Saraj's Journal - Chapter Two

[Saraj Malqir]

The midnight rain tapped rhythmically against the clouded windows. She woke with a start, her eyes wide and her breath coming in heavy. Her sweat soaked black hair clung wetly to her forehead. The dark haired Au Ra looked around the room. Her breathing calmed after a few moments.

 

She slid her fingers through her hair and rolled her legs out of the bed. With a push of her hands she stumbled to her feet. Her thin, black nightgown clung to her figure as she stepped towards the window. Red ringed eyes watched flashes of lightning reveal the dark landscape of the La Noscean coast. She watched silently as the rain and wind battered against the inn room window.

 

With a sigh, she finally turned from the window, and began to light candles around the room, bathing the wooden inn room in gentle fire light. The dream was still with her. It was an all too familiar one.

 

She'd been dreaming that dream every night for twelve years. Tonight's was particularly vivid.

 

Her eyes glanced to a nearby tome, lying closed on a wooden desk. It was black leather bound, with gold trim, filled to the brim with blank, white pages. She had purchased it from the Arcanists' Guild on a whim, but it had called to her more and more throughout the day. Answering that call would mean reliving that dream one more time, but she felt the urge more strongly than ever.

 

She chose to answer it this time.

 

The wooden chair was uncomfortable to sit in, with barely any cushion left in the seat, but her black scales provided some small protection against the hard wood. Her fingers wrapped around a feather quill, and with some reluctance, she opened the leather tome. She brought the tip of the quill, now dark with ink, to the inside cover of the book. With a graceful, sweeping motion, she began by signing her name.

 

Saraj Malqir

 

She lifted her quill, pausing after making her first marks in her book. After some deliberation, she wrote the next line.

 

Dark Knight

 

With another heavy sigh, she leaned back into her chair. This endeavor required more than just telling her tale. There was context to these writings, and so her quill moved to the first page of the book, upon which she began to write in earnest

 

Foreword

 

    The history of the Dark Knights is one that is appropriately shrouded in darkness and mystery. We have no currently recognized order. There is no coat or arms or seal by which we are recognized. We do not answer to noble houses. Yet there is, I am convinced, a great history behind us that remains hidden. It is my hope, and my goal, to reveal this history.

   I know enough to understand that I may not live long enough to see that goal come to fruition. The path of a Dark Knight crosses death's by its very nature. It is my wish that in the event of my death, I leave behind the knowledge I have accumulated, so that what history I have discovered is not forever lost.

    This will be as much my story as it is a collected history, as my story is now an inexorable part of the history of the Dark Knights. It is interesting to consider that I myself have become a part of this unknown legacy. Thus this is a journey of self-discovery, in which I seek to understand more of who I have become, and what I must strive to be. I will relate the stories of several Dark Knights who I have learned about through my studies, so that I might better follow their example. With each story I tell, I wish to impart the selflessness and heroism of these people, heroism which until now has been willingly forgotten.

    Before that, I must tell my own story. This will involve relating a rudimentary understanding of the Xaela, most notably among them the Malqir clan. This understanding will be both brief and shallow, as this journal is not meant to be an anthropomorphic study of the Au Ra. I do not doubt that there are other writers that are more capable and eloquent than I am, who will offer far more insight on that subject.

    Instead, I will focus on those aspects of the Xaela, and the Malqir clan, that lead me to becoming a Dark Knight. While this history is tragic, it will become obvious through the stories I tell that no Dark Knight's story begins in any other way. Tragedy is the most important component in unlocking a Dark Knight's power. It is, unfortunately, also the core of the most dangerous temptation a Dark Knight faces.

    It is interesting to note that most of the Dark Knights which I have collected histories from all hold a firm connection to Ishgard. The history of the Dark Knights and Ishgard is irrevocably intertwined, despite how much the Holy See may wish to see it otherwise. While much of what I have learned is through second-hand sources and rumors, I am convinced that the origins of the Dark Knights can be traced back to the beginnings of the Holy See itself. Confirming this hypothesis through primary sources may prove to be impossible.

