food police. (heritable) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-08-12 01:02:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !log, morgayne falk, rictor cassul |
it's just you and god. but what if god's not there?
WHO: Morgayne Falk & Rictor Cassul.
WHAT: A belated shooting practice leads to a more serious discussion.
WHERE: Hellwyrm shooting range.
WHEN: Backdated to Saturday, 8/3. Noon.
RATING: PG-13.
STATUS: Complete.
It was unbelievably ambitious and optimistic, arranging a sharpshooting appointment for noon after his birthday party. The scheduling conflict had crossed his mind at the time, of course, but Rictor had swept the concern aside. With ambition came pushing himself hard and learning how to slog through pain and exhaustion and adverse conditions – and a birthday hangover ranked quite nicely on the list of handicaps he’d tossed at himself over the years. So come Saturday morning, he dragged himself out to Shieldwyrm Hall with black coffee and a hurried breakfast of bacon and eggs in his belly, a second thermos clutched in his hand, and the hangover throbbing with each step. His gunblade was sheathed by his side, and a manual rifle slung over the other shoulder for long-distance shooting. Rictor measured his steps against the steady drumbeat in his skull, and the walk in the brisk air soon steadied his stomach somewhat. Even he possessed enough self-awareness to know that if this had been a sparring match – even against a squire – then he’d be fucking doomed. No chance of donning fullplate and clashing swords today. But a quiet round of shooting practice? He could probably manage that without keeling over. Probably. Maybe. When Ric caught sight of the diminutive brunette waiting outside the hall, he managed to suppress a yawn at the last second, moving smoothly from covering his mouth to executing a lazy wave. Morgayne, on the other hand, had slept early, and risen with the sun. A perpetual morning person and a light sleeper, by noon she had already eaten, swept the chocobo stables (a squire’s work was never done, &c.), and gone for a run in the park, heartily ignoring the blazing sun. Before meeting Rictor outside Shieldwyrm, Morgayne had showered quickly and grabbed an apple on her way out. On her short walk to the guildhall, she held the fruit between her teeth and tied her still drying hair into a loose knot. She arrived at the hall only a few minutes before Rictor did, and was still chomping on the apple when she saw him in the distance. Morgayne returned his wave with a small one of her own, and walked forward to meet him. As soon as Morgayne came into range, the knight cast an assessing look over her: measuring height, weight, build, expression, choice of snack. He’d seen her around the halls over the last year, enough to gather the surname Falk and acknowledge that she was a squire here, but that was it. Not a second glance paid until now, with her request for sharpshooting training. Few others in the guild had experience with rifles. They were a rare enough weapon in the city. He’d take his practice partners where he could get them. Even when they were pint-sized female squires with a tendency to get a bit too uppity over the network. She reminded him of someone. “Hope you weren’t planning on going to the king’s speech,” Rictor said, as they came to a halt in the middle of the courtyard. “Think it’s just about wrapping up.” “I wasn’t interested,” Morgayne responded, shrugging. “I’m sure more than enough people can fill me in on what happened.” She doubted the king would have anything useful to say, anyway. If he knew what were going on, or had some sort of solution to propose, she was sure she would have heard it already. Gossip spread quickly in Emillion; Morgayne knew from firsthand experience. She eyed the weapons the holy knight had brought with him. A gunblade she had never handled before, but the rifle seemed like it would be familiar enough, even though the last time she had picked one up had been over two years ago. Catching where her gaze had landed, sticking on the rifle like an insect to flypaper, Rictor lifted the weapon from his shoulder and weighed an idea. “They have practice rifles you can check out. This one’s mine. But here, you can help carry for now.” He tossed it lazily over, necessitating quick reflexes for Morgayne to catch it in her arms and prevent it from hitting the ground. And that done, Rictor started walking. Whenever at the guildhalls, he tended to spend most of his time at Hellwyrm, and his favourite range was nearby – mostly set up for archers, but it also doubled for guns in a pinch. It soon came into sight: a roof-covered platform with red-and-white archers’ targets set up on tripods at the end of a grassy field, pitted and scored from arrowheads. A row of equipment lockers, with the loaned key in his pocket. A long, low table beside it. More wooden targets further back in the field. For the guns. “You said it’d been a while since you went hunting?” Though her strength paled considerably compared to many of her peers, Morgayne had always been quick, and months of training had further sharpened her reflexes. She caught the rifle easily, briefly cradling it in her arms (it was a good weight, she noticed, pleasantly surprised), before swinging it over her shoulder like Rictor had, and following the knight. She had to