Disclaimer: Final Fantasy Tactics, Ivalice, and all other mentions of canon from Final Fantasy tactics are owned by Sqaresoft, now Square-Enix. I claim no ownership of any intellectual property save for the concepts of original characters presented in this story. End Disclaimer.
Author's Notes: This story is rated as it is due to descriptive violence, language, and adult situations which will occur later in the story. Conflicts with canon may occur; it's been a long time. If you see a canon issue in my story, please let me know; I will likely edit the problem. All reviews are greatly appreciated and will be responded to at the beginning of the following chapter.
***
The war had raged on for decades, a lifetime for many. History would later refer to the squabble between the kingdoms of Ivalive and Ordalia as the 'Fifty Year's War,' and would recall how the ending of this war would lead to a full scale rebellion and a massive civil war in regards to ownership of the throne. That was how the world would see the conflict in the future; for now, it was pride in your kingdom and the horrors of battle, experienced firsthand. One particular field was littered with the horrors of battle on this day; corpses stained the ground with an endless supply of blood and flesh. Not far from this field, a few individuals took shelter from the chill of the night, refugees from the carnage experienced on that day, though carnage that would never be known outside of their small group, and this particular brand of carnage would be forever lost in the river of history.
It was a cold night around the campfire. Six figures sat in solitude, an eerie quiet hanging in the air. The flickering shape of the flame caused their shadows to dance as the group involved themselves in their various tasks. Five nobodies and a mount sat not far from a bloody field littered with bodies; five people who had once carried their names with pride, nobility within the kingdom of Ivalice, were now nameless and forgotten. Even during the trying times of this never ending war, political intrigue was strong throughout the land. These five individuals had lost their families to assassinations and were left with little save that the knowledge of their names could bring about their doom.
Daryn was their leader. The heavily armored knight was seated next to the fire, his back against the sleeping form of his chocobo, Nyran, her own head buried under a blood red wing. His vibrant blue eyes were glazed over; staring into the distance as he absentmindedly stoked the fire, one hand gently stroking the soft down of his mount. He was not tall, but was built on a solid muscular frame. His short black hair topped well sculpted, tanned features, his still young face marred by the horrors he had already witnessed in his short twenty-two years of life.
Tristan sat cross-legged keeping a good distance from the fire, and for good reason. His dark eyes were focused on the cleaning of a gun, his thin frame twitching as he scrubbed down various pieces. Tristan was from Goug, and his light skin and brown eyes betrayed this. In addition to his skill with technology, he was also fairly accomplished in the arts of geomancy, and was a master of altering the terrain to his advantage. Tristan was probably the most frightening of the group. The hardened, icy edge in his eyes was very unbecoming for a mere fourteen year old child, thrust into a war that he had no right participating in.
Tia perched on a rock to the side, shadows enveloping her, her grey eyes staring at the moon. Although her primary abilities were available when she wielded the longbow perched nearby, she had a massive amount of control over her personal chakra, having studied such things for many years of her life. Her agility allowed her to maneuver to areas that werewell out of reach by most people. Although beautiful, her tomboyish attitude and attire hid it well. Raven black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, keeping its length from falling into her nearly black eyes during a fight.
Alyssa was nearby, already sound asleep. She was only eighteen, the second youngest member of the group. A priestess of the Church of Glabados, she was also well versed in chemical mixtures and many herbal remedies and healing items, making her invaluable to any field of battle due to her wide range of curative ability. She was almost angelic in her sleep, her cherubic, soft features painted onto a fair skin tone with only a slight blush to her cheeks. Her blonde tresses splayed around her head, strands of it flitting slightly against her even breathing. When she was awake, her wide green eyes, shining with innocence, could turn the soul of even the harshest man.
The last member of the forsaken party sat the furthest from the group, and was the least 'noble' of them all. He was born a commoner, but was adopted into Alyssa's family after a harrowing experience on the battlefield which resulted in a grievous injury for him and for Alyssa to live a bit longer. After this chain of events, he also managed to become the self-proclaimed protectorate of the young priestess. Rikk had grown up in the church alongside his foster sister, but was trained to a more martial study. While not as skilled with a blade as Daryn was, he was more than competent, and he had the ability to channel divine power through his sword, calling the wrath of the heavens onto his foes. Wrapped tightly in his cloak, his eyes and hair were hidden as usual. Alone he sat, apart from the rest of the group, lost in his internal demons.
The night ran long, and Alyssa was the only one who managed to get some sleep. She alone was spared the horrors that the other four had witnessed. The others thought back on what had led them to this moment, alone and forgotten by everything that they had ever known or cared for, save each other.
A week earlier Dycedarg Beoulve had taken his place at his father's side. He was a snide youngster, bolstered by his family's growing prestige and overconfident of his abilities. Soon after this addition, the forward force had begun its march, culminating in the battle that had occurred on this day. Daryn led a small strike force, meant to be used as a precision unit against the elite groups of the Ordalian forces.
After the fighting had been joined, a crack group of arbalesters had appeared on a heavily guarded ridge, pinpointing and sniping squad and platoon leaders. Daryn's squad was called upon to deal with the threat. During the pitched battle, Alyssa had gotten separated from the others, and Rikk abandoned his duty to search for his sister. Daryn ordered the others to break contact to find Rikk and Alyssa. That's when it happened.
The group, in search of Alyssa amidst the mayhem of combat, stumbled across Dycedarg, alone in the nearby forest with five other individuals, mere meters away from the fighting. The other individuals were immediately recognizable to the assembled party; other than them, these were the sole living relatives of their separate houses, houses which had grown in power throughout the war for their undying support of Ivalice. All five were bound, and four had obviously been beaten. Precision cuts laced their bodies, indicating that they were not from battle, but torture. Only two were alive; Rikk's and Alyssa's father, and Alyssa herself, unconscious but otherwise unharmed, thus far. Before any of Daryn's group could react, Dycedarg drew a dagger and deftly stabbed Rikk's adopted father, piercing through the man's heart. As the life faded from the man's eyes, Dycedarg grinned wickedly. "Now to kill your brats, and house Beoulve will thrive to even greater heights."
Rikk flew into a fury, but it was all for naught. A stray catapult boulder landed within a few feet of them, knocking all of them to the ground, and their collective breath was forced out as one. Before any had regained their footing, Dycedarg had vanished, apparently sighting the strike team. They retrieved the unconscious form of Alyssa and fled the battle, fearing for their safety and unwilling to pit their word against Dycedarg's, for his word would weigh heavy indeed with the voice of a Beoulve. Rikk demanded vengeance, but Daryn managed to convince his friend that discretion was, in this case, the better part of valor. Nothing had been told to Alyssa after she had awoken. The others decided that it would be for the best if she didn't know what had occurred in that clearing. And so she slept, undisturbed, while the others lived through the nightmares unrolling within their thoughts, unable to join the young priestess in peaceful slumber.
Thus, six figures sat, unspeaking, throughout the night, their fates unknown. They were probably considered casualties; after all, both sides had been decimated in the conflict, although apparently the forces of Ordalia had been routed. Beoulve's men were currently in pursuit. Five wounded souls, lost in the mix of battle, both external and internal, would be forgotten by those they had once fought alongside, and even by the annals of history. The night was cold indeed.