K’aldur Tia, of Mateus
Preferred Job (currently): Mechanist
“Shipman Tia! Lash those bloody lines, I don’t want a single rope out of place!” Barked the ship’s captain, whip coiled in hand as bolts of arcane energy flashed past Luca Inferata’s side. They were soaring above the battlefields adjacent to Carteneau, raining fire down upon anything moving or fleeing from the battle not waving the VIIth Legion Standard, their cannon and musket fire was returned with fire bolts and magical surges from what stragglers could manage from the ground. Even a few stray arrows soared upward only to glance off of their armor, or find roost on the unarmored crewmen.
A fresh crack of the whip sounded, a fresh cry of pain sounded from one of the non-Garlean crew members. Treated more like slaves than actual members of the military… as was the want from the three eyed sadist manning the wheel. So many words passed through his mind, most either learned from before the days he was pressed into service, or from words thrown his way in an attempt to deride or humiliate him, but it wasn’t enough to kill the defiant spark in his eyes. Even after losing one to the same damned whip.
Before the next order could have been given, a dull rumble sounded over the fields of battle as orange light dominated the sky above them, as streaks of fire and smoke rained down from on high. The earth shook down below. It had been like this since night fell and the clouds glowed blood red. Then they parted, and the once distant red star that had grown and grown over the last months came into view, and parted the sky with it’s baleful light… then it came.
When that demon flew across the skies, and rained hellfire upon all the lands that it’s shadow passed over, all the crew could do was either watch it’s wrath, or look to the captain for guidance. The Garlean smiled, laughing in an insane tone, and steered the rudder toward the fires of death and destruction, fixated on the Primal that broke the land.
All others stood in stunned silence at the spectacle before them, long enough not to see the defiant Miqo’te draw one of the soldier’s pistols, and imbed a metal slug into that sadist’s third eye.
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Time passed on from that day. So many lost their memories of those who passed on into the legend, and others were worn numb from it all, lost in the senseless destruction of a world they all knew. Now? Now was the time to seize what one could. To move forward and away from a shell of slavery and decadence. And time enough to turn a ship that once heralded destruction for enemies of the Empire into a craft that would instead fly under freedom’s light.
It had taken years to strip the damned patrol boat of its former heraldry, even time to put together a faux air bladder to make it look more Eorzean in origin. But as the last barrier from the hidden cover fell away, and the Captain of the Lucky Luci flew into the free skies of his new homeland; it felt right.