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dragons-bones · 2 days

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FFXIV Write Entry #19: Levinstorm

Prompt: taken || Master Post || On AO3 (coming in October)

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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azems-familiar · 6 months

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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 · 1 month

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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 · 9 months

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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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gcldfanged · 2 months

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@phantasiiae [Closed Starter for Dion Lesage.]

It was easy to slip through the borders on his lonesome (he only had one person to account for after all), but Jae-hyo certainly wished he hadn't decided to seek out the Holy Knights Dragoon without some form of hefty backup. About the last thing he needed was the entire Order leaping about trying to skewer him, as the upcoming fight against Bahamut himself wasn't even a guaranteed win. Fighting the Warden of Light one-on-one would be the true test of wills and as determined as he was to follow through, he had a feeling it'd wind up becoming quite a close brush with death itself.

After what befell Rosaria, it might simply come across as Sanbreque making a vicious grab for power, but the events at Phoenix Gate hinted at actions far more sinister. Being Hades' Dominant meant that he had personal access to the former Archon's knowledge and history- He was aware of the true nature behind the Fallen and what machinations the surviving collective desired to bring about. He wanted to uproot the problem at it's source, but he would have to defeat the imperial family's champion- first and foremost- Then he could set about properly asking for some much desired He aid from the other Dominants.

Jae stared up at the moon, nothing more than the pitted sliver of a broke-jawed grin. Anxiety twisted in his guts, his instinct had a mind to pipe up and it was currently grumbling between it's serrated teeth that this might be a bad idea. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, tensed and untensed dexterous fingers one by one.

Gathering aether into the center of his hand, he brought his palm to his chin and slowly blew out a stream of mist from his pursed lips. It prickled at the air like the fur of a spooked cat, spilling over the sweet grass and wild wyvern's tail as a silent ocean-like wave. The fog rolled through the meandering paths between staked tents and arms racks, twisting into smoky tendrils as it rose towards the inky sky.

The Dragoons began to drop like smoked out hive of bees, eyelids growing impossibly heavy until they fell to the ground, loose limbs sprawled openly. Yoon made his way to the largest and most opulent of the temporary dwellings, the softened leather of his boots making nary a sound as he stepped over the carpet of armored men and horses enjoying a magically induced nap.

Sliding a thin knife from his bandolier, he took aim and let it fly, but it ricocheted off of the flat blade of a sword wielded by Bahamut's attendant. The second-in-command took a bold few steps forward intending to defend his superior, but eventually succumbed to Jae's spellwork- sluggishly lowering to both knees as his chin dropped against the space between his clavicles.

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed-" the rogue murmured softly, a lilt to his voice as he recited a common children's rhyme used in games.

"... and here comes the chopper to chop off your head."

#phantasiiae #◈ rp threads #◈ CAULDRON OF DARKNESS [FFXVI]#I wanted to give Dion time to react and attack so I just stopped here if that's okay #if I need to edit or clarify anything please let me know #I will happily change it or whatever needs be

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anamelessfool · 1 year

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On Hell

For its entire lifespan, there has been a debate within the Satanic Church of the Void as to whether or not true Hell exists.

The Hell written about in the Christian Church, the one with the jumping imps and laughing demons. The one where there is usually one unfortunate soul slowly rotating on a spike over flames, or a lake of fire, or other creative means of torture that have shocked and delighted human imaginations for several thousand years.

No, says one faction, Hell does not exist in the Void. The Void is full of horrors only because they are unknown to us, and beyond our comprehension as beings of this reality. The horrors once encountered adjust to us and can be utilized for all sorts of creative pursuits, both monstrous and benign. They argue that Hell is simply a reality we have yet to uncover.

Yes, says another, Hell does exist in the Void. It was human intervention that tore a hole through reality and invited the Void here. It has been human energy that has been feeding it all this time. Humans believe in Christan Hell, and therefore because the Void is sensitive to us, Christian Hell must exist within its borders.

What even are those borders? Is a further topic of philosophical study. Is the Void a massive realm with space that can be measured? Or an even more terrifying thought: is the Void actually only several millimeters thick? Is it simply an aetheric membrane stretched behind Altarpiece doors, thin and fragile as a soap bubble and yet containing infinite multitudes?

