There are many kinds of heroes on this star, and nowhere is that more apparent than the embattled land of Eorzea. Â Faced with threat after threat, the brave women and men of that land rise beyond their limits to face down armies, gods and monsters. Â They are a courageous people, and their heroism takes on many forms.
A scarred man fights his years and his upbringing to stand sentinel at the edge of a better world. Â A bitter woman with nothing to gain watches the skies because she has everything to lose. Â A loyal knight has risked everything he has worked for because honor and duty come in many forms. Â A dreamer sacrifices herself for strangers because no one else would. Â A lost soldier holds his spear pointed towards the darkness because it reminds him of where he is.
A woman who has spent her entire life hated and degraded summons her will to face one last day because the easier path is rarely the right one.
Xanadu pulled on her boots, then stood from the edge of the bed. Â Tailfeather smelled like chocobo shite and unbathed hunters, and she would be glad to be rid of it. Â Her hat, an old beaten black cone, hung from a hook on the wall, and she took it in hand, running her thumbs over the matted felt.
For a moment she was transported back to the start of this whole venture, out in the beating sun of the Sagolii. Â She'd been wearing this hat then, and Friont had commented on it. Â He was tall, even for an Elezen, with his wild black hair and eyepatch he cast a rather romantic figure, if one went for that sort of thing. Â The sun was sinking, and his shadow seemed to stretch for malms across the sands. Â "The hat doesn't do you any favors," he'd said.
Was that really less than a year ago? Â Thinking back Xanadu saw herself as so much younger, awed by her first mission for The Inquisition, studying under a true hero of Ishgard. Â "Sir?" Â Her voice had been so small then, weaker than she could ever remember it being. Â If her voice had been larger, if she'd been less awed and more of herself then maybe she would have seen it coming. Â She could have slipped a knife between his ribs right then.
He'd reached out and flicked the wide brim of the hat, "It makes you look like a witch. Â You know we're supposed to hunt those."
She hadn't responded. Â He'd found that damned Belahdian tablet about Bahamut. Â Then he'd called off their archaeological expedition and told her to meet him in Ishgard. Â Of course she'd been locked out. Â It took her a moon to get back into the city, connections and position be damned. Â An Au Ra claiming to be a highborn Inquisitor? Â Impossible. Â She was sure some of the guards had recognized her, and had thought maybe they'd finally be rid of her.
Friont had come and gone to The Tribunal, taking with him forbidden texts about Dravanians and Primals, and it had all come together. Â Moons of chasing him, fighting, being hunted by her own order, and it had all finally come to this.
The Grave of Ratotoskr. Â The place where Thordan and The Knights Twelve had fought her and her brother Nidhogg a millennium ago. Â The holiest site in all of Dravania and Ishgard. Â Friont was coming. Â They were ready.
Xanadu Mol pulled on her hat and glanced in the small mirror on the bedside table. Â Someone had once told her that her eyes, a luminescent pink, were the eyes of the demon. Â Her horns, unlike some other Au Ra, didn't sweep backwards elegantly, but curled threateningly around her cheekbones, ending in sharp points on level with her mouth. Â Her scales, a midnight black, creeped down out from under her hair and up from her neck to her lips, making her seem even more alien. Â And he was right, the hat made her look like a witch.
She smiled, and watched the face in the mirror twist into something from an Ishgardian nightmare, predatory and cunning. Â Back then she hadn't been able to tell him that looking like a witch was the point. Â When love isn't forthcoming, a cunning woman can always rely on fear to keep herself alive.
Two women who hate each other work towards the same goal because while their methods may be different, they would both die before abandoning their charge.
Helene La Floret passed through the halls of The Tribunal like a storm. Â The servants and minor aides and apprentices stayed well out of the woman's way. Â She pushed open the door to her office, intending to grab her bow and begone, but paused as she saw that she had a guest.
Frienne Crusoe was sitting on Helene's desk examining her paperwork. Â "You spelled 'imminent' incorrectly."
Helene put a hand on her hip and sighed, "Don't you have a children's tears to freeze on their cheeks, Experiment?"
The old nickname made Frienne's face clench up in irritation, but it it just fell into the endless pool of irritation she'd collected over the years. Â That well would never run dry. Â "You're going to Tharl Oom Khash, then?"
