Thread Closed
Antione knelt in front of the stone and ran his fingers over the carefully carved grooves. Â Violenne. Â The stone, set in the ground near The Matron's Lethe, was all he had left of his sister, and he clenched his fist as he remembered her smile. Â The adventurers had never caught her killers.
Vivildly he could still see her face, warm and kind as she cared for the birds at Bentbranch Meadows. Â In her life she'd never hurt a single living thing, but she'd been shot through the throat with a barbed arrow and her body hidden under the filth of a chocobo stable.
Adventurers were useless. Â There had been no justice for the murderers of his sister, and but that would not remain so. Â In his hand he held his orders to report for his first duty as a Wood Wailer. Â His armor, fresh and unscarred, was strong. Â his spear was straight and true. Â Soon he would protecting the people of The Shroud the way that he wished someone had protected poor, sweet Violenne.
"I'll make sure nothing like this happens to anyone ever again," he whispered to her grave. Â "I'll catch the ones who did this to you, and I'll make them pay."
There was a rustling in the trees behind him, and he turned. Â Something went thump against his chest, and he looked down, confused at the haft of wood, feathered at one end, sticking out from his ribs.
Antione fell, watching the forest rise up around him, and two figures appeared from the tree line leading a pair of unwilling chocobo. Â One whistled, "Did you see that? Â Fump, straight in the heart! Â Hell of a shot."
The other spoke up, "Hush it! Â What's a Wailer doing here anyroad? Â This ain't their normal patrol route."
"Ah, who cares. Â He ain't telling nobody nothing now. Â Did you see that shot? Â That was art."
"Aye," Pahja said to her sister. Â "Bloody art."
Vivildly he could still see her face, warm and kind as she cared for the birds at Bentbranch Meadows. Â In her life she'd never hurt a single living thing, but she'd been shot through the throat with a barbed arrow and her body hidden under the filth of a chocobo stable.
Adventurers were useless. Â There had been no justice for the murderers of his sister, and but that would not remain so. Â In his hand he held his orders to report for his first duty as a Wood Wailer. Â His armor, fresh and unscarred, was strong. Â his spear was straight and true. Â Soon he would protecting the people of The Shroud the way that he wished someone had protected poor, sweet Violenne.
"I'll make sure nothing like this happens to anyone ever again," he whispered to her grave. Â "I'll catch the ones who did this to you, and I'll make them pay."
There was a rustling in the trees behind him, and he turned. Â Something went thump against his chest, and he looked down, confused at the haft of wood, feathered at one end, sticking out from his ribs.
Antione fell, watching the forest rise up around him, and two figures appeared from the tree line leading a pair of unwilling chocobo. Â One whistled, "Did you see that? Â Fump, straight in the heart! Â Hell of a shot."
The other spoke up, "Hush it! Â What's a Wailer doing here anyroad? Â This ain't their normal patrol route."
"Ah, who cares. Â He ain't telling nobody nothing now. Â Did you see that shot? Â That was art."
"Aye," Pahja said to her sister. Â "Bloody art."