Sigurd Rainecourt/Stories

Stories of Sigurd's past, told in prose.

Two years before the Calamity

It was a hot day in Highbridge, but every day was like that: blistering hot with the sun bearing down on the people below. A hot wind rushed through the ravine below the bridge where the airships sometimes visited, but it was quiet today. Two years before the Calamity, Highbridge saw a great deal of trading traffic, on foot, by coach, and even by airship. Pity the weather was often unbearable, but that was also incredibly good for business.

The Rainecourts had a tradepost set up just east of Highbridge on the Royal Allagan Sunway. The midlander family had been there for generations, marked by their typical two-toned red and orange hair. Most were rather short, save one, the middle child Sigurd, who wasn’t at home today. He’d taken up trading on his own outside the tradepost. He had no discernable crafting skills, so he took to gathering and trading what he could find. He was an excellent tradesman when it came to jewelry.

Despite the high winds, Sigurd sat on the Highbridge railing, his feet wrapped around the posts as he stared out into the ravine. His back was to the bridge itself, but no one around seemed surprised by his choice of seating. He’d spent years dicking around as a kid, challenging his best friend, Ruruna Runa, to walk on the railing and not fallen off. By now, the height didn’t bother him and he just sat there, staring out at the fuzzy horizon. It was never really clear to him, but he was a tradesman. It didn’t need to be.

Sigurd before the Calamity

He wore the typical robes of a tradesman. A simple long vest with a loose shirt underneath over a pair of shorts and kneehigh boots. The cloth was remarkably light, serving as a shield from the heat so he didn’t turn redder than a tomato. A simple thaumaturge’s staff clung to his back, the bottom end clanking against the railing as the wind pushed it back and forth. He wasn’t all that great at thaumaturgy. Some days his magick would work, some days it wouldn’t. He needed training in it, but it wasn’t particularly a priority. Even so, he always kept the staff with him.

A young lalafell approached him. Dark-skinned with glossy red eyes, the dunesfolk had on a similar outfit to Sigurd, though she’d chosen a pleated skirt beneath instead of shorts. She walked along the railing, one foot in front of the other, her hands out as if she were pretending she was an airship or for balance. It was hard to tell. “Siiiiiigurd.”

Sigurd looked up at the visitor, a smile crossing his lips. He focused on her with his golden eyes. She was close enough to be clear. He didn’t have the protective coating on his eyes like she did, probably causing things to just not appear clearly in the distance. “Hey, Ruruna.”

She scrunched her lips together, pouting, as she flailed her arms at him. “Where have you been, Sig!? We’ve been looking for you!”

“Exploring,” he replied simply with a tilt of his head, “and making trades, of course.”

She frowned sharply at him. It was expected, really. In the past few years, Sigurd had strayed away from the post, venturing out to make his own business deals. It was expected really. He was from a trading family, while Ruruna came from a tavern family. She also knew that his mother would get angry at him for being out so long and chase him down with a frying pan, shouting at him for making her worry. That had ceased in recent years, however, as Sigurd wasn’t a kid anymore, but Ruruna was still certain she worried.

“What did you get, another book?” she jabbed at him with her sharp words.

He held up his left hand as a reply.

Ruruna immediately stopped pouting, glued to the shiny new ring Sigurd had around his finger. The band was a whitish silver with a blue gem imbued in it. “Is that mythril?!”

“With a lapis lazuli gem in it,” Sigurd replied with a bit of a smirk. “I had to pick scorpions for this, but it was definitely worth it.”

“The wanted scorpions for this?!” Ruruna stared at him in shock. “Bloody hells, Sig, who’d trade a ring for scorpions?!”

“Alchemists are an odd sort,” he replied, turning it over so it would catch the sunlight. Mythril tended to glow white in the bright sunlight but settled to a silver color at night.

Ruruna had never met an alchemist before. “I didn’t think that sort traveled. I always thought they were booky and city-dwellers.”

“I thought so too,” Sigurd shrugged, “but this one had come out to do some field work. Travel took him all the way from Ul’dah to Drybone on foot. He was more than happy to trade me something valuable for my time.”

