seaswallowed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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wondrousplace2022-05-08 01:49 pm
seaswallowed) wrote in wondrousplace2022-05-08 01:49 pm
for Lavai
Foundation reminds Aisanka of Limsa, in some ways.
Unlike the verdant sprawl of Gridania or the vivid marketplace of Ul'Dah, it too is a stony bastion of civilisation in what might otherwise be an unwelcoming part of the world. Unlike some other visitors, those similarities have left her well prepared for the climate. After years on the high sea, buffeted with ocean winds and whipped with icy salt water, snow and mountain wind takes only a little adjustment.
The man lying on the cobbles beneath her coughs violently, spraying a mist of blood over her glasses, and she takes them off for now.
It's hard not to feel bitter. This city has faced so much, been scarred by generations of war, and now at the last it's the fighting between men which has set the city ablaze. Ser Aymeric recovering from an attempt on his life, the so-called 'True Brotherhood' making hostages of their own countrymen - a child thrown to her certain death, only to be rescued by one of the very wyrms her would-be killer so reviled.
And now what remains is this. The victims of violence, the broken and bleeding. Ishgard boasts excellent chirurgeons, of course, but they can only do their work if their patients are delivered to them still breathing.
She's been working since the riots began. Tending the wounded, shielding civilians from harm, ushering the defenceless into places of safety. She's exhausted, drained, and the glow of aether beneath her fingers is starting to dim faster than the watchman's wounds are closing. His breath is starting to rattle in his throat.
She only needs to stabilise him. Just a little more.
She looks over her shoulder and latches onto the star globe lying folded against the back of a blurry figure across the square. An astrologian.
"Ser! A moment's aid-"
Unlike the verdant sprawl of Gridania or the vivid marketplace of Ul'Dah, it too is a stony bastion of civilisation in what might otherwise be an unwelcoming part of the world. Unlike some other visitors, those similarities have left her well prepared for the climate. After years on the high sea, buffeted with ocean winds and whipped with icy salt water, snow and mountain wind takes only a little adjustment.
The man lying on the cobbles beneath her coughs violently, spraying a mist of blood over her glasses, and she takes them off for now.
It's hard not to feel bitter. This city has faced so much, been scarred by generations of war, and now at the last it's the fighting between men which has set the city ablaze. Ser Aymeric recovering from an attempt on his life, the so-called 'True Brotherhood' making hostages of their own countrymen - a child thrown to her certain death, only to be rescued by one of the very wyrms her would-be killer so reviled.
And now what remains is this. The victims of violence, the broken and bleeding. Ishgard boasts excellent chirurgeons, of course, but they can only do their work if their patients are delivered to them still breathing.
She's been working since the riots began. Tending the wounded, shielding civilians from harm, ushering the defenceless into places of safety. She's exhausted, drained, and the glow of aether beneath her fingers is starting to dim faster than the watchman's wounds are closing. His breath is starting to rattle in his throat.
She only needs to stabilise him. Just a little more.
She looks over her shoulder and latches onto the star globe lying folded against the back of a blurry figure across the square. An astrologian.
"Ser! A moment's aid-"