#and he spent the next two decades in the Ala Mhigan Resistance

[osterby]

Alivion is a Warrior, but in the sense of weilding a large chunk of metal to deadly effect, not in the sense of following a specific discipline. The rage mechanics for him are figurative, not literal magical channeling of emotion.

He's also proficient with a curved Ala Mhigan sword (I have a paladin glamour with an invisible shield that's canon for him), and could pick up any bladed weapon and do something with it.

He's uncomfortable casting magic, and he likes gunblades because of how they let him use magic in combat but cast it when he can focus on it better, but generally prefers to rely on a blade.

I don't think he even has a jobstone; jobstones are for people who learn skills properly and study magic theory, not for rebels who beat ploughshares into swords to make life miserable for occupying Garlean forces.

--

After he got dead he was understandably too shaken to charge in on the front lines again, and he learned Rogue from Jacke so he could rely on a blade (which he is used to and which is the most comfortable form of combat for him) without being the center of attention and the target of everyone else's blades.

He isn't great at sneaksneak stabstab, but is good enough and it carried him through the early stages of his career as Warrior of Light. Towards the end of the Stormblood story he started getting his confidence back, and by the time he met Ardbert in Shadowbringers he was a full time tank again.

I keep Ninja leveled so he can wear the Ala Mhigan Resistance uniform, which is a Scouting dungeon drop; Ninja isn't canon for him, only Rogue is, but parts of the Ninja class quest are canon and he does know Oboro and Tsubame.

--

He knows Monk but not as a combat discipline; he learned a noncombat version as a boy as a spiritual and cultural practice (I'm sure it's also a way to get the more energetic kids to burn off excess energy without running around screaming, and the less energetic kids to exercize properly). He would be a formidable foe even unarmed (Emet Selch can attest to this; Alivion beat the crap out of the guy when they were building the Kholusian elevator and something something "glowing embers of animosity" was the final straw that tipped him out of his self control), but this is only partially due to childhood Monk training and he's definitely not A Monk™.

--

The Dark Knight story dealt with a lot of the same themes that I deal with in Alivion's story, but not really in the same way; a lot of the ways the player character leanrs and grows in the DRK arc is stuff that Alivion dealt with long before he started Warrior of Light-ing. Also, DRK relies heavily on magic, and Alivion would really rather leave the magic to literally anyone else. It's not a phobia per se, more a healthy respect that's gone a little too far; the way someone in real life might be extra cautious around fire or electricity without being phobic.

The fact he is not a Dark Knight needs to be said because the themes are so close and his main class is a sort of job-neutral tank with an oversized blade.

WoL/FFXIV OC Question(s)!

What is your WoL/OC's main class/job and why? Are they good at multiple roles? Are there any they're really bad at?

[castellankurze]

FFXIV: The Crumbling of a Wall

(warning: this story does contain spoilers for the newest FFXIV patch 3.5 “The Far Edge of Fate”)

[music]

The cool wind that blew through the canopy of the Black Shroud and set the leaves to rustling was unseasonably warm.  At the eastern end of the forest, smoke rose from a great conflagration as skirmish turned to battle and battle turned to slaughter.

The resistance had risen.  Baelsar's Wall was under siege.

As the Eorzean Alliance reeled from the staggeringly fast way the disaster had unfolded, bodies of all the nations of the land converged on the Shroud, seeking a variety of cross-purposes.  Some came with steel bared to throw the Garleans back, all the way to the land of Garlemald if possible.  Others, Imperial loyalists and mercenaries and impressed soldiers came forth to defend Gaius van Baelsar's monument to the might of the Empire.  With no thought given to self-preservation, they hurled themselves into the fray as fast as their legs could carry them.

I close my eyes, tell us why must we suffer Release your hands, for your will drags us under My legs grow tired, tell us where must we wander How can we carry on if redemption's beyond us?

Bendux Westmoore had once been as fast as any of them.  But that had been twenty, thirty, forty years ago, before his back and his hips had been broken.  Before he had lost Ala Mhigo.  Before he had grown old.  He bared no steel, but rather a long staff of gently-worked hickory which served the man as much to support his weight as to focus the magics which he called upon.

