The Garlean man found himself sitting at his desk again. Just as every other time, he had left the old letters, packages, notes, life of the cottage’s former inhabitant exactly the way they had been left. The deliveries were not his to open and read, yet he did. Someone needed to at least politely decline the incoming inquiries and requests that Frhanz Kirche still received.
Despite his death.
Despite the Ishgardian man’s death nearly a year prior, the amount of letters received was ridiculous. “How did he even manage to live this way?†The Garlean already knew the answer. It was impossible for him to have not known the answer. When he had assumed the Ishgardian’s name, edited slightly to appear more like a Highlander’s, Franz had known the life of the man who previously lived there.
Kirche had left before the gates of Ishgard were closed to outsiders. Life within the stone city simply was not for him. He could not fight in the war. His faith was weak. His idea that people could have found a better method to peace would have nearly labelled him a heretic in the upper society. He only wanted to study and travel the world. To live a life of adventure as his books has illustrated so well. To see the lost cultures of Eorzea. Study their methods. Make people’s lives….better. Kirche was not useful for the Dragonsong War. So he left Ishgard. Left his family and so-called friends to live just outside Gridania. To travel around and see things. To study how thaumaturges and conjurers and acanists each shaped aether into spells. To read of Nym and Amdapor. To study alchemy and its effects on the body.
All of that was put to use and to waste when he had decided to visit a friend in Ul’dah. What should have been a peaceful encounter began the path to his death. Kirche was dead. It was the Garlean’s fault, or so he’d believed. And here the Garlean was, living in the man’s house. Reading his letters. Continuing his work. Using his name. It was rather odd.
Despite his death.
Despite the Ishgardian man’s death nearly a year prior, the amount of letters received was ridiculous. “How did he even manage to live this way?†The Garlean already knew the answer. It was impossible for him to have not known the answer. When he had assumed the Ishgardian’s name, edited slightly to appear more like a Highlander’s, Franz had known the life of the man who previously lived there.
Kirche had left before the gates of Ishgard were closed to outsiders. Life within the stone city simply was not for him. He could not fight in the war. His faith was weak. His idea that people could have found a better method to peace would have nearly labelled him a heretic in the upper society. He only wanted to study and travel the world. To live a life of adventure as his books has illustrated so well. To see the lost cultures of Eorzea. Study their methods. Make people’s lives….better. Kirche was not useful for the Dragonsong War. So he left Ishgard. Left his family and so-called friends to live just outside Gridania. To travel around and see things. To study how thaumaturges and conjurers and acanists each shaped aether into spells. To read of Nym and Amdapor. To study alchemy and its effects on the body.
All of that was put to use and to waste when he had decided to visit a friend in Ul’dah. What should have been a peaceful encounter began the path to his death. Kirche was dead. It was the Garlean’s fault, or so he’d believed. And here the Garlean was, living in the man’s house. Reading his letters. Continuing his work. Using his name. It was rather odd.
