#FFxivWrite2024

[sea-wolf-coast-to-coast]

Prompt #19: Taken

Submit your entry here: https://forms.gle/jDWjFKfmeaGnH3PL9

#FFxivWrite2024 is underway – a daily writing challenge presented to the Final Fantasy XIV writing community for the month of September. You can join any time throughout the challenge with any prompt number! Entries can be written on any online writing platform (tumblr, Archive of our Own, Google Docs, etc.). Submit the link and be sure that I have reading access. Check you entries here in the Public Spreadsheet

Rules & Info || Prompt List || #FFxivWrite2024 || kofi

[cosmicseashanty]

Context is here... something silly for a friend. Thanks FFxivWrite for your boundless inspiration

[starrysnowdrop]

FFXIVWrite 2024 #16: Third-rate

Adjective: not of high quality; mediocre or inferior.

Sometime after the events of 6.0; Hali oftentimes stares at Aymeric and still can’t believe that he loves her.

As she was laying in her lover’s strong, muscular arms that held onto her most gently and lovingly, Hali stared at Aymeric’s sleeping countenance.

Even as he slept, he was as graceful and elegant as ever, with his raven locks disheveled and his lips parted ever so slightly. Hali still had never seen a man more beautiful in all her life.

The lalafellin woman reached over and ran the tips of her fingers across his cheek, making sure not to disturb his slumber. A beaming smile graced her face as she wondered what she did to deserve a man like Aymeric.

Sure, she was a Warrior of Light, a Scion, Hydaelyn’s Chosen, the savior of the bloody star itself, and yet… she still felt third-rate. Aymeric still seemed so far out of her league that Hali could only thank the Gods and count her blessings every single day that he somehow loved her regardless of her inferiority.

Hali sighed as she closed her eyes and cuddled up to Aymeric, laying her head on his chest. In that moment, she felt like the luckiest and absolute happiest woman alive.

[iron-sparrow]

非原 【 fēiyuán 】 HACKNEYED /ˈhaknēd/ adjective

lacking in freshness or originality : overused

Aren't you tired, little thing? Of your shelter swathed in frost; Never able to thaw and melt, never knowing the sweetness of spring.

Have you simply been here too long? So the cold is all you know; An endless storm, fueled by your anger and unquenched grief.

Do you ever think of the outside? To remember the joys of discovery; It waits within reach, beyond your suffocating cycle of loathing.

FFXIV 30 DAY WRITING CHALLENGE

[lilbittymonster]

Day 18: Hackneyed

Read on AO3

Aymeric was on the couch reading when Kitali finally emerged from the bath, still squeezing water from her hair.

“You have a letter,” he said, nodding to the sealed envelope on the side table. “It arrived a couple days ago.”

“Who’s it from?”

“No idea. Some secret admirer, by the looks of it.”

She scoffed, and then made a noise of disgust when she held up the letter. Aymeric chuckled, knowing how the address of “Dearest Warrior of Light” with a dramatic heart beneath would be received. The snap of the wax seal being broken was followed by the sound of papers shuffling against each other.

“Four pages,” she said. “Front and back.”

He looked up from his book to see her holding the letter as though it were a rotten head of chyshal greens. The curl of her lip did not lessen as she read first one page, then the back, then the second, before at last she rolled her eyes and marched across the room to throw the whole bundle into the fire with a shower of sparks.

Aymeric nearly choked on the mouthful of tea he had just taken.

“That bad, was it?”

She settled onto the couch, rubbing a hand across her eyes as she laid her head in his lap.

“Yeah, that bad. I don’t know why people keep sending me shit like that, it’s not as if it’s a secret we’re married.”

“What, you don’t think you can do better than a bastard from only a minor house?” he joked. “I’m sure you could if you tried.”

“But I don’t want to do better than a bastard from a minor house,” she said, looking up at him. “I want you.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest, as it always did when she looked at him like that. He leaned into the hand that she brought up to his cheek and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm.

“And what, pray tell, did your mystery admirer say to you to earn such a fiery rejection?”

Kitali sighed. “So. He started with an actual introduction.”

“Already better than the last one,” Aymeric remarked.

