"Aye, I know the Blades. The Blades, more crooked than a levin-struck tree. Made to make up for the over-stretched Flames, but instead a bigger danger to the people than any other." Her expression twists further, becoming full of malice. And as she opens her mouth to respond to Felih's talk about that man... Instead, Felih suddenly is struck by a bout of dizziness.
Ibakha, younger, more innocent, in the Dotharl tribal clothing, trying to approach the Thaumaturge's guild. Though Felih can understand both, it's clear the doorman and Ibakha can't understand each other. Ibakha is pleading for help, lodgings, food, anything- She'd been told in what little she could understand that this was the place for thaumaturgy, and as a thaumaturge herself, brothers and sisters of the same discipline, they could help each other. She could show them thaumaturgy of a foreign land, it would be an equal trade.
The doorkeep becomes more and more impatient, telling her in no uncertain terms to kindly fuck off, because he can't understand a word she's saying, and wonders what kind of voidspawn she must have come from on top of it. The doorkeep eventually calls over passing Blades, and the Blades take her rather roughly to their office.
Once more the language barrier comes into effect. The Blades leer and jeer, but she understands nothing. She once again asks for help, seeking the hospitality all wanderers are meant to be shown, but nothing comes of it. In the end, everything is taken. Her few belongings. Her staff, made of bone and wood and filled with ancient history. Her pack that she'd received from her family. Even her tribal clothes, that which marks her as a Dotharl, her connection to her kin and her home. And a necklace- Made of fang and bone and string, with a small bottle of dirt. Everything is taken from her.
She fights back, of course, but she's outnumbered and out-equipped, especially in a land like Eorzea where the aether sickness is starting to get to her. Weak and ashamed, with nothing to her but her smallclothes, she's forcefully thrown from Ul'dah's gates, screaming and cursing, but without an aetherial focus, even meager fireballs are difficult for her to cast.
As she screams in fury and despair on the roadside, screaming every curse she can, screaming for Ul'dah to burn under its own gods, a Miqo'te man in red walks up from behind her...
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Ibakha, younger, more innocent, in the Dotharl tribal clothing, trying to approach the Thaumaturge's guild. Though Felih can understand both, it's clear the doorman and Ibakha can't understand each other. Ibakha is pleading for help, lodgings, food, anything- She'd been told in what little she could understand that this was the place for thaumaturgy, and as a thaumaturge herself, brothers and sisters of the same discipline, they could help each other. She could show them thaumaturgy of a foreign land, it would be an equal trade.
The doorkeep becomes more and more impatient, telling her in no uncertain terms to kindly fuck off, because he can't understand a word she's saying, and wonders what kind of voidspawn she must have come from on top of it. The doorkeep eventually calls over passing Blades, and the Blades take her rather roughly to their office.
Once more the language barrier comes into effect. The Blades leer and jeer, but she understands nothing. She once again asks for help, seeking the hospitality all wanderers are meant to be shown, but nothing comes of it. In the end, everything is taken. Her few belongings. Her staff, made of bone and wood and filled with ancient history. Her pack that she'd received from her family. Even her tribal clothes, that which marks her as a Dotharl, her connection to her kin and her home. And a necklace- Made of fang and bone and string, with a small bottle of dirt. Everything is taken from her.
She fights back, of course, but she's outnumbered and out-equipped, especially in a land like Eorzea where the aether sickness is starting to get to her. Weak and ashamed, with nothing to her but her smallclothes, she's forcefully thrown from Ul'dah's gates, screaming and cursing, but without an aetherial focus, even meager fireballs are difficult for her to cast.
As she screams in fury and despair on the roadside, screaming every curse she can, screaming for Ul'dah to burn under its own gods, a Miqo'te man in red walks up from behind her...