    I shall begin on the continent of Othard, on a far away steppe that I doubt many Eorzeans even know exists.

 

She lifted her pen, and let the ink dry on the pages. The writing came slowly, every word considered carefully, every stroke of her pen irrevocable. The rain continued to batter against the inn-room window. It was unlikely she would sleep at all tonight. Another flash of thunder lit the city and the La Noscean coast in an etherial light.

 

Eventually she returned her red ringed eyes to the book in front of her, and wrote in large, swirled text at the top of the page.

 

Chapter One

 

(to be continued)

[Saraj Malqir]

Chapter One

The Malqir Tribe

 

The weariness of a restless night began to leave her, replaced with the energy of her activity. A quiet rhythm of rain tapped against her window. It was a soothing sound, one that filled the otherwise dead air of a night far too close to becoming morning. The room was empty save for her, the bed, and the tome she was writing in. A smile grew on her lips as her mind drifted back to distant, and warmer memories.

 

    The Othard steppes were home to dozens of Xaela tribes, all of which had their own traditions and ways of living. The tribes are too numerous for me to recount in this tome, but suffice it to say that existence on the steppes was anything but peaceful. The tribes went to war with one another as often as the wind itself changed. Most fought for their survival and for limited resources on the steppes. Others did it to satisfy their thirst for blood, or to seek retribution for ancient and forgotten wrongs.

    Among these tribes was my own. The Malqir tribe was similar to any other tribe except in one respect: we valued intelligence and cunning above all else. This shaped how the Malqir approached life on the steppe. Every decision was measured for its strategic value. The collective wisdom of the Malqir lead the tribe to prosper in situations in which others faltered. Few other tribes dared to challenge us, nor did we seek to provoke them.

    Life in the tribe was peaceful. I grew up as the youngest daughter of a tight knit family. My mother and father were steadfast in their devotion to each other, and their family. My eldest sibling was my brother, Megetu. Following Megetu were my two sisters, Yesui, who was the eldest sister, and Mide. My mother favored me above my siblings, who she saw as capable of taking care of themselves. Megetu was nearing the age of adulthood already when I was born, and spent time with my father preparing himself for the responsibilities he would have to take up for the tribe.

 

She paused and lifted her pen, her eyes leaving the page and glancing upward towards the patchwork wood ceiling. The memories that flooded her mind were pleasant and soothing, like a warm blanket on a cold evening. She hesitated. Part of her almost believed that if she withheld her pen, and stopped writing now, it could somehow stop the events that followed from ever coming to pass. It was a foolish notion, one which she, after some deliberation, eventually dismissed. With a heavy sigh, her pen made contact with the page again, and she continued.

 

    While I was my mother's favored, my sisters were not left wanting, for they shared my mother's affection for me. I had no shortage of guidance during those early years, as they dutifully taught me how to cook, sew, and gather food. My brother found the time to teach me the very basics of self defense and warfare, although that duty was left, more often than not, to the men of the tribe.

    One of my more poignant memories was my brother's challenge for leadership of the tribe. Kharaqiq is a test of patience, wisdom and cunning, and Megetu was adept at all of these. Much of the tribe was gathered around the board that night, watching nervously as the game played out between my brother and the chieftain. Yet in the end, Megetu could not best the chieftain, and he was soundly defeated. Despite his loss, my sisters and I welcomed him home with a grand feast in celebration of the attempt. It would have been some time before he could make that challenge again, but we felt certain that he would be well prepared for his second attempt.

    Late in my thirteenth summer, the Orthard steppe was invaded, and war was waged against the Xaela tribes. While the Xaela were hardened by centuries of warfare between the tribes, and harsh conditions on the steppe, we were no match for the Magitek war machines of Garlemald. Our primitive weapons and magic proved useless. Every tribe that was found by the Garleans was summarily defeated.

