Chapter Text
Steer
The crowds had steered him off the ship almost as much as his gratitude to be on stable ground again - while he had not had the nausea that plagued some about, Tsilēdze did not overly enjoy the swaying motion that was simply part of the experience. On much smaller vessels he dealt with it fine, but on much smaller vessels he was more in control of the motion.
The salt air had been pleasant enough, though, aside from during stormy seas, and he almost regretted that his road might take him away from them. But he'd determined back in Tural that he needed to see the world. In his youth he'd intended to see all of Tural as a Landsguard, but then that had been stolen from him by the Resilient Son and... whatever the fuck Sphene had been. He hadn't understood any of the explanations attempted, not that he particularly gave a damn. He hadn't trusted her since he'd lost the memory of whoever they had been.
Someone whose side of the bed had still smelled like them up until he'd left Solution 9, peppers and the snap of ozone.
He shakes the thoughts from his head as he makes his way along the docks, staying close to the other folks from Tural. They'd spent the journey trying to brush up everyone's Eorzean Common so none of them would be too adrift in the foreign land, although it hadn't been enough time for his liking, but - here he was. At the least, he'd gotten a rough idea of how to spell his name in their alphabet.
A rough idea he needs rather soon, as the port official seems familiar enough with Mamool Ja names, but when she reaches him he rattles it off and when she writes down Seeledzay and then looks at him expectantly, he heaves a sigh and spells it instead. Then, when she has Tsiledze down, there is an awkward silence for several moments before she asks "Surname?".
He has, he must confess, no idea what the hell she means. He's had a lot of names. Which one does she want? Tsilēdze, the Neon Porcupine? Tsilēdze, of Tlēgōhīn? Oh, that hurts too much to even consider. He spreads his hands in front of him, confused. "Tsilēdze Ushyeh," he says, the latter meaning 'my name is'.
She writes down Ooshyay as the second name. He feels a headache coming on. He gives up, corrects the spelling, and moves along.
Not the most auspicious start to his time in this land, but it would have to do. He makes his way further into Limsa, letting the crush of the crowd steer him once more.