((I've changed the title of this thread, and will be adding to it in an attempt to not spam the forums. The Lion will feature the stories of Montague Morne, a troubled layabout searching for answers. A warning for some mild violence, and vague spoilers which are hidden below. As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.))
Viola Lion
Sleep has not come easily for a long, long time.
Night falls near the same time each evening, and he with it. He bundles up against the cold, away from the others but close enough to feel the heat of the fire, leans against a wall or a tree or a rock or his pack. He does not like sleeping on his back, not since Carteneau. It takes too long to rise.
The twilight hours are spent fighting wakefulness. He tries counting, but his numbers only go so high. He tries thinking of things - distracting, inconsequential, random. Then he tries thinking of nothing. Sometimes he will worm his way closer to the fire and read. Others he will leave as quietly as possible, walk and move and work in hopes that exhaustion will trump his insomnia. Others still he simply lies there, staring up at the old light blinking out in forever.
On rare, wonderful occasions, he sleeps.
It is fitful, fleeting, barely able to be called restful. He shifts and groans, breaks into cold sweats, mumbles quiet little pleas for the images dancing before his eyes not to be real. He awakes with quiet little gasps, eye wide and searching for some spectral enemy. Most times he looks up, expecting to see the sky burning around a giant, black dragon.
He left part of himself on the Carteneau Fields; in return he has brought part of the battle back with him. It festers in his mind, eats into his dreams, haunts his memories. If he closes his eye he can still see it, hear it, smell it, taste it. Madness and death soaking the air around him. Just the thought makes him shake.
He would complain, were he more inclined to do so. His time awake is slow torture, losing more of himself to exhaustion and delirium with each passing day. Sleep dredges up the dead and gone, things best left buried in the bleakest holes of memory and time. Between these two states he cannot recall when last he felt rested, normal.
He cannot recall when last he felt like himself.
~
His dream tonight is even more unhelpful. Once more he stands upon the battlefield, Dalamud screaming down above the din of war. Tonight he plays spectator, a puppet tugged along by the strings of fate. The movements are rehearsed, he can repeat them in his sleep. Often he does.
It does not take long to notice a discrepancy: He is facing the wrong way. The divergences spread from there. Garleans swarm around him like zealous, armored insects, but spare him little more than respectful nods. He tries to frown, the muscles will not respond. Before he can contemplate the strangeness of the moment a member of the God's Quiver enters his sight. He wants to be relieved - those archers had saved his life more than once, their presence always a good fortune.
He wants to, but cannot, for the bowman has knocked an arrow and trained it between his eyes.
He tries to shout, to question, but the words will not form. Instead he lifts an arm, bringing to bear a longsword with a barrel attached to the blunt edge of the blade. Seeing the weapon in his hands shocks him to the core - he had been on the receiving end of one five years ago. What was he doing wielding it?
He feels his fingers squeeze down twice, each accompanied by a deafening crack and a jolt through his arm. The first blast tears the archer's bow in two, the second punches a hole in his throat.
Horror builds in his chest. What has he just done?
He wants to scream, cry, beg, deny.
All he does is laugh.
~
Viola Lion
Sleep has not come easily for a long, long time.
Night falls near the same time each evening, and he with it. He bundles up against the cold, away from the others but close enough to feel the heat of the fire, leans against a wall or a tree or a rock or his pack. He does not like sleeping on his back, not since Carteneau. It takes too long to rise.
The twilight hours are spent fighting wakefulness. He tries counting, but his numbers only go so high. He tries thinking of things - distracting, inconsequential, random. Then he tries thinking of nothing. Sometimes he will worm his way closer to the fire and read. Others he will leave as quietly as possible, walk and move and work in hopes that exhaustion will trump his insomnia. Others still he simply lies there, staring up at the old light blinking out in forever.
On rare, wonderful occasions, he sleeps.
It is fitful, fleeting, barely able to be called restful. He shifts and groans, breaks into cold sweats, mumbles quiet little pleas for the images dancing before his eyes not to be real. He awakes with quiet little gasps, eye wide and searching for some spectral enemy. Most times he looks up, expecting to see the sky burning around a giant, black dragon.
He left part of himself on the Carteneau Fields; in return he has brought part of the battle back with him. It festers in his mind, eats into his dreams, haunts his memories. If he closes his eye he can still see it, hear it, smell it, taste it. Madness and death soaking the air around him. Just the thought makes him shake.
He would complain, were he more inclined to do so. His time awake is slow torture, losing more of himself to exhaustion and delirium with each passing day. Sleep dredges up the dead and gone, things best left buried in the bleakest holes of memory and time. Between these two states he cannot recall when last he felt rested, normal.
He cannot recall when last he felt like himself.
~
His dream tonight is even more unhelpful. Once more he stands upon the battlefield, Dalamud screaming down above the din of war. Tonight he plays spectator, a puppet tugged along by the strings of fate. The movements are rehearsed, he can repeat them in his sleep. Often he does.
It does not take long to notice a discrepancy: He is facing the wrong way. The divergences spread from there. Garleans swarm around him like zealous, armored insects, but spare him little more than respectful nods. He tries to frown, the muscles will not respond. Before he can contemplate the strangeness of the moment a member of the God's Quiver enters his sight. He wants to be relieved - those archers had saved his life more than once, their presence always a good fortune.
He wants to, but cannot, for the bowman has knocked an arrow and trained it between his eyes.
He tries to shout, to question, but the words will not form. Instead he lifts an arm, bringing to bear a longsword with a barrel attached to the blunt edge of the blade. Seeing the weapon in his hands shocks him to the core - he had been on the receiving end of one five years ago. What was he doing wielding it?
He feels his fingers squeeze down twice, each accompanied by a deafening crack and a jolt through his arm. The first blast tears the archer's bow in two, the second punches a hole in his throat.
Horror builds in his chest. What has he just done?
He wants to scream, cry, beg, deny.
All he does is laugh.
~
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
