#FFXIV FIC

[nidstiniens]

The Congregation of Knights Most Unholy ... is now open for new members!

Who are we?

A brand new Discord community of writers, artists, and readers brought together by a shared enthusiasm for dark and mature themes in FFXIV fanfiction and art. Our goal is to create a judgment-free space to create and discuss this particular brand of both SFW and NSFW content.

Why should I join?

Have you ever felt anxious about the themes in your fic? Did you ever stop yourself from sharing art because you're worried about backlash? Have you ever wanted feedback on your work, but were nervous no one would want to beta your monsterfucking story? We hope to eliminate those fears for good.

What should you know before joining?

↠ The server is 18+ only. Absolutely no exceptions. ↠ All members are expected to be treated with respect and kindness. We have a zero tolerance policy for harassment, hate speech, and discrimination of any kind. ↠ Rules regarding CWs have been put in place, but are not guarantees. By joining, you are assuming the majority of the responsibility for curating your experience. ↠ Precautions to ensure a SFW browsing experience have been taken, but this is ultimately an NSFW heavy server.

At the end of the day, we're a group of FFXIV nerds who want to hang out with other nerds who share similar interests! If this community sounds like something you want to be a part of, please join us. We'd love to have you!

↠ Discord Link: HERE

(please signal boost!)

[stars-and-clouds]

All of Coerthas Map (pre-calamity)

I was using this as a reference in my fanfic for Estinien’s backstory and thought it might help others too!

The picture is from this blog page. It is not mine. The blog also has some 1.0 information that might be useful for some writers.

Edit:

Map is originally by: @chrysalisthoughts

[mothwingwritings]

My mind has been assaulted with thoughts of a chief overseer era Hermes who has taken a a very strong fancy to you and is now about to make that your problem. :)

WARNINGS: Manipulative and obsessive behavior, coercion, abuse of power dynamics, yandere themes, Endwalker spoilers.

Hermes wasn’t above using your love of Meteion against you.

While your relationship with his familiar had grown increasingly strong over the past several months (making the two of you nigh inseparable), your relationship with him was doing nothing but steadily sour. Hermes used to be so close to you, sharing everything from ideas, to meals, to eventually living space. But recently you avoided him as if your life depended on it, coming up with excuse after excuse to escape his presence the instant he took a step in your direction.

It was maddening.

Where had it all gone wrong? As of late, every creation he crafted was in your honor, your existence igniting his creativity like nothing else had before. You were his muse, his confidante, his treasured friend. Slowly yet surely, you were becoming his everything- the reason he was able to pull himself out of bed each morning and push through another day, even in moments when it felt like no one on the star particularly cared about his ideals and musings. Other than Meteion, only you always listened to him. Only you ever truly understood.

You were always so vibrant, so exceptionally smart and caring that he couldn’t help but be ensnared by your many charms. Your existence had become a truly irreplaceable part of not just his life, but the daily lives of just about everyone on Elpis. You always went above and beyond to help whoever and however you could, from electing to be a late night study buddy to a colleague in need, to helping pitch in to clean entire dormitories unprompted, you were always quick to step in and assist without seeking anything in return. Your mere presence was a ray of sunshine, and in the few short years since you had begun working at the testing grounds, you had become so dear to so many- Hermes most of all.

He never wanted you to doubt this importance either, so he would exceedingly dote on you, providing you with his ceaseless support in all of your endeavors. So fervid was his cheerleading that he had garnered quite a few reprimands for showing you ‘obvious favoritism’, all of which he disregarded as rubbish. Hermes only ever awarded you the praise you deserved.

There was no way you could misconstrue his ardent feelings of adoration towards you- so why? Why were you distancing yourself now, when weeks ago the two of you were so incredibly close?

He couldn’t quiet the whirring in his head, the nagging feeling that you were slipping away from him for reasons he couldn’t comprehend. Your avoidance had become so prevalent that even matters pertaining to work seemed to perturb you, should Hermes be involved. His ideas and creations, all of which you used to dote on and swoon over when presented to you, were now regarded with hesitation and suspicion, eyed with the slightest hint of scorn.

The praise that used to gush from your lips had trickled to a standstill, uplifting and thoughtful commentary about his creative process completely quelled. His work always used to easily net him your beaming smile, but now he was lucky if he even got a nod of approval, let alone verbal acquiescence.

Unwilling to accept such lackluster interaction he began to work overtime, churning out creations with gusto he never exhibited prior. Each of his new designs was more elaborate and charming than the next, causing confidence to swell in his chest as he watched their births. He was sure that one of them would be just what was needed to reignite your feelings for him, making a promise to himself that whichever creation yielded this desired result would be honored by him eternally. He’d even grant it the distinction of sharing your name, hopeful that the delight it brought others would be sure to become your delight as well.

He dutifully summoned you the moment a new creature was born, making sure your eyes were the first to witness the latest marvel. To say Hermes was eager to see your response was an understatement, he was downright giddy over the mere prospect of your joy, pacing back and forth as he listened for the sound of your footsteps outside his door. Driven by his thirst for your approval, he yearned for the sweet glimmer that would spark in your eyes whenever you were pleased by his creations, finding solace in this small token of your delight, especially when your lips didn’t form the words.

Yet even with all the extra effort he expended, his attempts achieved nothing. In fact all the excess work garnered the opposite effect of what he desired, pushing you further away as he floundered, desperate in his attempts  to reel you back in.

It surely wasn’t the quality or the quantity of his constructs that were driving you away, and he couldn’t imagine you had suddenly grown distasteful of his work as a whole. Even while dodging her creator, you still maintained frequent contact with Meteion, taking time out of your hectic day to play with your most favorite of his familiars. Your love for her had never dwindled, and neither had your passion for creation. No, the only logical conclusion he could come to after all this was that it was he himself that you had become averse to.

And that hurt him, deeply.

In fact, it hurt him so much that Meteion couldn’t help but be caught up in his anguish, writhing and moaning in a state of addled torment each time the thought of you flitted through his mind (which was to say, constantly). Seeing the suffering he endured mirrored onto her cherubic, kind face plunged him further into despair, very quickly turning the whole situation into something unbearable.

