Chapter Text
Mor Dhona was not the jewel of Eorzea. The streets smelled of liquor and the citizens reeked of quiet desperation. The land was a mess of crystals protruding from the infertile soils. Aetherial remnants covered the muddy wasteland like ice atop a barren field. There was a certain deadness to the land that permeated almost every facet of one’s life on the cobblestone streets.
Almost in spite of the fact that there were better locations, Mor Dhona was host to the Scions of The Seventh Dawn. A most infamous team of heroes, outcasts, and danger-seekers, the Scions saw themselves as a sovereign entity freed from the internal politics of the most powerful Eorzean regions. Headed by the Antecedent, Minfilia, the Scions served all Eorzean citizens by protecting them from the scourges of primals, monsters, rogue armies, pirates, and especially the Garleans.
The idea of the Scions was sound on paper. They were to have no master, nor fuel any undue alliances with any one nation. Neutrality in political matters was their privilege. Protection from the greater threats to peace was their responsibility. The Scions stood to unite all the Eorzean nations, for only unity kept them strong against the Garleans and Ascians.
***
The brochure read like a bad narrative. Sure, the description of Mor Dhona had been accurate. And it was true that the Scions had remained adamant about their purpose and place in the world. But the prose had been as bleak as Mor Dhona’s morning fog. The audacity of the Scions referring to themselves in third person was also a questionable—if not indulgent—choice.
The Scion-in-training, known within the organization as a “SIT,” checked the name at the bottom of the brochure. With love, Minfilia . He smirked. This Minfilia was a real piece of work. She’d bombarded the SIT with brochure after brochure—even after his letter of acceptance! She was a woman whose quantity of information by far eclipsed its usefulness. But she seemed kind enough.
These days, the Scions accepted very few new recruits. To be a Scion was to accept that death lay around every corner. Therefore, many would-be Scions retreated once they understood the enormity of their roles and the cost. Even the ones who dared remain were often denied membership due to weakness of character or lack of courage.
But after every test, every trial, and every verbal quiz, there was one Hyur who’d passed with flying colors. His name was Corlack Brazen. An Adventurer by trade, Corlack always dreamed of joining the Scions. Many in his family discouraged him, especially because the Scions were not without their controversies. However, Corlack was convinced that destiny had lit his path.
Tall, strong, handsome — these terms were weaved into Corlack’s self-image. Confidence had been his lifelong bedrock. He’d broken plenty of hearts back in Gridania, where local women had been mesmerized by his vivid green eyes, tasteful adornments, book smarts, and love of life. He didn’t consider himself vain like his old pals back home who’d blown their fortunes on glamour prisms. But, he had been known to carry his comb everywhere he went to tidy up his luscious almond-brown locks.
Gridania was in the past. He’d said goodbye to his friends and family after he celebrated and reminisced with all of them. He’d even spent some quality time with his romantic flings before the carriage arrived at his humble abode. Now, here he was in the armpit of a town known as Mor Dhona. Maybe its outer appearance repelled tourists, but Corlack could almost sense a greater purpose for Mor Dhona. If an organization like The Scions called Mor Dhona home, then it couldn’t have been all that bad, right?
“‘Tis not all that bad,” said the passenger sitting across from Corlack.
The other Scion-in-training was a red-headed Lalafell named Jonas Falel. It was a wonder that Corlack’s companion had made it this far. Jonas had been late to the carriage when it stopped in front of his modest house. He’d failed to wake up early enough and had been forced to rush through his morning routine. Once in the carriage, he made for quite awkward company. He was short-tempered ( ba dum tiss ), had a foul mouth, and could only recite his exaggerated tales of heroism in his more lucid moments.
The best that Corlack could do was smile and nod.
“Are you referring to Mor Dhona?” asked Corlack.
Jonas was still peering out the window, taking in the sights and sounds. “You ever notice that these towns lack a proper cobbler? Why, I’d love someone to conjure me a pair o’ mine own walkers. The soles of me shoes are more worn out than my grand-mama’s liver.”
Corlack wanted to try to make some connection. After all, he’d assumed he’d be spending a lot of time with Jonas. More than likely, he’d be bunking with the fellow, as space was limited in the Scions’ living quarters.