    The Malqir tribe was no excepti~-

 

She lifted her now trembling hand. Recounting this portion of her tale was always going to be difficult, and she knew that before she even began writing. A crash of thunder rattled the windows in front of her, startling her. She gazed out the window with wide eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. Her mind raced, as she desperately tried to calm herself, speaking words of encouragement in her head over and over again. Despite all of that, she could not force herself to calm.

 

She eventually rose from her chair, and began to pace around the room. Every moment away from the tome only caused her anticipation, her nervousness to grow. The very act of delaying this moment only made it worse. Beads of sweat trickled from her forehead, down against the dark scales covering the bridge of her nose. It was only then that she discovered her answer once more.

 

Rage. Her red ringed eyes glanced at the nearby candle flame. She pressed her fingernails into the wood of the desk, the nails digging in too deeply.

 

“Write.”

 

Anger. She felt the familiar fire burn in her chest. Amidst all the destruction this moment left on her, she found solace in these feelings.

 

“Write.”

 

Hatred. Despite all of the despair and sorrow she felt, her anger over her helplessness, her rage against the injustices she had suffered, and her hatred of those who perpetrated her suffering were stronger still.

 

“Write!”

 

When she returned to her chair, her hand was no longer quivering.

 

    The Malqir tribe was no exception. The tribe fled from the Garleans when they found us, and scattered to prevent the tribe from being slaughtered completely. In this matter, the wisdom of the Malqir prevailed once more. The losses we suffered were less than any other tribe I know of. Despite that, I was not spared from suffering.

    My family was one of the few who were hunted down. My memory of those moments is hazy at best, with only a few images truly vivid. The most vivid image is that of the blood of my brother and sisters as they laid atop me, to prevent the Garleans from seeing that I was still alive. It is that image, above all others, that is irrevocably burned into my memory. It is that image that has shaped me to be who I am today.

    I spent a full day and night hidden beneath them, covered in the dried blood and rapidly cooling bodies of my beloved siblings. I lived that day in a cocoon of sorrow and anguish greater than anything I had imagined possible. When I finally emerged, I was no longer the child my parents and siblings had raised me to be. What kindness I had in me had been forever washed away.

   I began my fall into darkness. In the days that followed, I left my humanity behind, and became nothing more than a beast.

 

She raised her quill, and averted her eyes from the page. With a rough sigh, she stood from her desk, leaving the ink to dry. She walked to the middle of the room, and fell to her knees. The voice had spoken to her again. If she were to continue, that voice needed to be silenced. The second chapter could wait.

 

She doused the flames of anger in meditation. The constant pattering of rain slowed, and eventually became silent.

 

 

(To be continued)

[Saraj Malqir]

The metal boot made a loud thunk as it clattered against the wooden floor. She lifted her other leg and started to pull the other boot off. It was a soothing ritual she performed almost every night, freeing herself from her black metal armor. Her skin and scales breathed in the cool night air. The absence of the constant pressure of her armor was itself a strange pleasure, one which she allowed herself to indulge in for just a moment.

 

It took several more minutes of effort to remove her gloves, her armor coat, and the softer leather underneath it. The black armor lay in a pile on the floor, looking more ridiculous than imposing in its current state there. Left only in a thin white undershirt and pants, she started to gather her armor, and put it away for the night. It would hopefully remain in the armoire for the rest of the night, where she would not have to see it.

 

The night was cool and calm, and she considered opening the windows for a moment, to allow the breeze off the sea water to flow into her room. She walked to the window, but eventually decided against it. The quiet of the room gave rise to louder voices, voices that incessantly questioned.

 

The past few days had not been easy for her. Her mind was in turmoil, her thoughts chaotic and uncollected. With a sigh, she glanced down, her eyes catching on her neglected journal. Two weeks had passed since that night. With but a scant few pages written, she had pushed the book to the side, and had not gathered the courage to write in it again. The previous session had been far too painful.

 

She needed a distraction. She needed something to pull her mind away from her endless questioning, something to focus her thoughts. With a faint smile, she found herself pulling out the chair to the desk.

 

The journal was still new, its pages fresh, patiently waiting for her pen. She turned the pages, one at a time, until she found the first blank page that had not been graced with her handwriting. Her pen in hand, she began to write once more.

