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[ari-riot]

Postcards from Othard: Kugane

[A crisp sheet of Doman paper. A tower stretches up and up to a moon who grins with jagged teeth. The tower’s eyes are watercolored yellow. Some lone figure stands atop it, drawn in fuzzy, loving pencil. On the back, in lilting Dalmascan:]

Dear Owyne and Olyffe,

years since last I visited kugane, some treacherous path to the tower roof remains familiar—the gently foul scent of the onsen hits my nose as an unwashed lover—

ever heavier boxes I heaved for that coin to pour into the hostelry, the sake sweeter in my desperate throat than memorymadru that tasted like Home—at nights, the blooded Sands came to me and called me Daughter—

glitzy city of lies and towers—you are safe Here, kugane croons, scraps of Peace caught in its jagged sekiseigumikatana teeth—

somewhere in the city:

a teawoman offers her grass-water to a drunken namazu—a Doman dockworker looks across the fat sea towards Memory—a man’s hairy testicles swing in the onsen steam—a sekiseigumi bows low before a Garlean—ijin travelers swallow their dango whole—a Dalmascan longs again for that sweet sake to Drown in—

the Sands call me across the Sea—

Love,

Ari

[ari-riot]

Nightmare Note #1

TW: nongraphic body horror/eye trauma

[A torn napkin dotted with oldblood. There is no image, merely erratic Dalmascan:]

Drake,

your smile is mother’s, but cruel everynight, you softly slink into my nightmares your metalhand catches my quivering chin

where have you been, Mermaid? your grin cauterizing, weren’t you coming to find me? yet here you are, playing adventurer.

piece by piece you weld their metal to your skin behind you, the Witch claps clanking whitemetal drips our blood, the Nebra stained red eternal

oh sister, you say, plucking out my eyes with metal claws, Faram took these from you, did he?

she has made you as she is all our shared ghosts caterwaul at my pain they know who forsook them

No. No. I can’t keep writing this.

Again and again, I dash myself up against their war machines. Again and again, I fall. As weak now as I was then. Weaker perhaps. If I find you, what shall I find? Will you be my brother still? Will you have forgiven me?

Could I even ask your forgiveness, after all my failures?

Come into my dreams. Torment me. It’s no less than I deserve.

But I will save you. No matter the cost.

Love,

Ari

[ari-riot]

Postcards from Eorzea: Ishgard

[A careworn scrap of paper, nearly a circle. A faceless statue stands at the end of a bridge. The bridge stretches over some eternal void painted in angry purples and reds. Spear in hand, the stature is implacable, protective, cold as Ice. Children scuttle as bugs, hands filled with snow. On the back, in lilting Dalmascan:]

Dear Owyne and Olyffe,

white drips out the sky as so much blinding dandruff—it sears where my clothes don’t cover, trickling rivers of pain running down my bare skin—the Chill burrows deep deep in me with its razor claws—my teeth make to chatter out my skull—

they tell me I should dress less like a Dalmascan, but what, then, should I dress as?

their brume of unwanted, unnamed myste children swells around the Forgotten Knight—a thousand years of war make no people kinder—

the tavern’s fire sings for me—I make for the stairs—

some freezing things spatters with force on the back of my head—a child giggles bright as the sun glinting knifesharp off snow—another handful of cold hits me, splashing across my left shoulder—another peal of childlaughter—

surrounded, suddenly, by this mishmash of hyur & elezen myste children, all with balls of freezing white in their unwanted tiny hands—the melting cold seeps deep into where usually my blood Boils—but I—laugh as they pelt me with more—

in that corner, I see your impish smiles—Come and play, ari—

one of their TempleKnights oversees without interest—for enough coin, he would turn the other way, if I wanted to slice the children open on my blade—who would miss them?—

I scoop snow up into both my hands, packing a perfect ball—it flies at one of the children—

the Game begins—

Love,

Ari

[ari-riot]

Postcards from Eorzea: Gridania

[A napkin, stained with brown sauce, a water wheel spins spins spins with spiky trees in the background, shaded dark with ink. On the back, in lilting Dalmascan:]

Dear Owyne and Olyffe,

green, green, endless gnawing green, trees form a blanket of sinister green Sky—what is it, that lurks in that grimdark canopy? where the birds shriek and the leaves glimmer—

their Elementals, their Kami—sing sweet under my scales, soothing, gentle—promising—Obey and Be Well, they Sing Green—like golmore, and their fabled GreenWord—

round elezen eyes mark me Foreigner as I enter the Waterwheel city, perhaps even they Know—the Sands, not their Green flow through my Veins, somewhere the Sandsea laps against a jagged shore—

their land is Loud and all Knowing—the grass pulls at my feet, tugging, beseeching, bright, threatening with its sharp teeth to pull me under—the old geomancy in my veins, something like father’s cajoling teachings whisper through me with rememory, it would be easy, so easy to call upon this foreign land, but the cost—

Faram, this is how they treat with their Land here? my hand curls over Zalera’s hilt, her Bloodsong pushing out gridanian Green--

Love,

Ari

[ari-riot]

Postcards from Eorzea: Ul’dah

[A rough sketch on a flimsy card. A walled desert city looms, with a large domed building stretching high. A merchant offers gleaming jewels to travelers. A chocobo cranes its neck to peer at a bright banner. Watercolors have been hastily, haphazardly applied, browns and blacks and the occasional red or blue. On the back, lilting cursive.]

Dear Owyne and Olyffe:

the desert memorysands flood again through my marrow, the ugly Eorzean Sun browbeats the thanalan rocks into a monstrous teeth-bared Submission—

I walk in search of the Rabanastre of our collective Dalamscan Dreams—

Ul’dah protrudes as a Promise, opulent, grotesque, from the crags, with its merry spires and domes, a sweet relief of promised oasis Water, banners hang limply bright in the still desert air—

a mound of future-bones piles outside the city—

the refugees, congregated in unending desolation; buzzards circle and circle above, a Promise, sweetly singing—

those of the city climb ever higher on the funeral mounds, gil and gil passing and passing hands, spiraling ever upwards, the Promise’s Threat: Anyone Can Succeed—

the rich climb to the heavens, monstrous and Successful—

Nald’Thal, their God of Commerce & Death, gnashes his Teeth and Feasts on All

Love,

Ari

[ari-riot]

Postcards from Eorzea: Limsa Lominsa

[A crude card, ripped unevenly into a nearly rectangle. In blurred, foggy pencil, a towering Boat swells above a dock, a lone fisher casts her line into a winedark sea. On the back, in lilting Dalmascan:]

Dear Owyne and Olyffe,

fog curls a gentle, proprietary tongue over a spired, tall city—an ancientrelic pirate gums over coffee-soaked hardtack, wisps of feygrey hair like clouds over translucent scalp—she rubs a knee that sings sweetly of Storms—

Sea churns froth below my feet dangling off the dockedge—salt singes my nose—

some hand, smoothed as a piece of SandseaGlass, grasps my elbow—the relic mugs me a grin, sits herself flush against my side, her feet swinging and swinging off the edge—

“catch us some fish, love,” a voice coarse as any salt

she presses her Rod into my hand; tiny fish flock to the line with flappingmouth desperation—

she croons “Oh Navigator, guide us to your shore of Plenty”, and materializes some stove from air to cook what I catch—

unseasoned, the cooked fish taste only of brine—the pirate swallows small fish whole, gulping them down as a fangless mermaid might—

so, mouth full, I thank her.

Love,

Ari