Difference between revisions of "A Memory of Light"

Revision as of 19:51, 22 December 2012

Jasmine has posed:

It is awfully dark for the Giza Dry.

Black clouds shroud the sky, but they don't contain a hint of rain. In this muted light, the Sunstones cannot collect their glorious bounty; they loom, monolithic hulks of grim gray, with only the barest seed of light dwelling within them. The shadows they cast are full of eyes.

The nomads are no fools. Experienced survivalists, they've circled the wagons, so to speak, and are preparing to repel a major Heartless invasion. If only Rabanastre was not lost to them, they might have retreated there for shelter! Their eyes are as faded and exhausted as the stones, brother looking to sister, daughter to father. Will they be able to hold them off this time?

Suddenly, a pillar of blinding white light erupts towards the north. The stones react to it, absorbing the pure radiance and re-emiting it a dozenfold, bouncing it between themselves, sharing the wealth of Light. And hope dawns in the faces of the Nomads, as the shadows shrink and retreat, abandoning their siege, seemingly driven back by the Plains themselves.

But they haven't been driven back.

They've been lured away.

Jasmine struggles fiercely with the primal force within her, forcing it back under the surface as she flees north... a tiny brown street mouse chased by ebon shadows by the hundreds. The forest awaits above, with its promise of shelter, but not true refuge. Perhaps she hopes to fight them on less open ground, where numbers are less of an overwhelming advantage.

Faruja Senra has posed:

Limbs and back aching with lingering wounds, Faruja finds himself cursing his own disregard for a healer's words, and that desire to /help/ his parents instilled into him. He'd not intended to act as guard to a group of nomads when he set forth from the nearest town out onto the plains, riding his great white-scaled wyvern. But with a bunch of unfortunate souls faced with certain doom at the claws and teeth of Heartless? The Burmecian had landed just as the wagons were circled. There were few complaints at the time; he was no Heartless, and they needed every weapon they could get.

The Templar, however, shields his gaze as Light erupts. It almost blinds him, the pure power behind it eclipsing his own manyfold. Somehow, it seems almost familiar. As the shadows flee, curiousity biting at his tail, he re-mounts and offers a few parting prayers. Arista flaps her wings, and the pair race through the air towards the source of the Light, and what the Heartless seem to be chasing!

Jasmine has posed:

Arista's shadow falls across Jasmine just before she hits the treeline, and she looks up and behind her, startled. This is an unwise thing to do while sprinting flat out; a tree root finds her ankle, and she goes flying, tumbling head over heels to land in an ungainly heap. Even then, her focus remains on the Burmecian, whom she obviously recognizes, her eyes warm and her smile sweet.

She doesn't stay down for long, finding her feet quickly, rubbing her bruised backside surreptitiously, pulling her veil more tightly around herself, and plunging into that forest. Her voice, calm and bright and clear as a bell, rings upward to embrace him, as she cannot do in the flesh.

"Hello again, brave one. I am glad we've met once more!"

At this point, the Heartless are at least a few minutes behind, though she shows no sign of stopping, working her way through Macalania on low paths and high, occasionally visible between the crystalline branches and melifluous leaves. She even pauses to regard an especially beautiful tree with wonder, cradling a bloom gently without plucking it, before shaking her head and moving on. From the air, she's obviously making a beeline for the lake.

Faruja Senra has posed:

Whump! Faruja winces, glancing back at the Heartless that have been left behind. "Ahh, but you do me far too much honor, M'Lady! I am but a humble servant of Faram, blessed be His name." Despite all of his suspicions, the warmth and kindness to her is simply infectious. Both wyvern and rat flutter to the ground, the Burmecian leaping off of his mount to offer a hand up just a moment too late.

"However, we once again seem to have met in rather difficult circumstances. Perhaps you would like a ride? Certainly Lady Arista would not mind. /CORRECT/, Arista?" Glare! The wyvern hisses, grumbling something in her hissing language. From the sounds of things, it's not flattering.

"See? Much better than picking through these woods. And besides, I yet have a few questions for you, if you would be so kind as to enlighten me on a few points?" A fuzzy brow rises, even as he follows along, occasionally glancing backwards and nimbly picking his way through foliage and tree alike.