“That sounds like Adventurer work,” Ruruna frowned.

“Does this look like a reward an adventurer would get?” Sigurd pointed out. “I offered a trade, and I got a good deal on it. I wouldn’t settle for anything less for my efforts. Those scorpions get cranky in the middle of the day.”

“Who doesn’t?” Ruruna shrugged, choosing to sit down next to him. She pulled her feet up, bending at the knee to fit perfectly on the railing. “It’s bloody hot out here.”

“But we’re used to this,” Sigurd added. “That alchemist looked incredibly hot and weary. He wasn’t Thanalanian, that’s for sure. He had an odd accent.”

“Did he sound like a pirate?”

Sigurd glanced at her, an eyebrow quirked.

“All La Nosceans are pirates!” she stated assuredly.

“What makes you so sure of that?” Sigurd countered.

“What makes you so sure they aren’t?” Ruruna countered back.

She had a point. He didn’t know and nor did she. They hadn’t even been past the boundaries of Eastern Thalanan. The region was vast enough as it was, and they hadn’t even reached the far edges into new territories.

“Ever wonder what it’d be like to travel there?” Sigurd mused aloud.

“That’s crazy talk, Sig,” Ruruna frowned. “We’ll be stuck here our whole lives, married off to someone and start our own family. That’s just how things are.”

“That’s just it, Ru,” Sigurd leaned backwards a bit to counter a strong gust of wind hurtling over the bridge. “Why not explore before we’re married off? Kineburga, Fredderick, and Averil have already been married off. Next is Lyell, which leaves probably two years before me, though 20 would be a bit late for an arrangement.”

“They’re probably planning it right now,” Ruruna added, rocking back and forth in the breeze. “Lyell’s not marriage material, you know.”

“He is a lazy aldgoat’s ass,” Sigurd sighed. Lyell was a rather useless member of the family, probably doomed to live at home for the rest of his life. He had no noticeable skills and couldn’t make a trade save his life. He had no purpose, no drive to do anything. Even Leofwin, his youngest brother, could craft things. And while Sigurd couldn’t craft, he had his trading skills. Lyell had nothing. “But that’s all the more reason to go now.”

“La Noscea’s across the water, Sig,” Ruruna protested. “How the hells would we even get there?”

“Then how about Gridania?” Sigurd countered. “It’s just east of here. Can’t be that far, maybe a couple malms? Be there and back in a day.”

“Your mother would shat herself,” Ruruna added, knowing very well her own mother would do the same. She would be out with a frying pan, hunting Ruruna down before she could even leave Thanalan. “Now come on, Walter, Momobusi, and Aelesia are waiting for us. We’re going to the tavern at The Burning Wall. They’re having some sort of mongrel festival.” Sigurd stared at her flatly. “The hells is a mongrel festival?”

Ruruna shrugged, pushing herself back to her feet. “No clue, but supposedly they’re having all sorts of special food and drinks. So we’re going to see what it is, Mr. Explorer. C’mon!”

The Calamity

“Rain again?” Sigurd stared up at the cloudy sky, holding his hand out for a moment to catch the raindrops. Ever since Dalamud started getting bigger and bigger in the sky, the weather had gotten strange. It started raining quite a bit.

Adjusting the staff clinging to his back, he shrugged, continuing on his way. He was going out again. He'd done it more and more frequently since his arranged marriage was announced. It was finally his turn to get married to some girl he’d never even met. He wanted to see the world, not be tied to some marriage. Sure he wanted to continue the family business, but he just wasn't ready for a marriage.

He trekked down the incline, careful to not slip in the rainy weather. His shoes weren't made for mud, and he nearly lost one in a puddle when the mud attempted to thieve him of his footwear.

”Ĝi venas! Dalamud falas!”

Sigurd paused, the rain falling down his face. It was that voice again. He hadn't heard it much but the crystals spoke to him. At least he thought that was what was speaking. It was odd. Crystals were just a chunk of Aether. They didn’t talk.

