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Post by Faris Scherwiz on Sept 1, 2015 13:58:58 GMT -6
In the lowest sectors of Torensten, there was talk of a mysterious young man who had appeared suddenly only a week prior. He was an alarming sort with dull violet hair and dressed in some kind of medieval-style tunic and a scarf. When he'd first appeared, his hair had been tangled in ratty thickets and his clothes had smelled deeply of saltwater. When asked, he said that he had been shipwrecked on a beach a day's walk from town, that he was from some distant land beyond the sea, and that his name was Faris. "Captain Faris Scherwiz, if a name be so important to you." He never said where he was from and could only guess what had left him stranded. "Hit a storm, I reckon. Or maybe another sea dragon!" he laughed heavily at this, though no one had ever heard of a sea dragon nor of anywhere beyond the ocean on Zephron's Western border. By day, the man could be seen wandering the city's river-walk, taking comfort in the spray of water. At night, he could be found at shady pubs, challenging the locals to drinking contests. So far, he had never lost.
Faris' throat burned as he downed another shot -- whiskey this time. It tasted like fire and tar, but he swallowed before it could hit his tongue. His stomach burned with heat. "There!" he said, slamming the shot glass back onto the counter. The rim cracked on impact. "Now, which of you lads can match me?" The room spun a little as he scanned it. That was his eighth shot in less than hour.
There were takers, of course. They were all men, bigger and sturdier than Faris himself. But Faris was stronger and had more experience poisoning himself than anyone in this whole city. He was an expert in pretending that he didn't feel the dizziness that naturally came stronger to him. Most of the game could be won with a strong will.
"Just who are you?"
The question came from a broad-looking scoundrel a table away. He wore the same strange clothes that everyone did in this kingdom, but his pants were ripped, and his jacket was askew. He'd been watching Faris for a while, but only now did he speak.
"What kinda man'd go around asking a name without giving it first?" Faris said. The man squinted his eyes threateningly.
"You're one of them, aren't you?"
"What're you blabbering about?"
"One of those super-powered freaks that dropped from the sky. I heard one slaughtered about two dozen soldiers at the World Sight and another took out a bunch of police officers in Provo."
"That's no business of mine," Faris said. Super-powered freaks dropping from the sky? That was madness if he'd ever heard it. The man rose to his feet. Faris matched him. Standing, Faris barely met this man's shoulders.
"I've heard about you. You show up from nowhere the same time they do, looking like that? How do we know you won't be next?"
Faris' head sloshed heavily. "If you're looking for a fight, I won't be backing down."
The bar went strangely quiet. Everyone had turned to look at them -- at least everyone close and sober enough to know what was about to happen. Some men looked nervous, others excited. Across the bar, a pair laughed loudly and slammed their fists on the table. The man looked between the expectant crowd and then back at Faris. He'd gone a little pale. "I'm not waiting for you all to go crazy," he said.
"You've got brass, talking like that. But can you back it up?" Faris gave the man a knowing half-grin and settled into an easy fighting stance. The man lunged at her with a knife. Faris hadn't been expecting it, but hardened battle instinct kicked in before he could think. With his senses dulled by alcohol, Faris only barely had time to dodge before the knife made impact. "Lily-livered-!" Faris rolled back on the heels of his boots and stumbled into the bar counter. When he came to, the grin hadn't left his face. "You're nothing but a coward, bringing a knife to a fistfight."
Faris felt for the power of the crystals. It burned inside him as hot as the whiskey. In a flash of light, it surrounded him, forming armor from the ether. Cool metal surrounded bare arms and legs. In an instant, his tunic was hidden behind a torso plate and purple hair had gathered beneath a crimson helm. A long spear materialized in his right hand, and Faris grabbed it expertly. The bar was filled with gasps, startled faces, and people running. Faris frowned inside his helm. Maybe if he'd been less drunk, he'd have remembered that he'd last set his job class to dragoon. Now he was a expert dragon knight in the middle of a crowded, one-story room. That last shot was starting to kick in.
Throwing caution to the wind, Faris charged the man with the brunt end of his spear. The man gave a shout of surprise and stumbled back, holding his knife out defensively. The man tried to stab him with it, but it just glanced off armor as Faris slammed the side of the spear into his head. The man was knocked backwards, and in an instant, Faris had him pinned against a wooden pillar. The man's eyes were wide. He glanced from Faris' helmed face to the spear shaft against his throat. "What are you?" he demanded.
Well, that was a hard question, wasn't it? It was hard to think with the alcohol pounding on his brain and all the yelling of men fleeing through the open doors. Between the crystals and the world-saving and the surprise at Tycoon, Faris didn't really know what to say. Was he a Warrior of Light? A hero? Royalty? Nah, none of that fitted Faris at all. Instead, he leaned forward, looked him straight in the eye, and slurred the one thing that would always be true. "I'm a pirate."
OOC: ((Yes, I am very, very aware that Faris is actually female, but I'm referring to him in the male because Faris seems to identify that way. I'm not really sure how to approach that, but I'll probably switch to the feminine when the story gives me cause to.))
(It's been a few months since I last RP'd, so I'm a bit rusty with introductory posts...)
During the day, Wiegraf had spent his time restocking his supplies, as he hardly felt any desire to remain within the city for too long. His mind reeled simply being in the same region as the noble class, the wounds of his past forever burning with the searing pains of failure and defeat. Once, he could have been proud to say that at least he tried; and perhaps to some extent he succeeded... But it had cost too much, in hindsight.
In between trips to different stores, Wiegraf produced a small locket he kept within the breast pocket of his forest green shirt, under the silver and red-striped plate chest-piece he wore. As his gloved fingers opened it, inside was the same thing that lit a fire in his soul each and every time he viewed it.
A picture of Milleuda.
