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Ulric, Nyx

Discussion in 'Citizens' started by Nyx Ulric, Jan 10, 2019.

  1. Nyx Ulric

    Nyx Ulric Final Fantasy

    Lawful Good
    I'm worth the wait.

    Played by Hunter

    Fandom: Final Fantasy XV
    Species: Human
    Gender: Male
    Canon Point: Before putting on the ring of Lucii
    NPC Companions: N/A


    Being a member of the famed Kingsglaive is no easy task. Nyx underwent months and months of vigorous training before he was even let out onto a battlefield, and he’s had ten years of experience since then. He’s a seasoned soldier with the discipline, will, and cleverness to back him up.

    Nyx is also a master swordsman and all-around expert combatant who specializes in wielding two kukris, though he’s proficient in other forms of combat as well. This includes hand to hand, firearms, and staves. Along with this, he's incredibly physically fit with great endurance, and he's trained to have the agility to perform complicated maneuvers and acrobatics even in the heat of battle.

    Unfortunately, Nyx’s favorite abilities aren’t even available to him in Pandora. Through the Power of Kings, the monarch of Lucis was able to connect with and share his own magic with the members of Kingsglaives, and Nyx fancied himself near legendary through his skilled use of it. While he may not have his own magic, he’s shown an above average aptitude at learning and wielding it.

    Additionally, he also happens to be a great bartender.


    • Mortality: Nyx is human in every way, and as such, he’s susceptible to all types of human things like death, sickness, and fatigue.
    • Power of Kings: He’s gotten used to being able to rely on magic, and he has to admit that he feels pretty useless without it. But without a connection to the King, there’s no possible way for him to access it.
    • PTSD: At inopportune moments, normally during battle, Nyx will experience flashbacks to his sister’s death that distress and distract him.


    You’re born in the doomed nation of Galahd, and they’ll call you Hero someday.

    The name they give you is Nyx, and when you are just old enough to no longer tremble at your skinned knees, you idly wonder why they called you for the night that’s always filled with daemons and dangers and not for the dawn. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? But your mum and dad call you other things too, like brave and clever and a cheeky little bugger. You quite like all those, even the last one -- especially the last one -- and you’re so busy earning them that you don’t have the time or the interest to wonder about little things like names.

    Your best friend is called Libertus, and together, you run wild. You’ve always been the bolder of the two, always more adventurous and chivalrous and wry, but he takes it as a challenge to follow in step with you and you can’t remember a time when he hasn’t. Together, you swim in rivers and scale trees like good Galahdan boys, and people look at you and say you must think you’re more wolf pup than child. And for a time, even you think that too.

    After all, wolves are pack animals, and there’s nothing you love more fiercely than your pack.

    But then you start to think that it’s not really right, is it? Not to you. You’re no wolf or beast or wild animal. Outsiders look from faraway places and see you as strange and savage and so utterly foreign, but you don’t feel that way here. You find your solace in nature and belonging in its free spirit, but you’re a hunter, not a dog, and you wear your heritage with pride by the pelts on your back and the braids in your hair.

    For a time, you hunt the Empire. Those damn Nifs are everywhere, swarming ominously around the edges of your homeland like the mosquitoes on the creek where you taught your sister to swim. Just like them, they seek blood -- Galahdan blood, of which you know they shiver with anticipation of seeing spilled. Hostilities are few here unlike the rest of the war-weary continent, but you see visions of your people’s blood soaking into the dirt of the land which has sustained them for centuries, and you join up with the local resistance like any young man who fancies himself a warrior with a thirst for freedom.

    Typical Nyx. You always play the hero. You think it’s the foundation of which your bones were formed, an unconquerable magnetic force drawing you towards the needy and the helpless, making you unable to turn your back when you can hear your people cry out. You tell yourself it’s unconquerable because you don’t want to imagine a version of you that thinks it is. You’ve always needed to save everyone.

    The Niflheim invasion starts and ends in one day with fire and flood and finality.