At his tipping point, he did the only thing he could think to do. He scooped the small girl up in his arms, bee lining it to your chambers. He cared not that it was the dead of night or that this could very well just add to your distaste for him. He just needed to see you- needed the balm only you could provide.

All it took was a glance at sickly, pale Meteion to turn your initially displeased scowl into a look of utter concern.  With the ravaged girl draped limply in Hermes arms, you ushered the two of them into your room without question. You guided him to your bed with a steady hand placed on the small of his back, throwing the sheets this way and that to make a proper area for her to lay.

How wonderful it felt, having you touch him again.

A myriad of rapid questions tumbled from your lips, all of which pertained to Meteion’s poor state and what possibly could have happened to cause it. It was obvious from your frantic expulsions that you were clueless of the inner turmoil that Hermes had been suffering, your mind unable to fathom what event could have transpired on this beautiful, peaceful star to cause such a sweet being as Meteion to go into such a tizzy.

Initially, Hermes felt nothing but immense irritation over your ignorance. After all that had occurred by your hand, all the avoidance and contempt you had been directing his way, how could you not understand? How could he not be affected by your actions? How could you not see how much both of them needed you just to function, and how your self-imposed detachment from him lead to this conclusion?

Through gritted teeth, he struggled to keep his composure as he relayed the truth.

This was all your fault.

Once he started speaking, he found himself unable to stop the vitriol that bubbled up from his throat, birthed of the immense torment he had suffered through. It was almost painful, watching the way your face contorted with each admission. Witnessing you experience the realization that YOU were the cause of such anguish was akin to watching as you took repeated blows to the face, striking you with such concentrated ferocity you found it hard to maintain your balance. As your legs buckled under the weight of your transgressions, Hermes offered himself for support, helping to steady you despite the potency of his words. It was a good thing he was there to catch you, as you would have surely crumbled were he not around to embrace you.

Even overcome with anger, he treasured your proximity, savoring the weight of you in his arms as he held you close for the first time in a long time.

The exchange brought an odd sense of peace to him, unloading his concerns upon you greatly diminishing the burden he had damn near been buried beneath. Though the news caused you visible grief he felt no pity for the dissonance he had planted in your heart. While unfortunate, the guilt you were experiencing was a pain you had inflicted upon yourself, any melancholy brought on by your actions was a burden you deserved to bare. He felt no remorse over his tirade, instead feeling a sense of accomplishment as his words broke you down, leaving you with no other choice than face the bitter subjugation of the truth, understanding in full how greatly you had wronged him.

The ends justified the means.

As fat tears rolled freely down your ruddied cheeks, he was taken with how stunning you looked in the moment. Watching as you were overcome by emotions was a beautiful thing to witness. From the tremble of your shoulders, to the shaking of your legs, an overwhelming feeling of catharsis and awe flooded him as you sobbed and apologized in his arms. Even at your lowest, you were still absolutely enchanting.

Finally he was getting through to you. Finally you understood your importance to him. Finally you were realizing your true role in Elpis, nay, on this entire star.

It was to be his. Your smile, your kindness, your thoughts, your wisdom, the warmth of your touch, the sigh from your lips, your ecstasy and your pain- it was all his, and he would no longer deny his right to claim what belonged to him.

Warmth blossomed in Hermes chest the longer you clung to him. He extolled gentle whispers of reassurance while his methodical hands rubbed circular patterns against your back, the motions soothing him more than they seemed to soothe you.  Regardless, peace and balance were slowly being restored, the effects of which were beginning to manifest in Meteion as well. No longer in the grips of despair, her breathing evened as she looked over towards the two of you embracing, the sparkle returning to her clear and hopeful eyes as she took in the sight with a smile.

Everything was returning to as it should be, and this time around, he knew just the tricks to keep your heart from wandering any further.

[amoebaforce]

scions at a sleepover

it's Krile's nameday, and to celebrate, the former scions are spending the night in the Baldesion Annex. let's see what hijinks ensue. (inspired by this image of pajama Y'shtola)

Krile

truly the hostess with the most-est.

she let Tataru order the nameday cake, but Krile picks out all the snacks and beverages herself. her favorites, of course, but she makes sure everyone has something they like.

insists that everyone arrive in their pajamas. hers are yellow with little blue cats on them.

pulls out three different board games to pick from, some of them hers and some of them from her grandfather's old collection.

keeps the orchestration rolls pumping until the neighbors complain.

takes a commemorative photo and hangs it on her wall afterward.

Y'shtola

knows full well that there will be drinks and food, but still shows up with wine and chocolate bonbons to share.

wears a black satin nightgown and robe, with matching slippers and eye mask.

ropes Alisaie, Krile, Urianger, and the WoL into doing skincare masks with her, giggling the entire time.

even convinces Alphinaud to let her paint his nails. it isn't a very difficult task, all things considered.

doesn't start the pillow fight, just watches it unfold as she sips her wine.

passes out at midnight and doesn't move until dawn, missing a few late-night activities but waking up fresher than anyone.

Alisaie

starts the pillow fight.

eats half the candy and drinks 75% of the fruit juice. still high on sugar 36 hours later but has no regrets.

challenges Thancred to an arm-wrestling match, the results of which are hotly contested to this day.

spends a good portion of the night making up a very-elaborate secret handshake with the Warrior. they practice it over and over until they can do it with their eyes closed.

loudest "happy nameday" singer in the room.

her "pajamas" consist of a big t-shirt and chocobo-print shorts.

Alphinaud

wearing a classic button-up pajama set, blue with white polka dots, and bunny slippers.

says he doesn't want his nails painted, but then gets very invested in the color-selecting process and watches intently as the varnish is applied. scolds his sister when she almost smudges the finished product.

gets WAAYYY too competitive in their board game, insists they play 100% by the rules. loses to Estinien anyway.

ends up in the corner with Urianger eventually. he pulls out his drawing pad and sketches a few candid portraits: G'raha getting his hair braided, Krile blowing out the candles, the Warrior studying a hand of cards.

falls asleep first... wakes up with fake eyeglasses drawn onto his face.