Even now, Wiegraf blamed himself for her death... If he hadn't left his post to deal with the traitors personally, she would never have fallen behind in her march. She would never have been caught by that filthy noble, and would still be alive... But after reliving those regrets each time he produced the locket, Wiegraf always returned it to that same pocket, and each time he pulled his hand out from under the chest-piece, his palm would run across the lumpy surface of the other pocket, which held within it a mysterious crystal he had no recollection of obtaining. But somehow, it felt as if he needed it.
Something about it called to him. It felt like the voice of a long lost friend, someone whom he felt he needed to rely on.
But nevertheless, time marched on, and before the White Knight knew it, night had come upon the city. As much as Wiegraf wished to leave, he had to admit that facing fiends alone in the dark wasn't an entirely favorable prospect. So instead, he decided to head to places of the town where nobles and most soldiers wouldn't dare to go...
As Wiegraf walked down the streets into the lower sections of the city, the few people who were still about would stare at him as he passed them by. By their accounts, he could only assume how out of place he looked. True, his clothes weren't so much abnormal for this world, they were certainly so when it came to this area of town. He was well dressed, and walked with a regal bearing. Most were probably of the assumption Wiegraf himself was a noble, though that hardly concerned the White Knight. As Wiegraf neared upon some sort of inn, shabby and rundown though it was, his ears caught something more interesting. It seemed a fight had broken out at a pub just down the street, as people began to panic and rush out. Wiegraf stopped and turned toward the building.
Silently, he pondered his course of action. Truthfully, I am hardly tired yet... The night is long, yet I've little to entertain myself with. Perhaps a distraction will help me along. Wiegraf brought his gloved hand up to straighten the ascot of his dusty brown cloak, which he wore in a way that his shoulders were never obstructed, as he stepped forward. The people rushing away from the pub stepped around him, leaving Wiegraf to feel like a rock within a river. As the White Knight stepped inside, his eyes beheld a man pinned to the floor, just in time to hear what Wiegraf could only assume was the end of their conversation.
"What are you?" The pinned man questioned.
"I'm a pirate." The other drunkenly slurred.
Oh, excellent... "A brigand of the sea," Wiegraf shot the words forth like a bullet rolling off his tongue, venom and disdain buried beneath his somber, yet haughty tone. But from the looks of it, the pirate lacked a crew... After all, thieves and outlaws stuck together. Even revolutionaries never wandered far from their pack. Wiegraf stepped into the scene, his heavy boots thumping across the wooden floor with every step, though Wiegraf instead walked past the two and took a seat upon one of the benches near the bar counter.
The man who was pinned apparently found time to eye Wiegraf. "Y-You're one too?!" He panicked. Wiegraf simply looked over his shoulder. "I've no idea what madness has taken you, but throwing accusations at a whim will only lead to more trouble." Wiegraf's eyes drew from the pinned man to the one with the long, purple hair indicatively. "If you're done battering the weak, join me for a drink." The White Knight was hardly a man known for enjoying booze, but when you're in a new world, you do a few different things... He turned his attention forward again, straightening his posture, and waved for the frightened barkeep to step up to him.
"Y-Yes sir?" The barkeep timidly stuttered. "Something bitter," Wiegraf coolly made his order. The barkeep was quick to return with a bottle of something or other and poured Wiegraf a small glass of it. Wiegraf nodded his thanks as the barkeep stepped away to hide in a corner again. Wiegraf took a sip, and though his innards felt like they may very well implode, Wiegraf was a master of self control, and displayed not even a hint of the effect on his face or in his body language.
Final Fantasy V
23
YEARS
Trans Male
Single
Pansexual
245 POSTS
Fin
You've got a lot of brass, or mayhap you're just lacking in brains!
Post by Faris Scherwiz on Sept 10, 2015 9:56:04 GMT -6
"A brigand of the sea." The clarification came strong and biting -- more an accusation than anything else. With the alcohol heavy in his head, it took Faris a moment for the words to sink in, and then longer to realize that it wasn't the knife-wielding coward who threw them. By the time that Faris turned his head to pinpoint the insult, his abuser had already walked past and taken a seat at the empty bar.
This man looked different from the others Faris had run into in this strange kingdom. He wore leather armor over a loosely fitted green shirt. Leather gloves reached his elbows while leather grieves flared out about his knees. His cape brushed the floor as he perched on the nearest bar stool. The ends of it were pulled together around his neck like a scarf. Over all, it wasn't the oddity of his dress that most shocked Faris, but its familiarity. So far, Faris hadn't seen anyone looking even remotely similar to himself, and yet he wouldn't have given this man a second look if they'd passed on the streets of Tycoon or Karnak. Sure, the man looked like he belonged more in a castle than anywhere near Faris or his crew, but even a snooty reminder of home was better than nothing. Apparently Faris wasn't the only one to see the resemblance.
"Y-You're one too?!" the knife-wielding local said. With the newcomer's sudden appearance, Faris had almost forgotten about him, but a glance proved that his attacker was still tightly pinned to a wall. The coward looked more terrified now than when Faris had changed job classes, and that was saying something. In fact, between the darting eyes and delusions, he looked like he was having some kind of fit.
"I've no idea what madness has taken you, but throwing accusations at a whim will only lead to more trouble," the newcomer said. Faris tried to keep the two voices straight, but his head was too heavy for this. That was the problem with bar fights: you were always too drunk to remember why you were fighting in the first place.
"If you're done battering the weak, join me for a drink."
Well, that was a suggestion Faris could get behind. He leaned in close to the delirious brawler and gave him a warning look before releasing him from the hold of the dragoon's spear. The man gasped as the pressure was relieved from his neck. He looked up with wide eyes as Faris spun the spear's weight onto an armored shoulder. "Get off with you now, and don't get into any trouble you can't handle." The man darted out the door before Faris could finish, but that might have been because Faris wasn't talking the fastest now anyway. The pirate stretched out the tension in his shoulders before joining the newcomer at the bar. His dragon armor clanked with every step, and gave a metallic clink as Faris fell back on the bar stool.
