In light of the past has it been known - come to be known by outsider and foreigner alike - that through the flames of the day of deviants, the records of old of our order, the Fist of Rhalgr, have been rendered ash. Left to the decades of denial beneath the three-eyed hammer, it falls to us now, the still-flickering flame, to tread old ground anew, that those to follow must not repeat our failures, our mistakes.
So it is now that I, Master Caelrin Morra, Fist of Rhalgr, put ink to scroll with righteous purpose to carve this legacy anew; divine testament, explanation to outsider and foreigner alike, what it means now to be of Shadow, freed from its bloody shackles. A guidance for the new - a declaration to the old.
The sect of Shadow. What is at war is healthy; what is at peace is sick. So it was. So it is.
A portrait for @berrodarmstrong of the eponymous Highlander, Berrod Armstrong!
It brings me so much joy to see you going forth and living your BEST LIFE, making your character look the way you always wanted him to be. Watching you go through this journey has been an honor, and I appreciate your friendship very much.
I had just done a bunch of keyboard mashing in response to this but I decided to backspace it and actually say something coherent -- thank you so much for this, and for your support regarding the changes I’ve made! The feeling is mutual, I appreciate your friendship massively!
That said -- this art is so amazing! The skin, the hair, the fur -- the life and light in his eyes. Your art remains unique and striking! I’m absolutely honoured to have Berrod drawn by you and I will treasure this!
“With this blade, with this shield, with my flesh, blood, bone and soul, I will protect my friends, my loved ones, and the people of Gyr Abania who cannot protect themselves. I do so in the name of the Destroyer, as a Paladin of Rhalgr.”
So goes the oath of a Paladin of Rhalgr. This oath becomes the conduit of the Paladin’s power, the focal point through which many of their abilities are amplified and exercised. Many of these abilities require a strong body, a sound mind and a steady soul. At the same time, the Paladin must be able to endure the relentless onslaught of foes if needed. The demand placed upon them is by no means a small one.
This is where the Paladin’s faith proves to be the connection between oath and action. The belief in the Destroyer and His will is declared in word, deed, or both. It can be a spoken prayer, a gesture, or simply a presentation of sigils or geometry upon one’s garments and attire -- though the first two tend to be more effective in conveying faith. The Paladin acknowledges that everything they do through their oath, they do in accordance with Rhalgr’s will. This belief interacts with both the crystal and the oath itself and provides a holy strength and fervor that prepares them to push past their physical and spiritual limits.
Such holy resolve, however, is often noticed by many who would harm those under a Paladin’s charge. It may mean that every swing of the sword and bash of the shield will incur more ire, more violence. This is a favourable result, for if a foe wishes to do harm to Rhalgr’s faithful, it is the Paladin they must answer to. Naturally this is not something anyone can simply pick up and do. It requires a great deal of physical and spiritual training -- as well as the faith to see it through.
So writes Berrod Armstrong, Paladin of Rhalgr.
((Please understand that these writings are extrapolations upon existing lore, and based on my own character’s studies and experience. If lore is released that forces adjustments, I’ll be more than happy to do so, but in the meantime, I’ll play in the sandbox that was provided. That being said, if you feel the need to…attack me or my writing over this – please reconsider. I assure you, that time and energy will be better spent leaving me the hell alone. Thanks for understanding! For those who enjoy this, thanks for reading!))
Characters Featured: Berrod Armstrong and his chocobo, Thunder.
Berrod acquired Thunder as a…company chocobo at first, to help him travel to the places he needed to go for work. Their relationship got off to a rocky start. They kicked each other a lot. Over the years, however, they have formed a bond of trust though their experiences and growing respect for one another.
After a great deal of encouragement from my friends today I finally decided to make Berrod look the way I’ve always wanted him to. I always hesitated or minimized the changes because I had so much art, story, and screenshots, but I can make new stuff from now on. I’ve got a lot to change and update, but it’s worth it. I’m so, so pleased with this! Thank you for the encouragement, folks!
Berrod was no stranger to fear, but there was a particular brand of fear that always threatened to pull the ground from under his feet. It was a fear rooted in seeing someone he cared about injured beyond hope, beyond saving. A familiar figure marred by wounds that none could heal. That very fear gripped him when he saw the young monk’s collapsed chest. He knew that wound. He had dealt such wounds himself, and was very much aware that she was not long for the world.
Berrod had prepared himself to go after the one who had done this to her, to at least bring them to justice. Already his mind raced with appropriate funeral rites for an ascetic. It was then that the conjurer swept past him in a blur to kneel near the young monk and call for assistance. The young monk’s companion stomped through the mud to do so without hesitation, his eyes wide, his lips thin. Yes, there was fear, but he had clearly clung to hope.