walk quickly to keep up with his long strides, but Morgayne didn’t mind. “Oh, yes,” she replied, “My father taught me, when I was little. I practiced a bit when we lived in the Outlands -- but in the city, well. There’s obviously not really anything to hunt.” Mostly, though, it made her sad. Morgayne hadn’t been able to bring herself to leave her father’s weapons in their old house, but at the same time, couldn’t bring herself to use them either. So she’d compromised, and tucked them all underneath her bed. She had quite enough ghosts to deal with as it were. “No wonder you’re comfortable with the Outlands.” His words came more slowly than they might have otherwise, squeezed out through his teeth between each throb of his skull. Rictor’s characteristic energy was flagging this morning, less than his usual boisterousness, but he was deadset on pushing through it. “Not that I’m not,” he added, slightly strained. Facing away from the squire, Rictor twisted the key in the locker and opened it, revealing a row of well-kept – if slightly rundown and outdated – guild rifles. “When did you move?” Ric asked as they exchanged rifles, trading his own to hand her the generic model. It was bland politeness, but the simple act of talking kept him oriented, anchored in his body, conversation distracting him from the current state of his insides. “Almost two years ago.” Morgayne moved to pass Rictor (should she address him as the Korporal? Storm always did, but then, Storm seemed to speak with constant formality) his rifle; the generic model was a bit lighter, but perhaps it would suit her better. She’d long adapted to using her father’s, its bulky weight pressing heavily on her shoulders, but Morgayne figured she should unlearn bad habits if she wanted to move forward with the weapon. “And yes, that is why I’m so comfortable,” Morgayne continued, lips quirking up, “The beasts don’t bother you too much, if you leave them alone. And at least they’re natural. The undead, and that thing in the tenements --” Morgayne shuddered, “-- that’s what I’m afraid of.” Rictor’s brow furrowed as she mentioned the last two disasters in the city. The whole reason behind their practice session being endlessly postponed. “Were you out there? For either of them?” he asked as he unclipped his belt and carefully set the gunblade aside, then set about loading the rifle. Rictor leaned against the table and looked down at the girl beside him. He’d grown accustomed to the tall and gangly Storm scurrying quietly about, looking after the equipment, silent and efficient and polite. Occasionally returning with limbs broken and bleeding, in need of healing. But a female squire was different. The image of this little thing snapped and broken on the battlefield made his mouth thin, shift into a frown. “Not the first. I wasn’t keen on fighting zombies, so I stayed behind to help the healers.” Would the holy knight think she was weak? Perhaps he would have expected Morgayne to fight; Storm had, after all. And Juli. “They needed all the help they could get -- the place was a madhouse -- and I wanted to make myself useful.” Morgayne shook her head, recalling the carnage. “I was at the tenements, though. Some unfortunate timing, on my part.” “Sounds like a good plan. I made Kapur stay outside the caves – squires need practice in the field, but there’s a limit, and I draw that line at caves roiling with the fucking undead. Healing’s important too.” It was an easy enough truth to rattle off; Luscini would have given Rictor a Disappointed Look if he hadn’t picked up on that by now. Preparations now complete, the knight and the squire both took their positions on the platform, squaring their feet on the line. Rictor started to crane his head through the sights of his rifle, but interest made him look to the side instead. The tenements attack had happened exactly a week ago, and he still didn’t have much information on it. “What’d you see?” the korporal asked, a bit more sharply than intended. Part of him still somewhat innately expected all squires to report to him, it seemed. “Anything useful?” Morgayne, too, had been focused on her weapon, hands falling smoothly into position as she examined the makeup of the range. They were shooting freestanding, as she preferred, she noted with a hint of satisfaction. Morgayne was surprised by the urgency in Rictor’s voice, and looked at him curiously as she answered. “Barely anything, to be honest. Nothing you haven’t heard already, I’m sure.” It was true -- after the fall, she and Cy had beat a hasty retreat, neither of them eager to stick around and get a closer look at whatever had wreaked such destruction to the tenements. Morgayne had heard and felt its mighty footsteps, but no more. “Hmm.” It was a thoughtful noise from Rictor. Noncommittal. “I keep trying to get details on it but no one saw or heard anything. Mighty fucking convenient, that Mist.” He squinted down the sights and lined up the shot. Glanced at the sky, and the swaying movement of the wind in the nearby treetops. Accounted for it. Breathed. In. Out. A long slow exhale, his finger relaxing on the trigger at the same time (and this was, strangely, good for the hangover—it gave him something to focus on, fresh air in his lungs, something to anchor himself by), before he focused and pulled. The crashing boom of the shot rang across the