All while the Cardinals and Magicians calculate and debate this, Mother Imperator and Papa Emeritus continue with their work. The Custodian and the Provider. Mother tends to the Void, predicts its desires and brings forth beings and insights from its depths, while Papa gathers in the life force, the energy of his crowds to feed it. As dutiful as nesting robins these two figures work in tandem, in supposed harmony. As creator and creation. As mother and child.

They have no time to consider what the Void is. All they understand is that it is Hungry. And they are the only two previously human beings that can ensure the health of their charge. They are the single line of defense at the border of Void and Not Void.

A third topic of debate is whether things can emerge from the Void without the consent or control of Mother Imperator. But that is a topic that few wish to think about.

They don’t want the Void to get any ideas.

My Fic List | My AO3

Scenes from the Void AU (AO3 Series)

Except from my Primo fic "Violence and Gentleness"

#ghost fandom #ao3 author #ghost band fic #ghost scenes from the void #ao3 fanfic #ghost band AU #papa emeritus #papa emeritus fanfiction #sister imperator #ghost the band #ghost headcanons #the band ghost

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mechanis-moth · 1 year

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The Aether people are nice! I wonder why Prism doesn't trust them.. Mr. Mopey seems to like them, just a little bit though. Pod has to stay in their pokeball or else they'd start zapping.

#pkmn irl #pokeblogging #pokemon irl #pokeblog #aether without borders

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amaurotine-daydreaming · 1 year

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XI. Once Bitten, Twice Shy

Erichthonios, Themis thought, truly did not give himself enough credit.

Although Themis would readily admit that he had not the requisite knowledge to judge this particular category of magicks to their most minute detail, it was clear Erichthonios’s execution of Interment had been flawless. With naught more than an infusion of aether, this single Warder had banished the fearsome beasts of Asphodelos back unto their cells one by one. Even with the assistance of Azem’s familiar and the cadre of phantom warriors called to aid them in weakening each one, sealing away even a single subdued creature of the size and ferocity of the Hippokampos or the Phoinix was no small feat.

Indeed, although Themis had cautioned Erichthonios on the importance of getting the spell right the first time, he would not have thought any less of him if he had not succeeded. The idea that anyone could perform an incantation without the tiniest flaw on their first try–and under the pressures of self-doubt and little time–was a request that bordered on the absurd, one Themis would not have imposed if there had been a more palatable option. Theory and observation could only get one so far, but nevertheless Erichthonios had succeeded with breathtaking speed. Themis’s aether and own dearth of knowledge of Interment would not have been able to compensate for any inconsistencies, any lapse of concentration.

Though prudence reminded Themis that time was not on their side, a part of him still wished the shimmering sigil lingered on the floor just long enough so that he could observe its design in full. For Erichthonios’s sealing magick was not merely a functional thing; in the glimpses and snatches Themis caught, he was struck by its beauty, how enchanting the lines and geometries were in their flawless symmetry.

The sigil consisted of a perfect circle, with lesser–but no less perfect–circles at each of the cardinal points surrounding a curious but elegant divet. Capped at each of these cardinal points was a design which resembled a crystal stopper, and at each of the greater circle’s intercardinal points were notches that called to mind the knobs of a harp or some other stringed instrument. Most tellingly, crisscrossing throughout the interior of the sigil were chains in alternating warm and cool colors–links forged in fire and sealed with ice, as the powers of Erichthonios’s transformation when he first stumbled out of Pandaemonium attested to.

Though other Interment arts might share foundational similarities–Themis had not the opportunity to observe, but it would stand to reason–each sigil would ultimately be unique to the individual. Such things acted, in effect, as a signature. And although Erichthonios did not seem to give any thoughts of vanity to his designs, they were aesthetically wondrous and so undoubtedly his. Rare was it that Themis observed such fine work outside the expertise of his colleagues in the Convocation.

In a moment of respite, when Azem’s familiar had left to attend to other business and he and Erichthonios had tasked themselves with the matter of reaching Abyssos, Themis told him as much. Even in the absence of other observers, Erichthonios’s cheeks visibly colored, and he looked away and said it was naught special compared to what the other Warders were capable of, and certainly not worthy of comment by someone sent by the Convocation.

It was a reaction Themis was beginning to anticipate from him, but it did not make his heart ache any less for it. How self-deprecating Erichthonios was! Were his mentors and colleagues so single-minded in their valuation of magical aptitude that it made them dismissive of aught else?

Perhaps so, Themis realized with some dismay but not a terrible amount of surprise. Although all professed to acknowledge and value the myriad ways one could contribute to the good of the star, the insistence in the value of all things–no matter how small or unconventional–marked the current and previous Azems as unusual to most of their contemporaries.

