THE LION'S LAMENT
A mysterious voice. A stone of unknown origin.
It began as a search for answers and purpose.
It will end in a fight for his right to exist.
Overview
This is a carrd detailing my XIV character's journey through the time period encompassing 'The Parting Glass' up to the close of 'Heavensward'. When thinking about these events, I realised I wanted something more palpable than a summary, so this came into existence. It is a combination of screenshots and storytelling with the intention to invoke the same feeling playing any of the MSQ does-- as though you are watching the story of a non-playable character unfold.Whether or not I succeed, I'm enjoying the opportunity to write his story.If you want more information please feel free to check out my overall page, /tell me in game, or @ me on Twitter.
CH 1: CRIME AND PENALTY
The climes of the Coerthan highlands are inhospitable, but no more so than where he has left β Mor Dhona, accousted by a group of turncoat Braves. They had underestimated him- keeping himself scarce during this period of βtransformationβ had worked out in his favour, it seemed. They talked, with a bit of coercion. The Sultana was dead, and the Warrior of Light her accused murderer. The Scions would be captured for their roles, alongside any other non-Brave members.A coup, in other words, and a bloody foolish one to boot.They are not friends, he and the Warrior of Lightβby merit of simply not knowing each other. Acquaintances, at best- they had fought alongside each other on a few occasions, the most recent being against Vishap on the Steps of Faith.That was his only clueβhis first port of call. Ishgard was isolated from the other Eorzean states, and the Warrior of Light had a good standing and a debt of gratitude to boot with the city state. If any where would welcome a hero turned supposed traitor, it would be Ishgard.So, he would need to make inquiries β affirm that was where he went, and then confirm the truth of the situation. The Crystal Braves were lying, that was a simple matter to distinguish. Why such a set up had occurred, and what had really happened, lay only with him and the other Scionsβ¦wherever they were.This is not an affront he can stand. It is more than saving his own skin -- to have fought so hard and so wholly for Eorzea, only for this to happen? No. This is not an occasion to sit idly by.
A loaded question. Heβs more of aβ¦capable passerby with more than a vested interest in seeing the Scions succeed. During the initial recruitment, when they were still based in the Waking Sands, he turned down formal membership, instead deciding to remain formally part of the Maelstrom. It had meant he missed the assault on the Waking Sands by the Garleans the first time.
Why had he declined the first time? There was a niggly feeling, a grey wall as he tried to rememberβ¦
β¦ah, and that was the reason why.
But here, faced with such a question, it would be easier to keep things to the point.
A white lie and no more, and his passage into Ishgard was secured. Well, perhaps a little more. It had been chance that he had been around when the preparation for a team of adventurers to fight on the Steps of Faith was taking place. Like the other six, and like many others, he was a fleeting moment in the course of the Warrior of Lightβs journey, perhaps a face he could not even match a name to. Or perhaps not. He would not pretend to know the manβs mind.He did know he deserved better than the tripe the Braves had just served him.There had been a cause for his recent contributions, of course. It would be pointless to lie about such a thingβ¦but it was also still fresh, still too painful to probe at too hard. Much like the still-healing scar on his faceβ¦
His heart was hammering, a subtle shake in his fingertips. Tempest seems skittish, but Squall canβt tell whether heβs reacting to the fact Squall is shaken, or if he picked up on something in that moment. Despite the familiarity of it, he was sure he had never heard that voice, and certainly never experienced something of that ilk. Nausea was welling in his throat, and anxiety sitting heavy in his heart.Perhaps it would not strike so hard, if the words themselves did not ring trueβ¦and yet they did.Was this journey for a purpose, or was he grasping for the comfort of being wanted, needed?Donβt dwell on it. I canβt dwell on itβ¦There was nothing left behind him anyway. All he could do was press forward.
The Gates of Judgement loom, tall and imposing. Despite the wind and snow, their steadfast presence is a comfort. Thereβs something steadying in the stone faces, pillars that stood against the Calamity and all it had wrought.
It soothes the unease, if only a little, renewing his steps with purpose. Voice or not, he had a goal β and even if he had now decided to wait before approaching the Warrior of Lightβs retinue, overall it had not changed."Excuse me! Ser!"
He recognised it, it belonged to him. A small leather pouch shut tight with a leather strap and an engraved silver clasp. He used it to hold jewellery when he was not wearing it. It had been deep in his bags the last time he had seen itβ¦all that was in it was his ring. His current gloves would catch on the detailing, so he had put it away for a timeβ¦how had it ended up on the path?Perhaps there was a hole in his packβ¦? No, he would have seen that earlier. He would have a proper inspection when he was in Ishgard.To which, there was still the one remaining obstacle β crossing the Steps of Faith.
