not now.
It's odd how fragile everything looks, all of a sudden. It was like that before, sort of, when Rosalind first came to Ul'dah and opened her eyes to the city like a babe to the world. Less so then than now. She comes up from the Waking Sands hoping to throw off the brittle cast of the walls and the voices, but it's all the same above, too, and taking down her turban and letting the salt breeze into her hair just makes her feel unkempt.
Gods, she wants a fight. One that doesn't matter, mind you, before they get any ideas.
And then there's Narengawa (she thinks she's got that right), and to be perfectly honest, she's not sure what to do about her. Wasn't before, when she was just an odd-looking stranger sent along with her for the same work. Now she's - you can't call someone a stranger after fighting alongside them like that, that's just common sense.
She's something.
Rosalind ought to go and sit and strike up conversation. But, oh, she'd rather not. She knows she'll get to the point of sitting down and have nothing to say, and then they'll both wonder why she's barging in on prayers just to sit. Narengawa isn't a stranger, but she's a mystery, and Rosalind is no inspector.
So she hovers for a little too long, a few steps out onto the pier. Gets over herself, eventually, and says a little loudly:]
I'm going to the Pissed Peiste.