it's daytime. light spills onto a verdant plain, beneath a cloudless sky.
youngsters mill about with swords in their hands, shepherded by a couple of knights clad in silvered armour. there are three instructors, one stern, one playful, and the other silent; they take on a small group of elven youths each, demonstrating strikes and parries with care. rank and file are not broken, the squires taking to their drills with ardent dedication. to train, to serve, to become knights in their own right - as a means to sustain their hearth, the reputations of their families, or out of a lack of anywhere else to go.
for the most part, training is uneventful - but as with any group of young folks, scuffles are bound to break out. the instructors turn away for the moment, a discussion held while leaving their charges to practice on their own. it is then that a ripple crosses the assembled group - one youth pushes another to the ground, and a hushed silence falls over the field.
“filthy lowborn! how dare you break my shield!”
said shield is left on the grass, clearly split in half. a youth with embossed armour stands cross-armed next to it, glaring down at a girl equipped with evidently less. she bites her lip, scrounging for words, her sword lying on the ground beside her —
— someone slides between them, his back to the downed girl. an elezen with bright gold eyes, the same hue as his hair, glittering in the afternoon sun. his voice is calm, but firm:
“you didn't mend your shield the last time, did you? i saw you leave it unattended. stop picking on her for your own mistakes.”
the taller youth spits at him. the silver liquid stains the side of his face, but he does not falter.
“fine. i'll let you go this time. don't get in my way or you'll regret it.”
then he's gone. the golden-eyed boy turns around, extends a hand to the lass still crumpled on the floor. his expression shifts into a slight smile, heedless of the spittle still on his cheek.
“it'll be okay now. i'm going to tell the sergeant about it.”
she takes his hand, pulling herself upright. fishing out a scrap of cloth from her pocket, she offers it to him.
“thank you… but, won't he just pick on you? you don't want to anger the heir…”
he shakes his head.
“I'm not afraid. we’re knights, aren't we? we have to do what is right.” and such vile people… should not become knights in the first place.
but wealth buys many things, including bribery. he closes his eyes, just for a moment.
sunlight pools into a house built of stone. a boy sits at a windowsill, gazing out at the city below. ishgard is built on a mountain, its buildings connected by stairs and a sheer drop into the valleys below. a wintry wind rustles the curtains, blows his hair away from his face. gold, like the sun outside, like his eyes.
footsteps sound behind him, and he quickly abandons his post. a woman steps into the room, the light glinting off her armour - dragonmail, reflective with a dark sheen.
the boy comes up to her, his posture straight as if at attention.
“Mother…?”
she smiles, resting her ungloved hand on his head, ruffles his golden hair. yet, there is a certain weariness underlining her expression, a dark shadow beneath her eyes.
“Don't worry. I'll be back soon.”
though it seems he's not convinced - he frowns, a hand reaching up to tug at the hem of her mail.
“Really? Promise?”
the lady nods, just once. a horn sounds from outside, a klaxon call.
“I promise. Train hard, and you'll be fighting by my side in no time.”
(the cries from the streets: the horde! the horde comes!)
and with that, she withdraws her hand, slipping her remaining gauntlet over her fingers. the armour snaps into place with oiled ease - like claws, like a second skin.
“Okay. Take care out there… mom.”
the woman turns, descends the stairs, and her son follows. he dashes out of the house, a blur through the streets, stopping only at the parapets lined with ballistae. from there, a dark cloud is visible on the near horizon - dragons by the hundreds, possibly a thousand.
and the dragoons march, leaping from spire to spite with ease. each carry the same lance, sharp enough to pierce a dragon’s hide, to wrest it from the sky.
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