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voidsentprinces · 2 years

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Voidsent AU is base on a few points:

1. Something the occurred long before Amaurot influences its fall and causes reverberations that change how the Ascians and thereby the Garlean Empire functions.

2. The Thirteenth Shard is a different sort of locational beast, the Princes are birth from it falling to the void and are then subsequently for unknown reasons shot towards the Source. But due to the time and space dialation in the void this however causes at least one of them to appear in the First Astral Era while others show up throughout history. Causing what would of been the budding Lambs of Dalamud who we stomp out during our exploration into Tam-Tara Deepcroft to actually form sooner and in the Coerthas region. Allowing this once budding cult to actually have time to build steam and influence the founding of Ishgard. We’ll get back to them in a moment.

3. The Warriors of Light didn’t appear in the Sixth Umbral Era. Causing the events of Dalamud’s Fall to play out differently and also causing the Scions of the Seventh Dawn to have far less influence on the goings on in Eorzea. They are still relied upon for some things. But they’re more of an investigative group for Primals rather than a political force.

On these key points, I will now go into point 2 since point 1 contains story spoilers.

Due to at least one Prince appearing at the Dawn of Mortal written history, a cult surrounds their presence. Leading to the Lambs of Dalamud to eventually style themselves after the Princes. And with the Founding of Ishgard, they find their perfect template. Where the Heavens’ Ward are suppose to be knights of valor, honor, and virtue. The Cult that styles itself the Sanguine Court seeks to mirror the opposite of Ishgard. Splitting into seven households each one with its own force and group based on; Envy, Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, and Pride. Additionally, the High Houses of Ishgard are blackmailed into tolerating the Court as it knows the secrets that would cause the Dragonsong War to collapse prematurely. Thus is the Court welcome to take any bastard born of Ishgard into their wings as well as operate as the underbelly of Ishgard. This eventually back fires however with the suddenly arrival of several Princes around the time of Doma’s fall to Garlemald. Using this time to rise up and take total control of Ishgard, the Court ousts the High Houses. Banishing them from Ishgard and taking control of the region. Forcing Sharyalan to abandon Idyllshire even sooner than they wanted to. Though Matoya is still in her hovel.

The Court takes the entire Dragonsong War into their own hands but since forcing Ishgard’s hand early. Both Hraesvelgr and Nidhogg are captured and dragged into the depths of the Fallen Ishgard. This will shape the environment Hilda, Estinien and Aymeric grow up in. And alter Haurchefant’s path as House Fortemp managed to flee the burning city with a few High House companions and into Gridania. The Court doesn’t give chase however and instead closes down Ishgard, Coerthas, and Dravania. No one goes in. No one gets out. And they take this to a logical extreme. As Garlemald does eventually arrive close to Dravania and Coerthas but every time they send a force in to prod the Court. The entire military sortie just disappears. There’s no bodies left behind, there’s no signs of a struggle. They just simply vanish. This gives Garlemald a hint that Ishgard just isn’t worth it. So they turn their sights fully from Ishgard and straight into Gridania.

With not just Gaius wishing to conquer Eorzea, the Emperor of Garlemald puts the full might behind the Black Wolf. And thus the logical conclusion comes to invade Gridania from Ala Mhigo. However, with the slightly added bonus of the Fortemps Knights adding as a buffer and aid with the Gridanian forces. They continue to reach a stalemate until one battle a little later.

So that’s Doma, Ishgard, Gridania, Ala Mhigo, and Garlemald. What of Limsa Lominsa and Ul’dah? Well, I am afraid Limsa Lominsa is a little less interesting. As they are an island nation removed from Eorzea and the Admiral is an absolute bad ass. There is little in way of change in that region, save for one thing. The Voidsent Prince of Envy is on a blood rampage through the Sahagin Lands. Leading for an even more tense situation politically. As the Admiral does mean to eventually make good on her pact with the Kobolds and Sahagin. She also has to weigh the options of keeping Envy occupied by letting him slaughter sahagin or draw his ire to Limsa Lominsa which would be like inviting Titan over for tea. After killing several kobold in front of him. So Limsa is sort of tip toeing around the entire situation there.

As for Ul’dah...unfortunately Thanalan has become a sort of reverse “The First” situation. Let me explain, much like when a Lightwarden arrives in an area and Sineaters swarm. If enough Voidsent Princes gather in a spot, there is a chance for them to call up a swarm of Voidsent. And unfortunately, Ul’dah is inadvertantly playing host to four Princes at once. The currently public Prince is the one that appeared on the Bloodsands before Dalamud’s fall becoming a Champion of the Arena and obtaining a seat on the Monetarist council. The champion is the Voidsent Prince of Greed (unbeknownst to anyone actually at the table), who instead of causing havoc is teaming up with the Mandervilles to make more opertunities for refugees in the Gold Saucer as well as actively employing them in his own operations.

Despite this however, there was an issue that made the Princes go from secret knowledge that only the Sanguine Court held to public knowledge and that is that the Voidsent Prince of Pride appeared three years before Dalamud’s Fall and called upon on the swarms of Voidsent. And may of also caused other Princes to find a way IN to Eorzea while he was at it. This brought rise to a certain kind of adventurer called Voidsent Hunters. One of these Hunters in particular was able to investigate and track down Pride. It is unknown if she slayed the Prince but the swarm eventually dispersed and Pride hasn’t been heard of since then. As proof of her success, she brought back Pride’s heart that she carved out and now keeps on her person.

But that is more general wise. Back to inside Ul’dah, Ilberd Feare was able to uncover the Ivy earlier than expected and subsequently detain her. Though without the Crystal Braves backing him up and as a lone sword-for-hire, he lost the use of his shield arm. Leaving him worse for wear, it is good however that Raubahn suddenly had need for a new right hand man and who better than his comrade-in-arms from Ala Mhigo? So Ilberd and his family were moved to Ul’dah and he seems far more sensible never going mad with vengeance, helping keep Gaius from gaining a foothold in Thanalan as well as working with the Mandervilles and Greed to seek safe shelters for his people and make the dream of taking back Ala Mhigo a reality even brighter than before. He also helps Raubahn train Pippin. As Ilberd plans to return to help rebuild Ala Mhigo the day it is returned to them and knows Raubahn will need a second good in swordsmanship, politics, and spy networking.

Though that might all SOUND good, the moment I drop you into Voidsent AU several things are happening.

In Limsa Lominsa, a meeting is called to how to deal with Envy and the Admiral has taken on an alcoholic sailor who survived his entire ship sinking at sea. Nearly drowning himself and being the sole survivor as her reluctant ward. I say reluctant cause she literally has a mountain of debt on him for gambling and drinking himself black out every night and he’s a general menace to Limsa. So she’s forcing him to do tasks until its paid off. Which may include also dealing with Envy. If he dies, his debt is paid of. If he lives, he needs to pay of his debt sort of deal.

In the Black Shroud, unfortunately, the tides have changed for the worst. A new Garlean commander suddenly appeared in the middle of a skirmish new the Hawthorne Hut. Causing a complete route of the Gridanian and Fortemp forces. Losing Gridania that region, shortly there after the Slyphs were captures or eliminated as something strange happened. The new commander confronted and defeated Ramuh after pushing Gridania out of that part of the Shroud. Putting Gridania on high alert. Seeing a need for more options, the Seedseer sends the Ishgardian Knights north to the Camp Dragonhead region to personally retake what little they can.

To the shock of the Knights however, they find the region outside of the Gates of Judgement completely abandoned. The Court has just up and left everything there from the Observatorium to the Stone Vigil completely unoccupied. With now Dravanian forces in the area and the Ixals hunted to near complete annihilation by the Court. The Knights are able to occupy the area and make contact with Mor Dhona to request adventurers for aid to help keep an eye on Garlean movements in the area of the Shroud, Gridania just lost.

As the Seedseer licks her wounds and prepares her city for the worst. She is forced to rely on the head of an exiled Ishgardian household who was forced to leave years before the Court even dreamed of taking over Ishgard. Apparently, dealing with this person is like handling a Monkey’s Paw. When he first arrived he met with the then leader of Gridania and offered that in exchange for safe haven in the Lavender Beds. He who would grant the leaders of Gridania (collectively) sixteen favors, no matter how impossible they might of been, that he would see through to the end.

When the Seedseer came to power, they were down to five favors left and she used the one favor, jokingly, for this person to stop Dalamud. And to everyone’s shock this seemingly ordinary elezen exiled from Ishgard before the High Houses’ exodus destroyed Dalamud and Bahamut but not without the consequences of leaving the entire land scarred. The Seedseer hasn’t called on this man since as she has been, understandably, tense about dealing with him again. But fate is forcing her hand into meeting with him to discuss the situation in the Shroud. Worst yet, she feels like as soon as the last four favors are granted, this person will be free to do as he pleases and she does not like what that might imply. Worst still this action alienated Ul’dah and Limsa Lominsa from working with Gridania which is why the Seedseer has had to lean on the remaining Ishgardian Knights and aid from Mor Dhona for support.

Meanwhile, in Ul’dah, where I mean to begin Act I. People have been disappearing and not in the usual Ul’dah manner. At first it was the poor and downtrodden but recently it has been a member or two of the Monetarists as well as a couple members of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn’s investigative team. No one knows why or how but its put the entire city on edge. To help bolster the city’s morale, the Sultana has decided to hold a tournament of entertainment to fight in memory of those lost in the Battle of Cartneau. Publically, the army won the day and Garlemald was pushed away. But secretly, the Sultana knows Gridania unleashing a horrific trump card won the day. Still, it had been five years and time must march forward and those who were caught in the blast radius must still be honored.

Subsequently, since Louisoix didn’t stop Dalamud, he is still very much alive and well. And has decided to send his Grandchildren to Eorzea to see the land, be apart of the world, and help bolster the Scion’s ranks since some of its members had vanished. Sharlayan forced to abandon Idyllshire sooner than expected has made them a tiny bit more receptive in communicating with the Eorzean Alliance even if its just to lean what the fuck is doing on over there. So they’re not surprised by an army of voidsent worshiping cultists again.

Elsewhere in Kugane, the City is currently in a civil war between the Sekiseigumi and a faction known as the Mistress’s Bedlam. A criminal organization lead by a woman known only as the Bone Maiden. Each side warring over control of the port city at large. Garlemald due to focusing more on Ala Mhigo has been less restrictive on Doma and thus things in the Ruby Price are also tame for the moment. Though the Confederacy are under no illusion much is still on a knife’s edge.