"Looks like the bar's all empty. A shame, it is." Faris looked to the lone barkeeper who had stood his ground in the chaos. Faris hadn't seen him before, so he'd likely hidden underneath the counter to avoid the action. He looked shaken now, but still poured out a clear liquid into the newcomer's glass without batting an eye. Faris admired his professionalism, and ordered something for himself as well. "Get me a tall draft of beer," Faris said. Without anyone to impress, it was time to slow down a little, and he didn't mind something a little weaker.
"What's your name, if you don't mind my asking?" Faris said, and then because he'd recently scolded a man for rude introductions said, "Mine's Faris. My ship went down about a week ago now, and I washed up on shore without heads or tails of where I am. From the looks of it, you're not from around here either." With the buzz of alcohol alive in his brain, Faris couldn't help himself from talking. He took a sip of the beer once it hit hand. "I come in here trying to forget all that, and some dim-witted lout starts going on about how I'll kill them all." Faris took another drink and let it dull his sense of anger. "The gutless cur should've known better than to pick fights with a Warrior of Light," he said moodily. His spear leaned against the counter as proof.
As the young, purple haired man sauntered his way over, Wiegraf heard well the clinking of his armor. It was familiar to him, as the sounds of the Dragoon's mail of Ivalice. Though this man's looked very different, the designs of the body weren't terribly different. As the man remarked over the state of the bar, Wiegraf loosed a single, somber chuckle, almost sarcastically. "Indeed," Wiegraf breathed.
It seemed somewhat obvious to the veteran that this purple haired youth was a bit of an oddity. There was something about him that stuck out to the White Knight, beyond just his armor or his hair. Wiegraf absently ran the fingertip of his right index, ever clad in leather, around the rim of his small glass, eyes drawn to the depths of the clear brown liquid within. In truth though, his eyes looked not at the glass or its contents. Instead, they saw memories roll before them... Ones of regret, mostly.
However, the stranger broke Wiegraf's somber thoughts with a simple question, "What's your name, if you don't mind my asking?" Wiegraf drew his eyes to his side for a moment, glancing at the purple haired Dragoon. He then turned his gaze back down to his drink. For but a moment, he couldn't help but wonder if he should share his name... But dismissed that thought as quick as it came, unfortunately a moment too late, as the young man gave his name, before going on about how he got here.
Wiegraf listened quietly, pulling his glass back up to his lips, letting the bitter drink pass through them so that he might drink once again. When he was finished drinking, and Faris finished relaying his tale, he placed his glass back down. "Wiegraf Folles, once-Commander of the Dead Men." He finally introduced himself. "I see your nose is sharper than your wit," Wiegraf japed at his half drunken state, though with a more harmless tone than he had previously pointed about his piracy, "For having smelled me out as a foreigner like yourself."
Though the young man's remarks about being accused did bother Wiegraf. He had heard a rumor or two since waking up here... Rumors of monstrous men and women, sewing havoc upon the poor people of this land with powers incomprehensible to them. There must have been some truth to it, Wiegraf figured, for one to brazenly attack another. Even if they were probably drunk when they did it... Wiegraf glanced back to the purple haired man from the corner of his eye when he mentioned something about being a 'Warrior of Light.' "Oh? A noble title for one accepting that selfsame bar fight... It sounds almost honorable, but perhaps it isn't a title you wear proudly?" After a moment, Wiegraf turned, gulping down the rest of the drink within his glass before waving the barkeep over for a refill.
After the barkeep refilled his drink, Wiegraf took the glass and brought it up to his lips. But before he drank, Wiegraf asked a simple question; "You," he pointed his gaze at the barkeep, "What of these incidents? Do you know of them?" The barkeep's shoulder shrunk down in response. He nodded his head slowly. "A-A little..." Wiegraf took a drink from his glass.
Wiegraf waved his gloved hand to draw his attention to the purple haired man. "Tell me, does his visage seem to harbor ill intent to you?" The Barkeep shook his head from side to side wordlessly. Wiegraf spoke up again, "Do tell, what face need I find, then?"
"I-I only know of th-the pink...haired one..." He nervously stammered.
Wiegraf nodded before he turned back to face the counter. First purple, now pink? I feel I may just find a rainbow of locks at this pace. Wiegraf kept his thoughts to himself though. "...Where are you staying, Faris?" Wiegraf asked. With the skill displayed earlier, Wiegraf was a little nervous about leaving Faris to wander alone after having gotten into a fight. Part of him worried it might start again elsewhere, and though he had no particular fears for Faris' safety, he didn't want him killing anyone else by mistake either.
In a way, this reminded him of the few days of leave he had during the war, when Gustav would get flustered with a woman at a bar, always leaving Wiegraf in the position where he needed to babysit him. He was the same during battle, too. He'd always make a rushed decision, leaving Wiegraf to cover for him, or in the worst cases, leave his post to save him personally. He was always troublesome, but like a little brother, Wiegraf could never bring himself to hate Gustav.
Final Fantasy V
23
YEARS
Trans Male
Single
Pansexual
245 POSTS
Fin
You've got a lot of brass, or mayhap you're just lacking in brains!
Post by Faris Scherwiz on Sept 11, 2015 8:57:12 GMT -6
It didn't take long for the mystery man to introduce himself. "Wiegraf Folles, once-Commander of the Dead Men." Faris snorted a little in laughter. Well, if that wasn't the snootiest name he'd ever heard, then Faris didn't know what was. Truthfully, it wasn't much different from Faris' name -- Faris' real name, that was -- but Faris had changed his name. And he wouldn't be caught dead introducing himself as 'Princess Sarisa Scherwil Tycoon.'
