#FFXIV Fanfic

[stars-and-clouds]

You know what makes Aymeric and Haurchefant special?

Despite having every reason to be cold, vengeful, mean and selfish people-being bastards, living in a house they weren't born to, growing up in an environment as hostile as Ishgard, having inherent beliefs different to everyone around them- they still chose to be kind.

I think it takes something away from them if we assume they were simply born with a kinder deposition.

Haurchefant was bullied by all of Ishgard, including his step mother, for being a Greystone. Aymeric was adopted and has really low self esteem because he probably grew up hearing how ill deserving he is of everything he got by being adopted into house Borel. Yet they both made a conscious choice to be better. They wanted to treat others the way they wanted to be treated themselves. They wanted to love and invite change when Ishgard taught hate and stagnation.

This is why the warrior of light would've failed in doing everything they did if it wasn't for Haurchefant and Aymeric. How many warriors of light have tried helping Ishgard before us? Over hundreds of years of war, this revolution can't have been the only one. Yet it was during our lifetime that the stars aligned perfectly to have Haurchefant aid us and Aymeric lead us into changing Ishgard for the better and bring about peace.

Without Haurchefant, we'd have ended up in prison and possibly executed (he saves us again by taking a blow meant for us) and we wouldn't have been let into Ishgard. And without Aymeric's trust over his best friend he wouldn't have let us go to Dravania and afterwards, invite the reality shattering truth about his ancestors' actions and usher Ishgard to peace and unity.

Everyone hails the Warrior of Light as the antithesis to bad with absolute power. That, if they're there, everything is solved. But without Haurchefants and Aymerics, the Warrior of Light would be nothing and would not be able to solve half the problems they have solved.

[asha-mage]

Could you do a snippet of Asahi from FFXIV for the prompt "voice"?

[Send me a fandom, character, or pairing and a one word prompt and I'll write a quick drabble for you!]

(CW: Child-abuse, victim blaming and general Garlean-Doma cultural problems.)

There are certain things that are not said in the Naeuri household.

Asahi's parents are very efficient at teaching him this lesson, without ever needing to put it into so many words. 'No' is the biggest taboo. His parents might occasionally phrase things as questions or requests, but the acceptable answer is always clear cut and obvious: ‘yes’, ‘at once’, ‘of course father’, ‘right away mother’. A negative answer is never expected or acceptable, even to rhetorical questions. If it ever seems like what they want is no, then what they really want is for him to stay quiet and express nothing.

On the rare occasion they actually want to know something specific- usually how his lessons on imperial etiquette or the Garlean tongue are going- they want a clean, concise report of what he has learned.

He’s long since mastered the art of giving his answers in a cool monotone, keeping a tight clamp on his emotions to prevent disappointment or excitement from showing. The best-case scenario is a sharp word and a reminder to stay on topic, the worst case well…

It had only needed to come to that once or twice.

Asahi knows that his opinions and feelings are of no consequence. His parents are only interested in his progress and the value it represents. His mother is tight fisted with their meager gil and every coin they pay to his tutor is spent with the hope of one day being repaid. Their questions are not made with the interest of parents in their son’s education, but stakeholders checking on an investment. Sentiment is for other people. People who don’t intend to rise above their circumstances.

Asahi’s parents are very aware of what they want- both from him and the world- and remarkably clear headed about how to get it. Asahi will learn to speak perfect Garlean, and master the manners and mores of the Empire. He will attend the military academy and find service with a high ranking legateus. He will make good connections and marry well. His parents will have comfort and wealth and never again have to toil in the dirt and crack their own fingernails. Anything that contradicts this plan is not to be considered or spoken of. To speak something is to threaten to make it real in their eyes- so doubt, reservation, and contradiction are ruthlessly and efficiently stamped out. And if it can not be stamped out, it is ignored.

It is this blindness that Asahi learns to manipulate early and often. If he leaves out a difficulty he is having in his lessons, or fails to bring up how a Garlean solider spat on him and called him a ‘filthy black eye’ then his parents will never learn of it on their own. They don’t want him to be struggling and so will accept his reports of success without question. As long as he keeps a tight grip on his emotions and tells them what they wish to hear, he has nothing to be afraid of.

It's something Yotsuyu has never managed to figure out. Yotsuyu presumes that, because something is true or right that it should matter. Yotsuyu thinks that because her anger is righteous, it deserves to be given voice, that because their situation is unjust and cruel, that is reason enough to speak about it. Her stubborn refusal to master her anger and outrage is the reason she ends sobbing and carrying heavy pails of water on a back striped with bloody welts so often, or else sent to the dark of the barn without supper or a blanket.

It’s her own fault, Asahi tells himself resolutely and frequently, every time mother seizes Yotsuyu by the hair or father hurtles a dish in her direction. It is not as if they have been unclear about the rules of the game with either of them. She acts as if her refusal to play at all is somehow noble. As if acknowledging that it’s wrong, all of it- the Empire, their parents, their society- will somehow change anything.

But Asahi knows better. Giving voice to such things is a useless exercise. The only way to change things is with power, and the only path to power is to play the game.

He tells her that one night as he’s helping clean and dress the cuts along her back and she laughs at him.

“You think if you get enough head pats and good marks and smiles you’ll have power?” She says through choked, ugly tears. “Real power? That if you bow and scrape and please enough, that it will matter somehow?”

Anger surges in him and he clamps it down before he can do more then press down the cloth a little to hard. Still Yotsuyu hisses and throws him a glare.

“I think it’s better then giving up.” He says quietly, instead of throwing down the cloth the way he wants too. He knows Yotsuyu hates him. He hates her a little bit too, for the strange cold feeling that blooms in his chest every time he has to watch her beaten, and for the voice that whispers do something do something do something in the back of his mind, even though there is nothing he can do.

Yotsuyu tries to scrub some of her tears away, but all she succeeds in doing is pushing the wet streaks of dirt around her cheek. “That’s exactly what you’ve done. I’m still fighting, but you…you refuse to admit theirs even a problem.”

Asahi clenches his fist. “You call this fighting?” He snaps, then forces a breath through his clenched teeth, and makes his shoulders relax. “Yotsuyu, please if you would just-“

“No.” She says firmly. “Never.”

“If you don’t bend they will keep going until you break.” He says, closing his eyes tight and only opening them when he’s sure that no tears will come out. He’s gotten very good at doing that over the years. When he does Yotsuyu has turned around to stare at him. Her eyes are cold and dark, like the ocean on a stormy night.

“Then I will break.” She says quietly. “But at least I’ll be able to live with myself till then. Will you?”

Asahi hates her so much in that moment. He hates the unspoken accusation of cowardice, of weakness. He hates that he knows it’s true.

He wants to tell her that he loves her, that’s she’s the only person who has ever understood him. That she’s wrong, that it isn’t her against him and their parents, but that it’s him and her together against their parents. He wants to tell her that he hates seeing her suffer and he just wants it to stop. He wants to tell her that he will find a way to make this right.

But there isn’t a point. She wont believe him, and he’s learned long ago that giving voice to something, even it’s true, is useless.

So instead, he lays the cloth aside and stands and says. “At least I will still be alive to regret.”

And then he leaves.

