mirageofthecrystal

[mirageofthecrystal]

did i find you? or your clone lol

THAT WAS ACTUALLY ME!

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 7: Pawn

pawn (noun)

a chess piece of the smallest size and value. A pawn moves one square forward along its file if unobstructed (or two on the first move), or one square diagonally forward when making a capture. Each player begins with eight pawns on the second rank, and can promote a pawn to become any other piece (typically a queen) if it reaches the opponent's end of the board.

“Chess is a game of war,” Faiolan’s father would always tell him when they sat down to play. Faiolan always had his doubts on the veracity of this claim, seeing as his father was by no means a mighty warrior, soldier, or had even taken part in the wages of war. But once Alyosius had acquiesced to his son’s fervent desires for knighthood and glory, they had sat down each night to begin a match of the most noble art. It was not until Faiolan was older, wiser, more seasoned in battle, that he would look back on his father’s clever strategies. Pieces moved across the dual-toned board, which he realised were not simply strokes of brilliance in an insipid game, but tactics made manifest. By no measure a warrior, but Aloysius’ mind for playing the field of battle was keenly sharp, something his son would go on to exemplify in his own leadership, years and years later. 

“Where do you imagine we should start,” Aloysius inquired, as his son stared at the board in visible confusion. He saw the pieces assembled in their neat rows, saw their distinct appearances wrought into the stone, but knew not a thing of this game they called chess, save that it was the pastime of many a noble Lord and Lady. 

“This one? The one with the crown?” Faiolan indicated the king. Aloysius smirked, lifting his own king and turning it in the light. 

“Perhaps on the field of battle would a king be of the most import, the most worthy of recognition, and even in the game of chess they are an integral piece. So long as the king is on the board, the game remains active. Only by losing your king will you be brought to defeat. However, if I were to answer that same question I posed to you, my answer would be the pawn.” The row of small foot soldiers stood to the fore of the pieces, many with spears clutched mightily in their hands, or shields prepared in defence of lord and land.

“Just like in battle, the pawn is often considered expendendable. They are the most prominent on the board, the seemingly least effective, and many players will sacrifice them for grander plays. But I contest that you cannot win a game without proper utilisation and respect of the pawns, just as a commander cannot win a battle if he wastes his foot soldiers with reckless abandon. As soldiers grow in experience, and grow to trust their commander, they become a more effective unit, capable of turning back hordes many times their own size. And many overlook the fact that by moving a pawn across the board without being captured, they may promote it to another piece, thereby increasing its strategic repertoire. Never underestimate the pawn, and never underestimate the soldiers serving under you. Through their bravery and accolades do you gain prestige of your own, and one day you may even find them risen up as your contemporaries. Knighthood knows no status, or at least, it should not. It is only for the staunchest of hearts and the most dedicated defenders. And thus brings us also to our next piece.”

In Ishgardian chess sets, both chocobo-mounted knights as well as dragoons represented the same piece, varying from set to set. “The charge of the chocobo, the lead of a mighty dragoon. Both are fearsome manoeuvres, and both are much more effective when utilised correctly. The same is true for the knight, for though their range of motion is greater than the pawn, it is difficult for some players to use such a move effectively. Moving into the path of a well placed pawn to take a Bishop or a Tower, for example, can mean disaster, same as a chocobo knight meeting an unsuspecting spear.” Aloysius showed variations of the knights movements, both long and sweeping or short and sudden, each in the shape of an L across the board. 

“The Bishop is next, and represents the authority of the Holy See in matters of state and conflict. It is our faith that guides us, and it is under Halone’s eye that we enter combat, hoping to bear her blessing and her fury against our foes. No action can be taken without the sanction of the Orthodoxy and the blessing of the Archbishop, for his word carries the burden of Halone’s authority. Their ability to traipse across the board almost as they please represents their influence in and out of the field of battle, and how much power they truly hold. To say the hearts and minds of a foe or to strike the fear of our god within them are as equally important as striking them with steel.”  

“But priests aren’t warriors! They shouldn’t be in the battle,” Faiolan protested, and his father chuckled at his youthful naivety. 

“And do you truly believe that it is only ever soldiers that find themselves in battle? That no innocents can be caught between the hammer and anvil? That the soldiers do not require spirit and succour? No, dear boy, battle is home for more than just knights and soldiers. Battle is an all consuming fire that does not carry who or what is caught in its blaze. And don’t forget, men and women of the cloth are often mighty in the magical arts, and our Astrologians can wield magics all their own under the guidance of the stars.”

Little Faiolan considered the wisdom of his father, his mind alight with raining fire and violent blizzards sweeping across the battlefield. His mouth fell open in awe at the thought of it amongst the clashing of blades. “Woooooow. That sounds so cool! Could I learn to do that too?”

“I suppose you could, if you wished. No one says a knight must rely on the blade alone to dispatch his enemies. But be wary of dividing your focus. It is better to achieve mastery of one thing before moving to the next. Do nothing by a half-measure.”

Faiolan nodded eagerly, and grabbed for one of his pawns. “I’ll start as a pawn, but I’ll work my way across the board. I’ll become a knight, and I’ll learn spells, and I’ll protect all of Ishgard! Can we play now?!”

“But we have yet to speak of the Tower and the Queen-”

“I WANT TO PLAYYYYY.”

“Now now, Faiolan. You’re forgetting one of the most important keys to a sound victory… patience.”   

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFXIV Write - Day 6: Onerous

onerous (adjective)

(of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.

To the Lord Aloysius Penderghast, Head of the Noble House of Penderghast,

As you know, in the last few years we have seen great change sweep across our country. Discontent and unrest among the common folk who believe they were being unduly trod upon. Treachery by the Archbishop and his Knights Twelve. An end to a war which was fueled by millennia long deception and stoked by the hatred of a being whose heart ached with loss. Some lives have been irreparably changed, and far too many have been lost. Your own family has suffered greatly these effects in your own way, and foremost I wish to provide condolence as well as congratulation, the former for all the pain you have endured, the latter for all that has been accomplished despite it. Your son’s induction into the Heaven’s Ward and his achievements in both the Ala Mhigan campaign as well as his bravery in the Ghimlyt Dark are incomparably inspirational. And I hear your daughter’s exceptional skill with the lance almost rival that of Ser Estinien himself in their ferocity.   