"Of course. Â You were there when Frimont turned, and you heard the whole story from Dragoon Halgren. Â He's been working with Friont this whole time. Â I don't know exactly what he's planning, but if there's even a chance they're right about a primal then I plan on being there to stop it and take Friont in to stand trial."
Frienne snorted, "Please. Â You and I both know Friont's dead. Â I did the examination of his body myself. Â It was him."
Helene grinned, "That familiar with his body are you? Â Frienne, I didn't know you had it in you. Â Wait until the gossips hear."
Frienne just rolled her eyes, "Enough with the jokes, Helene. Â Do you honestly think he's going to be there?"
She shrugged, "Maybe. Â It's hard to believe, but I've heard weirder. Â The Archbishop and The Knights Twelve turned into primals. Â Maybe Friont had a twin brother, or glamoured a corpse. Â I don't know, but I intend to find out myself."
Frienne pushed off of the desk, "Well I don't believe it, and I'll be there when Mol is proven to be behind this whole farce. Â Then I'll push her off The Witchdrop myself."
Helene smirked, "If you're right I'll give her arse a kick right along with you." Â The two women shared something almost friendly for just a moment, and then Helene snatched her bow. Â "We'd better get going then. Â We don't want to miss it. Â Speaking of, where in the seven hells is Dammerung?"
And one man, who fought his way up from nothing on the strength of his sword arm and the courage in his breast falls because even those most deserving of the title of hero are not armies, gods or monsters.  They are mortal, and the only thing guaranteed to mortals on this star is death.
The Gold Saucer was more opulent than Dammerung could ever have imagined. Â Growing up in The Brume he'd never have even believed that such a place could exist. Â Laid out before him on the massive table was a banquet fit for kings, and beautiful women of all shapes and sizes, dressed in the most scandalous clothing he'd ever seen, catered to his every whim.
"Wow," he said. Â "Helene really knows how to throw a party. Â Where is she, anyroad?"
His host, a tall Elezen in the flowing robes of the Ul'Dahn elite, seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Â He knew he'd never met a man with hair that white, and that broken nose would have been instantly recognizable anywhere. Â "I'm sure she's just been distracted," the man said. Â "Preparing for a trip to The Grave of Ratotoskr must keep even a woman like her incredibly busy."
Dammerung laughed, "That's the truth. Â Getting up there the first time took forever, and now with the dragons of Zenith covering the air approach it's even worse."
The man was Helene's manservant, though he didn't really seem the type. Â From what he knew of Helene it seemed like she'd have picked someone more handsome. Â "Ah, so you have to move up through Mourn and Anyx Trine, then."
Dammerung nodded, watching the way the man shuffled the deck in his hand. Â it seemed like a nervous habit. Â The cards were ruffled, flipped, spun, twisted and turned almost like magic. Â It was hypnotizing. Â "Yeah, it's a hell of a walk."
The man nodded, then tilted his head, "What was the Dravanian name for it, again? Â I'm terrible with their words."
"Tharl Oom Khash," Dammerung said, downing another drink. Â Then he looked around. Â The serving women were gone, it was just the two of them in the room. Â "Where are the other guests? Â Wasn't this supposed to be a party? Â I thought that girl Jana or Gaillien would show up, at least."
The man's hand moved, and Dammerung felt a stinging sensation in his throat. Â He reached for it, and he felt the rigid edges of a playing hard. Â Then he felt the blood. Â Immediately he reached for his sword, but the man's hand moved again and Dammerung watched, confused, as his hand fell to the floor, free of his arm.
He surged forward, knocking over the table, flipping it, but the man dodged to the side. Â More cards flew, and Dammerung fell to his knees. Â Then, the man seemed to shimmer. Â His white hair turned black, the broken nose straightened, and one crystal blue eye vanished, revealing a dry, empty socket. Â Inquisitor Ivarault Friont smiled as his glamour faded, and he pulled an eyepatch from his robes, replacing it on his face. Â He was so tall. Â Dammerung should have known from the height. Â He should have seen it coming. Â Where were the other guests?