”Ĝi venas!”

Sigurd frowned. They were really noisy. It probably was related to the moon somehow, as Dalamud had been falling for weeks now. Everyone knew something was going to happen. Rumors had spread about the place, talk that Dalamud would fall to the ground or that it would simply go poof and the gods would save them. Who knew? It wasn't important.

”Ĝi venas! Ĝi venas! venas! Ĝi venas!”

Why couldn't the crystals go annoy someone else? He arrived at Drybone, now very much wetbone, and stared up at the crystal. There were rumors of a very strange creature sitting on the aetherite, sucking the Aether dry, but nothing was there. The crystal had dulled, though, no longer glowing bright blue but instead was now clouded with some sort of dark black. Whatever had been there had gone.

Sigurd felt drawn to it, reaching out a hand to touch the aetherite.

”Ĝi venas! Ĝi venas! venas! Ĝi venas! Estas finfine ĉi tie! La tempo finfine venis! DALAMUD IS FALLING.”

Sigurd jerked away, hearing the crystal speak common. He felt a surge in his body. His head felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. Was it still raining?

…

Sigurd jerked awake in the inn bed. His cloak was hanging on the back of a chair next to his duckbills. He only wore his loose shirt and culottes. Tossing the sheets to the side, he slipped his shoes and jacket on and flung open the door. “How long have I been here?” he asked, leaning on the reception desk.

The girl looked up at him. “Four suns. The Blades said you had Aether sickness. We let you rest.”

Aether sickness? That didn't seem right. He’d touched the aetherite and heard the voices. Maybe it was Aether sickness. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He slid a few gil across the counter before heading out the door.

”THEY'VE VISITED.”

Sigurd paused, frowning at the aetherite.

”THE LAMBS HAVE visited your HOME.”

Lambs? Sigurd’s eyes widened. He'd heard about them, those nutjob cultists the Lambs of Dalamud. He didn't give it second thought and he darted up the entry way, running all the way home on the Allagan Sunway. He stumbled a bit, tripping on the front stairs before practically rolling in the doorway.

“Sigurd!” his younger sister Hilda exclaimed in surprise. “You’re alive!”

Sigurd blinked stupidly. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Fredderick, his oldest brother, emerged from the back. “The Lambs of Dalamud took mother, Kineburgha, and Averil. The Blades found them eviscerated yestersun.”

“E-eviscerated?!” Sigurd stammered. “I need some air.” He stumbled out the front door and onto the porch. He felt like he was going to vomit. He leaned on the railing with his elbows, placing a hand on his forehead. First the crystals started speaking Common and now this? It was too much. Far too much.

Sigurd stared up at the horizon. Dalamud really was getting huge. The crystals were right about the Lambs visiting his house, would they be right about Dalamud falling?

It was getting larger the more he stared at it. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, thinking he was seeing things. No, it really was getting larger until suddenly he could no longer see it.

“It’s coming! It’s here! It’s finally here! The time has finally come!”

Fire streaked across the sky and rained down far too close for comfort. Sigurd leapt from his spot on the porch, staring at the streaks for a moment. They impacted nearby, throwing dust and sand into the air. “Everyone get inside!” he shouted at everyone nearby. No one bothered to question the barking order and immediately dove for cover inside the tradepost.

Something else streaked across the sky and impacted the ground with an ear-shattering crash. Sigurd stuck his finger in his ear as the last trader scurried inside, using his free hand to shut the door and bar it with whatever he could find.

No one was entirely certain what was going on. Sigurd figured it either the Garleans had finally invaded or another Calamity was upon them, neither of which would be survivable, given their flimsy wooden tradepost roof. Sigurd had only read stories of previous Calamities, part of the natural cycle of the realm to renew and restore resources and Aether. He knew what they were, but he never wanted to see one. He was pretty sure they all would die when one of those fireballs impacted the tradepost. They were close enough to Thal’s respite. Maybe Thal would take pity on them and make the afterlife pleasant.

