#Brendt

[detournementsmineurs]

“Untitled (Portrait from Memory, Bromide)" de Lionel Wendt (circa 1936) à l'exposition “In The Heart of Another Country” Deichtorhallen Hamburg, décembre 2022.

[pimmieplays]

B--

Wait, are they brothers or something??

[lascitasdelashoras]

Jerry Berndt, 1968

[utopiasbrood]

A Few Panels from a sketchy lyricstuck I'm doing <3

[ardent-reflections]

She embodies mournful intelligence and beautiful darkness.

Logan Brendt

[meowww-ffxiv]

"May the Traders kindle the flame within us all, for by fire we are reborn."

Quite... Quite fitting for Mordred, if not the kindest thing. He felt everything he had lost had been in the fires and ruins of the Calamity.

Still, this would be a new beginning. He just didn't know it yet.

[turbobyakuren]

Welcome back to the world of light. It’s still terrible out here.

[not-the-aesthete]

“ She embodies mournful intelligence and beautiful darkness . . . ”

Logan Brendt, referring to Chelsea Wolfe, from an interview c. April 2012

[anneapocalypse]

I feel like I'm going to have to do some narrative time fudging to make it make sense that Tataru and Yugiri make it to Camp Dragonhead before the Warrior of Light and Alphinaud after the banquet, because Tataru makes a point of saying she went back and waited at the Waking Sands first, and only when no one showed up did they head north in hopes the others had gone to Coerthas. Meanwhile the WoL seems to come straight out of the watercourse, and get picked up by Brennan/Bremondt/Brendt, and then Cid takes them in his airship. I don't think we're ever told how Tataru and Yugiri traveled? Or at least I haven't found it. May need to rewatch some cutscenes again.

[roguelioness]

fables from the field

[written for ffxivwrites2024]

Day 1: Steer

Rating: G Words: 1103 Pairing: none

The carriage veers to the right as the lalafellin driver steers his placid chocobos around a particularly large rock.

The grizzled peddler – Brendt, she recalls – sways, grunting loudly as he rights himself. The sound isn't enough to disturb the only other travelers, young twins she can only tell apart by the color of their outfits; they slumber on undisturbed, blissfully unaware of the change in scenery.

No longer are they within the verdant canopy of the Black Shroud; the green has given way to dry ochre dust and grizzled shrubs, the few trees scattered about as weathered yet unyielding.

The ball of anxiety that has been incessantly bouncing around her stomach grows bigger and heavier. She's been to Thanalan before, but as always, there's something about the arid landscape that’s unsettling. Throat suddenly dry, she takes a generous swig of water from her canteen, but it does little to steady her. The side-eye glances the peddler keeps directing her way do nothing for her nerves; she has half a mind to keep his eyes to himself lest she divest him of them-

Her head starts to throb unpleasantly, the ache a familiar, unwelcome one. Behind her tightly-shut eyelids she sees the figure again, black-robed and hooded, a grotesquely malevolent red mark appearing where his face should be… 

It lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like hours when she opens her eyes again, fingers desperately gripping the cushioned seat in a bid to ground herself. 

Five years has she been plagued with visions that make no sense, and she has told not a soul about them. Even though she wonders about who the being is, she knows those dreams – for surely they must be dreams? – are best left alone.

“So,” Brendt asks. “What's yet tale then, lass? Ye seem mighty nervous for an adventurer.”

Alyzen doesn't know how to react to that. How exactly can she summarize the strangeness of her life? Borne of a land that she could not call home, raised amidst a select few, forced to shoulder the hopes and dreams of other people…

It could not be unusual that she would rebel against it, could it? For years now she'd dreamed of seeking out her own path and walking along it. And now, when she is at last free to do so… she cannot falter. She will not falter. 

“Not much of a talker, eh?” Brendt clicks his tongue, clearly disappointed. 

You should always be gathering information, Alyzen. The smallest, most innocuous morsel might be worth all the gil in the world – or your life.

“Oh, I was woolgathering,” she smiles. “Aye, I'm an adventurer. Heard there was work to be found in Ul’dah, so I thought I'd try my luck.” 

Better a half-truth than admitting that my interest lies in the Thaumaturges Guild.

“Your first visit, then?”

“Aye. Have you been there often?” It's enough to have him burst into a detailed explanation of the politics – Royalists and Monetarists, people with the kind of power and wealth she could never achieve, why should she be concerned about them? The question lingers on her tongue, but she doesn't ask it, just tucks the information away. He also tells her more relevant information, warning her about the Brass Blades (how wonderful, she thinks sarcastically, to have to worry about obtaining coin and worry about being able to keep it) and the city’s struggle against the lizardfolk Amal’jaa (That might be worth looking into. Conflict means there's need for experienced fighters)

As they get closer to the city, the refugee camps – slums, more like – start to appear. Some are little more than threadbare canvas help up by wooden sticks, while others have been cobbled together from the remains of broken down carts and some crudely hewn stone. 

