Inked Eidolon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
inked_eidolon) wrote2011-12-02 04:08 pm
inked_eidolon) wrote2011-12-02 04:08 pm
Entry tags:
Fortune and Misfortune - Final Fantasy III
Title: Fair and Foul Fortune
Fandom: Final Fantasy III
Characters: Ingus, plus the other three Warriors of Light
Rating: PG
Summary: Being a Warrior of Light can be very harsh.
Author's Note: This is pretty shameless game meta. Happens to me at least ten times between dungeons, I swear.
The Dragoons' skill could be a blessing and a curse.
Ingus realized this at the very apex of a jump. It was maybe the eighth time he'd performed one and he was slowly but surely getting acclimated to it--he flipped the spear smoothly in his hands as the acceleration slowed, and he turned his eyes back earthward to get a fix on the Vulcan.
There was something else on the ground that captured his gaze and would not let go: three bodies face-down in the dirt. One wore black armor, one white robes, and a horned helm had rolled away from the third. The grass all around them had been scorched black. It had not been like that when he'd left the ground.
A split second of horror was all he could afford. Ingus' eyebrows contracted as the fall began and he focused every speck of concentration he had--the spear crunched through scales, slid past bone and tendon, and the already-wounded dragon let out a hideous shriek as it realized death did not wear a black cowl, but golden armor.
Ingus threw down his weapon and hurried to check his comrades. Luneth should have kept them alive, but his limp body was bent at a strange angle. The robes had been no protection against the dragon's massive tail. Arc was too pale; most likely he had timed his use of Souleater poorly and made himself vulnerable. And Refia... a Viking's armor could take a great deal of punishment, but against fire like that it was as useful as cotton.
He checked their supplies, but more phoenix downs had not magically appeared since they'd used the last of their supply.
Ingus unfolded the canoe, silently thanking the King yet again for his wisdom in giving it to them as he carefully carried each body to it. Grabbing hold of the rope they'd attached to the prow, Ingus slung it around himself like a strap and trudged off. The light of the Crystals kept their bodies from corruption, even if the trek to the nearest healing waters took days. Amur, fortunately, was not far. If I don't find another Vulcan on the way back.
He did find a Hellgaroo and a black flan, but he managed to flee despite his burden. He tried to calm his breathing and keep a steady pace, reminding himself that each of the others had been forced to make this journey at least once. Usually it was only one or even two and they could help each other, but sometimes this happened... strangely, it was the first time that he had been the last left standing. Always one remains. What happens on the day that the four of us fall at once?
The day hadn't come yet, and it wouldn't so long as he had his strength and wits. He headed for the protection of the river and rowed the rest of the way, counting the strokes and the trees on the bank and the muskrat holes and anything else that would let him look at something other than Luneth, Arc, and Refia. I've seen people die and be saved by the waters, but never this often. Over and over and over... How many times had he died himself? I can never remember it. Dying, yes, but not being dead.
He never asked the others if they recalled their deaths. He wouldn't ask now, either. Ingus was afraid of their answer, and he hated knowing that was the reason he was silent.
Stop thinking. Just row.
It was easier when he reached town. As soon as Ingus saw the four old men hurrying towards him--them, rather--he felt his face go smooth, and his voice was steady as he explained what had happened and asked their help in taking the other three to the springhouse.
Refia was first; something felt wrong about not attending to the lady even if she was a warrior. Besides, her head always cleared the quickest, and they were able to revive Arc and Luneth at the same time.
"Whew." The boy who was in some indefinable way their leader rubbed the back of his head and smiled sheepishly at Ingus, as though he'd merely fainted. It was almost infuriating. Refia prodded him in the ribs that had so recently been crushed.
"You're supposed to guard when you're the white mage! Remember?"
"I did!" He shoved her shoulder--even the armor had been unblackened, Ingus noted. "And I'm not getting on your case for not Provoking it!"
"Good, because I'm not going to when it's a monster like that."
The argument escalated; nobody in the room, including Luneth and Refia, were left in any doubt that they were alive. There was a soft clanking noise from Ingus' other side. "Thanks, Ingus," said Arc, holding his helmet on his lap. He always looked slightly shaken after this--in a guilty, selfish way, Ingus was relieved that he did. At least one of them would allow themselves to feel as they should.