It was then, with a healthy helping of shame, Berrod remembered himself, and the role he chose -- to protect them. Justice was all good and fine, but he was in a position to help the young monk see justice done. When he thought about it, the forest knight had only just earlier taught him the key to utilizing his healing prayers effectively. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. It had to be the work of that burning star, guiding him from above.
Those thoughts opened the floodgates of hope, purpose, determination and belief -- late though it was, for the conjurer was already giving her all. With sword and shield in hand, he got down on his knees in the mud next to the conjurer. His blade sank deep into the muck and he clutched the leather grip with both hands to begin fervent prayer.
"Though it was a star of fire, earth and lightning that saw us to salvation, know that soothing winds and churning waters were what brought us home. May the waters replenish your blood, may the winds ease your pain. May His clemency see you home. In the Destroyer's name I pray."
"In one are Twelve, and man cannot live by one alone. Strike ye the tower, Lord Rhalgr and spur Builder to assist. May twin levin mend, restore and fortify, and flash in a great flame so that Sister Fate and Brother Time know that we beg for her time on this land to extend."
He would give the conjurer all he could and more, give what little push he could to support her in her battle. Hope was alive in the three gathered around the young monk, and Berrod intended to see it not only preserved, but realised.
The vines grew at a speed Berrod’s eyes could see -- hells, his eyes could barely keep up with them. Thin sproutlings thickened to thick, sturdy and heavy tendrils from which leaves sprouted. He heard the rustle and the crack of the thin bark along the main strands. They wound around the bodies of his assailants, binding them fast to the lush ground below. It was all he could do to scramble out of the way, for Berrod was sure that the vines would claim him indiscriminately as well. He had heard the stories of what the forest could do. It was when he stumbled backward awkwardly and almost lost his footing he had registered the words that the knight in green had said. He saw the man’s outstretched hand, clearly commanding the growth. It was magic that he had never expected to come from a fighter bearing a sword and shield, and it puzzled him to no end. Who was this man, this forest knight?
Berrod shifted in his bed roll and was met with a slight bump back from his chocobo. To beat the chill of the night air in Oriens he had laid close to the feathery beast -- not that he would have had much choice otherwise. There were a dozen other refugees and four pack chocobos piled into the small clearing of the former Castrum -- the only space the Alliance could afford them. Having endured the journey from Thanalan however, Berrod could say with confidence that none of them were weak, or lacking. They made their camp, set up their bed rolls -- even a wary perimeter, even though Berrod knew it wasn’t necessary here. It made no sense telling them. They’d learn in time.
As he settled into comfort, Berrod felt energy seep from his limbs. It was his body’s way of committing to the rest he had set himself up for. Yet, his mind burned as bright as a torch. Much had happened, from the odd armoured knight in the woods, to the elder’s visit and the resulting fiasco in the Dimwold. The matter of the knight -- the ‘forest knight’ Berrod had dubbed him, when speaking of it to his companion -- was a mostly straightforward thing; a strange armoured man with a blade and odd magics that seemed based on the earth and life there. He had been outnumbered, caught on the wayside of the Spire road by a gang of poachers. Berrod chanced to be scouting the way to the wall and gave himself no choice but to assist, even if he wasn’t sure that the knight was even a mortal man until he saw him bleed. The knight fought so fervently in defense of the wood that Berrod had begun to wonder if his own presence had been necessary at all. Nevertheless, after the battle the pair had exchanged short words, and Berrod was rewarded with the key to unlocking the effectiveness of one of his prayers...as exhausting as the prayer itself was. It was half the reason he could barely move in the bed roll.
With the battle done, the forest knight aided Berrod in escorting the refugees to the border, where they left him behind with thanks and passed through the wall into Oriens. Once Berrod had been sure of the man’s...mortality via seeing him bleed, he had gauged his stature (and tail-lessness) to judge him as hyur. Further to that, when tending to the knight’s wounds, he had seen dark skin. A highlander -- likely from over the wall, by his own judgement, and the way the fellow had seemed to wax wistful over the mention of returning home. It was in that spirit that Berrod unsubtly provided an offer for the knight to come with them...though it was smoothly and politely glossed over. It didn’t matter too much, he had the feeling that they would meet again in time.
His day had not ended there -- once he had made sure that the refugees were comfortably settled in Oriens, he excused himself to attend a regular gathering of monks and other like minds at a cabin in the Dimwold. There, he was introduced to the guest speaker for the evening, an elder who had spent the past three decades in hermitage in the mountains -- if her age had been mentioned, it eluded him. As a result, he simply just assumed she was in her nineties. The accuracy of that mattered little to him. They say around the fire as she spoke of her life -- a life of parallels to his that bothered and incensed him. Berrod knew the difference between a time to speak and a time to listen, however, and remained without comment for most of what she shared.
