RUDE.
To be an interesting, intriguing, well-written character, there needs to be something to allow the audience to relate to them. That is what the problem is with who wants their character to be "perfect". Perfect characters will never be strong, and strong characters will never be perfect, because WE (those who read, who watch, who RP) are not perfect.
"What makes a strong character is how they deal with their flaws, their fears, their turmoils, their troubles that get in the way. That's what makes them relatable." – Doug Walker
"What makes a strong character is how they deal with their flaws, their fears, their turmoils, their troubles that get in the way. That's what makes them relatable." – Doug Walker
Burald grumbled to himself as he removed the saddle from one of the chocobos in Brutus’ stables and laid it flat to clean it. The words of Jin-Sei-Ahhad weighed heavily on his mind, and the main seemed to have a way of speaking in a way so that Burald could not shake his words. The man would be heard, and remembered, and it angered Burald that the man had been ‘successful’… at least, in ensuring that Burald thought about his message.
Burald was old. Old enough that yes, his journey of rebirth could come at any time. He wasn’t the oldest Galka by any means, but he hadn’t felt the pangs of his rebirth at all. He wondered when it would come. He wondered if he would be ready when it did. And he wondered if there was something holding it back.
Burald paused, and realized he had stopped cleaning the saddle entirely, he had been so distracted with his thoughts. He stepped over to a work desk, and sat down at the desk. Leaning forward, he let his head rest on one of his hands, and let his thoughts wander.
“’Is there nothing I wonder about?’ Indeed…” Burald said out loud to himself, and his mind drifted back to a time several months prior… to a once forsaken land, and the start of his greatest adventure thus far.
*****
Several months ago…
Burald made his way up through the floating islands of Riverne, taking time to look around the islands, astonished by what he was seeing. Floating islands in the sky, above the sea. What was he experiencing? Were these truly the ends times that he had heard rumors of?
He looked around, attempting to follow the signs of battle up to the top, towards the Monarch Linn. It was then he heard a roar… and a loud intimidating voice shout through the area, although Burald could not make out the words. He began to run, shouting, “Nag’molada!”
He had heard that some of the Jeunoans trapped here on Tavnazia, including Nag’molada, had made their way to Riverne, along with that pesky group of adventurers whom Burald would one day learn to call allies. He sprinted, taking huge bounding steps, nearing the entrance to the Monarch Linn, when he heard and angered roar again, and a low, bellowing voice, which he would later learn belonged to the Wyrmking, Bahamut.
“Foolish children! You will never break free from the chains of Promathia!”
With the roar erupted an enormous windstorm near the entrance to the Monarch Linn. He braced for the impact, putting his arms together, but was swiftly overwhelmed, and his body—along with other creatures lurking near the entrance—were swept off their feet and into the air.
Burald’s world went spinning, and he watched the islands of Riverne moving away from him. Disoriented, he grimly realized that he was in freefall towards the ocean below. Fear started to overtake him, but years of training and a life of war allowed him to wrestle his senses free.
As he tumbled through the air, he immediately began to remove his gloves, boots, and his armor, as quickly as he possibly could. He did not look, or think about when the impact with the water would come. He only knew that, if he had all of his heavy Ducal Guard armor on when he hit the water, that it would be impossible for him to swim to shore, and he would drown.
Burald could only hear the wind passing by him as he threw off his gauntlets, his boots. He had just unfastened his cuirass when the world when dark.
*****
A splitting headache.
Burald opened his eyes weakly, staring up above… he could see the floating islands of Riverne, admist the clouds. His entire body ached. He could hear the sea.
He brought a hand to his face, and could see he was bleeding. Several cuts covered his arm, and looking down, he could see that bruises adorned his body.
For some time he lay there, his body aching so much that he did not desire to move. A part of him just wanted to slip away…
No. He could not allow that. There was a promise he needed to keep. To an old friend…
Forcing himself up from the rocky shore that he had washed up on, Burald yelled in pain. Getting to his feet, he staggered over the rocks, without gear, until he came to path of rocks leading up the cliff. He would climb these, and gazing out on the land before him, he would set his eyes once again at Tavnazia. But for now, and the next several months, this would be his home. In time, he would find shelter, fashion himself new weapons, procure himself food.
And have at least, one eventful night.
Burald was old. Old enough that yes, his journey of rebirth could come at any time. He wasn’t the oldest Galka by any means, but he hadn’t felt the pangs of his rebirth at all. He wondered when it would come. He wondered if he would be ready when it did. And he wondered if there was something holding it back.
Burald paused, and realized he had stopped cleaning the saddle entirely, he had been so distracted with his thoughts. He stepped over to a work desk, and sat down at the desk. Leaning forward, he let his head rest on one of his hands, and let his thoughts wander.
“’Is there nothing I wonder about?’ Indeed…” Burald said out loud to himself, and his mind drifted back to a time several months prior… to a once forsaken land, and the start of his greatest adventure thus far.
*****
Several months ago…
Burald made his way up through the floating islands of Riverne, taking time to look around the islands, astonished by what he was seeing. Floating islands in the sky, above the sea. What was he experiencing? Were these truly the ends times that he had heard rumors of?
He looked around, attempting to follow the signs of battle up to the top, towards the Monarch Linn. It was then he heard a roar… and a loud intimidating voice shout through the area, although Burald could not make out the words. He began to run, shouting, “Nag’molada!”
He had heard that some of the Jeunoans trapped here on Tavnazia, including Nag’molada, had made their way to Riverne, along with that pesky group of adventurers whom Burald would one day learn to call allies. He sprinted, taking huge bounding steps, nearing the entrance to the Monarch Linn, when he heard and angered roar again, and a low, bellowing voice, which he would later learn belonged to the Wyrmking, Bahamut.
“Foolish children! You will never break free from the chains of Promathia!”
With the roar erupted an enormous windstorm near the entrance to the Monarch Linn. He braced for the impact, putting his arms together, but was swiftly overwhelmed, and his body—along with other creatures lurking near the entrance—were swept off their feet and into the air.
Burald’s world went spinning, and he watched the islands of Riverne moving away from him. Disoriented, he grimly realized that he was in freefall towards the ocean below. Fear started to overtake him, but years of training and a life of war allowed him to wrestle his senses free.
