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dragons-bones · 2 months ago

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FFXIV Write Entry #19: Levinstorm

Prompt: taken || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: *poking at the list of intransitive phrases "taken" is a part of* ho-hum, so many possibilities, what to--ah. ahhhh. "taken sick."

*digs out idea from when she first ran through Dawntrail*

...oh right, spoilers for Dawntrail. :D

---

“We’ve got incoming!” Krile called out.

Synnove whirled on the ball of her foot, grimoire at the ready, and sucked in a breath. A battalion of Everkeep sentries and aerostats marched towards the Solution Nine aetheryte plaza from the Residential Sector, the heavy stomp of their movements ringing out against the electrope walkways. The civilians clustered behind them began screaming in alarm.

“Gods be good, that’s a lot,” Lamaty’i breathed out, even as she brought her axe to bear and settled into a defensive stance. Heron joined her, grim but determined.

“There are still civilians on True Vue,” Sphene said, hands clutched to her chest as she watched aerostats fly overhead. “We won’t be able to reach them in time!”

Synnove’s carbuncles joined the defensive line with herself and the others, warily watching the slow but inexorable advance of the machina soldiers. As Alisaie spoke further down the line, however, a wiggling in the pouch on her hip—one with a void storage metafold installed—caught her attention. Since the carbuncles wouldn’t let her be caught unaware, she risked looking down, just in time to see Amandina pop her head out of the pouch in question.

The ward Synnove and the others had devised had worked to alleviate the worst of the levin-overload that Amandina experienced within Alexandrian borders, but the black pearl carbuncle was still not her usual self. Listless, constantly napping, only crawling out of the metafold pouch to burrow her face into Synnove’s neck for cuddles and aether-siphoning. Her little girl looked up at her now with still-crusty eyes, but her face was set into a determined scrunch.

Mommy, Mommy, I can help, Amandina said. Even her aetheric harmonic gave the impression of congestion, and Synnove felt terrible at how heartbreakingly adorable a stuffy-nosed carbuncle sounded. I have an idea.

She was trying to crawl out of the pouch and Synnove hurriedly knelt so Amandina could use her thigh as support without the risk of falling. Roksana’s head popped out of the pouch once Amandina was clear, her ears wriggling excitedly.

Amandina carefully sat up on Synnove’s thigh and put one paw on each of her cheeks. Mommy, Amandina said seriously, take the levin-ward down.

“What? No,” Synnove bit out, trying to gather the carbuncle up into her arms, but Amandina kept eeling under her arms and hands. “You’re even worse inside Everkeep, I am not putting you at risk—”

Mommy, I can HELP, Amandina warbled. It doesn’t need to be down for even five minutes, and I’ll get really staticky and sparky and it’ll be enough that I can knock out all the machina and then you can put the ward back up and I can take another nap!

“Sweetheart, you don’t have any combat capabilities yet, you’re too small,” Synnove said, fighting down the panic rising inside her. Shite shite shite, she really should have finished the suite of upgrades before they left for the New World—

Mommy, I can do it! Amandina’s little face was stubbornly determined in a way that Synnove had never seen before.

Indecision clawed at her heart, as she looked first from the black pearl carbuncle to the still-advancing machina.

“Synnove, it’s worth a chance,” G’raha said quietly. “At worst, she can teleport right back to Roksana’s side, and with these numbers, any help will get us to True Vue faster.”

Synnove closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, then heaving it out again. “Fuck,” she breathed softly. Then, louder, “Fuck. Fine. Roksana��”

She looked down towards her hip, but the white pearl carbuncle had already dived back in and returned with a bottle of enchanted ink in her mouth. Synnove sighed again, and worked the cork free, then held out her hand. Roksana’s eyes narrowed as she concentrated—the ink was liquid but the water content wasn’t high—but within a few seconds, a stream of glittering black ink slithered free like a serpent. It splashed onto her open palm, and once sufficiently doused, Synnove snapped her fingers.

An array flashed across both her palm and the back of her hand, and thus prepared, Synnove plunged her hand down into Amandina.

The carbuncle’s side rippled as the aether comprising her physical form obediently allowed her summoner access to the code that floated in the heart of her. Amandina giggled as Synnove wiggled her fingers, up to her mid-forearm. Levin-ward, levin-ward, where did it go—there.

With a twist of her fingers, she disabled the ward, and withdrew her hand.

Almost immediately, Amandina drooped, and what little purple iridescence was in her fur dimmed to nothing. She jumped down to the ground with a wobble and took a big, snotty snorting sniff.

Blergh, she said, somehow even more congested than she was not even ten seconds ago.

“Amandina,” Synnove said gently, “you don’t have to do this,”

I can help, she insisted. Levin began to crackle along her ears and tails.

Synnove moaned low in her chest as Tyr leaned into her side and Rere hugged her from the other. She watched, heart in her throat, as Amandina shook her head, levin now crackling all along her body, and began a wobbly run towards the oncoming battalion. Purple glowed and pulsed around her, and somehow, the little black pearl carbuncle began to pick up speed.

[Alert: levin in Junior Construct Amandina approaching critical levels,] Ipomoea said in her bland voice.

Synnove whimpered.

Now is not the time, Galette hissed.

But then all of their heads swiveled as a sound from ahead got their attention.

Ah—

Heron swore, and lunged forwards, the wings of Passage of Arms growing around her and snapping open protectively as she took point. “G’raha!” she snapped.

“Oh, shite,” the archon said, darting forward to join her with his own Passage wings.

AH—

Amandina was almost at the front line of the advancing sentries and all that could be seen of her was a bright ball of levin, crackling so loudly now that thunder began to quietly rumble. And out of the corner of her eye, Synnove spotted Ipomoea turn to regard Sphene with an oddly shrewd look. Then the sapphire carbuncle reached out, and tapped the foot of the Alexandrian queen.

Sphene yelped as she began floating, a round shield completely encompassing her.

ACHOO!!!

Synnove slammed her eyes shut, ducking down over Rere’s head, but her vision still went white as levin exploded outward in a wave. The ground shook as thunder roared in its wake, and for multiple heartbeats, Synnove was blind and deaf to the world.

When her senses returned, spots danced in her vision and her ears rang like cymbals.

“Holy fucking shite,” Rereha croaked.

“What?” she said, voice raised.

“What?” Rere said back. She thought.

The former battalion of Everkeep sentries and aerostats was now a smoking pile of electrope; the front lines that had taken the full brunt of the explosion of levin were utterly obliterated, and the only units that remained fully intact, if deactivated, were at the back. A glance around, however, showed that the lights of the Residential District had gone dark, as had the holographic displays of the Nexus Arcade close to the aetheryte plaza. In fact, the only thing that still seemed operational on this level of Solution Nine was the aetheryte itself.

And Queen Sphene, as Ipomoea flicked her ears and the shield around her dissipated. Sphene landed with a soft click of her heels and she stared, jaw slightly slack. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. G’raha, meanwhile, was pushing himself back to his feet, and Heron was hauling a dazed Lamaty’I up as Krile, Alisaie, and Alakhai began checking the civilians.

Roksana crawled out of the hip pouch, and made a motion as if she was biting on something, and yanked. A small, black form shot through the air, and Synnove scrambled upright to catch Amandina as the carbuncle thumped into her sternum. She still had aetheric ink on her hand, so with another finger snap, she was shoving her hand into Amandina and turning the levin-ward back on.

Amandina’s sniffle was less snotty. Oops, she said, peering with half-open eyes at the darkness of the Nexus Arcade. Sorry.

Synnove laughed wetly and dug out a handkerchief, holding it up to Amandina’s nose. “No, you’re not,” she said.

Amandina HONKED into the handkerchief obediently, wiped her nose on a clean spot, and then sniffled again.

