Ballad of the Borrowed Bard (FFXIV/Grishaverse) (OC-insert)

[FireWalkWithMe99]

The glamored rope tugged against the base of his hood, a dull ache he'd grown used to ears itching beneath the thick fabric cramped, sweaty and yearning for fresh air. Waldemar resisted the urge to adjust. Not here… where anyone might see what lay beneath.


He already drew plenty of attention for his songs; most of it welcome, some of it not. He couldn't imagine the sort of attention he'd get if they saw the tall, velvet-tufted ears beneath the hood. He'd be branded a Grisha mutation. Or worse someone might declare him the second coming of the Saints' long-lost trickster. Or a rabbit.


Saint Rabbit. That was a nightmare he didn't need, that was before even considering a certain "General" may deem his ears to be an amplifier and hell for all he knew maybe his ears and bones could provide some boost to a Grisha, all the more reason to hide them.

No way he could count on anyone here knowing much less understanding what a Viera was. No one here had ever heard of Eorzea, or even the Twelve. Holidays like Starlight or Hatching-tide didn't exist here. No familiar festivals for his earthborne self to have some solacein. There were seasonal sacred days for different countries of course but nothing particularly familiar. Just long winters and wars that never truly ended.


When he first woke up in this body and world, he thought it might've been some obscure region of Coerthas. Maybe a failed update. Maybe a really weird dream. But it didn't take long to realize: this wasn't a Log Horizon situation where a player wakes up in their favorite mmo.


This was Ravka.


And Ravka was no place for a bard with rabbit ears, rhythm-based magic, and an aggressively impractical fashion sense. Whether it was the show he bigned or the books he read he'd not want to be in either setting as a human much less as whatever he was considered now.


His ears tingled again. They always did when he thought about home…


Funny, how used to them he was now after weeks of tripping over himself walking due to being both taller and having foot long ears.., the extra height, the twitchy instincts, the way sound traveled all felt strangely natural a few months into this unexpected adventure.


Waldemar passed the village well still slick with still moss newly. The lanterns lining the muddy streets flickered to life one by one, their wavering in the relentless rain. But still he neared the tavern of the village,
And as always, eyes followed him.


Not many he supposed. The woman sweeping her doorstep who was less focused on the crumbs and dirt, and more on his person. The boy who wore a wood carving who watched him from under the eaves. The barkeep pretending not to glance from his window. He had to count his blessings tonight it seemed.


They didn't hate him. Not really. But Waldemar had stayed long enough to know the signs. Venshya had no inn, no church, no Grisha, and no use for people like him.


He hummed under his breath, neither Ravkan, nor Kerch, not even Eorzean."Merry go round of life"The melody barely rose above the sound of the rain, but it soothed the itch his ears more than any scratch could.


He turned toward the tavern. One more night of music and pretending. Then maybe it'd be time to move again. Renew the eternal cycle.

---

The inside of the tavern smelled like smoke, ale, and wet wool the holy trinity of every backwater drinking hole he's been to thus far.


Waldemar ducked beneath a low-hanging beam, careful to keep his hood in place. His ears twitched irritably beneath the fabric, picking up conversations from every corner despite the din. A gift and a curse of his Viera physiology.


"—saying the Volcra took out a whole ship again last month—"

"tax collector coming through next week—"

"—swear I saw something in the woods"


The tavern wasn't large, but it was dense with bodies seeking distraction from lives troubles. Perfect for his purposes. Waldemar slipped between tables making his way to his usual spot instinctually half-hidden, just left of the hearth, with enough space for his case and a clear path to the door if things went sideways.


"Our mysterious minstrel returns," came the voice from behind the bar. "I was beginning to think you'd finally found a real city to haunt."


Abere, the tavern keeper, wiped his hands on a cloth that looked like it hasnt been washed for days. He was stout, bald, and blessed with the kind of face that always looked halfway to anger. But there was something almost fond in the way he nodded toward Waldemar's corner.


"And leave all this splendor?" Waldemar gestured to the stained walls and floors. "Besides, real cities ask too many questions."


"And we don't?" Abere raised an eyebrow.


"You ask plenty of questions," He grinned. "You just don't expect actual answers."


That earned him a snort as Abere slid a tankard across the bar. "On the house. Voice sounds dry."


"My savior." Waldemar took a sip and grimaced. "Though I'm not entirely convinced this is truly beer and not simply something you scraped off the stable floor."