As he tumbled through the air, he immediately began to remove his gloves, boots, and his armor, as quickly as he possibly could. He did not look, or think about when the impact with the water would come. He only knew that, if he had all of his heavy Ducal Guard armor on when he hit the water, that it would be impossible for him to swim to shore, and he would drown.
Burald could only hear the wind passing by him as he threw off his gauntlets, his boots. He had just unfastened his cuirass when the world when dark.
*****
A splitting headache.
Burald opened his eyes weakly, staring up above… he could see the floating islands of Riverne, admist the clouds. His entire body ached. He could hear the sea.
He brought a hand to his face, and could see he was bleeding. Several cuts covered his arm, and looking down, he could see that bruises adorned his body.
For some time he lay there, his body aching so much that he did not desire to move. A part of him just wanted to slip away…
No. He could not allow that. There was a promise he needed to keep. To an old friend…
Forcing himself up from the rocky shore that he had washed up on, Burald yelled in pain. Getting to his feet, he staggered over the rocks, without gear, until he came to path of rocks leading up the cliff. He would climb these, and gazing out on the land before him, he would set his eyes once again at Tavnazia. But for now, and the next several months, this would be his home. In time, he would find shelter, fashion himself new weapons, procure himself food.
And have at least, one eventful night.
One night…
In and out of sleep the Galka drifted, as the thunder overhead masked the quiet steps of a being approaching the shed. Burald pulled his blanket over him and turned, hearing the creaking of the wood underneath him.
The being moved nearly silently across the grass, staying in the shadows where it could. It was a diremite, which had strayed far from the Aqueducts. It slinked up the side of the shed, curving around over the roof, and then crawled upside down above him, the creature’s claws digging into the ceiling quietly.
Burald stirred once more, and his face twitched. The diremite froze, and waited, patiently and silently, for 17 minutes to make sure its prey did not waken. It moved from the ceiling to the wall of the interior, crawling down slowly. The fangs on its underside began to drool with venom.
A loud crack disturbed the silence as the diremite’s weight pulled a plank loose from the wall.
The sound awoke Burald immediately, coming just a few feet away from him. He sprang up, throwing the blanket off of him, but was tackled by the huge diremite as it propelled itself from the wall and landed on top of him, pinning him to the ground, his back against the wood. He immediately forced his hands upward as the diremite attempted to thrust its fangs into him, but he caught the beast’s sides and was able to keep its fangs from piercing his chest. Burald yelled for help, though he knew no one would hear, or come. He looked to his right and saw his axe, within arm’s reach, but he could not hold the diremite back with only one hand alone. The diremite took one of its legs and began to pierce it down against Burald’s chest, and the Galka roared in pain.
Burald realized that although they were deadlocked in strength, the diremite had more limbs than he did; it was a fight that he could not draw out. The beast would overwhelm him in short time. Trading blows was the best Burald could afford.
Burald let go of the beast with one of his arms and reached for his axe, grabbing it, as he felt his other arm cave and fangs dig into his chest. He yelled, but instead of attempting to push the diremite off, he brought his hand around behind it, and held it against his chest, fangs digging inside of him, so it could not escape. He brought the axe to into the side of the leg of the mite, and it attempted to pull back in pain, but Burald held it close, and continued to cut into it, into other legs, into its side, until he couldn’t bear the pain anymore and released the beast.
Burald scrambled to his feet, but felt dizzy. He quickly grabbed his second axe, and returned his gaze to the mite. The diremite had retreated a couple steps away, and let out what sounded like a screech before it bounded towards him. Burald managed to stagger out of the creature’s path, which was inaccurate as the diremite itself was injured, and it tumbled past him. Burald began to lose feeling in his limbs, but using what coordination he had, he ran and stumbled on top of the mite, bringing one of his axes down onto the mite’s legs, cutting through and pinning the mite to the wood, severing one of its legs. He did the same with his other axe, and the mite let out a screech in pained agony and attempted to stand up, but could not.
Burald’s only thought was to kill the beast, while he had the advantage. But his body wouldn’t listen. He was poisoned. Paralyzed. Everything was going slow. And then black.
*****
Burald slowly opened his eyes. He had an excruciating headache.
It was daytime, now. At least he thought so. Sun was out. But he still felt off. Couldn’t move limbs, or neck. What was he–?
The ‘ground’ beneath him stirred, and gave a very irritated whine and Burald’s body moved slightly. Burald turned his eyes down below him. He was laying on the diremite. He looked up, and saw his axes had held in place.
It was night when it had attacked. Had he been unconscious all night? Lying on top of… this thing?
He attempted to will his body to move, but his body would not. Paralysis, still.
His face took a perplexed expression as he looked up, at the sun. He spoke words, as though it was needed to be spoken for him to truly believe it.
“Did I… sleep all night… on top of an enormous spider?” As though in response, the diremite screeched in protest, attemping to shake the enormous Galka off of it. His eyes were filled with shock. “It was pinned down all night… because of my weight…,” he whispered to himself, gradually looking down towards his waist, with horrified eyes, wondering if his recent weight gain in the past year may have contributed to saving his life.
The diremite angrily pounded the ground around them, with its free legs, as if pouting. Burald snapped, “This is all your fault, you damn beast!” The diremite hissed in response. “Tough luck, I can’t move!” He tried to will his body to punch the monster, but he could only lie there, limply. “I can’t even… augh!”
They both seemed to let out an exhausted sigh, and the diremite stopped pounding its legs and instead spread them wide.
A minute of silence passed between them. “This is not funny. This is not funny, at all.” No response from the diremite. “I swear to the Goddess, the moment this paralysis wears off, I’m going to finish you.” The diremite seemed to shrug. “This better not take all day, either.”
One hour later,
Burald still lay atop of the diremite, unable to move, slowly grinding his teeth away in rage.
And thirty minutes later from that…
Burald managed to clench his fist, although weakly. He grinned with pleasure. “You see? You see this? This is your end. Won’t be long now. Better say your prayers, beast.” The diremite made no motion whatsoever.
And a hour and a half later…
Burald’s fist pointed towards the heavens in victory, the sun shining down on it, glinting off his pale skin. He gave an excited grin, as beads of sweat dripped down his forehead due to his strain. Then his arm started to tremble, and his eyes narrowed. “No… No!” The trembling became violent until he lost his motor skill in his arm once more and his arm fell, slamming down next to him.