“Better than the last one,” she agreed. “Then the first page or so was spent extolling my many virtues-” she rolled her eyes mockingly- “half of which were exaggerated and the other half were entirely fabricated. Then he started making all sorts of assumptions about how I must surely be a ‘woman of the world’, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and how I would surely be in want of a partner who could match my sense of adventure. And then he suggested that I run away with him, at which point I threw it in the fire. I have no interest in reading what he thinks would happen on such an affair.”

“Hm. Not very original, I must say,” Aymeric hummed. “I think I have…...no less than three books on that shelf alone that follow the very same plot.”

Kitali chuckled.

“The whole thing read like a bad soup of every two gil romance book I’ve ever read. It was so-” She stopped, motioning searchingly in front of her. “What’s the word. There has to be a word.”

“Hackneyed,” Aymeric supplied. “Cliched. Trite.”

“Sure, one of those.” She sighed again. “I leave for a tenday and this is what I come home to.”

[mimble-sparklepudding]

17. Sally.

On the backs of their feathery steeds,

Ishgard's knights perform notable deeds,

From up in the North,

They'll all sally forth,

At profoundly remarkable speeds...

FFXIVwrite2024 is charging into battle!

(With many thanks to @houserosaire who very kindly took some amazing screenshots of his chivalrous knight Baron Silvaineaux de Rosaire charging at full tilt)

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #16 - Third-rate

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #16 - Third-rate

Briar tilted his head, watching Aeluan with curious fascination. He wasn't quite sure what the paladin was doing, but it was intriguing to watch the man as he worked. At the moment, the Raen was carefully examining several pieces of wood. He was doing so with such intensity that the vendor selling looked somewhere between baffled and concerned.

"No," Aeluan said finally with a frown. "Not at this price."

The vendor sputtered and animatedly gestured at the wood Aeluan was currently frowning at. "Sir, this is the finest northern pine wood and--"

"It's third-rate at best," Aeluan cut in, polite but firm. "It is full of knots and still needs proper curing. Look." He pressed a nail into the wood, denting it. "Not to mention you can see discolourations from the sun." The paladin folded his arms and lifted his chin. "I'll give you half."

"��Half?" the vendor said, trying to look offended but paling slightly when Aeluan pointed out the wood's imperfections. "It was imported, sir! I would be selling at a loss! Perhaps we can come to an agreement?"

Briar watched in silent interest as Aeluan haggled and countered the vendor, who was doing their very best to make the wood sound exceptional as well as get Aeluan to buy more. It made Briar's head spin a bit, but it was nice to see Aeluan calm, confident, and assured in his stance. Not that the paladin wasn't often a steady presence, but he was clearly in his element at the moment.

At last, the vendor threw up their hands and sighed. "Very well," they groaned. "But my children will starve," they muttered dramatically. "I can have the wood delivered by the evening, sir."

"Thank you," Aeluan said politely, lips twitching in a smile. "Also, you don't have any children."

"Bah," the vendor huffed, taking his coin and waving Aeluan off. "Be gone with you. I have others to sell to!"

Aeluan chuckled and Briar blinked. He looked up at the paladin as he was herded away, glancing over his shoulder at the vendor. "You know him?"

"Oh, quite well," Aeluan said cheerfully, one hand on Briar's back protectively as he kept an eye out on the street. One could never be too careful. "I buy from him often."

"Then why did he try and cheat you?" Briar said with a baffled look.

Aeluan barked a rich laugh. "That? Oh, that's just the game. We always come to a fair price in the end, but getting there is half the fun." He glanced down at Briar, raising a brow. "You don't haggle?"

Briar shook his head in confusion. "No? Why would I ask for more than I want?"

Aeluan blinked and chuckled again. "Oh, dear," he murmured, shaking his head. "Let's talk about that later. For now, how about some lunch?"

Aeluan belongs to @sword-and-surfboard / @valdiis

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #18: Bard Off

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

A/N: "My Lady's Eyes" is originally from the Valdemar series by Mercedes Lackey. "The Queen of Argyll" (original spelling) is by Scottish folk band Silly Wizard; a fast-paced cover by the Crimson Pirates called "The Queen of Argyle" is what I had in mind for Rere here.

---

“Play My Lady’s Eyes next!”