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

ao3 | tumblr tag | my writing

short stories include spoilers from a realm reborn to endwalker. all stories are set in aureia malathar's canon. [❤] = fave entry/fic that I am proud of [g] = general (all audiences), [t] = teen (some language, more difficult themes), [m] = mature (implied sex, sensuality, strong language, and/or violence), [e] = explicit (mature themes, explicit sex scenes)

Week I

— 01. Steer | [G] Ryne x Gaia | 943 words — 02. Horizon | [G] Alisaie x Tesleen | 2298 words [❤] — 03. Tempest | [M] Sadu x Y'shtola | 1489 words — 04. Reticent | [G] Minfilia x Aureia | 964 words — 05. Stamp | [T] Fordola x Aureia | 1945 words [❤] — 06. Halcyon | [E] Igeyorhm x Iphigeneia (Azem) | 5424 words — 07. Morsel | [G] Alisaie x Tesleen | 967 words

Week II

— 08. Collapse [FREE DAY] | [T] Thancred POV | 1561 words — 09. Lend an Ear | [T] Aymeric x Aureia | 1617 words — 10. Stable | [T] Sidurgu x Aureia, Rielle | 2086 words [❤] — 11. Surrogate | [E] Thancred x Hilda | 2306 words [❤] — 12. Quarry | [G] Thancred & Ryne | 1408 words [❤] — 13. Butte | [T] Aureia & Avi'li | 820 words — 14. Telling | [T] Aymeric & Artoirel | 1600 words

Week III

— 15. Replacement [FREE DAY] | [G] Emet-Selch POV | 973 words — 16. Third-rate | [G] Lyse & Fordola | 1864 words [❤] — 17. Sally | [T] Rielle POV | 2200 words [❤] — 18. Hackneyed | [G] Thancred x Aureia | 1868 words — 19. Taken | [G] Thancred x Aureia | 1219 words — 20. Duel | [G] Alisaie & Aureia | 2189 words — 21. Shade | [M] Sidurgu x Aureia | 2015 words [❤]

Week IV

— 22. Threshold [FREE DAY] | [M] Aymeric x Aureia | 1273 words [❤] — 23. On Cloud Nine | [E] Aymeric x Aureia | 2504 words — 24. Bar | [E] Fordola x Aureia | 1522 words [❤] — 25. Perpetuity | [T] Hythlodaeus & Iphigeneia (Azem) | 1589 words — 26. Zip | [G] Thancred POV | 1294 words — 27. Memory | [T] Meteion & Aureia | 2135 words [❤] — 28. Deleterious | [G] Venat & Iphigeneia (Azem) | 1409 words — 29. Evaporate | [E] Thancred x Aureia | 2010 words — 30. Two Heads Are Better Than One | [M] Sidurgu x Aureia | 2795 words

[idalenn]

Day 4 - Reticent

Worqor Zormor - Lillian and Alisaie switch up the plan to harry the Second Promise. (7.0)

Major characters: Warrior of Light, Thancred, Urianger

Full text below the cut

Quick as a lie, Lillian’s hand snapped away from her forehead and a golden cord yanked Alisaie whole into her grip.

“We’re changing the plan,” Lillian growled, twisting the younger girl around to get at the leather tube slung across her back. “Alisaie, you and Krile stay with Wuk Lamat, and I’ll head off the others at the pass instead.”

“What’s come over you,” the girl cried. “So. Suddenly?” Wrenching with all force in her Elezen frame, she tried to free herself to no avail. Lillian’s arms were muscle woven with steel.

“Thancred got the best of us. Heard all we – quit moving – intended. They’ll expect your harassment up ahead.” Her deft fingers slid around the tube’s hooks, undoing them one after another. So much easier without gloves, she thought. In short order the map was flapping in her hand. “But not mine.” Krile nodded, clarity writ plain on her face.

“The Echo. We’ll leave this to you, then.” She knocked their Hrothgar claimant across one hand with the dripping end of her brush. “Worqor Zormor awaits us, Third Promise. Our friend will rejoin us once she’s finished.”

Confusion reigned over Wuk Lamat’s own expression. “Does anyone care to enlighten me on this?”

“It must needs be later, I’m afraid. Just run for now. I’ll do my best to inform you of the basics on the way.”

“So it goes.” Wuk Lamat’s shoulders slipped with a heavy sigh. Beyond a protesting Alisaie, Lillian hurriedly crumpled the map into a long green pocket of her cape. “I bring you into my circle for help and you look to escape me at the first chance. Sometimes I think you just can’t toler-AH–” Wind took the rest of her words, loose earth and shards of rock showering the remaining party as Lillian raced off with its power at her back, yalms melting away with each stride.

 Up the path she went dodging around fallen stone outcroppings and growths of blue and violet crystal, the image of the Second Promise’s ascension on a column of air with Thancred and Urianger in tow still burned into her eyes. Not one soul in that damned town malms below had mentioned that was a possibility. Or perhaps her attention had fallen off at the wrong time in conversation and missed its passing mention in one of many grand tales she had been forced into hearing, some unexplainable act that had allowed the defeat of a rampaging beast like Valigarmanda. That was the irritating part about scholars like Koana; legends always held a grain of truth, and those learned as he always knew how to exploit those grains. Like as not down in the valley there existed some Sharlayan device he’d built capable of calling tempests to aid him.

Irritated, she slammed her staff into the mountain face and flooded it with aether. Juts of jagged, black stone ground out, dislodging flora that had lain root in the rock and birds that had found roost in the plants. Once extended enough for use, she bound up the cantilevered platforms, staff readied, its tip alight with pearlescent aether. One bird arrowed towards the Miqo’te, squawking complaint till light and petrichor found their mark, the smell of roast windkin filling Lillian’s mouth with water and nearly sending her feathered cap flying into the abyss. She almost shed a tear as the bird tumbled limp trailing feathers through the clouds.

After the last step, Lillian found herself on a mountain ledge flanked by a low rise of boulders and flowered moss. She drew out the time weathered map and flattened it on the ground, tsking at a tear she made in her haste to abscond. Wuk Lamat had been correct, but why waste time and confirm to the child claimant what she already knew? She was haughty, naïve, self-absorbed, and above all, a fool who believed Lillian’s actions took her well-being into consideration.

Were you not similar once, and did you not learn better? The voice of logic nagged. Quiet. Never so much as she, Lillian thought back, smoothing the spot Thancred pointed out to the Second Promise; a wide pass dotted with the ruins of ancient walls

“Alisaie plans to harry us here. She’s a quick-footed little pest, but we’ve battled alongside long enough for me to know exactly where her faults lie, and I’ve been itching for the opportunity to knock her down a peg or four. I’ll have her in bed without supper and you your victory before the Third Promise realizes she’s been made.”

We’ll see if you can manage the same against me, she thought, stuffing the map back down, wind licking at her heels as she ran. Beastkin poked their soft, red noses from their dens as she passed and retreated just as quickly. Excitement made her ears unable to stay still. They beat a dangerous leather heartbeat against their coverings sewn into her cap. Her thoughts were smothered, but so were the land’s whispers.

The ruins were a short jaunt away. There, the ground was soft and pocketed with fist-width craters filled with tepid water. Vegetation grew verdant from the civilization’s desiccated corpse to cover the bones in green embrace.

There it was. Along the path to the mountain’s summit, a towering stone barrier stood solemn. Dutiful. For a Miqo’te clad in forest colors: easily concealed behind. Some great hand had torn a hole through its skin and left a passage from ruin to path providing the perfect redoubt from which to utilize a White Mage’s magic against unwary passersby. Lillian sprinted across the sodden field, her mind bursting with all the possibilities to slow down her opponents.

As she reached the hole, a white blur faded into the open space.

A reticent blur of white absent of sound, of tension, of presence and definition. The pressure of existence swelled gradually with each fifth of moment. Her brain fired desperately on every available detail.

Bulk; clothing; the jangling of canisters; his interwoven bandolier; plant musk hiding his scent.

Thancred?

Who could claim the greater surprise? Not he, who knew of a coming. Not her, who knew of an arriving.

But if anything, he didn’t appear surprised at all. In fact, he was even –

Smiling?

A strong, hardened jaw stared back at her, yellow teeth glinting from a light growing –

From below?

A tickle started in her brain. Understanding came before the knowing.

Water flew into her hand from the puddle below before growing outward in a blue, glass-thin sheen in the path of the gunblade’s edge, hardening into a shield faster than the blooming muzzle flash. The explosion sent her flying back in a trail of dust and smoke. Powder smell filled her nose. Her ears rang with a cannon blast. Wind gathered thick around in a shroud of green aether to carry her from danger, willing herself to land upright on stable ground.

But as she did, a sigil circled with arcane letters expanded across the stone.

Rolling in the air, her hand wreathed in blinding green tore across the space as a wave of wind struck her full in the side mere ilms from the sigil, lifting the Warrior of Light to send her tumbling bodily across the ground and out of the way of harm as the sigil vanished in a thunderclap of dust and heat. Coughing up more dust caught in her throat, she turned blazing yellow eyes to the cloud of soot obscuring her would-be assailants.

“Bastards… the both of you.” She rose on shaking legs. Shards of broken stone had ripped tears in the cloth of her garb. Blood sheathed from a deep, muddy cut on her arm, but nothing else felt broken.