No, she grumbled, crawling up Synnove to tuck into the comfort of her neck. This place sucks.

#ffxivwrite2024 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #oc: synnove greywolfe #synnove's carbuncles #dt's writing #got a pretty large cast here so only tagging the important ones

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dailycharacteroption · 4 months ago

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Roleplay Ramblings: New Elements part 1

Intro

In the past not just Pathfinder, but even Dungeons and Dragons, there has been a baseline assumption that the four elements of western elementalism were the “true” elements of creation.

Sure, Pathfinder did have wood, metal, aether, and even void elementalists out there in the world, drawing upon not just the Chinese Wuxing, but also the expanded western elements and even Japanese Godai, respectively. However, these were generally considered not “true” elements since those that drew upon them do not call upon an elemental plane. Metal is just a group of themed spells and doesn’t even have independence from the earth element for kineticists, wood draws upon the First World, Aether draws upon both the ethereal and astral plane, and Void… well, we’re not really sure how that one works at all drawing not just from negative energy, but also concepts of stillness and serenity. All together, they represent unique ways to tap into magic… but they still are only elements in name.

…Or so we thought.

With the advent of Rage of the Elements, it became revealed that the elements of Metal and Wood were indeed real, but had been inaccessible for an unfathomable length of time due to the treachery of the Elemental Lords.

Fans of Pathfinder’s lore will recall that the four “evil” elemental lords of the familiar elements imprisoned their “good” counterparts inside magical gemstone artifacts, The Moaning Diamond, the Garnet Brand, the Untouchable Opal, and the Gasping Pearl. All in a bid of an alliance of power between the four as they ruled the planes.

However, doing so had an unusual side effect in that this imbalance of power actually literally unbalanced the planes on a cosmic scale, shunting both the planes of Metal and Wood out of alignment with the rest of the multiverse, seeming to vanish entirely as the borders of the planes they once rested between closed in with their new neighbors.

However, after the goodly elemental lords were freed one after the other, thanks in no small part by planeshopping members of the Pathfinder Society, the balanced was restored and the two planes have begun creeping back in, freed from their isolation as their residents and wonders marvel and are marveled in kind by the cosmos they have rejoined.

These two planes have elemental lords, genies, and elementals of their own, a whole ecology that parallels the other planes but also prove unique in their own right. Presumably, the two more destructive or antisocial of the elemental lords of metal and wood were not included in the original conspiracy due to their comparative lack of malevolence or thirst for power compared to their contemporaries, though that isn’t to say they don’t have their quirks.

To describe them briefly, (in preparation for further entries this week) the Plane of Metal is a place of change and creation, of forged form and function, of art and science, of creation, but also destruction, for while many wondrous things can be created from the harnessed metals and materials, they are also associated with destruction, not just for metal’s association with weapons, but also the fact that nothing that is created can last forever, and all metal succumbs to rust and corrosion eventually.

Meanwhile, the Plane of Wood is a place of cultivated order, for while it is a place of constant genesis and life, rarely if ever does it grow without some for of guidance, either directly from sapient beings or simply by the nature of the plane itself. It is a place of fractals, plants growing on plants growing on plants all the way down and all the way up to perceptual infinity. But it is also a garden where wonders are cultivated, harvested, and crafted, with many elemental beings being literally carved into shape from the living essence of the plane. Very different indeed is this plane when compared to the wild verdant nature of the First World.

These planes were introduced in Second Edition, and everything about them rules-wise has been written with that assumption… But maybe you prefer First Edition, and want to see how the return of these planes can be realized in that system? Well, that’s what we’re going to look at this week! Some things won’t need much work, but others will require a bit more, but we’ll explore it all the same. I hope you’re looking forward to it!

#pathfinder #roleplay ramblings #elements #Rage of the Elements

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azems-familiar · 7 months ago

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"Can you just- for a minute, can you pretend that I mean something to you?'

this. uhhhhhh. got a LOT longer than i intended it to, and also had a lot less angst, though if you consider the other pov there is definitely so much more. and also with literally all the context. anyway. have 5.6k words of emetraha, because i have brainrot and the prompt worked so well for them i had to choose between multiple options.

The Exarch being away is the last thing Emet-Selch expects when he arrives at the Crystarium for their usual discussion and debate over tea. The man is bound to the Tower; while he can leave, it weakens him, and thus in all the time Emet-Selch has known him he has only left Lakeland’s borders on the rare occasion, usually to treat with Eulmore (prior to Vauthry’s birth, of course) or in the event of some emergency. According to the Captain of the Guard, however (who had seemed faintly amused when he asked as to the Exarch’s whereabouts), he left the Crystarium three days ago to make the trek to Rak’tika to meet with the Night’s Blessed. The matter of this meeting, she informs Emet-Selch, is something the Exarch himself can decide whether or not to disclose to a non-citizen, and he is not expected to return for another four days, but she can offer Emet-Selch the approximate location of his destination, should he so desire to bother their leader directly.

He does, in fact, so desire. The endless waiting is the most intolerable part of any Rejoining, and while the millennia have gotten him quite accustomed to patience, he is terribly bored, and there is only so much he can do. Should he push the shard too quickly, the Light could consume it entirely before the Source is prepared, leaving a hollow void as useless as the Thirteenth - and Emet-Selch has no intention of repeating Igeyorhm’s mistakes. Thus the necessity of filling his time with activity unrelated to his plotting - and the draw of his weekly meetings with the Exarch. It has been some time since he sparred with someone near his equal in intellect, after all.

Of all places near a Warden, Rak’tika is less burdensome than others; beneath the boughs the shadows are deep enough to provide some measure of relief from the omnipresent Light and its burn. Thus Emet-Selch does not particularly mind teleporting to a location just outside the Night’s Blessed’s fort and asking after the Exarch once again from their sentries. What he does mind is being informed that the Exarch is late and has yet to arrive, and that they’re considering sending scouts out to search for him if he does not arrive within another few hours.

Emet-Selch sighs. Their scouts are near-guaranteed to be ineffective fools, and he is admittedly curious as to what could delay the Exarch, which means the solution, while distasteful, is an obvious one. “No need,” he informs the sentry, a slight bite to the words. “I will find him myself.”

Truly, how frustrating. And all because he desired a cup of tea and a stimulating conversation.

With the star as shattered as it is, his sight is without equal, and though the presence of the Light somewhat hinders him it takes very little effort all the same to find a shadow to hide in and look into the aether, with a range that far outstrips his usual vision. There’s a glaring brilliance in the sky that reflects off the currents in the ground and air, fragmenting his sight and making it difficult to pick out specifics, but after a moment of squinting against it he catches a hint of the Exarch’s familiar aether, far away and fluctuating with some kind of stress. It could simply be the knowledge that he is late for his meeting, Emet-Selch allows, but there is something…a greater concentration of Light around him. Sin eaters, perhaps? It would be unfortunate indeed were the great Crystal Exarch to be so waylaid.

…Emet-Selch has yet to have an opportunity to see the man in combat. His skills as a mage are whispered about in the Crystarium, but much of what he has accomplished can easily be attributed to his command over the Tower - which, Emet-Selch has to admit, does make him a mage of some high caliber. The Exarch is capable of directing the Tower to perform feats Emet-Selch had not expected from a Sundered soul, and his attempts at turning Allag’s voidgate technology into a summoning spell speak to his grasp on the theoretical. Combat magic, however, is an entirely different beast, and Emet-Selch is curious. And perhaps any observations he might make could unlock some of those secrets the Exarch so furiously guards.

