#Lore Tag: Vermilion Rose | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sleepymoonlady · 16 days ago

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The Rising

I decided I want to introduce Rose's party from before the calamity, and what better way to do that than! Angst!!! :D

Heads-up: content/trigger warning for alcohol/substance abuse, as well as for death (mentioned). Also one of the shots accompanying it is a bit risque (no nudity or anything, but yeah).

Yeah.

I cried editing this so. Yeah :D

Fireworks erupted over Ul’dah, painting the night sky with a bright palette of new stars. The Rising had come again, and the realm had once again gathered to pay its respects to all those who had lost their lives in the Seventh Umbral Calamity.

It was a festival of reflection, of survival and memory. One that Vermilion Rose, who had seen Bahamut tear Carteneau asunder with her own eyes, was all too familiar with. And one that rarely saw her in a good mood. Not for lack of appreciation–she was glad people had the chance to remember the fallen. But that day–surviving that day–still weighed heavily on her.

So it was that she found herself in the Quicksand, staring into the bottom of a glass of whiskey. Remembering those who were not lucky enough to survive. Chiefly among them, of course, were her fellow adventurers from the Path of the Twelve–four comrades who had become family to her. Her first party. Her companions in the Path. Her fellow Warriors of Light.

The half-elezen brought the glass to her lips, hoping to chase away the thoughts of her late comrades with its contents. A familiar burn as it went down–though she was in no place to consider its flavor. The *thunk* of the glass faintly echoed through the busy tavern as Rose motioned for a new glass. A sigh passed her lips. Like it or not, it seemed the Rising was indeed a time for reflection. It would take more than that to push those thoughts away.

She remembered the party’s warrior–Mive’to Rugnaa.

Born in the Shroud but grew up in Limsa, and he knew that place like the back of his hand. It seemed he knew everyone there, every hawker and fisherman, every cook at the Bismark and every member of the Bloody Executioners. And somehow, he had very few enemies among them. That spoke to something about him–even among rivals, he would have friends. He was brash, rude, and loud-mouthed, sure. But he had a sort of undeniable charm to him–the sort of fellow you’d get into a bar brawl with, yes, but the sort who’d buy you a round afterward and compliment your haymaker. Easy to get mad at, but impossible to stay mad at–unless you’re the Arcanist’s Guild, apparently. Rose still wasn’t quite sure why he wasn’t allowed within 100 fulms of the guild… partially because he’d give a different answer each time he was asked, each more ridiculous than the last. A shame they all had to be lies, because what she wouldn’t give to see a chocobo-sized carbuncle.

In any case, he was a good friend. He and Rose had fought back-to-back more times than she could count. The party’s shields, they were–between the two of them, trying to get through to the rest of the party was like trying to batter down a brick wall with your fists. Spending most of his teenage years as crew on a pirate vessel certainly toughened the young man up; he could laugh off hits that, to most other people, would have been fatal. All the funnier, then, that one of the things that came the closest to doing him in was a bloody doll. Well, it was illness, but the doll was an important part.

Rose remembered like it was yesterday–she and Mive’to were walking along Limsa Lominsa’s docks during the winter. The seawater had become a briny slush by that time, and snow was falling around them. She had just finished repairing his axe–he had brought it to the Blacksmith’s Guild for repairs, and had gotten quite an earful for denting the head as badly as he did. He was still getting one–laughing it off, mind. But Rose wasn’t about to let him live down denting her baby, the axe she forged for him as a GIFT, by trying to break a bloody BOULDER with it. She was telling him just where that boulder would end up if he tried that again, when a shrill cry cut her off. The adventurers turned to see a hyuran child who couldn’t have seen more than seven winters, being consoled by their parents. In the churning waters just below them, they spotted what looked like a doll, just for a second, before it went under the surface.

Rose still remembers how quickly Mive’to lept into action. He thrust his axe back into Rose’s hands and, before she could question him, dove straight into the freezing harbor after the fallen doll. He surfaced a few moments later, sopping wet doll in hand, and clambered his way back onto the docks, handing the child his prize. He fell ill almost immediately after, but he didn’t regret it for a moment. Spent a full moon hacking and wheezing, but he’d do it again. Stupid, big-hearted bastard. Never did put any stock in his own safety. Maybe if he had…

Another glass, now empty, thunked into the bar, as Rose signalled for a third.

Ingrid wasn’t there that day, but she never did let Mive’to live that down. Promised to compose an epic ballad about his battle against the doll. Ingrid–that is, Ingrid Steele, Ala Mhigan refugee and the party’s resident bard–always was ready with a joke, jab, or quip. \

Her wit was the only thing faster and sharper than the arrows she peppered the party’s foes with. She was one of the best shots that the Archer’s Guild had seen–which, along with her rapier wit and open critique of Gridania’s treatment of “outsiders,” made her plenty of enemies among Gridania’s more conservative elements. Still, none of them could deny her skill, and her bow proved crucial to the realm on more than one occasion.

