#Arasen Kharlu

[sentryandco]

Prompt 16: Deiform

Arasen had always been fascinated by religion. As a child, his belief in Azim and Nhaama was unwavering, and while the history of war between the Dawn Father and the Dusk Mother were glorified by Kharlu and Junghid into justifying their warring way of life, Arasen was far more invested in the story of the love that existed between the two deities.

It was said that even though they waged a fierce battle against each other, the seed of love was still able to bloom and grow on the war-torn field. And it was looking upon the faces of their children that the Father and the Mother returned to the heavens, bequeathing the fate of the land onto the xaela.

For Arasen, their children had forgotten the vow of peace that was struck between their creators, for strife and contest were the way of life in the Steppe. The only thing that still recalled that first promise, were the flowers that bloomed in the oldest ruin upon the land. Its petals still remembered the light and the warmth of the Father and the quiet tranquility and embrace of the Mother. 

So when he was old enough to travel across the seas, and learned of The Twelve, and the kami, and the Primals that answered the prayers of beastial tribes, Arasen wondered if there were as many gods as there were stars in the sky. Did they exist alongside the Dawn Father and the Dusk Mother? And if so, did they also watch their children suffer and struggle from their distant seat in the heavens? Did they answer their prayers?

Learning of the possible destruction that a god could wrought, summoned by the desperate supplications of believers, Arasen had no doubt, some did answer, and violently so.

So then what of the sacrifice that appeased them? What of the lore of the Lost Daughter? If invocations born of anguish and fear could call forth a divine power, could the offering of a pure heart and soul also do the same?

It was due to his own devotion, his obsession with bringing peace to the Steppe, that he had believed the latter could be true. But now, aftering seeing all that had transpired within the bowels of earth more ancient than he could ever imagine, his certainty in the matter was no longer born of need. He had seen with his own eyes what an offer of love and kindness at the cost of one’s own could achieve.

He should be more certain than ever to resume his previous course. All he had witnessed only confirmed the presumed end.

But Arasen was now wholly committed to another path. To prevent the need of such an oblation. The Steppe was full of stories of loss. Smaller tribes giving up their youths in exchange for protection, offering up their precious women as brides for alliance. He had come to know the individuals that were otherwise seen as commodities, and each one of them were far better than he.

As Arasen watched from a distance a taller figure standing at the cliff’s bluff, he wondered idly where the two women were now; his cousin and the Mankhad. Both of whom had every right to demand his end, but instead forgave him for what he did to them. A promise given to the latter had him and his warden traveling to the coast, accompanying her brother.

And here, Arasen discovered yet another star that shone above alongside Dusk Mother. The Shuurga had their own deity that presided over the waves crashing against the jagged rocks below.

Knowing the possible miracles that the Lost Daughter could invoke, what manner of power could a Stormcaller bring to bear?

[sea-and-storm]

REFLECTIONS || A Drabble..

Ghoa's eyes land upon the glowing evening horizon from the high-rising stone pedestals and bridges of Limsa Lominsa, and instantly her mind has wandered just as far from her present. 

It drifts from those near that walk Eorzean soil alongside her now, and rather ventures out to those who tread much more distant lands. It's been some time now since last she saw their faces;  for some, that time has stretched far longer than mere moons. But despite the time and the malms that separate them now, thoughts of them come to her now as if they stand right beside her. 

:readmore:

First, her mind flits to Arukh. The brother she never knew she had, but who had apparently watched over her as best he could whilst their paths did intertwine with one another. There's a twinge of regret that lies buried in her chest even now, that she had declined his offer to return to Kugane back with her once the ruins had been set to rest. Even more, that regret gives birth to guilt, that she would ever even consider tearing him away from those he so obviously cared about. 

She wonders how he's been in the time since they parted. Does he think upon her in moments of quiet reflection, just like this, and feel the same long overdue joy and relief at finally having been able to know one another? She hopes so, just the same as she hopes that those thoughts of her don't take away from his living of the present and the enjoyment of the love that surrounds him. After all, they're of the same blood, and she knows how wont she herself is to looking back to the past and asking, "But should I have…?".

And with the thought of kinship, so does her mind wander again. Their names are Ambaghai and Ibakha, and there's still a nervous eagerness that swells like a rising tide within her when she thinks of them. The parents that she never met -- not truly, anyroad -- and whom had apparently never stopped loving her even long after a much younger Ghoa had resolved that their absence proved their apathy. 

She hopes that the day will come soon when she will be able to meet them and know them. Arukh had told her once that her absence in their lives had left their once vibrant mother heartbroken and their once warm father cold and distant. She wonders now if the message that she had sent along with her brother to them had helped begin to stitch together the pieces of Ibakha's broken heart and to rekindle the lost warmth within Ambaghai. "One day when it is safe, I will return to you," she had asked Arukh to tell them. "Until then, know that you are never far from my mind nor heart."

But theirs was not the only message she had asked her kin to relay in her stead, and it is to that recipient that her train of thought wanders next. When Arukh had told her that Elder Unegen still lived, Ghoa had felt a weight lift upon her shoulders that she had nary been aware of its existence. She thinks back again now to the last words they exchanged before and feels heat rise to her cheeks. Yet it isn't anger that slights them now, but regrets. She had begged and pleaded with Unegen to intercede when the Kharlu had chosen her, and when she had refused, Ghoa had hurled vile accusations of betrayal at her -- and Unegen had remained somberly silent through the barbs and jabs that her young apprentice had inflicted upon her. 

"Tell her that I understand why now," Ghoa had asked Arukh to relay to the now elderly shaman. "That I know she was faced with an impossible choice, and I no longer blame her for the decision she made to keep the tribe safe." Much more quietly, she had added, "And tell her that I am sorry I ever doubted her love."

Her brow furrows at the recollection and she lowers her head, words of quiet prayer on her lips that have become all the more common these days. She beseeches the Storm, the Sea, the Dusk Mother and any other gods that might lend a listening ear to help those trying to bring peace to the coastlands so that she might one day soon be able to make that apology again in person as her mentor deserves.

Peace. That word again sets her thoughts to wing, and this time they land on a man for whom her emotions are yet still conflicted. Ghoa has yet to truly forgive Arasen for what he had done to her, bending her will under his thumb without her knowledge. The feeling of betrayal still coils like a venomous serpent in the pit of her gut, threatening to strike with fangs bared if she draws too close. Normally, this feeling is enough for her to recoil, to keep a safe distance from those uncomfortable thoughts. But today, she dares to venture closer.

Last she saw the Kharlu shaman, he seemed but moments from crumbling under the weight of all his careful machinations now collapsed upon his already heavy shoulders. And despite the anger that wells within her when she thinks back to what he has done to her and those she cares for, alongside it also rises a thread of well-meaning concern. She hopes that Arasen still remains upright despite that undoubtedly crushing weight;  more than that, she hopes that it might even become lighter in time if he only just allows others around him to help share his burdens. In that particular stubbornness of his, Ghoa has seen herself and she knows just the same the freeing lightness that comes when one no longer feels that they are alone in their trials.

Maybe, she thinks now, she might be closer to forgiving him for his trespasses against her than she thought she was previously.

Yet there is more forgiveness than hers than Arasen ought seek, not least among them being that of the man to whom her thoughts now inevitably turn as they often do in quiet, thoughtful moments like this. Batuhan was subjected to a far worse betrayal than she, as Arasen was anything but a brother to her. In the wake of all that had happened, the hurt and disappointment that the older Kharlu had felt was obvious to her. It hurts her heart now just as much as it did then to think upon it, and she can only hope that one day the trust and love between them might be restored. For both of their sakes. 

