The roads of Thanalan had always been a dangerous place.  Those refugees not admitted into Ul’dah that camped outside the walls bare scratching out an existence were always in need of employment.  The life of a sell-sword became the only occupation of decent enough wages to even think of being able to get out of a life of abject poverty but the purse strings of the wealthy Ul’dah natives were forever taunt.  The less the syndicate trusted the outsiders the fewer contracts were established and the more desperate the people became.  The Free Companies became one avenue of potential hope as established organizations presented reputable names but rarely did a Free Company help those outside their own niche creating incestuous and insular  packs doing little to nothing to help alleviate the growing problems in Eorzea.
“Each day they do the same thing.  They get up, they put on their armor, hitch up their fancy chocobos in their fancy armor and ride away in search for glory and gil.  They pass us by without a pause or a nod even though many of them started out just like us,†a grizzled old man spoke.  His leathered face plastered with more scars than clean skin, dry and chipped from the harsh Sagolii desert.  He spoke to the motley of other vagabond mercenaries around the campfire watching the Adventurers that came and went from the Gates of the Sultana.  His armor was piecemeal, no two pieces properly matching with chinks and dents where it had failed its predecessor but was still more useful than going around in one’s name-day suit.
“’ere he goes again,†snorted a younger man paying little to no attention to the aged warrior.
“You think I’m wrong?  Let me ask you ‘Friend’ when was the last time any of ‘em ever did nothing for no one?  Reach out a helping hand?  The Echo Knights?  The Black Sails?  The Wayward Star?  No.  The whole damn lot of ‘em are useless.  All sitting up in their fancy houses, drinking their fancy ale while we all bake out here in the sun.  They’re no better than the syndicate or the rest of those greedy Ul’dah bastards.† The men around the campfire rolled his eyes at him yet there was one person who paid close attention.  When the aged sellsword rose with disgust, spat into the fire and shuffled toward the tents a voice rose out.
“We have been watching you Uthrik.  We know the truth you see so clearly.  Fear not, for you are among brethren and the times are about to change forever.  The Free Companies have grown soft, too many years since the Calamity and too many moons since they were truly tested.  Join us Uthrik, for we are Scorched Earth, and should our people rise from the fires reborn a phoenix of reckoning we must first turn all to ash.â€
The grizzled old man spun around searching for the source of the airy voice but found nothing.  His swordhand fell to his scabbard as he snarled out, “Where are you?  What are you?â€
“None of your questions matter Uthrik, we are god-sent and blessed.  You will do our bidding.  You will be the embodiment of the whispers on the wind.  Go now, continue to spread your words of Truth and find us more like you.â€
The old man was shaken, trembling within his borrowed boots as the pallid, haunted expression held him.  “What do I do when I find them?†he whispered.
“Tell them to give homage to the Twelve at the Sultantree.  We will be there, the whispers on the wind.â€
“Each day they do the same thing.  They get up, they put on their armor, hitch up their fancy chocobos in their fancy armor and ride away in search for glory and gil.  They pass us by without a pause or a nod even though many of them started out just like us,†a grizzled old man spoke.  His leathered face plastered with more scars than clean skin, dry and chipped from the harsh Sagolii desert.  He spoke to the motley of other vagabond mercenaries around the campfire watching the Adventurers that came and went from the Gates of the Sultana.  His armor was piecemeal, no two pieces properly matching with chinks and dents where it had failed its predecessor but was still more useful than going around in one’s name-day suit.
“’ere he goes again,†snorted a younger man paying little to no attention to the aged warrior.
“You think I’m wrong?  Let me ask you ‘Friend’ when was the last time any of ‘em ever did nothing for no one?  Reach out a helping hand?  The Echo Knights?  The Black Sails?  The Wayward Star?  No.  The whole damn lot of ‘em are useless.  All sitting up in their fancy houses, drinking their fancy ale while we all bake out here in the sun.  They’re no better than the syndicate or the rest of those greedy Ul’dah bastards.† The men around the campfire rolled his eyes at him yet there was one person who paid close attention.  When the aged sellsword rose with disgust, spat into the fire and shuffled toward the tents a voice rose out.
“We have been watching you Uthrik.  We know the truth you see so clearly.  Fear not, for you are among brethren and the times are about to change forever.  The Free Companies have grown soft, too many years since the Calamity and too many moons since they were truly tested.  Join us Uthrik, for we are Scorched Earth, and should our people rise from the fires reborn a phoenix of reckoning we must first turn all to ash.â€
The grizzled old man spun around searching for the source of the airy voice but found nothing.  His swordhand fell to his scabbard as he snarled out, “Where are you?  What are you?â€
“None of your questions matter Uthrik, we are god-sent and blessed.  You will do our bidding.  You will be the embodiment of the whispers on the wind.  Go now, continue to spread your words of Truth and find us more like you.â€
The old man was shaken, trembling within his borrowed boots as the pallid, haunted expression held him.  “What do I do when I find them?†he whispered.
“Tell them to give homage to the Twelve at the Sultantree.  We will be there, the whispers on the wind.â€
