Companion Chapter: Another Mile of Broken Road-Ginal's Side

Role-playing is the act of becoming other people. 

That’s a definition, not an insight. Because role-playing, like writing fiction or method acting, is not just about intellectual understanding — it’s an active leap of empathy. When we role-play, we find another person inside our selves. And we move in, see the world through their memory and emotions, and limit our thoughts and feelings to those they might have had. Inevitably, these prove to be a subset (though often an unsuspected one) of our own.

Role-playing is the act of self-discovery.

This is why the enterprise is so addicting. We are like a mariner long confined to his village harbor, who discovers his small island is the center of a grand archipelago. In all these diverse places, I might have lived. He sets out to explore other islands, and ends up gazing at the limitless sea beyond.

The archipelago is the sum of our own unexplored potential. (No man is an island, but he may well be several.) The sea is the boundary between us and other people.

Role-playing is rarely a solitary activity. We create our own alternate self, but our partners in the role-play are creating other selves as well. It is the interaction of these selves that makes MMO role-playing, even in its simplest forms, more satisfying than solitary play. In time, we come to know these other creations almost as intimately as our own.

And so the ultimate challenge in a role-play is to switch roles, to play the other character. On one level, it is a test of how well you, as creator, have done your job — can others see the world through your created eyes? On another, it is a test of your own skill of empathy — the act of seeing the world through the eyes of others. Creating and seeing are both satisfying challenges.

That is what Ginal’s pilot and I are doing here — telling a shared adventure through the eyes and emotions of the other’s character. For these next few chapters, Ginal’s pilot will write as Selah, and I will write as Ginal. It’s a game, in a way — a contest of observation and empathy. But it’s also a good way to get to know our own characters more deeply, by seeing how other minds perceive them.

It can be a humbling experience. But it’s also a great deal of fun. It wasn’t until I “was” Ginal that I discovered that Miqo’te hate swimming because their tails get wet. I do hope that Ginal’s pilot forgives me for that little revelation.

-Selah Phocina in real life

**This piece takes place during Silk Talons: Part 5, written by Selah Phocina**

They left Gridania before dawn — two men in a wagon drawn by chocobos, and two women with lances, riding their own long-necked, dun-yellow birds. The road through the forest was peaceful and empty, winding among trees that cast a web of black lace against the dim yellow sky. One by one, the solitary night birds fell silent, to be replaced by the joyous, swelling chorus of the day.

Ginal’s ears flicked, alert to every chirp and rustle. She felt the dawn with all her forest-bred senses, and she knew without conscious thought that the birds sensed no threat, and the small creatures of the woodland floor scurried in peace. She also knew that peace is a fragile and temporary thing. At any moment a hawk might swoop out of the glare, or a wildcat might pounce from the shadows, ending a small, busy life to extend its own.

But that was part of the forest too, just as the arrows of her tribe were part of the natural order. The forest’s joy was intense precisely because it was fragile. But it was also strong, with the sinewy power of things that change and interlock and continue — the web of life and death, which at this moment entwined with her own warrior existence.

Selah was riding a little ahead, her battle-trained eyes scanning the road. Because it was not hawks or wildcats against which they warded these traveling merchants, but all too human predators, or the diverse races of beast-men who called Eorzea home. They might be driven by greed or racial hatred, or by some complex mixture of the two, but they were all of them Enemy, beings who had to be spotted and intimidated, or met with steel and defeated. That was what Ginal and Selah were there for — intimidation and defense. And, preferably, the former — a battle won before they even sensed the enemy.

“The best victory is the battle you don’t have to fight,” Selah had told her that morning, as they checked their weapons and armor, and the protective harness of their mounts, and inspected the merchant wagon. “And yes, that loose axle pin was important. I’m glad we spotted it. A defeat can hinge on equipment failure.”

All of which struck Ginal as overly fussy, even pedantic. Losing a wheel might cost them an hour’s labor, but surely it would not create an Ixal raid where there was none, or bring a rogue Roegadyn bandit out of the underbrush. She decided that Selah was just trying to make a point — the blindingly obvious one that she outranked Ginal by some ridiculous amount, but had been assigned to train her. Selah was a famous Dragoon, who had gone toe-to-toe with primals and survived mad melees against the top warriors of the Empire. Ginal was still learning her basic lancer strokes and stances. She knew she showed promise — Guild-master Ywain had told her as much, as had Selah herself. But so did a hundred young lancers. Why the special treatment?