Upon my shoulders has been placed the onerous duty of securing the support of the nobility of Houses both High and Minor, in order to fund the efforts of Ishgard’s restoration. For this grand endeavour, we shall obviously have a great need of many resources, those most primary being raw materials, capital, and labour forces. To that end, I believe that Ishgard will be forced to come together in unity in such a way as has been unprecedented in all the long years of our glorious nation’s history.And while the High Houses alone could more easily placate all the dire needs of this effort, I instead thought to reach out to a select few Lords and Ladies in particular whom I believe would be best suited as benefactors and conspirators in my plans. 

I am aware that your House is in dire need of a bolstering to your reputation, what with the sordid rumours and false allegations that I myself was once a subject to under the falsest of pretences. Also am I full aware that House Penderghast has available to it certain connections and channels that can provide a chance to open our hearts and arms to not only our fellow Ishgardians, but to our newly forged allies in the Eorzean Alliance with whom we ever seek common ground and purpose. As such, your cooperation shall allow me to complete a fourfold objective over the course of the Restoration project, and restore much more than simply wall and roof, but also the fabric of our people. Repairing the reputation of those Houses and individuals who suffered the Holy See’s deceptions, bringing together folk of all stripes be they highborn, lowborn, Ishgardian, or foreign, seeing our fair city burgeon with life and possibility, and paving a path for a brighter future. With your aid, all these goals can be set within my reach, and my gratitude would be beyond measure.

Your first inclination may be to scoff at the hand proffered to you, and I cannot blame you for disbelief in both my ambition and the generosity I bring to the fore on behalf of House Haillenarte. I would invite you a chance to have your doubt dissuaded by hosting for you and your lovely family a grand feast of friendship and camaraderie. You need not agree to anything or make any obligations until after you’ve been properly wined and dined, and I have been allowed to say my piece under the auspices of your judgement. And even if you still find yourself wanting to refuse my proposal, we can reinforce friendship between mine House and yours, for I only wish to dispel with all the petty divides that keep us seeing one another as adversaries rather than friends. 

Enclosed with this letter is an official invitation to be presented at entrance, listing the time and date the occasion shall take place. I most fervently look forward to your company and that of your family, and only hope that you will attend with an empty belly and an open mind. 

Yours in gratitude and friendship,

Lord Joacin Charlemend Francel de Haillenarte

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 5: Cutting Corners

“Despite what many of you lot may believe, there is no shortcut to becoming a knight,”

The frigid water crested over their faces as each of them dropped back and submerged themselves into the pool’s depths before pulling themselves back up with each repetition. Seasoned soldiers stared down and jeered from the walls of Camp Dragonhead, watching as the little lordlings endured the time-honoured technique of shirtless sit-ups in absolutely freezing conditions, all while their sergeant drilled into them all that which would forge them into proper knights of Ishgard. The spiel was always the same: no amount of gold, renown, or influence from their families would buy them this position. 

Each of them would have to sweat, bleed, and work for their knighthoods, to be recognized as the brave few that led the forces of Ishgard into their mighty battles against Dravanian hordes. They would pledge themselves to the Holy See’s service, their very lives acting as the shield that barred the way against tooth and claw. And in return for their service, they would be admired by the people of Ishgard, and hopefully feared by her enemies. Through deed and accomplishment they would win admiration and renown all their own, not because of some name stamped upon them at birth, but their own determination and grit on the field of battle. And should they die an honourable death against their foes, their names would be remembered for eternity, spoken in prayers to the Fury to carry them to the heavens above, and recited in songs of great deeds to inspire future generations. 

But until that time came they would be, as Sergeant Reynardoux reminded them, worthless whelps not worth the shit they used to fertilise the fields. And he wouldn’t be treating them any different than all the common soldiers he’d trained. Just because they were to be knights one days, sers and all that nonsense, didn’t mean he was going to let them be soft. “You don’t become a knight in Ishgard without learning to fight nice and proper. I bet most of you thought it was going to be easy. You say some words, wear some fancy armor, maybe fight in a tourney or two and that was that. But we don’t train knights for the pomp and circumstance, we train them to be leaders of men against a foe that wants to see our entire nation turned to nothing but ash in the wind.” 

“What a load of shite,” a recruit by the name of Breaunoux spat saltily, believing it to be under his breath. Unfortunate then that the Sergeant had the sharpest ears of any man this side of Eorzea, because he stepped over and forced Breaun’s head down into the water with a single gauntleted hand. He waited, let the others watch as the young man began to thrash more and more desperately. The Sergeant looked across the others, and grimaced. “Going to let your brother-in-arms drown then? I s’pose I shouldn’t blame you, he’s a git, hasn’t endeared himself to his men much less his betters. He dies now, it might save the lives of a dozen men. A hundred men. The whole damned city, maybe. One bad call, one pompous little remark, one moment of misjudgement is all it would take for a column of dragonfire to peel apart our precious little home into nothing.”

Faiolan watched Breaun’s movements grow weaker, his strength ebbing towards his final breath. In a sudden moment, he launched himself at the Sergeant, who knocked him aside with a firm smack to the head. Faiolan recovered, his skull ringing, and charged at Reynardoux again. The others joined in the effort, and through force of numbers managed to overpower the Sergeant, forcing him down into the water. Breaun leaped up, gasping for air, and wheeled towards his adversary. “Pin ‘im down, lads. See how he likes it.” 

“No. He wasn’t wrong about you being a git,” Faiolan snarled. Breaun was a year older than him and a head and a half bigger, but he also had a reputation for being all talk and no substance. “Who do you think you are, talking back to me? I wouldn’t think myself so high and mighty if my mother was a common whore.” She was no such thing, of course, but Faiolan turned red in a combination of fury and ignominy. He almost wished he’d let the bastard drown, was prepared to do the deed himself just for the satisfaction, but the Sergeant had already disentangled himself from the others and boxed Breaun about the ears. 

“How about it, Penderghast? You wanna show this Dzemael dunce your teeth? Think he deserves a bit of pain for letting such filth drip from his mouth? Or are you gonna stand there and take it from him?"