“Come now, we’re all friends here, and what’s a scuffle between friends.”

Thancred sauntered out from the debris, a shite-eating grin ballooning across his handsome features. Following suit with a light chuckle was Urianger, his astrometer spinning at the ready with cards prepped for reading.

“Our comrade believeth her hand superior to thine own.”

“Count yourself lucky that Alisaie hadn’t been the one around that corner.” Lillian spat a globule of saliva laced with red. “You might have killed her.”

“And I would have been eternally guilty for the act, make no mistake.” Somehow Thancred’s smile grew wider. “But, thankfully, no luck was necessary. You came around just as I had planned.”

“Planned? Ha!” Lillian tossed back her head to laugh. The movement made her wince. “Unless one of you can divine the future, my being here is all luck. And where has the Second Promise gone?”

“Ahead,” Thancred said.

“Thou would beggar of us an explanation?”

“Please. I’m all ears – hold…” She held up a finger hazy with radiant white and plunged the digit into her ringing ear. As the aether healed the damage from Thancred’s attack, the plants around her feet withered into brown husks and crumbled to join the dirt. “Apologies – Now I’m all ears.”

“Your Echo.” Thancred wore the face of a child swimming in an ocean of unwrapped candies. At Lillian’s widened eyes, he continued. “A most useful tool in our adventures, being allowed to witness past events as they occurred. But only as they occurred.”

“Of strength in sight does it boast, yet Master Thancred, awash in inspiration and long accustomed, privy to thine Echo’s potency, hath discovered the flaw in its making.” He held a hand to his lips and laughed lightly. Lightly and restrained. “Deceived we were, as means to deceive you.”

Lillian shook her head. “Somehow I believe this is just some trick to keep me here.”

“Oh, you were tricked, all right. Now your turn comes – what did the Echo show?”

“And why would I tell you?”

“You saw us discussing plans with Koana; plans to ambush Alisaie; plans in which I spoke of knocking her down a peg or four? You witness events exactly as they occur, so once we witnessed you succumb to the Echo’s effects…” Thancred placed a hand to his forehead.

“Into the fold were the Second Promise and I giveth allowance, and a trap thus lain for our dearest friend.”

Thancred’s fingers drummed along the gunblade’s handle. “Do pass on my thanks to Alisaie. Had it not been for her plot on Ultima Thule confirming you’ve density common with archon loaf, this endeavor may not have been as fruitful as hoped.”

The skin under Lillian’s left eye began to quiver. White aether burst at her wounded arm as the dirt crumbled into fine powder under her boots. “I hope you realize what you’ve earned.” Her words came out as a low hiss, the corners of her mouth twitched ever so slightly upward.

“A prize, I wager! And a prize Urianger and I have wished so long to taste.”

“Indeed. We bringeth all our might to bear, that we may witness might worthy of song and notoriety, what bringeth even eikons to heel.”

With a malicious cacophony, like to an endless sea of keening glass, from Lillian’s back spread opalescent wings of aether aflame, size and ferocity swelling until she was rendered a silhouette before their crescendo. Sensation of needles prickled against the Scions’ skin, and the myriad wounds below notice across her flesh steamed forth white clouds until hale and closed.

“Try not to choke on it.”

[thevikingwoman]

So happy to be going for Year of the OTP. For January, I picked sharing clothes. which is a favorite trope of mine. And the confederate haori does look great on Meryta, of course.

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV | Words: 870 | Read on Ao3

Tansui x Meryta Khatin (warrior of light) | sometime after shb | fluff Rating: Mature. Clothes sharing stealing, a small rest day, sensuality, mild possessiveness, Tansui has a problem, the problem is he is very much in love, reference to sexual situations

Heat

The day was hot and sticky, as if a wind had blown the heat and steam from Hell’s Lid all across the Ruby Sea. Many of the Confederates had set out in boats, or simply jumped in the waters surrounding Onokoro. Of course, someone has to be patrolling, and collecting, but Tansui is not one of them, not today. Not when Meryta is here. Seeking a cold breeze, Tansui and Meryta commandeered a small vessel and set out on the waters.

The seas were not much cooler, however, so they found a small sandbank with a knoll and a lonely tree – not much shade, but enough. From there, they waded and swam the ocean, joyfully splashing about like children. Until they engaged in some very adult activities, that is. Tansui still thinks it’s unfair Meryta can breathe underwater, but today he’s not complaining.

He’s currently resting under the tree, the reflection of the evening sun making the waves glow orange, as if they are on fire in truth. Meryta is stretched out in the sand, soaking up the last sun. Something about the heat of the sand being nice against her scales.

He lets his gaze roam over her naked form. Her back and her ass, her tail swishing lazily in the sand. The sun on her scales and horns, rendering them almost translucent at their dark green ends. Her feet, the soles a lighter green than the rest of her body. It’s too hot for him to lay in sun, but he’s content to stare, to lazily enjoy the shade and her presence.

He must have dozed off, for when Tansui wakes, it’s dusk. The moon has risen, and a few bright stars light the darkening sky. Meryta, perplexingly, is in the water.  He stretches, and walks to the water’s edge.

“Taking another dip?”

“No.” She fishes something out of the water. A piece of cloth? “Tide almost got my clothes.”

He chuckles. “Did it get you too?” Now he’s awake, he can see the sandy strip is narrower than before. Meryta flicks her tail in annoyance, the tip of it skimming the water.

“It’s not funny.”

“Sure looks funny to me.”

“What if I hadn’t woken up? I could have drowned.”

“You can’t drown, Meryta.” He winks at her.

“Ugh.” She sounds more exasperated than angry, and he is glad of it. He would not stand a chance did she bring all her fury to bear. It’s not that he forgets her power, he simply chooses to think it does not matter between them. Tansui’s thoughts are rudely interrupted by a hard, wet hit to his bare stomach. Meryta’s soggy clothes, bundled up and thrown with considerable force. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he almost falls on his ass, making an undignified sound.

Meryta breezes past him, and swoops up his haori where he discarded it, when it was too hot to wear. She shrugs it on.

“I’m cold,” she says. “And all my clothes are wet.”

He knows, as they are currently dripping in his hands. It is cooler now, and he holds them away from himself, so his pants don’t get wet, at least.

Gathering his wits, he tosses the bundle of clothes in the boat, which he did have the foresight to pull far enough onto their island. He’s sailed these waters too long to make foolish mistakes.

“You could have told me the tide rises so much out here,” Meryta says, mayhap following his line of thought, her eyes drawn by the tossed clothes.

“I did not plan to nap. And neither did you, I suspect. I suppose we were worn out from the… swim.”

“It was a very good, warm, nap.” She smiles at him, bright and genuine, her grumpy demeanor all but vanished.

She stretches, his haori falling half open, revealing the tantalizing curve of her breasts, the scales scatted across her abdomen, and the shaded place her legs meet. He freezes, unable to form clear thoughts. He wants to push the haori off her body, he wants her to wear it always, just like this.

Powerful, effortlessly, she is wearing his clothes. She walks towards him, her tail swishing in front of her, drawing his eye to her thighs. He wants to touch. He craves her. He acts, reaching for her, pulling her close, kissing her lips, biting them. He wants to claim her, mark her, leave something with her, something more permanent than a shirt, he wants, he needs –  she bits him back, laugh in the throat and they break apart.

“Mine,” is all he gets out, his thoughts all jumbled with his sudden need.

“You can have it back when I have dry clothes,” Meryta says, “Maybe. It’s very soft.”

“It does suit you. A tad long, perhaps.”

He lets her think he was talking of the haori all along. He doubts she will appreciate the direction of his thoughts. Fierce and independent, she comes and goes as she wills, and he will let that be enough.

Meryta tucks her head under his chin, bumping it. “Maybe I should hem it.”

He thinks of it, her wearing it across the world, with her scions.

“Maybe you should.”

[wilanserulia]

FFXIVWrite2024 - Prompt 2 - Horizon

The squawking of seagulls and the sound of the waves were often the only noises you could hear, out in the Rhotano sea. That day a flock of the marine birds had gathered nearby a lonely fishermen’s boat, the only thing on the waters’ surface for malms and malms. A young boy stares wistfully at the expanse of water around himself, leaning over the boat’s edge, his green eyes scouring the blue sea as if hoping to see something over the horizon.