Sigh. "Damned abominations. Far too many for the pair of us." The Templar's spear, held in one clawed hand, is gripped a touch tightly in irritation at not being able to destroy the creatures.

"Have you a plan? Seek to drown them?"

Jasmine has posed:

Jasmine frowns markedly as Faruja abandons his air advantage, her brows snapping together; a burst of emotions cross her face, but foremost among them is worry. For him, presumably. That cloud follows her even as her expression relaxes again into its usual serenity. She doesn't break stride, letting him fill the air with a wide number of observations, while she focuses on finding the quickest path to her goal.

"These are the ones who throw magic," she murmurs at last, when there's a break in his monologue. "An aerial escape would not avail me, only endanger your lady." As they reach the shores of the lake, she finally comes to a halt, bracing her arms on her knees and breathing in short, tight gasps. Not as tireless as she wishes she were, it seems.

Delicate wisps dance across the surface of the ice-blue lake. It is quiet here, as though the world waits with baited breath for something to shatter within it, for the tide to come in.

And it is coming, but not yet.

"I do have a plan," the young woman -- a girl, really, up close she's so very small, her voluminous burlap robes undoubtedly lending her mass, and a certain majestic poise lending her stature, but all the same, her eyes are exactly at Faruja's level -- discloses. And they contain... hope, personified. Twin wellsprings of warm, dark, sparkling mystery, it seems no dire straits can extinguish their contents. "You are quick to concede defeat... alone I thought I could prevail, and with you at my side, I have no fears at all. This is a very special lake. It has a tiny island in the middle... would you consent to bear me that far, Arista?"

She addresses the wyvern directly in the casual manner of one who's accustomed to seemingly silent, nonhuman companions, even friends, while adding a lissome bow for the both of them, one hand respectfully over her heart. "It is a long swim for us, but a short hop for you."

Faruja Senra has posed:

Faruja finds himself staring the woman in the face, a slightly odd feeling after being amongst so many tall humans. It's refreshing, and the Templar keeps a small smile on his muzzle. The lingering effects of his encounter with Garland are there, despite the mask he wears; usually rock-solid confidence shaken as he stared into the depths of everything he fights. But it never reaches his face, at least, beyond that single red eye.

It's the rat's turn to frown as Jasmine's energy gives out. "May I suggest a chocobo next time, M'Lady?" A hand up is offered if she needs it after catching her breath.

One ear perks, and he gazes again into Jasmine's eyes. Hope. Something that, for the past week or so, has been missing in the rat's life after staring down his own version of the devil. "...Well, then, it seems you are more familiar with fighting these beasts than I. And hardly shall I leave a Lady to fight these abominations alone! 'Twould shame the Church! So long as a single shadow darkens the visage of an innocent, we must endure and press on mo matter what lays ahead! For the Lord is with us, ever guiding, ever seeing us through the darkest of days!" That sparkle, that hope in Jasmine seems to have brought some of his usual fire back. A thin tail lashes, the Templar's spear glowing hot and white. Arista gives a hiss of annoyance, stepping forward as she's addressed. Draconic eyes narrow, and she brings her face right up to the bowing Princess.

Silence isn't what Jasmine gets. Instead, it's a whisper. "You hurt the Runt, little silver-tongued softskin morsal, and I'll feast on your carcass." An arrogant hiss of contempt leaves her muzzle before she turns about, lowering herself to allow Jasmine aboard.

Faruja returns the bow. "Indeed, the Lady shall be quite efficient. Perfect place for a last stand, if nothing else. I do so hate being forced off of a battle yet concluded. Ahh, but I do believe we have been short on introductions." A small hop, and the Burmecian is on Arista's back. A hand is offered down. "Temple Knight Faruja Senra of Burmecia, of the Holy Church of Saint Ajora Glabados, at your service."

After she's up? Bonk! The Templar firmly whacks the wyvern on the top of the head with his spear butt. "And do not think I am deaf! I swear, your brothers stole your manners at birth."