A moment passed, nobody spoke, and Faiolan made no move for revenge. That was enough for the Sergeant. “Good lad. Revenge is a short-lived thing. It’s a useless thing, especially on the battlefield. Muddles your senses, makes you stupid. But being the bigger man… that takes guts, and it takes calm. And when all the seven hells rain down around you, screams ringing in your ears and men dying in droves, it’s that calm that’ll help you rally your men, take charge of the battle, and maybe even live to hate Breaunoux another day. And you, you little shite-” the Sergeant glowered at Breaunoux, “Give me another hundred o’ them sit ups, and after that, you’ll be scrubbing the latrines of all Camp Dragonhead. And after each one sparkles like a shiny crystal, you’ll turn and thank Penderghast here for saving your stupid, worthless life.” 

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 4: Demeanor (Free Day)

demeanor (noun)

outward behavior or bearing.

Faiolan stood before Ser Aymeric, stone-faced, in command of his faculties even as his heart raced in his chest, threatening to tear itself free. Despite his ironclad demeanor, the Lord Speaker could read every shift of the eye and subtle tensing of muscle like an open book. As if to soften the apprehension between them, he smiled. 

“Truly, there’s no need to contain yourself, ser. I still recall the day you were placed into the service of the Heaven’s Ward as a dutiful squire, the dream of your future sparkling in your eyes. The both of us were but boys back then, lost in the sea of our ambitions and our daydreams. But like me, you had the will to see it through, even from a young age. The drive, the desire, to make your dreams reality, rather than remaining in stifled slumber. You have earned this, Faiolan. Despite the circumstances that brought you to this moment, despite all the misfortune and the conniving whispers of our countrymen. As such, it makes the weight of this responsibility that much more burdensome. You will be forced to prove yourself and your worthiness to the people of Ishgard each and every day. They will expect you to fail, to confirm their bias, to prove that your disgrace is legitimate and that both you and those others who followed a different path deserve punishments yet meted out. You not only represent yourself, your country, your house, or even your compatriots who bear the selfsame office. You represent all who have been called heretic, just or unjust, guilty and innocent, from the unfortunate squalor of the Brume to the highest towers of the Firmament. You are their chance to be redeemed in the eyes of Ishgard, and to repair the reputation of those who cavorted with my father to destroy all that is good in us.”

Responsibility. Burden. Faiolan knew these things well, already had felt them upon his shoulders. His father had prepared him well for the crushing gravity of it all from the moment he was born, though this was not the path that Aloysius would have chosen for his son. Though Aymeric’s words were weighted, he did not deliver his proclamations to dissuade Faiolan. On the contrary, he knew well that it would strengthen his resolve, give him something to prove to all his naysayers. 

“It is an honour, Lord Commander, to be recognized by one of your calibre. And one who knows the stain of disgrace by choices not your own which have plagued your path as obstacles. And I swear to you, and to all the people of Ishgard, that I do not accept this post idly. I do not do it for vanity, for reputation, or for any other reason than that which I have always aspired to: to protect my home, my people, and those that I love with all my heart from those that would seek to undo us all.”

“It sounds as if you’re rehearsed that little speech,” Aymeric jested, raising Faiolan back up from his slightly subordinate posture.

“You need not bow to me while it is only the two of us, you know? Pomp and circumstance surely has its place, but I speak to you now as a friend of you and your family, a comrade in arms, and one who is undeniably responsible for your tribulations. The ceremony shall take place within a fortnight, once we have all the pieces in place. It is there that you will stand before not only your people, but our friends and comrades amongst the Alliance, and say all the vows and the pledges and whatnot. For today, you need not be the staunch noble, the ferocious knight, the unbreakable bulwark, or any of those other things. Today, Faiolan, be simply yourself, and allow me the pleasure of your company. Your sister shall be attending as well, and a few others. I’ve ensured that a platter of muffins has been prepared for your pleasure, the finest salmon that could be found smoked to absolute perfection. It is a day of celebration among friends, of light hearts and full bellies. The weight of the world can be set off our shoulders for at least this night, and tomorrow we may return to the roles fate has written for us. In the final words of a dear friend we’ve lost… a smile better suits a hero. And you are undoubtedly a hero to just as many people as you are a villain.” 

Aymeric placed a reassuring hand on Faiolan’s shoulder, beaming with pride at all the things the man had accomplished. Faiolan felt the warmth in the moment between them, and the gaping wound left behind when he had been forced to flee the only home he had ever known slowly mending at the kindness and generosity he had been shown. He’d been spit on, threatened, called a heretic, mongrel, a dragon’s whore and pawn of the enemy, but he’d also been embraced as a loved son and brother, cheered as a saviour, and lauded as a hero by many others. There was always to be hate and venom in the world, but so long as the scales could be balanced by light and love, Faiolan knew that all he had endured had been worth it, just to know friends such as these. 

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 3: Temper

temper (noun)

a person's state of mind seen in terms of their being angry or calm.

The Inquisitors had been dogging them for a solid week, tracking them across snow and glacier, driving them to the limits of exhaustion and starvation. A great blizzard edged ever closer, looming like holy retribution to break what remained of the sinful army of heretics. Whoever led Ishgard’s forces in the hunt was relentless, merciless, and possessed of a singular obsession to stain the Coerthan snow with the blood of man and dragon both. Hulking forms of those who had undergone the change, committed themselves entirely to their unholy crusade, ploughed through the drifts to carve a path for their less able brethren. And Lady Iceheart, dutiful leader, chosen of Hydaelyn, avatar of Shiva, stood ever at the fore, urging her beloved followers that salvation was only over the next hill or ridge, so long as they held their faith firm. Even a moment of faltering, of slowing down for the briefest respite, could mean their death at the tip of Temple Knight steel. 

Allent collapsed into the snow, his legs begging desperately for rest. Snow immediately began to pile up around him, threatening to turn his momentary stumble into his tomb. A hand reached down to yank him up from an early grave, dusting him off and offering a reassuring shake. “T-thanks, Faiolan,” the young man stammered to his compatriot, who nodded solemnly. “We’ve got to press on,” he said as the wind whipped across them, stinging and biting at any flesh that was bare to it. “I know. I’m just… bloody exhausted. We’ve been marching almost non-stop for what, a week? When are these bastards going to give up the chase?”