But more than his relationship with his ward, Ghoa worries more for the warden himself. She had left him clear instruction that he was to take care of himself in her absence. Was he? He had promised her he would, and she knows that Batu is anything but the type to break his word. Yet even if he does keep his word to her, as she is sure he will, there's always a niggling fear in the back of her mind wont to remind her of the dangerous game that he and the others play in their efforts to see peace return to the coastlands. Perhaps that is truly the hardest part of this separation, she realizes now, knowing that even the most fervent promises are not always strong enough armor against the dangers of life itself.

But she breathes deep, holding the briny sea air within her lungs for a long moment before she lets it go slowly. With it, she releases the fear and uncertainty; for the time being, at least. As she ever has to remind herself when her thoughts wander here, all she can do is have faith: in Batuhan's promise to her, in the friends and allies that surround him, and to the gods that hear her quiet prayers to keep not only him but all others near to her heart safe and happy in her absence. 

It's another of these pleas that Ghoa finds herself uttering quietly to herself. When it ceases, her silver gaze once more focuses upon the sunset-stained horizon before her rather than thousands of malms away to the Steppe beyond it. 

And she smiles in contented peace, the corners of her eyes wrinkling in mirth, as she wonders if any of those whom cross her mind are now standing at the sea's far edge thinking of her, too. 

[r2ruen]

C&F: Flower Arc

Featuring: @shaelstormchild [Shael Stormchild], @sentryandco [Batuhan Kharlu] and The Dickhole [Arasen Kharlu], @afreesworn [Nabi Kharlu], @anchor-management [Anchor Saltborn], and @jaliqai-and-company [Ghoa Mankhad]

This was. Quite the project. But! I adore these characters and the stories weaved by not only the very talented DM (or whatever an rp equivalent would be called) @sentryandco​ who is the mind behind our current antagonist and some of the most bestest beloved “NPC” characters--i hesitate to even call them that (shoutout to Batu and wherever you are Myuto), but also all the flavor added on top of that of everyone's character’s individual stories and personalities I get to see unravel as time goes on. I always get inspired to do like... poster style Chapter/Arc pics in the past, but have never tackled one. AND SO I FIX THAT TODAY.

So this is dedicated to all of them and the current Arc. And also as thanks to you-know-who-you-are. 

So thank you. 

[afreesworn]

Prompt #3 | Lost

It was but the briefest glimpse.

If Nabi had blinked, or had she been only focused on her own fears, she would have missed it. But it was unmistakable.

She saw doubt. Regret. Hesitation. Where her cousin’s amber gaze usually shined clear with focus and precision, it now looked to her searchingly, even as his larger hands held her own immobile. There was anger, it burned the brightest, but behind that cold heat, she saw a man adrift, swimming desperately for shore.

She saw a man seeking reprieve.

Nabi had been petrified with worry and despair. She was taken against her will from her own clinic, a mysterious sickness weakening her body that she couldn’t even say a word as she was carried away from the House of Sparrows , through the piers of Shirogane, and onto a ship she didn’t recognize. She witnessed a Jhungid warlord as he was shot clear through the head, by Shael’s gun no less, then another less fatal wound inflicted upon Anchor’s leg by the same weapon. She knew not how he fared as he was dragged off, unconscious, to another part of the ship.

And Arasen had been part of it all. He and Batuhan had visited her apothecary that morning, and he was the one that spoke to the Jhungid udgan as if they were familiar with each other. 

So why was he looking so lost as he held her prisoner aboard a ship now in the middle of the ocean?

“Your mother understood,” he rasped, his hands shaking with fervor. “She knew this was the only way. For a woman like her to have gone through these lengths, to produce a child purely meant as an offering to the gods, it is cruel. But it is because she understood.”

It was then that fear began to ebb, releasing its hold over her heart. Mayhap it was because her cousin reminded Nabi of her mother.

She hadn’t seen the similarity until this very moment. After all, he had been feeding them half-truths and manipulating her emotions to his own end, all to achieve the prophecy that her mother foresaw. But they were both driven, and they both bore the burden of the knowledge that their visions gave them; this unbearable weight upon their shoulders that none others could see. Her mother had been the strongest woman that Nabi knew. But there were those brief moments of weakness that would overtake her, and they didn’t escape the notice of her young daughter.

Nabi had caught her mother weeping by her bedside once, when she had taken with sickness. It was just a cold, her mother had assured her, but later she was awoken with quiet sounds of muffled sobs and discovered moist stains of tears on her blanket. Nabi was so confounded to see her mother so, she had always been the most unflappable person Nabi knew. It frightened her to the core, and she just reached out with her hand and laid them upon her mother’s. It was all she could offer in her fevered state, she didn’t know what to say. Her mother kissed her knuckles and cooed back to her, coaxing her back to sleep. They never spoke of it again after.

Ever since learning of the truth behind her birth, Nabi had reminisced about her years with her mother in a different light, as though looking through a new lens. Only then did she recognize the moments of silence, where her mother’s enduring composure would be shed like a cloak when she thought she was alone, and she sat by the window and stared out to the horizon, looking worn and sad. 

“None of that matters,” Nabi whispered to her cousin, her head bowing. “What she intended at first. She risked her life to save me. And all I’ve ever known is her love.” Her vision blurred and heat flushed her cheeks as the memories returned to her unbidden. “In the end, she didn’t want it. She must have seen this wasn’t right. That this isn’t the way!”

Her voice was starting to shake with emotion, and her glistening eyes rose, looking imploringly to her cousin’s. There was a soft smile that dared to emerge, pushing past all other anxieties. Her mother too had been haunted by the darkness of those visions. But their visits were brief and scarce. Instead, she had bathed in the sun with her daughter most days, gathering herbs, washing the laundry, and watching fireflies. “But if someone like her, full of love for others, could try for such a thing… then, then you must care for others just as much.” 

Her hands relaxed even as his grip tightened around her fingers. “I know she suffered, looking back. She had moments of quiet and solitude. So you must be suffering too. Carrying all of that burden.” A tear rolled down her cheek, her insides trembling but not with fear. “But she found peace. And happiness. When she chose the life she wanted to lead. To love and laugh instead.”

Nabi looked to him earnestly, offering him a gentle, inviting smile. “You can too. You don’t have to do this.”

You don’t have to be so lost.

_____

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

[shaelstormchild]

Old Habits

Shael couldn’t sleep.

It was the third time she had angrily turned over in her bedroll. And it wasn’t that she wasn’t used to sleeping outdoors; plenty of past smuggling jobs had her bunking down in the oddest of places. It wasn’t for thoughts of any impending dangers either; she had learned in her time in the Resistance that rest was essential to staying sharp, and worrying over the next Garlean bombing or raid would only result in dulled senses the next morning. And that would lead to carelessness and eventually a mistake that could cost someone’s life.

And even that didn’t keep her up most nights. Once a fellow Resistance fighter noted with some measure of disgust that she always found a way to sleep even after participating in a mission that resulted in numerous deaths, Imperials and Ala Mhigans alike. Little did he know that she always had something to resort to, drugs or alcohol, to ease her mind just enough to push her into a dreamless stupor.

