Orrin reached for the wrought-iron poker and pressed it into the flames, stoking the fireplace within one of the more luxurious rooms that the Quicksands had to offer. Sweat started to peel down his face before he turned to his left. Upon the stone flooring by the hearth lay a singular bone ring, inlayed with runic scratches of the Dravanian language. His right hand, covered in the gauntlet of his Drachen mail reached down to pick it up between his thumb and forefinger.Â
He looked upon the ring's engraving and it read "Nidhogg" as if the very utterance of the name was enough to drive people to madness as the dragon itself did with its mere presence. He knelt down, ring in hand and carefully and deliberately perched the ring upon the hottest part of the flame, the underside of his gauntlet blackening with soot. He stands and sits back on a chair he pulled away from the table within the room. He watched the ring burn.
Orrin had been at this for what must have been weeks now, the trinkets that found their way to market, methodically purchased and subsequently disposed of. All until not one found their way through the legal channels he had means of accessing. The sheer volume had made it difficult to rid himself of the corrupting bones and jewelry all at once. This final ring would be the end of just one part of his duty.
The ring began to crackle along with the fire wood, charring at the edges, ashen grey coursing with red hot veins of flame. All the while small beads of light started to dissipate into the air among the embers, the final defiant bits of aether returning to the Lifestream, freed its corporeal prison and the hatred that bound it.Â
He rested his cheek against his unarmored left fist, perched upon the armrest, slumping into his seat. Icy eyes fixated upon the fire. Dragons to the south, heretics scrambling to recover their stolen idols, more Wyrmtears over the course of moons that most Dragoons wouldn't see in a lifetime. None of it made sense. Were it the heretics moving to establish a southern front for the horde...perhaps he could accept it. However they moved as frantically to take back what was theirs as much as he did to destroy them. He bit his lip, exhaling in a long deep sigh, watching the flames dance.
He stood and reached for a cloth soaking in water, pressing it to the soot-covered gauntlet, instantly blackening the towel. He sets the towel aside and began to undo the latches to loosen the dragonblood-stained armor before finally placing it along with the rest of his symbol of office. The Dragoon armor was piled up to look as though it was kneeling, as if ready for a dullahan to possess it and walk off. He looked upon the beaked-visor of his helm and saw the flames roaring through its reflection.Â
His hand then moved and pressed against the coat of arms for his house: the symbol of the wolf, proudly displayed upon the left shoulder. He had come out of Ishgard's walls to see what virtues the outside world had to offer, what qualities that the city lacked to such a degree that the Azure would be given to them. Orrin stands and moves to a glass of Ishgardian Brandy he had poured for himself and took a small pull. For too long Orrin had rested upon his laurels, trusting the people of Ul'dah to do the proper thing and destroy the blasted objects. Be it through the object's insidious corruption or blind greed they seek to preserve them. Saw his calls for their destruction to be the fearful mewlings of a zealot when they knew not that Ishgard was not above co-opting the power of dragons for their own. He looked upon his cursed armor and steeled his gaze. He had a world to move at this point, two wyrmtears in need of destruction, a fallen Lalafell at risk of causing more destruction and costing lives, another potential victim of the tear's influence, an investigator who is all but sure is lying and the one behind all of it.Â
He sat in his chair, watching the flames; the ring turned to naught but dust.
He looked upon the ring's engraving and it read "Nidhogg" as if the very utterance of the name was enough to drive people to madness as the dragon itself did with its mere presence. He knelt down, ring in hand and carefully and deliberately perched the ring upon the hottest part of the flame, the underside of his gauntlet blackening with soot. He stands and sits back on a chair he pulled away from the table within the room. He watched the ring burn.
Orrin had been at this for what must have been weeks now, the trinkets that found their way to market, methodically purchased and subsequently disposed of. All until not one found their way through the legal channels he had means of accessing. The sheer volume had made it difficult to rid himself of the corrupting bones and jewelry all at once. This final ring would be the end of just one part of his duty.
The ring began to crackle along with the fire wood, charring at the edges, ashen grey coursing with red hot veins of flame. All the while small beads of light started to dissipate into the air among the embers, the final defiant bits of aether returning to the Lifestream, freed its corporeal prison and the hatred that bound it.Â
He rested his cheek against his unarmored left fist, perched upon the armrest, slumping into his seat. Icy eyes fixated upon the fire. Dragons to the south, heretics scrambling to recover their stolen idols, more Wyrmtears over the course of moons that most Dragoons wouldn't see in a lifetime. None of it made sense. Were it the heretics moving to establish a southern front for the horde...perhaps he could accept it. However they moved as frantically to take back what was theirs as much as he did to destroy them. He bit his lip, exhaling in a long deep sigh, watching the flames dance.
He stood and reached for a cloth soaking in water, pressing it to the soot-covered gauntlet, instantly blackening the towel. He sets the towel aside and began to undo the latches to loosen the dragonblood-stained armor before finally placing it along with the rest of his symbol of office. The Dragoon armor was piled up to look as though it was kneeling, as if ready for a dullahan to possess it and walk off. He looked upon the beaked-visor of his helm and saw the flames roaring through its reflection.Â
His hand then moved and pressed against the coat of arms for his house: the symbol of the wolf, proudly displayed upon the left shoulder. He had come out of Ishgard's walls to see what virtues the outside world had to offer, what qualities that the city lacked to such a degree that the Azure would be given to them. Orrin stands and moves to a glass of Ishgardian Brandy he had poured for himself and took a small pull. For too long Orrin had rested upon his laurels, trusting the people of Ul'dah to do the proper thing and destroy the blasted objects. Be it through the object's insidious corruption or blind greed they seek to preserve them. Saw his calls for their destruction to be the fearful mewlings of a zealot when they knew not that Ishgard was not above co-opting the power of dragons for their own. He looked upon his cursed armor and steeled his gaze. He had a world to move at this point, two wyrmtears in need of destruction, a fallen Lalafell at risk of causing more destruction and costing lives, another potential victim of the tear's influence, an investigator who is all but sure is lying and the one behind all of it.Â
He sat in his chair, watching the flames; the ring turned to naught but dust.