Scholar-thief

I try to realistically consider the circumstances surrounding my characters and often, that leads me to pushing them into incredibly difficult situations. For Momori, think of her as “extra hard mode.” She was raised as an assassin for a cult. Specifically, she was raised as the leader’s right hand and eventual executioner, which is all kinds of messed up given how attached to him she was after her mentor’s death. That sort of conditioning does not simply go away. It is embedded as a part of her! And being shown some kindness WILL sway her, but it will not sway her from what’s become her lifelong obsession - serving the Ashwoken.

This particular end is FIRMLY my fault! Plenty others offered her alternatives, and I’m extremely thankful that a character like this was shown empathy despite everything she did. She IS unhinged, cruel, and violent, but these stem from her upbringing. I am always hoping players choose kindness, that “evil” is not so clear cut, and that true bravery is offering others the chance to try again. Yet that doesn’t mean Momori can be excused. She has killed countless, put Ul’dah at risk, never had the time to leave the Silver Scholars and thus, is still entrenched in their thinking. Given what she had at hand ( a shortcut to gain power and cut away old burdens, at the cost of...her own agency. And if she doesn’t take the shortcut, she dies a slow death and doesn’t accomplish her goals), combined with her intense personality, it was pretty clear to me what she’d choose.

In the DISTORTION campaign, there was a vote to determine sides, between Momori and Florus. I think that even if Momori was chosen, that would’ve only extended her runtime for a while longer, which could’ve led to a different end, but only maybe! Buying her time just means more opportunities for growth, but that’s pitted against my own relentless need to run campaigns and tie things into existing characters. Characters that have villainous and selfish tendencies.

But killing characters is a selfish thing to do because others get invested. Old conversations, relationships - where does that all go? Do you start over? All I can do is apologize, and say that Momori’s influence (like Aiswyda’s) is not something that will disappear. It will continue to impact the narratives that I write. Hopefully one day when I retire a character, they’ll ACTUALLY get a happy ending, but I’ve got a bad track record so far hahahaha

I’m so sorry. I’m just insane. OTL

The OFFICIAL steps back, allowing the GUARDS to push MOMORI forward by the shoulder. She stumbles like a zombie, eyes clouded.

OFFICIAL We gather to witness the rightful execution of Momori Mori, the last standing member of the Silver Scholars. This organization has been brought to light as a gang of terrorists, plotting the downfall of our beloved city state for over a hundred years.

A member of the CROWD boos, and it triggers a chain reaction. A droning and terrible sound rises from the masses. Someone tosses a rock at the stage, prompting the GUARDS into action. Through their efforts, a tense peace is reclaimed.

OFFICIAL Do not fret, my good people! Justice will be served today, after the proper proceedings. We must recognize the extent of this criminal’s deeds, such that we may learn from this tale and inspire fear in the hearts of evildoers!

The OFFICIAL whips out her arm and straightens a sleeve. With poise, she pulls a scroll out of a fold of her robe and unravels it. The roll hits the ground and tumbles off the stage, leaving behind a long line of paper that starts at the OFFICIAL’s hands and ends in a puddle of muddy water. The OFFICIAL clears her throat.

OFFICIAL Ordered by severity, we start at the top. For orchestrating a plot disguised as a public works project, that would have set a powerful elemental golem loose in the city. A plot that would have razed Ul’dah to the ground and built a new “paradise” atop our ruins.

CROWD ONLOOKER A Seven hells...

OFFICIAL For coordinating and actively playing a role in the deaths of countless esteemed officials, philanthropists, businessmen, and other peoples of power for over a decade. Dodosayu Cocosayu, former executive officer of the Oasis Trust. Nanachace Qaqachace, former Captain of the Brass Blades of the Violet. Pupuga Puga, former reporter for the Mythril Eye. Osasa Osa, former heir to the Sage Branch Traders.

CROWD ONLOOKER B She poisoned my husband!

CROWD ONLOOKER C Think that’s bad? She ruined my business and then had me shoveling shit for a living! Whispered in the ears of my customers until none would even come close!

OFFICIAL Bubujo Bujo, former priest of the Arrzaneth Ossuary. Ealric Proctor, former liaison of the East Aldenard Trading Company. Botilda Lush, former coordinator of the Sultanate non-profit for Ala Mhigan resettlement.

CROWD ONLOOKER D She stole my keepsake! Said she’d repair it, but now I know...the amulet I have isn’t the one my late mother gave me! A fake!

CROWD ONLOOKER E What’s thievery compared to murder? She killed my father. Death won’t be enough for all she’s done...Justice! I demand justice!

The CROWD is becoming riled up again. One particularly brave stranger attempts to climb the stage. It takes twice the amount of effort from last time for the GUARDS to reestablish order.

GUARD (To the OFFICIAL) Perhaps we should summarize the rest.

