Welcome to Adventu, your final fantasy rp haven. adventu focuses on both canon and original characters from different worlds and timelines that have all been pulled to the world of zephon: a familiar final fantasy-styled land where all adventurers will fight, explore, and make new personal connections.
at adventu, we believe that colorful story and plots far outweigh the need for a battle system. rp should be about the writing, the fun, and the creativity. you will see that the only system on our site is the encouragement to create amazing adventures with other members. welcome to adventu... how will you arrive?
year 5, quarter 3
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Once the feline loosened her grip, he would lean back to make her dismount a mite easier before turning around to hear her delineate what they had to do during this time of uncertainty; the same uncertainty that forced her to spare Setro from potentially inundating him. However, akin to a fresh wound, he refrained from spreading salt on it, but rather offered a means to mend it with a bandage, figuratively speaking. As such, he would spare her the spiel of sympathy, which was an unwitting service because the warrior was a man of action and perseverance — something she might very well prefer over sensitivity.
“Well met, Y’shtola. I am Setro, a knight of Cornelia. I was spirited away to this world, so I know not of our surroundings.” The warrior rests one arm across his stomach whilst the other sits atop it, adopting a ponderous stance as his hand hovers against his lips. “The automatons did indeed appear fixated. Perhaps they can discern foreign magics. As it stands, without a staff, our options have grown thin.” Voicing the over looming tribulations they are beset by, he kept his steely blue gaze upon the feline. But shortly after, they widened with a wayward curiosity as he looked down to his personal effects, namely his shield.
“Y’shtola,” paused Setro, filling the air with metallic footsteps as he approached a safe distance from the woman before inquiring, “... permit me to voice an idea. My shield— I admit it is no staff, but it is capable of channelling defensive spells at my disposal.” For Y’shtola, the following sound was Setro gripping his shield and holding it aloft their waists. With that, the warrior finally asks, “Could you use it as a temporary medium for your magic until we find your staff or something of equivalent value?”
“You sayin’ you came north from the valley?” “Yes. That is where I awoke. I intended to traverse the mountains, yet without a means to mend possible injuries, I knew I would fare better heading south.”
As the patron of the bar prepared a pint of water, he talked to the warrior whilst grabbing a gourd and pouring its content. “That’s smart thinking, fella. Ya’ look like you know your way around a fight, but with spiders, bats an’ lord knows what else hidin’ in them mountains— that place would've been your grave.” Shortly after, he slid the cup over with a quick, “Here you go,” before sealing the gourd and stowing it away. Setro had replied with a quiet, “Thank you,” roping his fingers around the pint and having a small drink soon after. Talking to the wizened man availed Setro aplenty by way of filling in the gaps he could not.
This was the realm of Zephon, and individuals like Setro — those spirited away from their own worlds, are known as Outlanders. He had met another prior to his arrival to the marshes, but by the sounds of it, this phenomenon transpired long before their emergence. Some have even established themselves and formed bands composed of other outlanders. Whilst Setro wouldn’t so naively ascribe to the notion that his allies had found their way into these organisations, or that they wound up in Zephon at all. But hope sustains him and discarding the possibility is a fool’s gamble. If his friends were here, the warrior of light would find them.
After another morsel sip of water, the warrior rests his cup upon the wooden parchment before asking, “What can you tell me of these marshlands?” The aged gentleman flashed Setro a perked brow over the question before letting out a warm, shoulder raising chuckle. “Ain’t much ta’ know. The only things worth knowin’ is the marsh is home to ghouls an’ other kinda beasties lurking in the waters, but some of the merchants pay a pretty gil to anyone willing to help ‘em through the marshes.” Even when the new arrival graced the establishment with her presence, their banter continued unimpeded.
“You’re lookin’ to make some gil, aren’t you?” Asked the smug patron. “I doubt the merchants will offer their wares without compensation.” “Haha! True, true. I guess you know your way ‘round a few other things too.” “I am a quick learner.”
