((Takes place prior to Monty's involvement in the 'All Aboard!' thread.))
The Crippled Lion
Leaving is more painful than he cares to admit.
He cannot call the men and women around him friends, cannot remember a quarter of their names or half of their faces, but for five long cycles they have been his family. He has broken bread with them, slept by the same fire, shared in their victories and frustrations. Each of them makes a point to meet his eye as he walks out of camp, and many solemn nods are exchanged. For the first time in his life he feels like he is leaving home, and the pain in his chest is bittersweet.
A rough hand lands on his shoulder, stopping his exit. He turns, the glum face of his foreman filling his vision. Hollow Mountain is aptly named, a hulking beast of a man with skin like leather and a hideous smile. All his treasures had been plundered long ago, but still he remains, a fixture in the land itself. He is one of the few men in life Monty has looked up to - figuratively and literally.
"Leavin' withou' sayin' g'bye?" Mountain asks, something approaching humor in his cavernous voice.
Monty gives a helpless little shrug. "I've never... done this. Goodbyes, I mean."
"Always time t' learn, Monty lad. Always time t' learn."
Hand still on his shoulder the Roegadyn steers him away, off toward a small gathering of workers. He recognizes few by face, less by name and most by trade. Fellow carpenters, blacksmiths, the odd alchemist, a fisherman or two and the 'van's chef, all huddled together and shooting him nervous smiles. Monty feels his heels dig in of their own accord, instinctively shying away from such attention, but Mountain's firm grip keeps him moving.
"We didn' wan' ye headin' off an' forgettin' abou' us," Mountain rumbles, dragging him to a stop before the group. "So's we all pitched in an' made ye summat."
Monty feels his cheeks heating. "I... I couldn't possibly-"
Mountain claps him firmly on the back, sending him stumbling forward. "We insist."
The next several moments pass as Monty tries to accept their gifts as graciously as his social ineptitude will allow, which judging by the occasional snicker is not very. From the fishermen he receives a rod and reel, from the cook a few meals for the road, and a potion from the alchemists to help him sleep. The latter makes his gut twist, the thought of sleep still unpleasant, but he thanks them all the same.
"This is from the rest of us," a Hyur blacksmith says, reaching forward and placing a small object in his hand. His eye widens as he gets a good look at it: in his palm, attached to a fine silver chain, sits Dalamud in miniature, perfect down to the finest detail. He can almost swear it glows.
A Miqo'te carpenter steps forward, standing on her toes to reach up and take his hand. Monty frowns in confusion, but she merely smiles and brings a finger to the little moon, pressing down on the topmost spire. Monty's ears twitch as something within clicks, the moon's shell cracking open to reveal a sight that stops his heart.
Bahamut glares up at him, coils and scales deftly carved and painted. He wants to drop it, but the small hands wrapped around his hold him steady.
"Ne'er forget, Montague Morne," Mountain says, voice softer than he's ever heard. The Miqo'te steps back as he reaches a calloused hand over and closes Monty's fingers around the gift. "Ne'er forget th' things ye've seen, th' path tha' led t' t'day. Ye are where ye've been, what ye've done an' didn' do. Don' know who ye were 'fore ye found us, an' I don' know who ye'll be from now, but fer five cycles ye were a good man.
"Fer five cycles, ye were a good man wit' us, an' we'll miss ye."
Not for the first time in life, Monty can't find the words.
The Crippled Lion
Leaving is more painful than he cares to admit.
He cannot call the men and women around him friends, cannot remember a quarter of their names or half of their faces, but for five long cycles they have been his family. He has broken bread with them, slept by the same fire, shared in their victories and frustrations. Each of them makes a point to meet his eye as he walks out of camp, and many solemn nods are exchanged. For the first time in his life he feels like he is leaving home, and the pain in his chest is bittersweet.
A rough hand lands on his shoulder, stopping his exit. He turns, the glum face of his foreman filling his vision. Hollow Mountain is aptly named, a hulking beast of a man with skin like leather and a hideous smile. All his treasures had been plundered long ago, but still he remains, a fixture in the land itself. He is one of the few men in life Monty has looked up to - figuratively and literally.
"Leavin' withou' sayin' g'bye?" Mountain asks, something approaching humor in his cavernous voice.
Monty gives a helpless little shrug. "I've never... done this. Goodbyes, I mean."
"Always time t' learn, Monty lad. Always time t' learn."
Hand still on his shoulder the Roegadyn steers him away, off toward a small gathering of workers. He recognizes few by face, less by name and most by trade. Fellow carpenters, blacksmiths, the odd alchemist, a fisherman or two and the 'van's chef, all huddled together and shooting him nervous smiles. Monty feels his heels dig in of their own accord, instinctively shying away from such attention, but Mountain's firm grip keeps him moving.
"We didn' wan' ye headin' off an' forgettin' abou' us," Mountain rumbles, dragging him to a stop before the group. "So's we all pitched in an' made ye summat."
Monty feels his cheeks heating. "I... I couldn't possibly-"
Mountain claps him firmly on the back, sending him stumbling forward. "We insist."
The next several moments pass as Monty tries to accept their gifts as graciously as his social ineptitude will allow, which judging by the occasional snicker is not very. From the fishermen he receives a rod and reel, from the cook a few meals for the road, and a potion from the alchemists to help him sleep. The latter makes his gut twist, the thought of sleep still unpleasant, but he thanks them all the same.
"This is from the rest of us," a Hyur blacksmith says, reaching forward and placing a small object in his hand. His eye widens as he gets a good look at it: in his palm, attached to a fine silver chain, sits Dalamud in miniature, perfect down to the finest detail. He can almost swear it glows.
A Miqo'te carpenter steps forward, standing on her toes to reach up and take his hand. Monty frowns in confusion, but she merely smiles and brings a finger to the little moon, pressing down on the topmost spire. Monty's ears twitch as something within clicks, the moon's shell cracking open to reveal a sight that stops his heart.
Bahamut glares up at him, coils and scales deftly carved and painted. He wants to drop it, but the small hands wrapped around his hold him steady.
"Ne'er forget, Montague Morne," Mountain says, voice softer than he's ever heard. The Miqo'te steps back as he reaches a calloused hand over and closes Monty's fingers around the gift. "Ne'er forget th' things ye've seen, th' path tha' led t' t'day. Ye are where ye've been, what ye've done an' didn' do. Don' know who ye were 'fore ye found us, an' I don' know who ye'll be from now, but fer five cycles ye were a good man.
"Fer five cycles, ye were a good man wit' us, an' we'll miss ye."
Not for the first time in life, Monty can't find the words.
What a monstrous sight he makes, mocking man's best friend
When both the wolf and lion crave the same thing in the end
The Lion | Monty's Wiki | The Wolf
When both the wolf and lion crave the same thing in the end
The Lion | Monty's Wiki | The Wolf