Thus decided, he spirits himself away through the shadows, off in the Exarch’s direction. It takes four attempts for him to actually reach the man; when he finally does, he steps out of the rift into the scene of a small massacre. An overturned wagon lays sprawled across the major path through the Greatwood, crates of supplies and possessions scattered about, some torn open. Several bodies, viis all, have been flung about, deep wounds across multiple of them, marked by claws and swords, no life left in them whatsoever, and scorch marks litter the ground, patches of grass smoldering still. Smoke is heavy in the air, smoke and the spark of fading Light aether and the metallic tang of blood, a rather unsavory pall, and without any wind there is nothing to disperse it.

Emet-Selch arrives just in time to watch the Exarch, standing in the middle of the carnage, gesture with his staff and send a bolt of flame through the last remaining sin eater.

For all that he makes a heroic figure, robes bright and staff gleaming, his body language is anything but. His shoulders are tense and hunched, his fingers too-tight around his staff, his skin pale where it is visible, his legs trembling slightly. And curled against his side, held there by his flesh-and-blood arm, is a tiny viis child with wavy grey hair and small ears pressed flat against the sides of her head, her fists clinging to the Exarch’s robe, an expression on her face that is the kind of fear that has passed through the event horizon of utter terror and morphed into stillness again. Blood streaks her cheek and one arm - a gash in her forehead, another on her bicep. From her size she cannot be any older than three or four years.

“Well, well,” Emet-Selch murmurs, sweeping his eyes over the bodies - yes, that one, with the similarly-pale hair, bears enough resemblance it could be her mother. “So it was sin eaters that delayed you. I wonder, did you involve yourself before or after you knew the child yet lived?”

He takes a few steps out from behind the tree he’d teleported up against, carefully skirting the edges of the Light dappling the ground, bringing him within two or three yalms of the Exarch, though he has to pick his way around the detritus of this family’s existence as he does. The girl’s eyes snap to him as he does, but she doesn’t move except to lean her cheek against the Exarch’s shoulder. There is a rather worrying glassiness in her gaze, if he were to concern himself with such things.

The Exarch’s breaths are coming in short, shallow pants, he notices absently. Pain? “...before,” and the man’s voice is tight, raspy. Emet-Selch knows him well enough by now to know when it is in fact pain that burdens him, and this- despite his lack of visible injury, he must have put himself in harm’s way. “I would not chance passing by if someone yet lived and abandon them to such a fate.” He breathes out, shakily, and returns his staff to his back, brushing his crystal hand gently over the girl’s hair. “...you’re safe for now, little one.”

The child does not respond.

“I believe she may have a head injury,” Emet-Selch informs the Exarch, though he has no particular reason to do so. Why should he care if a single Sundered child lives or dies? And yet…it would be too easy to recall the terrified children on the streets of Amaurot, fleeing the beasts they could not contain. “You may wish to tend to it, should you desire her survival. Considering your boundless compassion for these poor creatures you consider mankind, I assume you do.”

He paces a few more steps away and crouches down to absently rifle through one of the crates - dried fruits and meats, a sack of nuts, a small store of root vegetables, nothing particularly interesting. Behind him he can hear the Exarch murmuring a quiet thank you before the aether ripples with the telltale shimmer of a healing spell; Emet-Selch does not watch, just moves on to investigate the rest of the supplies, half out of curiosity and half because it gives him something to do while he waits. Perhaps the Exarch will be more inclined to conversation once the child has been seen to and calmed.

Perhaps, Emet-Selch considers, he ought to offer the Exarch healing for whatever injuries he bears - but he has never been much of a healer, and there is a difference between providing some oblique aid to his enemy that they may continue their game and directly intervening in affairs that could hinder the Rejoining. The Exarch may be the most intriguing and capable enemy he has had the chance to face in quite some time, but he still stands solidly against the Ardor, and he has never entertained the delusion that the Exarch would set aside their enmity to join with him, no matter that he would make such an excellent addition to their cause. No matter that Emet-Selch has of late found himself wondering more and more what the Exarch would be like, were he Unsundered, soul as bright as it should be. As clever as he is now, Emet-Selch can only imagine what sort of mind he would have were the star whole - enough intelligence to rival Azem and their greatest researchers, he would think.

…it is a futile thought, he knows. But he does not intend to forget the soft rose color of the Exarch’s soul, and should he chance to see it again, when he and his brethren have succeeded- well.

For a few moments, the only sounds are Emet-Selch’s footsteps and quiet rummaging and the Exarch’s breathing, still too harsh and short. With little left to investigate, he eventually stands and stretches absently, turning back to the Exarch - as he watches the man finishes casting another healing spell and the last of the wounds across the girl’s skin close and fade. Not something one with no healing training whatsoever could accomplish, and Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow, musing. His power comes from the Tower, of course, but the knowledge of how to use it - perhaps it was found in the archives. The Exarch does seem to have few hobbies beyond studying and assisting his people.

Before he can question the Exarch, however, there’s a rustling of brush, the sound of wings on the air, and four middling-sized eaters wander out onto the path, drawn straight towards the Exarch and his living aether - and perhaps that would mean little at all, but one of the large winged eaters, bearing sword and shield and the ability to force a transformation, Light pulsing through its white-marble body in waves, descends from the sky, sword held in front of it and gilt wings spread to their fullest extent. The Exarch spits a curse, drawing his staff once again, and sets his feet, and the little girl whimpers and closes her eyes.

Emet-Selch leans against the overturned wagon and watches, untouched by the eaters. Their Light is antithetical to his Darkness, indeed, the brush of it burns like hot oil, but so too is his Darkness more than enough to quench their Light, and they have the intelligence to know his aether would not sate their hunger. He is of no danger as long as he does not come face-to-face with a Lightwarden.

The Exarch does not have that same assurance, and the tension in the corners of his mouth, his pursed lips, speak to his own knowledge of such. But Emet-Selch wishes to observe, and he would truly be a fool were he to intervene now, when this will give him an excellent view of how his enemy handles being pressed and when actively fighting back against the Light, within the Light, would exhaust him far more than he is willing to extend himself for a Sundered soul who would oppose the Ardor.

The Exarch takes three steps back, dodging clawed swipes from two of the lesser eaters, and casts a spell - ice that freezes one of the eaters in place, something far less intensive than the fire he had been calling moments ago. The trembling in his muscles is more pronounced now, as is the sweat beading on his plaster-pale skin, and Emet-Selch takes a step of his own forward despite himself, unease stirring low in his gut. The Exarch is meant to be his opponent in the long game, not to get himself killed by sin eaters over a mere child unlikely to survive to adulthood before the shard is lost-

The greater eater swings its sword in a wide, sweeping motion, and the Exarch grits his teeth and raises his staff, summoning a shimmering barrier into existence around him, a spell clearly adapted from the Allagan defense technology he uses to defend the Crystarium. An impressive display of skill - and though the lesser eaters throw themselves at it, it continues to hold, even as the Exarch shifts and begins to mutter a teleportation incantation under his breath, gathering his aether to spirit himself and the child away. A wise decision, in the face of this threat, Emet-Selch thinks, though it leaves the eaters free to advance on the nearby village. The Exarch’s vaunted compassion, it seems, does not extend to risking his own life.

The greater eater floats back a couple of fulms, raises its sword again, and with little fanfare slices the blade through the air again - and this time, a bright bolt of Light sears forward off it, sharp enough Emet-Selch is momentarily dazed, his sight vaguely scorched by the intensity. The Exarch’s barrier distorts, twists, and collapses in on itself in a rush of aether, the distraction enough to break his teleportation spell before he can execute it, and though the lesser eaters hiss in something that approximates joy, they do not move. Instead they leave it to their seeming commander to lunge forward with a blinding rush, sword held at the ready.