Jasmine has posed:

There's just something about Jasmine -- she gazes deeply into Faruja's eye, without flinching away at all from the fact that there's only one of them, and with a piercing compassion that seems to sense the troubled waters that lie beneath. Stirred by his pain, and then moreso by his brave words, a gentle sort of strength seems to embrace and enfold him, twining around him, bolstering him.

It is both a figurative replenishment of spirit and a literal one of body, as the wounds that were troubling him seem to fade away when she accepts his hand up, squeezing it reassuringly and with gratitude. It isn't a spell. This is a power older than such formalities.

"I hate to draw them into harm's way... they have such innocent souls," she says, of his chocobo idea, without an ounce of regret. But his fiery sermon makes her stand taller, banishing the last of her exhaustion. She takes as much strength from his loud convictions as he might from her quiet ones. Her smile dawns once more, shining, shimmering, splendid. Leaning forward, she kisses him, entirely chastely but very tenderly, on the cheek, a moment that has ended almost before it begins, yet somehow lasts for all time.

She smells of sunlight and pure water, of the clarity after a storm. And hauntingly of an exotic, aromatic flower, whose name sits just on the tip of memory, out of reach...

"As long as you stand up for what is right, the war is already won."

Then the wyvern responds. A single eyebrow lifts at Arista's hissing whisper; not for its existence, but its contents. She shakes her head, tendrils of silken hair escaping her cowl to glide over her shoulders. "His safety is my highest priority," Jasmine reassures her with perhaps worrisome honesty. "But I don't believe in last stands... only brighter tomorrows." With that, she lets him help her up -- her movements are fluid and graceful, and she settles herself in a place that won't strain any wyvern-muscles with ease. "I am Jasmine." Of course she is. "Thank you for everything, Sir Knight."

She definitely disapproves of the bonking, but is too polite to say so. "And you also, Lady Arista."

Faruja Senra has posed:

The wounds won by his defense of the Church's shindig fade away as he gazes back into the woman's deep brown eyes. Strength flows into him, and even his old burn wounds feel better than they have in ages. Indeed, the Burmecian's very soul seems to be stirred, the gentle support so very much like the kind Priestesses that tended to him when he first fell into the patchwork World of Ruin. Memories stir of home, of all of the quiet, gentle souls that supported him from a mere child until his world's fall. The Templar's grip upon his weapon becomes surer, more confident. He too sits straighter, filled with purpose as he remembers the people he's met in his life, and the very reason he took up a spear in the first place. To fight evil, to fight Darkness so that others would not have to.

He'd made the speech out of reflex, training and a talent for oratory befitting a priest (as much as he likes to state otherwise) pushing him to do so. Ears, tattered and expressive as they are, splay back and burn red. He's left speechless by the kiss, somehow reminded both of his lost older sister, and that beautiful Cleyran dancer he so fancies. Ever the gentlerat, he turns away, coughing politely.

"Quite! With perserverance and faith, evil cannot win the day!"

Arista offers a spiteful glare in return to Jasmine's words...but it lacks the usual venom, even her threats half-hearted by comparison. Nevermind she actually spoke! Faruja looks quite amused.

Arista stretches, and flaps her great wings, effortlessly lifting off. She skims the water, not bothering with too much height, instead focusing on ferrying them across with all due haste.

"With the amount of corruption and darkness about, M'Lady Jasmine, 'tis the only outcome aside from utter destruction. Let us endeavor to ensure we...or our children at least, see such a day."

Faruja shakes his head. "No, thank you. To put it truthfully, I had been awfully suspicious of you. You practically bled the Lord's Holy Light in a way I have seen no priest, holy knight, or white mage able to conjure. The notion that there was some trickery, some...spell at work had entered my mind, casting falsehoods where those of the Abyss tread. And that...that /Thing/ in the shape of a man, who so seemed to know you...that frightening, terrible spectre." A shiver runs through him, renewed strength wavering before banished with a not insignificant force of willpower.

"Who are you, truthfully, Lady Jasmine? No, more to the point, /what/ are you M'Lady? Looking into your eyes, the way you speak, and the way you feel, instinct given by Holy Faram...everything about you seems so very bright and of a holy radiance, as if you were akin to Ajora himself, at the risk of blasphemy." He pauses as they approach the island swiftly, practically a blurr on Arista's back.