Ginal shrugged, and settled back to watching the bushes for bandits. But her attention kept wandering, to her own thoughts and troubles, and to the disturbingly attractive figure of her mentor. Because Selah, as well as being famous and absurdly overqualified to play caravan-guard or junior-lancer instructor, was an extremely attractive woman, and not all that much older than Ginal herself, if one simply counted the turns of the calendar. She was also interested in other women, rather than (or perhaps as well as) men — guild gossip and Ginal’s own observations had made that blindingly clear. And Ginal, in the moments she was most honest with herself, and not trying to hide, was very much of the same persuasion.

Just over the border, they ran into a pack of Ziz. Ginal and Selah dismounted and fought beside their birds; at least Selah did, partnering with her ‘bo Dinornis as a coordinated team. Ginal’s borrowed chocobo hen showed no enthusiasm for battle, and soon wandered off to lurk under the trees while her rider did all the work.

It was a small Ziz pack, and probably well-fed, since they didn’t put up much of a fight. Ginal started adding some fancy leaps and twirls to her attacks, just to make the fight interesting. She sensed Selah’s sidelong glances, and showed off even more, bending over to expose her panties from behind, or her cleavage from in front. She taunted the Ziz like she would tease a man, pretending vulnerability, then countering with a vicious slash when a carnivorous bird-beast sidled up to bite. Soon the Ziz decided they’d had enough, and melted back into the forest.

“You don’t usually see those brutes in South Shroud,” one of the merchants remarked. “At least not this side of the Druthers. I wonder what brings them here.”

“Climate change,” the other merchant answered. “The whole world’s messed up since the Calamity. Next thing you know we’ll get snow, like they did in Coerthas. Or the desert will move in from Thanalan. Or we’ll get dragons. It’s no bloody fair.” Ginal knew they’d had this conversation before. The men were partners, in both senses of the word.

Selah shrugged. Ginal imagined her saying, “Life isn’t fair — get used to it,” as she had on a number of occasions. But the merchant couple were paying clients of the Lancers’ Guild. Perhaps politeness came with the duty. Or perhaps Selah was a bit of a hypocrite, making rude remarks only when she could get away with them.

Ginal wondered what she would be like in bed. Would the imperious Hyur become a yielding, feminine partner? Or would she dominate as she did in battle, calling the shots and punishing any misbehavior? Ginal had a sudden vision of collars and whips, and felt wet heat between her thighs. As well as a certain… uprising. Amazing that this woman could excite both her genders at once.

Not that she would ever have the chance to know Selah… that way. Ginal’s fantasy sex life was explicit and intense because it was the only kind she had. She would never again dare to reveal her true nature to anyone, and open herself to ridicule and rejection. Been there, done that. And got the scars to prove it.

But, if she ever dared, it would be with someone like this Hyur Dragoon, with her tall, muscular body and her fierce, efficient competence.

“We’ll stop overnight at the Druthers,” the Elezen merchant said over his shoulder. “Normally we would push on to Lake Tranquil, but Buscaron’s an old friend. And if there are Ziz on the loose we want to keep the team stabled.”

“You’re the boss,” said Selah. “But I’m inclined to agree about protecting the team.”

Good news, Ginal thought. Like most Miqo’te, she preferred her own legs to a chocobo’s, and the day’s ride had left her sore and stiff. A few drinks, a leisurely dinner, and some pleasant conversation with Selah. Or perhaps there would be some young local men, ripe for a little romantic teasing.

As if sensing her thoughts, Selah turned in the saddle and caught Ginal’s eye with a gesture. “And you and I will have a nice long afternoon for Ziz hunting.”

Ginal mentally cursed her mentor’s energy. “But we drove them off!” she protested.

“Ziz come back. And we could use a little practice.”

And, by “we”, you mean “you,” Ginal thought. Or, in other words, me. Damn you, Selah Phocina!

“We can take care of the team,” the younger merchant assured them. “Happy hunting!”