clearing. Then another, and another. Rictor then brought the rifle down to peer at the target at the other end of the field, measuring his progress, and taking a moment to let Morgayne have hers. With eagle eyes, Morgayne watched how Rictor moved as he bore down on the trigger, firing shot after shot. She did not spare a glance for the target; the accuracy (and she was sure, at his rank, there was accuracy) was negligible, in the end, at least for her purposes. She looked, instead, for how he stood -- the angling of his shoulders, squared up with the target. How he planted his feet to the ground, left staggered in front of right. She drank in the image, until its shadow imprinted on her memory. When there was a pause in the consecutive booms and silence bled through the training range, Morgayne turned wordlessly, and lined up her own shot. The butt of the rifle, held close to her chest, near the centerline; her elbows, held down. She angled her head to peer through the sights. As the wind blew forward, sending loose strands of hair tickling the back of her neck, she could almost hear her father’s voice. Take as long as you need. Remember: we shoot for the heart. A quicker death. She pulled the trigger, and braced herself for the recoil. He watched as she absorbed the impact, the butt of the rifle jerking back into her chest. But Morgayne held it steady, like a bucking bull calmed in her hands. Now it was his turn to survey the girl's stance and bearing and how she handled the weapon. Few people chose guns as their specialty. He'd seen more of them in the Bards Guild – fighters preferred something malleable and visceral, their own hands (or extensions of their hands) ripping into the enemy rather than the cold, impersonal lead of a bullet. Even arrows were more personal; they came from the forest, and they were once alive. But she seemed comfortable and practiced with the rifle. He didn't have much to teach her, truth be told. Perhaps Morgayne Falk's childhood in the Outlands had done her some good. "You said you were considering being an archer or holy knight." Or fell knight, but Rictor chose to forget that remark. Morgayne nodded, looking up from the sights and relaxing her hold on the rifle; it fell slack, nose to the ground. She eased her hand from the trigger. “Archer, yes, since I’ve done some work with a bow already.” Although Morgayne preferred the rifle, truth be told. Perhaps it was just that she’d had more practice with them, but Morgayne had always found the clean efficiency of guns... comforting. With arrows, one had to strike true, every time. Unless they pierced through the heart (or brain, or other vital organ), they could be ripped from the body like a stinging burr. Bullets struck deep, and always left their mark. “Holy knight, though, I’m not sure. There’s an appeal to how they draw power, but that’s more of a dream, than anything.” Dream was the wrong word. It had been Lars’ dream, to ascend to the ranks of the Silver Blades, not Morgayne’s. But given present company, she kept the phrasing. “Faram and I have never been close, you see.” “Oh?” It seemed Rictor had started unconsciously picking up phrasing from a certain blonde mage – delivering a wry prompt, a noncommittal hedging, a subtle nudge for more information. Oh was increasingly versatile, or so he’d found. “How does that work?” And for all his vaunted experience, his worldliness and travels, Rictor seemed to run aground at this concept in honest confusion. The worldview of the holy knight was one of searing whites and blacks, simple truths and comforting catechisms that had all the strength (and inflexibility) of iron. “Faram is always as close to you as you let Him be.” Morgayne’s eyebrows arched in skepticism, and a little bit of amusement. When she was a child, she had always pictured holy knights as valiant spectres, bathed in a glow of light. Like avenging angels. It had been surprising, then, to enlist as a squire and discover holy knights were just as human as the rest of them. Rictor, especially -- Morgayne had not expected the korporal of the Silver Blades to be the type to swear like a sailor, or even get hangovers. There was nothing that screamed “Pharist!” about him at all, save his aversion to the dark (but holy knights were not the only ones who disdained the fell -- that, she remembered clearly). To hear Rictor speak with such earnestness about Faram was almost jarring. “Is he? Don’t they say he’s supposed to watch over you -- protect you -- in return?” Morgayne replied, and she was honestly curious. The strong faith that so many held in Faram had always puzzled her; what had Faram done for anyone, lately? “Even when I prayed, Faram never seemed to be listening.” The man’s rifle lowered as he put some thought into this. Religious discourse hadn’t been on the agenda for today, but one might as well roll with the punches. “He doesn’t protect you directly,” Rictor said slowly. The recent attacks and devastation on Emillion were proof enough of that – if this were a perfect world, if Faram were individually shielding every single hume from harm, then none of that would have happened. Which meant the explanation would have to be— “He tests us. We’re his extensions on this earth, so we must be the best we can. Watch over and protect each other, and thus is Faram’s will done. He will eventually reward