Furthermore, "The Dead Men" sounded like a pirate ship, or at best a band of thieves or rebels. Wiegraf didn't seem the type, what with his upright posture and clean-cut hair. He'd barely even touched his drink, and no self-respecting low-life would ever leave a bar sober. Maybe Faris had missed something, or maybe Wiegraf was more complicated than he seemed. Wiegraf didn't leave Faris much room to ask as he continued, "I see your nose is sharper than your wit, for having smelled me out as a foreigner like yourself." Well, it hadn't been hard. Compared to the people here, Wiegraf stuck out like a dragon in a den of moogles.
"My wit's as sharp as it needs to be. You get too much of it, and you can't see two feet in front of you," Faris said before continuing, "I've seen my share of new places and enough traveling men to know when one's lost. S'not so hard." The last words slurred a little and Faris blinked hard to keep his mind straight. Maybe he had drank a little much, but it still wasn't enough. There were certain thoughts he could still see if he squinted through the haze of inebriation. Thoughts that came with the implication of waking up on a beach alone.
"Oh? A noble title for one accepting that selfsame bar fight... It sounds almost honorable, but perhaps it isn't a title you wear proudly?" Now, what was he talking about? Faris couldn't think straight enough to catch it all. But then it had been Faris who had brought it up, hadn't he? Yes, Faris wasn't just a pirate anymore -- Faris was a bearer of the crystals. Savior of the world. Even now, it had a strange ring to it. After all, all Faris had wanted was to discover the truth of his past -- it wasn't his fault he'd gotten mixed up in evil-fighting and destroying that twisted tree. No, he'd never taken to the title the same way Bartz had. Faris didn't do it all for nobility. He just wasn't about to stand by while the world burned. Faris took another drink and then scowled at the taste.
"If I'd been fit for a title, I'dda stayed in Tycoon." Faris' head swam with beer and a bitter feeling he couldn't place. Hadn't he been happy to call Lenna his sister? Lenna...
"Tell me, does his visage seem to harbor ill intent to you?" The man -- Wiegraf -- gestured towards Faris and the barkeep shook his head no. Wiegraf gave a more serious look before adding, "Do tell, what face need I find, then?"
"I-I only know of th-the pink...haired one..."
"Pink?!" The word blurted out before Faris could think. "Out with it! What does she look like? Where is she?"
The barkeeper jumped a little at the outburst and stared like Faris might attack someone again. "A-at the World Sight," he said, "Northeast of here. I heard it was a woman i-in black armor."
Faris frowned and tried to remember his sister's job classes. There was her dragon armor, but that was more blue than black. Maybe a samurai then?
The barkeeper steadied himself and then continued with greater strength and more than a little anger. "The woman, she slaughtered two dozen people with a sword. They say it all happened in the blink of an eye."
"It's not her then," Faris said. Even if Faris had never seen another girl with such vibrant hair, Lenna couldn't so much as scowl at someone wrong -- let alone murder them. She was a gentle soul who was too kind for the fight they'd stumbled into. Faris didn't know what he'd expected, being stranded in a strange land, but maybe it was the alcohol talking.
With all the excitement, Faris had almost forgotten about Wiegraf. He still sat there with his perfect posture and his nervous disposition. He asked where Faris was staying, and it was all Faris could do to shrug. "I don't know myself. Not here, if that ruckus was anything to go by. And soon I'll be dry broke." Money could only last so long, and what Faris had stolen on his way to the city wouldn't last another two days. How long would it be before he had to steal some more? Maybe if he changed job classes again, he'd find some kind of hidden passage to room full of treasure. It wouldn't hurt to try, at least.
Faris tried to stretch out the soreness from his shoulders, but was stifled by the armored plates. "Damn it," he muttered, "This class's gettin' the best of me." In fact, with the general heaviness of his limbs, the armor was making it hard to move at all. Faris called upon the power of the crystal and irritably cast it aside. In a flash of light, his helm disappeared, pauldrons dissolved to air, and chest plates gave way to Faris' familiar blue tunic and scarf. Without all of the weight, Faris stretched out his arms and then leaned his elbow against the counter. He cradled his cheek in one hand and closed his eyes. "Might as well do away with it. You don't seem the type to try and jump me," Faris said and then smirked, "Least, not if you value your life."
(I'M SO LOST ON WHAT I WAS DOING so I'm just going to super wing it. Hopefully the way I'm writing Wiegraf now doesn't totally warp the original thread too much. AND SORRY FOR THE LENGTH, I'm getting back into this so hopefully future responses won't be nearly as short or leave you with so little to work with. You can push us forward as much as you want, I'll work with whatever.)
The air of this place had begun to stifle Wiegraf's senses. He truly never was a man left wanting for a bar scene, nor one who ever enjoyed the drink along the way either. He didn't recall what beyond the noisy scene he walked upon even prompted him to stop by-- He was never one to involve himself in the affairs of others, yet here he sat, prying into the life of a seemingly troubled youth, a somber concern ebbing and flowing in his breast like the ocean.
Crude, cocky, yet composed were words easily stuck to this Faris by Wiegraf's reckoning, at least in the time he'd been around the lad. In a way, the young lad was like both Gustav and Gragoroth. As prone to poor habits as Gustav, and yet more the flair and form as Gragoroth. A nightmare to Wiegraf no matter the mixture, and yet one he couldn't bring himself to ignore. He glanced back to the barkeep, who still stood nervously at the other side of the bar table. "Here," Wiegraf removed a pouch from a pocket beneath his breastplate, then reached his gloved fingers into it to pull a few gold coins out from within, placing them on the counter.