The girl screams, terror so all-consuming Emet-Selch can nearly feel it. Something cracks-

A sound claws itself free from the Exarch’s throat that sounds nearly inhuman. Emet-Selch blinks, then blinks again, and - the Exarch has thrown his crystal arm, claimed by the Tower, between the eater’s sword and the girl he carries, and the tip of the blade is embedded in the sapphire crystal, leaving fissures spreading up the arm from the point of impact and a deep gouge in the flat of his arm just above his wrist. Emet-Selch sucks in a breath despite himself, because the Exarch may be tied to the Tower but that does not mean he cannot feel pain, and the force it would take to shatter the parts of him he has given over-

“Emet-Selch.” The Exarch’s voice is hoarse to the point of near-unrecognizability, taut with pain and desperation, stumbling along the edge of begging. He has never, ever spoken such in Emet-Selch’s presence. “Can you just- for just one moment, will you please pretend that I mean something to you?”

For- for some reason, Emet-Selch feels the words like an impact hard enough to steal the air from his lungs, like a constriction around his throat, like the knife of his loneliness he has lived with for so long has not only driven between his ribs but twisted. The eater draws its sword back once again, raising it for the kill - or to attempt to turn both man and child, more like. He thinks of- afternoons spent deep in debate over the minutiae of the Tower’s function and the technology the Crystarium survives on, Allag’s history and the actions of Emet-Selch’s own order. Of the lounge they typically take their tea in and how it has been Umbrally-aligned for decades, despite the extra drain that would put on the Tower’s resources in this climate. Of how eager the Exarch is to present Emet-Selch with new volumes of theater, whenever one of his people manages to find or pen one. Of the indisputable fact that this enmity between them, this game they play, has caught and held his attention in a way nothing has since his son died and he once again gave up on the Sundered entirely.

…he is here, in this Light-suffused forest, is he not?

Pretend that I mean something to you.

That is truly not so difficult, in the grand scheme of things. The Exarch yet has secrets Emet-Selch has not divined, after all, and it would be a shame to strike him from the game board before they are revealed.

In the breath between heartbeats, Emet-Selch steps through the rift and puts himself neatly between the eaters and the Exarch. A simple twist of his will brings up an unwavering shield of translucent violet - the greater eater’s sword bounces harmlessly off it, the lesser eaters’ claws are a barely-noticeable scratching, and he could maintain this indefinitely, as long as no great amount of Light was brought to bear against it or him, but considering the sound of the Exarch’s ragged breathing and the quiet, poorly-stifled noises of pain, he doubts the man has the focus to teleport at the moment, and- well. Perhaps he finds himself annoyed, and the loss of five eaters will hardly matter as long as the Wardens remain. To truly fight back will drain him, yes, but it is difficult to care.

He musters his aether against the heavy, suffocating Light, lifts his hand, and snaps his fingers.

It’s an easy visualization. Large, dagger-shaped blades of shadow leap forth from him and slam into the eaters, then burst in a rush of Dark aether that instantly vaporizes the lesser eaters and sends their commander crumpling to the ground, sword and shield both falling from its hands and fading into the aether. Emet-Selch takes a step forward, extends his hand, and summons a bolt of Darkness to send directly at its chest, and that last pulse of aether is enough to dissipate it as well - for which he is grateful, because the moment he drops his hand and lets go of the shield he can feel the drain, can feel the Light on the back of his neck, as hot as the desert sun, burning his bones.

Heavens. The things he does for-

Emet-Selch shakes his head, rubs at his temples, and breathes through the discomfort. Brushes invisible dust from his palms. Turns back to the Exarch and crosses the space between them to take the man’s crystal arm in his hands, shifting his vision to that second sight to peer at the aether currents within. They’re pale and distorted, entirely broken wherever the cracks have spread, and he grimaces at the sight, absently running one finger carefully over the edge of the gouge where the blade impacted.

“This will be difficult to mend, Exarch,” he murmurs, low. “You have done a great deal of damage to your aether.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Give me the child.”

The girl is crying, tiny little hiccups muffled by the Exarch’s robe, but she doesn’t fight back when he hands her over, and Emet-Selch takes her carefully in his arms and settles her against his hip, the motion familiar. Relieved thusly of his burden, the Exarch seems to- shrink, almost, resignation and exhaustion and pain weighing him down until he is but a fraction of the man Emet-Selch knows. “...if you decide our enmity ends here-” he starts, his voice rough with emotion and agony, “at the least take her to the Crystarium, so she can live what life she has left.”

For a moment, Emet-Selch ignores him entirely. “Shh,” he murmurs to the girl instead, drawing on old memories of the mortal children he’s raised - both those he loved and those he did not - of children from long-ago Amaurot which he had on occasion been made to entertain. He had not minded, in truth; they had been discussing having children of their own, once. He lifts his free hand to gently stroke through her hair and over her ears, swaying her back and forth and humming snatches of an ancient lullaby until she quiets, the sniffles fading into shaky breaths. Only then does he carefully cast the lightest of sleep spells over her small frame - she seems unharmed, between the Exarch’s healing and protection, but distress will only keep her compliant for so long, and better to deliver her into the hands of her people docile than clinging to an injured man - or worse, him.

He does not- care about one lone child. He does not. The Exarch merely asked him to pretend, and thus he shall.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he finally says, directed at the Exarch, and heaves a sigh, turning to look at the other man again. “Come, then. There is little I can do for your physical injuries - I leave the frailties of your mortal flesh in the hands of your fellow mortals - but I believe I can do something to mend your arm, if only in part. But make no mistake; you will owe me for this.”

The Exarch laughs, pained and cracked, wincing and curling forward over his ribs as he does, the breath wheezing out of him. “...I shall have to break out my stash of emergency plays from Voeburt, then,” he manages after a moment, and Emet-Selch raises his eyebrows.

“You have plays from Voeburt?” he asks, torn between impressed and irritated that the man has never mentioned this before - and then he shakes himself. This is hardly the time. “Never mind that, I am not so easily distracted by theater as you believe me to be. A favor, Exarch, though I will allow you this: as I did not endanger mine own people in this intervention, neither will I ask you to risk yours. Now come with me before you collapse. I have no desire to be the target of your head chirurgeon’s ire when your heroic, self-sacrificial bent is certainly no fault of mine.”

“...then it must be before the endgame, I would think…” the Exarch rasps out, leaning heavily against his staff and taking a few shaking steps. “I look forward to seeing what you will demand of me. And to watching the chirurgeons yell at you shortly.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting, though he would dearly like to. Instead he shifts the girl in his arms to free one hand, reaches out, and wraps his hand around the Exarch’s upper arm - his flesh-and-blood one - and unceremoniously yanks all three of them through a rather rough teleport, which he would feel slightly bad about were he not annoyed. The moment they appear in the Crystarium’s infirmary, the Exarch is staggering sideways into his chest, and it is a sign of his exhaustion more than anything else that he simply stays there, trembling and wan, leaning heavily with his face tucked against Emet-Selch’s shoulder.

Emet-Selch lets him, and does not think about why.

The head chirurgeon, as it turns out, does not yell at him, though only because of the sleeping child in his arms. Instead she scolds both of them in a furious but low voice before guiding them to one of the few private rooms and immediately fussing over the Exarch; another one of the infirmary’s staff comes to relieve Emet-Selch of the child, whose name, according to the Exarch, is Lyna. Emet-Selch accompanies them to put her to bed in another room where they can examine her, and he suggests with an idleness he doesn’t quite feel that they leave her in the care of the Exarch, once he is fit for it. She is a terrified child, after all, and she will want the familiar. Beyond that, she is likely to consider the man who saved her life as safe, a courtesy he doubts she will be so willing to give strangers.

The chirurgeons seem surprised, but they do not disagree, and he is quite satisfied with that. The girl thus dealt with, he returns to find the Exarch with some faint color returned to his cheeks, enduring a lecture from his healer about what sorts of movements and magical exertions he’s allowed while his ribs and aether reserves recover. It is not a lecture Emet-Selch has been on the receiving side of in quite some time, and for that he is quite grateful. Eventually, however, the Exarch is free, and Emet-Selch convinces him to return straight to the Tower rather than checking in on Lyna mostly by not giving him a choice in the matter, a quite useful and effective strategy. The Exarch is too exhausted, it seems, to truly argue back.