 

Chapter Two

The Lost Child

 

She found herself smiling a little as she wrote the name of the chapter. That smile quickly faded. She had avoided the particular details of her darkest day in the previous chapter, and she knew she could not afford to leave them out. Despite what she wrote previously, there is not a single detail of that day she did not remember vividly. This time, her hand was steady.

 

    The day Garlemald found my tribe began the same as any other day. There was no mark of superstition that indicated that evil was about to befall me and my family. No raven was perched over my bed, no black coeurl crossed my path. The day began the same as any other, with breakfast.

    My mother had dutifully begun teaching me how to cook by having me assist her in preparing meals a few years ago. Although I did not have her expertise, I was a competent assistant for her. My sisters did not have any interest in learning how to cook, much to my mother's frustration, but she stopped complaining about that when I began to show interest. Cooking breakfast was a morning ritual for my mother and me.

    My eldest sister was almost old enough to be wed, and so the mornings were inevitably filled with the embarrassing talk of her potential love life. My mother was especially enthusiastic about her finding a proper match. My father and brother, as always, showed intense disinterest in the topic, and chose to silently nod their heads in response to my mother as they ate. While I always remember my father as being a pillar of strength, it was my mother who seemed to command the household. My siblings knew better than to speak up against her.

    My father and mother left after breakfast to pursue some matter with the chieftain, leaving me with my brother and sisters for the day. The morning was filled with playful talk, as my brother prepared his tools to go out hunting. Gathering food was an important task, one which he was old and skilled enough to do on his own. He was quickly earning his place in the village, and in truth, my sisters and I looked up to him.

    My sisters turned their attention to me, and decided to spend the day teaching me more about weaving. They were both exceptionally skilled at it, while I struggled with the craft. The two of them were insistent that I learn, however, and I was not one to say no to them. At the very least I was beyond the point of pricking my own fingers constantly with the needle.

    The morning continued in this way for several hours uneventfully, until midday, when my brother returned prematurely from his hunt. There was a panicked look on his face, unlike any I had ever seen before. I remember my brother as always confident and proud, as if the world was his birthright. It was an endearing form of arrogance. This was the first time I had ever seen it shattered.

    He merely spoke two words, and my sisters understood. “They're coming.”

    I was blissfully unaware of the reasons why my sisters suddenly became panicked as well. Whatever worries they now shared with my brother they had kept secret from me, perhaps because they did not feel I was ready to know. They immediately dropped the cloth we were weaving together, and ushered me to my feet, and out of the large tent into the open air.

    I had rarely seen the Malqir camp so lively. Everyone was out of their tents, many of them already packed and leaving the camp in all different directions. Our family was woefully behind their pace. My brother directed us to pack up the tent as quickly as we could, and we went to work. It was no simple task, especially without the helping hands of my father there.

    It was then that I heard that cracking sound, like a brief burst of thunder, for the first time. It was quickly followed by a cacophony of noise, rumbling and cracking repeatedly. The earth began to tremble faintly under my feet. I looked at my siblings worriedly, and asked them where mother and father were. My brother simply told us to run.

    My brother ushered me and my sisters away, running behind us while he constantly looked over his shoulder. In the distance I saw a great cloud of dust, with large, dark shapes silhouetted within. I remember thinking that some horrible monster was descending on the clan. In truth, monsters would have been a mercy in comparison.

    We could not outrun them. The great machines of magic and metal broke through the dust and ran us down. They did not shout, nor did they ask for our surrender. They merely fired. My sisters threw me behind them, as they and my brother shielded me. I remember watching their bodies shake as the loud cracking noises caused blood to splash out from them.

    Whether they collapsed atop me by their own will or by coincidence, I shall never know, although I like to believe that it was their last act to protect me. I remember wanting to scream, yet for some reason I did not. Instead, I laid beneath the three of them, the blood from their wounds pouring out over me. I dared not move or make a sound, as I heard the rumbling of the great metal machines all around me, matched by the sound of leather boots against the sand.