Even if they weren't proper currency for this world, their value as gold would likely cover his charges regardless. Wiegraf's estimation seemed accurate, when the barkeep's eyes widened at the sight. "I-Is that for him as well?" The barkeep pointed his question to Wiegraf, but he was clearly referencing the freshly armorless young man. Wiegraf nodded wordlessly. The barkeep quickly gathered up the coins and stepped back again. Wiegraf gulped down the last of his drink and placed the glass gently down on the bartop one final time. He turned to face Faris, and gave his pouch a soft shake as he held it in the air before him, letting the soft jingle of the coins within clashing against one another pierce the air.
"You've no place to stay tonight, lad. You may stay with me at the inn down the street. The room has two beds, so save your worry," Wiegraf had little desire to make strange implications, that was certain. Now, Wiegraf returned the pouch to its resting place beneath his breastplate.
Final Fantasy V
23
YEARS
Trans Male
Single
Pansexual
245 POSTS
Fin
You've got a lot of brass, or mayhap you're just lacking in brains!
Post by Faris Scherwiz on Dec 20, 2015 11:30:13 GMT -6
((OOC: It has been literally like three months since we've done this. xD There's absolutely no problem.))
Without all the armor plating, Faris felt heavier for some reason. Maybe the plates had been helping him to stay upright or maybe he just put less thought into it now as he sank over the bar table, eyes closed and cheek held in hand. Faris had plenty of experience drinking, but it still hit him harder than it should have. Faris had always been at a bit of a disadvantage there, being generally shorter, smaller, and well...differently equipped than his peers. Not that it was any harder for him in a fight -- he'd killed the kind of monsters that would send even the proudest of men quaking -- but other parts of life proved a little more troublesome for him than most.
Like now, Faris found that his chest was aching again. He picked at the front of his shirt and tried to casually loosen the bindings beneath. His bandages must have slipped again...
There was a jangle of metal on hardwood. Faris slit open his eyes to see several gold coins slapped onto the counter by a leather glove. "Here," Wiegraf said. There was a stuttering from behind the counter, followed by a question: "I-Is that for him as well?" Wiegraf nodded.
Faris closed his eyes again. Well, that settled it then. By some great stroke of luck, this pretentious "commander" had helped to save the last of Faris' hard-stolen gil. He grinned a little from behind the back of his hand. "Thanks, lad. I was expecting another fight when you came in all put-together like that, but maybe you're not so bad." Just snooty and more than a little pompous. Not the type Faris generally meshed well with, but for a free rounds of drinks, his opinion would improve for anyone.
But then the pouch was jangling again, and Faris glanced to the side to look at him. Was Wiegraf trying to draw attention to his own wealth? If Faris had wanted to, he could have stalked the man in the streets and held him up for that load of gold. Of course, Faris wouldn't because the man had paid for his drinks, but that wouldn't stop anyone else from doing the same. At least, if there had been anyone else still in the building...
"You've no place to stay tonight, lad. You may stay with me at the inn down the street."
Faris blinked. What was this man...?
"The room has two beds, so save your worry."
Oh. Well, if that was the case.
"Mmm...Maybe I'll take you up on that. I've been in a bad spot since I was ship-wrecked here. Can't make head nor tails of the cities...All this machinery. No magic. No crystals." Faris yawned and stretched the ache from his muscles. His shoulders gave a satisfying crack. "Been trying to forget all that. But still. Bad situation." Faris' head spun when he sat up. It wasn't too bad -- he'd certainly felt worse by a far margin -- but it was disorienting and Faris blinked hard to keep his focus. Still, he had a reputation to uphold and managed to stand without so much as a wobble or sway. He'd had worse, after all, and the night was still young.
"Don't know what's possessed you to ask me, but it's mighty good luck, I'll tell you that." Faris tilted his head sideways and gave the man a hard look. "Just know that I've killed worse than you with barely a thought to it. And I'm a light sleeper."
(My internet was too shit when I wrote this for me to bother going back and reading if Wiegraf had noticed whether the pirate ladass (GET IT, IT’S LAD, LASS, AND BADASS TOO) had already hinted at not being from here or not, and I can’t remember squat off the top of my head. Whoops. ALSO just so you know, I don't mind being poked to post. I had honestly forgotten, so next time, you can totally prod me about it so I hopefully don't keep you waiting so long!)
Truthfully, Wiegraf found himself more than a little hard up for company as of late. He’d been in a strange world, and hadn’t yet met anyone who could even come close to understanding his situation. So he let slip the remark about a fight--After all, he wasn’t even entirely sure it wouldn’t have ended in a fight, but perhaps the White Knight wanted something different, too. Then again, if the sea-brigand had killed the cowardly little man, it would have become a battle.
He shrugged some stress from his shoulders, intentionally remaining quiet as the obviously drunk--regardless of how skilled he was at hiding it--pirate prattled on. Generally Wiegraf preferred his statements to be much more short and to the point, each perfectly pronounced, sternly spoken syllable working towards a single, organized goal that would only be said when it needed to be said. He wasn’t an idle chatter most nights, but made an exception of this one, if only to diffuse a bad situation. The White Knight was quick to notice Faris’ odd fixation with his shirt. He picked and prodded at it as though something was stuck on it… He was a pirate, so Wiegraf found it easy enough to look past as just a bit of food likely stuck to it.
As the young, purple haired man shifted on to seemingly accept Wiegraf’s offer, the White Knight gave a solemn nod. Though something in his words touched at the side of Wiegraf that wished to have someone he could relate to in this strange land, and it tickled at him in the back of his mind, where silent thoughts now formed of curiosity. The cities here were technologically advanced, sure--not unlike the ruins beneath Goug must have been a thousand years ago--but magic? That stuck out to Wiegraf. If this place didn’t have magic as a commonplace element, perhaps the young man sat next to Wiegraf was like the White Knight himself. Such thoughts would be better expressed, though, when the source material were less drunk and more reliable.
