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A New Adventurer's Journal [Stories] ((OOC welcome))

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[Here's my first go at anything RP-related! Please keep in mind that Sygg doesn't exist yet, so minor details could change in the future. This entry actually takes place fairly far into his story, though it's very focused on his background. Sorry for the obtrusive YouTube window! It's fairly necessary.]


[align=center]The Bard[/align]


The past few days of adventuring had taken their toll on my mind and body. It took all of my concentration and energy just to avoid the roots and brambles blanketing the Central Shroud. My legs were aching from malms and malms of trekking, my back from the new gear I had amassed since Thanalan, and my head from the seed volley of a rogue roselet.


As my company approached the watchers at the Bannock, I was so focused on reaching Gridania that I almost forgot to heed their warnings:


“Inns are all full in town, strangers.”


“No townsfolk will put up a ragtag group like you for the night. Best make your way to Bentbranch to make camp.”


Half ignoring and half not even noticing the wardens’ unwelcoming tone, I thanked them and turned toward Bentbranch. As much as I would have enjoyed at least seeing the nighttime lights in Gridania, it was a consolation to know that I was finished traveling for the time being. Soon enough, the stench of Chocobo was upon us, and we had reached our destination for the night.


“Let’s set up camp and rest for the evening. I have much planned for the morrow,” I proclaimed. Am I really giving orders? I thought to myself. When was I given this much authority?


The answer came soon enough: I hadn’t been granted that authority. My companions had set down their bags and gear and hurried over to the campfire, where I could hear a lute and a clarion voice in a duet:


Yon, Llymlaen, yon,

Take me east toward breaking dawn.

Yon, Llymlaen, yon,

To my love I must be drawn.

Yon, Llymlaen, yon,

It is you I’m counting on.

Guide, and blow me yon, blow me yon.

Guide, and blow me yon, blow me yon.


Yon, Llymlaen, yon,

Take me far across the sea.

Yon, Llymlaen, yon,

To my love you must guide me.

Yon, Llymlaen, yon,

You must heed my tender plea.

Guide, and blow me yon, blow me yon.

Guide, and blow me yon, blow me yon.


Love, my quest is almost done.

Then we'll meet under the sun.

We shall dance on windy meadows -

Windy meadows, promise me.

Windy meadows, promise me.


On Windy Meadows 


“On Windy Meadows,” a La Noscean folk song I had heard back on that fateful first trek to Limsa Lominsa, what seems like ages ago. This bard was clearly from Vylbrand, striking a chord with many of my wayward companions, much the same way Syngikoef would enthrall my village when I was a child.


After a short remark to the company and a quick clearing of her throat, she picked up her lute, and strummed some new notes. She must have seen the exhaustion in my eyes, as she gave me a compassionate nod and smiled. I recognized the tune almost immediately, and I was taken back to a different world, one shrouded in fog and rain, and in cold.


The fisher sailed the Indigo,

With currents deep, and winds that blow.

He dared to seek the Spinner’s aid,

A hand that’s not so eas’ly swayed.


‘O Nymeia, O maiden fair,

‘My ship is not beyond repair.

‘Pray, turn my fate with clemency,’

The fisher cried so helplessly.


The Spinner thought to change his fate,

But heard his prayers a moment late.

The bow broke first, and then the stern;

And lightning caused the mast to burn.


“The Fisher’s Fate” continued, but I could not handle more. This woman is singing of my father’s demise. I turned away, hoping I couldn't hear the rest, but the final verse sang itself out in my mind:


The fisher sank beneath a wave,

The Deep then swept him to his grave.

Although the fisher'd stopped to pray,

Nymeia could not save his day.


Deep down, I knew this wasn’t about my father. It was merely a silly children's song, one I had sung countless times in the North as a young fisherman, nigh a decade before the Calamity. Still, the words dug deep inside of me. I wanted so badly to see him again, to hear him greet me from the boat and see the large grin across his grizzly face. I wanted to see him pick up the trophy catch, whether his or mine, and hold it proudly over his head as he walked to the marketplace.


But would not happen that evening, nor ever again. Nymeia’s wheel had turned the other direction.


My companions were still having a jolly time, and I did not want to spoil their humors. As much as I appreciated the nature of bard's gesture—she couldn't have known—she had taken any energy I had left inside. So I plodded along, alone, and set up camp. It felt like it took hours to fall asleep, but ultimately a shroud did fall over my eyes.


* * * * *

Through the dense fog he could make out an orange haze. “Dalamud is falling,” they had been saying for weeks.


“Business must go on, even in hard times” he would say in response. And so he had made his way out into the Indigo Deep on his beloved skiff, without his son or even another crew member. He knew the waters were not safe, but he also knew someone had to keep the villagers’ stomachs full.


As he readied the nets, though, the sky caught his attention. It was growing ever brighter, and there was even a faint flicker to it. The winds had gone deathly still. Oschon, don’t fail me now; I’ll need those winds to take me back. Another moment later, he heard a quiet hiss. The winds were picking up, and he breathed a sigh of relief. But they blew North and West—not South, as they had not a bell ago. The Twelve take me, it is come! I pray Syggeim and little Sygg have found sanctuary.



The hissing became a roar, the sky ever brightening to the shade of pure fire. And before he knew what hit him, a ball of fiery debris had consumed the vessel—bow, stern, and mast.

* * * * *


I woke up with a chilling realization: Eyriwilf Nazzwilfsyn, my father, hadn’t even needed to think of praying to Nymeia—or to any of the Twelve, for that matter; the forces which had chosen his fate did not heed the Divine.

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