"Allies against the Darkness, the Heretical, the Abyss are so very few these days. I should like to call you such, but pray forgive me in my jaded wariness at that which seems either a miracle, or a false path laid before me. And as a Knight of the Church, I must be suspicious of such things, lest the Faithful be led astray."

But, the island approaches, and Arista lands. "Though perhaps the immediate threat would be better on both of our minds, hmm? Tell me of this plan, if it pleases you." Hop.

Jasmine has posed:

Behind, and then below them, the lake seems to distort slightly, soft roses of color blooming in its depths when Faruja is taken back to happier times. Jasmine notices this, and is quietly pleased, a steadfast pillar of support as they fly across the lake.

She bows her head in heartfelt agreement with his uplifting words, once more, but when he mentions Garland, the tremor that flows through her from head to toe is impossible not to feel, hanging on behind the Knight as she is. The maiden trembles, her heart pounding with... fear? Anger? Both, and neither. It is pure defiance that flows through her veins, summoning goosebumps to her flesh and making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. What dwells within her surges, as though eager to rise up and oppose even the mention of that champion of Darkness, to expunge him from the universe's tapestry. It rolls off of her in invisible waves. No... she is no ally of his.

Her breathing is deep and slow in a very controlled way, as though she is fiercely concentrating on winning an internal battle, waging a silent war. Her transformation back to tranquility, from the raw emotion Faruja stirred in her, is far slower than the first, an act of sheer willpower.

"He frightens me too, but I am more sad than afraid," she whispers. "Such Darkness... his tale is so full of sorrow." Her long lashes flutter as she fights back tears, as well as the Light that is so eager to expose them too profoundly. It would seal their fates, if she allowed it to burst forth again, drawing in far more opposition than even her tenuous plan and newfound ally might be able to handle. "That anyone would choose to be what he is..." Terrifying. Tragic. His remembered pain wracks her.

She wins the war, but loses the battle, a pair of tears sliding down her high cheekbones to sink into the Knight's back. Dashing them away quickly, Jasmine focuses on his next words, and questions. "I do not know your Faram, nor Ajora," she replies shyly, after clearing her throat of raw emotion. Somewhat forlornly, she acknowledges how little she knows: "What am I, and why am I pursued? I search for those very answers while trying to elude the Heartless and their masters. They have done great evil, in their hunt for me. I try to thwart them, as best I may, but without knowing their true intentions, nor my purpose... all I can do is..."

Arista lands, interrupting her train of thought. She's forced to prioritize the current crisis. "We will have to speak of this later. For now, we must let our hearts speak louder than any fears, if the plan is to succeed. Please, take a seat." She slides off neatly, and settles herself, kneeling in a pool of fabric, in the middle of the island. "Join me, and close your eyes, and..."

The words that flow from her mouth would be an absurd request from almost anyone else. "...think of your happiest thought. Any magic little thought. The best memory. Focus on it, to the exclusion of all else."

If he's still peeking, the Burmecian bears witness to her following her own instructions, and the lake gradually transforming to gold...

Faruja Senra has posed:

The Burmecian needs no words, ears and eye and finely honed senses his calling gives him making it all too apparent the emotions welling up in the small Lady. It's a battle he's all too familiar with, and she ends up far better than he did. The Templar was the one left a gibbering wreck after a gaze into so much DArkness, after all!

Faruja listens quietly, too, to the explanation, a tail wrapping about one of her ankles and squeezing. A sigh escapes him.

"Dear Lady Jasmine, I do believe your heart is perhaps overkind, though a refreshing sight it may be. Trouble yourself not over those who willingly plunge themselves into the Abyss. Their choices that led them to that path are their own, and no others. All one can do is match the schemes of such demons and madmen with wit, magery, and steel as necessary. Come now, the Lord reveals all in good time. We must not become impatient. 'Tis a virtue, patience. Indeed, enough for now." Faruja seems much more satisfied and at ease with the Princess, his immediate concerns with her at least banished.

Doing as asked, he sits, on his knees and tail curled behind him. "A happy memory, hmm?"

An eye closes, hunting his memory. The Templar is silent for once, still and quiet as discipline overtakes him.

