Hydaelyn Role-Players
Old Acquaintance Not Forgot (Closed, Story, OOC welcome) - Printable Version

+- Hydaelyn Role-Players (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18)
+-- Forum: Role-Play (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18/forumdisplay.php?fid=27)
+--- Forum: Town Square (IC) (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18/forumdisplay.php?fid=21)
+--- Thread: Old Acquaintance Not Forgot (Closed, Story, OOC welcome) (/showthread.php?tid=11300)

Old Acquaintance Not Forgot (Closed, Story, OOC welcome) - V'aleera - 04-26-2015

He had learned long ago that peace could not be trusted. More oft than not the peace was but a fragile facade; a break in the storm that lulled the weak and inexperienced into a deadly comfort. And on the rare occasions it was genuine? It was fleeting, ephemeral, gone as soon as it came.

In those peaceful moments he would close his eyes and simply listen, just as he did now. Taking in the feel of the familiar, biting wind and the kiss of snowflakes on the flesh of his face, he listened: to the crunch of snow beneath the feet of four steeds bearing the weight of four riders. Of chain rattling against chain, armored plates and holstered weapons beating to a steady rhythm. And then he would open his eyes and the peace would slip away, teasing and taunting in its flight. Younger soldiers and lesser soldiers would despair; he had outlived his capacity to be disappointed by its passing. He had learned long ago that peace could not be trusted.

But a man could always place faith in war.

He saw it first, with the one eye that still worked: smoke in the distance. Ears like daggers heard the familiar sounds: distant shouts and angry roars. Fear and fury set to a backdrop of clashing steel. He turned his head and peered back toward the other riders. Three pairs of eyes met his, and a soundless nod of his head confirmed to them what he had known and what they had suspected. He let out a soft yell, his heels digging briefly into the sides of the large bird which carried him, eliciting an short squawk and a rapid increase in pace. He heard similar sounds occur in unison behind him.

As they four charged together, he peered toward the nearing smoke and sounds of battle. Peace had once again come to an end so quickly after it had begun; Fousque Sondraix was returning once again to the ever faithful embrace of war.




***



Fousque and his three accomplices crested a small snow-covered ridge overlooking a valley down below, in which the forces of Ishgard clashed with the thralls of Dravania. Each was yet mounted, and each was garbed in the fierce armor which denoted their stations. A layer of scale under a layer of plate under a layer of spikes and blades. In all Eorzea, few adornments more effectively communicated the single-minded devotion to the infliction of death than Ishgardian drachen mail.

The scene below was a common chaos. The battle-hardened and disciplined forming ranks whilst the green and the less capable were left to fend for themselves. On the better days they were ignored; on the worse days they were deliberate bait. The small host of knights, numbering no greater than fourty, was divided in close thirds: two fractions were fighting for their lives and scattered out yalms apart throughout the small valley. The last third were assembled into a tight defensive formation, cut off from their comrades and defending themselves from a continuous onslaught.

Of the enemy, they were many and varied: from a glance Fousque could make out the scampering forms of biasts and puks against the snow-covered grounds. The air hummed with the synchronous beat of a countless dragonfly wings, the thin and serpentine creatures swarming all about, haranguing any of the poor knights who strayed too far from the safety of their comrades.  And far above the valley two wyrms danced in the sky, roaring to the heavens and releasing balls of flame from their foul maws to pelt the ground below with no regard for hitting friend so long as foe was consumed by fire as well.

Fousque let a small growl roll out from his throat, turning his head slightly, peering downwards through the valley and noting several small cave mouths through which more dragonkin spilled forth. His thoughts were interrupted by an approach from behind. Turning his gaze, he cast an appraising look toward the tall and lean duskwight, her eyes focused and voice sharp as she spoke, “Captain, we must intervene at once. They cannot last for but minutes longer without aid.” Her brow was furrowed, her concern evident through her otherwise practiced stoic demeanor.

The old elezen nodded his head, his eye briefly falling to the bow secured upon the flank of the woman’s chocobo before turning to his left, “Loras, you will enter the thick of it. Save the damn stragglers and force them into formation, at spearpoint if you must. Get the beasts off the veterans and get that band fighting as a whole.”

An amused chuckle sounded in response, a youthful voice following, “Aye, captain.”

“Artoir,” Fosque once more turned and now addressed the fair-haired wildwood more close in age to himself than either of the others, “The beasts swarm from caves in the south some distance from the field. Stymy their advance.” The command was met with a simple grunt and a nod as the elder elezen turned back toward the young woman, a hand gesturing toward the bow at her side, “Keep mounted and harry from the southern flank. Focus on assisting the knights; if Artoir threatens to be overwhelmed, lend an arrow.”