The field hospital was an empty area between two clutches of trees.  A few figures were laid out on blankets; the rest received no such luxury.  There had been no time, damn the Resistance and their precipitous action, there had been no time!  The question that had turned over and over in Bendux's head for the past weeks - can the Griffin be trusted? - seemed almost absurd, almost quaint in the late hours of the Gridanian twilight.

The first reports that were coming out of the action at the Wall were confused - some said that the Grand Companies had assembled a strike force and hit the Wall where it was most likely to collapse, others said that the Ala Mhigan resistance had already conquered the installation and looked ready to move on to Gyr Abania itself.  Others, fleeing into the night, screamed that the Imperials had unleashed a new weapon and that Eorzea was done for.

The thought of the last possibility chilled Ben's blood.  He had witnessed the horrors at Carteneau - from the very edges, thank Rhalgr - and the possibility that Garlemald prepared another Meteor was too terrible to contemplate.  And yet it seemed too true to disbelieve - the very elements roiled and screamed beneath the ground and in the wind and at times it seemed the very stone beneath his feet shook and pitched the like rolling of a ship's deck.

But though they wailed and gnashed, the elements also flowed - they surged like a raging torrent, and Bendux hardly needed raise a hand and spread his fingers to beckon forth their might.  That, at least, was fortunate, for there was much to be done.  All throughout the aid station voices screamed and broke - Ala Mhigan accents called for healing, and for mother, and for release.  Blood spilt and pooled in the grass, turning the vibrant green to a sickly black in the light of the moon.

To all of my children in whom Life flows abundant To all of my children to whom Death hath passed his judgement The soul yearns for honor, and the flesh the hereafter Look to those who walked before to lead those who walk after

There was hardly time to assess the injuries of one before the next came forth.  Broken limbs, gashed faces, charred flesh - in a way the field hospital was worse than the battlefield.  There at least, one's attention was ever diverted by the presence of the enemy and the need to defend oneself.  Here, there was no such protection, and even as he worked, Bendux knew that he would not forget the sight of the place, as he would never forget the things he had seen in the aftermath of Carteneau.

Ishgardians lay beside Lominsans who lay beside Ala Mhigan figures.  Here, at least, there was a terrible unity - the horrors of war unleashed upon man and woman without regard to nationality or rank.  Bendux tried not to dwell on such dark thoughts.

For much of the night she worked beside him, and that was a comfort even as his heart grew sick to know that she saw the same things as he.  She was a princess, of some sort, as he had come to understand - Mitsuko-hime, her retainer had addressed her.  It had been his own act that had brought her forth from poverty in Limsa Lominsa, having seen the talent for conjury that lay within her.  He had brought her forth into this horror, as surely as if he had pitched her bodily into it.

The wounded and the dying continued to trickle in, many new arrivals speaking of the battle unfolding at the Wall, and though Bendux tried to put it from his mind, he had spent four of his six decades in the land of Gyr Abania, and even were the hope to prove itself a falsehood, the possibility that his kinsmen might reclaim even a fraction of their homeland was almost too much to bear.  Worse, as the new arrivals screamed warnings of carnage and black magics, word came that Garlean reinforcements were advancing towards the aid station.

Shining is the Land's light of justice Ever flows the Land's well of purpose Walk free, walk free, walk free, believe The Land is alive, so believe...

Bendux touched Mitsuko's hand to get her attention.  "Stay close to E-Sumi-Yan, and do as he tells you," he said, tilting his head towards the deceptively youthful figure of the padjali conjurer. ”What is it you intend to do?” she asked, blinking her large golden eyes. ”My countrymen need more help than I can offer them from here,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically grim. ”You last fought Garlemald, when?” she questioned, her expression growing sharper.  “Ten years ago?  Twenty?” ”Twenty,” he confirmed. ”Believe that they have only grown stronger in the interim.  They were distracted when we shook off their yoke, but a fraction of their attention was enough to reduce Doma to memory and ash,” the au ra said. ”That may be,” he said with a nod.  “But even though Ala Mhigo may be but memory and ash for an old man like me, I’ll stand against them so that those younger than I can make it whole again.”

“If it’s sacrifice you have in mind, lecture me no further. I have had lifelong instruction in putting the good of one’s homeland before the good of oneself, and more recent tutelage in the true cost of such things. It’s foolish to go, but you’ll not be dissuaded. Will you?”