Rereha pointed her fiddle bow out across the crowd of the Seventh Heaven to where Thancred sat, a shite-eating grin firmly on his face, as rage contorted her own expression. “OUT!” she roared.

Raucous laughter filled the bar as Thancred stood up and blew her a mocking kiss. “My lady’s eyes are like the skies, a soft and sunlit blue,” he sang in a strong, clear tenor as he sauntered towards the door of the Rising Stones. The crowd’s laughter increased.

“YOU DARE,” Rereha howled. She swung the bow down like it was a a thaumaturge's wand and a bolt of ice burst from its tip and flew through the air. “YOU DARE SING THAT GODS-AWFUL DRIVEL IN MY PRESENCE.”

Thancred neatly dodged the icebolt so that it smashed harmlessly into the wall behind him, still grinning. “No other fair could half compare in sweet midsummer—GOODS GODS, RERE.” His singing was interrupted by him diving for cover behind the bar from a crack of lightning.

Rere harrumphed and put bow to fiddle, a fast, high-pitched reel rising from the strings that the Seventh Heaven crowd immediately began clapping along to. “If you want sap,” she said to the bar at large, “make it good sap, aye?”

“AYE!”

“Gentlemen, it is me duty,” and her voice was half a bellow, her anger driving what was normally a staider ballad into something furiously passionate, “to inform you of one beauty, though I’d ask of you a favor and not seek her for a while!”

“Though I own she is a creature,” Thancred’s voice joined her and her fiddle as he emerged from back behind the bar, swinging himself up to sit on the wood, “of character and feature—”

“—no words can paint the picture of the Queen of all Argyle!” the bar roared.

“That’s more like it!”

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2024: 18 Hackneyed

“This is,” Thancred began, waving the thin paperback carelessly. “Quite possibly one of the worst things we have yet read.”

Aeryn snatched the book from him before it slipped—purposefully, the dexterous bastard—from his fingers, glowering. “You liked the characters.”

He grinned at her indignation. “I liked a character, and how she makes the others come to life when sharing scenes, but one well-written character who is quite likely the author’s self-insert cannot make up for a trite and tired plot. Which you said of it first.”

“I said it employed some hackneyed tropes that did weaken the climactic moment,” Aeryn said, trying to smooth the spine and cover again. “You’ve gotten crumbs in the binding, how in the world…”

“Anyroad,” Thancred said with a dismissive shrug. “I think we can agree that even for a cheap yellowback, it’s a stale and clichéd tale that was produced for a quick gil and will be forgotten just as easily.”

Aeryn nodded, shaking the last of the crumbs out and fixing a few dog-eared corners. “It’s the sort of novel that lives up to the stereotype of purchases from those wandering book stalls. Yet you never fail to let them stop you and sell you some tawdry affair.”

“When we were young, Fourchenault once called them a plague in the city streets, and thus did they become my favorite places from which to purchase reading material,” Thancred replied cheerfully. “I have in fact found a few rare gems among the muck, now and again.” He gestured at the tattered tome Aeryn was attempting to clean up. “This is not one of them.”

“Highly readable, though,” she mused. “You know it’s drivel, and yet keep going because it simply moves along.”

“Oh, the author has a way with words, certainly. Neither of us stumbled or grew tongue-tied whilst reading aloud. Excellent craftsmanship. Now if they could only extend that to plot and characters.”

“Perhaps they do,” Aeryn said. “The bookseller said this is an early entry in a series.”

“No!”

She nodded. “A dozen and counting, all around that one shining character and her exploits.”

Thancred rubbed his chin. “Hrm. This may bear further investigation, then.”

“You said you hated it.”

“I said it was among the worst things we’ve ever read. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. And so did you.”

“Well. Sure. But do we really want to read more?”

“Now that we are aware of the possibilities, I say we unfortunately need to. It’s become an imperative.”

Aeryn rolled her eyes.

“I’m quite serious,” Thancred said, getting up and meandering to the door. He looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Especially since some of that authorial talent with wordplay during the sex scene had quite the impressive effect on you.”

Her blush instantly darkened her cheeks as she opened her mouth to retort, snapped it closed again, and resorted to glaring and fuming about how mad she actually wasn’t. She would not throw the book—for various reasons, chief among them her tendency to baby anything bound—but it was probably one of the closest baits he had managed yet.