In Garlemald proper, when they tried to invade the Azim Steppe they accidentally stumbled upon a recently won Naadam. Angring the Tribes, the recent winner of the event, however, didn’t send the tribes after Garlemald. Instead single handledly defeated Galbranth’s invading legion show her prowess. Impressed by this, Garlemald made a pact to never enter the Steppe again in exchange that the Khagan serve Garlemald. Which they accepted leaving the Steppe for the tribes leave as they wish in exchange for joining the might of Garlemald. Whom itself has had its own strange developments. Its Emperor styling themselves the Immortal Solus. And true to their word and the astronishment of the Garlean population. The Emperor hasn’t aged a day since he founded the conquering militant force. This grants the Garleans hope and a reverie almost worship for their Emperor as never before. And thus with no need for an heir, the Garleans are similar to Ishgard in they answer to their one Emperor but politically are beholden to the high houses of their own empire: Brutus, Darnus, Garlond, and Galvus are the ones with the most power. And with the needs of the people and indeed, their Empire never in question. There is no requirement for a Popularis to meet with the Emperor.

And then there is the First Shard...which I will save for another day. Lets just say...things have gone wrong. So...So...SO wrong on the First but we’ll get to that when we get to that.

Welcome to the Voidsent AU.

#{ Welcome to the Voidsent AU }#{ Whenever I get around to fucking doing it }

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theworldwalkerswols · 1 year

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The Warrior of Light and his Loves

A Kyler & Polycule Playlist

Pied Piper by The Senate | Kyler & Thancred - The Forgotten Knight

Video note: the song ends at 4:00. There's a long tail of cheering, etc.

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The Forgotten Knight, interior. The atmosphere is lively and jubilant.

The Scions present are tipsy at the least, and Kyler is decidedly drunk; Gibrillont, knowing his concerns re: accepting drinks, has been bringing him his rather than letting anyone else do it. Kyler knows that Gibrillont tests everything he serves himself and isn't letting anyone else pour his drinks or even touch them. People have figured this out, and at this point the Savior of Ishgard could drink for free for a fortnight with all the money folk have put forth to keep him watered.

The downstairs patrons overflow the lower level. Someone starts playing music. Things get decidedly lively, and it inspires more folk up to listen and even dance. For the first time, the whole of the Forgotten Knight is packed with noble and commoner both, all mixed up together. Hilda and her two main men end up upstairs somewhere.

Thancred says something about this feeling like old times, and Y'shtola tells him he must be so out of practice that he's no proper Bard at all anymore. She knows full well she's provoking him. He knows it too, but he takes the bait.

Thancred calls for a lute, someone gives him one, he tunes it, stands and puts a boot on the seat of his chair, and starts playing.

"Kyler?" he calls out over the din of the crowd.

"Thancred??" he answers back, half a tankard of ale in one hand, and he manages to weave his way over near him.

Thancred raises his eyebrows, tilts his head at him, eggs him on. "Kyler?" he says again.

The opening bars are swiftly coming to a close. In his drunken state, Kyler's mind tells him 'if I don't sing it, no one will.' Unwilling to leave Thancred hanging, he steps up onto the table.

Kyler sings:

Well, there's a wolf among the sheep he's been talkin in his sleep he's denyin every word he's ever said

The path is short, the bricks are red the pilgrim bowed and cracked his head

He mimes a bow,

on the cobbled stones of conscience where the cowards dare to tread

He puts a hand up by his mouth, leaning to one side as though telling a secret,

And if I don't mean what I say don't take me for a liar - I'm the pied piper, the rebel town crier! Follow me down to the sea and follow where you will follow me to madness or let the water stand still

Kyler knocks back the end of his drink (to wide approval), lets out a piercing whistle, and tosses the empty tankard to Gibrillont behind the bar, who catches it without missing a beat.

By this point, Aymeric, Haurchefant, and Estinien have been fetched by Francel. Up on the packed balcony-entrance to the tavern, they have a clear view of the scene below, unbeknownst to Kyler. He sings,

He's been taught to turn his cheek tellin lies since he could speak he's been blinded by the light since he could see says, "Lord have mercy, glory be! Tell me what you mean to me if your most beloved angel won't be reconciled to thee!"

And if I don't mean what I say don't take me for a liar -

Kyler leans back and belts out, mimicking a crier and pointing at Hilda, who stands on something near the back wall; she whoops back at him and pumps her fist as he sings,

I'm the pied piper, the rebel town crier! Follow me down to the sea and follow where you will follow me to madness or let the water stand still

Kyler performs a brief stepdance on the table, the steps he learned from the Bloody Executioners in Limsa. He's out of practice and sloppy, but it's charming. He jumps down from the table.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, Eudestand, Hilda's left-hand Mongrel, has stepped up with another lute; he watches enough to identify the chords and then plays the rhythm part.

Thancred steps up, one boot on his chair and one on the table, now, to play the solo, focused and intense. He nails it, to broad approval.

Amidst all this, Alphinaud finds his way to Kyler's side, and Kyler throws an arm around his shoulders. Alphinaud delivers him water, which he gladly drinks. As Thancred's solo comes to a close, Kyler steps back up onto the table to sing:

Well, now the wolf has had his fill left me here, atop the hill with a secret that I'm not prepared to keep

But when I'm gone, my lips are sealed:

Here he holds a finger before his lips in a 'shh' motion,

won't you take me to the field? Won't you break the earth at sunset, won't you leave the buried deep?

Kyler crosses his forearms over his chest, hands in fists, mimicking how some corpses are laid to rest, almost a forceful gesture, but brief. He turns to Thancred and they focus on each other, listening hard and queueing off one another to sing in harmony,

Kyler jumps down from the table and dances with Alphinaud and Tataru, who has also appeared, spinning them both, one with each hand, on the final chord, and bursts out laughing after.

It's only the next day, once he's nursing a hangover and no longer drunk, that Kyler's shyness catches up to him. He is more mortified than he has ever been in his living memory.

He is not seen in Ishgard for a week, and not in the Forgotten Knight for a fortnight at least.

I wasn't planning on writing out the whole scene as a script but here we are!! I regularly consider doing a comic of this but let's be real, that's too much work for meeeeee

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!

The “he” in this has always, in my mind, also been Thordan VII. :)

#playlists #ffxiv fanfic #mini-fic #Thancred Waters #Playlist: The Warrior of Light and his Loves #scribbles #WoL!Kyler Drake

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bard-of-light · 3 years

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Muse(s) List

Mehna Nuwu

The main Warrior of Light. She grew up in a small village outside of the Black Shroud with her older half brother. Her mother died in childbirth and soon after, their father abandoned them. She ran with a local gang until she was 17 and she hated her brother for "abandoning" her when she was 16 to make a fortune as an Adventurer.

Starting out her journey at 18, she met her friend Allane on the carriage ride to Gridania. She originally is reckless and she has no regard for her own safety. After joining the Scions, she learns to care for others and to open up to her friends.

After her defeat by Zenos' hand the first and second time they fought, she learned to not be so reckless and arrogant. She harbors a grudge on her brother for leaving her alone when she was 16. She also has PTSD from when she was corrupted by the Light.

Her romances are Alisaie, Hilda and Y'Shtola (depending on what AU).

Isert Fiecoy

A merchant's son from Limsa Lominsa, he grew up in a loving household but he longed for adventure so when he was 20, he left to join the Adventurer's Guild in Ul'Dah. A skilled Paladin, he quickly rose in the ranks of the Immortal Flames. By the time he is 25, he is a Captain and he has many campaigns under his belt, including leading a squad at Cartenau during the Calamity.

He is a terrible flirt and his fellow adventurers, Inako and Akoko tend to tease him for his flirting habits.

He was originally in a relationship with Haurchefant but after his death, he was determined to be alone until he fell for his fellow Azure Dragoon, Estinien.

Inako Urabito

Born and raised in Namai, she grew up under Imperial rule. At a young age, she was trained as a Shinobi by her parents. When she was 22, the Liberation front tried to take back their land by the Garleans but they were thwarted by Zenos. Urged by her parents, she fled to Eorzea. She felt like a coward and vowed to get stronger to avenge them.

She loves to learn and she is basically the mom of the group. When she gets feelings for Lyse, she begins to panic and tries to avoid her. After awhile, she permanently moves to Ala Mhigo to be close to Lyse.

Akoko Ako

Akoko grew up as an orphan near Camp Drybone so she learned how to fight at a very young age. She is the spitfire of the group. She will set someone on fire if they call her cute or look at her wrong. She's a Black Mage, Astrologian and Samurai and everyone teases her for being a chaotic Healer.

While she is a chaotic gremlin, she is a huge softie around Nanamo and eventually, they start a secret love affair.

Ewe'ya Masku

Mehna's older half brother, he did his best to raise her but she was in trouble a lot. He wanted to bring her with to Gridania but she denied him. He promised to come back but two years went without a word.

He rose in the ranks of the Twin Adder as a White Mage and many of his missions were long and dangerous. By the time he was free, he heard rumors of the Warrior of Light being missing in action. He rushed to find her but there was no trace. He eventually made it to Ishgard but by that time, Mehna was in Doma.

While in Ishgard, he trained to be a Machinist and became close friends to Hilda. After hearing that the Scions were whisked away to the First, he traveled to Mor Dhona.

He and Mehna eventually patch things up and he starts to fall for G'Raha Tia. He is playful and affectionate. He loves to give hugs. While Mehna is laid-back and stoic, he is hyperactive.

Avere Storme(I will update once I have a decent picture of him)

A member of the Resistance in Ala Mhigo, he was only 12 when his homeland was taken over. After fleeing, he went to Limsa Lominsa where her trained as a Warrior. He eventually learns to be a Summoner, Scholar and Monk before rejoining the fight in Ala Mhigo.

During Stormblood, he is taught how to be a Ninja by Inako and he begins to get feelings for M'Naago. He is a stoic person but once he trusts someone, he is loud and happy.

Azha Nuwu

Mehna and Alisaie's adopted daughter, she grew up with a lot of love and at the age of 5, the Echo was awoken in her. She has no talent for magic or music but she is a talented Monk and Dancer. She begins her journey at the age of 16 and she has Alisaie's sass and reckless nature but she is also very kind and protective like Mehna.

As her journey goes on, she pleads for Thancred to teach her how be a Gunbreaker despite Mehna's insistence.