“Wilan!” shouted a warm, but rough voice, and from the sound of it it wasn’t the first time he’d been trying to catch the kid’s attention. Startled, the boy turned around. “Yes, father?” he hurried to reply. “By the Navigator, would you stop gawking at the water and help us? I take you out at sea so that you can learn the trade, not enjoy the view” Wilan could hear the waning patience in his father’s voice. He wasn’t in a hurry to have the same discussion once again, so he hurried to do as he was told and joined a couple more fishermen as they were working on fishing nets. Dutifully, he sat down and started disentangling the net as he was shown, doing his best to stay focused. The young hyuran boy had no love for the profession. He hailed from a small island to the west of Vylbrand, and he knew not much else of the world beyond the shores of his homeland. What little land he had access to, however, he thoroughly enjoyed exploring, often leaving home for afternoon expeditions around the island, sometimes taking his little brother along but most of the time by himself. He knew it like the back of his hand by now, every hideout, every shortcut, every vantage point. But his heart ached for more. Increasingly often, he would climb to the island’s highest point and just stared at the horizon. That was the whole reason he was happy when, once he was about ten summers old, his father told him it was time he’d start joining him out at sea to learn the profession. Finally, he thought, a chance to escape the suffocating confines of this island! To see the big, vast, incredible world that he had only heard bits and pieces about from other fishermen. At least, that’s what he had hoped. Yet there he was, in the middle of the sea, with a whole lot of nothing all around him. He had never been this far from home, and yet he felt even farther away from anything worth seeing, now that he realized just how big the Rothano Sea was.

A tap of webbed feet caught his attention, pulling him out of his self-wallowing. A seagull had landed on their craft, caught an anchovy in its beak and flew back up in the air the moment his father shooed it away. He followed it his gaze, flying in large circles around their boat, and then out toward the sea. Toward the horizon.

“...Dad?” “Hm?” his father asked, looking up to see his firstborn staring once again out to the sea. The kid was pointing eastward. “What’s over the horizon?” he asked, his voice quiet, but barely hiding a burning curiosity. His old man sighed and followed the direction he was pointing at. After taking a moment to orient himself with the sun, he replied “That way? Galadion Bay. There’s better fish out here though.” “More sea, then...?” “Aye. But a bay is not exactly open sea. It’s near a landmass, so the currents are different there, and that means...” “So there’s land that way!?” Wilan asked excited, interrupting his father. “And there’s people?” The fisherman tried to keep his calm with a long breath. One of the other fishermen, however, chimed in. “Aye boy. Limsa Lominsa’s that way.” The kid’s ears perked up. “What’s Limsa Lominsa?” “Biggest city this side of the Strait of Merlthor.” supplied another. It’s something else, that place.” “A city? Will we go there!?” the boy inquired, his imagination already conjuring up dozens of versions of this settlement. “Will we go fish there?” “No one fishes that close to that kind of city, boy.” bit back his father, evidently annoyed by his son’s daydreaming. “But we go there when we have too much fish, to sell the excess at the market.” Wilan’s eyes flew wide. “Can I come next time you go sell fish then? Dad, please!” “Enough of this, boy! Get back to work!” “But dad, I want to see the cit―” “Not another word!” he all but shouted, rising to his feet. Everyone on the boat fell quiet. “That city’s no place for a kid like you. Your head’s already full of nonsense, and the last thing you need is going to a place where people believe they can just do what they want in life. What you’re gonna do is honest work, you’re gonna learn how to fish and you will like it, is that clear? The kid bowed his head, pursing his lips, his traveler’s heart aching, the horizon’s call as tempting as it had ever been. “Is that clear!?” his father asked again, raising his voice. “Yes, father.” Wilan all but whispered.

[umbralaether]

FFXIV Write 2024

Day 1: Steer

Steer clear of Pandaemonium, lest you never return.

Astraea had heard the whispering about Pandaemonium, how the wardens and creatures alike were imposing and dangerous. You certainly did not want to be caught poking around where you shouldn't be, as the place was off limits for most people.

Still, her creation locked away here? Unfair, and certainly stunk of ulterior motives.

She stalked silently along the shadows, trying to sense the creature she was looking for. She pulled her hood tighter to her head, obscuring her face from the wandering watcher of this section. Slowly, she approaches the cell where Cactua was being held.

"Finally… free…!"

The voice that popped into her head was not her own, but that of Cactua. Somehow, telepathic speech was it's preferred method of communicating, though it seemed to only work one way at this time.

"Shh.. Yes, yes Cactua. I'll get you out of there."

Astraea worked quickly to unlock the door. Hades had told her explicitly not to come here, to let what had been confiscated stay that way. It wasn't worth her status, her reputation, to be caught in Pandaemonium of all places.

Click!

Cactua does what Astraea only assumes is a dance of joy, before it quickly ducks itself under her robes and out of sight. Now all she has to do is make her way out of here…

She makes a quick incantation to perform the teleportation spell to take her home and just as the aether begins to fizzle around her, her heart stops.

There, a short distance away, piercing blue eyes bore into her own. Arms crossed, a woman with brown hair begins her way towards her before the spell whisks her away.

Somehow, Astraea feels the icy prickle of that gaze even back at home.

[capriccio-ffxiv]

NSFW version of this poll (asking about other, ahem, anatomy) available here

[neneru-nowhere]

Getting to actually enjoy myself at the moment instead of just sleeping off my covid. Made it to Fantasy Texas in FFXIV. Wander into town and the first thing that happens is I run into trouble with the local gang.

Erenville is like "Whoah, I know unspeakable bloodshed is your thing, but we don't want to get in trouble with the law"

except I'm a three foot nothing toddler with a juice box and a bad attitude. My main weapon is a paint brush and an overactive imagination. These bandits are thinking "The only person this kid is going to upset is a preschool teacher" but they're wrong.

I draw my brush and mutter "Y'all just painted yourselves into a corner, amigos."

[laspocelliere]

Day Nineteen: Taken

“The stranger seems quite taken with her, no?”

Koana’s tone was low and studied, arms crossed across his chest as he watched the impromptu celebrations below. He and his unmatchable sister had been crowned as Heads of Reason and Resolve a full day prior, and the celebrations weren’t showing any signs of flagging. The streets were full of dancing and music, faces lit up with laughter in a way that warmed the private, secret recesses of his academic heart. 

These were the people that Lamaty’i had been speaking so warmly of all along. These were the ones that she would grow and love and fight for.

He was immeasurably grateful that he hadn’t taken too long to see it too.

But that wasn’t his focus tonight. Tonight, he was focused on the revelry, and the celebration…and the champion that his sister had brought from across the Salt to support her.

More specifically, the stranger at her side, who’d arrived by ship only a few days prior.

In the flickering lamplight, with coloured lanterns dancing bright across her skin, the Eorzean hero moved with a lightness of foot that he’d already begun to associate with her in battle. She didn’t dance, not truly; not in the thick of the crowds, where the mezcal had been flowing freely, and hands had gone wandering in time to the beat. Still, she was sure and graceful, moving around her partner, linked by their entwined fingers only. They seemed to have eyes only for each other, regardless of the party around them, and Koana’s shoulders tightened involuntarily.

The stranger had arrived quietly a few mornings prior, without fanfare and without announcement. Since he’d come from across the Salt, he’d apparently been taken in to speak with Gulool Ja Ja not long after his arrival. Their audience was private, but the fact that the stranger had been summoned at all was buzzed about throughout the markets and residences – not in the least because of the newcomer’s unquestionable good looks.

Koana watched him with a critical eye, sharp on the two of them despite how they kept to the fringes of the crowd, private except for those who thought to watch. He’s nothing to write home about, he reassured himself. He’s certainly far more…shoulders than the scholarly types in Sharlayan.

Types, he refused to admit to himself, that he hoped the champion would lean towards, rather than the sort of looks this salted stranger had. The kind that all the young girls of Tuliyollal seemed to already be fawning over, despite him, oddly, never looking twice at a single one of them.

From his perch above the beach, he watched the warrior move absently to the rhythm of the drums, her bare feet sinking into the cool, dark sand while the sun sank beneath the sea beyond. There was something delicate and forbidden about her bare ankles, pale and lovely in the setting sunlight, that made him want to look away. 