The lines in Ben’s face deepened, crinkling about his eyes as he smiled.  “Afraid not,” he said in a gentle tone.

“I know,” Mitsuko admitted, her own brow furrowing. “But I would never forgive myself had I not mentioned it.” The novice conjurer sighed, and lifted her hands to perform some blessing unfamiliar with his eyes. “May the spirits favor you, old fool,” she said fondly.  E-Sumi-Yan turned his head as Bendux rose from where he'd knelt beside his last patient, but as the old man fixed his grey eyes upon the master of Gridania's conjurers, no rebuke came forth, but only a silent nod.  His staff clutched in one hand, Bendux Westmoore left the field station and joined a group of Twin Adders moving to reinforce the cordon that the Grand Companies had drawn around the Wall in an attempt to keep the Garleans bottled up.

A cold light shone over the Black Shroud.  Immense flames crackled and whirled in the air above the Garlean fortress, and a great light hung in the air above the towers of the installation, cold and foreboding.  Bendux couldn't make much out from his distance, but it seemed to him lined with the same strange symbols that had marked the face of the moon Dalamud as it had fallen to Carteneau five years ago.  His shoulders shuddered at the thought.

But then his attention was drawn to a threat far closer.  A group of resistance fighrers were fleeing from the wall, some shedding the coats and colors of the Grand Companies with which they had disguised themselves.  Behind them, steps thudding like the rhythmic pounding of a hundred blacksmith's hammers, came the ominous forms of a dozen Garlean magitek mounts, their weapon barrels glowing with malevolent intent.  Even as Bendux watched, they spread into a line abreast as they came stamping in pursuit, readying themselves for a devastating barrage.

Now open your eyes while our plight is repeated Still deaf to our cries, lost in hope we lie defeated Our souls have been torn, and our bodies forsaken Bearing sins of the past, for our future is taken

It was too much.  It was the last straw.  Bendux gripped his staff and hastened forward, through the cordon of the Great Companies.  Voices babbled in the air behind him, calling for retreat and attack in equal measure.

A bloody-faced man in the regalia of the Maelstrom passed him on his left, terror clouding his eyes.  Others followed, passing to Ben's left and right, but the conjurer strode on, undaunted, until he stood before the thick of the rout, watching the confused retreat come fleeing towards him.  There he crouched, and as his knees protested, he lowered his hand until his fingers brushed the blades of grass beneath him, cold with the chill of night.

Spirits of the deep earth, he begged silently, bring forth your might.  Bring forth all that you might spare.  I call upon you, for but a moment lend unto me the whole of your strength!

And somewhere deep beneath the man's feet and the roots of the grass, the writhing confusion of the elements twisted and shot upwards.

Bendux straightened, clutching his staff to support his weight as he rose his free hand up, up, up until he stretched his fingers towards the night sky.  He felt his heart pound as the ground trembled beneath him and this time, it was not merely the idle thoughts of an old and tired man.  With an explosive crack a column of rock shot up from the ground in the path of one of the magitek mounts, and the machine glanced from it with a screech of metal.  Another column rose, and another, as the conjurer littered the Garlean's path with obstacles that separated and confused their pilots so that they fell out of the neat firing line that had moments ago established.

Someone nearby screamed - but unlike the others of the terrible night, this was no scream of pain.  Instead it was an exultation, of the kind that could only come at the height of battle, from a soldier bearing witness to a great turning of the tide - "the Garleans are confused!  Ala Mhigo!  ALA MHIGO!"

The tumult of bodies turned and swirled about, until of a moment's passing they charged back past Ben towards the hated figures of the XIV Legion.  "ALA MHIGO!" voices cried.  "ALA MHIGO!  ALA MHIGO!"

The magitek forces opened fire in a series of spasmodic blurts.  One fired its main cannon, and a half-dozen resistance fighters were torn apart, scorched by the blast of flame.  Bendux clutched his staff in both hands and lifted it high, and prisms of light sprung into being, absorbing the Garlean projectiles as the conjurer's hands shook with the effort of channelling so much power.

"'TIL SEA SWALLOWS ALL!" a nearby voice bellowed.

"FOR THE FURY!  FOR THE FURY!" another answered. The Grand Companies and Ishgard's knights had seen the struggle, and the cordon had broken as they rushed to support the beleaguered resistance.