Do we really have to do this? Ginal wondered. She sat cross-legged on the foot of the rustic cot she had claimed, the one under the window, where she could watch the stars. That left Selah the larger bed, but that was fine with Ginal. The long-limbed Hyur looked like a restless sleeper. And, given Ginal’s erotic feelings about Selah, and their physical consequence, she was just as glad not to risk having a leg flung over her at an inopportune moment.

Selah had unpacked her saddle-bag, and arranged the contents in neat piles on one of the shelves in the closet alcove. Ginal could see that she was used to traveling. The older woman’s actions had the look of a half-conscious ceremony — another day, another inn room. At least they had beds and a roof over their heads. If they had continued to Lake Tranquil, as planned, they would have been camping under the stars.

“Meet me downstairs in ten minutes or so,” Selah said. She strode out of the room, leaving her Dragoon lance propped beside the bed. Ginal shrugged, and picked up her own modest weapon, a steel-bladed pole-arm with a shaft of tough, close-grained elm. She supposed Selah might be headed down to the outdoor convenience, but the Dragoon rarely went anywhere without her prized weapon. “Not my sheep, not my haggis,” Ginal thought. She had picked up the phrase from a guild-mate from Coerthas, and the image made her smile.

Ginal’s puzzlement increased when she reached the public room of the inn and saw Selah haggling with the resident weapons vendor. The Hyur hefted a spear and tested its balance, then checked the edge of the blade with a practiced thumb. “I’ll give you a thousand,” she said.

“That’s high-quality work,” the merchant countered. “It could easily fetch five thousand in the open market. But I’ll let you have it for three.”

“One and a half,” Selah said. “And I’ll throw in this aethereal tourmaline ring. You can get six thousand for it, easily. But it’s a mage’s ring, and does me no good.”

The merchant rolled the ring through his fingers. “These things are common as dirt. Two thousand, and the ring, and you have a deal.”

“Done,” said Selah. She slung the new spear across her back. “Ready, Ginal?”

“What about your lance?” the Miqo’te asked, flicking an ear toward the stairs.

“Just evening the playing field,” Selah replied with a wicked grin. “And, since your bird won’t fight, I’m leaving Dinornis in the stable.”

Was this some weird kind of training ritual? If Ginal had owned a Relic weapon that flashed white fire, she would never have traded it for a simple spear. And if she had a chocobo that fought like an equal partner… She shrugged. Not my sheep, not my haggis. Selah was making some kind of point, but Ginal didn’t have to rise to the bait. She just had to get through the afternoon’s hunt and back to a good dinner in a comfortable inn.

The Lancer and the Dragoon headed north from the inn, scanning the ground for Ziz spoor. A blind beggar could track those beasts, Ginal thought. They broke branches, they stepped in mud, and they pooped frequently, at great volume. And they stank. Even for top predators, Ziz were careless. The pack had headed straight through the forest, leaving their mess and scent behind them. Soon they were joined by others, a trail coming in from the east.

“Maybe ten, total?” Selah asked.

“Perhaps twelve. Including a herd-master and a couple of young.” Ginal knew she was showing off, but forest-lore was her skill, and she didn’t mind being better than Selah for once.

Selah examined the tracks and nodded, as if confirming Ginal’s assessment. They followed the combined pack deeper into the forest.

They found them gathered in a clearing, bowing and posturing in cryptic Ziz-ceremonies. The breeding females had massed near the center with their young, while the heavier males and older females stood guard.

There were twenty-two Ziz all together.

“Ouch,” said Ginal softly. “Too many for us to handle. Best go back and alert the Wood Wailers.”

“We could do that,” Selah said. She leaned on her spear and examined the Ziz with an air of casual experience. “Or we could use this as a lesson in confronting overwhelming force. Because there aren’t too many, if we pull them in groups and dispatch them efficiently.”

Lecture time, Ginal sensed. Twelve preserve us from mentors!

“I’ve watched you fight, Ginal. And, while you have an excellent ferocity and power for your size, you could use a bit more strategy. And, if I may be blunt, less gratuitous show-boating. Those flips and twirls you performed this morning were attractive, but they added nothing to your effectiveness.”

Ginal blushed. She knew that much of her acrobatics had been showing off her body to Selah. And Selah knew it too. Damn the woman, anyway!