The last Horde attack had left a significant mark, it seemed, rubble and debris scattered across even the most travelled pathways still. Although they had stopped the main vehicle of the assault, the great beast Vishap, this was a city that had been at war for over a thousand years. He would have to be careful, as Yaelle had stipulated β such insularity would could have only bred distrust in outsiders. Until there was either opportunity to prove himself, or a few more fresh faces in the vicinity, he would need to keep his head down.Casting his eyes about, a pathway into the lower areas caught his attention. All he needed was a room for the night, and he was most likely to get less questions in the poorer areas. The less rebuilt areas near the Stepsβthat was his best bet.Itβs hard not to notice the grimy faces of the people down here, though a few are out of place β the gold eyes of a blue-clad man among them- they stir memories of elsewhere. Not good onesβ¦no, it seemed the good ones were the ones he lost first.The smell of wood smoke lured him up a wooden bridge, into the foot of a stone building and a set of stairs. A man sat here, eyes hazy from drink and gazing past the stone-hewn walls, and a sad eyed bartender aiding him in his next drink.
As he held it in his hand, he could hear whispering. The same voice as earlier, but impossible to make out. Despite not knowing the content, the tone behind it only boded ill.
He stows it back in the pouch, the same anxiety from earlier resurging in his ribcage. There was no way one of the Ishgardian soldiers had planted such a thing, right? Perhaps it had been in his belongings since Mor Dhonaβ¦he was sure he hadnβt opened that pouch since before the Braves had attacked him.Whatβs going onβ¦?There is a sense of unease in the air and finding this has only made it worse. What had started as certainty in his decision to come here was now nothing but a mire of worries and what ifs, his confidence being chipped away despite encountering no opposition.I canβt keep overthinking like this. Itβs just going to spiral out of my control. Restβ¦and answers.Tomorrow.
CHAPTER ONE END.
CH 2: TO METE AND MOURN
A new day had dawned for Ishgard. Cold light filtered through the windows, snow sitting crisp against the edges of the panes. And amongst those shafts of clear light satβ¦that.
A new day had dawned and now his problems and questions were upon him. He was in Ishgard now, well placed to take action, to get answers, butβ¦Soul stones were no joke. They were legacy made manifest, imparting the knowledge and stories of those who came before far more viscerally than a story or song ever could. Although he had never owned one, he knew the tales well enough. If it had been a Paladin stone, or a Bard stone, or a handful of others, he would have recognised it. But not this one.
It had to have something to do with the voice, right?
It was the only logical conclusion. And if that was the case, the path before him was clear.
Stepping into the Forgotten Knight proper, with its heavy scent of woodsmoke and the chatter of its occupants, Squall knew he had two goals. First - continue with his first plan, getting established in Ishgard - there would be little progress without a base of operations. Two, once that was done, he could venture further, perhaps even risk drawing the gaze of the Braves as he pursued information on this stone. But in the interim, he didn't even have the gil to afford a second night's stay - that took priority.
His path is stopped yet again by a voice calling for him, except this time it is not someone he knows. The makeshift gathering of an awning and boxes is familiar, although he cannot help but wonder if this could be a dead halt to any plans he had for today.
The Pike...apparently, this is the name of a statue somewhere in Western Coerthas, which like much of Coerthas and Dravania beyond he had not set foot in. What he did know, however, was that accessing Western Coerthas from this side of Eorzea - aka what bordered the rest of the city-states - required the use of flight. The levemete seemed to assume that he'd have access as a foreign adventurer...perhaps it was worth asking at the Chocobo Stables. They, at the very least, were somewhat familiar with him, given he had stabled Tempest there when he had arrived.(The farriers seemed very much delighted to see him, and it seemed Tempest's condition and temperament had earned him a slight uptick in their books.)
There - that was his target. Great, lumbering beasts more than twice his size. Thankfully, growing up on Vylbrand meant he had dealt with such size discrepancies before - between the great, lumbering Buffalo of Costa de Sol and the Megalocrab near Summerford, he had experience enough to combat foes like these.Unlike Megalocrabs, no potential meat to be had...dinner was still up in the air.
It's strange...there's a feeling of unease in the air that has nothing to do with the Bergthurs standing before him. Having spent so long in the military, the lack of command could be the reason...but that does not sit right, nor does nervousness for the combat ahead.
It's a creeping feeling of cold that has nothing to do with the Coerthan wind.
But, with no obvious reason for it, standing in that selfsame cold would only come to earn him a swift death to the elements. There was a time and a place, and now was the time to get his hands dirty, not dwell on his troubles.
Anger is pulsing through his body, hot and bright and dizzying, his fingers twitching at the hilt of his sword. No...this is more than anger. More than the voice. More than he can put words to. It's power...