People of all ages mill about, sunken-cheeked and sullen-eyed, eyeing their carriage with a great deal of interest – and more than a few gaze at the sacks loaded on the back with barely-concealed greed.

“They don't let refugees into the city of late,” Brendt remarks somberly. “There’s a lot of clamor with folks saying the refugees are the reason for more crime. It be a rough situation all around, mind. Might be five years gone since Dalamud fell, but Twelve knows things ain't how they used to be for a lot of folks.”

Alyzen makes a vague noise of agreement, her eyes busy scanning the many faces to see if there are any that are familiar. 

It had been difficult – not to mention unpleasant – leaving the Resistance. There had been many unkind words said, several threats made, and she's all too aware of just how fanatical some of the members can get. There's an Ala Mhigan group in Thanalan, that much she knows, and if any of them recognize her it could mean trouble.

While there seem to be a few Highlanders around, she can't tell if they're Ala Mhigan or not. I wish Hyden were here. He's much better at recognizing Resistance members than I am.

And for good reason. Her best friend – and ex-husband, it still feels strange to acknowledge him as such – was half-garlean, and only barely tolerated by his own family. He'd had to learn how to identify friend from foe very young; how many times had he been dealt violence simply for the circumstances of his birth?

Their marriage has been her idea. A way for the both of them to flee a world that had brought them much misery. For months they had wandered around, trying to avoid their former friends and family, doing all they could to scrounge up the gil they needed to just survive. 

But he's now settled in Limsa, content in his culinary training, while she…

She gnaws on her lip. What does she want, beyond seeing the world? 

It should scare her, not knowing the answer. And yet… there's relief in ignorance. Relief in knowing that whatever she does will be of her own choice, and not set by the expectations of others.

In the distance, Ul’dah rises, large and lavish, its many domes gleaming in the sun. Ornate mosaics of marble and semi-precious stones line the roofs of several buildings; she gets the impression of wealth and prosperity, of abundance and excess.

The carriage comes to a halt, the birds squawking with pleasure as the driver offers them bags of seed. Alyzen slings her pack onto her shoulders and stares at the path leading up to the portcullis.

Here is where she will find answers. This is where her journey begins.

Alyzen smiles, and takes her first step into the city.

[floralpoeticss]

She embodies mournful intelligence and beautiful darkness.

Logan Brendt, referring to Chelsea Wolfe, from an interview c. April 2012

[andrewhq]

(i wanted to write a conversation g'raha would have with my wol that i might turn into a comic someday)

- G'raha enters Ziero's cabin in Tuliyollal, after some idle chatter, he pauses before speaking again. -

G'raha: You know, I realized after our conversation on the gondola, that I do not know much about... you. The current you. Most of what I know about you, I gathered from various pieces of your legacy. I don't think I've ever sat down with you and gotten to know you.

Ziero: Hah! Aw, it's very sweet that you're asking, but truly there isn't really that much to me than my legacy. Most of my life was... this.

G'raha: What do you... mean?

Ziero: Well, before I became the Warrior of Light, I was just a simple tailor, like one of my fathers also is for my tribe. And on top of that... I was a child. Even when I began adventuring. I just so happened to be in Thanalan when I ended up helping Brendt fend off his camp, and he suggested I should talk to the Adventurer's Guild because he just had this strong feeling I'd be able to help.

G'raha: Wait, wait. You were a child?

Ziero: Yes, I only turned eighteen less than two months before my tribe arrived in Thanalan!

G'raha: Like... Viera years' eighteen?

Ziero: There's no such thing! We mature about the same Hyurs, so...

G'raha: So that means you're...

Ziero: Twenty-one, now? Yeah!

G'raha: I thought you were so much older...

Ziero: I suppose constantly being at war and saving people ages you. I suppose if we're being technical about it, I'm twenty-three, given that I was close to turning twenty-one when you called me to the first, and I spent about a year there.

G'raha: That's still so... young.

Ziero: I suppose it is!

G'raha: Does it bother you? That you never really got to live your childhood until the end?

Ziero: Not really, no. Maybe if I was forced to do it, I'd mourn what I never got the chance to live, but instead I see it as living as the folklore hero people tell to impress children!

G'raha: I cannot fathom how you can stay positive so easily... Did nothing ever break you?

Ziero: Ah...