“Then there is the matter of rotation — the order in which you use your attacks. I know you understand this, because it’s one of Ywain’s classic lectures. But, for instance, there’s the Phlebotomize stab-and-twist. As you know, it opens up a vein and weakens your opponent over time from blood loss. Not much of a hit at first, but it adds up. But you use it late in your rotation, when your prey is already half dead. Don’t. Open with it, and keep renewing it as necessary. The cumulative damage will save you a few strokes at the end, and a few strokes are a few seconds, which may be required elsewhere. Remember — efficiency is better than technical fireworks, in a battle situation.”

“Got it,” Ginal muttered. Honestly, Selah was treating her like a green recruit. She’d heard this all a hundred times before. “Shall we pull?”

“Soon. I just wanted to remind you about partnering and combinations. I’ll be playing ‘tank’ in this fight, so I need you to take the rear and flank, and use the strokes that do the most damage in those positions, followed by the appropriate combo. Again, a matter of seconds saved. But seconds count. And keep aggro off of you, unless you see I need a respite. Got it?”

“Got it. Who shall we kill first?”

“The herd bull. He’s at the edge, and we need to eliminate him fast, so he doesn’t keep bothering us. Pulling on three… two… one… HYAHHH!”

The startled bull-Ziz found himself surrounded by flashing steel. A moment later, he was bleeding heavily and stunned by Selah’s vicious leg-swipe. But the junior bulls were on the run, and they had only seconds before they arrived. Ginal moved in on the flank for a heavy thrust, then stepped behind the beast for a deadly-efficient two-stroke combination. Selah was suddenly airborne, wielding her simple spear like a Dragoon’s lance, gaining power from her fall. The bull collapsed under the impact, and Ginal finished him off.

There was no time for congratulations. The junior bulls were moving in with strategy, flanking the lancers. Ginal found herself fighting back-to-back with Selah, fending off razor-sharp beaks and claws. It was a messy fight and a tiring one, but Ginal kept her opponents bleeding and weakened. The first bull fell as Selah dispatched a second. Then there were only two, and the going was easier. But still not a rout — the matriarchs were moving in, leaving the breeding females with their young.

“Fall back to the trees,” Selah shouted over her shoulder. “We’ll try to break them up, take them in small groups.”

Ginal was too busy to answer, but she kited two attacking matriarchs away from the rest of the pack, noticing that the others were not anxious to follow. Selah was doing the same with her adversary, which she finished with a disemboweling thrust before joining Ginal with her opponents, efficiently catching their attention while Ginal took over flank-and-side supporting damage for the kill.

The rest of the pack was in full flight now, squawking and crashing through the forest. “Follow them?” Ginal panted, leaning on her spear.

“We’ve done enough. That lot will head back over the border. And maybe tell their uncles and cousins that South Shroud’s no picnic.” Selah clapped Ginal on the shoulder. “Good work, friend. I knew you could do it!”

Ginal considered a snarky reply, but let it go. She had probably deserved the “Lancer 101” lecture she had been given, and Selah was actually not a bad teacher. Just a little, well, condescending. And pedantic. And also distractingly gorgeous.

“So — dinner?”

“Dinner. But let’s not track blood and Ziz guts all over Buscaron’s nice clean dining room. There’s a swimming hole in the river near the inn, reasonably private and safe from bitey-scratchy things.”

“Um, okay.” Ginal certainly agreed she could use a bath. And washing clothes was a good excuse to keep them on while swimming. Which she would most certainly do.

Because Selah might be gorgeous, but Ginal was not yet ready to give her a detailed anatomy lesson.

The swimming hole was everything Selah had promised — deep and clean, private and blessedly uninfested with dangerous beasts. It spanned a bend of the river, with leaning trees and broad, sun-washed boulders dividing it into smaller, secluded pools. Privacy, Ginal thought. Would Selah be offended if I claimed one of these as my own?

“I’ll be here,” Selah remarked, indicating a deep green-glass pool with a sweep of her arm. “You can join me, or explore, as you prefer. Keep your lance handy, but I don’t think you’re going to need it.”

As if she read my thought, Ginal thought. Or, more likely, as if she read my body language. A good lancer becomes almost psychic, from constantly reading their opponent’s intentions on the battlefield. It was a skill Ywain had demonstrated many times, during their training sessions. “A good lancer is an excellent poker player,” was another of his aphorisms. Ginal wondered if Selah was a gambler.