“Rrrrrr…!!! Are you fucking kidding me!?” He roared, his stomach beginning to rumble loudly. “I must endure… I’ve gone without food for long periods of time before. Back in the war. I must remember my training.” He shut his eyes, almost in a state of meditation, when he heard rustling near the shack. “Huh?” He looked out near the fire to see what was trespassing on his grounds. A stray Orc?
No… a stray sheep.
Burald’s eyes widened and he spoke aloud. “Meat… fresh meat…” The sheep stopped, and looked up at him, with that piercing stare animals do. “Here little sheep. The grass is better over here. Just come and give it a taste.” The sheep just continued to stare, its tail swinging absent-mindedly behind it. Burald snapped, yelling “I said to get the hell over here!” The sheep was startled and turned and leave, and Burald panicked, pleading, “Whoa! Just calm down! Stay awhile! Let’s not be hasty!” The sheep began to gallop away. Burald’s arm shot up in the direction of the sheep, reaching for it as he yelled:
“After I’m done with this diremite, I swear, sheep meat tacos tonight! Do you hear me!? I’m coming for you! God damn it all–!” Burald yelled and then he narrowed his eyes, seeing one of the diremites legs outstretched towards the retreating sheep, just like Burald’s. He grunted, “Thinking you should’ve tried the blood of a sheep than the scary Galka, huh?”
Two hours after that…
Vultures had circled and landed on the roof of the shack, squawking loudly as they looked upon the Galka laying atop the diremite. Burald had labored breathes, his eyes only half open. His eyes sluggishly tracked the vultures as they looked upon him. He knew it was only a matter of time before one came to try and pick his remains in his weakened state.
He shifted his weight. He could move better now, but his legs were still weak. He moved as though he was scared of the vultures, but would be unable to move far on his legs if he tried to stand.
One of the vultures creeped down the roof closer to him. It studied him for a moment before it took flight, diving down towards his face. Burald’s eyes shot wide as he exclaimed, “Aha!” and swiftly brought his arm up to grab the bird by the neck. The bird flapped its wings in a panic, clawing at his arm, and in one quick motion Burald brought his arm to slam it against the ground, with the vulture in tow, snapping its neck and killing it. Burald brought the vulture’s body up to his chest and began to pluck feathers off its body, before bringing its body up to his mouth and taking a loud, crunchy bite.
The other vultures had already moved on.
An hour after that…
Burald moved his legs, checking to see if the paralysis had fully worn off yet. While he had the diremite pinned down, for now, he didn’t want to risk being overwhelmed by the diremite by standing up before he had regained his strength… as gross as laying on top of a hume-sized spider all day was. With a loud grunt, he rolled off the creature. He slowly pushed himself up, staggering a bit from his weight, and stood up, growling, “…and now to deal with you…,” and looked at the diremite with a vicious grin, which faded as he saw the diremite did not raise itself to meet him. It’s legs motioned slightly, indicating that it was alive, but seemed too weak from the fight from the night before, lack of nourishment, and the fact that it had been nearly crushed all day long.
Burald frowned seeing the creature in this state, and looked across the deck to see his Great Axe still leaning against the wall. He walked over, and took the Great Axe into his hands. “Don’t think I’ll take pity on you, beast. Rise to face me.” The diremite seemed indifferent, and resigned to its fate. Burald noted the two axes still pinning down two of its legs, and he sighed, and laid his Great Axe down and moved over to the two axes and pulled them out, and the diremite screeched in pain. It took a couple steps back from Burald, seeming to cower away from him, clearly injured.
Burald shook his head at the monster. “I said to face me! Or do you monsters truly know no honor?” Why was he talking to it? It was just a common monster. But it seemed natural to him somehow. Something… distant… made it feel right. He shook his head. He yelled again, “Fight!”
The diremite stood, only briefly, as though in a battle stance, before it collapsed. Burald shook his head as he approached it, lifting one of the axes high into the air. “Very well.”
But he could not bring the axe down. His arm could not will it. He brought the axe down to his side, and looked out into the fields, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the quiet distance. His mind turned inward, to many, many years ago… years before the war, years before the Archduke, years before even Jeuno was a prosperous nation… to the rainy streets of an early Bastok. It was there, that he, as a young boy Galka, lie against the one of the walls located in Bastok Markets. Starving, his mind not in the right places, he looked at an old wooden whistle. For some reason, Burald remembered that whistle very clearly now.
*****
Sitting on those streets, Burald remembered an elderly Hume man, Bathmus, exclaiming in digust, “Will someone move this trash out of here?” gesturing to the young Burald. “We’re trying to make this place look nice after all… we can’t have the poor just lying about!” The young Burald looked up, but said nothing… he just turned the whistle over and over in his hand. Water splashed in the young Burald’s face as Bathmus stormed up to him, stomping in a puddle before him. The Hume pointed at the young Burald’s face, yelling, “You have to go. Now.”
“I’m hungry,” was all Burald could say.
“Wonderful. I don’t care. You have to leave. You can’t just lie here, you’ll deter customers and you’ll shame our city.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go…!” Burald yelled back, tears in the boy’s eyes.
“Sure you do. You go to the Mines. That’s where all of you belong. Now go!” the Hume yelled angrily.
“I don’t know where the Mines are!”
“Every Galka knows where the Mines are,” Bathmus said, exasperatedly. The Hume looked around for help, “Someone, throw him outside. I just don’t want him here.” Bathmus paused, his eyes catching a glimpse of the whistle. He ordered, “Let me see that.”
“No,” the young Burald said, holding it closer and turning away from the man.
“I said to let me see it! What’s it worth to you and—“ the old Hume was interrupted by a large Galka stepping in-between the two of them. The Galka looked down at Bathmus, with angered, weary eyes. He looked back at the boy, and then to the man, and said, “I will see this boy to the Mines. That is final.”
The elderly Hume glared back at the Galka and then stormed away, declaring, “…then do it quick. That whistle is probably just a piece of trash anyways.”
The Galka looked down at young Burald, and smiled, “Burald. You are back. It’s good to see you, again.”
The young Galka looked up, “B-Burald…? Why do you call me that… is that good?”