Her silence carried a weight Setro could sympathise with. A warrior’s shortcomings are oft suffered in silence, usually by one’s own volition. Addressing it would be akin to throwing salt on a fresh wound. But once there was a considerable heft of her forearms across his chest-plate— a sign of the feline’s preparedness, their tarrying was over. With clenched fists, he hooks his arms around and under her legs, bracing her frame to his before coming to a stand. How strange it would’ve felt, to know her weight seemed no more than a trifle to the knight. In the instance prior to the intended path, Setro took in a deep breath, nodded and would say with a quiet yet firm tone, “Let us be off.”
The first step was slow in nature as he slightly hunched over. Understandably one might discern this as him being unable to bear her weight. Immediately after, however, Setro, with the feline in tow, broke off into a tenaciously fast pace. Whatever flora impeded them was broken through and whatever could’ve compromised his footing was leapt over, all the while showing no signs of slowing down or loosening his grip. As a warrior, he made it a habit of disciplining his body to peak performance. As such, he had the tactical foresight to train in events like this. A good payoff.
That payoff would be tested soon enough after a few seconds. What Setro couldn’t see from yonder was the gorge betwixt where they are and where they needed to be. Ever the steadfast man that he is, the warrior persisted in that hastened pace but quickly exclaimed, “Brace yourself!” No more than a few seconds later, the feline would be subjected to that hunched feeling she had endured before this all transpired. Cobbling together the amalgamation of strength and momentum, Setro exhaled a grunt as he catapulted them both over the large crevice.
Throughout all this, Setro would have figured being sightless would warrant her a modicum of fear and uncertainty— yet he held her firmly no matter what. She trusted him for this task, a task that came to fruition once he landed. The impact ran through them both like a shock as the warrior of light dug his feet in, skidding across earth and stone until edging into the aforementioned grotto and coming to a gradual halt. A barely audible pant hushed its way through his lips, but recuperation came after his stated. “Forgive the abrupt landing, but we made it.”
In his haste, he had overlooked that ailment, and albeit this being their first encounter, once she exclaimed that debilitation, Setro quickly helped her up. “Forgive me.” It was succinct yet sincere, given their current predicament, but the feline had to rely on his sight for a time. So when she had asked if there were any discernible cover they could utilise, the silence she would perceive thereafter was him scanning their surroundings. He had to be quick, lest they garner the attention of an automaton.
Setro would fare well against such an adversary, but he won’t risk her getting caught in the crossfire.
Littered throughout the valley were noticeably large bodies of debris, ideal for protection but could be susceptible to compromise. Not good enough. It is nature that will aid their endeavour, something that thankfully came in abundance, and with Setro’s distraction still holding sway, these two were allotted with ample time. His observations finally bore fruit when those clear, cerulean hues popped with a mixture of relief and hope — beyond their aggressors lies what appeared to be a small grotto.
His attention, however, was stifled by her lamentations, urging him to look back at her. She was capable, that much Setro knew. Mayhaps the grief of acknowledging her vulnerability outweighed her malaise. “You have nothing to apologise for, my lady. Though we are beset by tribulations, you still draw breath.” His voice, though stern like a hardened warrior, carried with it an indelible warmth.
What she would hear next is metal smothered by leather as the warrior sheathed his sword. Stepping closer, he quickly uttered, “I’ve located what appears to be a grotto nearby. But we must act quickly before these machines return.” There was a shift and turn, a process whereupon he turned his back to her before taking both her hands and roping them over his shoulders. The modicum of delicacy Setro applied was a vast improvement from his prior handling. With both of them in position, he finally asks, “Are you ready?”