She walked slowly along the river, exploring the complex of deep, inviting pools. Just before the stream narrowed again to course over shallow rapids, she found the perfect bathing pool — deep but sun-drenched, with a clean rocky shallow area and an inviting boulder island. Ginal stripped of her bloody outer garments and sat in the shallows, scrubbing them against stones. She had gathered some Miqo’te Soapweed on her walk, and the nasty stains soon washed away. She spread her shirt and breeches on the trunk of an ash tree that leaned out over the water, and set her boots and lance safely on the shore. Then it was time for serious swimming.

Like most of Eorzea’s cat people, Ginal had ambivalent feelings toward water. She loved being clean, and the cleansing feel that water provided. But she was never really comfortable underwater. Water was a smothering element as well as a cleansing one, and diving deep felt like inviting death.

Besides, water made her tail soggy. Ginal struck out across the pond to the boulder island. The rock sloped into the pool at its upstream end before breaking off, providing a nice bathing-bench. She rubbed her body and undergarments with the Soapweed and rinsed clean. Then, after checking carefully for watchful eyes, she stripped naked and gave her underthings a good scrubbing. And, finally, the parts of her body that the underthings had sheltered.

It felt so good to be clean. And it felt even better to be at rest, after the frantic danger of the battle. Ginal crawled onto the sun-warmed boulder and lay face-down on its speckled granite surface. She rested her head on her folded arms, and drifted toward a comfortable sleep.

A cheerful whistle roused her. After a moment, she recognized Selah’s distinctive tone. The dragoon was warning Ginal of her approach, giving her time to cover anything that needed covering. Ginal’s ears flattened in embarrassment, but she also appreciated her partner’s tact. She pulled on her panties, but left her camise lying on the rock. She didn’t have to feel ashamed of her breasts.

“Oh, there you are,” Selah called across the water. “I see you found the boulder. It’s a good fishing spot, too. The trout hang out under its edges when the sun is high. Are you ready for dinner?”

It was weird talking to her like this — half-naked, with her clothes and lance out of reach. And Selah’s clothes still damp, her auburn hair slicked back and dripping, her face flushed with the exertion of swimming. There was something astonishingly intimate about it. But it also felt comfortable, like a scene that would be replayed many times, with subtle variations.

“I’m starving,” Ginal replied. She pulled on her camise and plunged into the water, sputtering as she surfaced halfway to the shore. Selah politely turned away as Ginal finished dressing.

“At least it’s warm,” Ginal remarked as she pulled on her boots. “I suppose you’re going to lecture me for not keeping my lance within reach.”

“Sounds like I don’t have to,” Selah replied amiably. “No harm, no foul.”

The sun sank behind the trees as they approached Buscarron’s Druthers. Their path was submerged in deep blue shadows. Like being underwater, Ginal mused. But peaceful. Unless something decided to attack — that could always happen, in the woods. Water and shadow and the sense of peace and danger. Hunger and the need to sleep. The raucous calls of the Ziz, their hides lurid yellow against the blue-gray of the forest. I’ll sleep like a log tonight, she thought, and I’ll have great dreams.

“What are you going to do with the extra lance?” she asked suddenly. “Keep it as a backup?”

Selah fingered the shaft of the weapon over her shoulder. “I could sell it for almost what I paid. But I thought I would give it to you.”

Ginal made a small, astonished noise, not quite a question.

“If you want it, of course. But I think you are due for an upgrade.”

“Thank you. I… would be honored.”

Selah bowed slightly. “You are most welcome. You earned it in the Ziz fight. And that’s our inn ahead through the trees. Do I smell antelope stew?”

“It smells wonderful,” said Ginal. “Race you to dinner!”

She dashed ahead, followed by Selah’s laughter and agile footsteps. A warm, comfortable feeling filled her soul. Selah was giving her the lance! Whenever she wielded it in battle, she would remember this moment, and this feeling. A feeling which was strange, and yet familiar — like something she had dreamed of, when she imagined being in love.

**Please read Companion Piece 4: Another Mile of Broken Road-Selah's Side for the full effect of this story**