But there was a time that even those measures proved futile, despite all the substances she could get her hands on. It was after Shooey died. That’s when the visions and the memories of him replayed over and over behind closed lids. The moments leading to her final view of him always returning with crystal clarity. He flashed her his quirky but reassuring smile as he gave her a thumbs up, when he wired up the last of the explosives. Then an instant later, she bore witness to all of him becoming enveloped in a fiery explosion of fire. Then he was no more. Those visions came to her every night, and even in her waking bells, whenever she closed her eyes for any length of time. There he was, smiling at her, then his flesh was burning off, exposing the bare skull beneath as it cracked and exploded into a thousand pieces. It always woke her in a cold sweat. Shael ran as fast as she could, away from the Resistance, sailing away from Eorzea, fled all the way to Othard and Kugane in trying to escape those memories. Even still, she found no respite until Nabi concocted a special brew for her, and finally she was able to find solace in the dark. Looking back, Shael wasn’t sure when the dreams truly stopped. Was it because the drugs? No… because Nabi withheld them after a while, warning her of possible addictive properties. But without the drugs, how had those visions finally gone away? The soft shuffle of fabric drew Shael’s attention to Nabi’s sleeping form within the same tent. And from the soft whimpers that escaped the auri lips now and then, she could tell that the Xaela’s dreams were not of the restful kind. Shael sat up with a scowl, idly scratching her head as she recalled the exchange that had happened during that sun. Tales of rituals and destinies buzzed annoyingly in her head. Who soddin’ believed in all that shite? Nabi’s long-lost cousin, Arasen, that’s who. And from the look of things, so did some seer and the rest of his tribe. Did they mark Nabi at birth with some magical tattoo that would consume her otherwise if she didn’t return to them?

All for some impossible dream of peace? Shael nearly snorted out loud. She’d known the ugly touch war for as long as she could remember. The taint of it ran through every Spoken’s blood. It seeped into every possible corners of the world, like spilled ink bleeding onto parchment. What insanity made these Xaelas think that one girl could end it? Her mother must have been some deranged fanatic to scheme up a birth of a child to fulfill some enigmatic prophecy -- false promises that were likely the results of a drug induced hallucination rather than a gift from gods who never gave half a shite in the first place. Shael knew all about visions, how they could plague the mind. How they could make someone either want to desperately flee from it or accept it wholly and blindly. She took all of Elam’s drugs after all, as he snuck it into her drinks. Not only did they temporarily turn the burning inside into a distant simmer, but in some rare instances, it brought forth the face of a ghost that wasn’t being immolated. The smuggler glanced down to her hand that had started to tremble, and she clenched tight to still its twitching. She didn’t have time for that. She reached into her pack and drew out a vial, uncorking it with a thumb and tossing her head back as she swallowed the contents whole. She grimaced as the bitter taste stung the back of her throat, but eventually she eased into a breathy sigh as she felt the drug quickly working its way into her system. She flicked another glance to the sleeping Xaela, almost guiltily. After all, Nabi worked hard to get all the drugs out of her system the first time. She worked patiently with her through the withdrawals, easing what she can with her own herbs and medicines. And now, Shael was right back to her old habits again. The smuggler knew that the Xaela would not approve. But it was for Nabi’s sake, at least at first. Shael had to let Elam believe that he had her under his thumb. But as the charade went on and she discovered the true perks of those drugs, she couldn’t stop the cravings. They were like a familiar old friend, just like the glimpses of her former first-mate. Shooey wouldn’t have approved either. Sod it, Shael groaned to herself as she began to slide her boots back on. Who cared who approved of what? Shooey was dead and Nabi was… Even as she glanced to the sleeping Xaela, her earlier nearly tearful words echoed in the Highlander’s mind. “If I fulfill whatever it is that my mother intended? Or if I don't? Does... does some horrible death await me??" The girl was shaking with fear and dread. That sight made Shael want to break something. Arasen warned of some ill fate if that mysterious mark on Nabi was left to grow on its own. It was quickly followed by promises of help and guidance if she returned with him to her mother’s tribe. Where he and some old crone could perform another bloody ritual that he could only vaguely speak about. Well, they can rot in all the hells with that. Shael reached for her gun, suddenly hungry for some cold air. She was starting to crawl out to relieve Saltborn early of his watch, when she heard quiet murmurs filtering in. She leaned forward, just barely parting the fabric of the tent to gain a glimpse. Speak of the devil...

Saltborn was talking to that Xaela, Arasen.

Shael nearly brought her gun forward. Mayhap a single bullet between the Xaela’s eyes would solve the problem and end this entire dilemma.

But Shael knew better. That would still leave the mark on Nabi with no leads to follow. She didn’t quite hear all the words that were exchanged between the hyur and the au ra, but soon Nabi’s kin rose and left, leaving Saltborn alone by the fire.

She watched his back awhile longer, before she rolled to the other side of the tent.  Undoing a few ties, she slid out the end. She holstered her gun on her back and moved away as quietly as she could, as to not draw Saltborn’s attention.

She would have her own words with this Kharlu.

[anchor-management]

#1 - CRUX

[“Seein’ people like that…,”] 

The cabin felt so empty that night, the sounds of the ocean waves lapping against the ship, of wood creaking as the vessel slowly and subtly rocked back and forth in the quiet sea.

[“...gettin’ away with it all…,”] 

The only comfort was Nabi’s hand upon his; the only warmth to his cold and hardened heart.

[“Burns me up.”] 

That warmth was not present as he held Arasen out towards the edge of the obsidian precipice. The man had lied from the start; every breath that had dribbled out of the Kharlu’s insidious lips was tainted with falsehood and schemes. And those were the lies that led to so much pain. Those were the lies that nearly made him forget the two reasons he was still on this mortal plane.

Cseri’a… Buoy… 

Their memories had been tainted, mayhap forever altered by the stain Arasen’s plots had left on his mind. He could never be sure. He would never know. 

But it was more than even that. The pain and uncertainty that Arasen had caused Nabi was unforgivable in his eyes. The night she returned home and cried in his arms for what felt like bells due to his poisoned words, he would never forget the sight of her tear streaked cheeks swathed in the glow of firelight. 

It was far too late now to make up for it, but he could at least stop from repeating the same mistakes. He could silence this deceivor once and for all--if he simply let go. Arasen would be lost to the darkness, to the belly of the beast he and his people fed for far too long. Let the treacherous snake be the last of the blood spilled on the cursed flowers his kind so revered. 

And yet… things could never be so simple. 

For Anchor allowed himself to be ignorant of the happenstances behind all of this mystery. He had been pushed back into a corner they could not escape from, and now there were no other answers to find than the ones Arasen offered. Whether those words would be more lies or truths… they could never know. And yet that was the only argument Shael and Ghoa could make: that if somehow Arasen held the secret to save Nabi from her static confines within the ruins that called to her so. 

What if they were right? That was what tore him up. Mayhap Arasen was the only way for them to get out of the hell he had thrown them all into. But… that meant sparing him. And the only possible way Anchor could spare Arasen was to give up the right to vengeance; to give up his hatred and anger for what he had done. However, to give up that hatred, it betrayed something so deep he had ingrained within himself. 

Hatred had nourished Anchor when all else had not. Unadulterated rage towards the ones that had killed Cseri’a and Buoy, his once found family in a most unlikely corner of the world. It had been what pushed him to live all those years back, when hopelessness and despair wanted to drag him down to the darkest depths. He lived by that anger; swore to never forgive the depravity of such people, even if that eventually included himself for the lengths he would go to find those in particular. 

Yet, like some cruel, twisted joke, letting go of his anger was what Anchor was being told to do. But he couldn’t--he couldn’t forgive Arasen! He couldn’t forgive those that hurt his family! If he let go of that fire within him, there would be nothing left but that hollow feeling of despair. 

Without it, he didn’t know himself.  To give it up might cost all he had left. 