Friont walked over to the dying man, and knelt in front of him, smiling gently. Â "Thank you for being so forthcoming with the information, my friend. Â Really, the Inquisition should have taught you to be More Subtil."
A scarred man fights his years and his upbringing to stand sentinel at the edge of a better world. Â A bitter woman with nothing to gain watches the skies because she has everything to lose. Â A loyal knight has risked everything he has worked for because honor and duty come in many forms. Â A dreamer sacrifices herself for strangers because no one else would. Â A lost soldier holds his spear pointed towards the darkness because it reminds him of where he is.
A woman who has spent her entire life hated and degraded summons her will to face one last day because the easier path is rarely the right one.
Xanadu pulled on her boots, then stood from the edge of the bed. Â Tailfeather smelled like chocobo shite and unbathed hunters, and she would be glad to be rid of it. Â Her hat, an old beaten black cone, hung from a hook on the wall, and she took it in hand, running her thumbs over the matted felt.
For a moment she was transported back to the start of this whole venture, out in the beating sun of the Sagolii. Â She'd been wearing this hat then, and Friont had commented on it. Â He was tall, even for an Elezen, with his wild black hair and eyepatch he cast a rather romantic figure, if one went for that sort of thing. Â The sun was sinking, and his shadow seemed to stretch for malms across the sands. Â "The hat doesn't do you any favors," he'd said.
Was that really less than a year ago? Â Thinking back Xanadu saw herself as so much younger, awed by her first mission for The Inquisition, studying under a true hero of Ishgard. Â "Sir?" Â Her voice had been so small then, weaker than she could ever remember it being. Â If her voice had been larger, if she'd been less awed and more of herself then maybe she would have seen it coming. Â She could have slipped a knife between his ribs right then.
He'd reached out and flicked the wide brim of the hat, "It makes you look like a witch. Â You know we're supposed to hunt those."
She hadn't responded. Â He'd found that damned Belahdian tablet about Bahamut. Â Then he'd called off their archaeological expedition and told her to meet him in Ishgard. Â Of course she'd been locked out. Â It took her a moon to get back into the city, connections and position be damned. Â An Au Ra claiming to be a highborn Inquisitor? Â Impossible. Â She was sure some of the guards had recognized her, and had thought maybe they'd finally be rid of her.
Friont had come and gone to The Tribunal, taking with him forbidden texts about Dravanians and Primals, and it had all come together. Â Moons of chasing him, fighting, being hunted by her own order, and it had all finally come to this.
The Grave of Ratotoskr. Â The place where Thordan and The Knights Twelve had fought her and her brother Nidhogg a millennium ago. Â The holiest site in all of Dravania and Ishgard. Â Friont was coming. Â They were ready.
Xanadu Mol pulled on her hat and glanced in the small mirror on the bedside table. Â Someone had once told her that her eyes, a luminescent pink, were the eyes of the demon. Â Her horns, unlike some other Au Ra, didn't sweep backwards elegantly, but curled threateningly around her cheekbones, ending in sharp points on level with her mouth. Â Her scales, a midnight black, creeped down out from under her hair and up from her neck to her lips, making her seem even more alien. Â And he was right, the hat made her look like a witch.
She smiled, and watched the face in the mirror twist into something from an Ishgardian nightmare, predatory and cunning. Â Back then she hadn't been able to tell him that looking like a witch was the point. Â When love isn't forthcoming, a cunning woman can always rely on fear to keep herself alive.
Two women who hate each other work towards the same goal because while their methods may be different, they would both die before abandoning their charge.
Helene La Floret passed through the halls of The Tribunal like a storm. Â The servants and minor aides and apprentices stayed well out of the woman's way. Â She pushed open the door to her office, intending to grab her bow and begone, but paused as she saw that she had a guest.
Frienne Crusoe was sitting on Helene's desk examining her paperwork. Â "You spelled 'imminent' incorrectly."
Helene put a hand on her hip and sighed, "Don't you have a children's tears to freeze on their cheeks, Experiment?"
The old nickname made Frienne's face clench up in irritation, but it it just fell into the endless pool of irritation she'd collected over the years. Â That well would never run dry. Â "You're going to Tharl Oom Khash, then?"