Thancred

draws eyeglasses on Alphinaud's face with Krile's paints. careful fingers are quite handy (pun intended) in times like these.

absentmindedly downs an entire plate of candied chestnuts by himself while he watches Estinien cheat at their board game.

refuses a skincare treatment while Y'shtola's awake, then puts one on himself after she's fallen asleep. eye cucumbers and all.

when it gets late, he blows out most of the candles and tells a ghost story, putting on voices and using blankets and pillows as costumes.

gets admonished by Urianger because his story was "too scary".

eventually dozes off sitting upright in the corner, arms crossed like he fell asleep waiting for a wagon.

Urianger

arrives in a full old-man nightgown, gets mercilessly clowned for it by Estinien and the WoL

genuinely thinks the purpose of a sleepover is to sleep. starts drinking chamomile tea at 9 pm.

Krile requests a birthday card reading. Urianger obliges, and the next thing he knows, everyone wants one.

enjoys his facemask so much, he leaves it on for ten minutes longer than he's meant to.

does a puppet show to "make up for" Thancred's scary story, except he chooses an epic tragedy whose ending makes everyone cry.

yells at G'raha and the WoL for giggling at 5 am.

Estinien

didn't own pajamas until the day before, so he went out and bought a simple pair for the party. chooses a plain t-shirt and cotton plaid pants.

brings flowers as a gift for Krile, even though she said no gifts. grins to himself when she blushes.

wasn't paying attention when the board game rules were explained. doesn't even realize he was cheating until hours after he won.

laughs his ass off while Thancred draws on Alphinaud. suggests other "art" to add to the canvas, but Krile says one is enough, and he doesn't dare cross the nameday girl.

pounds back three bottles of wine between himself and Y'shtola. he's a pretty calm drunk, but the hangover is killer.

G'raha

he and the WoL arrive in matching attire, each carrying a plate of cookies.

lets Alisaie and Krile braid his hair into a bunch of different styles. models them for the adoring crowd.

persuaded into dancing by the WoL, surprises everyone by actually being good at it.

"judges" the much-contested arm wrestling match, but his official ruling of "too close to call" is still under question.

eats too many sweets and gives himself a stomach ache, has to bum some tea from Urianger.

is so traumatized by Thancred's terrifying tale that he can't sleep. even after the puppet show.

[anneapocalypse]

Of the Depths

Wolianger Week, Day 4/5: Memory/Beach

FFXIV. Urianger/Warrior of Light, Urianger & Moenbryda. 1280 words. Rated T. Dawntrail spoilers.

The Gleamsands of Tuliyollal were aptly named. Waves of heat already shimmered off the beach, morning sun painting the tidal pools brilliant turquoise. Urianger could readily admit that it was beautiful, not unlike Il Mheg had been beautiful. Not the lake only, deceptively glass-clear, into which he would never have ventured but for dire necessity. The whole of the Faerie Kingdom, he thought now, might be compared to the sea—subject to naught but its own whims, as treacherous as it was enchanting. For all he had enjoyed his time among the fae, and as grateful as he was for the knowledge gained there, he had never forgotten what might befall him should he run afoul of their whims, or merely cease to offer an entertaining presence.

Reckless, perhaps, to reside there so long alone, and yet never had the fae instilled in him the kind of gut-churning fear that deep water did.

[ Read the rest on AO3! ]

[laspocelliere]

Day Two: Horizon

The sun never set on the Garlean Empire.

The phrase was trite, and cheap. It did well on motivational banners and propaganda, and quite poorly when jeered between the bunks of the conscription barracks. It was an accomplishment and a threat, a brag and a death knell. From its barren throne in the middle of its frozen core, the Empire stretched so far across Eorzea that it never knew true darkness; somewhere, there was always somewhere under the Emperor’s control.

He relished it.

He loathed it.

When Emperor Solus – the Ascian Emet-Selch, Hades, the Unsundered – looked out across the empire he’d built, there was a hollowness in his eyes that betrayed the truth of his great age. The room was warm and lush, red velvets and deeply stained woods, intricately woven carpets and thick windows insulated against the cold. He was comfortable, and untouchable, and utterly disappointed. No feat, regardless of size, could make any sort of lasting difference in his expression as he stared out into the world. Nothing on this fractured Source could console him in a way that would breach the walls of his calcified heart; neither the ragged sounds of screams, nor the honeyed murmurs of compliments mattered. Not then, and certainly not anymore.

Solus was dying, and the familiarity of it grated.

Sunrises and sunsets were met with the same callous expressions, his fading eyes focused directly on the sun itself that dared to shine upon all that he had built to the benefit of their great plan. He stared into it until his eyes watered, until his vision wavered, and all was naught but bright, golden light, shimmering like a mirage in his eyes even after he looked away. In the rippling fires of burning, bright light, he could almost imagine that he remembered what her face looked like, tilted up towards the sky in the warm afternoon glow and laughing, laughing, laughing.

Damn her.

Centuries, lifetimes later, and damn her to the lowest depths for the state she’d left behind. 

Annoyed, Emet-Selch turned away from the window, the sunlight flooding light but no warmth against his stooping back. There were children dead and children alive, soldiers and followers and enemies and pawns. He had played the game to perfection, setting in motion a chessboard that he alone could control, and its end game would lead to the Rejoining that would finally restore that which they had lost.

She could answer for herself, then.

The sun never set on the Garlean Empire. The sun never touched the frozen confines of its emperor’s soul. 

But he still needed to see the sun on the backs of his eyelids – the shadows of her form – if he wanted to fall asleep.

[dalmascan-requiem]

Light's Overture: Magitek

-------

Cid makes a terrible error.

-------

Read on AO3 or keep reading after the jump

content warnings: none

Part of FFxivWrite 2024

------

The Warrior of Light's ineptitude with technology wasn't originally well-known. Well... Cid learns about it the hard way.

This is for day one's prompt for FFxivWrite 2024, Steer.

“Well, I’ll be. I don’t know how you managed to take the Garleans out while keeping the armor intact, Kris, but I thank you for it.”

Cid flashes the Warrior of Light a grin as Biggs and Wedge give a thumbs up. “Now all we need are the disguises, and you’ll be able to infiltrate the Castrum.” 