“And you?” Her eyes met his, briefly flicking skyward. He grunted softly, “Let not their size fool you; naught but whelps seeking easy prey to sharpen their claws on.” His eye narrowed as he looked upward once more for but a moment before urging his steed onward and down the steep hillside, “Fury’s wrath, comrades! To arms!” The three followed in quick succession, the boisterous voice of Loras ringing out with loud and boastful praises to the Goddess as the four descended upon the field of battle.




***



Strongfoot bounded down the snow-covered hillside toward the raucous sounds of combat below. Though the terrain may have been treacherous for a younger chocobo, he was a bird as aged and as experienced as his rider. As the plates of his barding bumped in rhythm with his long strides, he heard the roaring and raging of the two large dragons above (two lovers trying to tempt eachother to rut by the sounds of it), at the same time feeling his rider shift into a familiar position upon his back.

The wizened chocobo altered his stride, leaning forward and moving in a far more balanced, if somewhat slower, fashion. It was a practiced technique he and Master Fousque spent years perfecting, but the result was clear as day as the armored elezen launched himself high into the sky from the moving steed’s very back. Strongfoot let loose a loud, piercing cry as he felt the weight lift from his body. He increased his pace exponentially, charging with haste into the frenzied melee before him.

All about there were masters fending off all manner of foul creature, the wretched stench of scalekin filling Strongfoot’s nostrils and making his mind flare with instinctive rage. When he was but a freshly molted bird sent out to do battle against these creatures and their ilk, he fought for little more than fear and preservation. But as he had grown he had seen masters hurt and masters killed. He had mated many times, only to see so many of the hatchlings born of his seed be slain by the foul dragonspawn. His fear had been tempered into a resentment and hatred of these wretched species, their mere scent driving him to the brink of madness.

He quickly found a master separated from her fellows, beset on all sides by thin little dragonflies. The woman lashed out in a fearful fashion while hiding behind the safety of her shield, only delaying the inevitable. The large bird squawked a battle cry and charged forward, closing the distance in seconds. His maw opened and he snatched one of the serpentine monsters right out of the air, shaking it fiercely and eliciting the sound of several bones in its spine snapping. Dropping the limp corpse, Strongfoot lashed out and seized another in his maw, chomping hard and instantly biting the scalekin in two. All the while the female master had managed to find her courage and fend off the rest of her attackers, retreating toward a pair of other masters fighting several yalms away.

At once Strongfoot was beset by several sounds: from far above a pained and wailing cry emanated across the battlefield. The old chocobo turned his head high and saw one of the flying wyrms writhe in pain and agony, the other swatting uselessly at a tiny form that leapt between each of the beasts, every movement a new attack delivering fresh pain to the monsters that thought themselves gods. From nearby, Strongfoot heard the familiar shouting of He of the Loud Voice who leapt and danced with his lance through the battlefield, cutting down dragonbeasts big and small with each step. As noisy as Morningcaller’s rider might be, he was very good at killing dragonbeasts.

Caught in his reverie, Strongfoot was almost struck by the quiet charge of a large biast, but a whistle and shrieking in the air saw the attempt stopped. The sound was one Strongfoot knew well; no doubt one of the stingers launched by Quickfeather’s rider, She Who Smells of Rolanberries. He briefly glimpsed Quickfeather from afar before returning his attentions to the battle at hand.

Lying prone on the ground nearby, Strongfoot saw a master helplessly trying to throw a swarm of puks off his body. With a loud chirp the bird charged once more, his armored talons lashing out at the puks before they knew what terror was upon them. Before they could even begin to react he had already torn two asunder with his claws and the blades that covered them. As the master managed to rise to his feet and retreat, the puks began to organize against their new foe.

Their efforts were for naught: every attempt to encircle Strongfoot was ended by a short charge that left at least one of them trampled to death. Several were swept away by the low sweeping of the chocobo’s head, bludgeoned by the barding and lacerated by the blades upon it. One of the last of the swarm let out a desperate hiss before charging straight toward the elderly bird, who in a wholly casual manner simply reached out with one of his namesake talons and caught the little scalekin in his grasp. After a few moments of struggle, Strongfoot clenched his talon shut, crushing the wretched creature’s body in a single motion before tossing it aside into the bloodied snow.