The elderly Galka bellowed a laugh, “It is your name, boy. Come,” he said, picking up Burald and carrying him towards the Mines.
Burald looked at the Galka, and sniffed, finally feeling safe. He managed to say, “So I’m Burald… I guess I am okay with that name. What is yours?”
“I am Zalgad. I will take care of you, don’t worry. Just like you took care of me,” the old Galka said, and looked at Burald’s confused expression, and laughed. “Don’t worry, Burald. It will all make sense in time. Let’s get you something to eat.”
*****
Burald looked down at the diremite at his feet, both axes held at his sides. He gripped the weapons tightly, the memories hitting a soft spot in the Galka’s heart. He should kill this diremite. Let it free, and it will come back for him. It would not make the same mistakes in how it chose to strike.
Or maybe, the diremite’s ordeal would have it realize that attacking Burald was its mistake, and it would leave him alone? Burald shook his head, and looked up at the roof of the shack. He thought of an old friend… Cartia. He knew what she would do. And it infuriated him.
Burald turned and stepped down the small ramp leading out to the fire pit near the shack, and motioned behind him to the diremite. “You, come.”
The diremite seemed confused, and very hesitant. It didn’t move towards him. Burald frowned and walked over to the remains of the vulture’s carcass he had consumed earlier, and picked it up, as bait. “Come with me.”
The diremite hesitated again, but began to inch towards Burald, giving him a very wide berth. It clearly was afraid of Burald, but it was definitely lured by the scent of the vulture’s blood. “Fair enough. That will do.” He began to walk, not too fast lest he leave the diremite behind, as it crawled behind him, limping with two of its legs.
They did not have to travel far before Burald came upon a stray Orc, wandering the fields, dangerously close to the caves leading into the Tavnazian Safehold. Burald quickly took cover behind a rock, as the Orc sniffed the air around it and turned to look behind… not seeing Burald, but the weak diremite trailing behind. The Orc turned and growled and began to rush towards it, and the diremite brought up it’s legs weakly, preparing to fight however it could. Burald kept silent and waiting, silently cursing the diremite, and hid behind the rock until the Orc rushed past him. Burald exploded out from behind the rock, axes drawn, and brought one of them to land in the Orc’s side.
The Orc roared in pain, and swung it’s rotting wooden shield hard into Burald’s face, and Burald—still not fully recovered from the paralysis—lost his footing and fell onto his back. The Orc, filled with adrenaline, rushed Burald, sword raised high into the air. Burald braced for the blow and crossed his blades in front of him, but between them he saw eight long legs wrap around the Orc, stopping it in its tracks. The diremite clung to the Orc’s back, and thrust its fangs in. The Orc yelled, and tried to get the creature off its back, but was unable to. Burald slowly got to his feet, and readied his weapons, only to realize it was unnecessary as the Orc fell forward to the floor.
*****
Burald could only handle watching the Orc’s skin go pale for so long, as the diremite sucked the Orc’s blood dry. Burald held his head and walked away, feeling sick to his stomach.
“Yeah. You just… enjoy that… over there,” Burald muttered to himself, as the diremite happily drank the Orc’s blood. Burald paused and turned at the creature, and something about what had transpired felt… familiar to him. He couldn’t place what it was. He thought of the whistle he had as a child more. Whatever it was that he was feeling, there was something about this situation that had reminded him about it—and realized in its absence, had made him sad.
The Orc running dry, the diremite lifted its fangs and bit into another part of it, with a sick crunch, and Burald scowled, feeling like he might lose his vulture lunch from earlier and turned away, grumbling, “Good… Goddess.” He had the inclination to name the creature. “Something like you would need an equally disgusting name…,” Burald said, musing. “Lars. Lifedrinker Lars. That about sums you up.”
Another crunch.
“Ugh…,” Burald said as he turned and waved farewell to Lars. As he walked away, Lars seemed to look up from his food to the Galka walking away, before hungrily returning its focus to the Orc.
In and out of sleep the Galka drifted, as the thunder overhead masked the quiet steps of a being approaching the shed. Burald pulled his blanket over him and turned, hearing the creaking of the wood underneath him.
The being moved nearly silently across the grass, staying in the shadows where it could. It was a diremite, which had strayed far from the Aqueducts. It slinked up the side of the shed, curving around over the roof, and then crawled upside down above him, the creature’s claws digging into the ceiling quietly.
Burald stirred once more, and his face twitched. The diremite froze, and waited, patiently and silently, for 17 minutes to make sure its prey did not waken. It moved from the ceiling to the wall of the interior, crawling down slowly. The fangs on its underside began to drool with venom.
A loud crack disturbed the silence as the diremite’s weight pulled a plank loose from the wall.
The sound awoke Burald immediately, coming just a few feet away from him. He sprang up, throwing the blanket off of him, but was tackled by the huge diremite as it propelled itself from the wall and landed on top of him, pinning him to the ground, his back against the wood. He immediately forced his hands upward as the diremite attempted to thrust its fangs into him, but he caught the beast’s sides and was able to keep its fangs from piercing his chest. Burald yelled for help, though he knew no one would hear, or come. He looked to his right and saw his axe, within arm’s reach, but he could not hold the diremite back with only one hand alone. The diremite took one of its legs and began to pierce it down against Burald’s chest, and the Galka roared in pain.
Burald realized that although they were deadlocked in strength, the diremite had more limbs than he did; it was a fight that he could not draw out. The beast would overwhelm him in short time. Trading blows was the best Burald could afford.
Burald let go of the beast with one of his arms and reached for his axe, grabbing it, as he felt his other arm cave and fangs dig into his chest. He yelled, but instead of attempting to push the diremite off, he brought his hand around behind it, and held it against his chest, fangs digging inside of him, so it could not escape. He brought the axe to into the side of the leg of the mite, and it attempted to pull back in pain, but Burald held it close, and continued to cut into it, into other legs, into its side, until he couldn’t bear the pain anymore and released the beast.