His frustrations compounded when they were spurred into action -- somehow Flora had found herself...no, not somehow. She had left the sanctuary he had assured her and ended up assaulted as a result. Anger aside, there was nothing more important than aiding in saving her life, and so he recalled the forest knight’s brief lesson in clemency to provide support to his companion’s healing. The effort was a success, but cost him the energy that would be needed to aid the others in fighting -- and so, he stayed on the sidelines and waited. From there, he was able to observe much and more...including patterns in the behaviour of his peers that displeased him deeply. For a while he debated whether it was his place anymore to even address such things with them...but he remembered how the idea of withdrawal and inaction infuriated him. No, he would say his piece to them, and from there the torch would be passed for them to do with it what they would. More than once he did wonder if leaving the monkhood was a mistake -- but those doubts were quickly smothered by his sense of purpose. He was still there among them, the only thing that had changed was how he served.
One piece of advice Berrod had always given to people was never to go to bed angry. That night, in his bedroll, next to his chocobo from which he leeched warmth, he failed himself.
Berrod’s vision swam. Air had been denied to him and the pressure on his neck was becoming too much to bear. Thick and strong as it was, the arm that had hooked around it was thicker and stronger. He tried his best to hold on to his sword to get a slash in, but it went wild. Finally it clattered to the floor next to his feet. Ordinarily it would be a difficult, but more or less straightforward affair to break out of a hold like this, but only one of his arms was of any use. His shield arm had been dislocated from an earlier blow, the pain blasting from his shoulder with every slight shift...not that there were any -slight- shifts. The woman who held onto him jerked him about like a side of ham. It was no different from the way she had absolutely trounced him during their fight, there was hardly a moment that she didn’t have the upper hand. Her experience and strength overshadowed his by a great deal.
The agony was probably the only reason he’d been able to stay awake as long as he had. His good leg began to buckle. The other one was already limp, bearing a nasty slash along the thigh through the thick, blood-slicked leather. It hadn’t been on the inside of it -- nowhere vital, mostly superficial, but the combination of injuries he had sustained made it difficult to move -anything-.
He made a desperate bid to elbow her with the disarmed sword arm, but she used her own free arm to capture it, -wrench it- and pop it out of the socket with a horrible grinding report. There was no air for Berrod to scream as he wished, the pain was excruciating. All he could manage in his purple-faced captivity was a pitiful groan. Every last muscle on his body tensed, which only triggered more pain. It was too much for him to bear. She had him.
The last thing he saw before the darkness were his two companions rushing desperately to him. In that moment he offered a prayer to Rhalgr; an offering of thanks for the life he lived, and a plea for forgiveness that his possibly final thoughts rested on his friends prevailing, rather than a montage of his loved ones.
“Strength in Rhalgr,” The visiting monk had said as she departed through the office door.
Berrod offered her a slight, though pleasant smile as a gesture of reassurance. It was a rare thing for his smiles to last any longer than a moment. Dust on windswept stone. When the brief twitch of his lips abated, however, his features became fury etched in granite.
The sun sagged low in the Thanalan sky above the Goblet, filtered through a haze of dust near the horizon to cast a sharp red light through his office windows. It lit the Ala Mhigan furnishings he had painstakingly acquired ablaze; the blooming reflection of it cast upon the walls and his sigiled armour to provide his anger with validating crimson incandescence.
Someone threatened what he had sworn to protect. Someone had stepped within the bounds of his oath, and within a circle of it that spoke little of mercy. There were motivations for such action -- that much he understood when his visitor had explained the situation to him, but the actions so carelessly and violently taken were inexcusable. Bands of fools toying with the stability of a nation still struggling to adapt to its new reality, one side of which endangered members of a legacy that he intended to become a part of that nation. Members of his faith. His friends, his family.
A sudden rattle from his weapon stand pulled his attention. His blade shook violently in its holdings, aglow with the influence of his holy fury. It did surprise him; it was the first time his oath had resonated so powerfully since the decisive battle with his teacher. The blade was a scimitar, though in grand fashion. It was like brass in appearance, though the specially smelted metal he had painstakingly acquired held very few of the actual properties of brass itself. A red gem was embedded at the base of the blade near the guard, and from it were traced channels along the length of it to conduct aether. It was a magnificent, masterfully crafted piece that he dearly hoped to prove himself worthy of.