"Of course. Â You were there when Frimont turned, and you heard the whole story from Dragoon Halgren. Â He's been working with Friont this whole time. Â I don't know exactly what he's planning, but if there's even a chance they're right about a primal then I plan on being there to stop it and take Friont in to stand trial."
Frienne snorted, "Please. Â You and I both know Friont's dead. Â I did the examination of his body myself. Â It was him."
Helene grinned, "That familiar with his body are you? Â Frienne, I didn't know you had it in you. Â Wait until the gossips hear."
Frienne just rolled her eyes, "Enough with the jokes, Helene. Â Do you honestly think he's going to be there?"
She shrugged, "Maybe. Â It's hard to believe, but I've heard weirder. Â The Archbishop and The Knights Twelve turned into primals. Â Maybe Friont had a twin brother, or glamoured a corpse. Â I don't know, but I intend to find out myself."
Frienne pushed off of the desk, "Well I don't believe it, and I'll be there when Mol is proven to be behind this whole farce. Â Then I'll push her off The Witchdrop myself."
Helene smirked, "If you're right I'll give her arse a kick right along with you." Â The two women shared something almost friendly for just a moment, and then Helene snatched her bow. Â "We'd better get going then. Â We don't want to miss it. Â Speaking of, where in the seven hells is Dammerung?"
And one man, who fought his way up from nothing on the strength of his sword arm and the courage in his breast falls because even those most deserving of the title of hero are not armies, gods or monsters.  They are mortal, and the only thing guaranteed to mortals on this star is death.
The Gold Saucer was more opulent than Dammerung could ever have imagined. Â Growing up in The Brume he'd never have even believed that such a place could exist. Â Laid out before him on the massive table was a banquet fit for kings, and beautiful women of all shapes and sizes, dressed in the most scandalous clothing he'd ever seen, catered to his every whim.
"Wow," he said. Â "Helene really knows how to throw a party. Â Where is she, anyroad?"
His host, a tall Elezen in the flowing robes of the Ul'Dahn elite, seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Â He knew he'd never met a man with hair that white, and that broken nose would have been instantly recognizable anywhere. Â "I'm sure she's just been distracted," the man said. Â "Preparing for a trip to The Grave of Ratotoskr must keep even a woman like her incredibly busy."
Dammerung laughed, "That's the truth. Â Getting up there the first time took forever, and now with the dragons of Zenith covering the air approach it's even worse."
The man was Helene's manservant, though he didn't really seem the type. Â From what he knew of Helene it seemed like she'd have picked someone more handsome. Â "Ah, so you have to move up through Mourn and Anyx Trine, then."
Dammerung nodded, watching the way the man shuffled the deck in his hand. Â it seemed like a nervous habit. Â The cards were ruffled, flipped, spun, twisted and turned almost like magic. Â It was hypnotizing. Â "Yeah, it's a hell of a walk."
The man nodded, then tilted his head, "What was the Dravanian name for it, again? Â I'm terrible with their words."
"Tharl Oom Khash," Dammerung said, downing another drink. Â Then he looked around. Â The serving women were gone, it was just the two of them in the room. Â "Where are the other guests? Â Wasn't this supposed to be a party? Â I thought that girl Jana or Gaillien would show up, at least."
The man's hand moved, and Dammerung felt a stinging sensation in his throat. Â He reached for it, and he felt the rigid edges of a playing hard. Â Then he felt the blood. Â Immediately he reached for his sword, but the man's hand moved again and Dammerung watched, confused, as his hand fell to the floor, free of his arm.
He surged forward, knocking over the table, flipping it, but the man dodged to the side. Â More cards flew, and Dammerung fell to his knees. Â Then, the man seemed to shimmer. Â His white hair turned black, the broken nose straightened, and one crystal blue eye vanished, revealing a dry, empty socket. Â Inquisitor Ivarault Friont smiled as his glamour faded, and he pulled an eyepatch from his robes, replacing it on his face. Â He was so tall. Â Dammerung should have known from the height. Â He should have seen it coming. Â Where were the other guests?
Friont walked over to the dying man, and knelt in front of him, smiling gently. Â "Thank you for being so forthcoming with the information, my friend. Â Really, the Inquisition should have taught you to be More Subtil."