It is not until they are ensconced in the Umbrally-aligned lounge - which finally eases the strain of holding his essence together under the Light’s endless onslaught, given the energy he’d expended - and the Exarch is seated on the couch that Emet-Selch sighs. “Well, very well then, let us get this supremely unpleasant business over with. I do not ask you to trust me, merely that you do not intervene; if this does not work as I intend I will be the one most suited to undoing it, and should you distract me in the moment of casting I cannot predict what might occur. It takes only a passing thought to disrupt this magic.”

“...might I know what it is you’re doing?” the Exarch asks as he drops down to sit next to him on the couch. Even with the cowl hiding most of his face, he is clearly exhausted beyond belief and still in no small amount of pain. His voice is thin and strained, wavering.

Emet-Selch takes his crystal arm into his lap, running his fingers over its surface, carefully tracing the bumps and textured surface, bringing to mind the complex web of aether currents the Exarch has over many years bored into the crystal. He thinks of patterns and fractals and facets, the structure of crystals, the wholeness of the arm itself, and he draws ever-so-slightly on the Lifestream itself, unwilling to pour his own Dark-aspected aether into this. “Weaving the fabric of reality,” he murmurs, only half-paying attention to the words, eyes falling closed. Creation without a set concept is a risk, especially without an encyclopedic knowledge of that which one wishes to create, but beyond the cool weight of the crystal in his lap right now there are things Emet-Selch knows that will make up for the lack.

He knows the way the Exarch moves - the way he writes, the way he gestures, the way his fingers curl around a mug of tea or a pen or an Allagan relic. He knows the gentleness this arm is capable of, as evidenced by how tenderly he’d healed Lyna; he knows, too, the strength in it, as unyielding as the stone it is made of. Near seven decades he has watched this Exarch, has seen the transformation progress as the Tower takes its due for the magicks he wields, and beyond all academic knowledge he knows the essence of the man in front of him. They are but two sides of the same coin, after all, bound by duty to be in opposition and yet terribly alike, he and the Crystal Exarch.

The power of the Lifestream is a bright, raging thing, a river even he, with his rare gift of control over its eddies, only skims the surface of unless he has no other choice. He lets the pulse of life itself swirl around him, pool beneath his hands, and he holds the fullness of his understanding of this broken limb in his mind and snaps his fingers.

When he opens his eyes, exhaling slowly to let the energies of the Lifestream fade away, the Exarch’s arm is whole and unbroken once more, only a faint cluster of hairline cracks remaining where the worst of the breakage had been. For a moment he pays them no mind - he had not expected the magic to entirely mend the arm, after all, considering he was treading the line between working from a concept and working from belief - instead focusing to once again study the aether. The Exarch’s exhaustion means the flow of aether through his arm is sluggish at best, not ideal for confirming the recreation worked correctly, and- well. Emet-Selch has done this once before, has he not?

He pours a small fraction of his own aether into the man’s arm, watching as it bolsters the flow - there are a few minor hiccups but with some time those will, he hopes, smooth out - and the Exarch lets out a heavy sigh of relief and slumps sideways, tension leaving his body in a rush as he drops his head to rest against Emet-Selch’s shoulder. Foolish of him, Emet-Selch thinks, to let his guard down so around an enemy, whether they have been playing this game for decades or no. He sweeps one thumb absently back and forth across the now-smooth crystal, shifting slightly to let the Exarch’s warm weight settle more comfortably against his side, and shakes his head, reaching one hand up to carefully adjust the Exarch’s cowl before it can slide too far back from his face.

Perhaps it is the state he is in, pushing him to think so little of being vulnerable. It would be unsporting to take advantage of it.

For a few moments there is silence. Emet-Selch lets his aether settle and taper when the Exarch finally stirs again - which is good, he had begun to worry if the man was falling asleep - and sighs once more. He does not straighten, but he does extend his arm and twist it carefully back and forth, testing. Most of the motion is smooth, but his wrist hitches when he rotates it, and Emet-Selch frowns.

Ah, of course. The remaining cracks will need to be filled in if they are to be kept from causing problems. He looks more closely at them, admittedly curious - it is strange, as much as he had not expected the magic to fully succeed, for it to work as cleanly as it had only to leave such a small blemish behind - only for a cold weight to settle low in his stomach as he does.

Because he recognizes the pattern. The lines of it are thin and simplistic, barely visible against the veining, but there all the same - a constellation cut into crystal with such perfect precision it cannot be anything but a mark.

A constellation. His constellation, the sign of his seat.

Perhaps his mind had wandered during the creation after all.

He exhales heavily through his nose, swallows, and does not say a word, and the Exarch must be too tired to notice, because he simply rubs his flesh hand over the constellation and stays tilted into Emet-Selch’s side. “...thank you for this kindness, Emet-Selch,” he says very softly, his voice still somewhat raw but much of the pained tension from earlier missing.

“It was not a kindness,” Emet-Selch reminds him pointedly. They are enemies; it would not do for the Exarch to forget such, not when they yet have all the endgame to play, and he remains deeply curious how the Exarch intends to thwart his plans. “I will expect you to repay the favor when I ask for it, Exarch. You have ever kept your promises. ‘Twould be a shame indeed for that to change now.”

“I do not intend to let my debts go unpaid, or any kindnesses go unanswered, Emet-Selch,” the Exarch answers in a similarly deliberate tone. “Regardless of which they were meant as. But this was a kindness even if you did not intend it to be such - I would have been in pain for the rest of my life without your intervention.” This, Emet-Selch knows to be true - there would have been no other way of healing or regenerating the crystal without creation magicks, and thus the wound would simply have remained, and while it would not have killed the Exarch it would have always been a hindrance. “So- thank you.”

…if the Exarch wishes to think of it as a kindness, then Emet-Selch supposes there is little harm in allowing him to. Perhaps he can leverage it for some kind of knowledge or further concession later on. When playing such a tense game against such a clever and focused foe, with the eighth Rejoining as the stakes, he would be a fool to discard any potential advantage.

(Even if he is only doing what the Exarch asked of him. Pretend that I mean something to you. How could he act any other way, in the face of such a plea? It does not mean anything - not for them, not for his purpose here, not for his duty.

Perhaps, if he reminds himself enough times, he will not risk forgetting that truth.)

His people, his city, and his star hang in the balance, after all.

But for the moment, he can allow the Exarch to remain leaning against his side, a warmth that eases the ever-present ache of grief and loneliness in his chest, and perhaps the Exarch is not the only one who would like to pretend.

#ffxiv #emetraha #exselch #emet selch #g'raha tia #shadowbringers #ffxiv fic #my fic #i'll post this one on ao3 Later because. um. it got long. but yknow. here you are! unpolished and unedited and whatever #asked and answered

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autumnslance · 3 months ago

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From the Dawntrail ask list, let's go with 11 'What was their initial impression of Sphene? How did this change as the story progressed?'

Hear more about Aeryn's empathic Echo and the Queen Eternal under the cut...

Borrowing from the Cahciua response:

In my interpretation of how Aeryn's empathic Echo works, it has to be the whole aetheric package; body/memory/soul, as we learned in Shadowbringers and Endwalker about how that all interacts to make a person, and how that aether is recycled to share a soul while the memories are cleansed by the Lifestream before rebirth. So it gets weird with beings of only part of those elements, missing the whole. Aeryn can't "read" Endless like she does others - which in some ways is refreshing, as she tries not to do so, but there's often some bleed through regardless. But it also let her know that Sphene wasn't "right" and Living Memory was a really odd place for Aeryn. Still quite affecting, though, with the hopes and dreams of its people preserved there, the things learned from its denizens.