Though Themis had scarce known Erichthonios for half a turn of the sun by the end of their forays into Asphodelos, even then there was no question in his mind that despite Erichthonios’s shortcomings in innate magical ability and his tendency towards rashness, he had a generous and kind heart, and was certainly more than capable in his duties as a Warder.

Yet Erichthonios clearly did not see it as such, and was quick to downplay his achievements. ‘Twas so instinctual, so ingrained, Themis knew it could not merely be a case of once bitten, twice shy. He sensed the feedback Erichthonios had received up until now was largely critical, if not outright belittling. And although Themis was careful in ensuring that his arbitration of judgment did not extend to his fellows’ personal lives, even those of the Convocation and their constituent bureaus, he lamented whatever had happened to make Erichthonios view himself in such a poor light.

And so despite Erichthonios’s insistence to the contrary, Themis saw no reason not to give credit where credit was due. ‘Twas simply a matter of course that he commented on the achievements of his fellows, and unless Erichthonios outright told him to cease, Themis did not intend to. However disbelieving Erichthonios was, however far he placed himself below Themis (another thing which made Themis’s heart dully ache), with each acknowledged success he stood a little straighter, and the determination in his words and in his eyes became more assured.

And that too, like Erichthonios’s sigil, was shining and beautiful and something which Themis could only pray that he would see more of.

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #pandaemonium #erichthonios #themis #mildly implied themis/erich

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scapinoz · 1 year

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L’APPEL DU VIDE, genshin impact.

note, well for starters i have no idea how to use this app without having a breakdown yet here we are since i simply could not hold back myself from doing this. so, here we are, my genshin oc finally getting written down (i still hate him).

synopsis, scapino, the fourth of the twelve and the escape artist, wasn’t always the loyal hound he showed himself to be.

warning, mentions of blood, attempted murder & assassinations. scapino himself is a huge warning. usual fatui agendas. usage of weapons and such. aether as traveler because abyss lumine is girlboss.

PROLOGUE,

Scapino was simply just another pawn— a pawn in the greater game ahead— that much he acknowledged. He shall do ask they ask, and move to any square they command him to— always ahead and never back. He wasn’t unsettled by the fact that one day he would be discarded, thrown away from the board— perhaps because he was asked to make the wrong move or maybe perhaps he was a sacrifice in taking a small step towards his creator’s plans. All the pieces will eventually perish, my son his father had said, not once but over a thousand times; almost reminding his younger self of his position (and maybe perhaps his future as well, but Scapino didn’t understand that back then). And he could do nothing but accept the inevitable, afterall what was a pawn compared to any other pieces on the board?

Scapino was simply just another pawn— just a pawn, not a rook nor a knight, just a pawn— and he was reminded of the actuality of his situation every now and then. Scapino, though a harbinger, was no one of importance compared to his associates. Surely he knew that he was not a survivor of a fallen nation, or a puppet who was meant for greatness, nor was he someone who survived the abyss at his younger ages. No, No, Scapino was just a pawn— someone who was solely there to take over his father’s place among the twelve. His father may have been the bishop in the board but Scapino was simply another piece— nothing of importance, something that could be easily replaced by another piece (he knew that better than anyone, of course).

Scapino was simply just another pawn— a pawn that could be stuck down any moment. Scapino was well aware of the walking dangers; he was aware of the phantom sillouhoutes shadowing his every step, always keen on sheathing and hiding their blade the moment he glances over his shoulder (even ones from the same organization he had been from). He had known about the perils beforehand— he had seen his father come home with bruises and bloodied gloves (yet the blood was never his, as far as Scapino knew). He had known that everyone would look at him differently, the mothers directing their children away from him and the men clamouring out of the streets everytime they see him. And surely all of them knew, as much as he did, that one day he too would be replaced like his father once was. And Scapino could tell that they were all indeed waiting for that day to rise. For the pawn to be discarded from the board.

