𝔎𝔦𝔫 𝔖𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔢𝔯

warofthebeasts asked: The warmth of the tavern welcomed him, the din no more than background noise to the voice of his inner sorrow, and his muted gaze remained downcast as he made his way to the bar. In silence, he hefted himself onto a vacant seat, and it was only once he was seated that he slipped the hood of his cloak down. For a moment, Lucius closed his eyes; the day had been long, and the morrow promised to be longer. [ from @warriorprince ]

If there was one thing Rosaria had always been known for(aside from chocobos), it was its warm and welcoming atmosphere. Although the nation, once more independent yet struggling to regain its stability, was still a long ways off from being back on its feet -- its people were slowly coming to terms with their new reality. (Even if the journey forward into this new future would be fraught with strife and hardships.)

The hard-fought and blood-nourished roots of change had finally begun to grow between the cracks and ashes of destruction. The losses, the sacrifices... They had not been in vain, and in this did the Cursebreaker find solace.

The local tavern was lively again. Merchants from other parts of Rosaria, as well as from Dhalmekia, were the majority of the evening's patrons; their travels had brought them to rest at this settlement for the night, and come the morning, they would be off again to their respective destinations. But for now, they were congregating, exchanging stories and showing wares, discussing business(though never in enough detail to give away their tricks of the trade), and of course drinking too. Among their number were a few Cursebreakers -- Miles included, come to patrol the road and ensure supplies reached the next town without incident.

While the others were content to mingle, the former Archduke much preferred to drink in peace at the bar -- not out of lack of desire to socialize, but simply because he was exhausted. The tankard of ale he'd just finished off was placed on the worn wooden counter, and he heaved a satisfied sigh. Those age-faded blue-green eyes closed briefly. Oblivious as he was to the noise around him and the comings and goings of others from the establishment, one would imagine it to be much the same when another fellow took up residence at the bar. After all, a cloaked traveler was nothing out of the ordinary.

But when he happened to spare a glance over at the younger man, just in time to see that hood lower and his face revealed, there was a pang of familiarity. Something deep, something nagging; it tugged at the fringes of Elwin's memory, enough so that it drove him to vacate his own seat in favor of moving to a closer stool.

With a slight but nonetheless warm smile, he gestured for the barkeep's attention, then gestured again towards the newcomer. "Your finest ale for my friend here," "Miles" requested. Then he turned towards the other. "You look as though you could use it."

And he was left to his drink each time, left to his sorrows, left to mire himself in his own guilt and blame that replayed the last moments of his father's life over and over again through his head--

This evening, it seemed, would be different.

His reverie was broken by a voice, far too close to be referring to anyone but him. Lucius blinked himself back into reality to realize a man had seated himself next to him and ordered for him an ale.

"Oh--You needn't, but thank you all the same--" he declined politely, and it was only when his gaze chanced to lift that his breath caught painfully in his throat. A memory of long ago, when he was only a child yet learning the conduct of the world, and though the face was older and far more weathered...

Lest he be caught rudely staring, he quickly averted his gaze.

It was insufferable to be denied a place to stay for the night due to is supposed origins. Humanity was insufferable and he shouldn't be surprised. Ultima didn't like the helpless feeling he felt as he turned and began to walk out of the tavern. He could just smite this mortal but that wouldn't play out well.

Nearly all his power was gone and knowing Bahamut was nearby was even worse. It looked like he would just have to camp out on the road, not that it wasn't dangerous. He had encountered many a bandit which swiftly dealt with.

(That the man was actually the source of it all did not even enter his mind. It was over at such a great cost.)

How he did curse that his heart was still soft.

With a sigh, he slipped the hood of his cloak up over his head and turned to pursue the unfortunate stranger, believing him to be simply a wayward refugee being turned away from a bed for the night.

@warriorprince

It was difficult being forced into a mortal form, not that he would admit it. The god-turned-man did take the forms of mortals in the past, but those were simple illusions. He would just shift the cognitive part of mortals' brains to make them think and feel like a certain individual, but he never actually shifted his form. He could have, but it would take a great deal of magic, and mortals are simple creatures.

Ultima was being overly cautious as he walked through the streets of Oriflamme, or what was left of it. Mortals these days are much more resilient than the tribes of old. They rebuild and destroy and rebuild again; ever changing so much in their short lives. Not that he would praise them for anything.

The man pulled his hood over his head a bit more as he continued to pass through the city. It wasn't like he had a destination in mind but the world was different since his reincarnation. Perhaps his best bet would find Mythos and demand an explanation from him. This had to be partly his doing right?

The god-turned-man finally reached the outer part of the city where there was fewer mortals and began to wonder if he should find a tavern to bed down for the night. It wouldn't be safe, with magic or not, to travel at night and he was no fool.

What blessing was it when he was left with nothing? Everything he had once held so close to his chest, everything he had once fought for, now lay in ruins, and he could not say that he was himself not just as ruined. Racked with guilt, such insoluble guilt, for all that he had done both in name of hearth and home and in regicide, dreams and the sight of what was left of the petrified arm that somewhere along the way between his 'death' and his 'awakening' crumble to ash and left only a useless stump were steady enough reminders.

They didn't recognize him anymore, most of them, and those that thought they might wisely kept it to themselves just as he himself kept to himself. In the world being rebuilt, he became a farmer or a hunter as needed, and when the nights became too long, taverns became his haunt.

No mind was paid to the stranger he stepped past, unknowingly brushing shoulders with Ultima himself; only an apology was offered.

"Avoid the corner table," Lucius advised, gesturing toward the empty table he spoke of with his one hand. "It's reserved for the sort you would rather not mingle with if you're new." A glance; it was the colors that nearly stopped his breath, colors that haunted nightmares.

Waloed.