"Beggars, choosers," Abere shrugged, with the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.


Waldemar settled onto the bench and flipped open his case. His instrument wood and string gleamed faintly in the candle lite more elegant than the clunky lutes the locals favored.


Eorzean craftsmanship was something else entirely.


A child no more than eight peered at him from beneath a nearby table.


"Is it true you fought a volcra?" she whispered, eyes wide.


Waldemar leaned down, matching her whisper with theatrical gait. "Do I look stupid enough to fight a volcra?"


She considered this with a frown. "Then how'd you get that scar on your hand?"


He glanced at the jagged line across his knuckles a rather embarrassing reminder of the time he'd misjudged the height of a doorway in his new Viera body and badly punching a timber beam instead of a brigand.


"This?" He beckoned her closer, then lowered his voice. "A Fjerdain mountain cat once tried to steal a piece of cheese from me."


Her eyes widened. "Did you win?"


"Well, I'm still here," he winked. "But somewhere in the northern mountains, there's a very fat cat with a newfound appreciation for Kerch gouda."


She giggled and scampered back to her mother, who shot him a grateful look though it quickly turned into something darker.


He plucked one string. Then another, mid adjusting a peg.


The tavern murmured on. But he'd caught their attention now subtle glances, conversations pausing, the gradual hush that meant they were waiting.
"Play the one about the miller's daughter!" someone called from the back.


"No, the one about the Shu merchant and the three wishes!" countered another.


Waldemar pretended to consider these options, though his fingers had already decided. The debate was mostly for show at this point.


He could play something safe. Something that wouldn't rock the very delicate rural Ravkan sensibilities.


But where was the fun in that?


Besides, he'd spent enough time in Venshya to recognize the signs. The hushed conversations. The worried glances toward the northern road. The way people spoke of the Fold more here, seems many have been lost to it, Rumors were spreading and many lumped the Little Palace into such talk. He wondered just how far from canon he was… he had not seen any news about a sun summoner being found yet so he hoped he still had time.


But still the tensions within ravka were already rising higher than they were that was precisely when a good song could do the most damage. Or the most good. Sometimes both.
He rolled his shoulders.


"How about something new?" he offered, lips curving into a practiced smile. "A little taste of what they're singing in Os Alta these days."


A complete lie. He doubted anyone in Os Alta was singing anything remotely like what he was about to perform. But no one here would know that. And attribution was the least of his crimes tonight.


He struck the first chord, letting it ring out warm and low, like a drop of ink falling into clear water. The effect was immediate boots stopped tapping, a spoon paused halfway to a child's mouth, even Abere froze behind the bar with one hand wrapped around a mug.


The second chord followed, then the third, building a jovial sort of rhythm. Leaning into the role a bit too much.


Internally, he winced just a little. This was borrowed brilliance, and he knew it. He was a decent performer, sure, but Jaskieror whoever the copyright-immune version of him was in this universehad been the one to actually write a banger. Waldemar was just… borrowing. With extreme artistic license, but he did add his own flair, embellishing politicking truly he wondered just how much his bardic soul influenced him in these ideations. It gave him pause at times.


Still… he'd nearly gotten booted from bar after last night's overly experimental verse about shadow-blessed saints and the Fold weeping tears of glass. He couldn't afford two bad performances in a row. Certainly not of the more controversial variety
He cleared his throat and began to sing:

"Toss a coin to your Grisha,O shadow-born wonder,O black-cloaked thunder,Toss a coin to your Grisha, In Fold or in flame,He'd answer your name."


Someone choked on their drink and murmurs began to ripple through the crowd yet Waldemar continued, his voice carrying mischief well:
"Wrought from the dark and forged by the sun, shattered the gates when blood shan't stood at the breach, with no fear in his eyes."


The candle nearest him flared just once, briefly then settled into a rhythm that matched the time signature of the song perfectly. A coincidence, he hoped...
Or perhaps not.


On the far sill, a small white/brown bird landed not a common sight in a storm like this. Yet It tilted its head, seemingly entrhalled in its own way. Listening.
Waldemar's nodded at the bird. Nothing like a captive audience, especially the feathered variety.


"Toss a coin to your Grisha,O shade of devotion,master of motion,Toss a coin to your Grisha,Let tales never die,as truth may belie."
A drunk near the hearth let out a soft, cheer.


Waldemar brought the final verse lower.