The scent of sulfur touched Strongfoot’s nose, and in an entirely trained and instinctive motion he made himself as small as possible, covering his legs and shielding his head. The reaction saved his life, as it had so many times before, as a wave of scorching heat passed over his body for a single moment. The smell of his own scorched feathers filled his nostrils and he turned to face his attacker: a small biast that stood several yalms away. Behind it was one of the not-masters; the foul, evil creatures that wore the look of masters but had the scent of dragonbeasts.

As the biast opened its mouth to release another blast of hot flame, the familiar shriek and whistle sounded and a stinger burrowed deep into the creature’s head, leaving it to flop lifeless on the ground while the not-master charged at Strongfoot. Squawking his reply to the bold traitor’s challenge, the chocobo charged forward, head lowered to smash into the man. Strongfoot’s charge was deftly avoided, the not-master bringing his blade down in a counterblow but managing only to strike uselessly against the barding laid heavy on the bird’s flank. Strongfoot pivoted quickly on his feet, swinging around and smashing his armored head into the not-master’s side to the satisfying sound of a bone snapping in the man’s arm. Howling like a lunatic, the harrier lashed out desperately with his sword, but the bold chocobo rushed forward and charged the man directly, shunting him several fulms backwards and onto the ground.

Before he could move to rise or regain footing he found the mighty bird looming over him, the vicious talons immediately tearing at his face and eyes. Strongfoot relented for but a single moment and the not-master thought this might be a window to his salvation and escape; only to have his hopes dashed as an immensely powerful stomp was delivered to his chest. He cried out in pain as several ribs broke under the strike, but was silenced as the next shattered even more while shoving the air out of his lungs. Blood ran from his lips, and the last thing the thrall of dragons ever heard was the shrill cry of a victorious warbird before it lifted its leg one last time and then drove it down hard, caving in the man’s chest around it.




***



The survivors lumbered slowly into the small encampment established nearby Monument Tower, the dimmest glimmers of hope and happiness alighting on their faces as the heat of the campfires and the prospect of beds (or cots) entered their minds. Many nursed makeshift field treatments; splints made of sword-cut wood and the cloth and leathers from their own garments; canes and crutches that were little more than large branches and broken spears. Even the healthiest were not without their own bandages and wrappings. All of them were herded along like cattle under the watchful gaze of the three mounted dragoons who silently oversaw the affair.

Once the last of the stragglers was successfully guided into the bounds of the camp and attended to by a nurse or chirurgeon, the elderly elezen who was at the head of the trio urged his bloodied steed away and toward the stables. Dismounting and seeing his chocobo off to one of the stable boys with a firm pat, and watching his two subordinates do the same, he beckoned them to follow him into the confines of the tower proper.

Escorted to an empty chamber by an accommodating clerk, Fousque quickly took a seat at the bare table within. His expression was a bitter one, and his subordinates wore looks as downcast as he; even the usually chipper midlander wore a pained and reproached look upon his face. After several moments of silence it was the woman spoke first, “Forgive me, Captain Fousque, I should-” The grizzled wildwood held up a hand, cutting her short as he spoke. “Istrelle. You carried out your duty admirably. Loras accounts for it, as do some of the men.”

“But Artoir-”

“Artoir was your senior by more than ten winters and was given a task suited to his experience and expertise; that being a dangerous one.” Fousque turned his head toward Istelle, the woman sitting on his bad side and getting a full view of the whited eye and perpetual sneer on her captain’s face caused by the severe burn wounds which had left the entire left of his head and face horrifically scarred. “He succeeded in his mission, and by his deeds saved a multitude of lives. Had you diverted your attentions to assisting him, we would have easily lost a dozen more than we did. The Fury called him to her side in his moment of valor.” His head swiveled slowly as it turned back and forth between the duskwight and the midlander, “Do not mourn his glory, but pray that you yourselves might live and die by the standard he set.”

Loras tried to offer a small smile, “I think I’d rather die killing two nasty wyrms at once while mid-air.”

Fousque grunted, finding as ever the young man’s positivity infectious and the reminder of the battle’s most significant victory a welcome reprieve from the thoughts of loss. He sat silent with his subordinates several moments more. Though he couldn’t see her, he knew Istelle was trying to conceal her feelings and regrets behind her typical facade of stoicism and professionalism. Inhaling deeply, he heaved himself up out of his chair and walked toward the girl, his hand reaching to firmly grip her shoulder. Head shaking, he mused, “We’ve lost too many. Too many of the elite fallen in but the beginning of this renewed ‘chorus’.” He spit the last word, releasing his grip and moving to pace slowly about the small chamber.