But her fingers were still laced with the stranger’s, and he pulled her gently towards him by those fingertips alone.

And she didn’t resist, even when they pressed palm to palm. She turned his face upwards towards him, and her expression caught in Koana’s throat. 

Gone was the cold, impassable stance that he had grown so used to on her, the one that he so enjoyed puzzling out. Gone was the guard in her eyes, the hardness to her lips. If she hadn’t known this man before, she knew him now, and in his presence she softened like a flower, blooming into a sort of loveliness in the rising moonlight that the Head of Reason couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

By then, he’d forgotten he’d spoken, but his sister wasn’t one to let a conversation linger and rest in silence. At his side, she peered thoughtfully down at the pair, her ears twitching as she examined the sight before her, her nails drumming rapidly on the railing before them. 

“I like him!” She declared brightly after a moment, arching back as though to stretch, her grin spreading wide. “He looks at her the right way, you know? Maybe she’s finally met someone.” Lamaty’i’s smile was bright and cheerful. “It would be good for her to relax, I think.”

At her side, Koana made a quiet, noncommittal noise. His eyes never left the hero’s face, even as his stomach plummeted with a disappointment that he didn’t know how to name.

[aspectsofazem]

(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.

[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

[koukouture]

Hellbound: A Final Fantasy 14 AU

"Hellbound are we that sacrifice for what we love"

The sins of the Holy See run deep; and in the end repentance alone cannot save the Jewel of Coerthas from her darkest hour. Thusly, his holiness Archbishop Haldrath IV, formerly Father Aymeric de Borel, has enlisted the help of the Warrior of Light to aid Ishgard in its plight. The shadows cast by Eorzea's guiding star are deep and dark- but she will prevail like before, no Bloody Banquet will come between her and glory. For the Fury decrees that Ishgard shall be built upon the sin of those who rule it; and the blood of the innocent that believe.

Hellbound is a Final Fantasy XIV AU that is a dark alternate version of Heavensward in which Aymeric is archbishop, Haurchefant is a newly appointed knight of the Heavensward, and the Warrior of Light has many secrets to hide.

All art is by yours truly~

[myreia]

Metamorphosis

Rating: General Characters: Aureia (WoL), Tataru, Haurchefant Word Count: 5,052 Summary: After arriving in Camp Dragonhead, Aureia finally has a moment to breathe. The weight of the world has never felt so heavy on her shoulders. Read on AO3

The windows creak, the doors heave, and it seems as though the whole of the fortress groans around her, timber, glass, and stone.

It has been several hours since Haurchefant dug her and Alphinaud out of their near frozen graves and still the blizzard refuses to die. Snow billows against the windows, piling up on the sills so high there is nothing to see. When she experimentally opened a side door out of curiosity, she was met with a gust to the face and a wall of white and the panicked shout of a nearby guard before he reached over her head and slammed the door closed.

They’re going to be snowed in tomorrow. No one can leave Camp Dragonhead, just as no one can reach it. Though her heart still thunders with panic at the thought of staying in one place for too long, her mind knows this is a much needed reprieve. Time to stop, time to rest, time to think about what to do next. They are safe here under Haurchefant’s roof. Even if they could foray through the snows, the Ul’dahns wouldn’t dream of breaching Camp Dragonhead and risk provoking war with Ishgard.

No matter how much they call for the Warrior of Light’s head.

But it may not stop bounty hunting adventurers from taking up the call. Those who are untethered from city-state allegiances, who can pass between the borders without raising suspicion and slip by Ishgardian inhospitality. Those who will seek to fulfill a contract—any contract—for the right price.

Her stomach squirms.

Exhaling a breath, Aureia raises her head and casts an eye around her surroundings. The dining hall stretches out before her, long and hollow and empty. The plates are cleared, the candles burned down, the chairs askew. The hearth at the end of the hall crackles and burns, red flames wasting away to embers. Haurchefant’s hospitality knows no bounds; he ordered food from the kitchens himself then sat with them while they ate, gently guiding the conversation.

They’re gone now. Alphinaud, to bath and bed. Tataru, to write a dearth of letters to be sent out when the blizzard quells. Haurchefant, to the intercessory. Yugiri, to the indoor training grounds. There is only Aureia left now, slumped at her chair as each one took their leave, promising them that she is, quite in fact, all right and they have no cause to worry.

But with them gone, the worry crashes into her like a wave, engulfing and suffocating and pulling her out to sea.

The worry did not exist when she was in the thick of it. Escaping the waterways, escaping Ul’dah, escaping Black Brush station. Then again when this blizzard caught them between Cid’s airship and Camp Dragonhead. Alphinaud was depending on her, the poor boy more lost than she was—she couldn’t let him down. Couldn’t let him flounder. But now she is alone in this cavernous hall, and with the others gone it is as if something has been sucked out of the room.

Nanamo’s face twists in her mind’s eyes. Grotesque, distorted, eyes bulging, gasping for air as her lungs collapsed.

Wood scrapes against stone as Aureia throws her chair back and leaps her to feet, palms slammed into the dining table for support. Her stomach twists, wretched nausea creeping up the back of her throat. The young sultana did not deserve to die in such a way. No one does…

A sob escapes her. Her shoulders shake and she lets go of the table, pressing her hand to her mouth. Cool silver tugs against her lip, her ring catching on the ragged skin of her dry lips. The one Nanamo gifted her, the last trace she has on her person of the city she called home—

Stop it.  

Aureia pushes away from the table and shoves the nausea down. Reliving what happened to Nanamo will do her no good here. She needs a plan, a strategy in case whatever Haurchefant proposes falls apart. Plans within plans. It’s the only way to ensure she stays alive.

“A plan…” The words crumble like ash in her mouth. Swallowing hard, she paces the length of the table, her fingertips dragging across the smooth, polished wood. Her boots clack against the floor and she feels every tile, the rough stone pressing painfully through her thin soles. Her legs wobble, calves aching in protest. Every part of her body is screaming for rest, and yet she cannot give it. Not yet.

She’s been here before, an exile with a bounty on her head. She killed a Garlean solider and they came after her. Now she didn’t kill a sultana and they came after her. No matter which side of this conflict she chooses, there will always be someone who wants her dead.

It is not enough to go to Ishgard and hope for the best. She vanished from Garlemald, she can vanish from Ul’dah—so completely and utterly they will never find a trace of her. But no matter where she goes in Eorzea, there will be Syndicate agents hunting her. They will be looking for a woman with raven hair tinged crimson, a mage skilled in both black magic and red.

Her fingertips hit the butt of a knife. Forgotten, from a place setting that went unused.

So change what they’re looking for.  

Aureia seizes the knife and strides away from the table.

She drops in front of the hearth, ambivalent to the pain bursting through her knees as they hit the stone floor. Pulling her hair into a tail, she lifts it up and slides the blade beneath. A shiver rolls down her spine, the nape of her neck recoiling at the touch of steel against skin. Though she is kneeling before a fire, she feels nothing but cold.

Her fingers grip the handle, pressing it into her palm.

Funny how when she fled the Empire, she grew her hair long. And now she is on the run once more, she will be rid of it all.

The knife slices. Dark hair falls.

She closes her eyes through it all, methodically sawing away. It’s more difficult than she expected, taking a knife to one’s own hair. At first it’s just the ends, the red strands hacked away unevenly until they are all gone.

But then she keeps going.

Her breath hitches in her throat, her fingers trembling with renewed vigor. There is nothing to do but cut, cut, cut, slice more of it free. The locks fall in clumps, collecting on her shoulders, her lap, the floor. Soon her fingers are scrabbling at short ends, running through the uneven remains of what took years to grow. It is light, it is freeing—

So, why is she crying?  

The dining hall door creaks open.

“Aureia? Oh—oh my!”

Aureia glances over her shoulder to find Tataru staring from the entrance, eyes impossibly wide and hands over her mouth. “What?” she blurts, running a hand through her cropped hair. It sticks up at odd angles, jagged and ragged. “What is it? Does it look bad?”