As quick as it had started, the power faded from his fingertips. The bitter taste of ash and singed air sat in the back of his throat, the last dregs of purple light fading from the Bergthur's corpse.
Darkness...one did not need to be a Sharlayan scholar to recognise its pulse, not with the amount of voidsent troubles the city-states palmed onto adventurers. But why now? Why him?
He was loathe to even contemplate the idea, given the state of matters...but was there a chance this was an Ascian?
Thancred had spoken little of his descent into possession by Lahabrea, but he knew it had at the very least involved skewing his aether and bringing down his spirit. And it seemed he was in both positions at current.
But where would he even go, if he were to believe that? None of the Archons, the foremost scholars of the Ascians and their schemes, remained. If it was indeed an Ascian, all he could do was shore up his mental defenses, and do his best not to yet again succumb to the darkness's call...if he could even recognize it in time.
Though he doubted it was benign, at the very least, he allowed himself to hope it was a little more benign than that worse-case scenario.The thoughts continued to swirl as he made his return trip to Ishgard, barely saying a word to the farriers, nor the gatekeep, only the motivation of hunger keeping his steps moving forward to the levemete.
Although there's deeper problems afoot, the most pressing issue he had been facing was now resolved -- enough money for a meal and for a room, and in the same breath, a little bit of headway in getting himself established in the city. More than he could have hoped for when he set out.
Speaking off, a low rumble from his stomach reminded him that he'd had little to eat aside from a handful of almonds and an Ishgardian muffin for the day. Heading in would be in his best interests.
What was with the constant calling out today? A swell of irritability coursed up, a scowl on his features as he turned to face the culprit - a white haired man, donned with obsidian scales. An Au Ra, if memory served...he had not met many.
That did explain everything, though. He had heard of Dark Knights, from storybooks that were read at the orphanage when he was little. He couldnβt remember muchβ¦aside from the fact they were swathed in blood and death.
The rush of power and anger, the dark aether that had flowed free and unabated the moment his emotions got the better of himβ¦that was the power this stone offered. But along with it, that mocking voice, chipping away at the most painful parts of himself.
His thoughts are jumbled as he thuds down the stairs of the Forgotten Knight and back out into the Brume. It feels like there is a vice clenching and unclenching around his heart. He knows the grief. He knows what it is like to grieve with no body, too. But in cases like this, relating wasnβt enough. What comfort were the words of stranger?If he was going by his own experiencesβ¦none whatsoever.
The winds howl across the Steps, whistling across the stone and whirling up the snow that had fallen. The cold bit right through his warm clothing β he would need to use the gil from the leve earlier to buy warmer clothes, that much was certain.But for nowβ¦he had something to take care of.
The stone feels heavy in the palm of his hand, its deep red hues refracting in the light. Even the crystal itself was painted in blood, it seemed.
The red gem caught the light one more time before it was swallowed by darkness.There was a floaty feeling as he watchedβ distant and dissonant, his vision both cloudy and clear as his mind filled with fog.What is this feeling?
Am I reacting to letting it go? If that's the case, then it...
No, I must be imagining it.
It feels like we're going choreography we know but have never practiced.
We know how this ends. And yet we're moving toward it without pushing against that tide. Could we, if we tried? Or is this immutable? A broken orchestrion, replaying the same few notes over and over across the ages?
If I could truly recall the choreography, would I have it in me to break free of the rhythm? Would I not want to, remembering why we carved out these steps in the first place? Did my heart waver then, as it does now, knowing that every conclusion leads to grief?Or...perhaps I am alone in this echo of a farflung memory.
No...you definitely remember, don't you?
Explosions...
did anyone see...?no...no reports...i guess thatβs it then.
who will fight when they falter...?
refusing to act will not save those already on the forefront...
in the end...
I haven't done enough, have I?
CHAPTER TWO END.
Tataru Taru. The Scionβs beloved receptionist, here in the flesh in the Forgotten Knight.Of the Scions, Tataru was probably who Squall knew best, not that he knew her particularly well. As the receptionist, she was both the face and the inner workings of the group, and as a result, was the one drifters like himself most often came into contact with. Back when they'd attempted to scout him - it seemed like a lifetime ago now, even though it was only around a year - she had sworn he'd be back eventually.Not with that attitude, Tataru...
This enthusiasm is familiar. Almost...agonisingly so.
Lalafells. They're all the same when you get to the quick of it...
Two leads had come to mind in the hopes of finding answers. The first was high-risk, but potentially high-reward; Brother E-Sumi-Yan, the Padjal in charge of the Conjurer's Guild and the former Elder Seedseer. He had met the man briefly on adventurer business, when he was still with the Gladiator's Guild. The natures of light and darkness were inherently intertwined, alongside the fact that any Voidsent threats in the Shroud went through them.