His thoughts turned to Artoir; a good man, a skilled man, if an otherwise unremarkable man. He’d fought and killed and earned his place amongst the dragoons, and he had died a death befitting one. But soldiers such as he were growing fewer and spread more thin. The Holy See and its holdings were under assault as they had not been since twenty years past, and yet…

As his thoughts turned toward the recent past, the workable part of his lip curled in an angry sneer to match the scarred part. Ishgard was not focused. Ishgard was not whole. The High Houses were allowed to bicker and snipe, at the small price of the very security of their shared nation, and the nobles yet played their games and amused themselves with politics while lives and resources were wasted as pawns in their schemes. Not even being reduced to reliance upon the aid of outsiders to defend the Steps of Faith themselves from assault was cause for alarm to the fools. A guttural growl emanated from his throat as his thoughts ran like a river through his head.

Thoughts of the abstract and ideological were quickly replaced by more immediate concerns: who would take the place of Artoir? Getting the rights to his assignment had been no easy task; dragoons of his caliber, of the caliber needed for a proper hunting party as Fousque operated, were in high demand. He didn’t have time to train the fledglings anymore; these two sitting together in this chamber were the last students he’d raised. Except…

A thought occurred to him. A thought that had occurred before, and with great frequency. A thought he had been forced to set aside repeatedly, much to his own shame. Before he had doubted at the feasibility, deeming the difficulties of the effort to outweigh the benefit of the result. His brow furrowed as he thought further. Things had changed. The Fury needed all of her children to come to their homeland’s aid. Times had changed. Those who would have made themselves obstacles before were likely far too occupied by the war effort, and those who might have turned away his pleas were far too in need of his skills to do so now.

“Istelle,” His voice broke the silence, deep and gravelly. The girl bolted to her feet, heels clicking together as she stood at attention. He turned to face her, “Fetch parchment; eleven sheets and three pens with inkwells.” The duskwight bowed her head and walked briskly toward the nearby supply chest.

“What’s all this then?” Loras cocked a brow, peering with curiosity at his captain as his cohort returned with the writing materials and laid them out on the table.

Fousque, returned to his seat, grunting in slight ache as he sat down upon the chair. “You're going to write some letters, boy. You and your comrade. Ten of them, to be precise.” He reached out and took one slip of parchment, speaking softly, “Meanwhile, I shall attend to the formalities of the petition itself…”

Loras’ brow furrowed in clear confusion, but the light of realization was bright in Istelle’s eyes, “Captain? You’re going to attempt to have her brought back?” A note of concern rang in her light voice. The elder elezen for his part took a quill and dipped it in ink, swiftly putting pen to paper. “Attempt implies uncertainty, soldier. I do not act with uncertainty. If you’ve learned naught else of me through all these years, surely you’ve learned that.”

“But… Captain Fousque, think of the possible ramifications! You know she was never well-liked amongst the most of the knights, and there is no possible manner in which word of this does not spread. What’s more, you’ll be earning the ire of some of those well-positioned within the Church; this could push your retirement back an entire deca-” She fell silent as she received the full brunt of his withering gaze, a quiet but intense fury ringing in his voice as he spoke, “I will not let a capable soldier waste and rot outside our borders when she is needed here!”

Averting his gaze he peered down at the paper splayed before him, “This farce has been allowed to play for too long; I will not allow the whimsy of some petulant noble shiteling ruin the life of a soldier trained by my hand.” He shakes his head, “I should have taken action long before now, Istelle.” A quick snort follows the statement, “Asides, retirements are for old men who never found a grand enough battle to die in.”

A short peel of laughter resounds from the midlander who had elected to silently observe the exchange, “Just take a seat and take a pen, Istelle. There’s no reasoning with the old man when he gets like this.” A grin sat bright upon the boy’s lips, “Asides, I thought you’d be happy to bring the runt back; the two of you get on like two very mismatched peas in a very lopsided pod!”

Sighing, Istelle returns to her seat and begins her own work, “I will do as you command, captain.” Quickly putting pen to parchment, she scribbles out a basic salutation for each letter, the names of her captain’s confidantes and closest compatriots being retrieved quickly from memory. Handing five sheets to Loras she speaks softly as she writes, “The condition of her return was a petition signed by ten titled dragoons ranked captain or higher. A tall order…”


Loras spoke cheerfully as he began to write the body text of his first assigned letter, “Or a direct mandate from the His Holiness!” He chuckled softly, “Real bloody likely that happening for some smallfolk beast girl...”

The focused duskwight allowed herself a small smile as her pen drew graceful and elegant strokes across the parchment, “You are right though, Loras: I very much look forward to seeing V’aleera again.”