2019-05-15: A Dram of Poison

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  • Cutscene: A Dram of Poison
  • Cast: Corwynt
  • Where: Kilika Port, Spira, Lunar
  • Date: May 15, 2019
  • Summary: Corwynt catches up on the paperwork following Operation Mi'ihen. He also feels some things.

In one part of the sinful world, called Spira by some, a wind descends. It sweeps down from the holy slopes of Mount Gagazet and washes its way across the mainland, eventually moving past Luca and into the smaller islands. The wind picks up residual warmth from the surrounding oceans, and by the time it reaches the small hut in the village of Kilika, it is little more than a breath; barely strong enough to stir the flame of the candle illuminating the hut's interior. The hut's single occupant lifts his face, closes his eyes, and breathes in, tasting its flavour. It brings with it the pure smell of the ocean with only the barest hint of its arctic origins. A warm wind. A spring wind. A good wind, tasting of salt and life.

It lies.

Corwynt Marikson exhales softly, until the last of it has fled from his lungs. He shakes his head, then leans back over the table before him. For several minutes the hut is filled with the soft scratching of quill against paper, punctuated with the occasional clink of the inkpot. After a time, the little man straightens, running his eyes down over the sheet, reviewing his work.

Kyran of Meribia - It is with the deepest regret that I must write to you to inform you of the death of your husband, Osian, near a place called the Mi'ihen Highroad, in the land of Spira. Osian died in battle against fiendish creatures called Sinspawn; he fought well and bravely, but was wounded severely while protecting one of his fellow Guardsmen.

Corwynt closes his eyes; a faint blue glow rises from the medallion hanging on his chest as he accesses the Rememberizer. The perfect recall it grants him allows him to sift through the chaos of battle, find the moment - there. Yes, the little man thinks, as he spots a figure out of the corner of his sightline slamming into one of his fellows. The Sinspawn cuts deep into the man's chest, but - in the moment - Corwynt had already turned to face his next foe. The little man frowns, considering the half-spotted image. Yes. It could have been Osian. He lets go of the Blessing and returns to reading.

Osian's sacrifice helped preserve the life of his comrades and, through the furtherance of our Crusade, all of the people of the Goddess. While these words will be cold comfort to you, who misses him most, know that we, his comrades, share your grief for the friend and comrade we knew. I have also given instructions to Guard Headquarters; you and your son may expect a visit from one of the priests of the Goddess to help you through this difficult time. On behalf of the servants of Althena, please accept our deepest condolences.

Corwynt considers the letter for a moment, then nods to himself and signs his name at the bottom. The little man sands the paper, shakes the loose sand to the trough at the foot of his desk, then gingerly lays the letter to his left. It joins a stack containing dozens of others. He leans back in his chair, then starts rubbing his right hand with his left, trying to massage the deep ache out. After several seconds, he sighs. "A break, then," the little man says to himself, rising out of his chair and heading toward the hut's opening. With his shoulder, he twitches the drape that serves as a door out of his way, then steps into the night.

Kilika's docks spread out before him - the first thing the Guard had restored following their arrival. The new structure is composed of stone, taken from the depths of the island through judicious use of both muscle and sorcery. The docks are larger than the ones they replaced. Stronger. An improvement in every way. A testament to the Guard's desire to leave Kilika better off than it was before Sin struck. And yet.

Corwynt moves along the dock, his bare feet hardly whispering against the stone. He counts Guard vessels, nods to the men atop them... but, like every night since returning from Mi'ihen, he sees none of Kilika's fishing skiffs tied alongside, though there is space to spare. The little man keeps working at his hand and wrist, then leans off to one side, angling his head past the keel of a ship named Blue Dragon's Wings. In the distance, near the edge of the village, he sees a crude lumber pier, barely lashed together, groaning with the weight and displacement of two dozen Kilikan vessels. As far from the works of the Guard as they could possibly be.

The little man turns back, eyes sweeping the docks. His nostrils flare as he sucks in an irritated breath. We come to a land of literal Sin with praise and a helping hand, when he could have come with fire and blood. We leave the lands of the Goddess undermanned and underpowered, because she commanded us to spread her word, and grace. All to see our efforts spurned. And the cost... Corwynt's hands tighten into fists, the pain of writing forgotten. Two hundred and twelve Guardsmen dead on the field, and a quarter as many mages. The little man's hands shake. Even the...

"...gonmaster..."

The scrap of conversation drifts through the night air in the brief silence between waves, a few words carried on the wind. Corwynt turns to his left, eyes narrowing as he spots a small fire, around which a handful of Guardsmen are gathered. The little man slowly forces his hands to unclench, fingers twitching as they uncoil themselves. He takes a deep, steadying breath, then hops down off the pier and onto the beach below; as he makes his way to the fire, more scraps of conversation cut through to him.