“Only a trifle. While you aren’t the first I’ve encountered, I’m afraid I can offer nothing but idle speculation.” Setro’s fortitude, coupled together with his forthright manner, saw him sparing Ace any reasons for suspicion. Subterfuge begets bad blood, after all. He couldn’t imagine doing anything of the sort with his comrades— that much he wanted to convey. All that remained was Ace. Would he temper that paranoia? Or take his chances, albeit their supine state? The warrior of light would lament the latter, ergo his insistence of diplomacy. And he’s bereft of fondness for attacking someone while they’re down, but if forced…
Turning his head, Setro examined the dense thicket beyond them, mired in a foggy miasma as they were. The daylight barely pierces the canopy, and while the overgrown roots leave them shy of encountering the ghouls he’s slain thus far, the woods might very well invite other manner of fiends. “I’m afraid we can’t tarry for much longer. I suggest we try to make it through the marshlands before sundown.”
In that moment, his eyes sharpen with a razor focus and his body, despite the already stalwart posture, had somehow become more imposing as he drew his sword from its sheath. But that paled in comparison to what he did next— Setro turned his back to Ace. Despite the young man’s wariness, was he inviting the chance for ill intent? Or was it some convoluted machination? What Setro said, however, aired any suspicions Ace might’ve had. “I will draw their ire and cut a path out of these marshes.” Though his legs were planted as firmly as the roots themselves, he twisted his upper half to look at the young man.
“And so I ask of you— will you help me with this endeavour?”
Whilst the elder began a harmless meandering in their years of observations, they failed to notice the warrior’s attention wavered, or rather, something warranted it be so. Cerulean pools sharpen with focus and caution as if his instincts were urging him to take note that someone close by was keenly interested in his presence here. But who? Beyond those he’s interacted with thus far, he’s yet to provoke anyone. Logic soon took precedence, however, urging Setro to search his feelings rather than relying solely on instinct. What he felt was an old but familiar sensation, the kind that’s born from the bonds of comradery.
‘Could it be…?’
As that thought trickled its way into his heart, a softness had glazed over his eyes as they widened with curiosity, of want even. Of all the warrior’s of light, Setro was perhaps the most forthright, never deterring from the path and always facing it head-on— a trait that was shared in and out of battle. Rather than ascribing to mere speculation, tufts of platinum hair brush over his shoulder as Setro turned his head to what he believed to be the general area whereupon that sensation dwelled.
In that infinitesimal flicker from one moment to the next, time seemingly stood still, bereft of the inevitable march if not for but a brief moment. When their eyes locked, he knew with absolute certainty. This was no conjuration of the mind, nor some meek parlour trick. “Laurelin…” Her name fell from a mouth held agape, a faint whisper that only he was supposedly privy to. Setro knew something was amiss, for the near palid demeanour appeared as if she had seen a ghost. Perhaps she too thought she wouldn’t see her comrades again, but no, he believes it to be something else. Was it possible she arrived at Zephon long before he did? Given the nature of their method to stop Chaos, it would be unwise to dismiss the possibility, but even so…
“Laure-what now?” Evidently, the warrior’s mumble hadn’t gone unnoticed, nor did his lack of focus on the topic at hand once the elder finally paid notice. He too looked at the source of Setro’s distraction, gazing upon the elf that gazed back at them. “You know her or something?”
“She is my comrade and friend.” No sooner when that reply was uttered did the warrior turn his body towards the aforementioned individual, followed with a swift addition of, “Please excuse me.” From there, he broke into a hastened yet steady gait towards Laurelin, parsing through the citizens and closing that torturous proximity until finally standing before her.
The myriad of thoughts and questions they undoubtedly harboured were surely immense. The soldier in him wanted to know if she had ascertained the whereabouts of their friends, or if they were fortunate enough to arrive here like they had. But right now? It wasn’t the time nor the place.
“Laurelin,” he paused, that cool demeanour loosened to what appeared to be relief as a small yet softened smile pierced the otherwise stoic countenance when he said, “— I’m glad you’re alright.”