And thus, Anchor had a problem on his hands. Quite literally, in his hands. One he was staring in the face of. One he could erase if he just let the other fall, but potentially lose any hope of saving the remaining glimmer of light in his life.

How much was he willing to sacrifice for the sake of his hatred?  For the sake of his pride? For the sake of a memory? 

How much more would he have to give up? 

[sentryandco]

#5: Matter of Fact

“I expect ya tae go on, sufferin’, carrying the burden of that knowledge--all the horror that ya done--all the lies that you spouted! You deserve that!” 

Saltborn’s words of indignation were like physical blows against his chest, his heart, his soul. Arasen had long thought that he was immune to such wounds through words. But once he had dropped the pretense, peeling away the layers of deception, it only left him exposed, without a lie to hide behind. And somehow, this hyur knew how to strike at him best.

Arasen loosened his hold on the hyur’s wrists, yielding once more to the tug of the plants around him. But that made Saltborn only pull harder, his grip white-knuckled on his horn and hair alike. And his impassioned words snarled over the Xaela’s features.

“You will carry that weight as long as it takes! Not by your terms, but tae the one that trusted you most in it all! The one that deserves answers! The one that be due recompense!” His voice nearly shook as it boomed, “You owe Him that!!!”

That hit the deepest of all.

Arasen, over the years, had taken part in deaths of countless lives. He looked away when Toragana took various women of his tribe, in her twisted experiments to gain the flower’s favor. Her efforts were for naught, only resulting in needless suffering. And while there was no pleasure in witnessing the deaths of his tormentors at Otsuyu’s hands, he could not deny a certain sense of satisfaction in the retribution. Then there was Siban’s sickness...

But despite being complicit in so many acts of violence, one that always ate away at him was his break of Batu’s trust. 

The very first time, Arasen had to convince himself that it was for his warden’s own good. Batu would not allow his younger ward to meet with the Jhungid alone, even though that was the most pivotal condition of the agreement. Arasen counted himself lucky in that he had the forethought to weave in unyielding commands into their rune of binding and used the first of the three to have Batu forget the knowledge he had gained.

Arasen hadn’t realized then, that in thinking he protected Batu from certain death, he had taken away the older Xaela’s choice. And events started to unfold in ways that Arasen had not predicted. In forcing Batu to forget, Arasen had ordered the older Xaela to take a prolonged hunting trip. Only, it was upon his return that Batu learned of Sechen’s fate, the woman he loved.

Arasen’s own heart splintered when he saw how it broke Batu. And whether it was his own inability to cope with the pain he had caused the one person he cared for, Arasen started to shut out his warden from his dealings, hiding truths, no longer confiding in him about his plans with the Jhungid. And Batu allowed it, for his warden had become a ghost of his own self.

In a moment of pity, Arasen then tried to give Batu a new cause. He convinced his warden that Sechen’s death would not have happened in the new world where there was no war. And given some semblance of a purpose, Batuhan committed himself wholeheartedly to supporting the prophecy and finding the Lost Daughter. 

How had it become easier and easier? When had Arasen become used to the distance between him and his brother? When had he adapted such an unemotional and practical disposition against the one person who cared for him?

Saltborn was right. Arasen owed Batuhan. Most of all. 

And dying for him would not nearly be enough.

Art by: @r2ruen​

[sentryandco]

#1: Crux

For as long as he could remember, Arasen knew he was destined for something important. He had prepared himself for it. He had prayed to the gods that when the time came, he would be worthy of the path that would reveal itself to him.

Then when the horrific visions came of the futures that could be, Arasen was nearly undone by the terrors that visited him every time he closed his eyes. But he didn’t bemoan that the gift of Sight was truly just a curse that no longer allowed him to see beyond the suffering that lay ahead. Instead, he persevered, escaping the precipice of insanity from the sleepiness nights and overwhelming despair. He had to learn that compassion and mercy had no place in his life, for if he was to walk the path that would lead to the salvation of all, he couldn’t afford any distractions that could detract him from his goal. He would fulfill his duty by any means necessary, truthfulness and happiness be damned.

And now, within the bowels of the earth beneath the ancient ruins that held powers capable of granting his ultimate wish, it was here that Arasen saw his destiny. This was where his years of torment and nightmares would end, where the prophecy of the Lost Daughter would be finally fulfilled.

Only, there were two paths that await him.

The first choice was the obvious one. It was what he had been working for, his years of machinations finally bearing fruit. The Lost Daughter had been found, and she had been brought to the altar of the ancients, where her blood and soul would give life to the god that slept. He needed only to nudge the tides of battle in favor of the black irises, so that they would take what is rightfully theirs, and awaken the nameless entity that slumbered beneath the mountain.

It should have been an easy decision. All those years he had labored, deceiving everyone, hardening his heart, and damning his soul, what was it for if not for this moment? 

And yet, it had been a journey of solitude. None else had walked this path with him, only the crushing weight of the foreboding knowledge was his companion.

But somewhere along the way, he saw the Lost Daughter for more than just the ends to his means. Nabi was warm and full of life. She was so eager to share her joy but also too generous in her mercy. Even after finding out about his machinations, she forgave him, and even offered him a second chance. But he should have expected that. The sacrifice had to be worthy of the greatness that awaited.

What surprised him, however, was the flawed and unworthy companions his cousin had around her. Arasen had long come to accept that the rest of the world was tainted. It was because of the imperfections, the hubris and greed in people’s hearts, that allowed for so much suffering to exist in the first place. And that was initially what he saw in everyone that Nabi called her friends and family.

Arasen had no hesitation in lying to them, using them, and manipulating them. He was certain a few of them would have to die, even if by his own hands. So then, why was he fighting by their side now?

Stormchild was easy to figure out, but dangerous to scheme around. A cold-hearted killer, whenever she threatened to take his life, Arasen had no doubt she would carry it through. But she held her hand, and risked much, including her own life, for the sake of his cousin. 

Then there was Saltborn. Quick of temper with a sour disposition, the hyur took a disliking to him immediately. Arasen was certain the Confederate had to die, for he was closest to Nabi, and the strongest obstacle in his way. Arasen had even put a blade to his throat, fully intent on killing him.

But in a twist of fate, Saltborn instead saved Arasen from drowning beneath the tumultuous sea, and even forfeited his chances to kill him outright, when more than a few opportunities were laid at his feet. With much reluctance, the hyur spared the Kharlu, even after fully remembering all the pain that the Xaela had caused him. All because of the slim chance that Arasen could now save Nabi from her fate. Arasen knew full well that he would not be here, if it wasn’t for Saltborn.

Then there was Ghoa. She was most like him, with her honeyed tongue and selfish motivations. And initially, whenever she extended a hand of friendship towards him, Arasen thought it much like his own incentive, to keep everyone close and yet at a distance, to watch them and discern their weaknesses. Enthralling her was an absolute necessity. But Arasen soon realized just how easy it turned out to be. Was it because she loved Batuhan that she assumed the best of him as well? Arasen could not deny that Batu’s fondness for the Mankhad may have softened his own disposition towards her. But that did not stop him from using his blood magic to tug on the woman’s thoughts, turning them to his own favor. 

But to his surprise, when faced with a great need, Ghoa offered something of herself, without any manipulation on his part. A schemer caring for the sake of others. That caught him off guard. But moreso, it reminded him that he too had such good intentions, at the very start of his own journey. So when had things gotten so warped?

It was because of all of them that he was even giving this second choice a thought. 