Time passed. No one was quite certain how much had. The bells stopped ringing. The dust in the air was still quite thick, no visibility to see much past the dusty trail a few fulms out. It seemed bright enough, it was probably still daytime. Sigurd bravely moved from his spot leaning against the door to peer out the window. It had shattered from the noise, the glass strewn across the floor. Something glowed in the distance. Everything was deathly quiet.

…

Several suns had passed since the rain of fire and the moon had fallen. Rumors flew around as everyone attempted to understand what happened. Some had fled the area. Others wept, mourning the complete loss of The Burning Wall. The entire area was now gone, covered in some strange glowing crystals. No one had survived.

Sigurd looked down over the edge of the Highbridge railing, still wondering if he could find the giant dusty mongrel from the legends about aldgoats. It was a stupid thing to think about at a time like this, but he didn't want to think of anything else. The odd voices had finally stopped. It was finally quiet.

He heaved a sigh. Now wasn't the time to mope and stare down mindlessly to the bottom of the ravine. There was a lot of work to be done and he had responsibilities. Adjusting the staff clinging to his back, Sigurd headed back to the tradepost he called home. That rickety thing still stood despite the windows shattering and a few roof tiles knocked out of place from the impacts. He paused at the porch stairs when he heard shouting.

“He’s nothing but trouble! He’s bloody cursed!” Fredderick’s voice carried out through the broken window. Sigurd plastered himself against the side wall of the tradepost, listening, wondering what had gotten Frederick so angry.

“Brother please!” Hilda shouted back. “A lot has happened. You're not thinking clearly. You can't blame this all on him.”

“I'm not thinking bloody clearly!” Fredderick scoffed. “The seven hells I’m not. That magic of his has been nothing but a curse on this family. They all died because of him. If he hadn't gone out on one of his bloody pointless excursions, those bloody cultists wouldn’t have lured them out by telling them they could find Sigurd. They would still be alive! They would all still bloody be alive! It would be best if he just went and died somewhere!”

Sigurd’s heart sank. This was his fault, wasn't it? He couldn't explain where he'd been four days prior to that weird firestorm. He couldn't explain why he wasn't there. He didn't understand it or the weird voices he kept hearing. He couldn't tell anyone, not that it would matter anymore. It was all his fault.

He pushed off the building, not waiting to hear any more of the conversation. He'd heard enough. It was his fault. All his fault. He reached the bridge and descended the stairs to the airship station. No airships flew today. He wasn't expecting any. He wasn't sure they'd ever fly again, either, but that didn't matter. He wasn't here to take an airship. He was here to do exactly what Fredderick had suggested. It was all his fault. The curse had to end.

He stood with his toes at the edge of the walkway where the airships would dock. It was all his fault, and it was about to end. Thal would never take mercy on someone who was cursed. He’d send him down to the deepest of the seven hells to perish for all of eternity. He deserved it, didn’t he? He'd killed three of his own family members. It was completely all his fault. Sadness panged at his heart. It had to end. The curse would end here. The strong wind pushed against him. He picked up his right food. It was all his fault. It had to end.

He paused, staring across the ravine at the rocky wall and bridge supports on the other side. “What am I doing?” He put his foot back down firmly on the walkway. Images and thoughts of his mother flooded his mind. She was always so supportive of him. She praised him for his magic, even when he'd accidentally light something on fire. He pulled the crude staff from his back, staring at it for a moment, looking at the marbled eye gem. He traded everything he had for this thing. He worked so hard to get it. Was he so willing to throw it all away so quickly?

Sure, it was all his fault. Entirely. Without question. But perhaps he could atone for everything, do some good and help the people affected by the firestorm Calamity. It wouldn't bring his family back but at least he could do some good for the realm. Maybe.

A change of luck

Sigurd leaned against the stones lining the passage between Eastern and Central Thanalan. He was worn out, mentally and physically. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. He stared up at the stars in the sky. Thousands, perhaps millions of them, dancing together in a nightly dance. He'd almost forgotten how many there were. The skies had been clouded with rain and strange lights he'd never before seen. The lights were pretty but foreboding. They'd stopped since Dalamud crashed into the realm.