Tataru lowers her hands, folding them together and placing them over her chest. Her eyes flick from Aureia’s face to the hair on the floor and back again. “You haven’t had a rest yet, have you?” she says gently. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Half a bell later, Aureia is sitting on the edge of the bath, engulfed in a cloud of steam and wrapped in a plush towel. For all her protests, Tataru proved to be right—the bath worked wonders for her aching body and bruised mind. Her ragged clothes—stolen from Black Brush Station—lie in a pile on the floor, kicked into a corner where the dirt and grime can’t be a nuisance. Wet, ragged hair sticks to her forehead and neck, sending beads of water rolling down her spine.

Regret pangs in her stomach. She can’t even bring herself to look in the mirror and assess the damage.

Tataru gives her a hesitant smile. “Are you sure about this?” she asks, placing a small hand on her shoulder. “We can leave it as it is—”

Aureia laughs. “Gods, please, I know I made a mess. I trust you more with it than I do myself.”

“I’m no Jandelaine, but I can do a thing or two with a pair of scissors. I’ll see what I can do.”

Aureia closes her eyes, back straight and arms folded over her chest, holding her breath as Tataru fusses with her hair. She stands on her tiptoes, humming to herself as she combs her fingers through the ragged locks, assessing the unevenness. After a few more passes, she collects a comb and a pair of scissors from the pocket of her apron and raises them to Aureia’s head.

Tataru exhales a determined breath. “Here we go,” she says.  

Snip.  

More hair falls into Aureia’s lap, soft as snow.

Snip.  

“Lady Yugiri will find them,” Tataru says, running the comb through her hair. Her touch is gentle, careful not to pull. “I know it, I just know it. If anyone can track them down, it is she.”

Aureia sighs. The subject of their fallen friends is a difficult one to breach, especially when Tataru’s good nature is to cling to hope long after it has become futile. “I’m grateful for her help,” she replies quietly.

Snip. “But…?” She pauses, her fingers gently pressing into the back of Aureia’s neck, instructing her to put her head down. “Please, Aureia. Don’t spare any detail for my sake. I know you were holding back at dinner, don’t say you weren’t! But I need to know what you know. If my heart must break, then I’d rather it break now.”

Oh, Tataru… “I think we must come to terms with the fact that our friends may be dead,” Aureia says gravely after a moment.

“I… see.”

“You didn’t see the explosion. The way the ceiling came down after Y’shtola’s spell…”

Her fingers grip her towel, clawing quietly at the fabric. It feels like a dream when she thinks back on it, even though the incident is not even a day fresh. Papalymo and Yda making their last stand; Y’shtola and Thancred determined to stem the tide; Minfilia turning back at the very last second for reasons that Aureia cannot understand. What did she hope to achieve, running off like that? Stopping them? Helping them? If anyone should have turned back, it should have been her. The mage, the solider, the warrior—the one trained for this. Not Minfilia.

Not their friend. Not their leader.  

No matter how Hydaelyn called to her.

The comb’s teeth dig into her scalp as it runs through her hair, the pleasant sensation at odds with… well, everything else. “Nothing is certain until you know for certain,” Tataru says quietly. “There is always hope, isn’t there? That’s what Minfilia would say. Don’t we owe it to her to hold onto it?”

“We do, but not at the expense of fooling ourselves. Holding onto something that is long past the point of being gone only creates more hurt in the end.” She falls silent, the words heavy on her tongue. Even though she speaks them, a part of her does not believe them. Always two sides to her, the pragmatist at war with the optimist. Where Garlemald taught her to prioritize what she saw with her mind, Eorzea taught her to prioritize what she felt in her heart. “The others I understand, but Minfilia… They way she left, Tataru. She went back when there was no need for it, I couldn’t stop her. I don’t know what she was thinking—”

“Even so…” Tataru is unusually quiet, as if the normally cheerful Lalafell is frightened of contradicting her. “I think we must trust in Minfilia. The Scions have trusted her this far, we must trust her again  She never did anything without purpose. And whatever the reason for her action, I’m certain she believed they were the right recourse. And I’m sure, in time, we will see her again, we will!”

No, that’s not it, that’s… How to make her understand? Perhaps she can’t. Perhaps she’s lost her mind. She did attack her hair with a knife after all.

Aureia sucks in a shaky breath, her body tensing in effort to hide it. The comb slips through her hair, faster now, Tataru’s scissors snipping in her ear. More hair parts from her, the short locks disappearing into nothing.

“Aureia…” The scissors stop. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She chews her lower lip, biting back a dozen things she could say. Tataru may be the one here, but that does not mean she should freely unload the mess of thoughts in her head. Papalymo and Yda’s bright eyes as they wished them good luck and turned to face the oncoming soldiers, not knowing what would come next. Y’shtola’s quiet smile—that all too familiar look, like she knew something no one else could ever dream of—as she affirmed her determination to remain behind. Thancred’s insistence that he remain at her side to defend her and ensure the spell worked.

It was the only way, he said.  

He kissed her forehead and breathed a request in her ear. Two, in fact. To be well—and to watch over Minfilia.

She’s failed on one of those fronts, and is failing on the other. The memory of that last kiss—a hand on her shoulder, the other cupping her face, the way he pressed his lips to her forehead, as gentle as a lover—threatens to overwhelm her. She knows him better than she knows herself, and yet that… Why that of all things? They came to an understanding, didn’t they? She can’t be what he wants, they don’t work together like that. She isn’t a match for what he needs, not like the countless girls on his arm who give him that thing she can’t quite unravel. The thing that despite her best attempts remain foreign to her.

And yet in that moment, she didn’t know whether she wanted to yell at him or kiss him herself. Two choices. Two impossibilities. And neither of them matter now. She just stood there, still as a statue, and refused to look him in the eye. He could have poured his heart out to her and she would have left him with the impression that she did not care.

Moenbryda told her to stop wasting time and make sense of it before it is too late. Moen… Honest, wonderful Moen, dead before her time. Before the rest of them. Strange, isn’t it? How quickly everything you love can be taken away.     

The hollowness settles in her heart and it sinks like a stone to the bottom of the sea.

Tataru’s fingers brush the nape of her neck. “Lean forwards,” she murmurs gently.

Aureia bends her neck and closes her eyes, listening to each snip of the scissors. Thancred is gone now. They’re all gone—him, Y’shtola, Papalymo, Yda. Minfilia. She let them go, and she must make her peace with it. It was their choice. To protect what they believed to be Eorzea’s best chance against the coming darkness. 

The very same choice she would have made had she been in their shoes.

“Not all is lost,” Tataru says after a moment, carefully trimming around her ears. “The Waking Sands is protected under Urianger’s watch. And you saw Alphinaud to safety. We still have allies, strong and true, allies like Lord Haurchefant and his father. It will be all right, you see? I am certain of it.”

Aureia nods. “I know.”

“And there.” She brushes loose hair from the nape of her neck and takes a step back, examining her handiwork. “All done. Do you want to see? I can fetch a mirror.”

She runs a hand through her hair, feeling the ends. It’s even shorter now, a little too close to a military cut for comfort, but at least it’s neat and tidy. She had forgotten how freeing it can be without hair weighing her down. “No need,” she replies, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. “It’s perfect.”

“The snows will cause delays, but now the storm has settled, I see no reason why an attempt should not be made.”

“Are you certain of that, ser? Getting involved more than we are would…”

“…reflect poorly on us, you mean to say? To House Dzemael, surely. But to forsake our involvement now would be a poorer reflection of our character in truth. We are not ones to deny aid to those in need, nor will we deny aid to friends, no matter whether those friends are of Ishgard or not.”

“Ser—”

Haurchefant and his retainer look up from the desk the moment she pushes the intercessory doors open. They swing shut behind her, creaking on rusty hinges, and closes with a muffled thud. Both Elezen regard her with surprise and awe, as if she can’t possibly be standing on the threshold.

Haurchefant is the first to recover. “Mistress Malathar,” he says, straightening and giving her a polite bow. “I did not think you would be awake at this hour, all things considered. Please, do not feel the need to adhere to any schedule here. You are a guest. And the snowfall has ensured we will all have a quiet day ahead.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replies. “But I often rise early no matter the circumstances and I thought it as good a time as any to speak in private.”