“You know,” began Corlack, “back when I traveled to Limsa—”
“Limsa? I hate Limsa Lominsa. Ya can’t point me on a map a land more depraved. Ya know what I call Limsa? Eorzea’s stomach ulcer. That is what Limsa is.”
“Opinionated, aren’t we?” murmured Corlack.
“Oh, thank Nophica, the carriage has stopped,” said Jonas. “I must needs find some grub in this godsforsaken town.”
“Well, I’m sure that will have to wait, my friend,” said Corlack. “We are to be welcomed and fully introduced to the Scions.”
Jonas spit on the carriage floor. “Psh. The Scions ought to introduce me belly to the finest cuisine they can offer. I didn’t come this way just to starve. Mayhaps they offer us some raccoon stew.”
The Scions didn’t offer raccoon stew, but they did offer their best in warm welcomers, Thancred Waters. As Corlack exited the carriage and then made his way down to the Scions’ quarters, he felt intimidated. The Scions were celebrities in their own right and it was an honor to finally meet one. Thancred was exactly how Corlack had pictured him—white hair, black coat, sheathed daggers at the hip.
With a smile that was as warm as it was mischievous, Thancred outstretched his arms in a gesture of welcoming.
“About time you showed up!” said Thancred. “I was beginning to wonder if the Chocobos had unionized. My friend, welcome to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Where all your dreams—and consequently, nightmares—come true. We have not formally met, but my name is Thancred.”
“As if you need an introduction,” said Corlack as he extended his hand. They shook hands firmly, but Thancred’s grip was by far the firmest. After all, he was a man who’d shaken the hands of kings, queens, and those rare cobblers that one hardly ever sees in faraway towns. “It’s nice to meet you, Thancred.”
Thancred examined the young man. “Please don’t be starstruck. You know the saying. Never meet your heroes. You’ll always be disappointed.”
“Even so, ‘tis an honor to be here.”
“There’s so much we must needs go over,” said Thancred just before he yawned. “I must say, I’ve just returned from a very difficult trial with the Warrior of Light by my side. Granted, the man did most of the work.”
“Warrior of Light!” How was it that Corlack had forgotten the one man he’d been dying to meet even more than Thancred? The Warrior of Light was the supposed hero who would vanquish the hordes of evil forces that threatened to end all life as everyone knew it. He was a legend and one of only a few individuals who had the gift of the Echo, a spiritual communication and connection with Hydaelyn, the crystal mother of all aetherial flows.
Thancred put on an exaggerated crestfallen expression. “Everyone wants to meet the Warrior of Light. I feel so neglected sometimes.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No, no. At ease, friend. His Echo is a true gift and his battle instincts are without comparison. The attention due him is rightfully earned.”
Corlack nodded. His legs would fail him soon if he didn’t cast out his nervousness in time. He reminded himself that he had made it far because of his skills and cunning. Not everyone who set out to be a SIT would step into the Scions’ lair, otherwise known as The Rising Stones. There was still the unpleasant prospect of failure. Not every SIT would soar to Scion.
Tests yet remained.
“I sense your anxiety, but I promise we don’t bite,” said Thancred. “Well, most of us don’t, anyway. Now, you’ll have to forgive my propensity for misremembering names. Are you ‘Conrad’ from Gridania?”
“Close. Corlack.”
“Twin Adder?”
“Private First Class.”
Thancred shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest idea if that’s good, but it sounds impressive, Corlack. Come, let us meet the other Scions. Maybe throw back a swig o’ ale while we’re at it.”
“Wait, where’s the other Scion-in-training?” asked Corlack. “He was just with me.”
“A Lalafell, right? I spotted him, but he seemed to have run off toward the square. S’pose he’d more important business to attend to. ‘Tis a shame the door’ll be locked by the time he returns.”
Thancred stepped aside and allowed Corlack to enter at will.
From this point on, Corlack’s life would never be the same. The first part of the Rising Stones was the pub-like anteroom. Several unknown individuals were dining at the bar or simply nodding their heads along with the music playing from the orchestration jukebox. Corlack wasn’t sure how many of the patrons were Scions, but the room up ahead was bound to be crawling with them. Thancred opened the door for Corlack and bade him enter.