Burald scrambled to his feet, but felt dizzy. He quickly grabbed his second axe, and returned his gaze to the mite. The diremite had retreated a couple steps away, and let out what sounded like a screech before it bounded towards him. Burald managed to stagger out of the creature’s path, which was inaccurate as the diremite itself was injured, and it tumbled past him. Burald began to lose feeling in his limbs, but using what coordination he had, he ran and stumbled on top of the mite, bringing one of his axes down onto the mite’s legs, cutting through and pinning the mite to the wood, severing one of its legs. He did the same with his other axe, and the mite let out a screech in pained agony and attempted to stand up, but could not.
Burald’s only thought was to kill the beast, while he had the advantage. But his body wouldn’t listen. He was poisoned. Paralyzed. Everything was going slow. And then black.
*****
Burald slowly opened his eyes. He had an excruciating headache.
It was daytime, now. At least he thought so. Sun was out. But he still felt off. Couldn’t move limbs, or neck. What was he–?
The ‘ground’ beneath him stirred, and gave a very irritated whine and Burald’s body moved slightly. Burald turned his eyes down below him. He was laying on the diremite. He looked up, and saw his axes had held in place.
It was night when it had attacked. Had he been unconscious all night? Lying on top of… this thing?
He attempted to will his body to move, but his body would not. Paralysis, still.
His face took a perplexed expression as he looked up, at the sun. He spoke words, as though it was needed to be spoken for him to truly believe it.
“Did I… sleep all night… on top of an enormous spider?” As though in response, the diremite screeched in protest, attemping to shake the enormous Galka off of it. His eyes were filled with shock. “It was pinned down all night… because of my weight…,” he whispered to himself, gradually looking down towards his waist, with horrified eyes, wondering if his recent weight gain in the past year may have contributed to saving his life.
The diremite angrily pounded the ground around them, with its free legs, as if pouting. Burald snapped, “This is all your fault, you damn beast!” The diremite hissed in response. “Tough luck, I can’t move!” He tried to will his body to punch the monster, but he could only lie there, limply. “I can’t even… augh!”
They both seemed to let out an exhausted sigh, and the diremite stopped pounding its legs and instead spread them wide.
A minute of silence passed between them. “This is not funny. This is not funny, at all.” No response from the diremite. “I swear to the Goddess, the moment this paralysis wears off, I’m going to finish you.” The diremite seemed to shrug. “This better not take all day, either.”
One hour later,
Burald still lay atop of the diremite, unable to move, slowly grinding his teeth away in rage.
And thirty minutes later from that…
Burald managed to clench his fist, although weakly. He grinned with pleasure. “You see? You see this? This is your end. Won’t be long now. Better say your prayers, beast.” The diremite made no motion whatsoever.
And a hour and a half later…
Burald’s fist pointed towards the heavens in victory, the sun shining down on it, glinting off his pale skin. He gave an excited grin, as beads of sweat dripped down his forehead due to his strain. Then his arm started to tremble, and his eyes narrowed. “No… No!” The trembling became violent until he lost his motor skill in his arm once more and his arm fell, slamming down next to him.
“Rrrrrr…!!! Are you fucking kidding me!?” He roared, his stomach beginning to rumble loudly. “I must endure… I’ve gone without food for long periods of time before. Back in the war. I must remember my training.” He shut his eyes, almost in a state of meditation, when he heard rustling near the shack. “Huh?” He looked out near the fire to see what was trespassing on his grounds. A stray Orc?
No… a stray sheep.
Burald’s eyes widened and he spoke aloud. “Meat… fresh meat…” The sheep stopped, and looked up at him, with that piercing stare animals do. “Here little sheep. The grass is better over here. Just come and give it a taste.” The sheep just continued to stare, its tail swinging absent-mindedly behind it. Burald snapped, yelling “I said to get the hell over here!” The sheep was startled and turned and leave, and Burald panicked, pleading, “Whoa! Just calm down! Stay awhile! Let’s not be hasty!” The sheep began to gallop away. Burald’s arm shot up in the direction of the sheep, reaching for it as he yelled:
“After I’m done with this diremite, I swear, sheep meat tacos tonight! Do you hear me!? I’m coming for you! God damn it all–!” Burald yelled and then he narrowed his eyes, seeing one of the diremites legs outstretched towards the retreating sheep, just like Burald’s. He grunted, “Thinking you should’ve tried the blood of a sheep than the scary Galka, huh?”
Two hours after that…
Vultures had circled and landed on the roof of the shack, squawking loudly as they looked upon the Galka laying atop the diremite. Burald had labored breathes, his eyes only half open. His eyes sluggishly tracked the vultures as they looked upon him. He knew it was only a matter of time before one came to try and pick his remains in his weakened state.
He shifted his weight. He could move better now, but his legs were still weak. He moved as though he was scared of the vultures, but would be unable to move far on his legs if he tried to stand.
One of the vultures creeped down the roof closer to him. It studied him for a moment before it took flight, diving down towards his face. Burald’s eyes shot wide as he exclaimed, “Aha!” and swiftly brought his arm up to grab the bird by the neck. The bird flapped its wings in a panic, clawing at his arm, and in one quick motion Burald brought his arm to slam it against the ground, with the vulture in tow, snapping its neck and killing it. Burald brought the vulture’s body up to his chest and began to pluck feathers off its body, before bringing its body up to his mouth and taking a loud, crunchy bite.
The other vultures had already moved on.
An hour after that…
Burald moved his legs, checking to see if the paralysis had fully worn off yet. While he had the diremite pinned down, for now, he didn’t want to risk being overwhelmed by the diremite by standing up before he had regained his strength… as gross as laying on top of a hume-sized spider all day was. With a loud grunt, he rolled off the creature. He slowly pushed himself up, staggering a bit from his weight, and stood up, growling, “…and now to deal with you…,” and looked at the diremite with a vicious grin, which faded as he saw the diremite did not raise itself to meet him. It’s legs motioned slightly, indicating that it was alive, but seemed too weak from the fight from the night before, lack of nourishment, and the fact that it had been nearly crushed all day long.
Burald frowned seeing the creature in this state, and looked across the deck to see his Great Axe still leaning against the wall. He walked over, and took the Great Axe into his hands. “Don’t think I’ll take pity on you, beast. Rise to face me.” The diremite seemed indifferent, and resigned to its fate. Burald noted the two axes still pinning down two of its legs, and he sighed, and laid his Great Axe down and moved over to the two axes and pulled them out, and the diremite screeched in pain. It took a couple steps back from Burald, seeming to cower away from him, clearly injured.