- He instinctively reaches for the eye under his eyepatch. -

Ziero: I... ought to be thankful for my parents being positive beacons in my life as well. I know it hurt them to know I was risking my life out there, and my mother never did hide the fact that she was worried for me, and neither of my fathers would let me go back adventuring until they were as certain as possible I wasn't hurt. But the three of them loved me so much, and cared for me so deeply, so I could always go to them when things were too much. But there was, ah... two times when I was completely inconsolable, I suppose.

G'raha: I do not intend to pry, so you do not have to answer, but I must ask what got you to that point?

- Ziero pauses for a long time, clenching his fists. -

Ziero: It... it was Zenos.

- G'raha's ears perk up. -

G'raha: Zenos? Did he—

Ziero: I loved him in a way that words could not describe.

- G'raha goes quiet. -

Ziero: I cannot deny the fact that we were always meant to be mirrors of each other. I always wanted to understand him, and I struggled with it for a bit, when someone just so happened to tell me his age... And I quickly realized just how similar we are. We were both children when we got roped into the war. Our differences were also our similarities. I grew up in a peaceful, loving family that was always there for me when I needed them, he grew up in a family that was disgusted with his very existence and only saw him as a weapon of war. And yet... we were both outsiders, fighting for causes that weren't our own, but we had enough motives to push through them.

G'raha: I had heard he was a cruel man...

Ziero: Funny how people say that, yet I could count on my fingers how many people Zenos actually harmed, because he never fought or killed anyone that couldn't stand a chance against him. Meanwhile, the blood on my hands is endless, from people who were much weaker than I. Is that not ironic?

G'raha: I... I suppose, when you put it that way... And yet the calamity—

Ziero: Was Fandaniel's plan. And I do not blame Zenos for following him. After being only seen as a beast, a dog that should be beat and put in a cage, do you truly think he would not resent the world? He truly thought he was being merciful, just like Meteion.

G'raha: I never thought of Meteion and Zenos as similar, and yet, based on what you told me in the past, it all makes so much sense... It's like we were being foreshadowed of her existence.

Ziero: Hah, pretty much. Still, I've made my point, so to actually answer your question: When Zenos killed himself, it ruined me. Not only did I feel like I failed him, but I felt like I failed myself as well. We had secretly spent a lot together, because I so desperately wanted to get to know him, to understand him. And he'd always let me in, sometimes with the promise of a spar, sometimes... because we were both lonely. I was such a mess in love, and there was that air of forbidden romance like in stories I'd hear around Kugane. Since my tribe decided to follow me to Othard, I'd never miss a chance to go speak with my parents and tell them all about this wild romance I was having. Truly, I felt the most like a hero back then. And yet when I lost Zenos, it crushed me beyond words. I cried for days in my mother's lap and did not speak to anyone else. I had to keep strong and let the Ala Mihgans celebrate their victories. I almost began to resent Lyse for being so... content with his death, but it was just misplaced grief.

G'raha: I can certainly empathize with that... Then, was the second time still Zenos, I assume?

Ziero: Yup. Though the second time was... a little bit different. I realize now, in retrospect, that I could have just denied him that fight, and he'd have to keep living. Yet I was so... selfish. I held on to that last bit of grief for him and ended up taking it out on the exact person I was grieving. I was angry when I found out he was still alive, it felt like everything he did was to mock me, but... No, it never was.

G'raha: I'm sorry... You must miss him greatly, then.

Ziero: Well, about that— I didn't actually... let him go... I hold his soul, you see. And I can always channel him as my avatar.

G'raha: You what?!

Ziero: Hahah, oops!

G'raha: Why didn't you tell anyone!

Ziero: I didn't want to put anyone in a panic, given how many people despise him. Plus, it'd be insane to explain either way. Zero knows, though. It was because of her that I managed to figure out how to make him my avatar, and she certainly got some enjoyment knowing how he would feel being bound to someone like that. And now you know too.

G'raha: I'm starting to become less surprised that you are as young as you claim to be.

Ziero: I'm not lying! I never even learned how to read!

G'raha: YOU NEVER LEARNED WHAT?!?!

[vintagelasvegas]

Pioneer Club souvenir postcard, 1965. “I was 18 and stationed at the U.S. Naval Administration Unit, Lake Mead” - from Bernie Brendt

[irrya-ainivi]

In a dream, I float in aether…

I awoke on the carriage to Ul'dah, across the kind merchant, Brendt, who covered part of my fare when I boarded in Gridania. On his right sat the Elven children. Though local guards attempted to frame him for somnus dealings, they were interrupted by a beastman attack forcing them to do their proper duty.

Inside the city proper, after initial doubts, I quickly learned it's not so overfilled with children, but rather by a suchly shaped race: Lalafells. It is easy to understand why they are not populous whence I hail simply from their anatomy. …I'm still unsure as to how to speak to them respectfully.

[femrodeeeeo]

😢