The retainer is still staring at her. Slowly, his eyes move from her face to her ears, lingering on the delicate points. Perhaps he doesn’t recognize her. She stands tall and confident now, her tone crisp and no-nonsense. With her hair shorn short, her ragged travel clothes cleaned and pressed, and a borrowed wool cloak about her shoulders, she doesn’t much resemble the bedraggled, frozen exile they dug out of a snowdrift the day before.

Haurchefant coughs, nudging him out of his stupor. “Ghyslain, if you would…?” he murmurs, gesturing at the door.

The retainer flushes. He nods, gives Aureia a smart salute, then turns on a heel and departs the intercessory.

“My apologies,” Haurchefant says, spreading his hands. “Ghyslain is… ah, new to his post, shall we say. He has yet to learn some tact.”

She crosses the room, heels clicking assuredly against the stone floor, and folds her arms over her chest. It’s drafty in here, but he seems to not have noticed. Then again, his men train bare-chested in the snows, so perhaps the cold isn’t something a born and raised Ishgardian would notice. “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

“Have you had breakfast? I can make a call to the kitchen, bring you food and hot cocoa posthaste—”

“Haurchefant.” She reaches his desk and raises her head, looking up at him. “Don’t coddle me.”

“Do you equate hospitality with coddling?”

“Only when it’s persistent.”

“What about gestures of friendship? Is that, perchance, coddling?”

“I…” She flushes, flustered, and shoots him a flat look.

He chortles, eyes twinkling, a grin spreading from ear to ear, and taps her merrily on the shoulder. “I shall order that hot cocoa, my friend,” he says, sauntering across the room. “And while we wait for it, you can tell me the true reason why you came here so early this morn, and perhaps—if you’re willing—the story behind that magnanimous change in hair.”

She pats down the sides. “Why? Is it terrible?”

He meets her eyes. “Not at all,” he says softly. “You could never be terrible, Aureia.”

She glances away, heart thumping in her chest, unable to hold his gaze. She waits in silence as he opens the doors, speaking in a low murmur to the guard outside. The ring on her finger cuts uncomfortably into her dry skin, more sensitive now in the cold climate compared to Ul’dah’s heat. She twists it, spinning it round and round.

The doors close.  

“It’s true about Ishgard, then?” Aureia asks as he returns to his desk. “We can seek asylum there?”   

“A missive from my father braved the snows this morning,” Haurchefant replies, taking a seat. He gestures for her to do the same. An invitation, she has to remind herself. Not a command. “I have yet to inform Lord Alphinaud, but it is as we hoped—he guarantees his support in this unfortunate matter. You will be wards of House Fortemps, should you accept it. Once in the capital, you will be beyond the reach of Ul’dahn agents.”

“You are certain of that.”

“I can guarantee it.” He smiles broadly, in that comfortably certain way of his. In a way, he is a man of absolutes, swift to make decisions and assured in his convictions. He never does anything halfway. “The Holy See does enjoy proving just how inhospitable a character she can be to outsiders.”

“I hope that won’t apply to us.”

“You will be a ward, and therefore not an outsider.” He hesitates, brows drawing together, and for the briefest of moments there is a crack in his jovially confident façade. “Ishgardian in all but name. And should your fallen allies be found, they too will be welcome in the city until the time comes when we can prove your innocence and clear you of the crime you did not commit.”

Aureia sinks into her chair and pulls her knees into her chest, the silver ring glinting in the corner of her eye. A ward… Protected and safeguarded, yet under the roof of a powerful noble family she knows little about. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Haurchefant’s judgement—she does—but he is not his father. What happens if House Fortemps withdraws their support? She is putting her life in Count Edmont’s hands, a stranger and a stranger with power. The knowledge that her presence in the capital will only be tolerated thanks to his influence pricks at her mind like an itch impossible to scratch.  

But what else can she do? She can’t go back to Ul’dah. She can’t go to Gridania or Limsa Lominsa. Ala Mhigo is under Garlean occupation. She cannot go south. She cannot go west. She cannot go east. North is the only option.

“What of Ser Aymeric?” she asks. “He was at the banquet before he was called away.” Conveniently, she thinks privately. She wouldn’t put it past Teledji Adeledji to manufacture a reason to get the Ishgardian envoy—a brilliant military commander and soldier—out of the way before staging his coup, but staging a wyrm attack might be beyond even the Syndicate’s efforts. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Haurchefant chuckles. “Made an impression, now did he? And here I thought you were more difficult to impress than that. Perhaps the Lord Commander is more memorable than he thinks.”

“Haurchefant, don’t tease me.”

“Ah, my friend, but it brings out your delightful side, you see.”

“I have better things to do than to be impressed by men in armour.”

“Words I may have very well once said myself, and now I know better.”

She rolls her eyes and blows out a puff of air, the movement rustling her new fringe.

“Ser Aymeric has safely returned to the capital to lead Ishgard’s defenses,” he continues. “We have yet to receive the news in full, but this host of wyrms have fallen to the Temple Knights. They are growing emboldened, and it is troubling, I admit, but such is the state of affairs in Ishgard. The city is under a perpetual state of alert—ah, breakfast!”

Whatever else he may have said is lost as the doors open and a retainer enters, carrying a breakfast platter and a couple mugs of hot cocoa. He sets it on the desk and excuses himself. The food does smell heavenly, but the longer Aureia looks at it, the less hungry she feels.

Haurchefant smiles encouragingly and pushes one of the mugs across the desk towards her. She takes it in both hands, the warmth spreading pleasantly across her palms.

“Now, I must inform you,” he continues matter-of-factly, reaching across the desk to scoop warm eggs and toast onto her plate. Always the gentleman. “I have inquired at our armory for weapons to replace those you left behind. They may not be what you are used to, but I am confident we can have both a staff and a rapier prepared for you on the morrow—”

“No need.” She nods her thanks as he pushes the plate towards her and fills up his own. “I don’t need a staff or a rapier.”

He raises an eyebrow. “But your weapons… I know you have trained with the Pugilists’ Guild, but surely you would want—”

“A sword will do. Or a lance. If anyone comes looking for a mage, let them find paladin or dragoon in her place.”

“You are… certain of this?”

She nods. “I need a change.”

They fall silent for a moment. The hearth crackles at the far end of the intercessory, spitting embers and cracking a log in two. Outside, snow clings to the windows, obscuring the view beyond. Her weapons aren’t the only thing she left behind in Ul’dah. Her chocobo—dear Nasha, who has been with her since she joined the Immortal Flames—is still in the city. She keeps expecting to hear her little kwehs outside, imagining her breaking free from her stable to race across Thanalan and into the mountains.

But there are no kwehs and there is no sign of Nasha. The veteran bird is already old, soon to be retired. Even if she did escape, the stable hands would have no trouble capturing her and bringing her back. And unless she comes for her, Nasha will no doubt be reassigned to a new recruit.

Her heart sinks. There will be chocobos aplenty in Ishgard, but she doesn’t want another bird. Perhaps she can do without one. Count Edmont must have other means of travel available to him. Then again, for all she knows she may not even leave the city until her name has been cleared.

She chews her lower lip. The thought of being trapped in a single city with no way out save for travelling on foot is enough to twist her stomach into knots.  

“Haurchefant,” Aureia asks, her mind wandering. “What kind of man is your father?”

He sips on his mug for a moment. A moment too long. “A good man,” he replies. “Kind and just. He will treat you with the respect that a hero—and dear friend—deserves.” Another pause. His eyes flick momentarily from her face to her ears. “But Aureia… I cannot promise all of Ishgard will do the same. There are some who will find your presence as his ward troubling. Certain assumptions may be made. Certain rumours spread. Idle gossip to which to pay no heed, but may hurt nonetheless.”

She frowns. “What kind of gossip?”

“One of a delicate and perhaps uncomfortable nature.”

“Haurchefant.” She sets her mug down. “Just tell me. Please.”

He lets out a long sigh and claps his hands together on the desk. “You know I am my father’s bastard,” he says matter-of-factly. “The product of an unfortunate time in his history. Many things were once said of me in the past until I earned my worth. Though you are not Ishgardian yourself, you may find similar drivel thrown at you by those intimidated by your skill and presence.”

“I… I don’t understand. Why does it matter who my parents are? They’re not even from this continent.”

“It does when it is so plain upon your visage.”