As Arasen stared up at the colossal darkness that loomed before them all, he reminded himself of the pure idea that began his journey. The prophecy had been about salvation and sacrifice. But what he hadn’t realized until now, was that somewhere within it all, was also a thread of hope. Of an impossible dream that could be realized if one was willing to give all they had for the sake of others.

Arasen touched his chest for the rune that was etched there, a tactile reminder of his childhood promise and his bond. Of his original ideals. To choose the second path would be to break the enchantment upon Ghoa. To return to Batu all that Arasen had taken from him. He would be severing his bonds with all of them. A wash of loneliness returned to him, but with it a sense of contentment. He wasn’t following Chanai and Siban’s designs, he wasn’t being driven by visions of death. The path he chose now was for hope, and a future of happiness, not for himself, but for others.

He would prove himself worthy.

[sea-and-storm]

FFXIV WRITE 202O: Sway (#2)

"My final command:  do everything you can to get Batu out of here. Do not let him come for me, no matter what."

Arasen's words almost seemed to echo within Ghoa's mind as they were spoken aloud, and with their reverberation awoke no small number of questions within her. What did he mean by 'his final command'? When had he ever commanded her before? And why did part of her, buried deep down inside, feel like it already intuitively knew the answer to those very questions despite having no explanation for them?

Confusion was plainly written across her face as she stared back at him, searching for answers. But right there on its heels was a compulsion to follow his words, even despite her questioning of the peculiar sway they held upon her. And as he released her arm from his urgent grasp, in spite of the sinking feeling settling like a stone at the pit of her stomach, she made no move to interfere as he began tracing the rune in the air and muttering the arcane words that activated it.

That dread of his intentions came true but a moment later once his form disappeared, and in its place Batuhan had been pulled from the cocoon of oppressive darkness that had swallowed him whole. The older Kharlu she gave but a quick look-over, to make certain that he was still hale and whole. Yet her thanks for the gods that he was would have to wait as she turned back to face the roiling darkness that lay outside the shield of light that protected them. In particular, to the concentrated mass of darkness where she all but knew that Arasen now lie in his warden's place.

Only then did a sudden and lightning quick flash of memory break through to the front of her mind, fuzzy and lacking detail. Blood, and a finger curiously dragging across her palm as it was tended to. A subtle push to use her own swaying power upon Nabi. A hand on her arm as if to convey trust and safety as secrets she had sworn to speak to no one were coaxed from her lips. And a face that featured in them all, with those flashing golden eyes.

A shaking exhale left her in a soft curse, both at the memories and at the sight before her. Indeed, it sparked anger within her like a bolt of lightning amongst dry grasses, quickly setting it aflame. Yet still, she couldn't find it in herself to be at peace with allowing him to be taken by the shadowy colossus that sought to pull him into its heart. No matter his transgressions against her, no one deserved the fate of being swallowed up whole by pain and fear and hate. And though it was perhaps a selfish thought, his perishing here would be one final injury to suffer by denying her her rightful catharsis of confrontation. 

The seething anger did not fade then, but merely changed direction. Silver eyes narrowed upon the beast they all now faced, and static began to crackle in the air around her as she once more brought up her hand to lash out towards it. 

If it wanted Arasen so badly, then it would have to fight her for him and she was newly determined not to lose.

[sentryandco]

#6: Deliverance

“He’s so young, but so focused.”

“I hear his gift of Sight was most distressing.”

“I know it is usually an ordeal, but I’ve never heard it driving someone mad.”

“Mayhap the boy’s father is right. That he is cursed. His mother died so young, after all.”

Arasen thought he was dreaming at first, the way the different murmurs flitted through his consciousness. He recognized their words but not their voices. He’d heard such sentiments before, throughout his childhood, after he had recovered from his ‘illness’ under Siban’s care. After a while, they started to seed his own mind, and he too came to wonder if he had been blighted by the gods. He had always thought the opposite. For as long as he could remember, he was always staring at the light of the heavens, looking to the horizon. He knew there was something more. Something he wanted to reach for, but never quite knowing what that was.

But bereft of his parent’s love and shunned by most of the tribe, the only constant in his life was his teacher and his faith.

And his warden. 

Batuhan was the singular presence in his life who Arasen knew without a shred of a doubt, that the older Xaela cared for him. Loved him. Believed him and trusted him. Batu had seen something in him as a child, swore a blood oath to protect him for all his life, and even after the nightmarish visions visited the youth, Batu remained steadfast in his devotion to the boy.

Tugan and Siban tried to sever that bond, the former because he thought it useless and a waste of a formidable warrior’s time, and the latter, for reasons that were unknown. But Batu somehow managed to keep watch over Arasen throughout the years. And just the knowledge of his proximity and loyalty, comforted the youth in his loneliness. 

“The gift is not the fault of the boy,” Arasen heard another voice, and this one he recognized. While Siban’s tone always held composure of aged wisdom, it was Chanai’s that always enticed him with a hint of warmth and reassurance. He had always watched his aunt from a far, admired her, for she had only shown compassion for those she mended. But to him, there was a palpable distance. And an air of sadness whenever she looked upon him. But he distinctly remembered her coming to his defense when many other wives gossiped ill about him.

“It is a burden that was placed upon him. And the fact that he wasn’t driven mad by it, it is a testament to his strength. There were those far older and greater in power, who succumbed to it and was driven insane. Who committed atrocious crimes. That threw us back into war.”

When Arasen heard this as a youth, he didn’t understand all that Chanai was saying. She had spoken to others, then argued the same point with Siban. About some mistake they had made, how they had cursed innocents. The woman whose golden gaze held only kindness and warmth, now sounded furious as she railed against their mentor.

It was that night, after Arasen had heard Chanai and Siban argue, that his aunt was summoned to an audience with his father. And after that conversation, Chanai disappeared, with his cousin in tow, into the night.

Why were these things returning to him now of all times? 

Then Arasen remembered. He had used the rune of binding to trade places with Batu. His warden had become ensnared in the colossus’ rolling miasma of nightmares, and was being drawn into its black pit. He was now where Batu had been, within the tangled coils of shadows, bound within the cursed roots of the black irises.

He couldn’t move. He felt his heart race, and he wanted to tear free from what was holding him down, but his body would not obey. His limbs remained leaden, and he felt the chilled fingers of cursed flora as they climbed along his neck and cheeks, coiling over his horn and digging into his scales. 

And as they did so, more whispers of the past seeped into his senses. These ancient flowers bore witness to generations of war and violence. Were they now revealing to him his part in it all? In trade for his life, were they granting him the truths he sought? 

“Infantcide!” Chanai seethed. “That is what relit the fires that continue to burn and destroy us today! To think… I was no better! I am the same! All of us given visions that make us believe that sacrifice of one for the good of all is justified!” Her voice broke. “She is innocent! They all were!”

Arasen saw himself right back in that moment, listening just outside, his hands shaking as it held to the leather hide of the yurt. What little he could peek inside through the seams, he saw Siban remaining silent, her eyes closed. Arasen watched as Chanai glared at the old udgan, before turning around and storming out. 

But what his young self failed to comprehend then, Arasen fully understood now, sinking within the depths of the nightmare’s embrace. In seeking to stop the violence, the seers had committed atrocities. And in the name of peace, they took the lives of innocents. Driven by voices and visions of their Sight, they believed wholeheartedly that it was their calling.

Until Chanai broke its hold over her.

And somehow, Arasen did too, albeit much too late. But now this was his choice. To gladly give his life so that Batuhan and his cousin could survive. So that good people may go on, and those that caused suffering pay the price. 