The engineer taps a finger to his lips for a moment before continuing. “Kris, you haven’t driven Magitek armor before, right? Why don’t you pilot it back to Revenant’s Toll? While Wedge will be using it at the Castrum, it’ll be helpful for you to know how to control one… in case something happens.”

Kris stares blankly at Cid for a moment. “You want me to…?” A look of excitement spreads across his face as he nods. “Okay, sure! I promise not to break it!”

Huh? What does he mean by that…? Cid can’t help but feel that he made a mistake, but Kris already climbed into the armor and is staring at the control panel.

”Hm… how do I turn it on? Ah, this looks like it—“

“Kris, it’s already on—“

Suddenly, the Magitek armor rears back at an odd angle, threatening to throw Kris out of the driver’s seat. “H-hey! What is—“ He pulls a nearby lever in shock, and the armor shoots its remaining rounds of ammunition into the skies above Mor Dhona.

Oh… Hells…

The Ironworks engineers could only look at the ensuing chaos in horror. Kris starts hitting buttons randomly in a panic, causing the armor to pitch around wildly while he struggles to stay on. After what feels like an eternity, the sound of a sharp crack fills the air as the Magitek armor finally powers down.

Cid watches the smoke rising from the armor in silence, feeling a headache coming on as Kris looks at the control panel in confusion. “Oh. Is… is it okay?”

”Kris, just… get out of the armor. Please.”

He quickly gets out of the armor and watches as Biggs and Wedge access the damage, a slight pout on his face. Well, I suppose the Warrior of Light had no need to learn how to pilot Garlean tech… 

“It’s still structurally sound… somehow.” Wedge shakes his head as he looks at one of the armor’s legs. “One of the components in this leg is busted, but with the right parts, we can fix it. I think.”

”Well, that is a blessing, at least.” Cid sighs, suddenly feeling very tired. “Let’s get this back to—“

Kris perks up as he learns the armor can be fixed. ”Oh, that's good! Do you need me to help with—“

”NO.” The voices of the trio echo in the valley, and Kris looks down at the ground, sulking at the disapproval.

I’d find that more endearing had he not damn near blown up the armor just now… “We all… have our strengths, Kris. Why don’t you secure the disguises? We’ll take care of the armor.”

Kris nods. “Alright, I’ll get it done.” Cid wasn’t sure if Kris was still upset at the incident, but when he was out of earshot, he lets out a deep breath and turned to the others.

”The Warrior of Light is never allowed inside the Ironworks.”

[lilas]

fancy

WC: 1533 | G | Aymeric x Avi’li (WoL)

Avi’li thinks about Aymeric while he lays drunk on the floor with Haurchefant. Set after Patch 2.4

Big thank you to @myreia for helping me edit this! 💕💕

—

Carefully considered words, spoken low and steady in a voice like velvet. Cheeks tinted pink from the bite of snow. Ice blue eyes framed beneath long, dark lashes. Lips upturned in a polite smile…

Avi’li hadn’t paid much attention to the meeting. The words exchanged between Aymeric and Alphinaud lost to him—something about Midgardsormr and heretics — attention captured by this man dressed in blue and gold. Funny how Aymeric fascinates him in a strange way. The man has naught but to be there and Avi’li can’t help but observe how he stands—stance poised, his arms settled across his broad chest, chapped lips parting in small exhales.

It makes sense. Aymeric is an admirable man; kind yet firm, patient but unyielding, a true leader in every sense of the word. Avi’li has every reason to want to study his example. Jacke had inspired the same feelings when they first met (his profile silhouetted, barely there smirk handsome in the street lights of Limsa) and proved to be a great mentor. Aymeric may yet fill a similar role (wind toussels his black hair, dusted with white snow).

Yet every time Aymeric meets his eyes, Avi’li feels his chest squeeze and a curious heat rise to his face. It’s the same feeling he gets when he’s squished side by side with Y’mhitra over an Allagan text, her fingers tracing her jaw while lips purse in thought; the same feeling he gets when V’kebbe stretches her arms over her head, mouth held slack after a catnap in the sun and lit in the evening glow.

It’s strange, Avi’li thinks, that these different sensations feel so similar. One born out of attraction and the other… a desire, but a desire for what? He traces his lips and imagines the shape of Aymeric’s. Do they feel rough from the cold? Soft? Avi’li’s tongue ghosts his lips. Do they taste as sweet as he smells, like maple?

Maybe it’s simply envy for Aymeric’s poise and power and countenance. Maybe—

“And what is our foremost Primal hunter doing with such a pensive expression?”

Avi’li’s fingers drop from his lips (when did he start touching them?) and his head turns towards Haurchefant. “Did I look pensive…?”

They lay together on the plush rug of Haurchefant’s private rooms in Camp Dragonhead, several hours after Aymeric bid farewell and returned to Ishgard with his retinue. Flames lick out from the fireplace, heat sinking into stone and blanketing the room in a pleasant warmth. Two goblets sit by their heads, and a wine bottle is precariously situated against Haurchefant’s bent leg.

“You did, and I do not think the wine is solely to blame for such a far away look.” Haurchefant moves his leg, knocking into the wine. He startles and darts for the bottleneck, fumbling a bit before he holds it secure and moves it safely to another spot on the floor. Sighing with relief, he adjusts himself so he rests on his side, stretched out parallel to Avi’li and smiling. “Pray allow me to be privy to your thoughts?”

Avi’li answers with a shrug. “Thinking about Aymeric.”

“The Lord Commander?” Haurchefant raises an eyebrow. “What about him?”

“Ay’anno, just thinkin’ about him.”

“Ah, requested another meeting did he?”

“Wouldn’t you be the one to know that?”

Haurchefant sighs, dramatically wistful. “Unfortunately I am not someone he discloses clandestine rendezvous in the moonlight to.”

Avi’li scoffs, “Nothing clandestine is happening. I just… ” he waves his hand above their heads, fingers spread, “…admire him.”

“I see.”

“He’s an interesting man. Smart and tall and collected. That stuff.”

“As you say….”

Avi’li frowns at the suspicious tone and rolls onto his side to properly face Haurchefant. His friend is trying and horrifically failing at hiding a crooked grin. “What?”

“What about?”

“Why’re you smiling like a spriggan?”