#ffxiv #Mehna Nuwu #Isert Fiecoy #Inako Urabito #Akoko Ako #Ewe'ya Masku #Avere Storme #Azha Nuwu

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ofdragonsdeep · 3 years

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29: Debonair

Count Artoirel de Fortemps attends a ball for the Members of Parliament.

(ArtoirelxHilda? Sort of?)

The sound of the orchestra echoing out in the high-roofed walls of the Vault promised the trappings of high society to those within. Count Artoirel de Fortemps was no stranger to such functions, wending his way through the crowd with practised ease, but the surroundings sought to subvert the expectation of any passing noble, or indeed anyone who remained familiar with Ishgard, reimagined in the image that her saviours had planned for her.

Commonfolk in their best dress rubbed shoulders with nobility here, a formal gathering held for each and every member of the Republic’s new council. Artoirel had endeavoured to learn the names of each and every person sent as speakers for the House of Commons after the parliament’s formation, but even his memory was taxed to recall the names of their spouses and friends and other miscellaneous plus-one’s. In the same breath, the House of Lords was far expanded from the days of decisions made solely by the church and the four High Houses, though his upbringing had at least given him a head-start on remembering those names.

A buffet had been provided that had likely cost more than many of the commonfolk earned in a year, and champagne was being passed around among the merrymakers. It was not, Artoirel had noted, the best champagne, but perhaps that was the point. Besides, it made no difference to him, as he had made an art of refusing every canapé pressed beneath his nose, a cautious part of him still remembering the events of Falcon’s Nest, the reports he had heard of attempted sabotage on ceremonial functions, and his own persisting dislike of being intoxicated in public.

“Reckon you’ve turned down enough food to feed an orphanage, your Lordship. There better grub somewhere I should know about?”

Artoirel jumped at the noise, spinning on the spot to find Hilda - captain of the Watch, who were the de facto guard for this function - stood just a little bit too close.

“Sadly not, Lady Hilda. I simply neglected to prepare.” He took a step backwards, just slightly, and straightened the collar on his shirt. “I trust that the evidence of your keen eyes will stay between us?” Hilda laughed at that, folding her arms and regarding him with an appraising look. He appeared to come up short.

“Lady Hilda. Don’t get that one much,” she said. “How’s about this then? I won’t mention your disdain for Ser Aymeric’s fancy sausage creations, but you have to dance with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Artoirel said, taken aback. Hilda winked at him, the smile fitting easily on her face.

“All that book learnin’ and here we are. You. Me. One dance.” She held up a single finger. “That’s the thing where you lead your partner round in circles, in case that was what was holdin’ you up.” Artoirel made an empty noise, then collected himself, clearing his throat as if it would save him face.

“Yes, I am aware of what a dance is, Captain,” he said, exercising incredible restraint to keep the ice from creeping into his voice. “I am simply at a loss as to why.” The single finger was pressed against her lips, inviting him to take part in her secrecy, as if he had any choice when he was not aware of the secret.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder, your Lordship,” she replied. The gesture became a two-finger salute, and she turned on her heels and disappeared back into the crowd. Artoirel could only hope that she had retreated to actually do her job.

—

Though the guests were unusual, the itinerary was not. Entreés were followed by a time to mingle and exchange the latest gossip, and Artoirel’s feet took him around the room with all the emotion of one of Stephanivien’s strange robotic creations. Though he had despaired of his little brother in the past, he could not deny that Emmanellain’s head was far more suited for such endeavours than his, but he was a master at polite conversation nonetheless. The atmosphere was far more cordial than any such event would have been before the end of the war - there was less power to squabble over, more people who held it, and so less to gain by knowing a few choice and guilty secrets. Artoirel spoke with Aymeric and Lucia, shared their worries on the war which yet fomented at the front at Ghimlyt, all three of them hoping nothing untoward would occur in their absence. He listened to news of the progress on restoring the Firmament from Aurvael, attending with his father the Count. The Dzemaels ignored him, as they always did, but Count Charlemend and his young nephew at least engaged him in pleasantries.

The commonfolk had far more to say, if you knew who to ask. The view of the ongoing reconstruction of which Aurvael was so proud was well-received among the people, despite certain members of the nobility dismissing it as seeking glory from the worthless. Lord Francel had a good heart, and those who he was helping saw it, it seemed.

And the news. There was much of it, and the fine details a little different for each mouth it came from, but Artoirel listened and attempted to filter the nuggets of truth from the sheer volume of it. If only Emmanellain had not been busy with his duties at Dragonhead - though he could not help but be grateful that his brother was applying himself for once, he found himself at quite the disadvantage.

And then, as Artoirel had dreaded, the music changed.

Artoirel was a good dancer. He had been taught from a very early age precisely how one was to dance at a ball, the correct amount of attention to pay one’s partner to not suggest too much but not offend with inattention. The eyes will judge you on every line of your form, his mother had said, and he had taken it to heart, as he had many of her lessons, not all of them in his best interests.

Hilda caught his eye from across the room, and offered him a cheeky little bow. Artoirel let out a long breath, and crossed the room to join her.

“Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Captain?” he asked, holding out his hand precisely as he had been taught. There were whispers immediately, of course, although rather more of them were jealous than he had been anticipating.

“You’re flatterin’ me, your lordship,” she said, playing coy as he had expected her to. “I suppose it would be rude to refuse.” Artoirel mentally went through the motions of gritting his teeth, in order to remain outwardly poised.

Hilda was not dressed to dance the same way the other ladies who had taken the floor were. She had no dress to float with each step, but sturdy trousers and solid leather thighboots that clacked upon the dancefloor with a noise that was, at least, quite satisfying. Her fingers were not smooth, but calloused from holding a gun and holding the line against the ever-rising tide of pushback against their nation’s struggle for equality. Her nails were not painted, but filed down to not catch in the trigger. She carried herself with the confidence and expectations of nobility, the pointed tips of her hyuran ears the damning reminder of why she was not.

She could, however, dance.

“See, your Lordship? This ain’t so bad,” she said, sounding amused by his predicament more than anything else.

“Only one of us will be quashing foolish notions in the aftermath,” he replied, to which Hilda laughed. They separated, turned - Artoirel did not raise his arm as high as he was used to, when dancing with an elezen, and Hilda performed the top spin with remarkable grace. The dexterity that gave her the eagle eye and uncanny trigger finger she was famed for were putting in their work here, though he could not help but wonder who, precisely, had taught her.

“Don’t you think it would be more interestin’ to give them somethin’ more to talk about?” she offered. Artoirel did not stop dead on the strength of reflex alone, but the hells-damned woman had felt the way he stiffened regardless, and it seemed only to egg her on.

“It would be unbecoming,” he managed, and Hilda tutted.

“You need to learn to relax,” she disagreed.

They turned again, Artoirel holding his arm out just so, her gloved hand in his. He could not tell if she was fooling with him and - to his rapidly growing embarrassment - could not tell if he wanted her to be or not.

If his mother had been alive, she would have fainted at the notion of her eldest carrying on some scandalous affair with a commoner, and a half-blood at that. But she had been wrong about Haurchefant - he had loved him as a brother, or tried to, in the gulf between the two of them. There was no need for distinction between high and low-born now, and besides - did her ruby-red eyes not speak of a noble heritage that she had quite rightly cast aside as worthless?

She had asked first, he supposed.

“Perhaps we shall discuss this further when this event has concluded,” he allowed, and Hilda raised an eyebrow. She was surprised, but not displeased, and Artoirel wondered what that said for his character.

“Perhaps we shall, Lord Artoirel,” she said. “Damn, I owe Stephanivien ten gil now.”

Artoirel thought he should not have been surprised.

#huffs angrily at not knowing his mother's name #ffxivwrite2021 #posts at 6am and rockets off to bed without proofreading #Artoirel de Fortemps #Hilda the Mongrel

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allycryz · 3 years

Text

About: Nerys Eluned

{𝐵𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑠}

Name: Nerys Eluned

Alias: Warrior of Light, The Azure Dragoon (later The Blood Dragon), Azem [True Name Redacted]

Gender: Female

Age: 29 (Start of ARR), 31-32 currently (ShB)

Species: Duskwight Elezen

Zodiac: aquarius / aries / cancer / capricorn / gemini / leo / libra / pisces / sagittarius / scorpio / taurus / virgo / unknown

Abilities/Talents: Cooking, Foraging, Leatherworking, Weaving, Lance, Storytelling, Singing, Dancing

{𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙}

Alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true (with some chaotic parts)

Religion: Nerys is as agnostic as one can be in a world where a goddess sets you out on a journey and frequently communes with you. (And she honestly had a lot of Bad Feelings about Hydaelyn at this point.) She will attend services with the Fortemps when invited, especially because the Halonic church is not one bent on conversion

Virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience

Languages: Common, some Gelmorran, some Ishgardian

Family: Her parents Heulwen Eluned and Clement Archambeau, they have recently reunited with their old flame “Uncle” Vaquelin Laurent. Growing up she also had “Aunt” Jehanne and “Uncle” Josse as well as the other Duskwights in the communal cavern. The Fortemps family is very much her second family and would be even if she wasn’t Haurchefant’s partner. And I do consider her partners to be her family as well. The twins are like younger sibs to her, Ryne a bit like a daughter/mentee figure. Gaia slots into this role more too, post-Eden

Friends: Her partners are also her friends, and she is close to Coultenet, Hoary, and Tataru. Her friendships with Hien, Lyse, Ysayle, and Hilda are romantic in nature; especially Ysayle. Alberic and Heustienne are also cherished friends.

Sexual Orientation: heterosexual / bi-/pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other (polyamorous)

Relationship status: single / dating / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating

(As it currently stands, she does not feel like she wants to get married. This may or may not change depending.)

Libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent

{𝑃ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙}

Build: twig / bony / slender / average / athletic / curvy / chubby / obese

Hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other (purple and white)

Eyes: brown / blue / green / black / other (gold)

Skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / very brown / other (blue-grey)

Height: under 3 foot (90cm) / 3-4 foot (90-122cm) / 4-5 foot (122-153cm) / 5-6 foot (153-183cm) (1,73m) / 6-7 foot (183-213cm) / above 7 foot (over 213cm)

Scars: A small scar next to her left eye along the nose, other battlescars from over the years

Facial Features: Dark full lips, curved chin, likes to wear cosmetics

Tattoos: Not currently but it’s a possibility

{𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒}

Dogs or Cats?

Birds or Hamsters?

Snakes or Spiders?

Red or Blue?

Yellow or Green?

Black or White!