the just, the ones who prevail for good despite all the shit thrown in their way.” It was a crutch, but even as Ric tried to pick his way through this conversation, he faltered slightly. There was still the memory of a hanged man flung back into the sea, and his best friend grieving. So he added: “It can be hard, though. Sometimes the tests can seem too fucking much.” He will eventually reward the just. “He doesn’t seem to reward anyone,” Morgayne said firmly, holding her ground. “At least not in this life. Do we just wait until we die, then? To see if we’ve passed Faram’s tests?” Faram seemed to do nothing but pile on burdens, from her point of view. The faithful -- like Quen, who had lost her sight -- seemed to be doing no better than the doubtful. It was no wonder that some people took their life into their own hands; but then, Faram didn’t look kindly on that either. This admission was almost painful, having to rip open and admit these ugly truths to a child – but then again, he’d never been drawn to the church for its pleasantry, had he? It was gruelling, it was demanding, it was exhausting. It asked more of them than most were willing or able to give. “We wait,” Rictor said, and his voice carried the air of something stubborn and inexorable, something as unchanging and unflagging as the tides. “Time is nothing to Faram. Compared to that, we’re... nothing but specks, really. A tiny drop in the ocean.” Insignificance. The old familiar Pharist guilt seemed to wake up at that thought, the self-recrimination and self-flagellation nudging up alongside his throbbing hangover and the knowledge that they would never be good enough. Rictor was constantly measuring himself against that yardstick, falling short, and knowing that he would always fall short. But there was no need to pace to pace around the subject, and so Ric opted for his usual sledgehammer bluntness: “What’s your story, kid? What have you been through?” She seemed to speak with the sort of bitterness and cynicism that came from experience. “Nothing.” Clipped, to the point, and sharper than Morgayne had intended. She added a honeyed smile to the end, an attempt at reassurance. “I’ve just watched things happen to others. It’s -- I suppose it’s always been strange to me that Faram can be so harsh to those who love him. It’s like he tries to cleave them in two, but if they break, he discards the pieces. We’re all toys to him.” And there was a definite note of bitterness here, acidity turning her words to knives despite Morgayne’s attempts to rein them in. She lashed out, and Rictor’s kneejerk reaction came surging up like a beast out of water, muddied from his exhaustion and headache and his own fallibility: Amos is better at this. It was a small, desperate, and utterly unworthy thought, but it was true. The metal beneath his fingers, the bullets rolling in the palm of his hand, the blade resting on the nearby table: that, Rictor knew what to do with. Crises of faith, however... But with that thought came an idea. “Have you ever spoken to a priest?” Rictor asked. “I’m not any fucking good with words, but they can explain this sort of thing better than I can.” This was easier with Storm, he realised. Despite the boy’s differing culture and religion, at least he was hopeful and idealistic, his principles driven by a similar fire. Ideals like that could be moulded and channeled and shaped (just like his own had been, once upon a time). “No,” Morgayne said, after a moment, her voice returning to neutral ground. “I haven’t been to church in... some time, really.” Ironically, she would be attending services tomorrow, with Quen, but she neglected to mention it. She dropped her gaze, and shifted her hands restlessly on the rifle. This outing had gone in a different direction than she’d expected; Morgayne found herself suddenly longing for the simplicity of target practice, where the truth was an echoing of bullets being fired from their chamber, and the jolt of the rifle’s recoil against her chest. Rictor, for his part, was perhaps as equally uncomfortable with where this had gone. His mind was in no state to wrestle with these heavy issues and evidently contentious topic of discussion – not on the heels of birthday drinks, of restless pacing down cold stone hallways before collapsing to bed drunk, then dragging himself back out of the cathedral for… this. Whatever this was. As if he’d sensed her discomfort (and how could he not? both of them were shifting and uneasy), the knight sighed and picked up his rifle once more. “Didn’t mean to fucking lecture you,” Rictor said. The apology was uncharacteristic, perhaps, but he was (now) twenty-seven and she sixteen, and it wouldn’t do to be surly at an innocent squire for nothing. “Just wanted to help. We can get back to this, yeah?” And with that, he considered the subject snipped, abandoned for now, as he plucked bullets from the nearby ammunition casting. And the rest of the session would be about the shooting, the clinical analysis of stance and grip, the nudging of hairline triggers closer and closer and closer to the bullseye. With relief, Morgayne followed Rictor’s lead, pulling herself back into shooting position and peering through the sights. Remember: we shoot for the heart. She pulled the trigger, and as the bullet soared through the air, she felt her troubled thoughts take flight. |