“When we’re all dead,” Faiolan responded in the utmost truth. Once the Inquisitors had been seen as paragons of the faith, heroes of the Orthodoxy, instruments of Halone’s will who worked to protect the folk of Ishgard from a subversive menace. But the truth stung even more than the frigid wind, and Faiolan’s own body was being pushed to its very limits. There were many like Allent, those who were not warriors in any right save necessity, who were not cut from the same cloth as himself, his uncle, or many of the others who pledged swords and lives to the cause of peace. Many among them simply had nowhere else to go save for a long fall and a short rope, and thus the heretics provided them asylum in exchange for any help they can give. Allent in particular was no prodigy with a blade, but his hands worked well with a needle and thread, sewing blankets, tents, and garments for the lot. In situations like this, the warmth of a proper cloak could mean the difference between life and death, the same as a staunch shield to turn away an enemy’s blade.  

“Bastards just can’t accept that we want peace,” Allent spat, vitriol bubbling up inside him. His parents had been taken by Inquisitors, executed for their crimes after intense interrogation. To hear the boy tell it, the only thing they’d been guilty of is wishing the war could be over, and that the Dravanians would simply let them live their lives. For the crime of wishing peace could come, heresy was the only appropriate charge that could be levied. Hard to say if it was better to be executed, than to rot inside a cell the way Faiolan’s own sister did now. But so long as he and his uncle, a pair of trueblooded heretics now, evaded their capture, the Inquisitors would ensure they held leverage over the House Penderghast to keep them in line. 

Ysayle had paused, allowing the rear guard to replace her and her loyal swords as she drifted back towards Allent and Faiolan, overhearing their conversation. She smiled at the young, bitter man. “They cannot accept what they do not understand. To them, peace was never an option. They believe, because they have been told so, that the dragons wish us extinguished. That Nidhogg cast the first stone in this conflict, for he has always hated mankind. They act out of self-preservation, based on deception. And until we can restore sight of the truth to the people of Ishgard, peace will only be a lofty goal. Lofty, but not one that is impossible to pursue. We must needs find someone willing to listen to that which I’ve seen, someone to understand the truth…” Easier said than done, Faiolan knew. Who would be receptive to the words of traitors who lay with dragons, their timeless enemy. 

A disturbance came from the front of the procession. The meeting of metal against metal. A moment later, appearing as if from nowhere, the Temple Knights were upon them, armour causing them to blend with the billowing snow. The air rippled with the aether of magic as a rain of fire descended from a nearby ridge, a familiar face grimacing down upon his entrapped prey. A wicked scar twisted across his throat from where Faiolan had once plunged a dagger, a strike that should have killed the man. He’d spent some time in the custody of these same heretics only a handful of months ago, but deftly escaped and slaughtered some of their number in the attempt. Since then, he’d wanted nothing more than to seek their deaths to absolve himself of embarrassment.  

“Protect the boy,” Ysayle bid Faiolan as she hurtled towards the frontline, forming a blade of icy aether in her grasp. He himself wrested the greatsword from his back, placing himself between Allent and the onslaught of enemies that came from all sides. A disconcerting sensation scratched at his brain, urging him to charge up the ridge and meet the orchestrator of the attack in battle, but Faiolan reminded himself of his duty. He was a bulwark for the less powerful, less fortunate, and less able to defend themselves. He clove one of the Temple Knights almost in twain. Blood streaked down the blade of his sword, splattered on his fur trimmed cloak, and the exhilarating sensation of battle rang in his chest as his victim’s strangled final scream twisted in his ears. From a second Temple Knight he took a head with a powerful swing, and a third he punched his greatsword through the man’s breastplate with all the strength he could muster. A fireball erupted to his left, tossing him and Allent off their feet and causing the nearby snowbank to entirely evaporate into momentary mist before the extreme cold of the air brought it raining back down as disparate flakes. 

“Damn them. If we don’t force them off that ridge, they’ll scorch us to cinders,” a draconic voice cried out, one of those who had imbibed the blood of the dragon and undergone the transformation. Those in their monstrous forms used their bulky bodies and resistance to flame to shield the rest of the party, but their protection was not absolute, especially as they contended with soldiers by tooth and claw. Faiolan struggled back up to his feet, and saw to it that Allent still drew breath. His sights were set again upon the ridge and his adversary, and once more the voice in his head prodded him into action. He’d need only crest the ridge, sword in hand, and he could cut the man into bloody ribbons, grind his bones into dust, and take pleasure in every moment of anguish and every scream of agony as the blade tore through him. 

“I’ll be okay,” Allent assured Faiolan, grabbing for the sword and shield of a fallen Temple Knight. “Send ‘em all to hell,” he smirked, though his unsureness with his newfound arms shown plainly in his grip. 

 Doubts flickered in Faiolan’s mind that Allent would see the day through, but the continuing bombardment was his more pressing concern. From the corner of his eye he could see both Ysayle and his uncle, Artemoux, dancing with a battalion of knights, stemming the greatest part of the tide alongside a few of the others. But each eruption of vicious flame made their stand more desperate, and Faiolan took this as a sign that charging the ridge was his best course of action. He met the resistance of several more Temple Knights, these more hardened than the others, and while they relied on their expert training and group tactics, Faiolan knew all they did, and his greatsword was a whirl of steel and death. The small voice in his head grew louder, thudding against his mind with every drop of blood he spilled, screaming for more. He bared his fangs, feeling himself teetering on the edge with each foe felled. He pressed his way up onto the ridge, and easily ripped through the first of the casters raining fire down upon his comrades. And then his eyes met the cold, hollow ones of his foe, and all the world around him was drowned in a singular voice.

KILLLLLLL.

It filled Faiolan’s senses, rage and hate burning in every fiber of his existence. Mariuseaux, that vile Inquisitor responsible for the woes of Faiolan and his kin, the reason that these knights had hunted with such unrelenting fervour to find and kill the pack of heretics. The parting gift Faiolan had left him had harnessed his hunger for bloodshed and hatred onto a singular point, to render unto Faiolan the demise that he had been barely spared. Seeing his most mortal of foes brought a taunting grin upon Mariuseaux’s face, for at least he had the traitorous scum right where he wanted him. Faiolan’s blind hatred narrowed his vision, so that only the Inquisitor sat within his sights. The other knights, their swords and spears brought to bear against their master’s quarry, went unnoticed as Faiolan faded into the embrace of his fury, the dragon within stirring and opening its great maw to satiate itself on carnage.