OFFICIAL (Shaken) A-ah. Yes. So, brushing pass murder, Momori Mori is also guilty for the following crimes. Theft, assault and battery, fraud, bribery, blackmail...ahem. Counterfeiting, trafficking, extortion, forgery, money laundering, interfering with the due process of law, use of forbidden magicks, er...

The OFFICIAL has been reading through the list as quickly as she can, pulling it up until the tail end flies out of her hands. The long sheet of paper settles in a pile by her feet.

OFFICIAL Much of which was done through the legal front of a non-profit. For all these crimes and then some...If you would.

A GUARD pushes MOMORI against the chopping block, her cheek pressed against its surface, her neck exposed. The skin that peeks out from underneath her bandages is marred with swooping lines, a distinct eye motif formed over and over on her limbs like oversized fingerprints. Her hair spreads across her face in a tangle of knots, bright red strands fading to white. Even now, she stares forward with dim eyes.

OFFICIAL No gift of gold could ever remove the stain upon your soul. May Thal bar you from entering the afterlife for your sins.

The EXECUTIONER raises his ax. It hangs in the air for a swollen second, then slams down against the chopping block. A hush falls over the CROWD.

OFFICIAL Praise the Twelve.

MOMORI is dead. 

The thought is pushed to the back of her mind and she pictures herself alone in a dark space. She wields a one-handed scythe and swings it at a projected target, the bone weapon ringing on impact. Fissures form on its surface. Momori hops back with a huff and gives the imperfect weapon an wary stare.

“Until we make the oath, I’m afraid that weapon is useless,” a low voice rumbles from the dark. Momori tips her head up.

“Come, now. I’ve killed with far worse,” she cooly replies, tossing the broken scythe away. “With a pencil, once.”

From the darkness, a small voidsent materializes. It’s a faceless, fleshy lump that’s more tail than body, suspended in the air on impossibly small wings. It floats to Momori’s shoulder.

“I-Isn’t that a bit excessive? I don’t remember training the scholars to kill with makeshift weapons,” the voidsent murmurs.

“I’m just joking. Of course I didn’t,” Momori says. After a pause, she continues. “A pencil is very brittle and thin. That simply adds to the challenge.”

If the voidsent had a face, it would frown at that. It’s hard to differentiate between when Momori is joking or simply recounting the truth in a grimly humorous manner. It’s tasteless either way.

“...Ahem. To speak on more pressing matters, dragging out our oath to the last minute is risky. If our transformation isn’t done by execution time, then we really could die,” the voidsent warns. “This is unlike you, Momori. You’ve never been the sentimental type, especially when this kind of risk is involved.”

“I think anyone would be hesitant. After the oath, you and I won’t exist in the same capacity that we do right now,” Momori says while taking a seat on the ground. “You told me it’s like blending colors. If I were red and you blue, then...the soul that results would be like violet. An expression of its parts but something wholly new.”

“Yes. That, but...not quite that.” The voidsent similarly drops to the ground, curled up on the floor like a cat. “We’ll form the inner voices of the new entity, so in a way, we’ll still exist. It’s just that we would no longer be able to directly influence the world.”

Momori snorts. “That’s even worse. I’ll have no one but you to keep me company while we drive blind.”

“Feh. The feeling is mutual,” the voidsent replies.

Awkwardly, they’re aware of how their goals are misaligned, meaning that both are prepared to fight for influence over their combined self. Momori is confident that she’ll win, and the voidsent begrudgingly thinks so too...but that doesn’t mean it won’t do its best to prevent disaster. This wordlessly hangs over their heads, anticipation manifesting as invisible pressure.

“Well. Enjoy these precious last moments, Momori,” the voidsent eventually says. “You can’t go back after the oath. Or, rather, this...instance of you can’t go back.”

The silence stretches, as boundless as the darkness that surrounds them. Momori hugs her knees to her chest.

“It was a good life,” Momori says.

“Do you mean that?”

Momori reconsiders the question carefully, and then laughs.

“No, but I would not change a moment of it,” she finally answers. The voidsent bumps against her thigh with its horn.

“Oftentimes, parents face extreme adversity in the hopes that their child will have a brighter future. In a way, what we’re about to do is the same. Our hopes and dreams will live on, and then, the best we can do is guide them.” The voidsent sounds a little sad. “...I know you love the Ashwoken, but I hope we don’t turn out that way.”

“His will, my hands,” Momori responds on instinct. “I’ll bring him back. And afterwards, you can...we bring back your version, too.”

The voidsent lets out a sigh. No matter how much it tries to convince Momori that she’s asking for the impossible, she won’t have it. That powerful will is going to be even more of a nightmare to deal with after the oath, but perhaps in time, she’ll come around. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there...together,” the voidsent finally says.