“Come along,” he urged, nonchalant. “Let’s find that bookseller and see if they have more of these wretched things, and if they do in fact improve with the writer’s practice.”

She did join him, and arm in arm they made their way out to Sharlayan’s streets and plazas, searching out cheap and terrible reading material.

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 16: Third-rate

lyse has quiet, but difficult, evening. lyse & fordola. lyse POV & character study. early endwalker spoilers. written for ffxivwrite2024. rated: general 1864 words. ao3 link

Since the liberation it has become her custom to walk the walls—and tonight she needs it more than ever.

Lyse tugs at the sleeves of her fleece sweater, thankful for the extra warmth. It was a gift from Cirina sent among the most recent shipment from their allies in Othard, knitted from thick wool and embroidered and dyed with traditional Mol decorations and colours. She appreciates the thoughtfulness. Gyr Abania may have a different climate from the Steppe, but mountains are chilly at night regardless of where they are.  

She slows to a halt and leans against the battlements, resting her folded arms against the roughhewn red stone. The city stretches out before her, calm and peaceful, its spires and towers a subdued reddish purple against a sea of stars. The windows glow warm with the light of candles and lanterns, the streets rumble with the sound of night duty officers preparing for the next day, and vendors have long since closed shop, leaving the market an empty shadow of itself. Some Alliance soldiers have, like her, taken to wandering the city, taking it in for once last time. The bulk of the Ilsabard Contingent takes flight tomorrow—of course many of them, regardless of which city-state they hail from—are sensing more than a little trepidation.

She wonders how many will get a good night’s sleep tonight.

Oh, Papalymo. If only you could see us now.  

“Didn’t expect to see you up here,” a voice drawls behind her.

Lyse pauses, her jaw clenched, her heart clenching painfully in that all too familiar way. A sickened ache that cannot be relieved. “What are you doing up here, Fordola?” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “I thought you would be…”

“Out of the way?” Fordola spits on the ground and comes to join her, leaning against the battlements with a catlike grace. She towers over her, tall like a true Highlander. “Wouldn’t you wish?” She snorts and stretches, raising her hands high above her, her neckline tugged with her movements, revealing the collar glinting at her throat. “I have to do something with my time outside of keeping Arenvald company.”

“Maybe you can go back to that,” Lyse says flatly. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“This? What’s this? Simple conversation?”

“Simple conversation with you.”

Fordola shrugs. “Get your own piece of wall, then, if my presence is so unbearable,” she retorts. “I was here first and there’s plenty of wall to go around.”

Anger twists deep in the pit of her stomach. Lyse opens her mouth, a retort on the tip of her tongue—and then movement catches her eye. Below, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn are gathering, preparing for the next stages. Perhaps it’s a briefing, or perhaps they are about to head to their airship. Either way, it’s important.

They are already dressed in the winter gear she knows was sourced and lovingly crafted for them by Tataru.

She presses a hand to her cheek. Her eyes are stinging and it’s not the wind’s fault.

It has been a year and a half since she resigned from the organization. Much has happened since then—war, politics, more war, a restoration effort she has yet to fully understand and constantly fears is about to slip out from under her. For her, time has gone slowly, every month, every week, every day passing by to the beat of a slow, constant drum. It has not been so for them. Timed raced forwards—literally so, and accounting for years in some cases, like Thancred’s. She knew what she was letting go of when she left, and she knew it was for the best.

And yet her decision still hurts. Still aches. She has what she wants now, so why can’t she be happy?

Her life has been spent waiting in the wings, looking into something that could never be hers. In Sharlayan, she looked up to her sister—smart, clever, beautiful, capable of going toe-to-toe with the nation’s best and brightest and earning her Archon’s marks fair and square. After, she still idolized Yda, to the point that she became her in order to make something of her life. She wasn’t an Archon, she wasn’t even clever enough to apply to the Studium. She was just a girl who was good at punching things, and Sharlayan doesn’t have much use for that.  

She was given a place with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, but she never felt she earned it on her own merits. She could become her sister, or be compared to her sister. Lyse, on her own, was never good enough. Except with Papalymo.