Coffee or Tea?

Ice Cream or Cake?

Fruits or Vegetables?

Sandwich or Soup?

Magic or Melee?

Sword or Bow?

Summer or Winter?

Spring or Autumn?

The Past or The Future?

I was tagged by several of you, tagging any who would like to do this!

#nerys eluned

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angstmongertina · 5 years

Text

FFXIV Write Day 25: Shield

Day 25 of @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast‘s FFXIVWrite2019! Because there are so many ways I could have taken it but of COURSE I had to pick an awful one. Also never let me do one of those 5+1 style fics within a 24 hour deadline ever again.

Prompt 25: Trust

[1]

They were too foolish, too naive.

X’ondarya grimaced, fumbling with her grimoire as she searched for her spell. With her attention split between the disappearance of the other Scions and, she had to admit, the affability of their host in Camp Dragonhead, the possibility of a setup in the trial, such as it was, of Lord Francel had completely escaped her mind. She should have known better, but instead, they were completely unprepared for the ambush.

Finally finding the page, she closed her eyes, focusing on the structure of the aether around her, felt it begin to coalesce into that familiar pool that was her eldest carbuncle. Vaguely, someone—Thyra, maybe?—shouted her name, a warning, but she had to focus, had to finish the summoning before she could move—

A resounding clang of metal against metal, and then there was a presence at her back, steady, shielding. With an angry chirp, Sapphire materialized, leaping into the fray, leaving her free to turn around.

Her would-be attacker had been engaged by the knight at her back, silver hair gleaming as he thrust and parried. She focused, sending a blast of Ruin that connected squarely, the man dropping to the ground, unmoving.

Lord Haurchefant caught her eye, grinned at her. “Let us finish this!”

She nodded, turning back around and, with his solid presence at her back, rejoined the skirmish.

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[2]

As she let Alphinaud and Ser Aymeric discuss the details of the latter’s investigation into the heretics’ attacks, X’ondarya relaxed. Ordinarily, it was a conversation that she might have found most interesting, but since the battle against Shiva, they had had little time to unwind, driven by the need to ensure no time was lost on the various ongoing investigations, and a mental break was more than welcome.

Instead, she glanced over her friends, all of whom looked as tired as she felt. Though, true to form, that did not stop Thyra from apparently attempting to drill a hole into Alphinaud’s skull with the force of a most displeased glare alone.

Still, her smile as they were most cordially dismissed was polite at best, and she suppressed a sigh as she made her way out of the intercessory. There was still so much left to do, and the nets were weaving ever closer…

Belatedly, she realized that Lord Haurchefant had fallen in step beside her and, given the sympathy in his eyes, had heard her prolonged exhale. “A long day?”

“Day? Week? Something like that.” When he said nothing, she shook her head. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t complain. This is important and I am glad to be able to help as much as I can.”

“But it is still a lot to ask of one group of four, even as capable as you all are.” He paused and when she turned to face him, his expression was serious. “I hope you know that I will always help you as much as I can, and so will Ser Aymeric, at least outside of formal capabilities.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying that we should have kept faith in Ser Aymeric from the start?”

“Perhaps in a manner of speaking. I did tell you as much from the beginning.”

At that, a genuine smile, her first in what felt like too long already, tugged at the corners of her lips. “That you did. Thank you.”

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[3]

“Where to?”

She glanced over her friends. Eos and Thyra stood together, the former silently weeping while the latter only stared, motionless save for the hand gently rubbing Eos’ back. Shasha, meanwhile, was kept more than a little preoccupied by Alphinaud, who didn’t even seem to react to the question. Certainly none of them were in any state to answer, which meant…

“X’ondarya?”

Clearing her throat, she turned to face Cid. His eyes were sympathetic, but he knew just as well as she did that they couldn’t afford to deliberate or rest. That being discovered would put Marshal Tarupin’s own reputation at risk, as well as the safety of everyone else who had assisted them.

She bit her lip, and he gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Somewhere out of reach from the city-states, at least for the time being. Preferably where the Crystal Braves and the Syndicate have no jurisdiction.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

She offered him a grin, though she suspected it looked no more real than it felt. Instead, she turned her mind towards the past weeks and their—her—camaraderie with one, ever-agreeable knight…

“Coerthas.” She nodded towards the airship. “Take us to Camp Dragonhead.”

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[4]

Chaos had erupted in the Foundation.

She grit her teeth, forcing herself to put out of mind the buildings and civilians that were put at risk by the battle, and dodged another Flare. They could had time later to deal with the ramifications, but first…

First they had to stop Ser Charibert and his men.

Beside her, Hilda and Alphinaud fought beside Thyra, Shasha, and Eos, but they too were flagging against what felt like never-ending waves of soldiers. Then again, considering they were apparently going against the Holy See itself, she supposed she should have been expecting that.

A wave of semi-hysterical laughter threatened to bubble out of her chest. Chased out of the city-states of the Eorzean alliance only to find themselves going up against another governmental power. If things continued as they were, there would be nowhere the remaining Scions could safely stay. And this time, their actions had ramifications for the entirety of House Fortemps as well…

As if summoned by her thoughts, a shout caught her attention and she shook her hair out of her face to watch as two more soldiers appeared. Two very familiar soldiers…

She watched as Lucia plunged into the fighting without pause, slowly but surely gaining ground to stand beside Eos. Haurchefant, meanwhile, disappeared into the throng, and she turned her attention back to Ser Charibert himself, loosening another blast of Fester and watching as he turned his attention toward her.

Before she could move, a tall figure leapt in front of her, shield up to block the blow as he shook his silver hair out of his eyes and grinned at her. “This is beginning to seem all too familiar now, X’ondarya. Let me be your shield.”

In spite of the nerves still singing, she smiled back and prepared for another round. “Gladly.”

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[5]

“This is it.”

She turned to find that Haurchefant had maneuvered his way to her side, alongside Estinien, Ayemric, and the rest of their rescue party as they stared at the edge of the platform, where an airship waited for the Archbishop. Behind them, the doors to the Holy Vault lay open, forced through by their fighters, and battles forged down in the streets and along the sidewalks, spilling into the Foundations, but this far removed, it was quiet save for the sounds of Aymeric limped forward, pleading with Thordan, his father.

All to no avail.

She turned, catching his gaze with her own and nodding, once. It was all they needed. He knew, just as she knew, that it was pointless, that there was only one way to stop the madness before it got too far.

Pressing her lips together, she grabbed her grimoire and raced forward towards the Archbishop, Haurchefant, as ever, at her side.

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[+1]

She felt him stop first, attention torn from the Archbishop. A heartbeat later, she, too, stalled, instinct screaming a warning, driving her to turn, but it was already too late. He was sprinting, catching up with each step and slid to a stop before her, frantically twisting with his shield up and in position to intercept the spear headed straight towards her.

In the distance, her friends ran forward, but they were all too far away to stop its trajectory, aimed directly at her. Or, at least, it would have been if not for…

The moment it struck the shield, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. Helpless, she watched as he braced himself, holding it back through sheer force of will. And still the spear pulsed, brimming with energy, and she could feel it cutting through the metal, slowly but inexorably forcing its way through toward its destination, towards her.

Except not.

As the spear found its victim, she screamed.

#ffxivwrite2019 #Final Fantasy XIV #FFXIV #Haurchefant Greystone #Haurchefant Greystone/WoL #Tina writes stuff.#Tina plays FFXIV.#soft elezen bf #otp: a warm presence #X'ondarya Mitnu #Will I ever stop bringing up my trauma?#Scientists unsure.

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starswornoaths · 5 years

Note

🌌

Mun talks about muse asks- Accepting!

🌌Favorite alternate version of the muse?

Ohh, we’re getting into the tough ones…

I think I’m fascinated with this AU I have in my head of Myrina never leaving Ishgard, but still settling down with Hanvesh there. They still have their adventures, still adopt Uthengentle, but the way they raise their kids (and the fact that they don’t get separated from them, or in Hanvesh’s case, die) would completely alter a lot of what makes Serella and Uthengentle tick. They’d have the same temperament, but different motivations, and would be more sheltered, their world view completely skewed from what it is in main canon. The thought of that intrigues me, even if I’m not entirely sure how I would flesh it out in the context of xiv’s story/world.

There’s another AU that’s largely the same as main canon but diverges at the Vault- Haurchefant doesn’t die, but is gravely wounded, but the plan outside of getting to Aymeric backfires completely. So lacking any other plan, they smuggle the still heavily injured Aymeric out of Ishgard while Lucia and Estinien promise to keep an eye on Haurchefant (who had not been hit in the same way but was still seriously injured in the attempt to stop the Archbishop.)

Hilda would take to being their informant for how things are going on in Ishgard, and Aymeric would be spirited away to stay in Gridania to recover and plan how to save his home from itself. The Archbishop’s ship would have been injured, grounding him, but allowing him to attempt to control the narrative of how things went down. Most don’t believe it- and largely accept the truth of what was discovered about the real origin of Ishgard and the Dragonsong War, but do not act out of fear of the Heaven’s Ward’s wrath.

Queue some slow burn caming/adventuring/ranger bullshit between Serella and Aymeric, where he’s forced to take up his bow again and she’s showing him more about her backstory and how she got as good at tracking things as she did. Eventually they actually get together quicker than they do in canon, if only because of how frequently they are in very close proximity of one another. They mostly lurk within Gridania and Dravania, only briefly stealing into Ishgard here and there to obtain information from Hilda and Lucia as they try to rally a resistance from within the city. Eventually, when the Archbishop tries again to get to Azys Lla, they give chase, with Estinien in tow- and that ends the same as it does in canon.

Sor Khai would still happen as it did, but the ensuing struggle immediately after would be Aymeric’s true return to Ishgard- and the people’s faith in his dedication to the city would be satisfied because he brought with him the Warrior of Light, who ends the conflict.

In the days afterward the nobles are falling over themselves to make Aymeric accept not only his old position as Lord Commander (though he had never really given that up, and had always intended to take that mantle upon his return) but also the position of Lord Speaker. He hesitates, largely because he’s finally found happiness on a personal level- not just with his relationship with Serella, but the close friendships he’s forged with the Scions, and those in the Alliance and various NPCs. He knows it would guarantee an end to his adventuring days- and he’s only just accepted how much he wants to just be an adventurer with the woman he loves. Serella reassures him that no matter what he chooses, she loves him no less, and he would lose no one if he chose to accept the position. “The road will always be there- and so will I,” she says.