Faiolan dashed forward, hoping to rend the Inquisitor’s flesh from his very bones, breaking himself upon the shields of the faithful fools. He unleashed a burst of foul energy that erupted from the earth, forming into shadowy ebon claws that impaled the knights upon them and bringing forth a fountain of blood and gore upon the ground. Faiolan trudged on, Mariuseaux drawing his blade in bold defiance, striking at him with the spiked lash in his other hand. Their swords clashed, Mariuseaux’s slight, robed form belying his strength. He forced Faiolan back two paces, but the distance was closed again, and again. Any who drew near to the fight found their life summarily ended by the hungering maw that gaped within Faiolan, who guided his hands in a whirlwind of chaos. The Inquisitor deftly danced and dodged, but each step brought him closer and closer to the edge of the ridge. The blizzard had slowly begun to engulf them, their battle unfolding in the eye of the storm. 

“So far you have fallen, boy. From proud noble of a squalid little house, fleeing into the arms of your traitorous ilk until you’ve become nothing more than a slavering beast no better than the enemy you consort with.” 

Perhaps words formed in Faiolan’s mind, but those did not escape his lips. No, for his body did not answer the call of his faculties. Rather, the beast within spewed its vitriol, its hatred, its burgeoning desire to tear Mariuseaux limb from limb.

“DIE!” It shrieked in a voice that sounded like Faiolan’s own.

“DIE! DIE! DIE!”

The sword pressed against the chestplate concealed under Mariuseaux’s robes. It parted the metal like a hot knife through butter, passing through layers of cloth, flesh, muscle, bones, until it embedded itself down to the hilt. The Inquisitor faltered back one step, then another, until the ground left beneath his feet, and he only was prevented from a fall by the grace of the blade upon which he was speared. The wicked smile never left his face, not even as the light left his eyes, and the weight of exhaustion became too great for Faiolan to bear. His mind restored to control of his body, he let the sword and the corpse of his foe slip from his grasp as he collapsed upon the ridge, darkness swallowing him entire. 

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 2: Bolt

bolt (verb)

fasten (an object) to something else with a bolt

(of a person) move or run away suddenly.

Despite the eternally biting winds that forever embraced Coerthas in the wake of the Calamity, Faiolan still found himself wiping profuse sweat from his brow, having discarded his tunic to feel winter’s chill upon his flesh. Beneath his gloves of calfskin, his right hand grew sore, the constant striking of hammer against nails and bolts creating new calluses where they did not already exist.

A symphony of tools, sawing and striking and shaping, rang across the Firmament, numerous pairs of hands deftly working on the rebuilding effort. Where once stood a reminder of shattered lives, lost loved ones, and a conflict spanning the ages, now began to take on the silhouette of comfort and home. The restoration of Ishgard was an effort most monumental, and House Penderghast had opted to not only pour their resources entirely into the project, but lend their own hands to the building. The Ishgard of old had threatened to tear the family apart, had cast its children into chains, and almost brought about their absolute ruin, but those were wounds of the past. There was only the future now, and Faiolan wished his House to be a part of the positive change rather than join those still holding misbegotten grudges.

Unfortunately not all were of the same mind. Perhaps feeling a similar pall of responsibility for the destruction that had been caused, many of the volunteers who wished to aid in the Restoration had once been branded heretics, only allowed back into the Holy See after extensive and often aggressive ‘interviews’ to assure they were worthy of pardon. Many were turned away for willingly and readily taking the lives of their enemies, spilling Ishgardian blood while that same blood pulsed through their veins. Not all were given the consideration of a young lordling, cast out under false charges. And there were those who looked upon Faiolan just as harshly, just without the power to do anything about it.

Faiolan often worked quietly on his own, erecting the frameworks of houses from wood, then hoisting the stones into place, sealing them together, and one by one he aided in the erecting of new homes for those in need. And on most days, folk left him to his own devices, while sometimes he’d be brought meals, extra supplies, or missives from Knight Commander regarding his station in the Heaven’s Ward. Yet another piece of the puzzle that roused hatred in some and admiration in others, seeing the organisation reforged after their reputation had been abolished so thoroughly by treachery and malice, but reeling at a heretic soldier filling those lauded ranks.

Behind the din of tool and toil, Faiolan thought he detected a note of despair. Just down the way, in fact, he spotted a group of burly workmen hunched over something sprawled out over the stone roadway. One of them was smirking, clearly the leader, clutching a hammer in his hand that glistened crimson. Faiolan laid down his own hammer, and made his way over to the idling crew, their job plainly unfinished but their efforts dedicated elsewhere. Upon growing closer, Faiolan spotted that which had taken their interest so keenly; a man, clothes threadbare, hands rough from the same sort of work the rest of the lot had been doing, but blood bubbling forth from a fresh wound on his head. He rocked and groaned, tears filling his eyes as he begged Halone for mercy.

“The Fury has no mercy for filth and traitors,” the hammer-wielding thug pronounced, preparing to take another strike at the unfortunate source of his ire. “You lot all think that because the war is over, because things ‘round here have changed, that we’ll just forgive what you did? My wife burned in dragon fire, down to nothin’ but cinders, her screams still ringing in my ears whenever I feel so much as the warmth of a bonfire. The same sort of death you cheered for, eh? Even if you yourself didn’t cut her down, didn’t stop you from killing others in the name of that icey whore.” The man on the ground choked out another sob, his words unintelligible. “It’s about time you were given the fate you deserve. S’pose you’ll be with her soon, down in the seven hells with the rest of the traitors, liars, and murders.” The thug brought the hammer down, and Faiolan swept into its path, a set of metal fingers wrapping around the attacker’s forearm, points of its fingers digging into flesh. The magitek prosthetic enhanced Faiolan’s strength a mite, effortlessly halting the arc of the hammer while the man balked in disbelief.

“Another one o’ you heretics comin’ to the rescue?”

“Hey, Parisioux, I don’t think this is just some bleedin’ heretic. Ain’t he-”

“Drop the hammer,” Faiolan insisted.

“And what if I don’t?” The man tried to tug his arm free, but found Faiolan’s grip difficult to break. 

