Final Fantasy XVI: Lion King Edition

Tyler and Wade

Clive was so glad to be away from Sanbreque territory. After climbing down the mountain, he walked...and walked...and walked. Across many lands he went, or so it seemed, changing from green to barren desert. Along the way, he fought many wild animals and ate on their liver. Meats were his favorite food after all. However, they tasted so rate that he had to spite a few drops of blood out. Then, after meals, he would continue on his way. By a stroke of luck, he had ended up in the Velkroy Desert just outside the Dhalmekian Republic. Luckily, the Dalimil Inn was nearby. Clive, being a Duke who had to be protected in order to ensure his bloodline's survival, had never been to this part of the world before. But all the same, he was tired, thirsty and he was in great need of a drink.

To everyone in this town, he was but a complete stranger. The last thing they would ever suspect that he was a fallen archduke.

Nobody bowed before his presence when he walked in, for his clothes had become disheveled during the long exodus. He had even tripped and scraped his right knee while sliding down a little hill and the blood was still showing. Sand had bleached the lighter parts of his clothes and were starting to show sun damage. His freshly polished boots were at the point of wearing out, with crinkles around the toe area. His skin was tanned from being in the sun, but not burned. With this appearance, he looked like any other desert nomad.

He trod his way over to the bartender. The bartender was a kind looking men who felt sorry for the poor kid, even he had been aware of what he had been through.

"You look like you've gone through shit," he said to the boy. "Have a drink."

It was a drink of water fortunately and Clive gulped it down in one shot.

"More please."

The generous bartender poured him three more glasses of water. He was about to ask for more, when three brigands burst into the bar.

"Okay, you two, where's that 10,000 gil you owe us?"

The one who later addressed himself as Tyler looked up from his beer at the leader. A dark skinned man with a long brown beard. He wore a turban and carried a very sharp sword. Tyler and his friend, whom Clive later found out, Wade, were both young and fit and could easily have a place in the Shields of Rosaria.

"Sorry," said Tyler. "We've spent most of on drinks. I'll give you five thousand."

"And where is the rest?" asked their leader.

"That's all!" protested Wade. "If you'll just be patient, we'll give you the rest!"

"To hell with patience!" the leader growled.

He flipped over the table and raised his sword. Tyler and Wade did the same. Clive and everyone else saw this for themselves. Some left and cleared the table. Others, looking for a chance to relish themselves a fight, joined in either for the brigands or a against them. Clive, fully recovered from his thirst, knew which side he was on. He unsheathed his sword and snapped into action. He clashed his blade against the leader. Then he struck again and again with hard blows and threw his right fist at the leader. A geyser of blood shot from his right nostril. The bearded man fell to the floor in a heap and the small, unnoticed war died down. The others were weakened by the efforts of those who fought to protect their favorite inn.

When the silence fell, Clive limped back to the bar for another drink. Tyler and Wade walked up to him.

"Thank you for helping us," Wade said.

"You should be thanking the others," sighed Clive. "They helped as well."

"But it was you who fought their leader off," said Wade. "If anyone deserves any compliments, it is to you."