“I—oh.” She flushes, discomfort twisting in her stomach. This is certainly new. In Garlemald, you were either a natural born Garlean or a savage. Mixed heritage was the furthest thing from the legatuses’ minds. Hyur, Elezen, Miqo’te, Au Ra… They were all the same. “Is this a problem in Ishgard?”

His lips press together in a thin line. “Though I love her dearly, the Holy See is not without her faults. You may find that it is a nation of both closed doors and closed minds. If there were Hyur High Houses then certainly no one would bat an eye, but there are not, and so there is a certain amount of disdain for those who fall outside what is considered acceptable parameters. Your presence implies a mixture of class, of status, of lowborn and high, done on illegitimate terms. Not all will be so accepting.”

“So, I’m a bastard to them. Could be worse.”

“Please, my friend. I am not telling you this to cause hurt, but to give caution. It would not sit well with me to allow you arrive in the capital without fair warning. My younger brother—trueborn though he is—has been the subject of more than one preposterous attempt to malign our father. Words spoken out of fear, out of jealousy, out of contempt… There are kind hearts to be found in Ishgard, to be sure, but they live among those of casual cruelty.”  

She raises her mug and downs a mouthful, the hot cocoa hot on her tongue. Aside from a few judgemental Gridanians, this is a topic she thought would never be broached. And yet here it is, present and unavoidable. She can only hope that it won’t be as bad as he seems to think it might be.

Finishing off the cocoa, she smacks her lips and sets the mug down on the edge of his desk. “Well, you know me,” she says brightly, shrugging off the worry. She picks idly at her breakfast with her fork. “Never been one for hiding.”

Liar.  

He chuckles and leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck. “And I would not want you to.”

“Haurchefant?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you doing this? Going to such lengths to help me?”

“I could never turn away a friend in need.”

Aureia sucks in a breath, warmth flooding her chest. “Is that what we are? Friends?”    

“Aye.” Haurchefant meets her eyes, a gentle smile on his face. “I believe we are.”

[idalenn]

Day 1 - Steer

Aftermath of the Crystal Tower. Alphinaud learns from a true businessman. (A Realm Reborn)

Full text below the cut if you'd rather read it on Tumblr instead of Ao3.

“And of the boy – were you successful locating his next of kin?”

“The documents provided by NOAH were bereft of evidence related to his origins. Unofficially, we’ve heard claims he may have familial ties within the Corvosi of southeastern Ilsabard.” The Elezen woman tapped a quill to the open, hide-backed volume in her hands. “But we are unable to confirm their validity at this time. It remains hearsay.”

“Then our efforts must be concentrated in a more scholarly direction. We cannot simply shrug our shoulders when it comes to Sharlayan. Having the loss of their pupil go unrecognized, or worse – underappreciated – will impact future endeavors. Reparations will soften the blow and secure fertile grounds for tilling.” With his own writing tool, edges leafed in gold and tipped with a brilliant ruby, Lolorito scratched his final signature onto the treaty.

A click of the inlaid jewel sent the tool’s end retreating into itself. Black ink dripped from the hole; blood from an open wound. One quick swipe with cloth made of finer material than Lillian would ever own picked it up without a trace left behind. Lolorito curtly tossed the cloth back among the ink pots. “A veritable drop in the ocean of spoils we’ve earned this day, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lillian felt a veritable ocean of sweat growing in her boots. Devoid of windows or any sort of opening to the outside save the single door combined with an abundance of crystal-lit lanterns, the Monetarist’s chamber buffered her and Alphinaud with a furnace’s heat. Even wearing gloves she feared taking the document in hand and drenching their hard work. The scars across her face ached under the pressure.

“Adamantite. Allagan technology. Wisdom beyond measure and reach, and beyond price some might claim, but there will be a price, and as sole owner of that crystal tower, the price shall be any figure negotiable.” The Lalafell chuckled to himself as he sealed the treaty with wax and sigil before sliding it across the desk. “And this is just the beginning. I know our contract was only for the tower’s acquisition, but I have grand plans in motion for future expansion, and you’re just the two to help see them bear fruit.” He spread his arms wide as though welcoming them into his embrace. “Care to stay for a time?”

Another cramp ran through Lillian’s leg. The chairs they sat in were perfectly Lalafell sized, undoubtedly Lolorito’s primary audience, but less so for the snow-haired Elezen child across from him, and unbearably small for the Miqo’te dwarfing every other soul in the room, whose legs were forcibly kept at such an angle between chair and desk that, if this meeting continued much longer, were liable to fall off.

“Other business calls.” She said.

“Of course. Scions and governments running you ragged must come first, but forget not my offer. And you, Master Alphinaud? From your quiet I must believe in some thought being given.”

Alphinaud took the treaty in a shaking hand. “Your assistance to the Crystal Braves is greatly appreciated, Lord Lolorito. If I may, I have but one more question, and after we’ll be on our way.”

“Then I take it you need time to consider.” Lolortio stroked his goatee, smiling with brilliant white teeth. The mask made interpreting his expression impossible. To Lillian it appeared a predator’s grin. “Very well. The floor is yours, my boy.”

“Care to share the details on how you intend to move forward? Specifically, I wish to know how you will honor the loss of G’raha Tia, without whom this endeavor would have ended in failure.” The Elezen aide narrowed her eyes. Lolorito’s smile never dropped an ilm.

“For effort contributed, I suppose you can be trusted with particulars. I am nothing if not fair, as Nald’Thal demands.” One of the lanterns flickered, and a glint off a gold-plated scale on the Lalafell’s desk caught Lillian’s attention. “G’raha Tia has no will, no family of note who can be contacted or given payment, and represents no organization outside of one within Sharlayan. Any and all possessions within NOAH’s hands will be returned to that organization. His share will, of course, be divided amongst all hired.

“Sharlayan will receive a lump sum of gil in an amount yet to be determined but no less than two hundred thousand. That previously mentioned organization will also partake of a sizable donation. Ah, but this name eludes me.” He snapped his fingers rapidly as if trying to light a spark. “I’m sure it began with ‘students’ something or other… the students of…”

“Baldesion.” Alphinaud finished through gritted teeth.

“It is refreshing, Master Alphinaud, to meet another so untrained in subtleties and be reminded I am not so alone in this world. As someone eyeing to hold a position of political power in our realm, you would do well to either hone a silver tongue or abandon all pretense of furthering your cause with it.”

“You only saw our friend as numbers to be counted!”

“Absolutely! Much in the same way you yourself only see the Syndicate in measures of usefulness and value to your coffers. Life is a series of numbers! You sought profits as well as I, my boy, and in doing so one must on occasion plan for declines. All gathered in this room have value, and all will be made equal should misfortune come to pass.”

Lolorito leaned forward over the desk, his hands folded together in a wall from which atop he stood a giant before Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light. “You captain an uncertain ship, Master Alphinaud, and unless you wish your company dashed amongst the rocks, you had best learn to steer.”

[thevikingwoman]

FFXIVWrite2024 - Prompt 10

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV | Words: 227 | Read on Ao3

Meryta Khatin (wol) | ARR patches Rating: Gen. Just chocobo feelings

Stable

Meryta leads Lucida, her chocobo, into the stables in Mor Dhona. The yellow bird chirps, and shakes her head when Meryta untacks her. She finds some gysahl greens and feeds her, then Meryta cleans and hangs the tack.

She goes back to the stall, and rests her forehead against Lucida’s feathers. The bird gently touches her beak against her horn, making her smile. So much is happening. A Royal banquet, a new alliance with the reclusive nation of Ishgard. It’s very much over her head, but she hopes she doesn’t make a fool of herself and the Scions.

Lucida chirps and bonks her again.

“I got it, I got it.”

She finds an apple in her pouch, and a handful gysahl more. She remembers when they first were introduced in Bentbranch Meadows, what now feels so long ago. Meryta was unaccustomed to chocobo, used to the horses of the Steppe and deeply suspicious of the long legged birds. Lucida won her over, though, her demeanor sweet - as long as treats are on the horizon. Meryta checks her legs and claws. Everything looks fine.

“You be good here, while I’m in Ul’dah. We’re travelling by aetheryte.  No need to arrive dusty for the fancy banquet.”

Hopefully everything will go smoothly, and she won’t have to say much. Lucida will be fed and happy here in the meantime.