“Like a spriggan? Are you implying my teeth are anything similar to a creature who gnaws on rocks for a living?”

“I’m implying you look like a spriggan who just found a crystal horde. Why?”

“Only for the reason that your fancy for Ser Aymeric is quite adorable.”

Avi’li blinks. “My fancy?”

“Mhm.” Haurchefant’s head and shoulders relax back into the rug. He is looking much too smug for Avi’li’s liking. “Honestly, I should have known when you were so blatantly staring at him during your introductory meeting.”

“I was not blatantly—“

“Then you were staring discreetly?”

“I wasn’t staring at all!” Avi’li rolls onto his back, arms folded tightly across his chest. It’s too warm in the room now. The combination of fire and wine makes his head swim. “It’s bloody freezing here.” Aymeric sits opposite him across the table, haloed by the soft glow of fire. “I wanted to get closer to the fire…”

The words trail off. A soft frown pinches Avi’li’s brow, doubt in his own words. The fire had been so far from his mind.

Haurchefant sucks his teeth, unconvinced. He lazily reaches out and tugs a stray lock of Avi’li’s silvery hair. “No one would blame you for it, you know,” he says as Avi’li bats his hand away. “Ser Aymeric is a handsome man, and a good quarter of knights could admit to feeling the same.”

“Haurchefant, I have a girlfriend.” Y’mhitra. Beautiful, intelligent Y’mhitra with an older, scarier sister. Haurchefant scoffs.

“It cannot be considered unfaithful for merely being attracted to someone else besides your partner. Then everyone would commit infidelity.”

I guess that’s true, Avi’li thinks. Dating someone has never kept his eyes from wandering, albeit things are different with Mhitra. Exclusive. Is it really okay for him to feel this way? Is it really made better if so many others feel the same?

Wait, Avi’li squints at Haurchefant. “A quarter of knights… are you attracted to Aymeric?”

Haurchefant coughs uncomfortably. Sitting up, he preoccupies himself with the goblets and wine. He tops their drinks off, finishing the bottle. All the while, Avi’li watches him with increasing speculation.

Finally, as he hands Avi’li a cup, Haurchefant admits, “I was, yes. For a short time, just in passing, really.” He observes his drink, lifts it high, watches the light glint off the polished bronze. “We never had much reason to speak to each other until we came into our respective positions.”

“So you never fucked?”

Haurchefant barks out a laugh. “No! Could you imagine? Mm, actually I can imagine—“ he shakes his head—“But we do have a bit of a shared history with the same man.” His thumb taps against his goblet. “Training can be an insular time for all of us.”

Avi’li’s frowns and takes a sip of wine. “And how did you know you were crushing? That you weren’t just… admiring?”

“Crushing?”

“Fancying.”

“Avi’li, you’ve been with others before, correct? Romantically?” Avi’li arcs an eyebrow, staring. “Ah.” Haurchefant waves a hand. “Quite right and anyone besides your dear Y’mhitra?”

“Yes…”

Haurchefant can’t help the soft laugh at his friend’s wary tone. “And when you are… were around them, ‘admiring’ them as you say, how do you feel?”

“Like my…” Avi’li’s brows furrows, eyes blinking slowly. “…chest was being squeezed…”

Y’mhitra, bathed in the glow of her lamplight and Avi’li can’t help but lean forward and kiss her. When V’kebbe bites into a sandwich with all the bliss in the world and Avi’li wonders about her teeth on his skin. How Jacke’s fingers slide down the length of a knife and—

He gapes. “Did I fucking have a crush on Jacke?”

“Language, my good sir,” Haurchefant tsks. “And who in the seven hells is Jacke, pray tell? I thought we were talking about Ser Aymeric?”

—when Aymeric meets his eyes across the oak table with a smile and Avi’li must look away, heat in his chest.

“Fuck. I think I like Aymeric.”

“You do not say.”

“In the fancying way.”

“In all honesty, I am deeply surprised you were not already aware.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Avi’li releases a wistful sigh, eyes fixed to the wooden beams above their heads, expression wondrous. “I’ve never thought of a man in this way before. What do I even do?”

A moment of comfortable quiet envelopes them. Haurchefant sits and observes Avi’li’s silent musings, watching the emotion shift so openly in his face. Finally, he sets the goblet down, moves a touch closer to his friend and lays beside him, eyes cast up to the ceiling.

“You would not court two women the same way, would you?”

“No.”

“And you would not court anyone without discussing it with Y’mhitra first?”

“Of course not.”

Haurchefant nudges his side lightly with an elbow. “Then this need not be any different. Every person is unique in how you approach them for romance and intimacy. You need not act on it at all if you do not wish it. Do not overthink this simply because of someone’s gender. Instead, I encourage you to enjoy how much love this world has to offer us.”

Avi’li chuckles warmly. “Such a poet.”

“Of course, any self respecting Ishgardian knight is such.”

“Hm.” A pause. Then— “Do you think he knows?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“What? No way.”

“My dearest friend, you are not subtle at all.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

[pillowfriendly]

WAUUUUGHHH ITS DONE!!! go read it. normal chapter that doesn't bite, he's friendly ok?

[veliara]

Junelezen2024 Day 10 - Shrine

"Dear child, many people mistake us for someone we're not."

"I am responsible for the people of this land. For their lives, their happiness and well-being. They call me the interpreter of the Will of the Halone. But none of them know that there is no Will. Only a tired old man who does everything he can to make sure his people live another day." He shook his head tiredly. "And our Goddess, while sitting on her throne in the ice halls just silently watches us. As our loved ones perish." The old elezen rubbed his face and looked up to the heavens. "I wonder if she knows how desperate I am sometimes." After a few moments of silence, the priest sighed heavily.

"If anyone were to come and offer me a way to end this war, I`d take it."

P.S. I'm so glad Aymeric didn't inherit his nose from Thordan.

