He takes a look at his Immortal Flames Grand Company issued gear and equipment. He feels the heavy fabric of his overcoat, thick gloves, sturdy boots that extend past his knees and heavy hat. While you would imagine this material would be overwhelming for Uldah's desert heat, it provides more insulation to protect from the heat than one would imagine. Jerilith looked over his Flame's Private Sword he was issued. He was very familiar with a one-handed heavier sword. He had opted to use two daggers for easy concealment and quick situations to handle threats in an unknown world, as well as utilizing his miqo'te form for agility. There was a definite heft to this new sword, and he could feel the muscles in his forearm tense as he hefted the blade around. Given the ruggedness of his new uniform, this sword might be better suited. Jerilith trained in his open-spaced inn room with the new blade. It was sharp, the handle was smooth with a pommel enlarged at the base of the handle to prevent slipping away. The sword wasn't the best he had held, but it was quality steel, albeit mass-produced so there was room for improvement with a blacksmith's personal care.
Jerilith continues his practice with the weapon, sweat dripping down his surprisingly longer hair that extends past the bridge of his nose. Has it been that long since he has arrived in Eorzea? Several months have now passed. He ties his hair back into a longer rat-tail style so he may focus more. He continues training, trying to recall the feeling of the last time he had held a similar sword. Teaching a new conscript in his prior existence. Jerilith sets his sword down at the foot of his bedpost. Leaning against the edge of the bed in a sitting position trying to recall. What was his name? What was his position? How long did he train him? Was he using a sword for the first time?
He remembers the first day of training—the nervous grip the conscript had on his sword, the way he hesitated before each swing, fearful of striking with full force. Jerilith had corrected his stance, adjusted the angle of his strikes, and taught him how to read his opponent’s movements. The conscript had been young, too young for the battlefield, yet eager to prove himself. Was he still alive? Did he take Jerilith’s teachings to heart? Or had he perished, sword still gripped in trembling hands? The uncertainty gnawed at him.
Feeling his exhaustion kick in from the long several weeks of skirmishes followed by today's events prior - his first assignment. The Immortal Flames received a report of a downed airship and a Garlean patrol seen around the area outside of Horizon. There Jerilith had met two engineers from the downed ship - Biggs and Wedge. After a brief engagement with the Garleans and their Magitek machinery. Jerilith was familiar with large machines used for war. He had fought against many forms of large-scale mass-produced machinery prior to his arrival in Eorzea. This did not feel particularly different to him, aiming for weaknesses in major mechanical joints, and supply cables and attacking hydraulics - more of the same. Jerilith was not impressed against the Garleans. It was his first true encounter engaging them, and he felt it would not be his last. His first assignment, rather on the spot considering he hadn't even pledged his oath to the flames as of yet. The coordination felt natural, no spoken words in the fight amongst his peers. Simple teamwork while Jerilith attacked the backline of the Garlean's defenses. There might be more to the two engineers than he realizes, but this was not a concern for him in the moment given his rank and assignment in this task.
Jerilith dreamt that night, falling asleep on the edge of his bed, dreaming of the conscript he once trained to swing a sword for the first time, the sparring, the practice movements, best way to utilize the weight of the weapon. He saw himself correcting the young warrior’s footing, coaching him on how to deflect and counter-strike. The conscript’s face was blurred, details slipping through his memory, but the echoes of his words—words of encouragement, discipline, and warning—remained.
His dream transitions into a fight with the God he had engaged in his prior life. His large two-handed sword in his hands, felt light, felt swift. Where was he? He simply was fighting, a dream? The battlefield was different this time—warped, shifting. Clashing metal resounded in the distance, and a strange energy hummed in the air. Running somewhere, anywhere towards the noise, a female Miqo'te, long hair, long lance in hand, engaged in combat with the very God he had struggled to fight against before. In the same form he had fought against before. The way she moved was precise, each strike delivered with certainty. Who was she? Where had she come from? Jerilith’s steps felt sluggish, his body unresponsive as if weighed down by something unseen. He attempted to run to assist, his legs heavy, his arms weak, no weapon in his hands. He hears a yell directed at him. "No!" - followed by a piercing gaze from the blue-eyed Miqo'te.
The force of her stare sent a wave of energy through his dream, and suddenly, the battlefield blurred, fading into darkness. The echo of steel clashing was the last sound before silence took him.
Jerilith is awoken by the sound of his leaning sword falling against the floor. Morning. He had slept for hours. He picks up his sword, dons his new Immortal Flames Gear, and prepares for his new day, thinking puzzlingly of his dream, mulling over who this woman is and why she has now appeared a second time in his dream. Do his dreams mean anything? Are they a message? He can only focus on what he can control in the now, directly ahead. He ponders as he walks out the inn door, determined to find answers, whether in battle, memory, or fate itself.