Scapino was simply just another pawn— a soldier, nothing more or nothing less. Scapino was not a diplomat, a banker or even a leader; Scapino was a soldier, a killer if he would have to word it better. Scapino’s purpose was not one of peace, but it was rather quite the opposite. Scapino, the fifth of the twelve harbingers, he had been the one to wage wars in the name of her highness— to bring victory and the heads of her enemies to her feet. Scapino’s purpose was not to protect but to destroy (though he found it quite amusing that he and his subordinates were always patrolling around the borders, always looking for any present threat. He supposes that he did protect the land to an extent). He knew his purpose, he accepted what her excellency had thought was best for him— and never once had he acted against her words. Just like a dog. And that’s just what he was in the eyes of everyone around Teyvat, her excellency’s loyal guard dog who wouldn’t hesitate to seperate your head from your shoulder if you ever even breathe an air of hostility against the Tsaritsa.

And Scapino, Scapino had never denied it. For what was he if not a pawn in the game of the divines? For how pertinent was he if he was not used in the game? What was his purpose if not to destory in the name of her majesty? That was all he was good for— following orders and being played.

Everyone in the land of everlasting winter had heard about the tale of the loyal hound— the tale of a harbinger who succeeded his father’s throne after his demise. Everyone had it memorized it by heart for it was really not that much big of a story. Everyone knew of the story and everyone also knew of the loyalty Scapino held for his Archon.

Everyone has heard of the tale about the loyal hound and yet no one in Snezhnaya had ever heard about how the hound bit the hand that fed him (Scapino knew that no one ever will— her majesty’s orders that no one will ever hear of the ultimate betrayal). None of the civilians knew of it, not even the foot soldiers were informed about the events that took place. No one has been informed about the duel before the throne— a duel between the escape artist and the captain— a duel that Scapino lost (and of course, was he really a match for Capitano?). Not everyone who knew of the story of the hound were fortunate enough to know the ending to it, only those who were resided in the palace that night had been fortunate enough to witness the dance of blades between an artist and a captain. And yet everyone’s mouths had been sealed shut— direct orders from her majesty Pierro had said before Scapino had been dragged away to the dungeon, the last words he heard (that and Dottore’s laughter, of course, Scapino could never forget that laugh).

And so the pawn was discarded from the game— only to become the master of his own game. When the pawn reaches the other side of the board it could be anything you want it to be, his father had once explained the rules of the chess board when he was quite young. And so Scapino’s treachery is what led him directly to the other side of the board— by the hands of his own master nonetheless.

And he wasn’t called the escape artist without a reason. Hence he had left his motherland behind— godless and branded a traitor by his family— to make his journey towards the city of freedom. All to find the wandering travler seeking his sister.

god, i hope this man lives a pitiful life and he realises that capitano doesn’t return his affections. also scapino, well, how are we all liking him so far? and the thing is scapino isn’t my first genshin oc. we have rayne gunnhildr (has the hots for diluc, as he should), ren/seir (an adeptus) from liyue and alvira amana (has a thing with both *cough* alhaitham & *cough* kaveh) from sumeru. so, fics for them or are we leaving them in the basement to rot?

fun fact— scapino’s father’s title was Brighella and he assisted in finding something very peculiar— something that helped the fatui become a little more powerful.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x male oc #genshin x male oc #genshin x male reader #fatui harbingers #fatui harbinger #genshin x reader #scapino #scapino the escape artist #how does one use this app?

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incubabe · 8 months

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There's trouble to building your luxurious battle resort at the foot of a volcano, especially an active one -- eventually, it goes off. While the board at first tried to wave away rumors of tremors and increased volcanic activity as just that, eventually a report from the Pan-Japanese Survey Initiative put paid to doubt. The ever-huffy Mt. Stark, so long threatening, was about to blow, and forget losing the Battle Frontier, Veilstone and the local League -- Hell, everything east of the Coronet range was in risk of being wiped out.

Naturally, this was bigger than the Battle Frontier. Complete suppression of the eruption was considered impossible, and after developing a task force between Frontier Brains and Sinnohian Gym Leaders, a plan of mitigation was set into motion. Suppression was impossible, and would only lead to bigger issues down the line even if successful. That sucker had to blow; it was just a question of how hard.

Pokemon with resistance to super-hot temperatures were used to dig pressure-relieving tunnels, just short of magma's pyroclastic flow, with the aim of leaving behind a thin layer for Stark to penetrate and create tributaries. Forcing the mountain to erupt with a whimper, not a boom. This would grant some precious time before step two, which involved a mass appeal for trainers to temporarily transfer their Heatran to the task force, given that the local population had migrated to parts unknown. Other Pokemon such as Camerupt and Moltres were requested as well, but the conspiracy mills were well on their way.