The young man’s speed was fleeting but instantaneous, as to be expected with their lithe physique. But the way they moved was rigid and offered the smallest of exaggeration; that was instinct. Setro effortlessly kept focus during the newly drawn proximity, but that infinitesimal moment betwixt had him surmising such… and perhaps even sparing a morsel of pity. What did they have to endure to attain that innate, near subconscious level of reflex? That is, after all, tempered in the flames of conflict. The Warrior would assume when they came to, their mind, body and soul all screamed one thing — protect yourself.
He should be cautious, prepared even… and yet Setro’s sword remained in its sheath.
In the instance that Ace found substantial footing from their leap, the Warrior’s hand remained exposed, ne’er to pull his weapon from its sheath but instead motioning for peace as he said, “Hearken to me— I am not your enemy.” If this young man has dared the fires of battle, then such a statement is easily dismissible, so Setro made no attempt to add sincerity to his tone, lest it stir suspicions further. But it was his eyes. There was nary a hint of deceit behind them. Or, to be more precise, they were incapable of conveying such.
To further that point, the warrior of light stood upright, his shield remaining close whilst the other hand rested over his chest as an exchange took place. “I am Setro, a warrior foreign to these lands. My emergence here wasn’t unlike your own.” He was aware the young man would adhere to a more incredulous viewpoint, but Setro didn’t have much choice other than to rely on a leap of faith that this attempted communication, as it were, would embolden his endeavour.
Soon enough, the older man posed a question, his hand lowering from his chest to offer a small gesture before dropping it completely. “I do not fault your weariness, but know that I am a friend— a transient guest in this world, just like you. In that vain, perhaps you can tell me your name?”
The journey south transitioned from towering edifices held aloft in the valley, to dense fogs and mired surfaces that surrounded the muddied marshlands. Yet such endeavours never made the likes of Setro waver. Funny enough, the warrior mused to himself with a faint chuckle. He hearkens back to his world and albeit the bittersweet pang of being away from it, the ordeals weren’t so utterly different. The more things change, the more they stay the same — or so the saying goes. Perhaps that’s why he remains stalwart, Setro was quick to adapt, after all. The only thing he laments is having to carry the heft of his armour through the swamps yonder.
He’ll manage, he always does.
Of course, there were those who would call this place home, those that persist beyond the pain of death. The few he encountered were slain with naught much effort, however with the latest batch slain, Setro adjusts the grip of his sword and quietly talks to himself. “These undead— while their strength has long since left them, they would become problematic should a great number assail me. I best keep my wits about me.” Before anything else could follow, pools of cerulean veer to the sight of a light breaking through the thick fog and encroaching thicket of trees yonder him. The silence that followed didn’t appear to forebode any ill tidings, yet he wouldn’t leave it idle. Perhaps it was another transient soul much like he was.
With little to convince him otherwise, Setro sets forth into the forest, cutting through whatever low hanging vines or eerily draped branches hinder his path. Recounting his emergence, the warrior was in a comatose state before he came to; at least his surroundings weren’t so grim. With each carefully placed step, he veered closer to the suspected vicinity from whence that light came… and when Setro could confirm his suspicions, he did so with a heavy conscience, for lying atop the moist and spongy earth was a young man— no, perhaps a mite younger than that. The warrior of light was quick to sheathe his weapon and hastily walk over to them before sinking a knee into the ground. From there, he’d tilt to and fro as he’d begin inspecting if anything else ailed them.
Torensten, the adventurer’s paradise. Setro’s journey thus far from the valley was one of the usual ordeals you’d expect — slaying beasts and availing all strokes of travellers. With a mite compensation of gil and food, the warrior was also given information about the city and its proclivities for the likes of him. It made him wonder about his comrades. Despite the whispers of trepidation, he remained steadfast. The Warriors of Light are no mere band of combatants, after all. Adversity was their speciality. Mayhaps he so brazenly assumes that should the others awake in this world beyond theirs, they would inevitably make their way to this city. To that end, Setro decided that Torensten was his next destination.