Burald shook his head at the monster. “I said to face me! Or do you monsters truly know no honor?” Why was he talking to it? It was just a common monster. But it seemed natural to him somehow. Something… distant… made it feel right. He shook his head. He yelled again, “Fight!”
The diremite stood, only briefly, as though in a battle stance, before it collapsed. Burald shook his head as he approached it, lifting one of the axes high into the air. “Very well.”
But he could not bring the axe down. His arm could not will it. He brought the axe down to his side, and looked out into the fields, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the quiet distance. His mind turned inward, to many, many years ago… years before the war, years before the Archduke, years before even Jeuno was a prosperous nation… to the rainy streets of an early Bastok. It was there, that he, as a young boy Galka, lie against the one of the walls located in Bastok Markets. Starving, his mind not in the right places, he looked at an old wooden whistle. For some reason, Burald remembered that whistle very clearly now.
*****
Sitting on those streets, Burald remembered an elderly Hume man, Bathmus, exclaiming in digust, “Will someone move this trash out of here?” gesturing to the young Burald. “We’re trying to make this place look nice after all… we can’t have the poor just lying about!” The young Burald looked up, but said nothing… he just turned the whistle over and over in his hand. Water splashed in the young Burald’s face as Bathmus stormed up to him, stomping in a puddle before him. The Hume pointed at the young Burald’s face, yelling, “You have to go. Now.”
“I’m hungry,” was all Burald could say.
“Wonderful. I don’t care. You have to leave. You can’t just lie here, you’ll deter customers and you’ll shame our city.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go…!” Burald yelled back, tears in the boy’s eyes.
“Sure you do. You go to the Mines. That’s where all of you belong. Now go!” the Hume yelled angrily.
“I don’t know where the Mines are!”
“Every Galka knows where the Mines are,” Bathmus said, exasperatedly. The Hume looked around for help, “Someone, throw him outside. I just don’t want him here.” Bathmus paused, his eyes catching a glimpse of the whistle. He ordered, “Let me see that.”
“No,” the young Burald said, holding it closer and turning away from the man.
“I said to let me see it! What’s it worth to you and—“ the old Hume was interrupted by a large Galka stepping in-between the two of them. The Galka looked down at Bathmus, with angered, weary eyes. He looked back at the boy, and then to the man, and said, “I will see this boy to the Mines. That is final.”
The elderly Hume glared back at the Galka and then stormed away, declaring, “…then do it quick. That whistle is probably just a piece of trash anyways.”
The Galka looked down at young Burald, and smiled, “Burald. You are back. It’s good to see you, again.”
The young Galka looked up, “B-Burald…? Why do you call me that… is that good?”
The elderly Galka bellowed a laugh, “It is your name, boy. Come,” he said, picking up Burald and carrying him towards the Mines.
Burald looked at the Galka, and sniffed, finally feeling safe. He managed to say, “So I’m Burald… I guess I am okay with that name. What is yours?”
“I am Zalgad. I will take care of you, don’t worry. Just like you took care of me,” the old Galka said, and looked at Burald’s confused expression, and laughed. “Don’t worry, Burald. It will all make sense in time. Let’s get you something to eat.”
*****
Burald looked down at the diremite at his feet, both axes held at his sides. He gripped the weapons tightly, the memories hitting a soft spot in the Galka’s heart. He should kill this diremite. Let it free, and it will come back for him. It would not make the same mistakes in how it chose to strike.
Or maybe, the diremite’s ordeal would have it realize that attacking Burald was its mistake, and it would leave him alone? Burald shook his head, and looked up at the roof of the shack. He thought of an old friend… Cartia. He knew what she would do. And it infuriated him.
Burald turned and stepped down the small ramp leading out to the fire pit near the shack, and motioned behind him to the diremite. “You, come.”
The diremite seemed confused, and very hesitant. It didn’t move towards him. Burald frowned and walked over to the remains of the vulture’s carcass he had consumed earlier, and picked it up, as bait. “Come with me.”
The diremite hesitated again, but began to inch towards Burald, giving him a very wide berth. It clearly was afraid of Burald, but it was definitely lured by the scent of the vulture’s blood. “Fair enough. That will do.” He began to walk, not too fast lest he leave the diremite behind, as it crawled behind him, limping with two of its legs.
They did not have to travel far before Burald came upon a stray Orc, wandering the fields, dangerously close to the caves leading into the Tavnazian Safehold. Burald quickly took cover behind a rock, as the Orc sniffed the air around it and turned to look behind… not seeing Burald, but the weak diremite trailing behind. The Orc turned and growled and began to rush towards it, and the diremite brought up it’s legs weakly, preparing to fight however it could. Burald kept silent and waiting, silently cursing the diremite, and hid behind the rock until the Orc rushed past him. Burald exploded out from behind the rock, axes drawn, and brought one of them to land in the Orc’s side.
The Orc roared in pain, and swung it’s rotting wooden shield hard into Burald’s face, and Burald—still not fully recovered from the paralysis—lost his footing and fell onto his back. The Orc, filled with adrenaline, rushed Burald, sword raised high into the air. Burald braced for the blow and crossed his blades in front of him, but between them he saw eight long legs wrap around the Orc, stopping it in its tracks. The diremite clung to the Orc’s back, and thrust its fangs in. The Orc yelled, and tried to get the creature off its back, but was unable to. Burald slowly got to his feet, and readied his weapons, only to realize it was unnecessary as the Orc fell forward to the floor.
*****
Burald could only handle watching the Orc’s skin go pale for so long, as the diremite sucked the Orc’s blood dry. Burald held his head and walked away, feeling sick to his stomach.
“Yeah. You just… enjoy that… over there,” Burald muttered to himself, as the diremite happily drank the Orc’s blood. Burald paused and turned at the creature, and something about what had transpired felt… familiar to him. He couldn’t place what it was. He thought of the whistle he had as a child more. Whatever it was that he was feeling, there was something about this situation that had reminded him about it—and realized in its absence, had made him sad.
The Orc running dry, the diremite lifted its fangs and bit into another part of it, with a sick crunch, and Burald scowled, feeling like he might lose his vulture lunch from earlier and turned away, grumbling, “Good… Goddess.” He had the inclination to name the creature. “Something like you would need an equally disgusting name…,” Burald said, musing. “Lars. Lifedrinker Lars. That about sums you up.”