The red gem was bright and blazing, and the channels alight with scintillating purple. The entire length of the blade threatened to topple the stand with how vigorously it shook, and so Berrod stepped closer to take it up into his hand. Metal scraped as he lifted it from the rack and held it aloft. For a moment the light from it was blinding, like a bolt from the sky. Berrod expected thunder, but it never came. The glow simply faded, having been an affirmation of his drive and his purpose. It left him standing there as the sun set and the red blaze around him simmered into lamp-lit embers.
No source of light left burned brighter than the green of his eyes. If someone threatened his fellowship and refused to back down, they would die by his sword as an offering to the Destroyer.
The sun bore down on the salty shores of the Lochs. It was a dry, still day that the imposing fortress city of Ala Mhigo framed along the mountain lake’s edge. A pair of Highlanders stood upon the white-crusted dirt, not ten yalms from the deceivingly gentle lapping water.
“You’re giving this to me, just like that?”
Berrod stared at the small, light blue crystal in the palm of his hand. The etched markings on it seemed to catch the light in a way that made him think it glowed. Did it? Did it not? It was hard to tell. He lifted an incredulous gaze to the woman who had just handed it over to him. She stood, tall and proud, her skin a rich brown, her curly black hair braided in intricate patterns along the side of her head that gave way to weighty locks on her shoulders. Her armour was a stunning combination of dark blue and golden coloured chain and plate that only served to accentuate the blazing amber of her eyes. Slowly, and with a knowing smile, she shook her head. “No, not just like that. You know what you have to do. We’ve trained for it. Now it’s time for you to stand and show me that it wasn’t in vain.”
Berrod’s chest tightened a little then. Fear -- he knew what she was capable of. Dhalia was a capable Paladin, and not at all someone to be trifled with. Yet, he knew what he had learned, what he had crawled up from the depths of despair to take into his hands and make his own. His leather-clad fist closed over the crystal and squeezed tight as he closed his eyes. The aether within it thrummed like the barest of heartbeats...but it would not yield to him. Not yet. Dhalia was right. He knew what he had to do for that to happen. Silently he put the crystal into his harness, close to his heart. His own leather armour was a paltry thing compared to Dhalia’s gleaming plate...but it was what he had to work with for the time being.
“Are you ready?” Dhalia asked. She always had a way of speaking gently before unleashing hell.
“We’ll find out.”
There was a small smile on her lips -- the answer was appreciated.
When Berrod drew his scimitar and shield, it was simply an affair of scraping and jostling steel. He held the shield at the ready, with the blade at the side, poised to bite at first opportunity. When Dhalia drew her blade and shield, it was as if the very heavens opened over the Lochs; the sun shone brightly down upon her, absorbed and expressed through purposeful radiance. Her weapons were beautiful. Black with golden accents, the sword promised a swift end to those who crossed her. The shield bore the same motif, a towering bastion that none were allowed past. How was he supposed to beat this? At best, he could probably survive it -- and that is what he intended.
His field of vision was suddenly enveloped in brilliant, blinding gold. It was all he could do to hold his shield up before a slamming impact sent him skidding backward with a trail of glittering yellow sparks. Once the blinding radiance settled -- or rather, once Berrod’s vision adjusted, he beheld the sight of Dhalia. Even though her armour was dark blue and gold, it still -glowed-, releasing amber and gold light in lashing waves. Her blade was held high, and her cape billowed behind her in a fashion that reminded him of spreading wings. The span of them began with the heavy cloth, and continued past it with the appearance of long golden feathers. Her sword was held high overhead, and her shield held up and to her left. Amber flames burned in her eyes. The sand, stone and salt rolled outward as the radiant, radial -rush- of power from her billowed without cease. This was far, far beyond anything she had shown him during their training. She had glowed a little at times, pulsed with aether frequently enough, but this -- this was on a different scale entirely. He hadn’t even seen her like this during missions they went on together, where their lives were on the line. Berrod was confident that the brilliant light was no mere display; she meant business, and he would die if he was not careful.
“What are you and your shield?” She demanded -- her voice was loud, commanding, and carried with it an aetherial quality that lent itself to a booming echo. Berrod knew the answer to the question she posed -- whether his answer would keep him alive was another matter entirely.