And yeah, Aeryn and Krile spend a lot of time discussing the similarities in their gifts, as well as the differences. In Aeryn's wolverse, Krile isn't the only one hit with Zoraal Ja's Bad Vibes at points.

Anyway, so Aeryn noticed Sphene in Tuliyollal, but figured there it was the distance, though she could see the stricken expression on the strange girl's face.

But then they met her under the barrier, and Aeryn was immediately put off. She couldn't read Sphene; she just appeared, with no whispered sense of another being present. While it's possible to block out Aeryn's empathy, and she tends to block out others as much as possible, to not have any residual sense at all is generally unnerving. And Sphene more than most, given her long-running entirely artificial nature.

(Is she really the memories of Sphene, or what Preservation thought they were? Or just what they claimed to give the people hope?)

Also: WTF is up with that dress and hair? If nothing else points to her unnatural nature, it's whatever the hells Sphene's fashion program is, cuz the whole look is a study in "but why?!"

So "off put and suspicious for it" was Aeryn in Alexandria. Especially with all of Sphene's aborted attempts to tell them...something, and her non-answers as to Cahciua and how to find her. The queen was helpful only to a point.

One of the first things I noticed was how Sphene's model, mannerisms, voice direction (it is a different VA), and the camera work on her was very, very reminiscent of Meteion in a lot of ways. Everything screamed "here is your next apocalypse maiden" even as you want to like and trust her - just like Meteion.

So Aeryn noticed that sense of foreboding and carried it up to the aftermath of the confrontation with Zoraal Ja; she wasn't surprised when Sphene declared herself Enemy #1. She didn't like it, and wished there was another way. But it wasn't a shock.

By the end, stopping Sphene was something that simply had to be done to save countless lives and end an unsustainable (and to Aeryn's mind, horrific) cycle. She didn't like it, but that the queen was in truth a program made it...slightly easier. And even at the very end, Aeryn could only assure Sphene that she had tried to make her people happy. Because it truly was all that she wanted, and it wasn't really her fault that she'd been locked into a destructive course to try to meet that parameter.

Aeryn does wonder a little about the original, living Sphene, and what she could have, would have done instead. A sick girl who risked her flagging life to save a random citizen during the cataclysm, who opened her borders even to the enemy's civilians to aid them when things went entirely to hells, doesn't strike Aeryn as someone who would condone the deaths of countless worlds without seeking another way. But what we have isn't the original living Sphene, so who can say?

This is one of the ways where my playthrough on Dark first, for my own immediate reactions as I go in blind, helps me. It gave me a lot of time to consider how Aeryn would see and interpret the Endless, and Sphene especially, and how she would react as I took a more RP-like approach to playing the MSQ on her, rather than retroactively deciding on it. But that's just how I do it.

#final fantasy xiv #dawntrail #7.0 #prompts #aeryn prompts #sphene #Aeryn Striker

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aether-foundation-pr · 10 months ago

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Aether Without Boarders is receiving it's official launch this Saturday!

As you all may know, last year we had an early launch for the Aether Without Boarders project in response to the increased Ultra Activity around the globe, this launch was rushed but it allowed us to speed up the official launch to this month from the experience we gained with it.

Aether Without Boarders primary goal is to help with Pokemon Preservation, along with extending our resources and knowledge on how to deal with Ultra Beasts and Fallers to other regions as well!

We'll be rolling out the Aether Without Boarders project to different regions in batches. This Saturday Kanto, Jhoto and Sinnoh will have theirs be up and running. On the 17th of January Hoenn, Kalos, and Unova will be up. And then on the 23rd Galar, Paldea, Kitamami, and Orre. Any regions not mentioned will be getting their launches on the 30th.

Until then smaller stations akin to the ones from the early launch will be set up in all regions. See you across the globe trainers!

- The Aether Foundation

#pkmn irl #pokemon irl #pokeblogging #offical aether announcement #aether without borders

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thegalaxysedge22 · 1 month ago

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After Ever (Chapter 5)

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pair: sylus x MC tags/tw: violence, kidnapping, drink spiking, allusions to SA (it doesn’t happen dw), MC makes dumb decisions…repeatedly word count: 4.3k song rec: lilith by halsey a/n: guess who we're meeting hehe PSA ALWAYS KEEP AN EYE ON YOUR DRINKS!!! NEVER DRINK ANYTHING YOU HAVE WALKED AWAT FROM important: if you want to follow this fic and updates but don't want to follow me bc im annoying (understandable) check out the tag #after ever fanfiction also if anyone wants i can start a tag list

I made it, Kore thought to herself.

Standing on the outskirts of the N109 Zone, she had never been so relieved to see crumbling buildings and a street littered with potholes. The journey there had been long. Normal forms of transportation could only take one so far. The dense fog and wanderers that surrounded the N109 Zone like a moat made it difficult for just anybody to enter the city, and without the proper guidance of a local Kore had been stuck traveling on foot through the thick fog and tall grasses of the open fields.

The entire 15 mile trek had been nerve wracking to say the least, the threat of wanderers and criminals was high and had kept Kore on edge the entire time. In an untold stroke of luck, Kore somehow had managed to avoid all wanderers on the perimeter, which was shocking considering how much she had been warned about them. She just hoped that her luck wouldn’t run out now that she had made it into the safety– well, relative safety– of the old city.

In spite of the countless warnings not to go to the N109 Zone, Kore’s drive to find out the truth about what happened to her family as well as the Aether Core in her heart had driven her to come anyway. She knew that if she were to spread the knowledge that she was in possession of an Aether Core that she would end up in contact with the people responsible for what had happened to her, and if she was extra lucky she would meet Sylus, the leader of Onychinus.

Her surroundings, despite being what she had expected, still shocked her. Everything from discarded furniture to abandoned cars covered the sidewalks, spilling out into the streets. The road was so full of debris that even if a vehicle managed to get through to the N109 Zone, it would struggle to navigate the outskirts of the territory - effectively leaving people trapped and isolated. Needles littered the ground so much so that she had to watch her steps. Never had she ever seen something like this.

But for now she needed to change. She had been wearing her Hunter’s Association uniform in anticipation of fighting wanderers, but now that she was in the N109 Zone that uniform would surely stick out like a sore thumb.

Just last night Xavier had told her what he knew about the N109 Zone, albeit begrudgingly. He had informed her that she couldn’t just waltz in wearing her uniform as people there did not like the Hunter’s Association, as well as the locals’ tendency to open carry weapons.

Kore started to scout out nearby buildings, finding one near the border that clearly had used to be an apartment building of sorts. She took off her backpack happily as her shoulders had been aching for the past several hours. Setting the bag on the ground she rummaged through its contents finding her “incognito” outfit, which in reality was just a normal outfit with gun holsters, and quickly put it on.

The finer details of her plan may have been underdeveloped so to speak, even though she had combed through them multiple times, but she knew what to do next. She took a map she had printed out of her backpack, one of the very few she had been able to find, she then compared her location to her next objective. After spending a few minutes memorizing the way there while grabbing whatever supplies she might need, Kore decided to return later that night to sleep and left her excess gear hidden in a cabinet.

. _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ .

Navigating through streets in a place you’ve never been to without a map, relying only on memory of a street view map from decades earlier turned out to be a bit difficult. Kore was stuck at an intersection trying to remember which way to go. Her sense of direction had never been this abysmal before, her only solace was that the street signs were either demolished or so covered in graffiti they were impossible to read.