“I’m going to ask you again. Drop the hammer, and leave this poor soul alone. He was not responsible for the death of your wife, and like all of us, has likely lost loved ones of his own. We’re supposed to be forging a new path, not dwelling in the shadows and lies of the past.”

“To the HELLS with your new path. They should have strung the lot of you up outside the gates as a warnin’. Letting heretics walk the streets, consortin’ with dragons. Better off when we had our borders closed to strangers and filth.”

As if to punctuate the man’s sentiment, the loud cracking of a bone shattering filled the air, the defiant voice twisting into pained screams. The hammer fell idly from his grasp, Faiolan’s arm twisting the fractured limb further and further until the man dropped onto his knees. The other two flung themselves towards Faiolan in vain, believing that an advantage of numbers could overcome the disparity in prowess. Without a weapon even, Faiolan dispatched the trio. His boot buried into the side of the leader’s head, knocking him into the cobbled street and freeing his arm. He placed a single punch into the throat of another, which elicited a sickening gurgle of blood. The last roared in fearful fury, and Faiolan laced his metal fingers into the man’s shirt, hoisting him off the ground and punching him in the gut, flushing the wind from his lungs before dropping him atop the first.

“One last chance before I find myself lacking in mercy,” Faiolan said calmly, though his insides itched to rip, tear, and rend them apart for their disrespect. The trio struggled to gather themselves, and trained their eyes on him for a moment longer, before the bolted down the street and out of his sight. The threat dispatched, Faiolan reached down to help their victim up onto his feet, checking the wound which still oozed profusely. 

“We’ll need to get you to a chirurgeon, friend. But those men shan’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of it.” There was a cruel glint in Faiolan’s eyes, belying a savage darkness beneath the surface that he’d thought tamed for good. Sometimes it still crept up from the depths of his soul, clawing and gnashing for blood and violence. The glint dispersed, and the injured man sobbed into Faiolan’s tunic, incapable of forming words of gratitude for his life. Faiolan had recognized the man, and the man him, and t’was not the first time that Faiolan had plucked him from the jaws of death. A far cry from the battlefield of yore, but Faiolan never forgot those whom he’d saved… or the many, many more that had been lost. Peace was on the horizon for Ishgard, but challenges such as these still stood as an obstacle for that sun to finally rise on a new day.   

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 1: Cross

cross (verb)

to run counter to

to confront in a troublesome manner

to turn against

“You may be my brother, Artemoux, but you have CROSSED the line. They are my children, not yours. And I will not allow you to fill their heads with such nonsense!” 

Aloysius’ finger jabbed against the chest of his brother, who despite the former’s fury remained as calm and collected as if he were staring into the maw of a dragon opening for its next morsel. “Lest you have forgotten, our House sits upon a precipice where one side means prosperity, and the other means absolute destruction, or at the very least boundless shame.” 

“Perhaps you should have considered the fate of your family name before absconding with a High House maidservant and making her your lady bride. As I recall, it was marrying Amandine that brought this pall of embarrassment upon you and I, and saw us all but excised from the affairs of House Durendaire and forged into pariahs. If either of us are responsible for the predicament our House finds itself in, it is most assuredly you. And that which you call nonsense is a path which is good and honourable for them both. Honour that could be restored to our name, and to the status of our House. But instead, you cling to the vain hopes that you can use your children as bargaining chips, marrying off Brielle and consigning Faiolan to the doom of following in your footsteps.”

“And you think it better that I throw their lives away on the field of battle, wrestling with dragons and Imperial legions? Bad enough you’ve been filling the boy’s head with fanciful tales of adventure since he practically crawled from the womb, but now my daughter as well?”

“And what is so fanciful about her defending her home from our oldest and most ferocious enemy? If she wishes to walk the path of the dragoon, then you should be dropping to your knees in gratitude that she would sacrifice of herself so much for our nation. As for Faiolan, he too does not share your pitiful ambitions for him. He aspires to the heights of the Heaven’s Ward, and even as one so young, I find it hard to deny that he could ascend to it if given the proper encouragement.”

“Pitiful? You would call my ambition pitiful? Simply because I seek the surest way to bring about our House’s rise with the lowest risk to mine own blood?”

“They are my blood as well, brother. Yet unlike you, I do not only consider their lives but the way they wish to live them. Brielle does not have ambitions of being a housewife, any more than I wish to be a cobbler. And Faiolan will not thrive ‘neath the weight of balanced accounts and laborious meetings. The blood of our ancestors burns too hotly within him for him to be contained by such shackles.”

The longer Artemoux went on, bandying about the childrens’ desires rather than their best interests, the deeper shade of crimson Aloysius’ face grew, to the point where he resembled a rolanberry and threatened to burst betwixt a pair of pinching fingers. Artemoux, ever the expert of knowing when to advance and when to retreat whether it be with lance or with words, saw the opening for another thrust. 

“You believe that because you emerged from our mother moments before, that your word is that of Halone herself so far as we Penderghasts are concerned. I am here to tell you that you are wrong, and just as father never got everything that he wished for the both of us, neither will you receive that which you so rabidly desire from your own offspring. Better to lift them up and help them take flight than to pin them down in a gilded cage. Recall as I said, that if not for your own indiscretion, we would not find ourselves in a predicament from which you desperately believe you must save us from. You spat in the face of our father when you married for love, and yet you would seek to tie the strings of your daughter to men whom she may have never even meant. But so long as you are clear from the consequences of your actions, you can ensure that your children suffer them instead.”

Like a dragon taking a spear through its very heart, Aloysius grew limp and devoid of life, for nary a moment. A long, drawn out sight escaped his lips, the only indication that he had not succumbed to the wounds of their verbal sparring. “My… indiscretion, as you called it, most assuredly placed us in this position. And though you believe that I seek to doom my children for mine own sins, I do it to spare them from the anguish of them. I do not believe I made a mistake in marrying Amandine. My love for her burns bright as the stars above by which we chart our destinies. But others, you included, call it as such, a grave error, and continue to punish me for it. I have already crossed that bridge, and burned it in my wake. I will not allow Brielle and Faiolan to fan those flames into consuming our entire lives.”

