It was naught but a moon’s time away from Thanalan and the heat was already unbearable to his Ishgardian sensibilities. The covers were kicked to the foot of the bed in a crumpled, wrinkled pile. Despite being clad in just his small clothes, his recovering body was covered in sweat. He tossed and turned to one side and the other before he shot up, wide eyed, panting. He pivoted so that his legs hung over the edge of the bed, feet pressed against the cold Ul’dahn marble of the inn room. He put a single hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.
All he could see was the defiant silhouette, outlined by the sun, as it bared down upon him. He had barely survived that fight. Setting down his lance into the stone of the Steps of Faith, pointing skyward, bracing against it as if in prayer while the front claw of the building-sized dragon fell upon him.
When he opened his eyes to banish the vision, he saw what remained of that battle upon his own body. Though unscarred, he was nearly crushed: armor dented in, spear blunted, spikes torn away; the impact resulted in a myriad of blackish-blue bruises, remnants of the internal bleeding he suffered. He remembered his blood seeping through the scales and plate of his equipment. He had been bedridden for nearly a fortnight, barred from combat for days and as soon as the fighting died down he made way back to Ul’dah to finish what he had started. And it was only now that the injuries all but faded away entirely. Yet Orrin could see them still upon the pale skin of his.
It was some 20 years ago when Nidhogg last reawaken and laid waste to Coerthas. Orrin was only 8 summers old back then. He was sequestered off safely with his mother and newly born brother behind the walls of the Holy City. It was a luxury that could be afforded by a nobleman inquisitor like his father. He only had tales to go on about the terrible might of the horde. It was said that Nidhogg’s call to chorus blanched the face of men who have been hardened by years of war. That none had seen the true power of the Dravanians until one fought while Nidhogg no longer slumbered.
Indeed, it was when Orrin laid eyes upon Vishap at Daniffen’s Collar did he truly understand the battle cry of “banish your fearâ€. And banish it he did. Vishap fell, corpse consigned to the void beneath the mighty bridge that led to the sea of clouds, vanquished by him along with a veritable army of sellswords and Ishgardian loyalists. However he knew that he and the unit he commanded were lucky, getting away with wounds as opposed to deaths. He had witnessed what was just the beginningof Nidhogg’s fury and he knew full well that Vishap was only the beginning, the prelude to a true baptism by a bolero of fire and claws.
It took an army, he reminded himself, a staccato of cannon fire with accents of Dragonslayer cannon, all bolstered by the harmony of spears and arrows singing through the air to fell Vishap. What if a dragon of similar might were to show upon the tear’s concerted destruction? What if it was something bigger? He had no army, only a small band of allies he deemed suitable to orchestrate what he considered a fitting finale. He had to afford every advantage he could for them for he knew not what would come. He needed an area large enough to accommodate the beast, cramped enough to rob it of its flight and movement for the sake of his comrades, and remote enough so that should they die, the dragon’s ire could not fall upon any other settlements of man.
His eyes then trailed to the armor neatly piled in the corner. The faint runic glow on the helm of his newly forged Drachen Mail mimicking the selfsame glyph upon the head of the stalwart dragoon statues that acted as protectors of Ishgard’s wards. Gifted by Ishgard, executed skillfully by Camp Dragonhead's own Belldonna Angelimiuex, it was a symbol of his service. It was humbling and empowering all the same. Should he lead these allies and friends into battle, he would not fail them.
All he could see was the defiant silhouette, outlined by the sun, as it bared down upon him. He had barely survived that fight. Setting down his lance into the stone of the Steps of Faith, pointing skyward, bracing against it as if in prayer while the front claw of the building-sized dragon fell upon him.
When he opened his eyes to banish the vision, he saw what remained of that battle upon his own body. Though unscarred, he was nearly crushed: armor dented in, spear blunted, spikes torn away; the impact resulted in a myriad of blackish-blue bruises, remnants of the internal bleeding he suffered. He remembered his blood seeping through the scales and plate of his equipment. He had been bedridden for nearly a fortnight, barred from combat for days and as soon as the fighting died down he made way back to Ul’dah to finish what he had started. And it was only now that the injuries all but faded away entirely. Yet Orrin could see them still upon the pale skin of his.
It was some 20 years ago when Nidhogg last reawaken and laid waste to Coerthas. Orrin was only 8 summers old back then. He was sequestered off safely with his mother and newly born brother behind the walls of the Holy City. It was a luxury that could be afforded by a nobleman inquisitor like his father. He only had tales to go on about the terrible might of the horde. It was said that Nidhogg’s call to chorus blanched the face of men who have been hardened by years of war. That none had seen the true power of the Dravanians until one fought while Nidhogg no longer slumbered.
Indeed, it was when Orrin laid eyes upon Vishap at Daniffen’s Collar did he truly understand the battle cry of “banish your fearâ€. And banish it he did. Vishap fell, corpse consigned to the void beneath the mighty bridge that led to the sea of clouds, vanquished by him along with a veritable army of sellswords and Ishgardian loyalists. However he knew that he and the unit he commanded were lucky, getting away with wounds as opposed to deaths. He had witnessed what was just the beginningof Nidhogg’s fury and he knew full well that Vishap was only the beginning, the prelude to a true baptism by a bolero of fire and claws.
It took an army, he reminded himself, a staccato of cannon fire with accents of Dragonslayer cannon, all bolstered by the harmony of spears and arrows singing through the air to fell Vishap. What if a dragon of similar might were to show upon the tear’s concerted destruction? What if it was something bigger? He had no army, only a small band of allies he deemed suitable to orchestrate what he considered a fitting finale. He had to afford every advantage he could for them for he knew not what would come. He needed an area large enough to accommodate the beast, cramped enough to rob it of its flight and movement for the sake of his comrades, and remote enough so that should they die, the dragon’s ire could not fall upon any other settlements of man.
His eyes then trailed to the armor neatly piled in the corner. The faint runic glow on the helm of his newly forged Drachen Mail mimicking the selfsame glyph upon the head of the stalwart dragoon statues that acted as protectors of Ishgard’s wards. Gifted by Ishgard, executed skillfully by Camp Dragonhead's own Belldonna Angelimiuex, it was a symbol of his service. It was humbling and empowering all the same. Should he lead these allies and friends into battle, he would not fail them.