Between her flamboyant nature, plentiful japes, and the bawdy songs she was fond of singing (much to the shock and horror of some–which amused her to no end), it would be easy to assume that Ingrid didn’t take much of anything seriously. That the wry smile she wore day in and day out had nothing deeper beneath it. That assessment could not be further from the truth. There were few among the old Path of the Twelve who agreed with Minfilia’s mission of diplomacy with the so-called “beastmen” quite so much as Ingrid. Few who supported it quite as fervently, as outspokenly, who committed themselves to it so wholeheartedly. When Ingrid Steele chose a path, she would walk it to the end, make no mistake. And the path of a unified Eorzea, standing arm-in-arm against the tide of Garlemald’s black steel, was one she was committed to.

Rose still remembered, as the whiskey warmed its way through her, the warmth of the campfire on the night she learned Ingrid’s reason for adventuring. The two were camping in Southern Thanalan after a guildleve, and Rose, who knew why everyone else in her party had set out, decided to field the question. Ingrid, nursing a wound from a brawl with some bandits earlier, smiled that wry smile of hers and said that it was simple: she loved being stabbed!

After laughing that off for a minute, she shook her head, and gave the actual answer. She remembered growing up in the shadow of the Empire. Her family managed to settle near Quarrymill, despite the Gridanians’ hostility toward them. But it was a hard life. The Gridanians never accepted them, and most chose not to associate with them. The little community of exiles was close-knit by necessity, and their existence was a gloomy one. With life so hard, and the Gridanians scarcely more welcoming than the black-clad bastards on the other side of Baelsar’s cursed wall, it was all too easy to give into despair. Ingrid wanted to change that–to give her displaced countrymen something to celebrate. She chose to adventure because she wanted to inspire her people. She was constantly writing down the things she saw, the adventures she and the party had. She showed Rose the book–heavy with ink, lyrics to countless ballads written, scratched out, and re-written. She thought maybe, if she could inspire her people enough, their lives would be that much easier. And maybe, just maybe, if they had it easier, had time to lick their wounds, and maybe if the other city-states heard her songs, the songs of an Ala Mhigan’s heroism, maybe they could band together and push Garlemald out of Ala Mhigo. Rose smiled wistfully at that–at the very least, Ingrid’s dream had come true. There was much work to be done, true. But her homeland was free again. Ala Mhigo was free. But the smile faded as quickly as it had come. Ingrid never got to see it. She never…

Another shot down, burning all the while. A fourth called for.

She caught the label this time, as the next shot was poured. She knew it–Wawaboka was fond of it. He’d frequently take a bit in his tea at night as he unwound. Wawaboka Hohoboka–the party’s leader.

A thaumaturge of much renown–one who had even managed to reclaim the secrets of the Black Mage. Probably for the best that those secrets go to someone as level-headed as Wawaboka, if anyone. He was the group’s leader, but more than that, he was like a father to them. He was as kind as he was wise, with a smile as warm and gentle as a candle’s flame. He was always willing to lend a listening ear, a helping hand, or even just a shoulder to cry on–whichever was needed at the time. Rose actually knew him before she started adventuring: he came from a relatively respected merchant family in Ul’dah. They weren’t on the level of any of the Syndicate, mind you, but they were known to be fair and honest to a fault in their dealings, and were far more popular among the City’s commonfolk as a result. Much of his family dealt in alchemical supplies, and Rose’s mother, being an alchemist herself, just happened to befriend them. As a result, he had at his disposal a nearly infinite number of tales of Rose’s childhood antics–much to her chagrin, and the delight of the party.

Still, she could forgive his weaponizing of her embarrassing childhood antics–his advice had helped her more than he ever knew, after all. And not just her–she remembered walking with him late one night among the Steps of Thal when some scrawny man lept from the shadows, knife in hand, demanding his purse.

Rose went to draw her longsword, but a motion from Wawaboka bid her stay her hand. To her surprise, he spoke to the mugger with a measured, even, and warm tone. He didn’t just talk the poor bugger down–he sat him down and listened. He figured, there must be some reason the poor lad was willing to do that. And he wasn’t wrong–the young man, with some coaxing, admitted that his sister was in dire need of treatment for a disease. Treatment they couldn’t afford. So what did Wawaboka do? He simply gave the lad the gil, then and there, but made him swear he’d not try something so foolish again. Rose remembered how, a few weeks later, the party was going to the Quicksand to check the guildleves, and they were stopped by the very same would-be mugger. He had a small, frail-looking girl in tow, and before anyone could blink, they pulled the old lalafel into a hug. The treatment took–the boy’s sister was recovering. They showered him with thanks, but he insisted he hadn’t done much of anything. It would have been easy to dismiss the young man’s story. Easier still to have thrashed him the second he drew steel and be done with it, as Rose nearly did. But Wawaboka? He had a way of seeing the best in people. Of inspiring them to be their best.

What good it did in the end, though. All the good faith in the world couldn’t keep Dalamud in the sky.

Damn it all.

Another drink down. And then another. She was crying now, tears streaming into the glass slowly but surely. She barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere.