Another crunch.
“Ugh…,” Burald said as he turned and waved farewell to Lars. As he walked away, Lars seemed to look up from his food to the Galka walking away, before hungrily returning its focus to the Orc.
Burald sat at the workbench in the chocobo stables. He thought back to the diremite, but more importantly the whistle that he had remembered during that time.
Prior to that, he hadn’t thought of that whistle for many, many years. He could barely even recall what the thing looked like. Just the very basic shape of it, and the fact that it had been made out of carved bone. When he had been reborn, it was the only thing with him. Why had he held onto a whistle? And why, now, was he so concerned about it?
The old man’s words had pushed some of Burald’s buttons. It was one of those things that Burald had once sought to answer but failed to do so. Perhaps it was the boredom that allowed Burald to fixate on this now. No longer a Ducal Guard, Burald had too much free time. He had been trying to pass off his time through performing tasks for the people who lived in the city.
He shook his head. The whistle didn’t matter anyways. It had been stolen, a long time ago…
*****
One year after Burald’s rebirth…
Burald sprinted down Ore Street, tears running down his eyes, with several cuts and bruises on his skin. It was night, and few were about. Finally he came to a door, and slammed it open, yelling, “Zalgad!”
Zalgad jumped at the sound, dropping the ladle he was using to stir soup over a fire. “Burald! How many times have I told you that you can’t–”
“They took it!” Burald yelled. “They took it from me!”
Alarm came over Zalgad’s face. “Hold on, lad. What’s going on? Who took what?”
Burald took a moment to answer, gasping for air. “The Humes… they took my whistle!” A grave expression came over Zalgad’s face and he walked towards Burald. “I was in the Markets… some kids surrounded me… they took it.”
Zalgad grabbed Burald’s arm and with a growl, said “We’re going out. We’ll fix this.”
The two of them walked through the night, the entire time Zalgad was silent, ignoring Burald’s questions. “Where are we going?” “How are we going to get it back?” Zalgad simply looked ahead, and eventually Burald learned to stay quiet too. They arrived in front of a small jewelry shop, and the dim glow of light from the inside indicated that it was occupied.
Zalgad knocked twice on the door. A voice from the inside said, “We’re closed. Get out of here.” Zalgad grit his teeth and grabbed the door hand and forced the door open, breaking down the lock off the door. Burald jumped back in astonishment, and Zalgad stepped in, where the panicking old shopkeeper, Bathmus stood, yelling at Zalgad from behind the counter. “What the hell do you think you are doing, Galka!? I’m going to have the Musketeers collect the repair money from you for that–”
Zalgad marched right up to the counter and slammed his huge fist down on it. “You will do no such thing. Where is it!?”
Bathmus staggered back, and grit his teeth. “I don’t know what you are–”
“Do not play me for a fool, Bathmus. Where is the whistle!?”
Bathmus pointed at the Galka’s face. “Know your place, Galka!”
Zalgad reached over the counter and grabbed Bathmus by the collar and pulled him towards it, slamming the Humes hips against it and the Hume cried out in pain. “I won’t ask you again!”
“Agh… fine, put me down!” the old Hume barked, and the Galka let go. The Hume collected himself and glared. “You must be referring to the whistle that those sprats sold to me not more than ten minutes ago…”
“That would be the one.”
“So what? You think it was stolen?”
“I know so,” Zalgad said, growling. “And I think you put them up to it.”
“Any proof on that claim?” Bathmus replied, putting his hands on his hips. “I don’t have any idea how they found the whistle.”
Zalgad extended his hand to him. “Enough with your games! Hand it over!”
Bathmus shook his head. “I had to buy it. You want it back, you have to pay my price.”
“We could never afford that…,” Zalgad said, shaking his head. “Don’t play games with me, you snake. You put those kids up to it, so you could get a nice piece for selling, now hand it over!”
“Zalgad!” Burald yelled.
Zalgad turned to look behind him, seeing several guards forming outside the jewelry shop’s entrance, taking hold of Burald. “Finally!” Bathmus explained, throwing his hands up in the air. “Took you long enough. Remove this trash from my shop.”
“Step out of the shop, Galka,” a Hume guard ordered.
Zalgad began to grind his teeth and turned back to look at Zalgad, and said low, under his voice, “This isn’t the end of this, Bathmus.”
“It is–,” Bathmus taunted, watching the two Galka yield. “Unless you two come up with the money, it is.”
*****
Over the course of a year and a half, Burald worked doubly hard in order to get his whistle back. He felt naked without it. It was the only artifact he had of his previous life, though he was unsure of its purpose; though Zalgad seemed to indicate to him that it was something important.
While Burald worked tirelessly in order to regain his whistle, Zalgad, however, seemed to develop a different opinion. He began to discourage Burald from working so hard to obtain it, but, why? Zalgad’s opinion did little to sway Burald, however. He focused, almost obsessively, on getting together enough gil, in order to feel the whistle in his hands once again.
Then the day came…
*****
“This is all a great sum of bills, I’m rather impressed,” Bathmus said, counting through Burald’s money. Then he shrugged, saying, “I don’t have it anymore, though.”
Burald’s face was dejected. “What…? What do you mean you don’t have it?”
“A year is an awful long time for me to hold onto merchandise, boy,” the Hume said with a grin. “I sold that a long time ago.”
“To who!?”
“That’s confidential. I can’t tell who my customers are. What if they are trying to give it as a gift to someone?” He said, shrugging.
“I asked you who you sold it to!” the young Galka roared, growing angrier and angrier.
“And I just told you that I can’t break my customer’s privacy,” Bathmus said, putting his hand over Burald’s bynes. “But I’m sure I can get you something else just as nice with this–”
Bathmus didn’t have a chance to finish speaking before Burald’s hand slammed down on top of his, before Bathmus could pull the bynes away. Burald stood there, staring down at the floor, a deep rage filling him, and Bathmus tried to pull his hand free from his grasp. Burald let go, and Bathmus staggered back several steps, without the bynes. He glared at the boy standing on the other side of his counter.
“Get out of my store. Now! Go!” Bathmus yelled.
