He'd only been able to sit in the room for a handful of bells before the walls started to talk. It wasn't that he hadn't expected it; the extra room in an opposite wing of the Quicksand testified to that. He'd asked to inspect it prior to committing to it and that had gotten him some looks but he'd established enough of a positive reputation that the small hassle wasn't minded too terribly much. It was a smaller room, which meant the layout was different, and that was precisely what he was looking for. The upkeep on their - his, he corrected himself - room had been met for years, but Momodi hadn't bothered to ask why he would need a second one. She was canny enough, he reasoned, and his expressions were obvious enough. It had been seemingly a lifetime since Momodi had seen him and the "little Miss" entering together though she never thought to question him.
He resolved himself to try and stay in the room he'd called home since before Bahamut but he found himself unable to sit at ease. Too many memories and the wounds were too fresh for him to be able to ignore them. Thoughts turned sour and he wondered how, exactly, he had found himself in this predicament. It was some twisted lesson, some example in a fairytale somewhere. He'd thought he found a purpose in protection and dedicated himself anew to doing it for a living. He'd tempered steel as an excuse to watch those in the Bloodsands work their art, and he'd practiced the steps he'd stolen in the privacy of that very room back when he was the only one who dwelled in it. He'd met small success in starting out, then more in working behind the scenes showing those greener and less blessed than he how to move their feet, their shields and their swords. He'd done well enough to get the attention of the Sultansworn and had impressed upon them enough to be worthy of their title and station.
Now, with experience and resolve and the backing of those who did it for a living, he found himself completely inept at something he had apparently done years before. In the time since he'd set himself inside of pristine white armor, he couldn't count the number of times things had befallen and he'd been powerless to stop them. Even in the aftermath, his care was inadequate. He thought back to happening upon her one day, as if by accident or fate, and scooping her up in his bare arms and running back with her to the city, screaming for help.
For all the trappings of safety and protection, Warren never felt more cut off from the world. What good was armor when it stopped you from feeling? What good was a shield with no one to protect? What use was he? He stood opposite the armor rack, feeling almost as if he could scream at his shell. Resentment boiled over and he felt like all of his time was spent and wasted, years of practicing swordplay for nothing when he'd lost sight of the reasons why he'd begun in the first place. As he had first entered that room, with the shirt on his back and a pocket of gil, so too had he left it.
He resolved himself to try and stay in the room he'd called home since before Bahamut but he found himself unable to sit at ease. Too many memories and the wounds were too fresh for him to be able to ignore them. Thoughts turned sour and he wondered how, exactly, he had found himself in this predicament. It was some twisted lesson, some example in a fairytale somewhere. He'd thought he found a purpose in protection and dedicated himself anew to doing it for a living. He'd tempered steel as an excuse to watch those in the Bloodsands work their art, and he'd practiced the steps he'd stolen in the privacy of that very room back when he was the only one who dwelled in it. He'd met small success in starting out, then more in working behind the scenes showing those greener and less blessed than he how to move their feet, their shields and their swords. He'd done well enough to get the attention of the Sultansworn and had impressed upon them enough to be worthy of their title and station.
Now, with experience and resolve and the backing of those who did it for a living, he found himself completely inept at something he had apparently done years before. In the time since he'd set himself inside of pristine white armor, he couldn't count the number of times things had befallen and he'd been powerless to stop them. Even in the aftermath, his care was inadequate. He thought back to happening upon her one day, as if by accident or fate, and scooping her up in his bare arms and running back with her to the city, screaming for help.
For all the trappings of safety and protection, Warren never felt more cut off from the world. What good was armor when it stopped you from feeling? What good was a shield with no one to protect? What use was he? He stood opposite the armor rack, feeling almost as if he could scream at his shell. Resentment boiled over and he felt like all of his time was spent and wasted, years of practicing swordplay for nothing when he'd lost sight of the reasons why he'd begun in the first place. As he had first entered that room, with the shirt on his back and a pocket of gil, so too had he left it.
![[Image: yEROfKO.png]](http://i.imgur.com/yEROfKO.png)