Unngh. The memory is far, far too vivid, as if it happened yesterday. Light floods the Burmecian's vision...both eyes. Slowly, oh so slowly the light fades as Faruja gazes about. He's in a bed, white sheets, and the smell of herbs and other healing agents abound. Looking down, the rat frowns, spying the reason for his being here; a broken leg.

"Damned brute. Who would just /push/ a person off of a roof like that?" he grumbles. A shadow falls over him.

"The kind of brute who doesn't put up with little soldiers going off at the muzzle at the slightest provocation." White fur, and mischievious grin sits on the muzzle of one Sarah Senra, dressed in a coat and sundress, the former still dripping from the rain. She giggles, leaning down to poke her little brother on the nose. Nosepad wiggling, he sneezes.

"Oh, stop, Sarah! My leg is broken! I should like to bloody his nose. What are you doing here? Look at you, still wet! Mother would have a fit! You should be at home!"

Sarah tilts her head, peering downwards.

"My, my, my has the military life toughened you up already? Here I am, walking all of that way just to see your ungrateful tail! Why, I'm insulted!" she mocks. Faruja snorts, turning away.

"...Sorry, Sis. I know, I know I should watch my temper. You don't deserve such a spiteful brother. I'm naught but a bother."

Sarah sighs, leaning down again, and giving the smaller nezumi a kiss on the cheek. "That temper of yours is endearing, little Brother. Now stop such talk. Direct it to some better purpose. And don't ever say that you are a bother. You are family. We will be friends, and family, forever." She smiles, and tossles his hair. Faruja turns, and smiles.

"Forever, Sis."

Jasmine has posed:

Jasmine's right hand slips down to gently squeeze Faruja's tail back, when it twines round her ankle. She sighs in unison with him, her lilting, honeyed soprano providing a harmonious descant of ... acceptance, oddly enough. Not of his words, precisely. She seems resigned, rather, to defy them, in a million tiny ways. For "Someone must," is all she says on the topic of caring for those who have fallen to Darkness; by then, they are well and truly running out of time.

The jangling, discordant presence of the Heartless has shouted down the lake's sweet serenity. Long shadows are rising around the edges, taller and taller, threatening even to eclipse the rising moon. They call magic to themselves, fire and lightning and ice, and prepare to launch the initial barrage, to scorch and freeze a path to their prey.

But the lake is responding to memories of family and home. The City of Enchantment, alabaster and gold, pale dunes and starry skies, hot nights and cool shade, rises up gloriously, one onion-domed spire at a time. But it is walked by nezumi, happy, peaceful Burmecians, if not untouched by war than at least unbroken. A very few others dwell in the strange landscape as well; glimpses of a mighty tiger, a proud mare, a doddering Sultan all flicker in and out of the water. Even a shadowy vizier, for in Jasmine's waking dream, she is brought back to a time where they all lived together in peace, when she was innocent enough to believe that everyone in Agrabah was as happy as she.

Rose and gold flickering tenuously, then ever more strongly, the surface boils upwards into a gigantic sphere, rising high above the lake, connected by an increasingly narrow thread of liquid. Presumably, the only person to witness the show directly is Arista, though the sense of increasing tension, and a power buoyed by the Light but not originally born of it, is unmistakably surrounding them, like an impenetrable wall between island and Heartless.

"Don't look," Jasmine murmurs. "Just trust. Believe, Faruja... believe in your heart. Remember..."

Faruja Senra has posed:

Arista, for all that she's spiteful, hateful, and just a shove away from being outright evil, has one redeeming quality as a person; her love for the Burmecian that raised her. And so, as magic slowly starts to gather and coalesce around the sea of Heartless than surround them, she hurries to Faruja's side. Scaled flanks, sides, and wings rest about him, even as she watches that glorious sphere rise up. For the first time since she thought the young Templar dead so many months ago, a tear slips down her draconic eyes. Home. She, too, has lost so much. The great war wyvern, bred for combat, death, and glory weeps openly as the beauty conjured by something so simple as the mingled memories of home, bolstered by the Light.