And so she left. She chased her dream, as herself—an Ala Mhigo liberated, a Gyr Abania freed. And yet even now she feels uncertain of herself and the position she has claimed. Many doubt her, for her youth and her inexperience. Others compare to her to the likes of Aymeric and Hien, saying she lacks the political acumen to lead a restoration the way Ishgard and Doma have. Others still pass over her and look to Raubahn, the general, the warrior, the man who commands a presence she can only dream of. They listen to him. He may have escaped to Ul’dah, but he is Ala Mhigan in his heart and soul. He looks Ala Mhigan. His was a true homecoming.

Whereas she has her father’s name and not much else. Some say she has more Sharlayan in her than Ala Mhigo.

She is in too far now to return to the Scions, though she knows they would welcome her. She made her choice, she must commit to it. And yet she still feels the longing for company, that feeling of being among close friend that she so sorely misses. Who does she have? Raubahn? Arenvald? Fordola? Gods, no. At least Cirina writes her often, from half a world away. Alisaie, too, though her letters have become more and more infrequent of late.

Lyse exhales a long breath, staring dully down at the road below. Y’shtola, Urianger and G’raha conversing in a corner. Estinien shadowing Alphinaud and Alisaie as they walk the length of the street, arguing loudly, pausing only to speak with an Alliance officer here and there. Even Krile and Tataru are here, fussing over their friends. Thancred and Aureia are huddled down together a little ways away, his hand in hers, her head on his shoulder. They’re married now, it’s hard to believe, their lives taking a wild and unexpected turn while they were on the First.

Alisaie said the ceremony was beautiful. A small affair, organized quickly as they were concerned for Thancred’s failing health and soul. Perhaps they will have another one now they’ve returned to Eorzea, but there simply hasn’t been time.  

So strange. Lyse can’t quite wrap her head around it. Only a few months ago she was still under the impression that Aureia and Thancred hated each other. Which, she supposes, highlights the point: it’s not that the Scions haven’t given her any  

It’s not that the Scions haven’t given her any thought. Nor is it that they don’t care.

It’s simply that they have moved on to a place that no longer includes her.

She grips her sweater, twisting it into a fist over her heart. She knows it’s foolish, but it hurts seeing them gathered all together like this. Perhaps if it was just Aureia and Thancred, Urianger and Y’shtola, the twins… It’s ridiculous, but knowing how quickly G’raha was brought into their fold stings. It stings to know that his failed attempts to summon Aureia to the First were behind their vanishing souls some time ago. That his mistake pulled away those closest to Aureia by accident.

Lyse thought she was close to Aureia. Perhaps that was not so. She was furious with her at the time for reasons she cannot explain, but that does not mean she did not still think of her as a friend. It does not replace the years of friendship they had in the Waking Sands and the Rising Stones all those years ago, nor throughout their time in Othard.

Does it?

She wets her low lip. Even Estinien’s presence stings, though she has nothing against the dragoon. He has been swept into events whether he likes it or not; and she suspects that if he were to say no and leave, Krile and Tataru would simply track him down once more. Even so, he fits in a way she never did, his bond with Alphinaud plain to see.  

She’s missed so much. Some of it because of her own decisions, yes, but it hurts to witness firsthand how easily she has been replaced. No matter how hard she works, no matter how much she cares, her fate is always to be second or third-rate.  

“…should I leave you be?” Fordola says quietly.

Lyse blinks, tears blurring her vision. She wipes them away with the back of her hand, shivering as a wave of cold wind rushes over her. “I… don’t know,” she replies, trailing off awkwardly. She can’t allow herself to be emotional in front of Fordola of all people. To distract herself, she disentangles her hand from her sweater and smooths down the front. She shouldn’t pull the thread when she doesn’t know how to fix it. Cirina made it for her.

“Then please say something,” Fordola continues, blunter this time. “Shout at me. Curse at me. Punch a wall. You are far too quiet and it’s making my insides crawl.”

Lyse snorts quietly. Damn it. Fordola has no right to make her smile. “Good to know I have such a dreadful effect on you.”

“Lyse—”

She meets her gaze.

“You going with them?” Fordola’s eyes are dark and quiet.

“I will. At the head of the Contignent’s Ala Mhigan forces.”

“I meant with the Scions, not with bloody Ala Mhigo.”

