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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