Faruja's eye is clenched shut, runes woven by the Church's mages to protect him and allow him his more powerful techniques burning on flesh and fur as they react to the pure power of the barrier around him. The pain, holy and sacrosanct, helps him focus. More memories come, of the little flower girl on the corner, his comrades in the army kicking back and telling boisterous lies about women and monsters, time spent with his family on the ranch...even his own, oh-so-hated Monarch and his Dragoons mingle happily. Better times, without so much chaos and conflict flood him.

Jasmine has posed:

Jasmine remembers her mother in all ways but the visual, which is somewhat ironic considering that they're increasingly identical, as she's grown and matured. But she was so very young when her mother died, and her recollections are not weakened, but abstracted, by a child's mind: a warm, soft hand, the scent of her favorite oil, the sound of her laughter. More clearly does she recall her father's story of what /happened/ to her mother -- off to dance among the stars, he explained. To share her beauty with all beings, to return to the hearts of everyone.

"But /my/ heart misses her," she whispered, voice quavering, into her father's beard as he held her.
"Yes, dearest. Mine does too."

Surrounded by her father's strength, she fiercely remembers what it was like to have a home. And Faruja does as well, and from their hearts combined, the massive, undulating sphere reaches its zenith above the lake... and with a quiet drip-drop upwards, like rising tears, its tether snaps.

The Heartless assail this creature of memories increasingly frantically, but they lack elemental coordination, and more importantly, the strength of its convictions, the warmth and Light that form its foundation. It absorbs their attacks and re-emits them across a wide variety of energetic spectrum. The battle is titanic, and yet over very quickly.

The princess releases a breath that she didn't realize she was holding, when she feels the last of the nearby darkness fade. "Open your eyes," she instructs; following her own instructions, she inhales sharply to see the beauty they have wrought, the dazzling memories overhead. Tears reform instantly, but as different in quality as the flame is from the void.

Without their concentration, it begins to shrink, condensing into something smaller but not lesser. It drifts downward as though sinking through syrup, until it floats just above Jasmine's palms.

Her arms outstretched, she pushes the orb, without quite touching it, somehow, towards Faruja.

"I think this is meant for you," she says softly.

Faruja Senra has posed:

Faruja opens his eyes, the familiar smell of crackling air in the distance indicating a battlefield faintly wafting to his nose. But there's none of the eerie silence marred by the screams of those yet to pass away, no lost friends, no grieving parents in the making. Beauty. Stretching before him, shielding them, is the memories of a home lost, friends and family in all likelyhood lost forever. Sweet memories, to treasure, and to never be forgotten. For Faruja, the past may yet set him on a dark road, but as he gazes around himself his heart is filled with both longing and joy. His good eye unashamedly lets drip tears. It takes all of his strength to not break down and finally mourne his homeland. No, not yet. Not while there's still a chance, buried beneath shadow and evil.

The orb floats to him, and he reaches out. The orb slips between two gauntleted fingers, held there with their sides. Deftly, he flips the little orb between them, an old dexterity sharpening trick he was taught by an old superior back in the army. He hadn't done it in a long time, nor even thought of the grey muzzled Colonel that taught him everything he knew of leading a squad and bringing one's companions back home alive.

It's slipped into his robes surrounding his armor, set in a pocketed alongside his Ajoran Holy Text. A slightly wet red eye turns to Jasmine.

"M'Lady." Slowly, he smiles, peaceful and friendly. "...I dare say you are some sort of miracle worker indeed."

Jasmine has posed:

Through her tears, Jasmine's gaze is warm and steady, her smile radiant, as she watches Faruja handle the orb, and his own feelings. She shakes her head, the light catching the gemstone caught above her brow, in her hair, at the apex of her circlet, revealed by her veil having slipped down. It gathers within, then refracts in all colors.

"No, Faruja..." She calls him informally by his given name, but on her lips it is a three-syllable blessing of the highest order. "...this miracle dwells in the hearts of everyone. Remember that, when your path takes you to dark places, and you will never be lost."

One hand reaches out, very subtly, towards Arista's taloned foot. Just the lightest touch, and nothing more. Then she rises, reveiling herself swiftly, and looks up at her. "I would travel to the northern boundary of this forest in haste. Please... would you take me there?" The question is to both of them, of course, but more to the one who would have to bear the burden directly.