So he becomes the Lord Speaker, in addition to the Lord Commander, even knowing something that’s only just awakened within him dies because of it. Because regardless of personal want, he never lost an onze of his dedication to Ishgard and to the Fury.

#blindinkpoet #ffxiv #Serella Arcbane #Aymeric de Borel #Uthengentle Arcbane #mun talks about muse #thank you for the ask!!!#gosh this got wordy on me I'm sorry D:

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starcunning · 6 years

Text

Confession

Here’s the other.

I wanted to take another tilt at the piece I wrote for Day 29 of the 30-Day OTP Challenge in September--“I love you”s. The two are not mutually exclusive, really, but it didn’t quite capture the feeling I wanted it to.

Feel free to consider it a companion piece to “Flow,” though I didn’t write it as one.

This work contains MSQ spoilers for FFXIV through patch 4.4.

Shasi realizes she's in love with Thancred at Praetorium—how else to explain the relief and guilt she feels when the blade of light doesn't kill him?

The first time she puts a name to it is in the Allagan ruins they explore together—a lighter respite from regular duties he has not yet been declared fit for.

Whenever she visits the Waking Sands she comes to see him, to ask how he is. This is the only voice she gives to the ache in her heart: unselfish concern, which he mistakes for mere interest in when he will be restored to fieldwork.

But when he is, he is more closed than before, more guarded. It is her duty and her choice to protect him, and she will, always.

Until it is his to protect her. He is sorry they never got to dance at the Sultana's banquet. It is a debt he claims he will collect another time, but now the Brass Blades bear down on them. She must go, and be gone; the hope of the realm that exists embodied in her own person must survive. She wants to tell him before she flees, but there is no time.

When she hears his cries of pain echo in the sewers she wants to shout her confession back to him, but she has no breath for it. And soon she is alone.

Then she is in the company of others, in the small months of the year, in Coerthas. The Ishgardians are fond of their love festival, and she pours her pain out in ink one morning. She wants to consign the words and the feelings to the pyre—Thancred is dead, and she feels false to him every time she puts her arms around Haurchefant—but she has not the strength.

They are still awaiting her in Camp Dragonhead somewhere. Even now. Even then.

She does not think of them when Thancred re-enters her life in a spray of daggers—protecting her, as he exited it more than a year before. She wants to give vent to the relief she feels—why is he always so close to death? But the timing is all wrong. She will tell him soon, she tells herself.

She will tell him when she returns from the Aetherial Sea; when they are all together again. When things are as they should be.

But when she returns without Minfilia, he goes, and she fears it might be forever. How can she tell him she loves him when he can't stand the sight of her? How can she slip that bond around him when he wants to be gone?

It is not jealousy she feels when she notes the way he looks at Hilda. It is envy. She wants to be a comfort to him, she wants to hold him close, to tell him all that has transpired, to hear from him all that has happened, to be allowed, at last, to love him. Instead they argue. His pain is too near the surface, and calls hers to the fore.

They are ragged edges that will never fit together.

Time wears them down. Time, and horror, and loss; a small blue moon hangs in the sky over Baelsar's Wall. There are a few Ala Mhigan refugees who call it, with irony, Rhalgr's Beacon, for it betokens their destination. The Alliance will march beneath that star, even after the Allagan weapon has chased it from the sky. There is another banquet in the Fragrant Chamber once this is decided. The notion goes that the fete celebrates the official re-entrance of Ishgard into the Eorzean Alliance, but they both know it is a premature victory ball. They dance anyway, only two years late, and she longs to tell him.

They cross the Velodyna; they are driven back; blood sings in her sword-arm when she stands against the Viceroy. Ala Mhigo will not be yielded unto them, and Thancred will not make the long crossing to Doma. Shasi hopes that he and Urianger can be some support to one another—both have dealt with Ascians before; one by force and the other by choice. But in case of shipwreck she means to confess to him anyway.

She does not find him before her ferry departs.

When she returns there is the mission, and Krile missing, and there is the strange mutual fixation that has grown between her and Zenos yae Galvus. Thancred comes and bears witness to this last when she puts the prince under glass. She doesn't know why she asked Urianger to send him. She doesn't know why he came. She only fears he has been hurt, somehow, by his coming; by her phratry—no, her tryst, by then—with a man who had once been her enemy.

They do not speak of it. When she executes Zenos—when she cries, afterward—it's Thancred's arms that catch her. She knows then she has never been false at all. She has loved others, but always him, she understands; too, she understands now is not the time to say so.

She traverses Thanalan and then the wider world. Alone, not alone; with ghosts and spectres and her own mind for company. She and Fray do not talk about Thancred. They do not need to.

When that jaunt is ended, she comes home at last—to her little house in the Goblet. The yard is weeded and the stable is swept and the mail that has piled up beside her door is tidily organized. A little note slipped into the top stack betrays Thancred's involvement, and her heart feels fit to burst.

She returns to Doma and meets with the Ambassador. Asahi sas Brutus claims that none could have loved Zenos more or better than he; Shasi breaks apart a bit at the notion. It has been months, after all, since she first heard the rumor that Zenos was alive, though she felt his blood run over her hands, heard the last breath leave his lungs. When they open the grave and find it empty, Thancred is beside her, which seems almost too much to bear.

It is not what it seems. She knows this in her soul, and yet the ordeal exhausts her. Thancred is going to Garlemald, to hear what might be heard. She would have said nothing, but for Shpoki arranging events otherwise. She is too tired not to be with Thancred anymore.

She can kiss him, touch him; when he is inside of her she has to bury her face against his neck. If she does not mute herself, the words will come spilling out of her, and this she cannot allow. It would mean nothing to say it so carelessly, and this is more than she deserves.

He is gone a while, and she is about her business. They have almost a moon together before Lord Hien arrives for the summit in Ala Mhigo. She has her own rooms, but she does not want them. She wants his. She wakes in the pre-dawn light to see his sleeping face and kiss his brow before she rises, seeking to drive the restlessness from her soul.

Sometimes she wakes in the small hours, and she knows she has been screaming, and he puts his arms around her and reminds her where she is; that she is safe; that she is whole; that she is now. She loves him so much then that she is afraid to speak.

In those blessed weeks they spend together they travel to a city in the depths of the Lochs and to a mountain crowned with stars and they learn every inch of one another, and when she says anything to him at all she carefully examines her words in her mind, turning them over in tiny eternities between the seconds, to be sure she has not told him she loves him by accident.

It is so close to the edge of her lips all the time, it lives on the tip of her tongue, and it is a struggle to keep it trapped behind her teeth. This is her her duty and her choice, for her love is a burden that kills.

At the summit and after, when Thancred is still as a grave in winter, she cannot help but despair. His very soul is missing, she has been told.

A moon’s time of happiness. Was that all they were to be afforded?

They lay him out in the infirmary of the Rising Stones. The strange, aether-tinted light of Mor Dhona streams in through the windows, ethereal on his skin. He is like a prince enchanted. He does not wake, not when she sits down beside him, not when she speaks to him. He will not rise to greet her, does not smile at her. He cannot go to the conservatory and sit at F'lhammin's piano and work out some composition while she reads. These small intimacies are lost to them.

Shasi leans over the bed, lays her head upon the pillow beside his, and feels the selfsame ache she has carried for six years.

i love you, she tells him, though i can't see how that matters now.

Thancred does not wake.

#ff14 #wol/thancred #x'shasi #shasicred #original content #starcunning writes #fanservice friday #thancred waters #ff14 spoilers #stormblood spoilers #4.4 spoilers

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allycryz · 4 years

Text

Nerys Eluned: Canon Jobs

Background

Nerys spent her childhood with a community of Duskwight in the South Shroud until she was twelve. Her parents moved first to the Central Shroud, later to the East. Prior to ARR, she had never left the Shroud.

Her father handled her academic education with a bent towards reading and history. Her mother took on the more practical subjects: how to hunt, forage, stay out of trouble; where the Duskwight could move freely and where they should avoid.

There were always chores and odd jobs for children, especially needed when they left the relative safety net of The Cavern in the South. By her fifteenth nameday, this turned into steady work. She excelled in mostly physical jobs for merchants, farms, and outposts.

Nerys off-and-on entertained the idea of becoming a soldier, but never felt called enough to take steps. Once she reached her 20s, she had two main goals: make enough gil to live and to have fun when she wasn’t working. Nerys broke up her share of bar fights and dealt with fending bandits off merchant caravans, so again the idea of being a soldier or Adventurer came up.

The catalyst is a rough break-up that also ends a lot of her friendships. It is not that becoming an adventurer is a solution to any of the problems she faced. But in the wake of this big change, she took a long look at everything and decided she wanted something new. That leads her to Gridania and the Lancer’s Guild.

Disciple of War and Magic

Lancer/Dragoon

Meta Note

FFXIV is my first MMORPG. Prior, I have always been primarily a “solo play on my own at my own pace” kinda gal. But my friend said it was really fun and I love the FF franchise, so there I went. I wasn’t sure what class to do, was thinking Fighter until I learned it was a tank class.

My only other major online game experience was Overwatch where I was a Lucio main. That was a rarity for me: I tend to have a tougher time with caster/support classes and prefer playing as a rogue or sniper in most games. As rogue wasn’t an option, I asked my friend what she thought and she suggested Dragoon.

There were three options in Gridania: Conjurer, Archer, Lancer. Although Nerys later tried her hand at the other two, Lancer appealed her as someone who wasn’t afraid to get into the thick of things.

She ended up taking well to it and her fellow guild members. The guild was very much “here are a few techniques, go out there and figure it out” which matched up with her way of doing things.

Nerys is still processing everything that happened with Foulques of the Mist; angry with his choices while also understanding what he went through as a fellow Duskwight. It is a bit of a relief when Alberic becomes her new mentor and she can get away from everything. Not to mention: Coerthas is a place she has always wanted to go to. Her father’s lessons included their sweeping history as well as their poetry and stories.

Of course, things go sideways almost immediately. The Eye chooses her as the second Azure Dragoon and her first encounter with Estinien is anything but friendly. Things settle on that front for awhile and her primary concerns become the Primals and Garlemald. And having a small foothold in Coerthas is a boon when she, Cid, and Alphinaud travel there in search of the airship.

When Estinien suggest they partner together, she is hesitant given their previous encounters but feels drawn to help him. She agrees. That all comes crashing down after Nidhogg reveals to Estinien how Alberic’s actions lead to the loss of his family. Nerys has to step in to fend him off. The next time she sees him is in the Intercessory with Aymeric. Though he assures her he is not there to fight, she is on her guard.