[myreia]

Desiderium

CHAPTER THREE: HAUNT

Chapter Rating: Mature (full story Explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Thancred Waters Pairings: Aureia/Thancred Chapter Words: 2,682 Notes: Set during early Endwalker, spoilers for the start of the expac. Summary: After arriving in Old Sharlayan, Aureia wants to see Thancred’s old haunts. He could not be happier to oblige, but his thoughts are occupied by something else entirely. Prompt: ii. hands | blush Chapters: one • two • three • four • five Read on AO3

Thancred picks up the pace as he heads up a steep incline. The Baldesion Annex rises at the top, its elegant windows alight with a golden glow. If the others have returned, there’s no sign—its doors are silent, no residents entering or exiting. For a moment she thinks he’s headed for the Annex itself, but then he turns sharply to the left and walks right past it.

“Where are we going?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingertips brush her earrings; the constellation of silver rings in her upper ears are cold, a raw sting against her flesh. She hates removing her piercings, but she should do it before she regrets it.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes alight with mischief, his hand still in hers. “To say would ruin the surprise, fair lady,” he says, pulling her down a narrow path between buildings.

“Don’t ‘fair lady’ me, we’re married.”

“All the more reason to, no?”

“You know I don’t like pet names.”

“As you say, Aur.”

“That’s a nickname.”

“I’m certain that though it is lost on me, the difference is, indeed, significant.”

“If you keep teasing me like this I will turn around and go right back to the Annex and leave you on your own to—”

Aureia whoops in surprise, a short, sharp gasp escaping her as he suddenly shoves her off the path and into an alcove. He gives her no time to breathe, no time to take stock of their surroundings—his mouth is on hers and up is down and down is up, and she is lost in the swift spontaneity of it all. She clings to him, her hands tangled in his hair, her back sliding against smooth marble as he pushes her against the wall. He kisses her—hot and open and careless in his rush, easily encouraging her to part her lips for him.

Mirth bubbles in the back of her throat and she trembles, laughing as she kisses him back. He grunts, seeking more—demanding more—his body pressed to hers, a hand at her waist, the other gripping the fabric of her shirt. He tugs the hem free from her trousers.

Her heart pounds. He has no qualms here in the dim light of this out-of-the-way nook, this moment of passion slipped easily between two buildings like a bookmark between the pages. Her thoughts wander distractedly, floating away even as he kisses her again, fervent and urgent, his overwhelming need for her breaking free. Long days of even longer study must lead to finding creative ways of unwinding. She can imagine more than a few lustful and dissatisfied Studium students sneaking off to alcoves like this one.

Did he once, in his youth? A self-proclaimed bard, a rogue, hopelessly pursuing anyone who caught his eye with half-baked song and poetry. Some would have fallen for the act. He has his charms, after all. And his desires.  

Her hand slips from his hair and falls to the side, palm against the wall, her fingers brushing the ivy. “Thancred,” she murmurs.

He draws back, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers.

“Please tell me your haunt of choice has a little more character than the four fulms between two walls?”

Thancred shakes with laughter, grimacing as he tries to hold it back, and rests his forehead against hers. “The things you think of sometimes, Aureia, I swear…”

The enchantment in his voice makes her heart sing.

“Well?” she replies, arching an eyebrow.

He chuckles and takes her face in his hands, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “A little to your left and up. See if you can find it.”

She frowns. Her fingers comb through the ivy, seeking, searching—and then finally slide across the fine grooves that demarcate a door or opening of some kind. She cocks her head, perplexed, and he flashes her a grin. Reaching over, he pulls ivy out of the way and rams his hand against the wall. Stone scrapes against stone and the wall rotates inwards, revealing a passage beyond.

Aureia shoots him a sideways look.

“You wanted to open that while you were kissing me, didn’t you?”

“Me? Such a thought would never occur to me.”

“Overdramatic fool.”

Thancred laughs. Brushing hair from his forehead, he nods to the passage behind her and gestures for her to go ahead. Planting a swift kiss on his cheek, she turns her back on him and slips inside, eyes wide and heart alight with curiosity.

To her surprise there is nothing in the passage—a few old boxes, tucked away in a corner and forgotten years ago, a hefty wood ladder with broken rungs, worn-out tables and chairs stacked together. Her best guess is that they are rejects from the Studium, furniture that has seen more than their fair share of students and have since been retired to rot. She finds a flight of stairs a few paces from the threshold, spiralling upwards at a steep angle. A service staircase of some kind, judging from how tight it is. They must be in one of those spires that sprout off the sides of some Sharlayan buildings. She noted a number of them when their ship pulled into the harbour this morning; now she’s going to find out what is at the top.

She sets foot on the bottom step and begins the climb. The light is soft and dim, spilling in through the large greenish-blue windows that line the stairwell. The aura tinges the worn marble steps—typical for Sharlayan buildings, yet she finds it reminiscent of the northern lights. Her heart quickens with each step, following it round and round, passing arched windows as she ascends. It isn’t long before her calves are aching, her breath comes in pants, and sweat drips down the back of her neck.

“What is this place?” Aureia asks, her voice echoing strangely in the tight yet empty space.

“Nothing of import,” Thancred replies. “At least to Sharlayans. A place to eat and study and write reports—and to catch a wink or two if time allows. There are plenty more of those nap rooms G’raha is so fond on the first and second floors.”

“Is that where we’re headed? For a nap room?”

“Heavens, no. Do you doubt my taste in haunts so much?”

“For you, now? Never.” She draws abruptly to a stop and glances over her shoulder at him. “For you in the past? Hm. Well. That’s quite a different question altogether, don’t you think?”

He sighs wearily. “You never get tired of this, do you?”

She flashes him a grin and spins around, ignoring the ache in her legs as she takes the steps two at a time. A moment or two later, she reaches the top of the stairs and bursts through the threshold. She slows to a stop, mouth open in wonder, and surveys the little chamber.

Hazy coloured light streams in through the windows on all four walls, dancing lazily across the marble floor. It has been some time since anyone has been up here, judging from the dust. What few furniture pieces have been collected here are covered in large swathes of protective white cloth. A bookcase stands in a corner, its tomes worn and their spines broken, the titles faded with age. Some do not even have titles, as far as she can tell; they may very well be journals. Ivy creeps in through the cracks in the stonework, spreading across the inner walls like cobwebs and dangling from the ceiling. How it survives here—or why no one has cleaned it up—she will never know. 

“It has been many a year since I’ve been here,” Thancred calls as he reaches the threshold. “And here I thought it may have changed. Perhaps I should consider myself a fool for thinking so.”

