chlo6666

During harvest season, no visitor would be considered too strange a guest at the festivities. As the setting sun cast its light over the marketplace, such a scene soon unfolded: A certain gentleman arrived as well, and curious locals soon drew him into their lively conversations.

The gentleman introduced himself: Flins, a warrior of the Lightkeepers. He had been awarded a civilian commendation medal in recognition of his squad's efforts in repelling Abyssal creatures. The incident happened a long time ago. Though no one had stepped forward to organize it, the people wordlessly agreed to express their gratitude this way. The medal had been heavy, delivered to him in a timeworn box.

Considering how many casualties the operation had racked up, Flins did not think even ten medals could do justice to the losses. There used to be more of them — seven or eight in his squad — but now, only Flins remained, guarding the cemetery near the lighthouse.

For a moment, the crowd fell silent. The story brought to mind many things: The Wild Hunt, the monsters... as well as other memories that weighed heavily on the heart. Sorrow rendered them speechless. Some others had questions, and so they asked them, but Flins did not answer. He kept his head down, seemingly reminiscing.

Compared to other Lightkeepers, Flins spoke with an air of elegance. He did not deign to answer questions about his origins or whether he had any siblings. Instead, he was more inclined to talk about distant, unrelated matters. He had a way of recounting events with perfect measuredness, just as in conversation, never excessive. The past, through his words, made listeners think to themselves: "What an unforgettable tale!"

Considering the vast majority of his audience lacked much life experience, many who listened to Flins did so out of curiosity. And it just so happened that his actions fit precisely this need. He invariably selected tales perfectly tailored for public retelling.