She never expects that Ishgard will become the place she calls home. Nor that she and Estinien will become friends and then something more, eventually becoming lovers after he rescues her from Elidibus-Zenos. But it does and they do, and even when they both give up the title of Azure Dragoon, she feels called to protect and serve her adopted homeland. For the sake of the Fortemps and Aymeric and Lucia and Hilda and Ysayle, but also for people like Alberic, Estinien, and Heustienne who made her the warrior she is today.

Note About Armor: Nerys has her preferred aesthetics and the traditional Dragoon armor doesn’t quite fit. She prefers her own style and her concession is armor that pays tribute to the heritage of the position without being an exact copy (pictured, not her only armor set in canon or meta-wise).

That said, she is aware of when statements need to be made. Nerys isn’t a political creature in the way Aymeric and Alphinaud are but she understands that politics are a part of everything.

For certain missions and meetings she garbs herself in the traditional manner: needing to remind the Alliance of her strong ties to Ishgard, making the Heaven’s Ward realise how badly they erred in imprisoning Aymeric when both Azure Dragoons show up.

Meta Note:

Once I got to Level 15, I joined...all the Guilds in Gridania. And for a while worked on leveling Archer, Conjurer, and Rogue while also making progress with Lancer/Dragoon and MSQ. Eventually I switched gears because I wasn’t progressing fast enough in the story and focused almost exclusively on Dragoon.

For story purposes, Rogue doesn’t quite fit into Nerys’ story though I think Thancred has definitely introduced her to that crew.

Archer

Archer never quite suited Nerys, as someone who prefers to get close to the action. She does have a great deal of respect for her fellow guild members and Lewin; and she remembers what she learned when ranged combat is needed.

Conjurer

Nerys’ aether control as a Dragoon is excellent. But for whatever reason, she could not quite translate those skills to conjury.

She kept on for some time because in her mind, a good warrior would have healing skills at her disposal. Eventually, a conversation with E-Sumi-Yan brought her to accept that she might better serve others in a different way.

What she did gain was an affinity for the element of air, likely tied to her role as a Lancer/Dragoon. This becomes vital when she saves Haurchefant at The Vault, although it does not go as well as she would have liked.

(She also had a foray with the Arcanist’s Guild that was about as long as Tataru’s.)

Meta Note:

Disciple of Hand/Land: I have levels unlocked in all the DoH/DoL, the following four make the most canon sense and are the ones I have progressed in the most.

That said, canonically she dabbles in everything because she is naturally curious and wants to be self-sufficient in all things. Most of the guilds know her. The following four know her the best and it’s where most of her focus has gone.

Disciple of the Land

Botanist

Nerys was drawn to the Botanists’ Guild because of her upbringing. She knew much of the Shroud and its treasures already. What she found–as she became an adventurer–was that these skills help immensely on the road.

It’s also a centering profession. Nerys needs activity to bring her out of her own mind, especially as responsibilities and dangers pile on. She can go lose herself in nature, either for her own needs or on commission (and often both).

Having grown up foraging ingredients to cook with, her Botanist career also ties into Culinarian role.

Disciple of the Hand

Culnarian

Nerys grew up cooking alongside her mother, so she had a base of knowledge going into the guild. Still, through Lyngsath and the rest she discovers a whole world of new ingredients, recipes, and techniques.

As a hunter and a Botanist, there is no end to the new ingredients she find to experiment with.

Leatherworker

Nerys fell into leatherworking when she was scoping out all the guilds in Gridania (around the time she took up with the Archers and Conjurers).

It stuck for a few reasons: the resources were fairly easy to come by from her hunts; it is another centering activity; and she is a bit of a clotheshorse. If she has to wear specific gear as a Dragoon, she can add her own pretty details to the leather pieces.

Weaver

This is a culmination of the other jobs: uses resources from other things she does (botany, hunting, and leatherworking), a craft that pulls all her focus into one thing, and satisfies her clotheshorse desires. She knows she can put pretty details into her everyday armor/gear and make more formal clothes that make her feel good.

(Whenever she is dealing with A Thing, she will get her hair done. Of course she needs clothes that work with the new look, even if it’s a temporary updo.)

When it comes to leatherworking and weaving, there a plus to taking guild commissions: it has to be perfect and meticulous and good quality but it is not on the level of say...if you fail this task, a primal will temper all these innocents. Nerys is drawn to help people but it's nice to do that for something that is not saving the world. (Of course when she makes any type of armor or working clothes, she is sure to make them well so they protect the wearer.)

She is not advanced enough to make her own gowns for formal events held by the city-states or the Ishgardian High Houses. One day she would like to be able to do so. Until then, Eorzea has plenty of dressmakers ready to help.

Outfit Note: I ended up choosing a mix of the Scion and Best Man’s clothing, thinking of how you can never go wrong with a suit. It’s crisp, always in style, and she looks great in it!

#nerys eluned #duskwight elezen #duskwight warrior of light #elezen #dragoon warrior of light #ffxiv #dragoon #botanist #weaver #leatherworker #culinarian #long post #ally writes

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starswornoaths · 5 years

Text

Somewhere more Aery (2/2)

Part 1 is here!

When Bryn and Serella return from the Aery, it is both a surprise and not that only Serella is heavily injured. Bryn takes a vow of silence on everything that happened, and Aymeric is forced to realize that he isn’t the only well meaning dumbass Elezen in Ishgard anymore.

Or:

Serella is so fucking grounded.

Word count: 5411

By the time news had reached the Congregation that both Serella Arcbane and Bryn Soulcairne were missing, they could find no one who had seen them within the last several hours—when scouts on the walls spotted them on dragon back heading toward the Hinterlands. Speculation from the band of warriors of light they had left behind pointed toward them making for the Aery. A well founded hypothesis, if lacking in enough concrete evidence to form a more focused search, given how thinly spread even those bearing the Echo were.

And really, considering how many other things demanded Aymeric’s attention, it should have been easier to put out of his mind. It should have been easier to keep his focus on things he could actually exercise some modicum of control over. That, of course, did not stop him from glancing at the chronometer in any given room he was in, did not stop him tracking the hours they were gone or keep the worry at bay.

Nor did it stop him from feeling upset that Serella had promised him she would rest and she had broken it.

The anger and worry made Aymeric productive, at least, and the more he worked, the less energy he had to fret over it, he decided.

Then Hilda had burst into the Congregation somewhere around the fourteenth hour of their absence—a rarity, given her reputation. She was winded: she had been sprinting here.

“Airship landing!” She’d gasped, still hanging on the wide doors she’d pushed open to catch her breath. “Need chirurgeons—Serella—“

Aymeric did not know Hilda personally; no one in the Congregation did, outside of her reputation as “The Mongrel.” It didn’t matter. Not for this. Not for her.

With a nod to Lucia, the First Commander was already rounding up what chirurgeons were on call for the graveyard shift; a bed needed preparing, a patient transporting, after all.

And then he was sprinting beside the Mongrel of the Brume before he had realized he had moved at all. He hadn’t even registered he’d done so until he felt the cold air stinging his lungs.

“Mjalle’s there already,” Hilda panted, her breathing ragged from exertion and panic, “told her first.”

Aymeric did not comment; he could not think beyond willing his legs to move faster and the Fury to hear his prayers for their safety and health.

Even before they had crossed the waist high gates into the airship landing space there was already a gaggle of people crowded around a dragon—Midgardsormr, he realized—all of whom huddled themselves around the space in the middle of them. A part of him already knew what to expect when he got there.

Still, the sight of Serella laid out on the stone floor, bleeding and in obvious agony, made his heart stop.

Through the congealed crimson stain on the carved and scorched chainmail she wore he recognized it as Templar armor, gifted to her by House Fortemps that she might be recognized as presently in their service—as did Bryn, whose hands were pressing at one of her wounds under his wife’s curt guidance.

Hilda murmured that she would get out of the way, and before Aymeric could even reply she was off running into the night again. Praying to the Fury to grant Serella—and himself—strength, he drew nearer.

Midgardsormr, looming behind the group, body half curled around them protectively, leveled his unending and ageless stare at the Lord Commander as he came close. Though Aymeric was not without his initial, instinctive reactionary fear he tamped down hard on it to meet the gaze of the Father of Dragons: that he was a great wyrm did not matter. Aymeric would not be denied. Not where Serella was concerned.

There was an unspoken understanding between them in that moment, and the wing Midgardsormr had half shielded the group with folded back to allow him beneath it. Reminding himself that he was capable of gentleness—that Serella had reminded him that it was allowed— he ignored every second of training he had all his life and came to Serella on bended knee under the shadow of the wyrm’s gaze.

Serella’s condition looked somehow impossibly worse up close. The glow of Mjalle’s healing magicks bathed her in a pale, sickly light and only served to highlight how much of the Paladin was covered in blood. If he had not honed his focus to the rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her already sat beside Haurchefant in Halone’s halls.

“Is she ready to be moved?” He asked quietly.

“As ready as I can make her,” Mjalle answered grimly, her focus never straying from her conjury.

“She’ll need a two man carry,” Bryn murmured, keeping his head low, “might you—?”

“Of course,” Aymeric replied, already settling his hands beneath her shoulder and just above her knee respectively. He made a mental note to apologize to her later when she was conscious. “By your leave.”

Wordlessly, Mjalle held the Paladin’s head in her hands, her healing magic running in rivulets down her neck and shoulders to where it was needed. They counted to three, held their breaths, and lifted her.

Unconscious as she was Serella still let out a choked cry of pain, and though they stilled to let her weak twinging pass for only a moment it felt like years before she quieted.

If that had felt like years they might as well have entered a new era for how long it felt to transport her to the chirurgeon’s ward. He instead tried to count how long it took by her raspy, shuddering breaths, but after the tenth one his soul could not bear the weight of the agony. His sharpened hearing picked them up all the same.

Her blood on his hands and arms should not have startled him when he withdrew to make room for the healers, and yet he choked on a gasp when he saw how deeply it had seeped into his scalemail gloves.

“Pray notify me if aught changes,” he heard himself distantly say. “I will check in between my duties.”

He was unsure of who he asked this. Less sure of who answered him. He moved in a daze to his office, only one floor down and but a few seconds’ sprint away—and why he needed to calculate that in his head escaped him for how numb he was but that was alright; he had been here before.