She rests a hand on top of the voidsent’s head and they sit there until the two of them blur into the darkness. The end of one cycle comes the start of another, but maybe this time, it won’t end in tragedy? All one can do is hope.

“Together?” Momori quietly echoes with a slight smile.

Underneath the steady sting of pain was a niggling and vague feeling. Something off, something foreign, and yet something familiar. The sensation nagged at her incessantly, flitting away the moment she got close to identifying it, and so she split her focus. Compartmentalized physical and spiritual woes into sections and poured her energy inward, determined to scratch this itch once and for all. She is not often surprised, but what she finds gives her pause.

Within her heart’s symbolic abyss is a faceless creature the size of a carbuncle, fleshy skin twisted in knots and tail soot-black with blood. It hovers in the air on featherless wings, head drawn forward in a silver yoke, gazing at her with its eyeless maw. That’s adorable, she thinks. Somehow, the creature hears.

“You have always been a strange one, Momori, but for both our sakes, I ask that you send such unseemly thoughts to the deepest pit of your soul and set them ablaze. Adorable does not befit me,” the creature rumbles, voice echoing throughout her head. She can’t keep her brows from furrowing.

“You know of me, then,” she flatly states.

“Know of you? I know you, Momori,” the thing corrects her, voice dripping with dry disappointment. “My wayward daughter and most trusted blade.”

Her frown deepens. The appearance of the creature coupled with its words all but confirm her suspicions and yet, she struggles to come to terms with them. If this was truly her father’s demon, then why had she toiled so? What was the point of the ritual meant to destroy it? Had she failed again, or --

“Momori, stop.”

She blinks back at the creature and wishes she could get a read on it. Lacking eyes, its mood remains a mystery.

“I have wondered about the same thing. Why my tenuous connection to the source persists, why I have been tethered to you...what manner of contract exists between us.” The creature lazily floats upside down, its long tail trailing after it in mirrored loops. “I don’t know why I am still here when we had both agreed to say goodbye.”

“We? You mean my father and you?” she asks.

The thing is silent for a long while and it gives no indication of having heard Momori, slowly drifting through the air in repetitive circles. And so Momori repeats herself, firmly. Demanding answers. “You are my father’s demon, correct?”

“...Hm.” It contemplates Momori again. “It is more accurate to say that we, together, were the Ashwoken. That together, we were your father.” It tilts its head at her from a low angle. “But the Ashwoken is no more. Separated as we are, I am but one half of a whole, and I dare say you’ve been left with the lesser piece.”

“No,” Momori plainly states, both annoyed and envious of how comfortably the creature dares speak about her father. As if it understood him better than her. “No. My -- the Ashwoken is a man from Sil’dih. He is a Dunesfolk and he is his own person and you are nothing but a tool to him.” She leaves out a whisper of a thought echoing in her mind: a tool, just like me. “...Perhaps you are here because I swore to make his burdens my own, being his most trusted confidant and all.”

The creature simply peers at her like a wall. She wonders if it could be smiling, or frowning, or just. Anything. Only its voice gives any indication of feeling. “Hah! Silly girl. You and your stubborn conviction...There is much you do not know about my better half. For starters, I don’t recall us ever giving you his name.”

“I care not for old demons from the past,” she says, a tinge of irritation creeping into her throat. “You were on the cusp of possessing him and that is why I performed the ritual. Therefore, you and my father must be separate entities. Must.”

“I cannot deny the effect my presence had on him over time, and how that manifested in us as the Ashwoken. But believe what you will...you cannot deny the truth forever.” It drifts over her shoulder while Momori continues to look forward, gaze fixed on the black space beyond. “Now, if you see me as a tool, then by all means use me like one; for our goals are one and the same, are they not?”

“So what is your goal?”

“To see him restored.”

“Ah.” Momori frowns again, unable to trust the demon. “You mean him, the Ashwoken. The visionary and wise man that saw my worth despite my heritage, who honed me with years of strict guidance. A decision maker for all, no matter the cost.” Her words come out stilted as they stumble over doubt. She doesn’t know why her conviction wanes.

“...By the time we found you, Momori, we were already long sick with decay. The Ashwoken you so fondly remember was a broken hybrid of void-begotten instincts and undying loathing. No, I would restore him as he was before. A soft-spoken scholar whose kindness knew no bounds.” The creature swirls and a ghostly image takes shape - of a Dunesfolk man with burgundy hair tipped in gray, silver eyes gleaning pleasantly in the darkness, twin nubs sticking out of his head just like Momori.

Momori immediately dislikes what she sees. This faintly familiar man, this subversion of the father she treasures above all else. There is no recognition behind his eyes for her. He is not worn or broken or vengeful because he is the Ashwoken before his suffering...before her. She will not have it, no. Momori knows her father and this early version of him is not what she wants.

She mysteriously finds herself clenching a sickle of blackened bone and she points it at the memory before her, then at the demon. “I will never go along with your...your mercy. I seek not to bring back a shade of my father, but the entire thing, despair and all.”

