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The Elder Marlboro - A FFXIV short storyFollow

#1 Jul 18 2013 at 4:33 PM Rating: Excellent
138 posts

This is a quite short story which I created as an introduction to my latest article, Can FFXIV: ARR create "A Genre Reborn"? Part VI.

It's nothing too fancy, but I thought it could adequately depict a scenario where a personal -and not group- Limit Break might be used, in just one post of a few hundred words.

I am re-posting it here since I understand that a the majority of people won't bother spending time reading articles, but might enjoy such a short story. :)

The sky is dark, yet an amount of starlight manages to find its way to your feet. Lacking official training in areas which never interested you, such as tracking, or silent movement, you stride forward carefully. The derelict building stands defiantly before you. How many souls perished on these very grounds? You knew that the objective of the Grand Company mission was held in the basement.

After so many years, someone decided to put this place to the torch, finally. Which perverted mind might keep an elder Marlboro as a pet? Certainly, these naturalists, these botanists seemed to viciously protect and defend any species as their “brethren”. But you knew better than that, you knew that beasts and plants would never tip the scale to their favour, no matter what a guild of lunatics proclaimed.

Marlboros become a menace if left unchecked, if left to grow. When they are younger, they actively attempt to sap the life out of small animals with their deadly cocktail of poison, and then consume them whole. When they are older, it’s quite natural to them to escalate their attacks to all humanoid species. They seem to ignore lalafells, however, possibly because they cannot easily sate their nutritional needs. Roegadyn are at the other end of the spectrum, sadly.

As you have entered the abandoned farmhouse, you notice planks of rotten wood all around you, and several bones littering the floor. Some of them are so large, they could only belong to a horse, a large chocobo, or… You gulp. A roegadyn.

The path to the kitchen is dark and the musty smell unpleasant, penetrating your nostrils on every breath you take.

At last, you made your way to the cellar stairs. The iron door screeches as you unbar it and pry it open. After a few, short steps, you find yourself in a derelict room, once used for storage, but relegated to an elaborate cage for a while now.

The smell has grown tenfold in intensity, churning up your insides. You boldly move forward and start casting a Fire spell. The spell hits its target and the elder Marlboro seems to silently scream in pain. Before you know it, it has pointed its many tentacles towards you, and spit a volley of poisonous liquids your way.

You continue casting tirelessly, switching to Blizzard spells to cool your mind and regain your mental strength every so often, then continue to burn the abomination with fire. Fire is doubly familiar to you right now. Apart from your mind enabling you to cast it, your skin also feels as if it’s on fire. You understand that if this keeps up much longer, your lungs, your skin, your entire body will betray you.

Determined to banish the monster once and for all, gathering all your strength, and focusing your mind so intensely you can feel your entire being attuned to your magical energy, you take a few steps back, look again at the Marlboro, and gently whisper:


The primal fires of creation, the breath of the universe have finally attended to your aid. The Marlboro is burning from tentacle to tentacle, emitting sounds which you interpret as its deathly shrieks of desperation.

It is finally over, but you are still poisoned. No matter. Back in Gridania, the Conjurers ought to take good care of you.

Oh, the sacrifices you make for the Order… The Matron Nophica had better keep you will comfortable in the afterlife. With a bitter smile still on your lips, you sigh and teleport away.
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