"Bad, indeed," Wiegraf quietly, dryly humored Faris. He pushed himself up and stepped away, once again letting a comment Faris had made slide. The fight had been dealt with, so he had little desire to take up the drunken provocations of a silken-locked pirate. Plus, killing for nothing wasn’t something Wiegraf put stock into- Any psychopath with a kitchen knife would settle on the masses as a slayer, after all. It was people more like Wiegraf whose words warranted more caution. War was hell, and even beyond that, Wiegraf had slain more than foes he hadn’t known.
Gustav, too. Like a young brother to Wiegraf, both in war and before, as well as one of his apprentices. He and his host of traitorous knights all died by the steady hand of Wiegraf Folles, White Knight of the battalion known as the Dead Men, and each of them were like family. To kill someone you don’t know is like nothing to one who has slain so many they loved. Although, as Wiegraf brushed the comment aside, he knew like as not that it probably wasn’t the way Faris had intended the comment. Perhaps it was the drink in Wiegraf, forcing his mind toward the darkness that so consistently hungered for it.
Without bothering with any further words, Wiegraf started off, exiting the bar with a casual, backward wave to the barkeep, who still stood nervously at the other side of the bartop. As he rejoined the living world outside of the once-bustling pub, the streets were vacant and quiet, and the moon and stars were now long settled, Wiegraf sighed. He moved with no ill effects of his drink, after all he’d downed so little, but something felt heavy about him. It made him wish all the more to remove his armor and finally be free of the weight of it.
He stepped once again down the street, toward the inn which he had originally aimed to return to earlier in the day, all the while only assuming that Faris was following him. The purple-haired man had stood up easily enough, despite his drink, so Wiegraf had little worry that he wouldn’t be able to follow.
The night air was tinted with a soft, admittedly somewhat romantic scent of the sea carried in upon the wind, and even Wiegraf felt the tiniest bit of allure toward the great blue. Perhaps it was the young man in him once again surfacing for air, longing to move away from the fields and the farms and craving the unknown. Unfortunately that young man had mostly perished a very long time ago, in the flames of war and hell. Now, Wiegraf brushed off the sensations of his mind and his heart, carrying himself forward into the inn. As he returned, the elderly innkeeper, who was just about to move away from the, offered a friendly smile to Wiegraf.
He was a nice man, from what the White Knight had learned of him during his visit to book the room earlier, though he looked a bit odd. Thick glasses, bald, with only snow-white hair casing the sides of his head, and a long, scraggly beard. Wiegraf doubted he had much time left to live, given how wrinkly he was, and how shaky his hands were when he accepted Wiegraf’s payment. "Welcome back," he called to Wiegraf in a raspy voice. Wiegraf nodded his appreciation and acknowledgement, then continued on to the left.
Deep brown eyes scanned the walls as Wiegraf worked his way back to his room. They were a forest green, with slightly lighter shades of green painted over it in stripes, and had a very unique decorative trim along the baseboards that depicted a Chocobo running. It was the last door on the left, and with three others before it, there was time, he supposed. "How are you fairing?" Wiegraf asked back, curious as to whether or not the drink had yet gotten the better of Faris. Finally they reached his door, and Wiegraf slid the bright silver key from a pocket to unlock it. It opened easily, as the door and lock were both almost brand new, as was almost everything in the place.
Inside were two beds, each located side by side directly to the right of the entrance into the room, though separated by roughly four feet. On each side of the beds, between the, were wooden tables for any personal items that needed to be kept close. Facing the feet of each bed was a door, which housed a bathroom on the other side, complete with a tub that ran with warm water, which was alien to Wiegraf. There was a single, sizable window located on the other side of the bed further from the door, allowing one a fairly impressive view of the rest of the city. The curtains were open, split on each side of the window. The walls themselves were decorated the same as those of the hallway.
But rather than rush in, Wiegraf instead, held the door, and with a dip of his head, welcomed Faris in first. It was only polite, after all. And the White Knight figured he’d let Faris pick a bed first, to boot. He wasn’t picky himself, but didn’t know whether the purple-haired man would be.
Final Fantasy V
23
YEARS
Trans Male
Single
Pansexual
245 POSTS
Fin
You've got a lot of brass, or mayhap you're just lacking in brains!
Post by Faris Scherwiz on Jan 2, 2016 0:51:34 GMT -6
[attr="class","oneword1"]
[attr="class","fromyou1"]@wiegraf
Faris is not a fun drunk. xD Want to skip to the next day?
You've got a lot of brass, or mayhap you're just lacking in brains!
"Bad, indeed," the man agreed. He ignored Faris' challenge, but Faris hadn't been looking for much of an answer anyway. The words had been a warning: 'Try anything, and you'll regret it.' It didn't matter if that "anything" was a theft, a dagger at his throat, or something far more nefarious. Faris was ready for it, and the message had been made clear.
Faris had plenty of experience dealing with thugs, after all. He wasn't about to blindly trust some man offering him a bed just because he'd had his drinks paid for. Even intoxicated, Faris knew better than that.
The man left the bar with only a short, informal wave behind him. Faris blinked at the sudden movement and then followed as closely as he could manage. The city was still unfamiliar to him and dark with only the shadows of streetlights to guide them. Faris didn't stumble, but his legs felt heavy and his head still spun. The streets were empty now, at least (how much time had passed in that bar?), so there wasn't much in the way of distractions. The buildings rose up high into the sky like castle bulwarks. They were made of brick and glass and shining metal. Faris tried not to stare at them as he passed. Out of all the places he'd been (on his own world and beyond), this was by far the strangest. He couldn't even begin to fathom how any of this had come to be. Zephon. Serentestra. All these foreign words, and Faris couldn't follow them all.