It felt right and just. Arasen held onto that feeling so desperately, as despair and dread began to claw deeper into his mind, the grip of the plants becoming tighter around his throat, its branches crawling into his nostrils. A deep chill started to raise goosebumps along his skin, causing a shudder from within.

That was when a shimmer of gold began to pierce the dark all around him, the braids of vines being ripped away forcefully. Rough hands grabbed at his horn and shoulder, and yanked him forth, pulling him out of the darkness.

[sentryandco]

Prompt #17: Obeisant

Arasen had long become hardened to the glares, the looks of disapproval and distrust that most never bothered to hide from their faces. His father had always made his displeasure known to his own offspring -- a son of a powerful warlord who wanted nothing of battle. It was a lingering sore to the mighty warrior’s pride, and had Tugan Kharlu had his way, his first born would have been left out in the prairie in the cold of night, for the wolves to devour.

“Take the screaming whelp away,” his father had ordered. “The gods have cursed him and taken his mind. This is no blessing.”

Even now, Arasen remembered those words, and the disgust that burned in his father’s eyes like embers. He was but a child, looking to his parent for succor when the grisly visions his young eyes were not prepared for still came for him, but instead he was cast out to die like a wild animal.

It was only by the grace of Siban, the only woman in the tribe who might have had more sway than the warlord, that the bedeviled youth was saved. She took him in to nurture him through his torment wrought by hallucinations, somehow able to pierce through his endless wails to lend soothing words. While Bayanbataar nor Tugan approved of her decision, neither challenged it, for who would dare defy the gods? As eccentric as she was, none could ever question her visions, not even the Khan.

So it was to Siban that Arasen owed his life, and it was to her that he would bow his head in earnest when sanity returned to him. To the rest, Arasen learned quickly how to act, to show deference when he felt nothing but disdain in his heart. His greatest test of his pretense was when he bent his knees, his forehead lowered to the ground in obeisance, in front of his father who had once sentenced him to death. Tugan had no choice then but to accept him back as his blood, for the boy had since been ordained by Siban that he too had been gifted with the Sight, and would learn under the old woman.

But the glower never faded from his father’s face. There was no hint of pride that a sire might show his cub; it was as if his progeny was a stranger to him. Tugan was too proud of a creature to hide his feelings, so the rest of the tribe also began to mirror his father’s wariness. If the eldest son could not earn the approval of the second most powerful warlord in the tribe, no one else dared to show him respect either. So as Arasen matured, he became very skilled at plucking even the sliver of distaste behind people’s mannerisms, even when they were disguised. It also begot numerous calluses around his heart, for if he could not be hurt, he was all the more able to maintain his composed veneer. It became his way of survival, and eventually, his means of realizing his destiny.

So the daggers thrown his way in the way of scowls by the crew of the Wavecutter pained him not. As he made his way off the Confederate ship, he merely curled a polite smile and offered a nod in Shigeyori’s direction before disembarking. But once his feet touched upon the pier and his face was no longer visible to any of them, Arasen was relieved to be finally free of their scrutiny.

The events of the day had taken their toll, even on him. And nearly drowning in the sea was the least of it. More than nearly losing his life, it was the moments of complete honesty that lingered with him still.

Nabi had glimpsed his darkness. His willingness for cruelty as he had shown her. It was his knee-jerk response to the gentleness that she showed him. Was vindictiveness the only thing he could offer in return for kindness? Was it the only thing he was capable of?

The younger Kharlu peered up at his warden that walked in front of him as he was led through the beach of Onokoro. His exchange with Batuhan still weighed his mind, along with doubts he held for the others, and the dread of what the judgement his cousin would bestow on him. But despite his trepidation he followed, until all the eyes of those who mattered were on him. Did they burn with hatred? Were they cold with indifference? Darkened with misgivings?

It wouldn’t have pained him. He had not felt the weight of such things for as long as he could remember. He should have been able to meet all of them without cowering, as he had done all these years. His faith in his path and his belief in himself had dulled any ache it would have wrought. But when his amber gaze were met by a pair of warmer golden eyes, Arasen could not deny that single pang deep within.

He wasn’t allowed to wallow in that strange sensation. With a pointed look from Batuhan, Arasen dropped to his knees and lowered his head onto the sands, his hands placed humbly upon his lap. He bowed deeply in front of Nabi, no matter what her guardians wished for his fate.

“I’ve come to beg you for your forgiveness, cousin.”

[sentryandco]

Prompt #4: Shifting Blame

“I would have word.”

Arasen had come to recognize that tone very well. On numerous occasions over the years, more than he could count, Batuhan had taken his ward aside, away from the judging eyes of his father, and spoken to him quietly. It was less when he was younger, for mistakes he made then were forgiven by the way of naivete and idealistic foolishness. But later on, when he began to learn the ways of steering other’s viewpoints, enabling him to make more bold choices for the sake of his own gains, often times it came with his warden’s stern disapproval. 

Batuhan never had the heart for the suffering of the innocent. But he was wise enough to know that such a price was what many within their ranks were willing to pay, for the path to nirvana was not without its darkness. But the older Kharlu remained ever the steadfast guardian, wanting to protect his young ward and their small but growing sect from the pitfalls of ambition. 

Arasen always took his counsel to heart. It was important to him to know where his brother in oath stood in all things. But the younger Kharlu never returned the same courtesy.

He couldn’t. If Batu ever fully became aware of all the sins he had already committed, and his willingness to go even further, Arasen knew he would receive more than just harsh words of rebuke. Would the man who swore a blood oath to protect and stand by his side suddenly turn against him? Arasen didn’t want to know. It pained him to imagine the day when his ardent guardian would no longer stand with him. Even if he had come to accept that such may come about of his own doing.

But on this very sun, Arasen believed that day had arrived. When rage lit his eyes like lightning at the sight of Nabi bound and partly unclothed, Batu had thrown him against the wall, his arm pressed crushingly over his neck. Such was a scene Arasen had envisioned, somewhere in the back of his mind, when fear and doubt often took hold. But hurried words had somehow stayed his warden’s fury. Since Ghoa had already laid the blame of the entire ordeal on Toragana, it was easy for Arasen to nurture it further. But while Batu allowed him to breathe, from that moment on, the younger Kharlu felt a distance between them that he hadn’t before. There was wariness where once there had been complete trust. Arasen found himself wholly unprepared for the depth of pain it wrought.

Had he been too reliant upon their bond? Or the magic that had entwined their souls together? Arasen believed that Batu’s growing fondness for others had been completely erased after the seal was spent, but something had changed after his visit with Saltborn and Ghoa. Had the two stirred up memories that were buried by his command? Had they such a power to break the influence of his blood bond? Or was his own warden starting to resist it on his own?

It was impossible to ignore the growing doubt in the older Kharlu’s eyes as more revelations came to light after. After having shared with Nabi much of the venom that flowed deep within his veins, believing that she would not wake in time to tell the others,  Batu freed her from the spell that enfeebled her. That left Arasen no choice but to tell the truth to the rest, or at least as much as Nabi and Batuhan knew. And if it wasn’t for Batuhan standing between Saltborn and himself, Arasen was certain that he would no longer be breathing.

So where did his brother stand now? Batu came to his defense again, at least when his very life was threatened by Pjel. ‘He is not whole, nor beautiful. But he is the lost daughter’s kin and my blood brother,’ Batu had told the Viera warrior, willing to put his body between her sword and his ward. Was there still a thread of kinship left between them? As frayed as it was?

