The Adventures of a Young Noble: An Eorzean Tale

Prologue: Preparations

The sun had reached its' zenith already. The bright rays of the midday pierced the thin draperies that hung on Malastra's window. His plush bed linens were ruffled and in disarray with the several bags, clothes, and miscellaneous items that had been thrown on it haphazardly. At the foot of the bed stood Malastra, a well groomed midland hyur that stands 5'6". His shoulder length brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail that flopped from side to side as he surveyed his 'loot' that lay on the bed.

“What to take, what to leave?” He muses as he stares at the pile of stuff.

He kneels next to a large trunk that sits on the floor beside him. His hand slides into his breast pocket and pulls out a silvery key. He spins it between his fingers once and then slides the key into the lock on the front of the trunk. An audible snick indicating that the lock had released. With a slight groan and a strong shove he pushes the top back to its vertical position, where a small rod holds it in place.

“Well, I should fill this up with the stuff I am not going to need right off the boat and then fill my carry bags with the more essential items I guess.” He says smiling down at the huge space within the Trunk.

Turning back to the bed, he begins grabbing clothes. His eyes take in each shirt, pair of trousers, vests, doublets, hats, gloves, boots, rings, bracers, armbands, and yes even his under things with a meticulous scan. A few things are thrown to the side landing in disarray on the large velvety chair that sits by his bed, many are put neatly into the bottom of the trunk and the rest are laid aside on the bed with care.

After arranging all of his clothes, he begins going through the random items that lay on the bed. He picks up an Alembic, Mortar and Pestle and stare at them a moment. A soft smile crosses his face and he lays them gently on top of his clothes. Picking up a small smithy hammer, he runs a finger along the grooves and nicks on the head, with a grunt he sticks that atop his clothes as well. Several of the items end up on the floor or in the chair next to the bed, tossed aside without care. A particular vial of rose colored water shatters upon the floor sending a sickeningly sweet odor up in the air. Within moments there is a rap at the door and a soft voice on the other side.

“Master Malastra, is everything alright in there?” A decidedly female voice asks in a barely audible murmur through the door.

“Yes, Miss Marjory, I just dropped a perfume vial. I will clean it up later.” He says with a slight hint of irritation in his voice.

“Are you sure sir? I could come in and clean it for you.” The voice coos from the other side.

“Quite certain Marjory, I can clean my own messes. That will be all unless there is some other reason you were lurking near my door.” He says in a flippant manor.

“Actually sir, you mother wished to see you. She said something about talking some sense into you. But you didn’t hear that from me sir.” The woman said.

With a groan he rises from his knees and walks over to the door. He reaches for the door handle and stops. Leaning next to the door were two weapons, a sword whose leather grip showed spidery cracks and frayed edges from much use and a staff whose unfinished wooden shaft had multiple places where it looked as though a hand had worn a soft impression into it. Though both had seen long use they each appeared to be well taken care of. Oiled and polished leather gleamed as though it were rubbed every day by loving hands, the wood of the staff sanded and without a sign of wear other than the hand grips.

Picking them both up, he straps the sword to his waste and carries the staff his off hand. With the other hand he opens the with his dominant hand and stares at the elderly woman on the other side. Marjory, had peppered hair, where the gray of her years had only lent character to the raven locks that she had in her youth. Her clothes denoted her as a servant of the house, though she held the air of some authority within her position. Marjory stared at the young man standing in the doorway, weapons of war at hand and only a mask of irritation on his face.

“If it weren’t for that rueful glare you wear sir, I would almost say you were dashing.” She said in a mocking tone.

“That perfume I made for you when I was a young lad reeks something awful, you should try to get it up before I get back.” He said as a smirk crossed his face.

“Oh aye and a moment ago it was, ‘I can clean up my own messes.’ I see how it is, and you are still a young lad whether you realize it or not, Young Master.” She says with a smirk of her own.

He quirks a brow and thinks of retorting but shakes his head instead. He walks down the stairs, staff gripped tightly in his hand. He puts on his best war face as he heads towards the sun room, where his mother was wont to lounge in the midday.