    The reckoning bloodbath has been thirty years in the making, ever since the Wall had first fallen to let the creeping taint of darkness and doom infest your quiet, proud nation. Your people had resisted their call for surrender for longer than you’ve been alive, but on that night, the Empire wasn’t asking any longer. No, they were delighting in your resistance. Mechanical monsters and nightmares made flesh left destruction behind every doorstep, ruin in every family.

    That night, you learned what charred flesh smelled like singeing your nose and clogging your throat with desperate gags and retches in between wild swings. You lost track of how many beasts you felled, but it was still not enough, and it was never going to be enough, and you wonder later if perhaps that was the cruelest part. The utter insignificance you played in all of it.

    You are no King, and you are no magician. You are just a man, and you have never felt so mortal.

    You will always remember the screams of your sister as Nif soldiers descended upon her. The last impression of her bloody face will always be seared into your skill and on the backs of your eyelids, and sometimes you feel like her phantom absence is going to suffocate you one day if you’re not careful.

    (And you’re rarely careful, aren’t you?)

    It’s the King who saves you from a worse fate than grief. He saves you that horrible night with raging thunder and the glint of an ancient blade as Lucian soldiers turn the tide, and he saves you every day thereafter with a purpose. It’s the greatest gift one could ever give you. The kingdom of Lucis opens its border to Galahdan refugees, and he handpicks you and Libertus for your courage, for your dedication, and for your aptitude in magic, of course.

    Magic. The King’s magic. No, this is the greatest gift one could ever give you.

    The power thrums in your veins like liquid lightning, and it’s like returning a limb you’d never realized had been missing. You are no longer just Nyx, rascal bartender and rebel Galahdan and shell of a man who for a time wished you’d had your chest wrenched open and guts emptied into the dirt beside your sister’s. You’re Hero. You’re the protective presence at your new brothers’ and sisters’ backs in a fight, you’re the warm word and sly quip, you’re the steady stone in a storm.

    There’s a debt bonding you and the King that you will never be able to repay. Not even if you should fall onto his sword tomorrow. It’s steeped in blood and battle and belonging, and though you are not Lucian as many remind you with jeers and sneers directed towards your uplifted chin, your heart bleeds for this nation as this nation bleeds for Galahd.

    Kingsglaive suits you.

    You had never considered that the rest of your life would be spent in service to the Lucian military, in the King’s own personal brigade even, but you defend its borders with every breath in your body and you can no longer imagine anything else.

    (Except you do. You dream of Galahd and its people and its rivers, but most of all, you dream of your sister. Every time fear and doubt suffocates you, you dream of your sister.)

    You were born in the doomed nation of Galahd, but now you are thirty-two and you fight for the doomed nation of Lucis, and they call you Hero.

    A decade of service is what you’ve given to Lucis. You don’t fight for the people’s gratitude, and it’s a fortunate thing that you don’t because you don’t often get it. King Regis is beloved and so in turn are his right hands, but there are plenty who see you immigrants as nothing but burdens and blights as if the Galahdan blood spilled in their names isn’t the most precious--

    It doesn’t matter anyways.

    King Regis is aging and weary, and the war goes poorly despite your efforts. Lucis is beaten and bullied onto its last legs like a cowering, wounded mutt, and Niflheim chases down the scent of blood in the water. An envoy arrives to outline what they expect of the last bastion’s terms of surrender, and your King has little choice but to accept.

    He vows to sign away every land outside of his precious walled Crown City. Your land, your people, your rivers.

    Libertus vows with aching rage to stop him.

    Now, you’re no fresh spring babe by any measure. You know that no matter how many victories you pull off by the skin of your teeth, how many wounded comrades you defy orders and fate to pull back behind the line of safety, how many risks you take charging directly into the fray with nothing but a fistful of winter and your blade…

    No one can win this war alone. Not even you, Hero. After all, you’re no King and without one, you’re no magician. You're just a man playing at war hero with his borrowed power.