With Haurchefant, with Estinien, with the Borels and others who had been dear to him that he had been made to bury or to hold their hand and watch them writhe in agony, made to mourn their wounds or their absence in silence. War had made Ishgard familiar with blood and loss and pain. This was no different, he told himself.

That did not stop his hands from trembling as they unclasped his gauntlets, nor did it dry his eyes as he rinsed his hands and scrubbed at his stained gloves. It startled him, how greatly affected he was by Serella’s injuries: he knew not how many of the tears that dripped onto the onyx scalemail he cleaned were out of fear and how many were out of anger.

She promised she would not, she promised, she promised, he lamented.

It did not matter that he had cleaned his gauntlets and hands, they felt dirty all the same when he donned them once more. Rather than let the knot of complicated—and conflicting—emotions utterly consume him he instead hid the stains of blood and the scent of iron from his mind beneath the ink that smudged his fingers as he worked. It was easier to breathe if he did.

It was not so many hours—maybe two or three, not long enough for the sun to begin to rise—when Aymeric ran out of work and wore no armor to effectively anchor him to his office. With nothing to hold him there, it was alarming how easily he had prepared a tray laden with books, a pot of tea, and cups to make an excuse for why he drifted back to the chirurgeon’s ward, to Serella’s room.

He was unsurprised that Lucia had fallen into step beside him somewhere along the way there, and Uthengentle seemed to almost anticipate that they would be back to where they, at the end of it all, wanted to be.

It was just as expected when they opened the door and found Uthengentle sitting still as a stone in a chair beside his sleeping sister. The only indication that he had even heard them enter was a furtive glance their way as they shut the door behind them.

“How is she?” Aymeric asked quietly, setting the tray down at the bedside table.

“Has there been any sign of improvement?” Lucia asked immediately after.

“Still asleep.” Uthengentle answered with a shrug. He returned his attention to Serella. “Stable, but asleep. Nothing’s changed. He crossed his arms and turned his head fully to acknowledge them. “Kind of surprised to see you guys here, though.” He paused and amended, “again. At the same time.”

“We are worried.” Aymeric explained, and at this point he had thought himself obvious. “And rightly so, I should say.”

“But who the fuck is running the country if you’re both here?” Uthengentle asked, the lack of proper sleep beginning to affect his filter— and his sensibilities, evidently. Aymeric certainly would not hold that against him.

“One of these days, you will recall that Ser Handeloup exists.” Lucia retorted, rolling her eyes.

“I know he exists,” Uthengentle argued around a yawn. “I also know that unlike some, he has a life outside work.”

Neither Ishgardian commented further. They could not.

“We are all worried.” Lucia said instead, producing a small bag of cookies and adding them to the tray. “Ser Handeloup’s wife sent him back to the Congregation with these for the both of you.”

“We look after one another.” Aymeric supplied, hoping his gaze drifting toward the sleeping Paladin was not so obvious as it felt. “You are a part of that now— and have been for some time.”

“Fair ‘nough.” Uthengentle conceded quietly with a nod as he popped a cookie in his mouth. “Thank you, by the way. Here’s hoping she gets up soon.”

Ginger snaps, Aymeric’s nose registered when the bag opened. Serella would enjoy them, once she awoke— sometimes liked them with her tea, as he recalled.

“...It is unsettling, is it not?” Lucia asked uncomfortably after a few moments of silence. “To see her like this...unnerves me.”

“That tends to happen when a Guardian gets knocked on their ass.” Uthengentle said around a rough bark of laughter. “Isn’t the first time. I just want to know what caused it this time.” His frown deepened. “What the fuck happened, Ellie?” He asked under his breath.

And really, it both was and was not the question to ask. They could surmise what had happened by that point. Aymeric only wanted to know why.

“I have asked Bryn,” Lucia spoke up haltingly. “But he is surprisingly tight lipped— “I shan’t say a word while she’s abed,” he said.”

“‘M shocked his wife lets him breathe without supervision right now.” Uthengentle admitted. “Frankly, he’s lucky he’s lived through her wrath.”

“He was, in fact, supervised, though I was unaware her conjury was so lethal.” Lucia mused.

“S’not her conjury that kills.” The Warrior corrected with a shrug. “She’s one hell of a fist fighter besides. Don’t care that she’s a full fulm shorter than me, she frightens me when she’s mad.” He shuddered.

“Please tell her I died.” Came a raspy voice from the bed. Aymeric’s heart leapt in his throat in spite of himself. “She’ll just kill me anyway.”

“Serella?” Aymeric called softly, eyes widening in surprise.

He swallowed the complicated lump of relief and rage that bubbled up to the top and just settled on being grateful that she was there to feel this about at all.

“Present,” she groaned, giving her unbandaged hand a weak wave even as her eyes remained closed. “Bryn?”

“Being treated for minor injuries, but otherwise fine,” Aymeric reassured her.

“And being raked over the coals by his wife, most like.” Lucia chimed in.

“...Okay,” she sighed heavily and forced her eyes open. “That’s...good. Yeah. ...Okay.”

“How fare you?” Lucia asked, though did not let the Paladin answer before adding, “is there aught you need?”

“I’m...I’m fine.” Serella lied— again, a dark part of Aymeric’s mind hissed. “I’d just like to...sit up, maybe—”

When she tried to do so on her own she wound up feebly clutching at her side for the trouble. Uthengentle began to shoot out of his seat, hands already beginning to come up to offer healing when Lucia caught him by the shoulder and pressed him back into his chair. He looked up at her, clearly prepared to protest but Aymeric was familiar with that terse glare of hers: if she decided Uthengentle was going to stay seated to avoid using his healing magic, then he was going to stay seated.

Aymeric, however, was not stopped as he gingerly moved his hands to support her by what few places she did not have wounds— doubtless lying on her back was agitating what injuries were there as well. Even as she thanked him and tried to weakly shoo his hands away, he lingered in the air near her a moment to ensure she would not fall over. It was only when she finally looked up at him and gave a nod and another word of thanks that he stepped back behind the chair Uthengentle sat in.

“So,” Uthengentle growled, crossing his arms over his chest, “care to tell us why you thought going to the Aery half-cocked and alone was a good plan?”

Serella flinched—and it was clear that if her wounds allowed for it she would squirm under his disappointed glare.

“We had to strike fast—“

“Alone?” Uthengentle repeated. “With less armor than you’re used to? And less aether than you’re used to? In the shape your in?”

“Everyone else was healing—“ she tried again.

“As were you and Bryn,” Uthengentle countered, “and they knew better than to fight Nidhogg while their wounds were still bleeding.”

“We could stand for more than an hour without getting dizzy and we could use our weapons,” Serella snapped, “so we were in the best position to try—”

“That’s…an astronomically low bar, Ellie.” He said with a shake of his head.

She turned her focus to the window. “What can I say, I’m a fucking star.”

Uthengentle heaved a sigh, and Aymeric could swear he saw the Warrior mentally counting backwards from a hundred to calm himself.

“At least apologize for being reckless, if nothin’ else.” Uthengentle tried again, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “I’m just doing to wait here until you do.”

“Die waiting, then.” Serella spat, even as she avoided his eyes.

“Look I’m as mad as you are, but running off for vengeance isn’t—”

“It wasn’t vengeance!” Serella screamed suddenly, even as she had ducked her head as if in shame.

Her outburst startled everyone in the room; she was not a woman for shouting, she hadn’t the practice, her voice cracking and squeaking as she tried to push her anguish out. Though brief, it rang in Aymeric’s ears like cannonfire. It somehow felt bigger than her solid form, bigger than one person could contain. He wondered if that was much the same as all else that she endured: bigger than one person could contain.

Uthengentle had tried to hold his hands out in a placating manner but it was all too much for her finally, and she could not stop herself from shying away from his offered comfort. Aymeric practically saw her soul flood out of her broken dam. Bandaged or no her hands wrung themselves upon the edge of her blouse as she continued in a soft, wheezy rasp. As if her brief firecracker explosion of screaming had stolen her voice.

“We...it wasn’t. We couldn’t…we had to try.” Her balled up hands shook in her lap, and she fell into silence.

“Try…?” Lucia gently inquired, but it was only met with a shuddering sigh.

Her brother seemed as startled by the revelation as Aymeric was— he had presumed she and Bryn had left to exact revenge on Nidhogg for all he had done. It had made sense to him, at least: while the action was a foolish one it would have been the only one wherein she had some control, some meaningful way she could have thrown herself at a lost cause. It had been his motivation for heading to the godsforsaken Vault, after all…

“...Okay, Ellie.” Uthengentle spoke up after a long moment. He raked a hand through his hair. “Okay. I’ll...we’ll talk about it in the morning, yeah?” He did not wait for an answer as he stood. “Maybe we’ll feel better in the morning.”

As the Warrior turned to leave Aymeric could see the strain on his face; though the two of them were on the mend, this was more than either of them could deal with for the moment. Better they spoke with cooler heads and more rested hearts. He seemed to agree, even as he hovered by the door.

“I’m not good for her,” he admitted quietly, ashamedly, “not like this. We’re both just in pain and lashing out.” He looked back over his shoulder at Lord and First Commander alike. “I...don’t much like asking but can one of—?”

“I will stay with her,” Aymeric volunteered before he had even thought to. Before he could talk himself out of wanting to. He spared a glance at his First. “Lucia, if you would please—”

“And I will watch over the brother Arcbane,” she read his mind with a small smile as she had done for years by then, “and apprise you of updates.”

Really, they both just needed a sympathetic ear that wasn’t their sibling; that was all they would provide to them. Naught more and naught less, as friends do when they are in need.

With a word of thanks from him, Lucia was already moving toward the door, gesturing with her arm to encourage Uthengentle to move.

The Warrior paused in opening the door to look at his sister. “...Night, Ellie.”

She met his gaze, and Aymeric could tell that Uthengentle received at least a part of his apology when she quietly answered, “night, Uthen.”

All the same, Aymeric waited until Lucia had nodded her own farewell to them and shut the door behind her before scooting the chair Uthengentle had occupied closer to the bed and taking a seat.

“I know you have already been asked, but,” Aymeric paused a moment, hands hovering in the space between them, “is there aught else that you require?”

She did not immediately answer, and had evidently developed a fascination with his knees, if the way her gaze did not stray from them was any indication. He did not rush her, even as his hand crossed the distance to carefully cover her good hand. The act of doing so pulled his attention to her other, burned hand, and he realized with a start that the bandages had grown saturated with medicine and were near translucent for it. He frowned deeply.