Arasen had believed until now that he was willing to pay any cost the gods might ask of him. He had resigned himself in the past, with much difficulty, that if the gods asked for his brother’s life, he would give it. He had accepted the solitude and loneliness that this prophecy demanded of him. And yet when death came for him, when the depth of the ocean swallowed him whole while he still hadn’t fulfilled his destiny, when it seemed that the gods would forsake him after all he had sacrificed, it was the hand of a hyur that Arasen had marked for death that reached out to save him.

Now, he didn’t know what to believe. 

Arasen stared dumbly back at Batuhan, the younger Kharlu momentarily lost to his thoughts. He shook his head, giving Batu a weary smile. It was salvageable. Not all was lost. A new path had to be forged. 

And it started first with repairing what was left of the bond between him and the only person in the world who cared for him.

“Yes,” Arasen said quietly. “Let us talk.”

[r2ruen]

Happy Halloween!Trauma Team Special! Feat. Nurse Angie Costume.  @shaelstormchild, @sentryandco, @jaliqai-and-company, @anchor-management, and @afreesworn

Based on the image below. Aka Trauma Team. Made by Atlus. 

[sentryandco]

The Oaths We Swear

It still hurt.

Batuhan’s hand rose to his chest, clutching at his leather tunic as he closed the door to the storage room behind him. He did not want to make a show of his discomfort to those he left inside, they seemed uncertain of him as it was. And he of them.

But it was not entirely born out of distrust. Despite his lack of recollection, a part of him knew that he had forgotten them. Somehow. That single memory that returned to him, of his word given to the hyur, it was enough. Batu knew they had met before. They had spoken long before this sun. And somehow, he had felt enough faith in the man whose face was now estranged to him, to swear on his life that he would protect the lost daughter.

How had he forgotten?

One hand suddenly shot out to the wooden wall of the hallway, his palm slamming awkwardly on the grained surface, skidding over it as his weak fingers found no purchase, his feet sliding as the ship titled violently against another wave. The far door leading to the deck was flung open, as two more figures appeared within its frame, they too struggling to find balance amidst the gale that pelted them with rain and wind. Lightening and thunder crackled behind them as shouts of sailors outside echoed in the distance.

“Batuhan, wasn’t it?” A female voice called out to him, her tone lacking any gentility. It was the Jhungid udgan. Something about her felt cold and distant, her very visage mirroring the darkness, the white dots upon her ebony brow like stars in the night. Only there were no peace to be found in her reflection, the six white circles upon her head starkly punctuated the lightless complexion of the shaman even more. Her black gaze, with its eerie white limbal rings, was fixed on him, her black robes settling upon her thin form as the warrior next to him forced the door closed behind them, shutting out the storm.

“Toragana,” Batu answered back dully. He regarded her, silently thankful that the throbbing in his chest made it easy to greet her with what would seem a flat, half-lidded look. The escaped wife had suspected that this udgan was why he couldn’t remember her. And while he was not studied in it, Batu knew of the various arts that the udgan were capable of, calling upon the gifts granted to them by the gods. He doubted not that Toragana would be capable of such strange feats. But as Batu lowered his hand purposefully away from his torso, the rune beneath felt as if it was freshly carved into him only minutes ago. And it gave him doubt.

“Checking on the prisoners?” Toragana asked as she carefully began to make her way down the narrow hallway. The wooden beams of the ship creaked all around them, boldly fighting against the turbulent sea. Another Xaela, one armed with a longbow across his back, was accompanying her, though he slowed as they neared Batuhan, his eyes narrowing on the Kharlu. When their eyes locked on each other, there was more than just wariness there. Batuhan sensed rancor behind the male’s gaze, the other’s lips just barely holding back a snarl. And yet there were no reasons that Batu could recall that warranted such animosity. Had they met before? It was Jhungid passing a Kharlu, it was very possible that they had crossed each other on another battlefield. But here, on this ship, they were supposed to be working together to bring an end to that yearly warfare.

Batuhan kept his eyes on the archer as they both passed by, just answering Toragana with a nod. When they slowed by the door to the storage room, Batu tensed and stilled, waiting. Both the hyur and the escaped wife within, seemed weakened from a recent bout. If the two Jhungid meant them ill, it was unlikely that those inside could put up much of a fight.

“I had to put the male down,” Batu grumbled, placing his hand on the door as if the matter within was already settled. “The escaped wife is looking over his wounds.” He flicked his eyes at Toragana. “Will you be performing the rite of passage?”

If the udgan was considering reaching for the door, the question stopped her in her tracks. The white rings of her dark eyes flared for a moment, before she narrowed a look upon Batuhan. The archer behind her stiffened as well at the mention of the fallen warlord. “It will have to wait until we can lay Kiratai upon the soil of his homeland," Toragana snapped. "His spirit will not rest easy until he knows the embrace of Nhaama.” There was a bitter cut to the edge of the udgan’s words. Even though she had immediately declared the untimely death of their warlord -- at the hands of a foreigner no less -- the will of the gods, it was clear to Batu that all of the Jhungid entourage seemed shaken by it. He would be too, had he witnessed Arasen’s death in the same manner, just fulms away from him, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

Toragana and Batuhan exchanged one more icy look before the shaman turned sharply and began to make her way down the corridor, undoubtedly to where they had taken the body of their former leader. The archer followed, although his eyes were slow to leave Batuhan.

A long exhale plumed from Batuhan’s nostrils as he pushed off from the wall, making his way to the opposite end of the corridor. He had only bought the hyur and the escaped wife a little bit of respite, but he hoped that they could make some use of it, before Toragana decided what her next play would be. Would she make a show of strength by making the prisoners suffer? No, as the escaped wife reminded them all when the hyur faced off against all of them at the pier, the Jhungid needed to keep the Confederate alive, as a way to make the lost daughter cooperate.

A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat as Batuhan stalked toward the last door on the hallway. There were too many questions and he had no answers to any of them. Was the escaped wife Arasen’s ally? Were they using the Confederate to force the lost daughter into fulfilling the prophecy? Was she not supposed to be a willing participant? Who shot Kiratai dead? Were there more enemies waiting for them on shore? Why could he not remember? Why was the rune, the one that was burned into him years ago when he accepted his lifelong bond with his ward, the mark that was supposed to symbolize their fealty and trust in each other, why did it ache in his chest everytime he questioned all these shadows in his path? Why was Arasen’s words, imploring him to forget everything since they parted ways, and only to remember his duty, why was that the last thing that rang crystal clear in his mind?

No. That wasn’t the only absolute. There was another unerring memory. The oath he swore to the hyur. The lost daughter’s guardian. Batuhan swore that he would protect her. It was his own words, and Batuhan was not wont to break his promises.

As he reached for the door leading to the captain’s quarters, he paused, looking to the slow movement of his weakened hands. Injuries he did not recall and yet his hands moved instinctively as if he had grown used to their slower speed. He had been this way for moons. He had become accustomed to the afflictions that he could no longer remember receiving. This void that existed in his mind began to burn like kindling, sparked by simmering frustration. He wanted answers. He pushed the door open, expecting to find the one person who he knew would have them within.

Batuhan paused as his eyes widened. Where he had expected to see the petite form of the lost daughter tucked in bed, he saw her now unconscious, her hands bound in rope. More, her robe had been pulled down and off her torso, exposing her entire back. Arasen was kneeling over behind her, his fingers tracing Nabi's bared skin, when lightning flashed through the portholes in the walls. They lent the amber within the younger Xaela’s eyes a cold but eerily glow in the dark, as his gaze snapped to the door.

“What… are you doing?!”

[afreesworn]

👎 = Is there anyone in your muse’s family they dislike, why?