    You can’t convince Libertus to back down and see reason, not when you’re having this conversation outside the morgue where your dearest friend is lying cut open and rotten on a table. You tell him that she died a Glaive, and he can honor her by finishing her fight as one, but even you doubt. Your words are hollow, and he pushes you aside.

    Figures. You’re loyal to your King until your last breath, but even you can’t understand how he could throw away every other son of Lucis for the sake of just those behind his Wall.

    On the eve before the signing of the treaty, the dissentful cries of betrayed immigrants and grateful cheers of citizens are drowned out by the fireworks above the Crown City. They’re a mark of celebration, but the King is not celebrating and so neither are you as you stay watchful at your post amidst the festivities.

    It’s there that you officially meet Princess Lunafreya.

    Days ago, you’d received your assignment as her personal bodyguard while she stays in Insomnia, awaiting her own fate as bride of the Crown Prince per the treaty’s terms. You think she must be as much of a captive herself as she is the shackles that will place the King’s bloodline underneath the Empire’s control.

    She’s kind and she’s pleasant, and in the morning, she’s missing.

    You’ve never been one to prioritize orders or decorum over responsibility and doing what’s right, and so you march with a fierce purpose through the gates of the King’s Citadel. You march yourself right into his throne room, and you -- filthy Galahdan outsider, brave Lucian warrior -- make demands of your sovereign even on bowed knee.

    Send the Kingsglaive out to rescue the Princess. Please, you have her coordinates, she’s on a fleet of Nif ships that could be headed here any moment. Deploy the Glaives. You need to help. You always have to save everyone.

    Your doubts about him linger, but he acceptingly relents, and you’re on the first transport out with your comrades.

    The Princess is rescued, and yet for all of the Glaives’ sacrifice, Lucis is still doomed. High-born men will never stop dictating the course of your life from afar, and you find yourself the unwitting pawn in a grand game you were never even invited to play. So be it. So fuck it. Time to make your own rules.

    Violence erupts at the signing as Nif and Lucian forces fire upon each other. The airship fleet you daringly rescue Lunafreya from begins to lay waste to the Crown City below, but despite the pangs you ignore in your chest with narrowed eyes and gritted teeth and the dedicated focus of a seasoned soldier, you can’t ignore the feeling of utter failure as another home is destroyed before your eyes. And you know who’s to blame.

    The Kingsglaives have betrayed Lucis.

    Your friends, your brothers and sisters, turn against one another and they turn against you. Turncoats slaughter those still loyal to your King, and not even for a moment is it tempting to join them. You knew they were unhappy, you knew they’d felt bitter and betrayed over the actions of the King -- because so did you -- and hell, you knew some of them were utter assholes, but you never could’ve expected this.

    If you didn’t have the Princess under your care to focus on, you think you might tear apart every invading battleship and every traitorous friend with your bare, bloody hands.

    Her duty leads her back to the King, and like any loyal soldier, your duty leads you right after her. And the King… Well, for better or for worse, he leads you away. Decorum has never truly been your strong suit and you want to snap at them to hurry, to move as if their very lives depend on it because they do, but your jaw sets and you are silent.

    Like all pillars do eventually, the King falls.

    No. He dies.

    For all of his majesty and his magical power, he dies like any man would -- like your sister did -- with a wheeze and a gurgle and the last remnants of his dignity wetly slipping from his chest. You watch this from behind a barrier he erected to protect you, because of course in his final moments, he wouldn’t even allow you the option to hate him for what he’d done.

    By his own words, he’d known of the invasion, and he’d called upon his city to weather it to save the prince. His fucking son. He had named Noctis as the future, but what future was there if his people wouldn’t live to see it, if it was dictated by Niflheim’s cruel rule?

    But he had begged you. Your King, your Sovereign, had begged you not as a ruler, but as a fellow man to protect the Princess. See her to the city of Altissa, to Noctis. Protect the ring that she now guarded in her grasp, for it would be their only hope. And who were you to turn your back on a request like that? After all, you’ve always needed to save everyone.