Wawaboka was the party’s leader, and half of its brains. The other half? Lucinne Chatelfort.

Fuck. Lucinne. Rose choked back a sob before she knocked back another shot.

Lucinne was the party’s healer, an unheard of non-Padjali White Mage. She was incredibly talented, in touch with nature and the elements around her. She was quiet and serene, but confident and capable. Whenever the party needed to plan strategy, she was there to formulate a plan. Whenever the party needed to lick their wounds, she was there, with soothing magic and soothing words. She was maybe the most dependable person Rose had ever known–if Lucinne made a promise, by the gods she would keep it. She had grown up in the Black Shroud, with a number of other Duskwight families. She eventually left their simple forest village for Gridania, hoping to learn conjury. And learn it she did–she nothing short of mastered it, despite… opposition from those who looked down on her heritage. The prejudices of the Gridanians vexed her, enough that, even as a conjurer, she shunned the city, preferring to roam the Shroud and help its smaller communities. Eventually, she took to adventuring, found out she had the Echo, joined the Path of the Twelve, and then joined Wawaboka’s party.

Aside from Ingrid, Rose and Lucinne were the staunchest proponents of Minfilia’s plan to ally with the various tribes of Eorzea against the Garlean incursion. When other members of the Path began to voice their doubts of Minfilia’s leadership, it was often Lucinne who would convince them to listen. She was as patient as she was kind, and though she was usually quiet, she chose her words well. And among the party, she was certainly Rose’s closest friend. She…

“Damn it.” Another shot knocked back. Another drink called for.

She wasn’t just a friend, of course. She was…

Gods damn it all. Rose felt her chest heaving. How many years had it been? How many bloody years? And still, still she couldn’t even think of her without breaking down.

Lucinne wasn’t just Rose and Minfilia’s closest friend. Damn it all, she was everything–they were everything to each other. They…

Another thud against the table, as another drink was drained. The tears wouldn’t stop now.

They promised. They promised they’d see this all through. They promised that everything would work out. Rose reached for the glass–still empty.

Rose motioned for another round. Nothing.

Rose looked up from the bar, only to lock eyes with Momodi, wearing a look of concern. She was saying something, but Rose was too lost in her reverie to catch it.

“... ya hear?” “Sorry. Repeat that?” was all Rose could muster after quite a bit of effort to form words. She had trouble speaking under duress even when sober–being this deep in her cups certainly wasn’t helping.

Momodi placed her hand over Rose’s, repeating herself: “I said I’m cuttin’ you off, ya big lug–you’re gonna drink our entire supply at this rate. Or pickle yourself–and I’m not a fan of either of those options!” The Quicksand’s proprietress smiled faintly, but she couldn’t hide the worry still clearly written over her face.” Rose frowned. “... ‘m fine, Momodi.” “Clearly you aren’t!” The faint smile was gone. Her face grew stern “Rose, I know what’s goin’ on. I-” “Don’t… you don’t know-” “I miss them too, Rose!” Momodi cut Rose’s protest short. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“... yeah.”

Momodi’s face softened slightly. “I know I didn’t know ‘em as well as you, but I still knew ‘em. Enough to know they wouldn’t wanna see you like this. If you’re too stubborn to stop because I’m askin’--just. Stop for them.” Rose didn’t respond. She looked down, avoiding Momodi’s gaze as her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Some Warrior of Light she turned out to be. Pah! What a sight. Eorzea’s champion, drowning her sorrows in whiskey and sobbing into a bar counter.

Rose heard Momodi sigh. “Listen, Rosie. I’ll have Otopa open a room for you. Please go get some rest. I’m not gonna take no for an answer, you hear me?”

More silence. Rose stood up from the bar stool, steadying herself from the spinning world around her on the counter. “... thanks” was all she could muster before, slowly, she stumbled to follow Otopa to her room.

Once Otopa left, she turned to make herself comfortable, and climbed into the feather bed. On any other night, maybe that would have been it. Maybe it was that one of the fireworks, a resplendent and fiery red, bathed the room in a red glow. Just like…

She remembered this room. Gods damn it all, she remembered. It was the same as it was… what? Seven, eight years ago? If not for that damn lighting, that split second, she might not have recognized it. But she did. She remembered this room, bathed in the damnable red light of Dalamud. She remembered staying here, the night before the Calamity. She remembered sharing this bed with Lucinne and Minfilia. That was the last time the three shared each other’s company. How confident, how bloody certain Rose was that day that they’d be meeting up again the next evening to celebrate.

Gods, damn it all. Damn it ALL!

The tears had come back. They wouldn’t stop now.

The last time she was in this bed, she felt the warmth of the two women she loved more than anything. She shared in their company, their laughter, and more. And now?

And now?

And NOW?

The silence of the room, only broken by fireworks, was louder than anything Rose had ever heard. No more laughter. No more warmth.

This wasn’t right.

This couldn’t be right!

Damn it all, why her!?

What did she do that she deserved to live!?

It was all she could do to sob into the pillow, to muffle her screams.

She shouldn’t have been alone. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right.