It was strange… he took in the surrounding structures and venues in Torensten as the denizens would respond in kind, yet the marvel only dawned upon Setro once he gazed aloft the city square; an abundance of airships, towering edifices and a comradery that is appealing to those who invite such warmth. Admittedly, the warrior of light was hit with a pang of melancholy, for this city was reminiscent of Cornelia. But the bittersweet reminiscing was unwittingly cut short by an old, weathered voice.
“You’re one of them Outlanders, aren’t you?” Cerulean pools trace towards the voice whereupon an old man stood. Black hair with a myriad grey streaks and draped in a commoner’s raiment, Setro would nod in acknowledgement and answer with, “Yes, sir. What gave it away?”
“What gave it away?” The old man echoed, “The armour, obviously!” “Is it not a standard look?” Asked Setro. “Obviously, but I’ve seen plenty of knights wear their steel, always moving with some sorta sluggishness, even for the big fellas. But you? Can’t say I ever seen anyone strut about looking like they’re used to the weight.”
Use to the weight — the words left Setro musing over the implications. Was it the hardships that have steeled his composure? Or perhaps his adamantine resolve to endure whatever hardships come his way? In truth, it was an amalgamation of many things that refined who he is now. It was a brief train of thought but Setro would inevitably release a small chuckle and add, “Perhaps I never realised that it became an after-thought. Against the adversities my friends and I had faced, my armour’s heft was merely just an idle worry.”
And so, for the next while, this old man would humour the warrior, and Setro in turn would indulge the old man’s curiosity.
It was all a haze. His thoughts, even his senses, were mired by this unfamiliar grogginess. The warrior remembered slaying his enemy, alongside his companions and fellow warriors. He remembered them touching the orb that would deliver them back to their time… but somewhere in-between, something transpired. Eyes clench and teeth grit as Setro grumbled into the ground beneath him. Slowly, pools of blue creek open, flickering with a few hard blinks to force that weariness to recede. Even as the muddied waters of confusion began to ebb, the light bearer knew something was amiss.
After a short while, Setro was already in a kneeling position, having grabbed both sword and shield that were thankfully within his reach. But he was quiet, or rather, he was taking in these foreign edifices that surround him. As the warrior observed, a few things had been gleaned — the others were nil to be seen, leaving him to surmise that perhaps they safely returned to Cornelia, whereas he remained this realm that was alien to him. But the shifting motion of his head halted when Setro could hear someone. It was faint, but enough to pursue.
By this point, his senses were rid of the mire, allowing the warrior to break into a light jog, stepping over the occasional debris that littered these derelict foundations. Whilst trying to zone in on where the voice echoed from, footsteps of industry would avail his hearing. Alas, when he reached the threshold between infrastructure and nature, he would see the wayward soul, along with the two automatons that appeared less than welcoming.
Setro was still weary from his abrupt arrival, so taking them on would require strength of the mind. To that end, he’d resort to sheathing his sword for a time, the warrior of light shifts to and fro, trying to find a rock of considerable size. Once he did, he’d pick it up and observe the mechanical creatures. Their path seemed linear, so redirecting them should be of little difficulty. He just needed to find something of note. As cerulean hues darted around, they widened once he saw a window of opportunity — yonder their march was a pillar worn and debilitated by time. One would hazard that any unexpected force might very well topple it.
That’s where the rock comes in.
With a considerable reel back, Setro would hurl the rock at what appeared to be the weakest point in the pillar’s structure. The noise alone reared the automaton’s attention. Soon the pillar began to give way, permeating the surrounding area with the sound of thunderous crashing and crumbling. Now! — With a few small jumps down towards the grassy knoll the woman was stumbling across, Setro leapt over from the building and quietly ran towards her. When he finally made it, his free hand would quickly coil around hers. Despite the haste, his touch was that of consideration as he muttered, “Quickly, they won’t be distracted for long,” before attempting to rush them into the thicket of trees and bushes that might conceal them.