Fandom: Final Fantasy III
Characters: Ingus, plus the other three Warriors of Light
Rating: PG
Summary: Being a Warrior of Light can be very harsh.
Author's Note: This is pretty shameless game meta. Happens to me at least ten times between dungeons, I swear.
The Dragoons' skill could be a blessing and a curse.
Ingus realized this at the very apex of a jump. It was maybe the eighth time he'd performed one and he was slowly but surely getting acclimated to it--he flipped the spear smoothly in his hands as the acceleration slowed, and he turned his eyes back earthward to get a fix on the Vulcan.
There was something else on the ground that captured his gaze and would not let go: three bodies face-down in the dirt. One wore black armor, one white robes, and a horned helm had rolled away from the third. The grass all around them had been scorched black. It had not been like that when he'd left the ground.
A split second of horror was all he could afford. Ingus' eyebrows contracted as the fall began and he focused every speck of concentration he had--the spear crunched through scales, slid past bone and tendon, and the already-wounded dragon let out a hideous shriek as it realized death did not wear a black cowl, but golden armor.
Ingus threw down his weapon and hurried to check his comrades. Luneth should have kept them alive, but his limp body was bent at a strange angle. The robes had been no protection against the dragon's massive tail. Arc was too pale; most likely he had timed his use of Souleater poorly and made himself vulnerable. And Refia... a Viking's armor could take a great deal of punishment, but against fire like that it was as useful as cotton.
He checked their supplies, but more phoenix downs had not magically appeared since they'd used the last of their supply.
Ingus unfolded the canoe, silently thanking the King yet again for his wisdom in giving it to them as he carefully carried each body to it. Grabbing hold of the rope they'd attached to the prow, Ingus slung it around himself like a strap and trudged off. The light of the Crystals kept their bodies from corruption, even if the trek to the nearest healing waters took days. Amur, fortunately, was not far. If I don't find another Vulcan on the way back.
He did find a Hellgaroo and a black flan, but he managed to flee despite his burden. He tried to calm his breathing and keep a steady pace, reminding himself that each of the others had been forced to make this journey at least once. Usually it was only one or even two and they could help each other, but sometimes this happened... strangely, it was the first time that he had been the last left standing. Always one remains. What happens on the day that the four of us fall at once?
The day hadn't come yet, and it wouldn't so long as he had his strength and wits. He headed for the protection of the river and rowed the rest of the way, counting the strokes and the trees on the bank and the muskrat holes and anything else that would let him look at something other than Luneth, Arc, and Refia. I've seen people die and be saved by the waters, but never this often. Over and over and over... How many times had he died himself? I can never remember it. Dying, yes, but not being dead.
He never asked the others if they recalled their deaths. He wouldn't ask now, either. Ingus was afraid of their answer, and he hated knowing that was the reason he was silent.
Stop thinking. Just row.
It was easier when he reached town. As soon as Ingus saw the four old men hurrying towards him--them, rather--he felt his face go smooth, and his voice was steady as he explained what had happened and asked their help in taking the other three to the springhouse.
Refia was first; something felt wrong about not attending to the lady even if she was a warrior. Besides, her head always cleared the quickest, and they were able to revive Arc and Luneth at the same time.
"Whew." The boy who was in some indefinable way their leader rubbed the back of his head and smiled sheepishly at Ingus, as though he'd merely fainted. It was almost infuriating. Refia prodded him in the ribs that had so recently been crushed.
"You're supposed to guard when you're the white mage! Remember?"
"I did!" He shoved her shoulder--even the armor had been unblackened, Ingus noted. "And I'm not getting on your case for not Provoking it!"
"Good, because I'm not going to when it's a monster like that."
The argument escalated; nobody in the room, including Luneth and Refia, were left in any doubt that they were alive. There was a soft clanking noise from Ingus' other side. "Thanks, Ingus," said Arc, holding his helmet on his lap. He always looked slightly shaken after this--in a guilty, selfish way, Ingus was relieved that he did. At least one of them would allow themselves to feel as they should.
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