“Do you not hear yourself? You would subject him to hundreds of years of pain just to fulfill your selfish desires? That is not love, that is obsession!” The demon huddles behind its mirage as Momori advances, sickle drawn menacingly. She dispels it with a determined slash and then pins the demon down beneath her blade, red eyes glowing menacingly in the darkness. She is the monster here.

Despite all her conviction, despite her toughness, Momori couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill her father. Instead, she had dragged her feet and stalled. At every opportunity, she convinced herself to wait - just another moment, in case the Helm hadn’t finished its work! But seconds turned into minutes until finally, without a doubt in the world, it was too late.

One last great failure to cap off a string of mistakes. Now, she’s recuperating in the clinic of the company she tried to kill. Funny how fate works sometimes. Momori tries to move her body and finds it tight with toxins, skin peeking black from underneath bandages. She’s watched enough of her peers fall victim to this to know what happens next. Death would come eventually.

...Though she’s surprised that she’s still hanging on. Maybe something is different this time.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the soft sound of someone trying their damndest to enter the clinic and sneak over to her cot. But she’s awake and aware of their presence, waiting and watching their shadow linger on the other side of the curtain partition. Momori wonders if she should play dumb or say hello.

“Hello,” she says without a second thought.

The shadow noticeably jolts, shoulders jumping to meet their ears. Whoever waits on the other side clearly knows that they’ve been discovered, and yet they continue to fidget, consumed with anxiety. Momori hums to herself and guesses who it is.

“Florus, I see you,” she points out. But even that’s not enough to lure the man from his ‘hiding spot.’ So Momori begins to make a ‘pspspsps’ sound, as if he were some kind of animal. His outline stiffens, and she laughs lightly at the reaction. “Come on out, little marmot. I won’t hurt you.”

It has its intended effect. Florus angrily pulls back the curtain and stomps over to her before remembering, oh right, he’s trying to be sneaky. He stands at her bedside for a minute, during which Momori briefly considers falling back asleep. She’s very tired and, even now, has no patience for inefficiency. But finally, he says what he’s come to say in a harsh whisper.

“You should be fucking dead.”

“By all rights,” she agrees.

“Why did they spare you?”

“Same reason that they keep you around, little marmot,” she yawns.

Her lax attitude sets Florus off. He raises a trembling hand, looks at his palm, then glances back to Momori. She smiles slightly.

“And you would finish the job while I’m weak?” She asks him. “Smart boy. It’s what I would do.”

After some hesitation, he leans over and laces his fingers around her neck. Now, she can feel his heartbeat pounding through his grip, breath hot against her cheek. There’s a wild look in his eyes, frantic and desperate and determined. She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t want to miss a second of this.

“Go ahead. Squeeze,” Momori reminds him. And he does, for a moment, but there’s a limit to how hard he grabs. She glances up at him, equal parts amused and annoyed. “I can’t hurt you now. Why are you scared?”

“I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about,” he murmurs. But when his voice betrays him, Momori begins to study the Garlean’s face in earnest. He’s still prey, she thinks. He’s never killed someone before with his own hands. How hilariously privileged. How dreadfully sheltered.

“Fear is a good look on you, Florus. But I wonder, what kind of delicious expression would you make with a knife twisted in your gut?” She whispers into his ear. He hears a perverse smile in her words. “Notch by notch, ilm by ilm, you’ll feel your fibers snap. Then you’ll know that we are nothing but blood and bones.”

His grip wavers, and in that moment, Momori summons all her strength to lurch forward in her bed. The sudden motion sends him scampering back, eyes wide in terror. With that, Momori laughs. She laughs until she falls back into her pillow with a satisfied sigh. Florus eventually catches his breath and takes a shaky seat at the far corner of her bed, quiet. His silence speaks volumes.

“It’s been fun, hasn’t it? Our little game of cat and mouse,” Momori reminisces to the ceiling, and when Florus doesn’t respond, she continues. “Though I suppose, in the end, we both lost. We both lost, and we both changed. How funny is that?”

“You’re a goddamn sociopath....You’ve killed countless people, and you call it a game? Are you serious?” He quakes, voice beginning to rise. “You can’t do this. You can’t use people like pawns.”

Momori looks down at Florus. He glances back at her nervously.

“It’s been fun. We should play again sometime,” she replies. Florus’s breath hitches at the suggestion as he’s stunned into a silent horror. But now alone and without the Scholars, Momori knows that she has to play her hand carefully. Better to let others do the work for her.

“...Lucky for you, I’ll give you a head start. I want to take it easy for a while. Go soul searching, see the world, taste new flavors. Whatever it is normal people do,” she sleepily trails off, eyes fluttering back shut. “Goodnight, little marmot. When the time comes, you’ll know.”