Artemoux thought the battle won, but his brother displayed more resilience than he’d expected. However, his expression softened, and his hand found Aloysius’ shoulder. “I do not think your love for your wife was ever a mistake, brother. And I would never begin to punish you for following your heart’s yearning towards happiness and bliss. I merely bid you to consider that allowing your children to do the same, to follow passion rather than tradition, may not be the worst course. Even if it brings about the end of our House in whatever official capacity we have left… is not their joy, the same stripe that you no doubt felt on the day of your wedding, worth more than legacy?” 

[mirageofthecrystal]

I hate tumblr post editing. So I'm done trying to edit things to look nice.

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge SEPTEMBER 1st - 30th, 2022

Welcome to YEAR 6 of our annual FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge, folks!

Last year we had 10,390 total entries! Which brings us to a total of 31,556 unique written entries over the last 5 years. That is just incredible! And something that I think that we should be super proud of as a creative fan community.

Once again, a quick thanks to you all for your patience with me last year as I was slow to communicate on a lot of things. I was working full-time, traveling, and very pregnant with my first kiddo - who came 3 weeks early, before I had a chance to wrap up all of the FFxivWrite2021 details. The very belated recap post can be found here if you missed it, and all winners have been contacted.

Now, without further ado, let’s get into how this challenge works!

Here’s the gist:

Runs from September 1st - 30th, 2022. During that timeframe:

Visit sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​ once a day at 12:00pm (noon) PDT for the prompt of the day. Convert to your timezone accordingly. All prompts will be one word or brief phrase that you can interpret however you please.

You have 24 hours to write something for that prompt.

Submit the link to your entry post via this Google Form: https://forms.gle/SxFpwkKPLqnUwAYD9

There are no length or skill requirements (short & sweet is fine!).

There will be no 24-hour deadlines for the first week, September 1st - 7th.

Makeup/extra credit days every Sunday.

Every entry posted within its 24-hour deadline will count toward a participation prize raffle at the end.

You can join any time with any prompt #! There’s no need for latecomers to start with prompt #1. Picking up with the most recent prompt is A OK.

If you’re an artist and you would like to volunteer to do a simple black & white illustration as a participation prize at the end of this challenge, you can volunteer here!

RULES & MORE INFO can be found here: https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/

(( a new expac calls for new banner art - by @dantinmikannes ))

Rules & Info || Prompt List || #FFxivWrite2022 || kofi

[mirageofthecrystal]

Road trip has begun. See you guys in Eorzea once we’re in the new apartment, and then hopefully CONTENT.

[mirageofthecrystal]

Obligatory Summer Outfit post.

[mirageofthecrystal]

Especially with everything going on, I’m not promising a completionism run like last year, but I love this event. I love being pushed to write even if it isn’t perfect. Just gotta try not to burn myself out again.

FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge SEPTEMBER 1st - 30th, 2022

Welcome to YEAR 6 of our annual FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge, folks!

Last year we had 10,390 total entries! Which brings us to a total of 31,556 unique written entries over the last 5 years. That is just incredible! And something that I think that we should be super proud of as a creative fan community.

Once again, a quick thanks to you all for your patience with me last year as I was slow to communicate on a lot of things. I was working full-time, traveling, and very pregnant with my first kiddo - who came 3 weeks early, before I had a chance to wrap up all of the FFxivWrite2021 details. The very belated recap post can be found here if you missed it, and all winners have been contacted.

Now, without further ado, let’s get into how this challenge works!

Here’s the gist:

Runs from September 1st - 30th, 2022. During that timeframe:

Visit sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​ once a day at 12:00pm (noon) PDT for the prompt of the day. Convert to your timezone accordingly. All prompts will be one word or brief phrase that you can interpret however you please.

You have 24 hours to write something for that prompt.

Submit the link to your entry post via this Google Form: https://forms.gle/SxFpwkKPLqnUwAYD9

There are no length or skill requirements (short & sweet is fine!).

There will be no 24-hour deadlines for the first week, September 1st - 7th.

Makeup/extra credit days every Sunday.

Every entry posted within its 24-hour deadline will count toward a participation prize raffle at the end.

You can join any time with any prompt #! There’s no need for latecomers to start with prompt #1. Picking up with the most recent prompt is A OK.

If you’re an artist and you would like to volunteer to do a simple black & white illustration as a participation prize at the end of this challenge, you can volunteer here!

RULES & MORE INFO can be found here: https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/

(( a new expac calls for new banner art - by @dantinmikannes ))

Rules & Info || Prompt List || #FFxivWrite2022 || kofi

[mirageofthecrystal]

CW: Family death, brief mention.

Greetings faithful friends and followers!

Obviously there's been a lack of content lately, and it's a bummer. I want to do a lot, but life moves quite fast around here. I've actually been doing really well, even in a depression sense. Work has been keeping me busy and tired, and my impending move a few states over is consuming some time, lots of money, and creating some stressors. However, on top of that, my partner's grandfather whom she adored just passed away. Funeral arrangements are being made, but since we aren't legally married yet (cuz it's a construct), I probably won't get paid time off, and have no PTO from my job yet (and won't since I'm leaving at the end of the month), so I don't even know if I'm going to be able to go since we NEED money for the move. All that said, lack of content will likely continue for a little while. We'll be moved into our new apartment end of August, and I'm hoping to get my office set up for all my computer needs, and then find a new job immediately. I'm hoping that I'll be around for all the new 6.2 content, and I have some writing projects and GPose ideas burning in my head (some of which may finally be some AUs and stuff). I also put in a bid on a plot in Shirogane after my friend fronted the gil for me. I wanted something in Ishgard, but you all know how housing availability is. You see an available plot you can afford, you go for it. So if you've got any extra build up luck, I'd love to have some of it for the lottery!

That's all for now. May each of you walk with the Fury to shield your back and her arm to help guide your sword.

[mirageofthecrystal]

Delving back into Faiolan's past, some little questions about his time in Ul'dah.

As he was in exile did Faiolan do anything to disguise his identity, such as adopting a "stage name" for his role as a gladiator? Or was he confident that the inward-looking Holy See would have no interest or influence when it came to events in a corrupt desert kingdom countless malms from their borders?