Burald gave him a glare, filled with murderous eyes, as he took the bynes into his hand. As he left the building, a thoughts burned in his heart… thoughts that would stick with him for time to come, and thoughts that would stick with him to this day.
I hate Bastok.
I hate the Humes.
Prior to that, he hadn’t thought of that whistle for many, many years. He could barely even recall what the thing looked like. Just the very basic shape of it, and the fact that it had been made out of carved bone. When he had been reborn, it was the only thing with him. Why had he held onto a whistle? And why, now, was he so concerned about it?
The old man’s words had pushed some of Burald’s buttons. It was one of those things that Burald had once sought to answer but failed to do so. Perhaps it was the boredom that allowed Burald to fixate on this now. No longer a Ducal Guard, Burald had too much free time. He had been trying to pass off his time through performing tasks for the people who lived in the city.
He shook his head. The whistle didn’t matter anyways. It had been stolen, a long time ago…
*****
One year after Burald’s rebirth…
Burald sprinted down Ore Street, tears running down his eyes, with several cuts and bruises on his skin. It was night, and few were about. Finally he came to a door, and slammed it open, yelling, “Zalgad!”
Zalgad jumped at the sound, dropping the ladle he was using to stir soup over a fire. “Burald! How many times have I told you that you can’t–”
“They took it!” Burald yelled. “They took it from me!”
Alarm came over Zalgad’s face. “Hold on, lad. What’s going on? Who took what?”
Burald took a moment to answer, gasping for air. “The Humes… they took my whistle!” A grave expression came over Zalgad’s face and he walked towards Burald. “I was in the Markets… some kids surrounded me… they took it.”
Zalgad grabbed Burald’s arm and with a growl, said “We’re going out. We’ll fix this.”
The two of them walked through the night, the entire time Zalgad was silent, ignoring Burald’s questions. “Where are we going?” “How are we going to get it back?” Zalgad simply looked ahead, and eventually Burald learned to stay quiet too. They arrived in front of a small jewelry shop, and the dim glow of light from the inside indicated that it was occupied.
Zalgad knocked twice on the door. A voice from the inside said, “We’re closed. Get out of here.” Zalgad grit his teeth and grabbed the door hand and forced the door open, breaking down the lock off the door. Burald jumped back in astonishment, and Zalgad stepped in, where the panicking old shopkeeper, Bathmus stood, yelling at Zalgad from behind the counter. “What the hell do you think you are doing, Galka!? I’m going to have the Musketeers collect the repair money from you for that–”
Zalgad marched right up to the counter and slammed his huge fist down on it. “You will do no such thing. Where is it!?”
Bathmus staggered back, and grit his teeth. “I don’t know what you are–”
“Do not play me for a fool, Bathmus. Where is the whistle!?”
Bathmus pointed at the Galka’s face. “Know your place, Galka!”
Zalgad reached over the counter and grabbed Bathmus by the collar and pulled him towards it, slamming the Humes hips against it and the Hume cried out in pain. “I won’t ask you again!”
“Agh… fine, put me down!” the old Hume barked, and the Galka let go. The Hume collected himself and glared. “You must be referring to the whistle that those sprats sold to me not more than ten minutes ago…”
“That would be the one.”
“So what? You think it was stolen?”
“I know so,” Zalgad said, growling. “And I think you put them up to it.”
“Any proof on that claim?” Bathmus replied, putting his hands on his hips. “I don’t have any idea how they found the whistle.”
Zalgad extended his hand to him. “Enough with your games! Hand it over!”
Bathmus shook his head. “I had to buy it. You want it back, you have to pay my price.”
“We could never afford that…,” Zalgad said, shaking his head. “Don’t play games with me, you snake. You put those kids up to it, so you could get a nice piece for selling, now hand it over!”
“Zalgad!” Burald yelled.
Zalgad turned to look behind him, seeing several guards forming outside the jewelry shop’s entrance, taking hold of Burald. “Finally!” Bathmus explained, throwing his hands up in the air. “Took you long enough. Remove this trash from my shop.”
“Step out of the shop, Galka,” a Hume guard ordered.
Zalgad began to grind his teeth and turned back to look at Zalgad, and said low, under his voice, “This isn’t the end of this, Bathmus.”
“It is–,” Bathmus taunted, watching the two Galka yield. “Unless you two come up with the money, it is.”
*****
Over the course of a year and a half, Burald worked doubly hard in order to get his whistle back. He felt naked without it. It was the only artifact he had of his previous life, though he was unsure of its purpose; though Zalgad seemed to indicate to him that it was something important.
While Burald worked tirelessly in order to regain his whistle, Zalgad, however, seemed to develop a different opinion. He began to discourage Burald from working so hard to obtain it, but, why? Zalgad’s opinion did little to sway Burald, however. He focused, almost obsessively, on getting together enough gil, in order to feel the whistle in his hands once again.
Then the day came…
*****
“This is all a great sum of bills, I’m rather impressed,” Bathmus said, counting through Burald’s money. Then he shrugged, saying, “I don’t have it anymore, though.”
Burald’s face was dejected. “What…? What do you mean you don’t have it?”
“A year is an awful long time for me to hold onto merchandise, boy,” the Hume said with a grin. “I sold that a long time ago.”
“To who!?”
“That’s confidential. I can’t tell who my customers are. What if they are trying to give it as a gift to someone?” He said, shrugging.
“I asked you who you sold it to!” the young Galka roared, growing angrier and angrier.
“And I just told you that I can’t break my customer’s privacy,” Bathmus said, putting his hand over Burald’s bynes. “But I’m sure I can get you something else just as nice with this–”
Bathmus didn’t have a chance to finish speaking before Burald’s hand slammed down on top of his, before Bathmus could pull the bynes away. Burald stood there, staring down at the floor, a deep rage filling him, and Bathmus tried to pull his hand free from his grasp. Burald let go, and Bathmus staggered back several steps, without the bynes. He glared at the boy standing on the other side of his counter.
“Get out of my store. Now! Go!” Bathmus yelled.
Burald gave him a glare, filled with murderous eyes, as he took the bynes into his hand. As he left the building, a thoughts burned in his heart… thoughts that would stick with him for time to come, and thoughts that would stick with him to this day.
I hate Bastok.
I hate the Humes.
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