She passes through the chamber, the heels of her boots echoing against the floor. Click. Clack. Click. For a room so small, the sound is so vast. “Did you come here often?” she asks.

“Aye. I did say it was one of my haunts, did I not?”

“What did you come here for?”

“To think, to sleep.” He exhales a long sigh and takes up position in a corner, where the windowed walls meet a slim line of marble. He crosses his arms. “Perchance to dream, even. In reality, Aureia, this was an escape. From my master, from my mentor, from Fourchenault, from the stressors imposed upon a street urchin who had known nothing better. From the sights and sounds of the city. A place where I could take vigil on my own terms.”   

She nods and casts and eye out of the nearest window, peering through the green-blue and gold glass to observe the city below. With all four walls windowed in like this, there is an excellent view of all the major landmarks—the Studium from one side, the Rostra from another, the Noumenon and Scholar’s Harbour. She can’t help but notice that the furniture has been shoved aside in such a way that Thaliak’s statue is easily visible—and to the churning waters of the sea beyond it.

A reminder, perhaps. Of the meaning behind the surname Louisoix gifted him.

Her heart pangs. Despite this tower’s central location and its view of the city, she’s struck by how lonely it is. To be surrounded by so many people, and yet…

Aureia loops a long lock of loose hair behind her ear and runs her fingers over a white sheet. A chair beneath squeaks, its legs unstable. She frowns, shrugging out of her jacket, and throws it over the back. “Did others ever come here with you?”

The question is pointed, the double-meaning clear. She doesn’t know why she asked it—curiosity, perhaps, about who he was in his youth.

He makes a face. “I… why do you want to know about that? Must we go through my whole sordid history?”

“You know I don’t think about it that way.”

“Then you are a rare specimen in that regard.”

“I don’t ask because I’m jealous. I ask because I know so little of your time in Sharlayan. You never speak of it, but it is as much a part of you as anything else. You don’t have to hide it. You don’t have to put up some pretense that I’m the only person who ever mattered in your life.”

He falls silent, his expression unreadable. She pauses, cursing inwardly—was she insensitive for phrasing it as such? Likely. This wouldn’t be the first time she put her foot in her mouth. There have been many others in his life, for good or for ill. Some who came before her, and others who came after. He seems embarrassed—hesitant, even—to admit it front of her. But the truth of the matter is that she doesn’t mind the acknowledgement; if anything she prefers it.

“You had a life before me, Thancred,” she says quietly. “Just as I had one before you.”

He raises his head, his gaze finding hers. She pauses, heart thundering in her chest, uncertain what to say next. She has never broached the topic with him—not really—but she has sometimes wondered how awkward she has made his life. Unlike him, her sexual history is short and brief, and he is already too familiar with it. How strange have Alliance meetings become for him, knowing that Aymeric will always be in attendance? Or visits to Ala Mhigo, where there is always a chance of running into Fordola? To say nothing of Sidurgu, who is still very dear to her, with whom she shares a deeply personal connection she cannot explain, and thoughts she cannot easily express to the Scions. Not even her closest friends. Not even her husband.  

For him to know the others who have known her intimately… It’s not easily accepted.

She knows what this is like too well. She counts Hilda among her closest friends, and she has not forgotten the relationship that sparked between her and Thancred. Or the hurt it caused her and how their actions pushed her towards Aymeric.

All in the past now…  

There is no space for jealousy.

“Then yes,” he says finally, meeting her gaze. “I have had other lovers, and some of them have been here. Does that sate your curiosity?”

He pushes off the wall, the air prickling the back of her neck as he strides past her. His brow is furrowed, his mouth tight, all sense of the intense confidence and certainty he has before all but evaporated. He places a hand on what she suspects is a desk, his fingers twisting the white cover.

Aureia presses a hand to her chest, toying with her necklace. A simple silver chain, thin and delicate—a gift from Ryne and Gaia. “I’m sorry,” she says, regret twisting in the pit of her stomach. She should have left it alone. As with many things, she has ruined this by speaking out of turn. “I didn’t mean to push. Are you all right?”

He doesn’t answer. He simply stands—observing with the room with equal parts reverence and melancholy, as if mourning something he lost long ago. “Aye,” he says finally. “I am. I merely thought…”

She swallows the lump in her throat. She waits, her dark hair shining in a swath of blue-green and sliver light.

“This tower was disused for years by the time I stumbled upon it,” Thancred says finally. “A part of me hoped that others would find it, too. That it would have been re-purposed somehow. That it has not leaves me questioning… either my master did not want others to interfere out of sentimentality, or no one else has thought to come this way.”

She takes a step towards him. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“No. I suppose it is not. I simply hoped that…”

He trails off.

She takes another step. “Home is not often how you remember it.”

His grip relaxes and he releases the cloth. Disturbed by his touch, it slithers to the floor, dragged down by the unstoppable pull of gravity. The desk beneath it is strong and sturdy, its surface still covered with brittle journals and yellowed papers. Was he the last to leave them here? Or someone else?

“It’s been over twenty years, Aureia,” he says, his voice cracking. “I was seventeen when I left for Ul’dah, when I failed to save Minfilia’s father. The age Ryne is now. Too young to be making such difficult decisions.”

“Aye,” she echoes. “Too young.”

He meets her gaze. “Do you remember where you were when you were seventeen?”

“Yes. Proving my worth to Garlean legatuses in a trial by combat. Proving the strength of my abilities to a certain crown prince.” She dares not breath Zenos’ name. Not here. Not now. “My mother staked not just the lives of my brother and myself on it, but her and my father’s as well.”

Her words are not bitter. She has no bitterness left to give. Kallias and Ariv may be alive somewhere in Garlemald, but Elgara’s death in Bozja closed the chapter on her birth family forever.

He pauses. “Too young,” he murmurs.

Aureia takes one last step, closing the distance between them. She places her palm against the back of his hand, her fingers entwining with his. He doesn’t flinch or move away. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she says. “Do you want to leave? We can head back to the Annex now, I’m sure the others will be waiting for us.”