“We are the mountain and the fortress wall, raised and wrought of earth, protector of our people!” From his answer poured power, into his shield arm, into the shield itself, only for her to smite it mightily. With one cleaving, downward motion of her blade every mote of light around her struck it, struck him. Berrod was momentarily given the impression of his bones shattering to the last. He knew it wasn’t true, since he stayed standing, but the impact had shaken him -- to say nothing of the sheer, sustained force that came in its wake. It was like trying to climb up against the thunderous cascade of Velodyna falls...if the water was boiling hot. Such power! Still, he held on, his own aether providing fierce resistance to hers, even though it was the lesser by far. For a moment he suffered a slip of doubt...with his chakras he would have been able to stand against this so much more effectively. If only…
His boots scraped a fulm back on the dirt and pain lanced through his muscles. The doubt had cost him -- but he was able to cast it aside. The pain that had started to burn at him was more than enough motivation. Chakras were a thing of the past. His power came from something else now. Slowly, steadily, painstakingly, he climbed up against the deluge of power thrust against him…and then it stopped. Berrod stumbled forward a bit, shocked that it was over so suddenly -- or not. She held up her shield and a glimmering wall of gold appeared before her; it gave her leave to lift her blade again again, this time charging a smiting blow that Berrod -knew- he would not survive.
“What are you and your sword?” She asked, seemingly on behalf of the very firmament.
This was it. Do or die. As before, Berrod knew the answer, but whether it was powerful enough…
“We are the strike of steel and the bolt of levin that will smite those who dare do our people harm!” As before, the words gave him power -- this time through his sword arm. There was strength there beyond what he normally swung with, and with it, he took to that golden shield...only for the blade to bounce off with a series of scintillating flashes. Agony licked up his arm as white fire, even as doubt seized his heart., His power threatened to wane.
“You aren’t strong enough.” She said this without hesitation, without uncertainty. She knew. He knew -- and because he wasn’t strong enough, the light that gathered onto her blade would kill him. How many times had he been in this position? How many times had he put his life on the line to push past his limits and grow?
“I know,” He admitted, “But I will become strong enough.”
Berrod meant it -- he meant every word, and every onze of the power within him responded. This time it was beyond a mere sensation of strength. Sparks of lightning danced upon his blade, which had adopted a brilliant purple glow to match. His doubt was fled, and his blade loosed. The golden barrier shattered like a shower of sparkling gil, and the smiting cast was interrupted -- or so he thought, for a tick afterward. It took him yet another tick to realise that no, it wasn’t interrupted. He’d just gotten rid of the shield. Dhalia’s blade was as light now, and in one motion she descended and thrust it right through the middle of his chest.
There was no time for shock, for horror, for sadness or disappointment. Berrod knew at once he had been struck dead, and...for some reason it didn’t hurt, it was warm. Wide-eyed and open mouthed, he waited for oblivion to claim him, but it never did, just that flowing warmth. He chanced a look down to see the blade that had run him through, but there was no blade -- just pure light. Her sword was in its sheath on her hip.
“And what is your oath?” She asked quietly, gently.
“With this blade, with this shield, with my flesh, blood, bone and soul, I will protect my friends, my loved ones, and the people of Gyr Abania who cannot protect themselves. I do so in the name of my God, as a Paladin of Rhalgr.”
There was a moment of silence before she declared, “Good. May it be so.”
The light from him withdrew, but the warmth persisted. Against his beating heart he felt the thrum of the crystal...but unlike before, it had opened to him. It was the warmth. It was the light...and it was his. The crystal and his oath, together providing him with the power to do as he had bid himself.
“Berrod Armstrong, I declare you my successor and Paladin in name -- and in name only, for your path has just begun. Take up your blade and shield and carry out your oath while you train to grow closer to the purpose you have taken in the name of your God. Stand tall and proud, you who would call yourself a Paladin of Rhalgr.”
Berrod had to admit that he didn’t feel much different. Even that warmth from the soul crystal faded, replaced by the soreness that was no doubt a result of him having endured that deluge of golden light. He was still the same man in leather armour that protected less than it should, holding a kite shield and a scimitar that served as training for slightly heavier arms. Even his goals were the same -- to protect this friends, his loved ones, the people of Gyr Abania. Those weren’t new...but he had put a foot forward onto the path, and he had no intention of stepping off of it.
Carefully, he regarded the other Paladin, who had shed her otherworldly -- and quite frankly intimidating radiance. “What will you do without your crystal?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
He did. She didn’t need it. Her power was hers. The crystal was just the vehicle by which she passed it on. “You will have to shape it with your own oath, your own way,” She warned, “And it will not be easy.”
“I know...and Dhalia -- thank you.”
The only response she had was a smile before Berrod found himself tipping forward face first into darkness. It was in his last moment of consciousness that he realised how much he must have spent.
Even though he's unable to continue training as a monk, Berrod still holds the creed to heart -- in fact, he's made an oath of it and taken up new arms to continue to protect the people of Gyr Abania and beyond.
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