War born of strife, these trials persuade us not Words without sound, these lies betray our thoughts Mired by a plague of doubt, the Land, she mourns Judgement binds all we hold to a memory of scorn

Bendux raised high his staff and slammed the butt of it into the ground as far as it would go, gasping out a breath as his body screamed in protest, as if he had run for miles without rest.  Even with the elements so willing to respond, the channelling of such vivacious energy was desperately taxing.  Despite that, the man clutched his staff tighter and forced himself to extend one hand, calling now not on the sturdy spirits of earth, but the wild elementals of the waters.  

From somewhere far behind him, a drop of condensation fell from a rock overlooking one of the streams that wound through the broken land of the Shroud and, impossibly, curved about to fly horizontally through the trees rather than falling to the ground as gravity demanded.  It picked up speed as it flew, first rustling leaves and then churning stalks and twisting branches as it shot from the treeline and out over the site of the battle.  Men felt the wind on their cheeks as the glinting speck of liquid flew past them, its velocity flattening the grass beneath as, in the blink of an eye, it crossed the battlefield from one end to the other, passing between two of Ben's fingers as it hurtled towards his target - the foremost of the magitek mounts.

Coruscating with all the violence and fury that birthed the rapids in the spring, the droplet struck the ironclad machine and punched through it, erupting in a screech of steel from the other side with a force that punched the mount from its feet.  The resistance did not fail to capitalize on the sudden tumult, as the nearest figures swarmed the fallen vessel and turned their weapons upon the helpless pilot.

A cheer went up from the Eorzean forces, and Bendux hunched in the wake of the exertion, his arm now hanging limp at his side.  His lungs fairly burned with the need for air, and he coughed as he struggled to fill him.  He had extended himself too far - channelled too much.  His actions had had great effect, but the powers called upon had pushed the conjurer far, far beyond his limits.  He needed rest, and time to recuperate.

The Garleans would not give it to him so easily.

From the shadow of the Wall they came, a triad of spiderlike machines that scuttled forward on jointed legs.  Panels on their steel abdomens opened and there was a whoosh of flame as missiles short forth to arc over the battlefield, coming down amidst the riot of Eorzean bodies.  Their detonations heralded a breaking of the lines as once more men fled from the horrors unleashed by the forces of Garlemald.

Tell us why, given Life, we are meant to die, helpless in our cries?

The shock of the blasts rocked Bendux from his feet, and he knelt beside his staff, his hand resting upon the ground in an effort to support himself. Someone's hands were grabbing at him.  The air itself seemed to shake and quiver about him as he struggled to breathe.

"Retreat!  Retreat!" someone was shouting.  "Get out before they kill us all!"

"HOLD THE LINE!" another voice roared in an attempt to override the first.  "HOLD!"

"No more," Bendux croaked.  "No more."  His hand fisted in the grass, tearing several blades from their roots. Another round of detonations.

Thy Life is a riddle, to bear rapture and sorrow To listen, to suffer, to entrust unto tomorrow

"HOLD AND WE HAVE THEM!  ENCIRLE THEM!" "RUN WHILE YOU CAN!"

He closed his eyes.   "No.  No more." If thou wouldst ask of us Everything, then thou must give of thyself.  Everything. One of the magitek mounts had finally pin-pointed the resistance's rallying figure.  Its steel maw gaped wide as the cannon charged for a shot. Bendux lifted his hand and let the torn blades of grass slip from his fingers.

In one fleeting moment, from the Land doth life flow Yet in one fleeting moment, for anew it doth grow

A snap of aether pulsed from the man's body, exploding in all directions accompanied by a haze of cerulean light.  All around him, bodies were yanked from the ground to hover, momentarily macabre as they were held in midair by unseen hands.  Wounds knit closed and eyes fluttered open as flesh scorched and rent became hale and healthy in a moment's passing.  The dead and the dying found new purchase, and the ranks of Eorzea's defenders doubled and doubled again as the conjurer's final spell brought every man and woman whose form it touched back from the brink of Nald'Thal's gates.

Bendux's arm dropped.  He had given of himself.  Everything.

The magitek cannon fired, and then his world was fire. In the same fleeting moment Thou must live Die And know...