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You are the Warrior of Light, and you are confronting Ifrit.
It stands across the arena, twice as high as the tallest of your companions, preventing your escape. Your nascent knowledge of Primals thus far tells you this much - you will not be able to negotiate your way past. Combat is inevitable.
You draw your weapon, and engage the beast.
It costs the lives of many of your companions, but at last, Ifrit is slain.
You are the Warrior of Light, and you are walking through Ul’dah, Alphinaud at your side. You have been sent to gather foodstuffs and other essentials for the Waking Sands, and Tataru does not trust Alphinaud’s sense of the usual cost of things, so you are here to ensure he does not ruin the finances.
You turn a corner, expecting to find the marketboard, but instead you find yourself standing alone in the Bowl of Embers.
Across from you stands Ifrit.
You reach for your weapon, confused, and engage the beast.
You are the Warrior of Light, and you are entering Ishgard.
It has been a trial to get this far, with every Knight, Inquisitor and Priest you meet more suspicious of outsiders than the last, but your perseverance has paid off at last. You’ve been granted entry to the snowy capital city, and it is truly a marvel to see. Tall steeples thrust up into the sky, and citizens mill about. Stony stairways and paths lead off in all directions, and you marvel at the surroundings.
You blink, and suddenly, everything is fire and ash. Sighing, you reach for your weapon, and turn around. You confront Ifrit.
You are the Warrior of Light, and you are accepting a drink.
Ishgard is cold at the best of times, and you’ve become accustomed to the offering - and partaking - of hot drinks, often slightly alcoholic, to warm the insides against the flurries of snow. You drink it without thinking, only realising your mistake after everything fades to black.
When you come to, you are lying on the rough dirt of the Bowl of Embers. You curse as you climb to your feet, and ready yourself for combat. Ifrit grins at you, pleased to see you once more, as you charge into combat once more.
You are the Warrior of Light, and you dream of escaping Ifrit.
You’ve talked to Y’shtola about this, after fretting over the discussion for a week. You’ve brought Krile into the conversation. Noone has been able to think up any possible explanation - and no one is willing to risk entertaining the notion that you could be insane. You turn corners, and you’re back in front of Ifrit. You get distracted, look away - and you’re back in the Bowl of Embers.
The conflict is beneath you. You handle it tidily, each time. You aren’t imagining it - on occasion you misstep, or fowl up an angle of attack, and you feel Ifrit’s claws rake your arm or your back, and when you return, the injury comes with you. Answers elude you, and your frustration rises, and you leave Y’shtola and Krile to debate the finer points of the perception of reality, in search of lunch. You pass through the doorway, and you are at the Bowl of Embers.
You sigh, and draw your weapon. You confront Ifrit.
You are the Warrior of Light, and you are entering Rhalgr’s Reach. The outpost is well defended, and tents of brightly coloured fabric dot the grounds. It’s run down, but with a little work it would suit your purposes.
There’s an Aetheryte around the corner, and you turn toward it, intent on attuning. You press your palm toward it, feeling the location bond, in some way, with you. You turn back toward your party, and Ifrit stares back, grinning.
You sigh wearily, and draw your weapon. You are tired of this.
You are the Warrior of Light, and you are fighting Zenos yae Galvus atop Ala Mhigo. Defeating the Garlean would be harrowing at the best of times, but he has decided that being a giant dragon is his strongest fist. He has made the classic error of those who stand in your way - becoming a primal. You grin, and you gather your wits to dodge his attacks and strike him down.
The sky burns fire, and you are in the Bowl of Embers, facing Ifrit.
You scream in impotent rage. You demand to know why. You roar your defiance, your fury, and Ifrit does not care. Ifrit grins at you across the arena.
You exist here, Ifrit says.
You are confused, puzzled. Ifrit doesn’t respond to attempts to negotiate - you’ve tried, many times. You press, asking more questions. Maybe this time you will get answers.
Ifrit grins at you, saying nothing.
You wipe a tear from your face, draw your weapon, and confront Ifrit once more.
You are the Warrior of Light, and you stare across the Ghimlyt Dark. Your fellow Scions have been disappearing one by one, and the Garlean advance gains ground by the hour. In your heart, you aren’t sure what can be done to halt their charge - and you fear that Raubahn doesn’t either.
You hear your name called out, and you turn, intent on providing what aid you can, and you stand once more in the Bowl of Embers.
You stamp your feet in frustration, and cry out. Why won’t it stay dead ?
Ifrit grins, and paws the ground. Its claws leave deep furrows in their wake. You cannot destroy me in a way that matters, it says.
You grit your teeth. You’ll see about that. You ready your weapon, and confront the primal again.
You are the Warrior of Darkness, and you have devoured a Lightwarden. You feel sick to your stomach. The twisted aether of the beast sits within you like a poisoned meal, and you struggle to keep it down. You fall to the ground, your hands propping you up as best they can. You close your eyes.
The illness passes. You open your eyes. You are on hands and knees in the dirt of the Bowl of Embers. You look up. Ifrit waits, grinning.
You pull yourself unsteadily to your feet. Why, you ask out loud. Why are you always brought here? Why must you face Ifrit, the weakest of all primals, again and again?
Ifrit raises a claw toward you. You have the impression of uncanny intelligence behind its gaze. We are not dissimilar, you and I, it says.
You stare at it, aghast. No, you say. You don’t comprehend how you are similar at all. You’re the Warrior of Light - the Warrior of Darkness. Ifrit is a Primal.
Ifrit’s grin grew wider, and from the sky a nail slammed into the ground. It took the nail gingerly, and toyed with it between its claws. Is it so strange a thing, you Warrior of Light and Darkness, Ifrit muses. You think me a Primal, a creature who appears when summoned into being by those in great need.
You stare at Ifrit, senses alert, expecting a trap. Ifrit’s gaze settles on you like the weight of ages. You ready your weapon.
Yet here you always appear, Ifrit said. Summoned, perhaps, by an endless great need?
Your own scream ringing in your ears, you confront Ifrit.