It was truly odd seeing only one moon in the sky. The golden moon hung low in the eastern sky, back towards the place he once called home. It was the only place he knew but it was now the place he felt least welcome. He wasn't sure where to go and still questioned his decision not to throw himself off the walkway under the bridge. He resolved to do something to help people, but he'd done nothing but ache. He buried his face in his hands. He hadn't slept for days.

“Hey, kid, you alright?”

Sigurd looked up to find a man leaning over in the seat of a caravan pulled by two chocobos, both of which looked ready to retire for the night. Sigurd didn’t yet offer a reply. He wasn't sure what to say, though his stomach spoke for him, grumbling loudly against the chirping crickets.

“You lost everything in the Calamity, didn't you?” the man thumbed over his shoulder at the odd glowing crystalline structure on the horizon. He took a step off the caravan, planting both feet on the ground. He was a tower of a man, standing over 7 fulms tall with deep red skin. He dug in his bag, removing something wrapped in a light brown cloth. Leaning over, he offered it to weary hyur. “They call it La Noscean toast. Damn fine toast if you ask me.”

“Aren't La Nosceans pirates?” Sigurd babbled as he took the offered food. He recalled a discussion with Ruruna about it sometime prior as they pondered what lie beyond the borders of their home.

The man bellowed heartily at the comment, highly amused. “Not all, son! They're actually a hearty bunch, once you can get through the accent. They love their ale as much as we love Pickled Piestes.” He held his hand out.

Sigurd frowned. He shouldn't expect any generosity from a trader, but desperation had taken over logic, leading him to take whatever he could. “I don't have any coin.” He glanced at his hand. There was the ring he'd traded two years prior. It was mythril, surely worth a lot of money.

“I don't want your coin, boy!” the man chuckled once again. “I’m taking you somewhere safe so the mongrels don't chew on your bones.”

Sigurd paused, his fingers still wrapped around the ring, ready to yank it off and surrender it. “Excuse me?” He wasn't sure he heard the towering man right.

“I’m gonna take you to Blackbrush for shelter and some work,” he reiterated. “There’s plenty of work for you magicky types, like quelling those godsdamned spriggans and coblins. Bloody pests’ll undo all our work and eat all the ore!”

Sigurd hesitated for a second before taking the man’s massive hand and getting pulled to his feet. Even at nearly 6 fulms, he barely reached the strange man’s broad shoulders. “Why are you helping me?” he blurted out, then quickly covered the question by shoving half a piece of toast into his mouth. It seemed truly odd to help out a complete stranger. For a moment he considered the man a cultist, luring him away just as the Lambs had lured away his family. If he fell to the same fate, that would be just fine. The curse he bore would simply be coming back round to him and finally doing him in.

Yet he wasn't certain that would happen. The crystals had stopped babbling after Dalamud fell. They had remained completely silent, not even uttering a strange word in whatever language they spoke. Perhaps the curse had lived out its life and he survived, and he had to live with his decisions. The guilt still panged at his heart. Worry panged at his mind, as he considered that the curse may simply be lying dormant, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

“I’m just a simple miner, boy,” the man replied, seeing Sigurd’s expression twist into concern. “Not the sort to revolutionize the realm or nothing. But sometimes someone just needs an extra hand back on his feet. Now c’mon, get in. The bloody birds are tired, and they'll sleep wherever they damn please if it gets too late.”

Sigurd glanced at the birds. He'd never seen a chocobo up close. They were so rare to see, something about them only being bred by the upper class or in some far off place he'd never heard of. As soon as he'd paused to stare, the man had picked Sigurd up like a toy and planted him into the seat before getting in himself. The man snapped the reins, making an odd tutting sound before the birds finally moved. The sudden jerk of the cart had nearly knocked Sigurd out of his seat.

“The name’s Lofty Cactus,” the man introduced himself with a hearty thump to the chest.