"...zard managed to..." "...ause he's so..." "...saw how many... ...ven those Al..." "...t to keep the fai..." "...it on that! We're going to die here." "Quiet, Reldo. Do you..."

Corwynt clears his throat. "Good evening," he says politely, arms folded behind his back, a pleasant but weary smile on his face. The Rememberizer flickers for the faintest of moments, and the little man scans the faces of three men and a woman. "I didn't mean to interrupt," he says softly. "Go on, Reldo."

The canine Beastman shakes his head. "Didn't mean nothing, captain," he says quickly. "I was..."

"It's all right," Corwynt answers, dropping into a crouch, holding his hands out toward the fire, warming them. "You can speak freely," he says, meaning it - doubt is contagious, and the boil must be lanced before it can poison the body.

A stocky, one-eyed man (Ramin of Burg, the jewel helpfully supplies) licks his lips. "It's just... sir... I trust the Goddess knows what is best..."

"Truly," whispers Carina (birthplace unknown, Corwynt recalls, she never spoke of it - only showed up at the gates of Pentagulia and demanded to serve).

"But that monster... Sin..." Ramin licks his lips again. "It..."

"It killed the Dragonmaster, Captain," Reldo says, his eyes wild. "What can we..."

"We can recognize this for what it is," Corwynt says, his voice level. "A test of our faith."

"But the Dragonmaster---"

"Was a servant of the Goddess, as are we," Corwynt answers, looking the man in the eyes. He turns his gaze to the others. "He was the greatest of us, certainly. And yet it was the Black Wizard, another servant of the Goddess, who stood fast." He tilts his head. "Did you wonder why?"

Carina's mouth twitches. "Because... he's so fat even sin bounces off of him?" she suggests.

There is silence, then, as three breaths inhale sharply. And then Corwynt starts to chuckle; a rusty, unused sound. The others follow, in fits and starts, until the five are joined in howling laughter. Eventually the laughing fit subsides, as they do. Corwynt wipes tears from his eyes and then scans their faces. "I can see why you might think so... but no," he says mildly, then rubs his hands together again. "When I was young, my father began to teach me the game called chess," he says. "There were only so many rules, pieces move like so... but I could never beat him. Yet the game seemed simple."

"You clearly haven't played much chess, sir," Ramin chuckles.

Corwynt smiles softly. "No. But my father was a master. With his skill, his experience, his ability to understand what he saw... my father could see what I would do, moves before I did it. And when he sacrificed a piece for victory..."

Reldo blinks. "Are you saying... the Dragonmaster was a sacrifice?" he asks, incredulous.

"I am saying that the Goddess is without limit," Corwynt answers, his voice intense. "She sees all. Knows all. She has the power to rid the world of these creatures... but the wisdom to know she must not."

"Why not?" Carina asks.

"I don't know," Corwynt answers. "I'm not the Goddess. But we are her pieces on the board. She has placed us here, knowing it would bring her victory. Knowing what it would cost." The little man smiles. "It's all right to be afraid. But we all have a part to play. You are here because Althena wills it. Because she needs you. And I know, as does Leo," he amends quickly, "That you will not let her down." He straightens. "Best return to barracks," Corwynt says. "We've a long day ahead."

The little man turns toward the ocean as the others scrabble away, clasping his hands behind his back again. He breathes in the breeze once more, tasting the lies on the wind. This, too, is a symptom of the corruption of this land, he thinks. To cause Althena's faithful to question their goddess. To succumb to weakness. He grits his teeth.

"Sir?"

Corwynt turns, keeping his hands behind him. "Yes, Kargin?" he asks the last Guardsman, the one who remained silent. "What is it?"

"It's just..." the man rubs the back of his neck. "I just... I wanted to say I'm grateful, sir. Your faith is inspiring." He smiles. "It's just... hard sometimes. Yet you seem so calm, I---"

(drip)

The sound of a drop hitting the sand is barely audible, but the man stops speaking when he sees his captain's face. "Sir... are you... all right?"

Corwynt turns back to the ocean. His arms start to shake as the names of two hundred and twelve souls churn around in his mind, the blue jewel gleaming on his chest.... then suddenly violet, as a drop of blood leaks from Corwynt's lower lip, where he is biting through it in an attempt to control himself. He sees, in his mind's eye, the high priests of Yevon turning their backs on those who fought for them.

Two hundred and twelve.

"No, soldier," Corwynt says. "I am wroth."