A crow squawked as it landed on an electrical wire in the alleyway above her, snapping her focus back into the moment. Right, it was a right here, Kore thought. She went right. As she grew closer the buildings surrounding her went from being in various stages of decay - windows boarded up and what she assumed were gang signs spray painted on every vertical surface - to buildings that clearly were still in use. Hints of light started to illuminate the street, showcasing the businesses that still remained, a convenience store, a liquor store, a mechanic’s garage, and even a tailor. Even though the sun had fully set a half hour ago, she saw a few people who were roaming the sidewalks off to who knows where.

This was different from the N109 Zone she had read about, this wasn’t some dilapidated place with violence on every corner, it was clear that this was still a community that people cared about. The streets were much cleaner than they were prior, swapping the furniture for cigarette buds and the occasional scrap of cardboard.

After walking a few more blocks the increasing sounds of chatter let her know she was close, but what solidified the fact she had made it was the sign outside of the free standing building, The Nest.

The Nest was a bar deemed to be neutral territory by the cartels, even though it was technically run by Onychinus. The limited reports suggested that if there was a perfect place to plant information about an Aether Core this was it. Of course she couldn’t just walk in there and announce that she had one of the most sought after possessions in the entire zone on her body, even if it was in her heart. No, she had to be a bit more discreet than that.

Kore stopped for a moment and took a deep breath then pulled the door open. Inside she was met with the looks, and smells, of an old bar. Men were scattered throughout the room, she could count on one hand how many other women were in there. Kore does her best to match the mannerisms of the other patrons, however, it was clear to them that she was an outsider. She was a new face that nobody knew.

She took her time strolling over to the counter. Taking a seat, she waved down a bartender and got herself a cheap beer. Kore keeps her head down but listens intently to the chatter across the bar. Most of it is nonsense, drunk men drabbling on about nonsense. Some were clearly discussing something to do with the cartels, Onychinus’s name was even brought up a few times. However, what caught her attention was talk of an upcoming auction, in her research Kore had found out that these auctions were often places where protocores would be sold.

Bingo, she thought, if the aether core was going to be anywhere, it would be at that auction. And if not at least she will be one step closer to finding it. With any luck Onychinus would be there. Before she could close in on more information a conversation nearby peaked her curiosity.

“Did you hear? Sylus is back?” a random patron gossiped. Her ears perked up at the name.

“Sylus? From Onychinus? I thought he left for good, didn’t Sherman take his place?” his friend responded.

“Well, he’s back and I heard he is going to take Sherman and his men down at the auction. Also- I also heard,” the drunk patron hiccuped, “I heard that he found one of them aether cores while he was away.”

“An aether core?” Kore said out loud.

“Yes missy, an aether core, I didn’t even know if they were real, they are so rare.” Both men turned to her as he spoke.

“Well they can’t be that rare if I have one,” Kore joked, regretting it immediately. Clapping her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, she whispered “Oh shit, I was not supposed to say that.” Zayne had warned her about letting that piece of information get out and it was not like she could blame the drink she hadn’t had a sip of for her slip of tongue.

The eyes of the two patrons she was talking to went wide. She could also tell that she had pulled the gaze of a few other people nearby with that. Realizing that she had fucked up big time, Kore quickly went for the exit.

Paranoid, and probably for good reason, she kept checking over her shoulder as she walked. She took four left turns to see that she wasn’t being followed. Although the coast seemed to be clear it was not enough for her.

She ran towards the nearest building, climbing up its stairs to its roof top, the entire time scolding herself for letting that crucial part of information slip. It was times like these that her hunter’s skills came in handy. The streets were much easier to navigate from way up there, it was more similar to the maps that she had studied back in the city.

Jumping from rooftop to rooftop she slowly made her way to where she had left her stuff earlier. She even jumped right next to a crow, sending it flying. Eventually she arrived at her destination. The first thing she did was check that all of her stuff was still there (it was), then she checked the time on her Hunter’s Watch.

The damn thing didn’t seem to work out here, but at least it still functioned as a clock. It was more than late enough in the evening to justify going to sleep, deciding that this was as good of a place as any.

Kore stripped down to her undergarments, turning her clothes into a makeshift pillow before pulling out a thin blanket from her bulky bag - that was definitely not suited to be a pillow, too lumpy - and bunkered down for the night.

It must’ve been nerves that were keeping her awake into the early hours of the morning, but the noise certainly didn’t help. For a place so abandoned it was much noisier than Likon City ever was at night. Wind whipped through the alleyways and into the broken windows of the building, and the animals in the N109 Zone clearly must’ve been nocturnal with the rate they are scurrying about. She tossed and turned for seemingly hours before finally being graced with unconsciousness.

. _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ .

It was nearly midday when Kore awoke, but you wouldn’t be able to tell with the lack of light. Having had some time to think about over the night before she had decided, perhaps foolishly, that it was okay that she let information about having an aether core slip. With any luck, something she was praying for, word would have gotten out about it and the people that she was looking for would come and find her. At least, that was the plan…

Outside was clouded in overcast, it was just another dreary day for the N109 Zone, something that seemed to be typical to the area. Anxiety started to bubble up in the pit of Kore’s stomach, a fear of no one taking the bait or a fear of not completing her mission were to blame, but she wasn’t sure which one.

Luckily, her half-baked plan seemed to be working. Practically as soon as Kore had entered the Nest she felt a cold gaze following her every move. On her way there a thought had struck her, and when she walked in to see a bartender drying cups she was relieved.

Immediately she made her way over to the barkeep and plopped down in the stool in front of him. He looked up at her leaning against the bar and asked what he could get for her. She told the man to only give her non-alcoholic drinks, but to serve them in a pint glass - he didn’t even bat an eye at the unusual request, she wondered if this was a common tactic in the N109 Zone.

While downing the non-alcoholic beer She was doing her best to play it cool and seem non threatening and clueless, and also drunk. If you must fight, it is best for your enemy to underestimate your abilities, her grandmother’s words rang true in her head. She was ordering her third pint of beer loudly, hoping that the empty cups would put whoever was watching her at ease and draw them out.

Eventually the person watching her emerged from the shadows and she had to resist the urge to smile in triumph. The man came over to her and sat down next to her casually, ordering a drink. He turned to Kore with a smile that she assumed was supposed to be charming but it came off more as revolting. His appearance overall unsettled her, he looked scrappy and sinister, there was something evil in the depths of his dark eyes.

For whatever reason, the man decided that his best course of action was to flirt with her. As he spoke she couldn’t help but wonder if there were different beauty standards in the N109 Zone because she could not see this working out for the man ever any other way, which she felt bad about thinking as soon as it crossed her mind.

The conversation between the two continued its flirtatious path for a while, too long for Kore’s liking, before the topic of the protocore trade was brought up. The man insisted that he was a well known seller- despite looking ragged in a dingey bar- and he was looking into buying more of the rare kind.

It was then that Kore’s pint had run dry and he jumped at the chance to buy her a drink, a potent cocktail. The bartender raised an eyebrow seemingly asking if that would be okay with her, a nice gesture certainly but Kore was still a bundle of nerves and worried that he would blow her cover. As covertly as she could she signaled back that it was okay, the barkeep shrugged and made the drink then and there, sliding the cocktail across the bar to her.

Kore took a few small sips of the drink holding back the urge to wince from the strength of the alcohol. The creepy man looked very pleased with himself now that she was drinking it. Deeply concerning to her, but she needed to play along. Before she could dwell on that any longer the unnamed man said what they were both waiting for.

“Have you ever heard about aether cores?” he asked, finally bringing up the topic that

“Don’t tell anyone this,” Kore said, forcing her face to blush. She leaned in closer to the man, “but I actually have one.”

Out of all the creepy smiles she had seen that man make all night, the way he smiled upon hearing that was the most haunting. Before she could dwell on that image, mother nature started calling and she excused herself to the restroom.

Her entire journey there she kept an eye on the person she left behind and saw him fiddling with a small vial nervously. The bartender must've seen that too because he took her drink and pulled it close to him, keeping it in his sight and out of the creep’s reach.