    (Even if it was to your bone-deep rage that you couldn’t save him too.)

    There is an ancient and godlike power resting in the ring clasped in Lunafreya’s hands right beside you, and yet it is still as out of reach as the sunny afternoon the day prior and the magic the King had granted you. Just as you were before, just as you’d promised you would never be again, you are powerless.

    But you are not weak. You’re still Hero, aren’t you? Your King gave you an order, one final plea, and you intend to follow through with it with your last breath. It’s the last reckoning of the debt that has weighed upon your shoulders the night the Empire conquered your people and your rivers, and so you will bleed for your King as he has bled for you.

    You protect the Princess. From turncoat and tin-man and daemon in the dark, you protect the Princess. And unexpectedly, she protects you too. You haven’t given her enough credit for how truly brave she is, and in the dim light of a now derelict office, you catch just a fleeting moment of frail peace together.

    She tells you of her brother and you tell her of your sister, and like she’s practiced it as the only weapon she knows to wield, she gently picks apart at the mask you feel like you’ve been wearing for a decade. And greater than any prophesied power the gods could’ve given her, she wields the power to make you understand.

    A future, any future, is worth protecting. That’s the first step. And the next is just to make sure that people like her live long enough to make it one that you would feel worthy to show your sister.

    You think she would’ve made a Queen you’d have been proud to serve.

    It’s just a little while until dawn, and you’re almost out of the city. Your Captain had given you the final rendezvous point where an extraction team would be awaiting you, but considering that every Glaive you’ve seen that day was dead or a traitor, you’re cautious. And you’re right to be.

    Bullets rip through your chest. You can hardly breathe, never mind walk. You had intended to see your orders through to the end, but you had hoped that it would come a little closer to Altissia, if only for the world’s sake. The justification your old comrade gives you while he holds the smoking gun over your head makes you want to scream, and considering you’re already a dead man, you do so.

    Siding with the Empire won’t change anything. They’re the ones who took your home -- took everyone’s home. And now you’re watching your traitor friends help them take Insomnia too.

    As your Captain approaches and you realize even he was in on this, you’d have rather he just spit in your wounds and be done with it. Or better yet, allow you to spit in his. A decade of service is what you’ve given Lucis, and it was all for nothing. But a simple betrayal isn’t enough. His cold face morphs until his unfamiliar eyes are hidden behind a metal suit, and you are suddenly staring at the Imperial General who felled your home, who felled Lunafreya’s home, and who felled your King.

    You have never wanted to murder someone so desperately. You want to rise to your feet and scream until his ears bleed, to beat him apart piece by rotten piece and make him suffer just as he’s made millions do the same. But there’s still your oath and there’s still the Princess, who even in your broken, wounded state, you usher behind yourself with one protective arm.

    And there’s still the ring that she holds in the hand that’s not clasped around you, and once more -- this time without even meaning to -- she makes you understand. And you get a truly dumb idea.

    You’re no King and you’re no magician and you’re probably not worthy to wield the power of the Lucii, but neither are those so-called royals who lurk within the ring’s power and do nothing to save their city or the future they claim they protect. You’re just a man, but you were named for the dark and not the dawn, and you have spent your entire life earning that. Like the night, you’ll pass over the world before you get to see to see the sun’s rays, but you and the moon will hold the sky together until then.

    You were born in the doomed nation of Galahd, and you will die in the doomed nation of Lucis. But you’re going to do so on your terms, with that same cocky grin on your face and the ring on your finger and the power of Kings at your call, because you don’t care if the ring turns you to nothing but ashes when you’re finished. Your life means nothing, but protecting the future for those who’d want to see it? That’s everything.

    If your bravery (or your arrogance) pays off, then it won’t be long now -- not in the grand scheme of the world -- until Lunafreya arrives to Altissia with the future clasped in her hands. And when she meets the young King there, you trust that she will give him the regards of a man they once called Hero.
  2. Kitty

    Kitty help, i'm FEELING
    Application Division

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