Regardless of any attempts he may have made to disguise his true origins, presumably an Ishgardian elezen of noble bearing would have rather stood out amongst the ragged refugees populating the camps around Ul'dah? Especially given his willingness to challenge troublemakers and even stand up to oppressive Brass Blades. How was he viewed by the other refugees? Did any of them press him for his story, or were they too intimidated by this stern and intimidating figure to question him around the campfire?

From where did he obtain the additional food rations and resources which he shared with the more vulnerable refugees? Was this a surplus he received from his generous and appreciative (ahem) patrons or did he find other means to acquire them?

Was his motivation purely altruistic? Or was there an element of self-interest in his actions? Perhaps a desire to generate loyalty or merely to assert that, although he might be indentured into servitude on the sands of the arena, he remained master of his own fate outside of them?

And finally how did his experiences in Ul'dah change him? Was he forced to reconsider any previous assumptions? Did his experience of life as both noble and pauper alter his attitude towards class or social divisions? Or was he simply disheartened to find other lands as corrupt and unjust as his homeland?

I'm quite embarrassed to say I didn't think too much on the concealment of his identity. And while I think it unlikely that the Holy See would hunt him all the way to Ul'dah, and those who invested in him as a fighter in the coliseum would be unlikely to allow such interference, I think it's worth considering a slight retcon into exactly how he presented himself. Ultimately, I think the backstory of 'fallen noble of icy Ishgard, come to claim glory and riches to one day regain all that he's lost' would fit in right at home with some of the crazy narratives attached to gladiators and the like. They've all got colorful names and colorful tales, and I'm sure Faiolan would have not only adopted one of these false names, but his patrons would have embellished the very basics of his backstory to make it far more fanciful in order to inspire crowd interest. At the very least, in interactions with others outside the coliseum, he abandoned his house name, and only presented his full name on rare occasions.

At first, the other refugees were filled with mistrust. Not only because of rumors that Faiolan came from noble stock, but because of the isolationist policies of Ishgard meaning that in some way, their absence from Carteneau played a hand in fracturing Eorzea and plunging so many into destitution. It's one of those 'find somewhere to place the blame' scenarios where ultimately it doesn't make much sense, but the people need somewhere to direct their ire. Very few people spoke to him, even fewer made him feel welcome, and when he began fighting in the coliseum, even more were jealous that someone would be willing to risk gil to place him upon the stage of battle. They assumed he was flush with coins and was simply leeching off the refugees for everything they had, as a greedy little lordling would. He changed their minds, eventually, through his deeds if not his words.

The gil that he won from his fights, paltry as it was compared to the winnings of his patrons, he used to buy necessities for himself first, maintaining his equipment second, and the excess would go to feeding his fellow man. He often worked side-jobs, escorting caravans, intimidating merchants for other merchants, exterminating pests, anything he could do by his blade to drum up extra gil. He resorted to stealing on occasion as well, when he could get away with it, though he only stole from those whom he knew wouldn't miss a parcel of meat here and a few vials of medicine there. His patrons certainly did not compensate him generously, as they felt they were protecting him from execution at the hand of the Holy See and therefore should be paid for that service. They were vile, manipulative, and everything we've come to expect from the upper crust of Ul'dah. It also helped that from his time serving in the military back in Ishgard, he knew how to make a small amount of resources go a long way, especially when it came to the art of cooking. Faiolan is a bit of a culinarian, after all, and gained most of his trust from the refugees through a sort of 'soup kitchen' effort where he stretched out rations and filled their bellies with the best they could accomplish with the scant little they had.

Faiolan was never one to cling to his nobility. He would have preferred a life without all that obligation, where he could have sought out a life of adventure and excitement. But since that was not to be, Faiolan accepted his lot in life. Luckily for him, his beloved mentor and uncle was a man of extreme compassion and kindness, and truly believed in the plight of the lesser man. From him, Faiolan learned of the deep class divide in Ishgard, and they'd often walk the Brume together with Uncle Artemoux hearing the ails of the people. It was by his spear and those of his comrades that Ishgard was protected from the dragons, and people looked up to him. He'd buy them rounds of drink and hot meals at the Forgotten Knight, distribute blankets for the coldest of nights, and was truly a force for good. And even Faiolan's house, suffering in reputation compared to others, were a house of uplifting the people. They constantly reached out and performed charitable functions, seeing as the lady of the House had once been nothing more than a servant of nobles before her love swept her out of a life of servitude.

All of that is to establish Faiolan's desire to aid the downtrodden and the unfortunate, those whom he'd sworn to protect as a knight and that he could do some small services for even now as nothing, as nobody. His actions were entirely altruistic, simply wanting to give these people around him a better lot in life in any way that he could. He had no grand designs, no desire to show his masters that he still retained some power or piece of his old life. He did good for the sake of good, not for reward or recognition.

Faiolan never TRULY understood how the people of the Brume lived, despite seeing them live their lives of destitution. Being a refugee revealed to him their pains clearer than anything ever could. He learned the true ways of the world, how vileness and corruption reach long and far, and that in every land there are those who suffer for it. He learned stories from the refugees of how the Garleans had taken their homes, or how the destruction wrought by Dalamud's fall had robbed them of their livelihood. Faiolan gleaned the true face of Eorzea, and knew that Ishgard was no different than Ul'dah, or any other city-state, no matter how much they wished to set themselves as better than their contemporaries. It also bred in him the ability to do what needed to be done, something that was always only a whisper before becoming a roar. He was hardened in his heart, learned ruthlessness and cruelty for his enemies in the same time that compassion for his allies bloomed. It cast away preconceived notions of how the world existed, and ultimately set him upon a path of recklessness and darkness. It was in those days, crushed beneath the heel of Ul'dah's rich and powerful, that he first began to feel the whispering of a voice in his ear, though he would not understand its words until much, much later.

Thank you @mimble-sparklepudding, for yet another wonderful ask.

[mirageofthecrystal]

Been trying to learn Anamnesis a bit more and work on my GPose skills. I had a spark of inspiration and struggled through it for a bit to no avail. I took a second crack at it, and formed what I like to call some concept pieces. The title for the project is 'The Dragon Within', referencing the very literal dragonblood that stirs within the breast of the elezen of Ishgard, and my own personal take on how that manifests within Faiolan and grants him some more questionable, corrupting strengths.

[mirageofthecrystal]