A loud roar and the fluttering of leathery wings startled Orrin awake. Almost immediately he kicked off his bedroll and reached for his weapon that was just by his side. As his hand came upon the haft of the spear he realized he was currently looking up at not clear skies, but the ceiling of his officer’s tent. Soon enough he heard the familiar, almost therapeutic, sound of soldiers shouting drills; the roar being nothing more than the grinding of heavy metal against wood as cannons and dragonslayers were re-positioned and calibrated, the wings were nothing but loose flap of his tent caught in the wind. His breathing slowly calmed and he fell back onto his roll with a sigh. After what felt like a bell he picks himself up and donned his armor. Cradling his helm under his left arm, he pushed past the entrance of the tent and was greeted with blinding light that forced him to bring his armored claw of a hand to block his eyes.Â
It had been nearly a moon since Orrin had heard the voices of other people, nearly a moon since he had something other than charred Hropken meat or ill-prepared kupo nuts. It was not, however, his longest stint in the wilds alone. After Reillette, he had been gone so long that some had believed him to have gone rogue. None had bothered to come for him then, no “Dragoon Hunter†to come and put him down like the rabid mutt some had believed him to be. Was it faith that protected him then? His father? Or was it that he was not worth the trouble in the grand scheme of the war? No matter, his isolation then was nothing to the tortuous solitude he experienced being the lone sentinel of Tharl Oom Khash.Â
The air was thick with aether here; some soldiers had already came down with sicknesses as the result of a surfeit of it. For Orrin, even though the light of the crystal had seemingly ceased its protection of him, the echo still did him the honor of assaulting his waking and sleeping moments with spectres and phantoms of Ishgard’s past and his own. Time and time again he had found himself drawn to precipices and cliffs that in the past used to be whole, flat land, following after visions almost to his death. The murder of Ratatoskr so clear, the pained cries of betrayal that transcended language and species. That inner dragon that had so cruelly taken the form of his past love screamed and cursed and strained against its fetters. Fetters that Orrin himself had loosened in rage when he fought Frimont.Â
The warmth, the seemingly endless fount of power that surged forth in righteous fury had nearly consumed him. Had Inquisitor Helene not robbed him of destroying his former hero…he avoided the thought. There was no doubt now that the sins of Ishgard’s past flowed through his veins as the urge, the call ever strengthened. He had not drank dragon’s blood but his armor was quenched in it, his soulstone possessed it. His mortal strength waned but that of the dragons was everlasting. Frimont knew that, it was the only way a man with grey in his hair could continue to fell multiple hydras in a single jump. Was it going to be the only way for Orrin to protect the people he had come to call friends? Protect his nation?
Orrin’s eyes adjusted to the light, staring at back of his clawed gauntlet, a feature he lamented was absent on the Drachen Mail. The damage he could do with the claws as well as the spikes would have been terrifying. Now however, those claws, the helm he carried were there to symbolize the union of dragon of man, of power given, not stolen. Though he felt unsettlingly comfortable inside the scale suit and seeing through the blood red dragon’s eyes of his visor he knew full well that these were equally a reminder of what he could become, what he refused to become. He need only hold on for a little while longer. The war will end in his life time, he need only wait for the dawn and his watch will end. He would cast aside the soulstone and with it banish the specter of his first sin from his life. This is what he wanted to believe even though resting on a splintered, caved-in table in his tent was a letter that still held the scent of the Sagolii sand calling for his aid.
It had been nearly a moon since Orrin had heard the voices of other people, nearly a moon since he had something other than charred Hropken meat or ill-prepared kupo nuts. It was not, however, his longest stint in the wilds alone. After Reillette, he had been gone so long that some had believed him to have gone rogue. None had bothered to come for him then, no “Dragoon Hunter†to come and put him down like the rabid mutt some had believed him to be. Was it faith that protected him then? His father? Or was it that he was not worth the trouble in the grand scheme of the war? No matter, his isolation then was nothing to the tortuous solitude he experienced being the lone sentinel of Tharl Oom Khash.Â
The air was thick with aether here; some soldiers had already came down with sicknesses as the result of a surfeit of it. For Orrin, even though the light of the crystal had seemingly ceased its protection of him, the echo still did him the honor of assaulting his waking and sleeping moments with spectres and phantoms of Ishgard’s past and his own. Time and time again he had found himself drawn to precipices and cliffs that in the past used to be whole, flat land, following after visions almost to his death. The murder of Ratatoskr so clear, the pained cries of betrayal that transcended language and species. That inner dragon that had so cruelly taken the form of his past love screamed and cursed and strained against its fetters. Fetters that Orrin himself had loosened in rage when he fought Frimont.Â
The warmth, the seemingly endless fount of power that surged forth in righteous fury had nearly consumed him. Had Inquisitor Helene not robbed him of destroying his former hero…he avoided the thought. There was no doubt now that the sins of Ishgard’s past flowed through his veins as the urge, the call ever strengthened. He had not drank dragon’s blood but his armor was quenched in it, his soulstone possessed it. His mortal strength waned but that of the dragons was everlasting. Frimont knew that, it was the only way a man with grey in his hair could continue to fell multiple hydras in a single jump. Was it going to be the only way for Orrin to protect the people he had come to call friends? Protect his nation?
Orrin’s eyes adjusted to the light, staring at back of his clawed gauntlet, a feature he lamented was absent on the Drachen Mail. The damage he could do with the claws as well as the spikes would have been terrifying. Now however, those claws, the helm he carried were there to symbolize the union of dragon of man, of power given, not stolen. Though he felt unsettlingly comfortable inside the scale suit and seeing through the blood red dragon’s eyes of his visor he knew full well that these were equally a reminder of what he could become, what he refused to become. He need only hold on for a little while longer. The war will end in his life time, he need only wait for the dawn and his watch will end. He would cast aside the soulstone and with it banish the specter of his first sin from his life. This is what he wanted to believe even though resting on a splintered, caved-in table in his tent was a letter that still held the scent of the Sagolii sand calling for his aid.
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