The Misjudgment at the Drowning Wench

It happened one dusky evening in Limsa Lominsa, where tempers and taverns often collided. Finn was passing through the Drowning Wench, not to drink, but to observe — to wait for a merchant contact, or maybe to avoid the late sun on the docks.

That’s when he saw it:
A confrontation by the bar — a towering Marauder, all bellow and steel, squaring off against a thinner, younger man who looked one wrong word away from being broken in two.

The crowd had already taken sides. Whispers flared. “Just another drunk axe-swinger picking on someone smaller.” “Marauder types think they own the place.”

And Finn felt it — that quiet tug. The old Tonberry instinct. The flicker of protectiveness for those too fragile to defend themselves.

Without a word, he stepped in. Slipped between them like a shadow. Eyes low, hand already on his knife — not drawn, but not idle. He said nothing. He just stood there.

The Marauder scowled. The crowd murmured approval. The young man played it perfectly — meek, grateful, injured pride and all.

Only later, when the Marauder backed down and left in frustration, did Finn notice the truth.

The Shift in the Air

The moment the tension broke, Finn’s eyes lingered just a little longer than most would.

The young man — too proud in his “thanks.” Too rehearsed in his innocence. Too fast to vanish into the crowd before questions were asked.

And the barkeep — a quiet shake of the head. A muttered curse about “con men and silver-tongued brats.”

Finn stayed long enough to hear what he should’ve noticed earlier:
The Marauder hadn’t started it. He’d been confronted, not the other way around. The “victim” had tried to cheat him over a shipment of goods, and when called out, had leaned on the court of public sympathy.

And Finn… had played his part in the lie.

Reflection in Silence

He left without a word. No correction. No apology. Not then.

But that night, he returned to the cliffs above the sea. Knife in hand, unmoving. Watching the lights of Limsa flicker like lies.

It wasn’t rage that settled in him. It was clarity.
Even the overlooked can deceive.
Even the weak can manipulate.
And he — who prided himself on seeing the hidden — had missed it.

It didn’t harden him. But it tempered him.

From that day on, he didn’t just watch people. He listened to what wasn’t said.
And he asked himself, before every silent intervention: Do I know the whole story? Or just the one I want to believe?