"For those born in fire and raised in the cold,Whose names silenced, and stories old—Raise a glass, sing it true, let the verses reclaim,The power, the pain, and the pride in a name."
The last chord hummed into silence.


For a few seconds, everything was muted then, quietly, someone whispered, "Saints save us."
Waldemar bowed his head, just slightly. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.


The tavern had already decided what he was.


The tavern gradually returned to some semebalnce of sanity, and from across the room, Waldemar noticed a soldier watching him with barely contained anger, he recognized him from his first night in town Aleck, maybe? Or Alren. Jaw like an anvil, skin weathered by sun in the trenches. One of the few in Venshya who still wore his faded uniform like a badge of honor.


Their eyes met briefly. The soldier's hand tightened around his mug, but he remained seated even with waldemar having a bit of a troubled hope the man would get up and try something, but still he stood content for now to merely glare.
Waldemar understood the look well enough.


Fine by him. Public confrontations were messy, unpredictable. And the last thing he needed was some drunken argument that might lead to his hood being pulled back in the scuffle. His Viera ears were not something he wanted revealed because of a tavern brawl.

---

The rest of his performance passed without incident. He played safer songs, folksy tunes about rivers and mountains that offended no one. When he finally packed up his instrument, the crowd had thinned considerably. Even the soldier had disappeared, though Waldemar doubted that was the end of it.


A fine line to walk, he thought as he secured the clasps on his case. He enjoyed the mystique his performances created the whispers, speculation about what sort of man he is, where he could be from, what abilities he might possess. It was useful cover, in its way. Let them wonder if he was some kind of Grisha or had minor magical talents. As long as they never discovered what he truly was.


After all, a bard with unusual musical talents was a curiosity.
A non-human creature with rabbit ears and unknown magical capabilities would be a monstrosity. At best, they'd think him a grisha mutation a product of merzost the abominable power. At worst… well, dissection came to mind.


Better to be thought a mysterious performer with a few tricks than whatever they'd label him if they saw what was underneath.
"Same time tomorrow?" Abere asked as Waldemar headed for the door, soft case slung over his shoulder.


"Perhaps," he replied noncommittally. "Depends on the weather."


The night had grown colder, the drizzle turning to a fine mist that coated everything in a slick sheen. Waldemar's boots made soft sucking sounds in the mud as he navigated the empty street, heading toward the small room he rented at the edge of town.


He'd only made it halfway down the main road when he sensed it someone following, the heavy thread of combat boots, announcing their presence. Not trying to ambush him, then... hmm.


Waldemar stopped beneath a guttering lantern, adjusting his grip on his case. "I was wondering when you'd make your appearance."
The soldier stepped out of the shadows, his faded uniform coat now partially concealed beneath a dark cloak. He seemed Sober enough to be dangerous, despite the stink of ale on his clothes.


"That song," the man said, voice rough like a longtime smoker. "It's treasonous."
Waldemar turned slowly. "Art is rarely loyal to any one side."


"Don't play word games with me." The soldier moved closer. "We've had enough trouble with Grisha passing through. Filling people's heads with nonsense about their 'gifts' when all they do is destroy."


Waldemar raised an eyebrow. "And yet your entire country depends on them for defense."


"That's different." The soldier's jaw tightened. "Military service is Controlled by the Royal Family. Not… whatever you're preaching."


"I'm not preaching anything," Waldemar replied smoothly. "I'm entertaining. There's a difference."


The soldier's hand moved toward his belt, where a knife glinted dully in the lantern light. "What are you? Some kind of spy? Recruiter? The Second Army wouldn't send someone so obvious."


Waldemar felt a twinge of irritation. This was exactly the kind of scrutiny he didn't need.


"I'm a collector of stories," he said, letting his fingers brush subtly against the strings of his instrument through the case. "Nothing more. Nothing less."


"Liar." The soldier took another step forward. "I saw what happened in there. With the candles. That little trick with the song."


Waldemar weighed his options. Denial would only make the man more suspicious. And he couldn't afford to have someone watching him too closely, noticing things like how his hood never came off, even indoors.


His fingers found a particular string through the case. He plucked it gently.


The lantern above them flared suddenly, casting their shadows long across the muddy street. In the trees nearby, a dozen birds took flight at once, their wings creating a sound like whispered threats.


The soldier froze, knife half-drawn.


"I'm going to give you some advice," Waldemar said, his voice steady and soft. "These are complicated times. Particularly for those who've seen war. Watching friends die while others prospered."