The interior of The Rising Stones was an impressive sight to behold. Lanterns affixed to the stone walls emitted a warm glow that was pleasant to the eyes. A stone aisle split the entrance hall into two symmetrical spaces, each hosting large tables with adequate seating over area rugs with intricate patterns. Further down and to the left was a large shelf containing numerous tomes.
There was a bar with stools to the right of the entrance hall. Further down on the east wing of the structure was even more space for storage, battle training, and dining. Thancred shut the door behind him and gave the nearby guard a quiet directive. Meanwhile, as Corlack stood there like a wide-eyed coeurl kitten, a Lalafell wearing a feathered beret with scarlet eyes made her way to the duo.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Brazen!” exclaimed Tataru. She jumped for joy and executed some type of twirly dance reminiscent of Gridanian traditions.
Corlack bowed. “Thank you. The pleasure is all mine.”
Thancred slapped Corlack on the back playfully. “Now, in case you didn’t know, there’s no need to be so formal. We’re a family here. The Lalafell lass before you is Tataru. Truly, Conrad, there’s—”
“Corlack.”
“Ah. Apologies, Corlack. Truly, there’s no better glue that holds us all together than Tataru. I dare say that without her, we would be no better than a primal without a prayer.”
Tataru hid her blush by looking down at her shoes. “Thancred surely overstates the gravity of my station,” she said.
“Bollocks! Tataru is my favorite, but don’t tell anyone, eh, Corlack? If you have any questions or concerns, Tataru can provide the assistance you seek. She is our bookkeeper, our finance expert, our inventory manager. You can find her slaving away at her desk oftentimes. Never underestimate her. She is, for all intents and purposes, the backbone of the Scions.”
Tataru’s face was red, but her joy was unmatched. “I enjoy what I do and I take my job seriously. Therefore, please do not hesitate to seek my counsel should you need it. Thancred, shall I continue the tour?”
Thancred shook his head. “No, ‘tis my turn this time. Though I have no doubt you would serve our charge well, I’m more than happy to carry on.”
“Very well, then,” said Tataru. “We are so pleased to have you, Corlack. Please make yourself at home.”
“Thank you,” said Corlack.
“Whom shall we meet next?” asked Thancred. “Ah! Do you hear that? ‘Tis the bickerin’ and brawlin’ befitting a decades’ old matrimony. ‘Cept they’re not even betrothed and my stomach recoils at the thought. Corlack, let’s meet Yda and Papalymo.”
A young Hyur woman with a black mask over her eyes was gesticulating and arguing with a monocled Lalafell who appeared older. They were seated at one of the tables and sat across from each other with plates of a delicious meal and vials of red wine.
“You’re really no fun, y’know that?” said the woman with the mask.
“At least I’m sensible,” countered the Lalafell.
“And I’m Thancred.”
Yda and Papalymo ceased their bickering to acknowledge Thancred. Then their eyes turned to the newcomer next to Tahncred, who waved. Yda smiled wide. She was ever eager to meet new people and absorb their stories. Sadly, though, not many SITs graduated to the full status of “Scion.” Yda was hoping she’d not have to part with yet another recruit.
“Welcome to The Rising Stones,” said Yda, extending her hand. “My name is Yda.”
“I’m Corlack Brazen. Truly, truly an honor.”
“Yda is our resident jester,” said Papalymo. “I’m Papalymo, by the way. Nice to finally meet you, Corlack.”
Thancred crossed his arms over his chest. “Yda and Papalymo have a storied history. I see them as comrades and rivals. Allies and enemies. It would appear they balance each other out.”
“Papalymo has a short temper, but I must say that he is soft of heart when you come to know him,” said Yda.
Papalymo frowned. “Soft of heart, you say? Are you my biographer?”
“It was a compliment ,” said Yda. “Now, it’s your turn to compliment me.”
Papalymo adjusted his monocle, though he didn’t have to. It was just a habit of his. Older though he may have been, Papalymo wasn’t too old to keep up with Yda’s jabs and wit.