But confessing possession of a Dark Knight stone could draw scorn, and that was far from the absolute worst outcome.
The less risky avenue was Y'mhitra, a Son of Saint Coinach stationed in Gridania, and Y'shtola Rhul's younger sister. It was a long shot, but he had heard whilst in Mor Dhona that she was doing research into some kind of soulstone. The chance of it being Dark Knight was incredibly slim, but it wasn't like he had many options...With his destination set and gear in place, there was only one thing that remained to do- a change of appearance. He had been long overdue for a haircut.
There are people in this world who have answers. If this is left to fester, it will swallow me wholeβ¦Iβm no good to anyone like that.
As much as Iβd like to believe this darkness calling me could be useful, I can feel an inherent ill will there, even when I canβt hear the voice echoing in my mind. There is no peaceful resolution unless I learn its secrets. "Not all bad"β¦then in my case, there must be more to it.
The frost burnt boughs give way to soft greens and yellows, the snow fading into smaller patches before disappearing entirely, into frosted and wet earth and then again into sun dappled shrubs.
Squall has not seen much of the Shroud β there had been few reasons for him to approach the notoriously insular community, even as their borders eased with the Calamity. The tales of irate Elementals and locals who bore no love for Keepers only solidified his lack of desire to visit for any length of time.Howeverβ¦
Seeing new parts of the Shroud, his breath catches in his throat. Itβsβ¦beautiful beyond words. The rustling leaves, the smell of flowers and wood and earthβ¦if his situation were not niggling at the back of his mind, he would have stopped to take it all in. Perhapsβ¦someday.
The Gridanian sentries pay him little heed as he enters. They see enough adventurers coming and going to not even bat an eye -- among the many, he blends is like any other, just another armed and armored stranger who will be gone by the morrow.
Right now, he had his mind set on two people. Brother E-Sumi Yan, whom heβd trained under, albeit briefly, during his time in the Gladiatorβs Guild. And Yβmhitra, who had come to know of from his time in Mor Dhonaβa member of the Sons of Saint Coinach. Although the chances were slim, these were the easiest accessible people for him right nowβnot to mention that fewer people knew his face in Gridania. Of the three city-states, it was the one he was least familiar with.
Who to see first, though?
Brother E-Sumi-Yan he knew personally, but he did also know the Gridanians (and by extension, the Elementals) had no love for anything tainted, and dark knight definitely fit the bill. But of his two visits today, he would be the one most like to have answers.Steeling himself, he headed toward Nophicaβs altar.
As per usual, the Padjal was standing amongst the students, giving a lesson. Squall resolved to wait until he was done, watching patiently.
This wasnβt the first time heβd had this lecture, nor was it the first teacher. In his early teens heβd been assigned to Maelvaanβs Gate as a general task with the Barracudas, that turned into tutelage when they realised he couldnβt read. It was there he first learned he had a knack for aether manipulationβunhoned and rough, but heβd been able to summon and control a Carbuncle with relative ease. But at the time, and even now, he had always felt he was better in the thick of it, trading blows and swinging blades. It had come up while in the Gladiatorβs Guildβ¦β¦and again now, it seemed.
A plate of tea and cakes before them, Squall felt a gnawing sense of anxiety prickle at the back of his skull. His heart trusted E-Sumi Yan, but his trauma-weary mind kept rolling the idea of another betrayal. What would he do, were he to be turned over to the Twin Adders?
The answer was certainly not come quietly...
No announcementβ¦that was news to him. It seemed the Braves were still working under only Monetarist command.
Well...there was no point beating around the bush any further. He had come here for answers, and unfortunately they were far diverged from the realm's political status.
More than he had dared hope for. More of a history lesson, and not entirely helpful, but it was good to know regardless.
Heading back out into Gridania, a flash of blue has him darting behind a bush, tail taut as a pair of Crystal Braves walk past the opening to Nophica's Altar.
Had he a modicum less self-preservation instinct, he'd track them down and beat them to the seventh hell and back, but it was in his best interest to keep his head down and presence quiet.
Still, the anger boils, and he can feel the darkness roil along with it. An anger that is in part fueled by the fact they had revealed in their passing--They hadn't found anyone.If the missing Scions were alive, they were either doing very well at keeping their heads down...or in such a state that they couldn't make any kind of contact with allies.He knew those remaining in Ishgard believed the former. But it would only hurt them in the long run...it was a flight of fancy to think they had escaped unscathed. Preparing for the worst was the only way Squall could hope to bear the pain that followed.