“Sigurd,” he introduced himself, omitting the family name. He didn't exactly belong with the family anymore, so he didn't see a point in including it. It was his fault half of them were gone anyway, so detaching himself from it was for the better.

“Good to meet you, son!” Cactus laughed heartily as the chocobo treaded down the hillside and towards the watering hole in the south end of Central Thanalan. The birds suddenly lurched, rearing back and squawking up a storm. “Bloody creatures! What in the seven hells is your problem?!” Cactus peered around the riled up birds to spot the source of their distress. “Bloody hells. It’s those damn frogs again.”

Sigurd peered around them, nearly falling out of the cart to get a good view. Eyes widened as he stared at the giant creature. He'd never seen anything like it before. The giant toad had turned, spying the birds and licking its face with its tongue. “I'll take care of this,” Sigurd offered, stumbling off the cart. “Consider it thanks for helping me out.”

Cactus peered at his traveling companion, curious how the boy could walk given how famished he looked. He wore the clothes of a trader but had the staff of a thaumaturge. The kid was certainly an interesting one.

Pulling at the staff on his back, Sigurd took the bone staff to hand and drew it across his body, right hand to left shoulder. He felt the aether pull in his body. He didn't have much to give. He was exhausted from traveling and the trauma of the entire ordeal over the past few suns. He wasn't entirely certain he could muster much more than a tiny static charge.

But an idea popped into his mind. He'd felt it before when the aether rushed through his body four suns before Dalamud fell. It was common knowledge that aether permeated every ilm of the realm, but it wasn't common to see it. After he'd been afflicted by aether sickness, he began seeing the ebb and flow of something in the air. It wasn’t clear and it was very faint. He figured his eyes affected by all the dust kicked up by the glowing crystals that crashed into the Burning Wall, but the flow had only slightly subsided since then. What if he could tap into those flows and utilize them instead of his own aether? He only had so much of it left, and currently the reserve was nearly empty. If he used that last bit up, he wouldn’t have any left and would die.

Death. It had crept up on him again. Sigurd had worshiped the entity of death his entire life, but he'd never come so close to it so often. He'd passed the brink of it but returned then nearly threw it all away again to rid himself and his family of this curse. Could the curse have manifested this aetherial flow he saw? Or perhaps it was a side effect of being cursed? What if he could use this to help people, to redeem himself from everything he'd done wrong?

Truly there was no redemption from getting three family members killed.

If this magic was a curse, he'd simply have to use it so that others wouldn't be cursed from being near him. He could bear the burden himself and attempt to make a difference in his tiny corner of Eorzea. It matched up with what he swore to himself as he stared into the ravine below Highbridge. His mother admired his spell flinging but she seemed to be the only one. He'd lived with magic for 10 years and not once had he realized how much everyone else abhorred it.

But then here was Cactus, telling him his skill was useful in some nearby place called Blackbrush.

Burying his fears and worries deep within his mind, he watched the odd flow ebb around his staff. Was it responding to him his silent call? Perhaps there was something here. He squinted at the frog in the dark of night, seeing it saunter forward, licking its face with its large, grotesque tongue.

“Stars above, burning bright,” Sigurd mumbled the chant he’d read within his thaumaturgy books. He'd tried various spells from them, reciting the rhymes and chants until one of them worked. “Grant me the strength of your fiery might.” The odd flow around him began to ebb and churn. He could feel the aether rushing past him. He was drawing from around him instead of pulling it from within. He only borrowed a little of it, but the result was phenomenal. The spell worked. It responded to his call, and fire flew from his staff as he whipped it forward, pointing the gem at the frog. The frog writhed at the impact, eventually giving in to the burns and collapsing on the ground, its long tongue hanging from its mouth.

Cactus applauded with his large hands. “Bloody impressive, Sigurd!”

Sigurd stared at his hands and the staff gripped in his right. The flow around him had returned to normal as if he never tapped into it in the first place. He still stood, his heart still beating in his chest. He hadn’t fainted from aether sickness or lack of aether in his body. He still stood there. Perhaps he could use this. Perhaps he still had a purpose in this realm.