“Do you know when your arm was last redressed?” He instead asked.

She looked up, startled at the question. He was already rummaging through the chirurgeon’s wares left behind, however, and did not linger on her shadowed eyes.

“I’m not sure,” Serella answered, eyeing the clean roll of linen bandage he’d found. “I think I was still asleep.”

“It needs changing,” Aymeric said almost to himself. Before he could think better of it he held out his empty hand expectantly. “If I may have your hand?”

A distant, stupid part of him lamented the context of the question; she deserved it to be asked sweetly, with a sigh and a smile and from someone she loved. Not…not this.

Aymeric watched, his concern only mounting as the color drained from her face. Though she looked humiliated that she needed the help at all she relented, and hesitantly gave him her hand.

“Pray tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured, the hand not holding hers still carefully skimming the bandage to find its tied off end.

“Alright.” She said thickly.

He found the end of the bandage near her wrist, and began to slowly peel it back from her skin, and frowned deeper at what he saw: given how thinly they had covered the burns, it must have been nearing the end of the bandage roll when the chirurgeons applied it—or it was not a priority when they were stabilizing her, perhaps, as they had not compensated for how threadbare this bandage had been.

It might amount to little, but it was something he could fix. He latched onto that.

“I didn’t take you for a chirurgeon,” Serella spoke up in the silence.

“You are witnessing the extent of my abilities,” Aymeric admitted with an apologetic smile, “all knights have some training in field medicine, though ‘tis not extensive.”

She let out a startled cry when he peeled the last of the bandage off and came away with some of the newly healed skin. He winced in sympathy.

“Shh, shh,” he attempted to soothe, feeling all at once too brutish to be up to the task when he eyed the new skin clinging to the bandage, “forgive me, dear one. ‘Tis finished.”

With the soiled bandage gone and discarded Aymeric was able to at last see the extent of the damage to her arm, and not for the first time since he had put them all on this godforsaken path he felt nauseating guilt clench his gut.

The burns were fairly deep, though already half scarred, likely from what healing she had been given already. The affected skin and flesh, pink and red and slick with salve radiated heat even without him touching it—and Fury help him but he would not for how agonizing it looked already. He ignored the faint queasiness that came with the sight, though it did surprise him: burns were naught new to him, child of war that he was.

“How…?” Aymeric asked quietly, for the question had haunted him since her return from Azys Lla.

“Holy spear.” Her answer was dark, snarled through gnashed teeth, and he saw her anger rise to the surface and flush her cheeks. “He…he threw another one of the damnable things. It was meant for one of our healers.” She looked away. “So I...caught it.”

“You caught it?” He balked before he could stop himself.

“Past experience told me not to block it,” she said wryly, “and I didn’t know what else to do. My Blessing of Light cancelled it out, but I’m…low on aether for the moment for the effort.” He must have seemed as alarmed as he was, as she hastily added, “Not like Uthen was. Is, I guess. I’m…it’s different, so I’ll recover quicker.”

Recognizing her stumbling words as a symptom of his reaction, he smoothed out the bandage and began to wind it through her individual fingers as he said, “you owe me no explanation—I was startled. Pray forgive me my outburst, my friend.”

“You’re angry,” she noted, and it was not a question.

“I am,” Aymeric replied honestly. “And hurt. Both of which can wait until you are healed. I am, above all else, relieved that you yet live.”

She did not speak again until he had finished bandaging each finger, her palm, her wrist, and had almost completely finished with her forearm. He had thought her silence was born of exhaustion or pain, and thus had not pressed her to talk.

In a voice only just above a whisper she breathed once more, “I had to try.”

The rhythm Aymeric had set his hands to stuttered at the confession.

“What,” he rasped, “do you mean?”

Reminding himself that she was in his care, he forced his hands to continue with the second layer of bandage. He was nearly done, after all, and it would help her find her ease.

“I had to go. There was,” she swallowed heavily when her voice cracked, “there was no one else but Bryn and I well enough to try.”

He waited until he’d bandaged up to her wrist for the second time before commenting, the repetition of weaving the bandage back and forth helping him gather his thoughts. Even as his anger and his hurt burned he kept his voice soft as he chided, “you needed more rest—“

“I couldn’t leave him like that!” She blurted suddenly, though ducked her head as if ashamed of her outburst.

Aymeric’s hands froze. When he peered at her through his lashes he found her still with her head bowed as if in prayer, her hair disheveled and fallen in front of her face. Disregarding her wounds she seemed intent on curling as deeply into herself as she could with him still holding her hand. He felt her trembling before he saw it, but he could tell in the way her breathing hitched and her shoulders shook that it had spread through her body. He finished his work and tied off the bandage, though he still carefully cradled her hand with both of his.

“Serella,” he called softly, helplessly, and when she looked up at him to see her eyes glassy and filled with tears she fought not to shed his heart shattered.

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t leave Estinien like that,” she sobbed, and the sudden motion jarred her tears into spilling over her flushed cheeks. “I had to try…I couldn’t—“ a sob cut off her words, “I can’t lose any one else and he’s suffering, and—!”

Aymeric had never seen her cry. Not when Haurchefant had died, not when he was laid to rest, not when she told him of all the loss and blood that had stained her path to Ishgard. When it was a dying friend’s wish, she smiled as he left. When Aymeric himself had finally cracked under the grief she had held him. She had been supporting so many people for so long…how had he never asked her if she had a safe spot to land when she fell apart? How could he do that to her as her friend? As someone who...who could love her, if only he allowed himself?

“Serella,” he said again, and used the time it took for her to meet his gaze to choose his words carefully, “nothing that has happened was your fault.”

“I should have—!” She tried to argue, though a sob choked her. “I should have tried harder!”

Seeing her grief laid bare he was uncomfortably familiar with the shadows in her eyes and the guilt that pressed her shoulders into a hunch: he’d seen it in his own reflection every morning. Hearing her lament that she had somehow, somehow not done enough broke some invisible barrier within him; the sight of her so openly mourning not being able to do more for someone they both cherished as a friend negated his apprehensions. She was suffering— and worse, felt she had deserved it, somehow. No more, he silently promised her.

His anger could wait.

She gasped around her tears when he used a curled finger to brush her tears away. With wide eyes she gawked, even around her sniffled and hiccups, as he brushed away a few of her tears.

“Had you tried any harder than you have,” he said slowly, carefully, “then…it may well have killed you.” He shook his head. “You tried—harder than anyone I have ever seen. You have done so much more than you had to, even before now.” He stopped catching her tears and let his hand rest on her shoulder. “But you must rest. Recover. Take what time you need to be whole, that you may fight on and I might know you have the best chance you have at coming home.”

“Aymeric—“ She warbled through her tears but he felt too raw, too undone from everything that they had both been put through to stop himself.

“Pray do not make me lose you, too,” he whispered.

“I—!” Her eyes widened, her face grew ashen, and in that moment Aymeric decided that neither of them needed to deal with any more tragedy alone.

He had been taught gentleness as a boy, and it had thought it beaten out of him by adulthood. He had been reminded of it when he became friends with Serella— reminded that it was still there and not a weakness. It was time to show her that her lessons had not fallen on deaf ears.

With every onze of tenderness he could muster, he brought her newly bandaged hand to brush her knuckle against his lips before he set her hand against his chest. She watched him all the while in silence, as if she waited for his queue to continue breathing. Another familiar feeling— he had felt much the same when she had found him broken.

“Come here, dear one.”

He could not hug her, not in the same way she had: he was still not entirely accustomed to it, and her wounds would not allow for it besides, but he could gently guide her head into the crook of his neck and hold her there. He could stroke her hair in the same way she had. He could be soft—and in this moment, that was aught he needed to be, so that was aught he was.

“I’m sorry,” Serella sobbed into his shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Shh,” Aymeric hushed her, his hand still smoothing over her hair, “you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I…I must seem a mess,” she let out a watery laugh even as she nuzzled into the soft collar of his shirt, “for you to give me a hug like this.”

“Not at all. A wise friend once told me,” he said softly, “that everyone is in need of one at some point.”

“Your friend’s a ninny.” Serella sniffed.

“My friend is in need of respite.” He countered, “and has more than earned it a thousand times over.” When she leaned away from him he offered her a smile. “And I would actively encourage her to take it.”

Though Serella pursed her lips there was a ghost of humor in her eyes, and she had even refrained from grousing when he held out a pain tonic for her to take.

“A nap does sound nice.” She conceded once she had finished coughing from the taste of the medicine. “I just— shit—” she cursed when she twisted to try and lie down, her body jerking back into place. Wordlessly, Aymeric was there, helping as best he could to get her to lie back down. “Ah, thank you, Aymeric,” she said quietly once she was situated on the bed.

“Think nothing of it,” he reassured her, and settled into his chair; he needed to make sure she did not go anywhere any time soon. “Rest now — I will be here.”

“You’ll get bored.” She tried when he wordlessly held up a book by an author she had recommended him.

“I will be fine — I came with every intention of staying.” He offered her a smile as he turned to the first chapter.

She spared a bleary glance at the title on the cover that he held out for her to see and arched a brow.

“One of the ones I haven’t gotten around to reading yet.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Let me know how it is.”

“I’ve a better idea, if you are amenable,” he poured himself a cup of tea from the tray, “I could instead read aloud until you fall asleep.”

“Aymeric, I would never want to impose—”

“You cannot impose upon that which is offered,” he countered, his smile returning, “another bit of wisdom from my friend.”

Her good hand reached out and caught his, and he met her gaze again. Her eyes, while still darkened by grief and pain held little constellations of humor and mirth that twinkled up at him.

“Tell your friend...she’s lucky to have you.” Serella said, and let go of his hand.

Aymeric ignored the way his heart fluttered and smiled wider in spite of himself. “When I see her next, I shall perhaps endeavor to tell her ‘tis I who am fortunate to have her.”

Serella made a quiet, tired noise in the back of her throat and settled in for sleep. As promised, Aymeric began to quietly read aloud, all the while thanking Halone that he had not had to bury another friend so soon. They had a lot of talking to do once she was better, after all.

#I am as ever your shield #Serella Arcbane #Aymeric de Borel #Ser Aymeric #Ser Lucia #Lucia goe Junius #Uthengentle Arcbane #hi I swear I didn't forget about this #life got dumb #anyway there's more to this whole section of the MSQ #I think about the time between 3.0 and 3.1 a lot tbh #*hides face in hands*#anyway hi I'm weak for soft pining while bandaging a wound so here's some of that

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