You find yourself on the cold hard ground, hard and sharp metal deep in your gut. To you, it's a little funny that this is what has you fall when you've battled dragons on the field for ten years. Viscount Fortemps and Lord Artoirel would apprehend your attacker and take you to the chirurgeons. As your eyelids grow heavy, blood pooling your royal blue garbs, you think about all you've done to deserve this.
Your father, the Archbishop, is dead... And at your command was his death done. Patricide. Heresy. Traitor to Ishgard. You never refuted these words, you can't. They follow you to the darkness.
You wake and subsequently become informed of the fires across the city-state, how the Knights have detained who would confess to be the arsonists. Your wounds have healed enough, so you push yourself forward. With the state of unrest, you cannot afford yourself time. This case must be solved, then the refugees be comforted.
Yet the refugees must suffer more... You had ordered them shelter at the Vault, the facility that once housed the Archbishop and his Heavens' Ward. There, you thought they would be safe, but no. They're taken hostage.
Your wounds hinder you, but you cannot. You will not let more of your people die. You will not let these zealots raze Ishgard from the inside—not when Ishgard is so close to having peace.
... All of this suffering in the name of Halone? Godly? You understand that you're merely a focal point of all that would unravel. Ishgard was built upon tattered myths—lies—and it would be hard for the people to accept. Their lives would change forever.
Unending and unbending faith shattered.
Man would show you its dark colors... Yet you look at the better.
Sometimes you get stabbed and your people blame you for everything going wrong. ]
no subject
[ Aymeric is about to ask a little bit more, but dAMn. IT's A BUBBLe. Aymeric sighs... Looking at it. ]
I suppose we should get to the thick of it. Do your steel yourself, in the very case this memory is execrable, Lord Riff.
[ He touches it... And with it comes a burst of color. It's a blue color and the scene changes for a moment.
(video)
You find yourself on the cold hard ground, hard and sharp metal deep in your gut. To you, it's a little funny that this is what has you fall when you've battled dragons on the field for ten years. Viscount Fortemps and Lord Artoirel would apprehend your attacker and take you to the chirurgeons. As your eyelids grow heavy, blood pooling your royal blue garbs, you think about all you've done to deserve this.
Your father, the Archbishop, is dead... And at your command was his death done. Patricide. Heresy. Traitor to Ishgard. You never refuted these words, you can't. They follow you to the darkness.
(0:00-3:52)
You wake and subsequently become informed of the fires across the city-state, how the Knights have detained who would confess to be the arsonists. Your wounds have healed enough, so you push yourself forward. With the state of unrest, you cannot afford yourself time. This case must be solved, then the refugees be comforted.
Yet the refugees must suffer more... You had ordered them shelter at the Vault, the facility that once housed the Archbishop and his Heavens' Ward. There, you thought they would be safe, but no. They're taken hostage.
Your wounds hinder you, but you cannot. You will not let more of your people die. You will not let these zealots raze Ishgard from the inside—not when Ishgard is so close to having peace.
(3:59-5:35)
... All of this suffering in the name of Halone? Godly? You understand that you're merely a focal point of all that would unravel. Ishgard was built upon tattered myths—lies—and it would be hard for the people to accept. Their lives would change forever.
Unending and unbending faith shattered.
Yet you look at the better.
Sometimes you get stabbed and your people blame you for everything going wrong. ]