In the bathroom she tried to calculate the next best move. If he offered to take her somewhere she wasn’t sure what would happen. On one hand he looked weak enough that she could take him in a 1v1 if it came down to that, but on the other there is always the risk of more people being involved. She also knew that he likely had ties to at least one of the cartels and she needed to climb that totem pole to get to her target, so going with him might be the fastest way for her to gather intel, however, she couldn’t decide if she could go through with that.

Hands on the sink, she stared herself down in the mirror for quite some time. She couldn’t lose her nerve now, it was much too late for that. Besides, she had always been the type of person to just wing it and so far it hasn’t failed her yet. Kore possessed an incredible gut instinct and had all of her life, it frequently saved her when she was out in the field fighting wanderers. She just had a gut feeling that she would come out of this alright, well mostly, all she had to do was listen to her gut. With one last reassuring glance in the mirror, Kore walked back into the bar.

On her way back to her seat, Kore spotted the creep she had been with all night leaning far across the bar when the bar keep had his back turned to the man. She knew what he was doing. This isn’t good, she thought to herself.

Forcing herself to plaster on a fake smile, Kore sat back down, the bartender sliding her back her drink. The drink that she watched get spiked. Looking back between the man and the drink, the wheels in her brain turned, weighing the consequences of her next actions.

“Something wrong?” the man asked, an anticipatory smile adorning his face.

“It’s nothing,” she waved him off. Stupidly, she refused to let go of her earlier resolve, Kore eyed the drink with skepticism before throwing it back. She tried to be mindful of how much she consumed but the alcohol from earlier was clouding her judgment.

Whatever he put in there hit her hard and fast, she barely noticed her leading her out of the bar and towards a car. She could feel the rain coating her face outside. With each step she was dragged along for she could feel herself sinking more and more until she eventually collapsed on the street. . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ .

Her head hurt. Kore’s thoughts were all jumbled as she came to. She found herself trapped in the back of a musty trunk with her hands tied. Everything is hazy and confusing and it felt almost out of body but different, as if the body she was out of wasn’t even hers to begin with.

Just as she was about to pull the emergency release latch, the trunk opened on its own accord. It was dark enough out that her eyes didn’t need much adjusting to understand the picture in front of her. Looming over her was the man from the bar, the one who spiked her drink. He was now wearing a dark baseball cap, as if he believed that would hide his identity should anyone come looking.

She recognizes where she was at, the kidnaper stopped outside of an old abandoned graveyard. How thematic, Kore thinks, if this is my end at least I won't have to go very far.

The man yanked her out of the car, and she crumpled to the ground, unable to hold her own weight. She had made a dangerous miscalculation. She had grossly underestimated whatever drug the man slipped to her. Realizing, finally, just how dangerous of a situation she was in, Kore started to panic.

What is this man going to do to me? What has he already done? Oh god I’m fucked. This was a bad idea. I should've listened to Xavier or pretended to drink what he spiked at least.

The man, seeing his victim squirm like that, smiled dementedly. Crouching down to her height, waving his gun in her face he said, “Don’t worry princess I ain’t touch you yet. I got no time for that now. Now hand over the aether core and this will all be over.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a trail of thick black smoke appeared, closing in on them. The man looked as if someone had struck the fear of god into him, as if he knew what was coming next.

“Kidnapping Onychinus’s prey without letting us know…” a disembodied voice trailed off, “...That’s not exactly polite now is it?” The voice taunted. Kore’s kidnapper was rapidly turning his head at every faint noise he heard.

“She’s ours,” another, slightly similar but distinct voice said, “We called dibs a long time ago.”

With that, two figures emerged from the smoke… that was now also red? Kore was confused, she must’ve been seeing things. As the two silhouettes came into view she noticed odd bird looking masks covering their faces.

“You know, you’re pretty bold for releasing information about the aether core in the nest like that,” one of them started, addressing her.

“Explains why boss is interested,” the other one finished the train of thought. Creepy.

“I see… Sylus sent you,” Kore’s kidnapper said, putting on a brave face, but with the way his voice was quivering he wasn’t fooling anyone. He trained his gun onto the two of them, going back and forth between them. “But the aether core is MINE!”

Just like that the man was lifted in the air by the oddly colored smoke, his gun falling to the ground. His fighting was useless as it only seemed to anger the smoke, if that was even possible, and it slowly enveloped him.

What the actual fuck is going on here? Kore thought to herself.

Another figure bloomed from the smoke. This was of a tall man with white hair. The two guys from earlier were nowhere to be seen. This new man approached her with slow and steady steps. Kore knew things were out of hand and worse yet she could feel consciousness slipping away from her.

Oh fuck, I am not as in control of this situation as I thought I would be. Desperate, she reached for the gun that fell pointing it at him. This man had the audacity to laugh at a gun pointed at his head.

“Is this how you greet a new friend?” he asked, his voice low and dark. The mystery man reached down and plucked the gun from Kore’s weakened hands. Fuck, this drug is affecting me a lot worse that I thought, Kore thought bitterly to herself.

Kore, who was fighting tooth and nail to stay conscious, glared up at the man. A head splitting pain wracked through her skull as they made eye contact, the man grabbing ahold of her upper arm and pulling her to her feet.

“You-you’re here for the core too, huh?” Kore slurred out.

“What else would I be after, Kitten?” the man asked with a sick smile.

Black spots started to appear in her field of vision and Kore knew she wasn’t going to last. The last thing she heard was a shot ringing out as she fell to the ground and her eyes fluttered closed. . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ . _ .

When she was asleep like this, her child-like innocence on display, it was clear to Sylus that she was the same girl he had known growing up. Her features were more angular now and her hair was darker than he remembered, but this was definitely the same Kore.

Her once sickly pale skin now showed healthy signs of sunlight, he was glad to know that she had been able to truly escape the hell they grew up in, but that didn’t stop the bitterness deep in his gut. After all this time he wasn’t sure why Kore and Caleb got to escape while he was left behind.

He had never been close to her when they were younger, no, he had been closer to Caleb instead. The pair of them had been nearly inseparable during their formative years whenever they were allowed to interact with one another. A strange mix of emotions had overtaken him over the past few days, it made him antsy and irritable.

On occasion he had spent hours sitting at her bedside and staring at her in disbelief. Other times anger had consumed him so thoroughly that he could not stand to look at her or even be in the same wind as she was. It was in those times that he had the twins watching over her.

Sylus had always wondered what had happened to Caleb after he left, and to a lesser extent Kore too. When he got word that Josephine was the one who took them in, he decided to spare her from his wrath, deciding maybe she wasn’t so bad afterall. The others had not been so lucky.

There was also the matter of the unusual attraction he had felt towards the sleeping woman, it was like a magnetic pull that he hadn’t experienced before. He knew that she was also the unwelcoming recipient of an aether core fragment, but couldn’t help but wonder if they shared parts of the same core. There was only one way to know for certain, they had to resonate, but there was no way to do that while she was unconscious, so for now the answer was stuck in a waiting game.

He wondered if she had any memory of him or if she knew about the aether core planted inside of her at all. He wasn’t sure how he would react in either case. Would he be happy that someone else could relate to his suffering? Would he be sad that she was cursed with remembering too? Would he be bitter if she didn’t remember him at all or would he be relieved that she had been spared the memory of their traumatic childhoods?

He sat at his desk, toying with a paper weight, lost deep in his thoughts when Mephisto alerted him that his next victim had arrived. Sylus let out a bored sigh before following the mechanical bird into the throne room. He had always found it to be a bit tacky, but it was important to keep appearances up if he wanted to accomplish his goal.

a/n: did you guys see that one coming? also i don't really proof read so lmk if anything sounds insane pls

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