    For the rest of the day and most of the night, that was all I heard, the constant sounds of those infernal machines and the men who marched with them. I huddled in fear for those many hours, the warmth leaving the bodies of my brother and sisters, their blood drying on my skin and hair. Eventually, the fear began to subside, replaced by pure anguish. And then, even that too began to subside, replaced with something else entirely.

    I had never known hatred in my life until then. True hatred is an all consuming emotion, it fills your entire being. I desperately wanted to emerge from the embrace of my siblings, to claw at and kill the nearest one of these devils that I could find. It was a desire more intense than anything I had ever felt, yet for some reason, I chose to stay in the embrace of my family for at least a little longer.

    Night had fallen and began to break into morning again by the time the noises had finally gone for good. It was then that I finally emerged from the arms of my family. I stood there on the desert sands for a while, completely covered, from head to toe, in blood, surveying the corpses I had taken refuge under.

    After a time, I merely stepped away, and began to wander back to the camp. There was little left, save a few more corpses. What little hope I had of finding any family, and of recovering into something resembling a normal life, was dashed when I found the corpses of my father and mother as well. I was alone, truly alone, with only an ever growing fire burning with me to keep me company.

    I mindlessly followed the tracks that lead away from the camp, intent on visiting some form of revenge on these monsters who had hurt me so. I cannot recall how long I followed their tracks, never catching sight or sound of them, but I know it was many days, with no food or water. I felt the ache in my legs, the desperate pain in my stomach, and the unwashed blood on my skin, but I did not care. I continued my endless march towards what would assuredly had been my death.

    Eventually I came to an oasis. In my anguished state, I would have ignored the life-saving water, save for the presence of a stranger there. There was a small tent erected next to the oasis, and sitting next to it, near the water, was a man the likes of which I did not recognize. He was tall, nearly as tall as my father, yet he had no horns or scales, instead having strange, pointed ears where his horns should have been. To my addled mind, he seemed the same as the men who had murdered my family.

    I limped into his camp, ragged and blood covered, with what must have been a look of intense hatred. I remember jumping at him, reaching for his eyes to try and claw them out, but to no avail. He overpowered me easily, and held me pinned to the ground. For whatever reason, he showed me mercy, and let me live.

    He spoke in a tongue I could not understand, and then switched to a rough version of my own language when it became apparent I did not understand him. He asked my name, and I spat in his face with what little saliva I had left in me. I remember feeling him tie the ropes around my hands and feet, binding me helplessly.

    He offered me a cup of water. I tried to refuse him, but he pressed a dagger to my throat, and ordered me to drink. I did not refuse. For the next day, he fed me and made me drink, forcing me to recover some of my strength. After every meal, he asked me my name, and I remained silent. It was only after two more days of this that I finally chose to answer him.

    I remember his smile when I finally did, and I shall never forget the moment he offered his name in return.

    "I am Lorick,” he said.

 

She lifted her pen from the page, choosing to end the chapter there. With her pen put aside, she wiped away some of the tears now staining her cheek. She was proud of herself. These were memories that she, more often than not, wished she could forget. It was a cathartic release for her, as if she had spilled herself onto those pages.

 

The next chapter would be easier, she knew, as would every chapter that followed.

 

Her mind turned towards more recent events, events which had pushed her into writing this latest chapter. The question still burned at her. She did not know if she could ever truly rejoin her kin. Part of her missed the Malqir Clan dearly. To be among them again, to become a part of the clan once more was an opportunity that she knew she could not miss.

 

Yet it was not the Clan that lived in her memory the most. It was her family, and they were not something she could ever bring back into her life. To live among her Clan again without her family would be far too bitter, and far too cold.

 

Perhaps Lady Ironleaf was right, and she was afraid of change. It played no small part in her apprehensions. But writing tonight confirmed what she had previously surmised. She was not ready to return to the Clan. Not yet.

 

She glanced back to her journal, which waited patiently for her to fill the next pages. She would not leave it neglected for so long ever again. Ser Lorick deserved that much, at the very least.