Dislike is a strong word. At least for Nabi.

But due to recent events, she is afraid of Arasen, while still feeling somewhat sorry for him. She has gained some glimpses of what his Sight grants him, and it isn’t a “Gift” in any sense of the word. It is a heavy burden, and she now knows what her mother had to bear since Chanai too had the same ability. But even when Nabi tried to reach out to her cousin in sympathy, he lashed out back at her with cruelty, causing her both pain and distress. 

But it is what he has done to those she loves that disturbs her the most, for she now suspects that he orchestrated the events in the ruins, where everyone she cared about suffered so much. While she can try to understand and maybe even forgive what he has done to her because he is relentless in his dream to pursue peace, it is not that easy to overlook what he has done to Anchor, Shael, and Ghoa.

Nabi once feared her uncle as well, Tugan Kharlu, who is Arasen’s father. But the elder has been an absent and distant figure in her life, where as his son has forced his way into hers, and has brought much trouble with him.

Art by: Ruen!

Family Headcanon Questions!

[sentryandco]

Bound by Blood

“How come you’re not afraid of blood?”

A pair of amber eyes peered up at him, wide and curious. The summer skies lit his pale irises even more brilliantly, like jewels that had caught the ray of the sun and trapped it within its facets.

Batuhan regarded the young Xaela with equal interest, a small smile quirking up one corner of his lips. He was older than the boy by eight summers and easily towered over him at his full height. “Should I be afraid of it, boy?”

Arasen smiled wide, white teeth gleaming within the tanned complexion. “Not at all! It’s only that there are others who don’t like seeing it. Their own anyroad. It might be that aether makes up our soul, but it’s our blood that gives us our strength.” The younger boy puffed out his chest and proudly pounded his fist against it twice. “It’s our passion and life, pumped through our veins.”

The older Xaela tilted his head with amusement. The boy had enthusiasm of his youth, but there was wisdom and knowledge in his eyes. Confidence in his words. “Is that why you are studying in the ways of the blood shaman?”

Arasen bobbed his head excitedly. “I am going to be the best there is.”

Batuhan huffed, laying his larger hands on top of the boy’s head, tossing his braids about and letting the beads at the ends of them clack around playfully. “I guess then I better look after you very carefully.”

The younger Au Ra pouted, frowning and waving off Batu’s hand. He clearly didn’t appreciate being treated like the child that he was. “Well, good thing you are not afraid of it then,” he muttered. “Since we will be bound by blood. Through a ritual.”

Batuhan nodded sagely. “Until the end of all suns. I, as your warden, will always be able to find you. And know if you are in danger.” There was an odd twinge in the back of his mind, that after the ritual, he will forever be linked to this young boy. And yet Arasen belonged to a strong and important bloodline, and Batu had been watching this boy from afar. Unlike so many others of his age, Arasen always looked to the stars and to the distant horizon. As if looking to a life and possibilities beyond what was right in front of him.

That was something worth protecting.

“You are not afraid of it are you?” The older Xaela teased, eyeing the boy. “It is not an easy rite. You will shed as much blood as I.”

Arasen paused before answering, a frown pinching his young face. When he did look back to Batu, it was after a good amount of thought, and there was new eagerness to his expression. “I am not afraid. I want to know firsthand what it’s like, to feel blood magic. Runes written in blood are far stronger, you know. I already know what summoning and weaving aether feels like, but using blood… that is going to be something else.” The young Xaela grinned from horn to horn in anticipation.

Any other might have doubted the wisdom of being bound to a boy that spoke such nonsense and with such fervor. But Batu saw the dreamlike idealism on Arasen’s face, the boy continuing to talk about endless possibilities of blood magic. Of how it can change the properties of runes, promising to find ways to enhance even the oldest and simplest of spells, of healing what was incurable before, and many more that was beyond Batuhan’s limited understanding of such magic.

The boy wanted to better the world. And Batuhan wanted to see that world.

“I am sure even our bond can be improved…”

~

“How long?” Arasen stuttered, his eyes wide. It lacked the light and clarity that Batu was used to seeing. “How long have you been here? Were you following me?”

Batuhan narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slowly as he scrutinized his ward. “Long enough to know that you and they were not strangers.” His jaw was set, and his tone hardened. “You were hidden from me.” The older Xaela never liked it when Arasen dampened their link, making it impossible for him to use their bond to track him. It was something that should not be possible, and yet for Arasen, almost anything was possible when blood magic concerned. Batu had learned this long ago.

“As long as I have been residing here, I have been patrolling the area regularly. I became aware of more Xaelas on this isle in the recent suns, so I followed them. And after scouting them, I discovered they were Jhungid. They wore no obvious markings, but I recognized their scent upon the wind. The udgan of various tribes often carry a unique totem on them that they would never discard. And with the Jhungid, it is a peculiar mix of herbs. I would recognize it anywhere.” His gaze and tone sharpened slowly as he looked over the younger Xaela. “I followed one of them here, to discover that you were meeting with them.”

There was a pause as Batuhan lowered his chin, locking his gaze with his ward. There was a keen and almost accusatory edge to his expression, one that would brook no lies.

“...How do you know them?”

What happened next was something Batuhan was wholly unprepared for. His eyes flickered to Arasen’s hand, one that rose with the palm facing him. And in that instant, he felt a sharp piercing pain on his chest, beneath his shirt. When he pulled the fabric away, Batu saw the mark. It was the one that was branded upon him years ago, the rune that bounded him to his ward. Only now, it was bleeding like it was a fresh new wound. Droplets of blood began to seep through the pores that had long sealed over with scarred flesh.

And suddenly, this sensation was familiar to him. Batuhan remembered that this had happened before, these old tattoos from the rite of binding coming to life again. It had involved the Jhungid back then too. But somehow, that memory had been hidden away, until now.

Batuhan’s hand locked around Arasen’s, and despite its weakened state, the grip was firm, fueled by outrage. “What are you doing?” Again the memory returned, he had asked this very thing before. Years ago. Back then, Arasen had worn a sorrowful smile. He shook his head and whispered words that were still lost to him.

The ward that looked back to him now, however, wore an expression of panic and frustration. “I am sorry, my brother, that I must invoke this mark once again.” His hand pressed against Batu’s chest, the crimson stain spreading across his splayed fingers. “Three commands you will abide, you will not question and you will not remember. You will only obey the will of the one who bound you.”

Batuhan’s hand shook, with pain as well as a newfound rage, as rivulets of his own blood began to trail down over his knuckles. But his body couldn’t move. It was as if invisible chains had sprouted from where Arasen’s hand laid against the mark, and held him still where he stood. The whites of his eyes surrounded the deep green pupils as the older Xaela glared down at the ward he had trusted all his life.

“You bound me…” he hissed, furious and incredulous.

Arasen’s visage softened where Batu’s was riled. “I did,” the younger Xaela said quietly. “Long ago. When I thought I would use this to save you.” But the flicker of tenderness didn’t last long as Arasen bore into him, his voice turning cool and losing what little remorse it had. “I am lucky I had the foresight to bind you thrice.”

Batuhan glared at Arasen, and barely managed to shake his head. “What are you planning to do?” he demanded hoarsely.

“I will ask you to believe me, as you have always done.” Arasen’s voice was calm and his words were slowing impossibly. Batu saw the younger Xaela blink, but when those eyelids opened again, his eyes were shining like the brightest sun, blinding all else from his sight. His words echoed loudly, almost painfully, as if reverberating within the cave walls.

“And help me get my cousin back home.”