Far away, Faris smelled the muddy movings of the river. It wasn't quite like the sea with its salty bitterness, but it still brightened his mood all the same. Rivers were grungier, slower, and smelled perpetually of fish, but it was water and Faris loved anything to do with it. That's why he'd gravitated towards this city, and that's why he hadn't left. Water flowed through his city like life blood, and Faris felt drawn by the pulse. Perhaps on another night, in another world, Faris might have closed his eyes and listened to the faint movement of the currents. That time was not now, however. Now he devoted most of his energy just to walking straight.
Once, a long time ago, Faris' shipmates might have mocked him for this. The first time he'd gone drinking, he'd barely been able to keep pace with them and then had ended up stumbling through an alley where he'd promptly vomited into a trash pile. They'd never let him live that down. 'I told you little Faris couldn't hold her own.' 'This is why we told her not to come.' 'Why don't you stay here, lass? You're just a little girl.' It always came back to that, didn't it? Nevermind that he couldn't have been older than thirteen at the time. It always came back to that one thing...
'You're just a little girl.'
By the time they came to the inn, Faris felt a dark mood brewing in his blood. He followed Wiegraf without much of a word or expression. It was just an inn -- albeit a strange and foreign one -- and Faris wasn't paying much attention. The man behind the counter was old and didn't pose much of a threat. Faris scowled at the deep green walls and tried to keep himself from swaying. He followed Wiegraf up stairs, down halls, and along a path that he wasn't sure he'd be able to follow come morning. "How are you faring?" A voice. A question. Wiegraf.
"I can handle myself," Faris said, snappier than he'd intended. "So why don't you keep to your own business?"
Everyone was always talking like Faris couldn't take care of himself. Or at least, they had when he'd told the truth. The second they knew what he'd been born as, there came the concern and the questions. Or that's how it usually happened. Bartz hadn't seemed to care one way or the other, most of the time.
A key scraped in the lock of a door, and then it opened. The man held the door and stepped politely to the side. Faris gave him a foul look as he passed. "I can hold open my own door," he said and then placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. The room wasn't much different from what he'd find on his own world -- in substance if not in style. There were tables. There were beds. Faris eyed the man to see if he was going to say anything else or maybe lay claim to something. When he didn't, Faris put a hand on his hip. "I meant it," he said, "Try anything while I'm asleep and you'll find yourself at the bottom of the river!" Then Faris took a step towards the bed and fell into it. The blankets enveloped him in soft cotton.
"Oh gods, this is nice!" Faris couldn't help a tired groan as he sank into the mattress. It had been days since Faris had slept on even the cot of his ship. Since then, it had been the cold ground of the wilderness or the sleek streets of the city. Even so, Faris could have sworn he'd never touched anything better. Maybe the palace of Tycoon could have rivaled it, but he couldn't be sure. "I'm so tired. Think I'll just..." Faris rolled until he was wrapped in cloth. Then he froze. His eyes darted back to Wiegraf. They narrowed.
"I can still kill you in a second, mind!" Faris said, "I've still got a knife on me, and don't you forget it!" But the weight of the blankets and the alcohol was too much. Almost as soon as he'd said it, Faris let his head drop to the mattress and his eyes close.
Darkness overcame him like a swathe. Sleep came in a carriage of feather down.
(I enjoyed writing Wiegraf's mood in this more than I thought I would. He's just like "Ohhhh my god, will you SHUT UP ALREADY?" Anyway, the linebreak is the next day!
Along the walk, through the halls and stairs, Wiegraf resisted every negative impulse at the snapping and the threats. Over and over, he simply sighed from his nose, blinked a few times, and continued on. There was little to be done of it now, after all. If this had come sooner, Wiegraf would have never offered Faris a place for the night. No man with self-respect would have, at that rate. But Wiegraf was a man of honor, and he had made the offer, it was agreed upon, and now he had to uphold it. If it meant suffering through some drunken stupor, well, the White Knight supposed it was worth it to be able to say that Wiegraf Folles was a man of honor and honesty.
And finally, the door. The key unlocked door. "I can hold open my own door." Wiegraf's eyes shut instantly, and a heavy breath escaped his lungs, up above his mouth, from his nose. His gloved hand raised itself, index finger and thumb were quickly pressed down over the shut lids of his eyes, pushing away the growing headache he now felt behind them. The White Knight could only hope to avoid an aneurysm this night. Never in his life had he met such a disrespectful young man- Not even Gustav was so bad when he was drunk, and he couldn't handle his alcohol nearly half as well as Faris could! Wiegraf so very clearly wanted to throw the lad out, but again, he thought of the dishonor, and more importantly, of the possibilities of what this purple-haired, volatile man might do to some other drunk out on the street. He refused to allow anything bad to happen so long as he had the power to stop it.
After taking a few moments to compose himself out of sight, Wiegraf followed in after Faris, closing the door behind himself. He kept his demeanor calm, cool, and most of all, formal. The night was nearly through. Soon, Faris would be passed out, and Wiegraf could at last think on what had been happening to him lately. How he'd gotten here. Important things... Wiegraf moved to the edge of the bed left unclaimed, "I meant it. Try anything while I'm asleep and you'll find yourself at the bottom of the river!" Faris reiterated. Wiegraf simply breathed his acknowledgment, "Mhm," Wiegraf untied the cloak from around his neck, letting it drop to the floor as he sighed. He pulled the sheathed blade from his waist and settled it against the wall at the head of his bed.
He followed suit by gently untying and pulling the ascot from around his neck, and gently placing it upon the surface of the wooden bedside table that now clearly belonged to him. He tugged at the ties that kept his heavy breastplate over his chest, and with a tremendously loud thud, let it fall and crash upon the wooden floor at his feet. As Wiegraf undressed, Faris settled in. He could hear the young man's elated reactions to the soft bed, though he stood facing in the opposite direction. At least he seemed to be enjoying it- That was something Wiegraf could be grateful for. He continued on undressing, pulling the beige tunic off, and then finally, following by removing the green, long sleeved cotton shirt, all of which ended in a messy pile upon the floor, at the edge of his bed.