He doesn’t answer. The chamber is silent, its stale air somehow both warm and cool, the light a haze, the distant sounds of the city little more than a distant hum. Somewhere, there is a trickle of water. Somewhere, a tick of a chronometer. Below, above, she does not know.

His hand grips hers.

“Then let them wait,” Thancred says roughly and pulls her into him.

[landshorizon]

(Count)Down to Dawntrail // Day Two - Heavensward

"I... I couldn't save him. Why couldn't I save him?"

Edvard fell to the floor, onto his knees, his sollerets scraping against the marble flooring of the Chancel.

"Why..."

His stomach lurched as he brought up the contents of it. He could smell Haurchefant's blood still on his gauntlets, and sprayed up the front of his curiass, along with the scent of incense and something like ozone.

It was overwhelming in the worst of ways.

The delayed shock of Haurchefant's passing hadn't come with a bang, but with a whimper. Ed didn't know if he wanted to continue to fight. He'd lost two lovers. Two. In the space of a scant year, two lovers lost to the lifestream...

First it had been G'raha, and his immense self-sacrifice at the Crystal Tower, sealing himself away. And now Haurchefant...

He should've been able to save him.

He should have seen it coming, should've been the one to take the bolt through his stomach. It should be Haurchefant there, still; grieving maybe, for the loss of Edvard, but hale and hearty and breathing.

Eddie had kept waiting for Haurchefant to breathe. Even as he lay unmoving, Ed had summoned magics just barely within reach to try and save him, pouring what little knowledge of Conjury he had into spell after spell after spell, Cure after Cure after Cure.

Futile. It was all futile.

He had known such deep, profound loss already on this path... Couldn't the universe have given him a happy-ever-after, when the battles were over with? Couldn't Hydaelyn have given him this mercy?

Ed spat onto the floor and rose to his feet, shaky, barely able to stand. The lone Warrior of Light. Destined to be alone forever, he felt...

Everything and everyone he touched crumbled and fell away, after all.

[malewifelizard]

FFXIVWRITE2024 Day 1 - Steer

One can always traverse the Shaaloani desert by foot, it's not the most practical way of travel and there is a preferable way to travel for a group. Erenville thought it would make for a nice journey, riding rroneek. But maybe he should consider how well the others may take to the gentle beast.

[azems-familiar]

"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.

[yukiotacon]

Feral Haurchefant hcs

Practically every time he sees your wol he wants them bad

His affection for them is at a 100 ,but when your wol is close it goes into a 1000

Has to pinch himself trying his best to control himself

Hahaha hahaha yeah it doesn't last long

Will Flirt so hard like his life depended on it

Will try to find any opportunity to flex infront of your wol

Did you hear? Lord Haurchefant is doing shirtless sit ups/ Squats/ Push ups by the Aetherite

Just telling you now if your wol showed any interest in Haurchefant. Two things are guaranteed

One, your wol is going to have a very affection partner

Two, they are going to have a very naked and very aroused Partner waiting for them in their room in camp dragon head

[laspocelliere]

Day One: Steer

“A moment, Lord Commander.”

The Archbishop sat in his imposing seat, features cut sharp in unflinching light. His hands were gnarled where they gripped his staff, and his back was gracelessly curled forwards and away from the rigid straight back of his intricately carved chair. Still, his eyes were bright, and alive, and studying the young knight in front of him with a sharpness that defied his age and spoke only to his experience. His time as Archbishop, a knight; all that came before, and all that would come after.

Before him, Aymeric stood straight shouldered and wary. It was a familiar stance to him, one that never failed to make him feel small and insignificant, regardless of what accomplishments he could now put to his name. In an instant, standing alone before the holy seat of the Archbishop, he was a schoolboy again, ready for his reprimand after stealing strawberries and cream from the summer kitchens.

Summer was a distant memory. Guilt, meanwhile, lingered.

“I want to speak to you,” the Archbishop continued, his worn hands tightening thoughtfully on the decorative staff he held. “Alone.”

Behind where Aymeric stood, the Heavens’ Ward had already left the cavernous room, shoulders and faces set hard with the heavy mantles bestowed upon them by their Archbishop. They had gleamed, bright and clean in the shining winter light, assembled around the table with strong, well-worn purpose. It took a not insignificant amount of Aymeric’s resolve to hold onto that same feeling, to remind himself that he had every right to be there that they did. Remembering, like a mantra, the blood and toil it had taken to claw his way into his current position, regardless of his birth, or the rumours there within. He had never been able to stand together with his fellow knights – not really – and so he stopped trying. He stood apart, untouchable and climbing, setting himself intentionally separate so that no one could again claim that he didn’t fit. Pulling the title of Lord Commander around him like a mantle, his solitude was intentional, and purposeful.

Yet under the Archbishop’s ice blue eyes, a needling discomfort worried somewhere behind his ribs, insistent and sharp for its unfamiliar newness. 

How quickly would you find me wanting, if you knew how small I become in his gaze?

Would it change anything?

Will it change everything?

Her eyes – sharp, and calculating, and endless, and sad, and beautiful, beautiful, beautiful – haunted him, even as he stood still and silent, hand on his blade, waiting for instruction.

The Archbishop waited, examining him in silence before letting out a long, heavy sigh. 

Below, Aymeric’s spine snapped that much more into place, every vertebrae aching under the weight. Found wanting once more.

“You hold a unique position within Ishgard’s walls, my son,” the elderly patriarch began, his expression unreadable in its calm conviction. “As Lord Commander, you are tasked with steering her people and her military might forwards towards victory and prosperity. The Dravarian conflict grows bloodier by the day, and you have been elevated to your place in order to protect the peace and continued future of our holy order, and our gods-ordained purpose.”

With one hand, the Archbishop tilted his heavy staff lightly in Aymeric’s direction. “That ring you wear is not a mere ceremony, nor symbol. It is a reminder of your duty to your people, and your country.”

When Aymeric looked up, the Archbishop’s mouth was pressed into a firm, knowing line. “Do not,” the elderly leader said, his voice low and final in the echoing chamber, “let your head be turned away from that duty. Regardless of the form that distraction may take.”

Out in the snow-swept city, streets and spires away, the Warrior of Light turned to look towards the looming cathedral of the Pillars above, as though her name had been whispered in the wind.