Faruja Senra has posed:

It's rather pretty, the placement. Faruja nods approvingly. He'll have to get that Cleyran something similar. It'd look fetching.

A fuzzy brow rises. Alexandrians, Baronians...even the man so filled with Darkness called Garland? For a moment, a frown comes to his muzzle. "...Everyone, hmm?" He looks at her skeptically, before rising.

Ever one to survey a battlefield after its conclusion, he peers out beyond their little island, with a more professional and appraising eye. His tail sways slowly, methodically. "...Unorthodox. Strong emotions, mayhap a powerful need for alignment with Holy. Curious. She will be interested." The Templar mumbles.

Arista doesn't hiss at the touch, slowly and reluctantly unburying her snout from the ground. She tries to look dignified and simply /better/ than the little human before her. But it's all too soon, and her usual arrogance is missing. With a forced begrudging look, she lowers her sides and flanks. Faruja is soon upon her back, a hand helping up the woman so full of mystery and kindness.

"Do you jest, M'Lady? Asking such a question after that display? Come, up with you, seems we have little time to waste. Here. Take this, do not lose it. Should you need assistance, my number is recorded in this device. A means of inter-dimensional communication." His tail will offer one of Xanatos' Ma Belle Interdimensional Phones. Handy, those.

Jasmine has posed:

It's rather royal, though not the most obvious mark of Jasmine's station; no precious jewel can add to her bearing, which is obliviously gracious in its poise, unreservedly noble in mien without being stuffy or overbearing in any way. She is simply herself, and she is a princess. "Everyone," she repeats gently but firmly, meeting his skeptical eye with her own, which contains less innocence and more luminescent faith. Belief, down to the core of her being, of the goodness that dwells, oft ignored, oft forgotten, in all hearts.

While he analyzes the field of battle, she bows her head before Arista, humbly, making it easier for the wyvern to loom without having to meet her eyes for more than an electric instant. Her hand grasps the Templar's unhesitatingly, and soon she is behind him, but it rejects the phone with a politely bared palm. "No, thank you. I already have one, you see." With a beep, the phones exchange numbers; ah, the wonder of modern technology. She can't help but be awed every time, and it shows.

"But your offer of aid, I accept gladly, and give in turn. If ever you need me, I will come to you." Delivered in her dulcet tones, the oath is solemn nonetheless. "You seem a knight of great learning; there is a name some have given me, though I scarcely comprehend its full meaning. If, now or later, in the annals of your faith, or journey of your spirit, you hear of a reference to a 'Princess of Heart', I beg you, please tell me of it. It is not a mystery I will be able to solve alone."

Faruja Senra has posed:

That royal attitude, though humble in its way, still rubs against Faruja's politics and experiences. His smile becomes a smirk, for a moment a commoner staring at royalty with all the gulf of class divide seperating them. But it's momentary, and Lord help him, he'll forgive her the misfortune of being a blue blood given her many other more endearing qualities.

"We shall see." No, the Templar has seen too much evil, and has too much baggage to yet see what goodness may lay even in those that stole from him and his people.

The phone is pocketed, and he gives a nod of approval. "Excellent. You humans and your technology, I swear. A wonder!"

The Princess rescuing the Knight? It's a silly thought, yet one that has just happened. Faruja smiles honestly. "Then let us toss aside debts, and consider the other ally and friend. No need for formalities. Indeed, I shall burn such a name into my memory, and search well. Mayhap the libraries in Mullonde will have something." Flap! Flap! They're off, into the air. Faruja sighs, the stress of so many old memories more draining than the worst of battles.

"But let us talk of happier things during the ride! I shall tell you of the coming of Holy Ajora! 'Twas but a small town the Holy Son was born in. Indeed, as he but was born to his humble mother of common blood, he stood up! Walk forth to the well, guided by Holy Faram's will made manifes in his very bones. Tainted, did he declare the well, and it was indeed so! Yet none had recognized this, and much to their woe, for those who did not heed his word fell stricken by illness..."

It's going to be a long ride, Jasmine. Prepare to be preached to.