Heatran Migration Planned By Sinnoh Elite! Just another rumor to add to the unhinged icebergs of the world, to set in the mid tier above "research by the disgraced Galactic Initiative created the modern Rotom Phone" but below "the Frontier is a front for organized gambling."

Though the preliminary efforts were promising, they were by no means a guarantee. In time, the ancient elemental Regi-golem Pokemon were gathered to Snowpoint Temple, where Regi-gigas could be called upon. Its invoked aspect, subdued in battle by the Sinnoh Champion, was brought to Mt. Stark. This joint herculean effort ultimately paid off -- the mountain erupted in a calm and safe manner.

The Battle Frontier was ruined, of course, buried under lava, but everything essential had been disassembled and taken away. Mt. Stark has since rejoined the Sinnoh mainland through subduction, though its adjoining basalt land is currently classified as a disaster zone and is off limits without government permission. Its lava flow continues at a gentle bubble to this day.

With the threat mediated, the Frontier's board returned to what was most important: makin' money. Needed to rebuild the Frontier before people lost interest and their talent got poached away -- and to avoid the risks of regional phenomena inhibiting service again. Deals were struck: one with the Aether Foundation for co-use of their proprietary artificial island technology, and with Stern Shipyard Co to make the new Frontier truly without borders. With what could be salvaged from the Mt. Stark location, construction of the mobile island VLFS Frontier took just under two years. The new Battle Frontier was not only a resort, but a mobile mini-city drifting through the oceans of the world.

During the down time, the capricious noble Caitlin's interest waned, and no longer satisfied with second-hand battling, she was poached by the Unovan Elite Four. The space set aside for the Battle Castle was instead earmarked for the Battle Pike, where the experienced leader from Hoenn, Lucy, took their place as Pike Master. Though some critics considered their Pike too similar to Dahlia's Arcade, Frontier aficionados delight in the difference sin feel and atmosphere between them. Negotiations to additionally poach the Battle Pyramid's head fell through when it came to light that said Pyramid would have to be at least partially underwater. Hall Matron Argenta has privately announced her intention to retire, though not before properly preparing a successor. Among the suggestions considered include a facility run by former Gym Leaders Candace and Maylene themed around survival in extreme conditions, but nothing has been set in stone.

Additionally, during the restructuring, the GDPR came into effect -- a set of privacy laws that restructured the way corporations could collect data. This profoundly cramped Factory Head Thorton's style, as it made the Pokemon scanning devices he used illegal. He would condemn and generally make himself the main character online for some time until he was asked to resign. As a result, one of the administrators of the Factory, an accountant who had been understudying for Thorton for several months when he was too 'busy' to serve as Head, took on the position. Her changes include eliminating single battles entirely, changing the focus to adaptability and synergy between random Pokemon.

As such, this leaves the Battle Frontier with five brains -- Tower Tycoon Palmer, Arcade Star Dahlia, Hall Matron Argenta (pending retirement), Pike Master Lucy, and Factory Chief Cross.

Currently, the island “ports” a few miles outside major regional clusters, offering free transportation to accredited local trainers. A completely self sufficient environment, the Frontier is carbon neutral and releases no waste into local host environments thanks to an in-depth recycling system and a tireless sanitation innovation team. Despite the “international waters” that it travels, the Frontier follows all local laws and will liaise with Interpol for extradition if necessary.

Tangentially: The Battle Frontier bans region-specific phenomena as a matter of course, regardless of their feasibility on the premises. Whether it be mega-evolution, Z-Crystals, sync-stones, Terastallization, or Dynamax, such phenomena either simply won't work in the Frontier facilities or will result in an immediate disqualification. (Trainers possessing an exceptional battle-bond with their partners are allowed, reluctantly.) The idea is to create an environment where the pinnacle of battling can be achieved -- but specifically the pinnacle of battle anywhere in the world, with no losses due to "gotchas" or simply unknown knowledge. (Now, this doesn't always work due to the natural opportunity cost of regional Pokemon, but it is at least theoretically possible.)

This is also why some Pokemon are classified as 'restricted' -- those not intensely studied by recognized professors to Pokedex classification. Really, it comes down to two reasons -- the Frontier Brains need to know the basics of the Pokemon they're facing for exciting battles, and the Frontier needs to know the capabilities of those Pokemon should they go out of control.

#lucy left behind gender in hoenn #why not write a whole lore piece on a subverse you'll never use i said to myself smartly and not like an idiot.#(ooc.)#Anyway this is where pokemon verse Riley's at. More to come.

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