Warrior of Light

FFXIV

[atlasmaro]

Quest: Athegyth's Concern

Aethelgyth: See that bloke over there? Name's Osbert, an' he's hurt bad.

Now, it ain't exactly my job to mind his business─I'm a Torch, he's a Blade. But at the end of the day we're both people, you know what I'm sayin'?

Anyroad, I went over to him just earlier, asked what's wrong. But he refuses to tell me, the stubborn bugger. Seems his pride's more important to him than his life. What is it with men an' actin' tough?

I tell myself I've tried, but if the fella ends up kickin' the bucket… I don't want that on my conscience. I know this is sudden, but could you try an' talk him into drinkin' a hi-potion? I'd sleep a deal better for it. I ain't got one on me, but one o' 'em fellas over yonder sells 'em.

Osbert: Breathe, Osbert old boy, just breathe. Pain is just weakness leaving the─godsdammit, my head! If only I had saved a hi-potion. I think this might be the end…

Well, I…I don't really need this, but if you insist. You have my thanks, adventurer.

I was resigned to suffering in silence, for I, Osbert the Undying, veteran of countless battles, could not afford to show weakness to my colleagues and our allies. They look to me for inspiration, you see.

To think that I was almost brought low by a gentle blow to the head! Hah hah hah! I was only incapacitated for a few moments…I think.

To repay you for your discretion in this delicate matter, I shall share with you my warrior's wisdom:

If you must practice your juggling, use heavy stones at your own peril.

[atlasmaro]

Sibold's Story: Cutter's Cry

Time heals all wounds, or so say those who have never experienced true pain. More'n thirty summers've passed since I carried the standard of the Darklight Raiders into Cutter's Cry, but not a day goes by that I don't see the faces of the friends I lost that fateful day─Gerbald the Red and his loyal second, Aubriest Stillwater; Symon the Sweet, always armed with a jab and jest; our ever ireful mage Chiran Zabran, as quick to cast as he was to temper; Thormoen Thousandgil, never has there lived a man with a tighter grip, be it on his sword or his coin; and let us not forget One-ilm Alesone...

Though it's hard to fathom now, what with all the adventurers scamperin' about like rabbits in the spring, there was once a time when bands of mercenaries were who the city-states turned to when in need of a blade─the Darklight Raiders being the biggest and best of them bands. Ishgardian-funded forays into hellish pits like the Aurum Vale would earn us a king's ransom in a matter of days, though it would only take a night of devil's play at the Mirage to see it gone from our purses. But so was the life of a Raider. That is, until we took that job at Cutter's Cry.

My brothers and I had stood against herds of giant buffaloes on O'Ghomoro, snurble infestations on the Pearl, legions of cold-blooded Sahagin from the abyssal depths of the Indigo Deep, but none of that prepared us for the horrors we would face in Hellsbrood Holes. None of it prepared us for the chimera. The bards still sing of the day seven of the realm's finest warriors set off into the bowels of that forsaken place...but only saw one return─Sibold the Stoic, spared by the beast so that he may warn all others who would be foolish enough to attempt to despoil the chimera's lair...

Ah, my apologies. You did not come to hear the guilt-ridden ramblings of an old man...but, if you have a moment, I was wondering if I could ask of you a favor. The final wish of an ailing soul seeking peace with his past before departing on his journey through the Seven Gates. In each of the thirty summers since escaping from the maws of that terrible beast, I have returned to its lair to pay the proper respects to my fallen compatriots.

However, the years have finally caught up with old Sibold, and try as I might, no longer can these bones make the trek alone. If it is not too much to ask, would you travel to Cutter's Cry in my stead, and place this bouquet of flowers upon the resting place of the Darklight Raiders?