The birds circled once overhead before settling into the branches yet again,distant eyes gleaming in the darkness like tiny stars.


"I understand your anger," Waldemar continued. "But I am not your enemy. Nor am I what you think I am."


"Then what—"


"I'm someone passing through," Waldemar cut him off. "Someone who will be gone soon enough. And someone who'd prefer not to leave any… unfortunate incidents behind."


He slowly plucked and released another string, and the lantern returned to its normal glow, casting both their faces in equal light.


"Do we understand each other?" Waldemar asked.


The soldier stared at him, jaw working as if chewing on something he couldn't quite spit out.


Waldemar reached into his coat and pulled out a small brown leather pouch. The coins inside clinked like muted bells as he held it out.
"Here," he said. "My earnings from the past three nights."


The soldier's eyes narrowed. "What's this supposed to be?"


"You care about your fellow soldiers, yes? The First Army?" Waldemar kept his voice even. "I'm sure they're in need of medical supplies. Or better yet rations. Consider it a contribution."


The soldier's face flushed dark with an even greater anger. He knocked the pouch away, sending coins scattering across the muddy street.


"You think you can pay me off?" he spat. "Like some common thug? I fought for this country while your kind—"


"My kind?" Waldemar raised an eyebrow.


"Freelance witches. Grisha sympathizers. Whatever you are." The soldier's hand returned to his knife. "Coin won't buy you favor here."


Waldemar sighed. So much for charity. He'd never been particularly good at it in his old life, either.


"I was attempting to show good faith," he said, not bothering to retrieve the scattered coins. "But clearly we have different definitions of the concept."
The birds overhead rustled their wings, a soft sound like impatient fingers drumming on wood.


The soldier glanced up nervously, then back at Waldemar. "Just leave," he said finally, his anger now returned despite temperance. "Before someone gets hurt."
Waldemar nodded once. "I was already planning to. Dawn, most likely."


Without waiting for a response, he turned and continued down the road, listening carefully for any sound of pursuit. None came.


Definitely the right choice, he thought. The constant movement was exhausting, but necessary. Too long in any one place and people started noticing things.
Little things, adding to something dangerous.


The night air bit with more edge after the interaction with the soldier, and the rain had lightened to a fine mist. The few Lanterns not drowned by the earlier poursing casting flickering shadows on the muddy road as he passed.


A soft flutter caught his attention.


Perched on the fence ahead, nearly invisible in the gloom, was a bird a small, dun-feathered thing, with streaked brown wings and a pale throat. Another Ravkan Lark.
It tilted its head at him. Not frightened. Not curious, either. Like it already knew him.


Waldemar didn't tell it to leave. Didn't hum. Didn't breathe too loud. He just walked. The lark followed, flitting from fencepost to branch, always just a few paces behind.
He didn't look back but he felt, the other pressence.


Not the lark. A gaze from the tree line, another watching.


Waldemar tugged the hood further over his ears. Fingers brushing the edge of the case slung across his back.


He should've left sooner. But the song had already taken root.


And really, why wouldn'the wake up in a world like this as a bard from Eorzea?


If he had to be tossed into the pages of a story, why not one where song meant something? Where melody could shift a room, stir the dead, or make saints of monsters and monsters of saints? Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was here to mess things up a little.


Perhaps he could stop Sun and Dark from tearing the continent apart.


After all, hewasthe warrior of light and darkness. Granted, in another fictional world; one he'd much rather have been transmigrated into.


Then again, he supposed the Garleans' view on magic probably wasn't that far removed from Fjerda's opinion on the small science.


He chuckled to himself

---

A.N. This story idea ambushed me out of nowhere after finishing the tv series and refused to let go a simultaneous OC insert AND crossover all wrapped into one character. The concept of dropping a FFXIV Male Viera Bard into the Grishaverse just seemed too deliciously absurd not to explore.
While this starts from a somewhat cracky premise, I do plan to treat the story and world with genuine care. There will be plenty of easter eggs and nods to other fandoms through Waldemar's songs and references, but the emotional core will remain sincere.

You can expect POVs from fan favorites like the Darkling and Alina, plus others including Baghra and Mal. That said, this is primarily meant to be a fun project. I've read some stellar Grishaverse fics that meticulously analyze every lore detail, and while I respect that approach, I'll be taking some creative liberties rather than following the original plot beat for beat.

Hope you enjoy this musical rabbit hole we're tumbling down together!