“Well,” said Papalymo, directing his attention to Corlack, “you should know that Yda is a skilled Pugilist and can train most anyone in martial arts. Don’t let the air in her head fool you.”
Yda slammed the table with her fist, causing the silverware to tumble. “Excuse me! Are you saying I’m an airhead?”
“Oh no,” said Thancred. He turned to Corlack, who was completely lost. “Corlack, we must needs move on. Entertaining as it may be, you’ll witness many more squabbles between those two later on. Don’t be fooled. They’re still remarkable friends.”
Thancred led Corlack further up the aisle toward Tataru’s desk. She waved at the pair happily before she resumed her paperwork. Thancred took a few more steps before he stopped, spotting another of the Scions. He grinned.
“And allow me to direct your attention to the Miqo’te lass reading a tome in the darkest corner of the room. Her name is Y’shtola. She’s a bit of an enigma, that one. But not to worry; she’s always kind to newcomers.”
“Newcomers, huh? Is she always kind to you?”
Thancred smirked. “Let’s not disturb her for too long,” he said, by way of an answer.
Ever alert, Y’shtola’s cat-like ears twitched as the duo approached her table. With just the light of a scentless, white candle, it was difficult to read her expression at first as her icy blue eyes scanned Thancred and his guest. In a smooth motion, she earmarked the page she was on and closed the hardbound book. She stood up with a smile directed at Corlack, who mirrored the same expression.
“Corlack, I presume?” greeted Y’shtola. “‘Tis an honor to meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Corlack, who shook hands with her.
“Y’shtola is a warrior, a poet, and a literary master,” said Thancred. “She knows more than all of us combined.” Thancred nudged Corlack with his elbow. “And that makes her quite stubborn, to boot.”
“Oh, Thancred, put a pin in it,” said Y’shtola with an eye roll. She turned her gaze to Corlack. “Please do not let Thancred corrupt you. Gods forbid you become like him.”
Thancred placed his hands on his hips in mock disdain. “I quite take offense to that, m’lady! I’ve been nothing but helpful to this young man. Tell her, Corlack. Tell her how I’ve given you the best tour of The Rising Stones.”
“It’s the only tour of The Rising Stones he’s had,” said Y’shtola with an edge. “No matter. Corlack, it is my hope you pride yourself in making it this far. Though you may not be an officially-registered Scion, it is still quite an honor to be a SIT.”
“I second the notion,” said Thancred.
“And though it pains me to say it, Thancred is quite a great teacher in the martial arts,” said Y’shtola. “Provided he is comprehensible, he may teach you many useful combat techniques.”
“It hurt you so much to admit that,” said Thancred.
Y’shtola waved Tahncred off. “Regardless, welcome aboard, Corlack. If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”
“Indeed, do not let one question remain unasked,” said a figure from the back. A lean and tall Elezen with a brown robe and goggles towered over the group. “I thought I had sensed the presence of a new recruit,” he said.
“This is Urianger,” said Y’shtola. “He serves as our main researcher and scholar.”
Urianger nodded. “Indeed. I specialize in the aetherial arts. I study primals and the prayers of civilizations here and gone. My work, therefore, is never completed. I find there is an endless stream of information to extract from what we see, feel, and touch. Would that we understand even a fraction of all there is to know about our world.”
Thancred sighed. “Y’shtola and Urianger are quite the same. They were the brightest of students. I fear I cannot keep up with their intellect.”
“Would it harm you so much to read a tome?” suggested Y’shtola.
Thancred stared at her for a beat before saying, “Yes, yes it t’would.”
Y’shtola scoffed, wondering why she even tried with Thancred. Urianger, ever-busy, politely bowed before Corlack and then took his leave.
“Is he headed back to Vesper Bay?” asked Thancred.
“Most likely,” answered Y’shtola.
“Come, Corlack, let us meet Minfilia,” said Thancred. “She is expecting us. We may even get to meet the Warrior of Light.”
“Now I’m really nervous,” admitted Corlack.
“No need to be nervous,” said Thancred. “Just remember Minfilia’s first impression of you means absolutely everything.”