Wiegraf's muscled physique wasn't entirely uncommon for a dog of war, especially not one who spent their entire life training and honing their body the way that Wiegraf had. Though at his back, several scars rested. Two from blades between his shoulders, one from a dagger aimed for his right kidney, and in the upper right, across the surface in a diagonal toward the lower left, a long scar from a severe burn. Such were the tellings of Wiegraf's history of battle. The foes of Ivalice used blade and fire to try and cull his life when the opportunity arose, but only a traitor had used a dagger to stab him in the back. The White Knight shifted forward, pulling the blanket up from his bed, and swiftly rolled it up. Instead, he opted to toss it on the floor at the other side of his bed.
Wiegraf turned around, taking a seat at the edge of his bed, inadvertently facing Faris. His chest, too, bore several scars, though they were much less deep than those on his back. A few blades scattered about, but the most important was a claw mark that began just at the base of Wiegraf's collarbone, and continued down until midway over his abdomen. Wiegraf reached down to the tunic he left on the floor, and after a few seconds of pulling it around, digging hands through the cloth, he produced the goat horn-shaped rock, sky blue in color, and with a shimmer that almost made it seem like a crystal. Wiegraf dropped the shirt back to the floor, eyes drawn to the stone as he began to lean back.
Not before Faris could jape at him again, however. This time came an outright threat to kill him, should he try anything. Wiegraf replied evenly. "I wouldn't dream of it." As Wiegraf flopped into his bed, legs hung out over the side, feet planted firmly on the floor, he mused. The way Faris acted, it wasn't like Gustav or Gragoroth anymore. No, now, the White Knight could think of only one person who would ever speak like that, least of all to him. Certainly, threats of murder had never come from that person, but even so, they bore an attitude and an air strikingly similar to Faris. Or perhaps, the other way around.
Milleuda. His sister. She was often so brazen, always ready to challenge and assert herself, though she never had anything to prove to Wiegraf. He wasn't a biased man, neither against women nor for his sister. Wiegraf considered for a moment, all of the things that had transpired, and of the way Faris had acted, reacted, and engaged since they left the bar. For a moment more, Wiegraf mused over a few thoughts, mind trailing back and forth between his sister and Faris, and were he any less stoic a veteran, he might have cracked a small smile. But instead, he held it within, and raised the small, unusual stone above his head, allowing his eyes to scan over the surface. The sensation of the stone in his hand felt so right... As if it was part of him. His eyes knew its shape, knew every little crevice of it. But why? How? Wiegraf spent much of the night without sleeping.
Morning came, light shone in through the open curtains, and the city had once again been given new life through the hustle and bustle of its people, plenty of which could now be heard in the street outside. Wiegraf still laid on his bed, though he had settled into a more appropriate position, with his head at the top, upon the pillow, and his feet at the foot. He had removed his boots as well, and those now rested within the pile of clothes he let rest beside his bed. He laid still, eyes closed, though he was awake and rested well enough, and his stone was still clutched tightly in his left hand, where it belonged.
Though the city was certainly alive and well, there wasn't much reason for Wiegraf to rise just yet. At least not until he had heard a knock at the door. Wiegraf opened his eyes, giving them a moment to readjust to the light as he called to the door quietly, "Yes?" came Wiegraf's simple call. A female voice from the other side responded to him after a moment, the sound sweet and familiar, "May I come in?"
The White Knight pushed himself up from bed, sitting at the side, and pressing his attention to the door at the other side of Faris' bed. "You may." The doorknob clicked as it turned, and when it opened, the sound of wheels rolling across the wooden floor prefaced the young woman whom Wiegraf recognized. She was the granddaughter of the man who owned the inn, whom Wiegraf had met before. She was a young woman, and by Wiegraf's reckoning, likely just beyond the schooling age, ripe for a career or marriage. She was dressed in a black dress, which many men would consider striking, though Wiegraf himself paid no heed to it. Her dark brown shoulder-length hair bore more of a sheen than he had previously recalled, and was brushed and groomed to near perfection. She smiled as she rolled in and looked to Wiegraf, sat upon his bed, completely missing Faris in the closer one.
"My apologies, sir," she humbly started, a faint blush rolling across her cheeks, "I've brought you a nice meal for this morning... I hope I haven't disturbed you, coming so early without warning." Her tone was not lost on the White Knight. He could tell, both from the way she spoke and the twinkle in her eye that she was enamored with him. But Wiegraf was, well, far from interested in courting. He shook his head from side to side, waving away her concern, and dismissing his own regarding Faris. The lad needed to wake up, anyway. "Do not furrow your brow for me, my lady," Wiegraf formally started, pushing himself up from his bed and shifting over to view the breakfast she had prepared, "For I am unworthy." A soft giggle escaped the girl's lips.
"P-Please, it's free of charge. I hope you enjoy it!" Faster than the wind now, she raced off. Wiegraf's brow quirked as he watched her rush out the door, not even taking the time to let him thank her, let alone close the door behind herself. The blush upon her cheeks had grown furiously in the moment before she raced off, and Wiegraf knew quite well that she was embarrassed now that he had risen and moved toward her without his clothes on. He looked upon the delicious food she brought and chuckled... She made it herself, he figured, and put a lot of work into it. Unfortunately, the White Knight's stomach wasn't exactly roaring.
Though the omelet resting upon the plate looked delicious, the smell divine, and the ingredients--ham, bacon, various peppers, cheeses, and herbs--looked to be prime and fresh, Wiegraf could not and would not force himself to eat when he wasn't hungry. The milk set in a glass at the side, however, might end up being taken before the morning was through... Wiegraf moved over and closed the door swiftly, hoping to let the sound of it slamming wake up Faris, if the conversation beforehand hadn't already done so.
