[ The thing about wars is that the outcomes only matter to the nobles up top. To the commonfolk, they are matters of economy. And when men at the lowest rungs of society cannot find other lines of work — when those who are skilled in battle need coin, and a cause to fight for — it is only natural that some turn to mercenary work to at least be guaranteed bread and ale and a place to sleep at night.
The captain of Clive's mercenary unit is a man named "Meteor," which is as much of an alias as Clive's is "Wyvern." Sometimes the other mercenaries call Meteor the "Warrior of Light," but this seems as much a sarcastic appellation as anything, given that he is most often found in a suit of dark armor and seems to wield a blade that is black as night. The gratitude the other men have for him is real, though, even if the nickname isn't quite; he's rescued more than just a few of them, seen them through countless battles, and he always prioritizes the lives of his men over nebulous victories.
What does the outcome of the war really matter to any of them, after all, so long as they are being paid?
All of this is to say that Clive is in, more or less, a decent position, for his lot in life. What titles he has lost, what perch he fell from — all of that is presently irrelevant. There are other mercenary units that are kept in line with whips, brands, and spurs. That Meteor has won enough loyalty from their sponsors to carry his group like some merry band of thieves from the kinds of stories that children thrive on in these darker times — that already guarantees him enough.
Clive is a newer addition to Meteor's ranks, but even so, the captain himself always comes round before their sortie to share a few words with every man under his command. He does so now, announcing his presence with a heavy clap to Clive's shoulder, and a smile that makes him look younger than the thirty summers he's purportedly seen. ]
Look alive, brother.
[ A gentle sort of shake to Wyvern's shoulder, and then Meteor removes his hand. ]
The Archadians will be on us soon enough, and you'll not find them in the crystal-light.
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— in dalmasca, at the height of the war.
The captain of Clive's mercenary unit is a man named "Meteor," which is as much of an alias as Clive's is "Wyvern." Sometimes the other mercenaries call Meteor the "Warrior of Light," but this seems as much a sarcastic appellation as anything, given that he is most often found in a suit of dark armor and seems to wield a blade that is black as night. The gratitude the other men have for him is real, though, even if the nickname isn't quite; he's rescued more than just a few of them, seen them through countless battles, and he always prioritizes the lives of his men over nebulous victories.
What does the outcome of the war really matter to any of them, after all, so long as they are being paid?
All of this is to say that Clive is in, more or less, a decent position, for his lot in life. What titles he has lost, what perch he fell from — all of that is presently irrelevant. There are other mercenary units that are kept in line with whips, brands, and spurs. That Meteor has won enough loyalty from their sponsors to carry his group like some merry band of thieves from the kinds of stories that children thrive on in these darker times — that already guarantees him enough.
Clive is a newer addition to Meteor's ranks, but even so, the captain himself always comes round before their sortie to share a few words with every man under his command. He does so now, announcing his presence with a heavy clap to Clive's shoulder, and a smile that makes him look younger than the thirty summers he's purportedly seen. ]
Look alive, brother.
[ A gentle sort of shake to Wyvern's shoulder, and then Meteor removes his hand. ]
The Archadians will be on us soon enough, and you'll not find them in the crystal-light.