She swallows the lump in her throat. “Then, no. I will be serving my country, not my friends.”

Silence. Wind howls in her ears, turning the tips raw and red. Perhaps she should write to Cirina and ask for a hat.

“A bit of advice—” Fordola begins.

“No, thank you.”

She sighs, irritation flickering across her face. “Look, you don’t have to like to me in order to listen to me,” she says firmly. “But I know something about looking for something in all the wrong places. Maybe you belonged to that group down there once, but you don’t anymore. Stop looking for what you want with people who barely acknowledge you, and look for it with those who do.”

Her stomach drops. She’s not sure what’s worse—that she knows it is true, or that Fordola was the one to say it. “I’m going to tell you this once,” Lyse hisses. “That’s the last time you’re going to give me advice, all right?”

Fordola shrugs in that irritating ambivalent way of hers. “If you say so.”

Lyse lets out an aggravated sigh. Pushing away from the wall, she grips Cirina’s sweater around herself and stalks down the stairs and out of sight.

[sea-wolf-coast-to-coast]

Prompt #17: Sally

Submit your entry here: https://forms.gle/jDWjFKfmeaGnH3PL9

#FFxivWrite2024 is underway – a daily writing challenge presented to the Final Fantasy XIV writing community for the month of September. You can join any time throughout the challenge with any prompt number! Entries can be written on any online writing platform (tumblr, Archive of our Own, Google Docs, etc.). Submit the link and be sure that I have reading access. Check you entries here in the Public Spreadsheet

Rules & Info || Prompt List || #FFxivWrite2024 || kofi

[keicordelle]

FFXIV Write Day 5: Stamp

[Stained parchment, crumpled and worn, rendered nearly illegible by age. Found behind untouched crates in a storage room in the Waking Sands.]

Seventh day of the Sixth Astral Moon, year 0 of the Seventh Astral Era Dear Mr. Tragbharsyn and Mrs. Uwilsyngwyn Dear Wilfsunn and Bloewyda Bloewyda and Wilfsunn, I know not how I might Moenbryda is I regret to inform you I cannot express my sorrow that The words to express such a It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of Moenbryda I have failed to protect Moenbryda was struck down while trying to preserve Moenbryda has valiantly given her life You would have been proud of her How could one possibly express the sorrow of losing From distant shores did she come, and to distant shores I wish it had been otherwise I was not strong enough to save Her bravery has saved I cannot begin to I wish, as I am certain you do, that I had been the She was I cannot

7.11.0 Bloewyda, Wilfsunn, I'm sorry.

[pitchbog]

A makeup prize for @freelance7 - the warrior of light, Rev! Happy to be able to draw such a cool cat~ Thanks to @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast for organizing everything!!

[iron-sparrow]

不及 【 bùjí 】 THIRD-RATE /ˌTHərdˈrāt/ adjective

of third quality or value : inferior

As we encounter more and more people, you are bound to lose touch with some of them. Does this diminish your love?

Being replaced ⸺ that must be the most common fear.

I want to be first in your life, the way you are first in mine. This is my selfish secret.

Now I have almost vanished from even your peripheral, slipping from the corner of your eye. Can you at least still love the memory of me?

You do not see me anymore, and the thoughts of me are hidden in an overgrown garden you cherish but forget to visit. I remain here, however.

I will always be here ⸺ the foundation under your shaky steps.

FFXIV 30 DAY WRITING CHALLENGE

[ahollowgrave]

Steer (verb): to direct the course of.  A young nun far from home. Some waterway of Vylbrand.

Wooden plants creak in protest as the ferry glides through water pushing the opposite direction. The ferryman whistles a tune as he gazes forward, his work second nature to him. You marvel at it. Watch as his arm flexes and the ferry effortlessly pivots past an outcropping of bright white stone. The canyon river is narrow and winding and he knows it well. His eyes - a velvety brown - catch yours and his big mustache bends with a smile and a wink.

You look away, embarrassed.  Lean over the edge of the boat. The water here is impossibly clear and you can see the smooth pebbles at the bottom. Schools of fish drift by, and minerals and rocks glint in the afternoon light. You spot and identify several useful water plants before the flow of water begins to make you dizzy. 

You could not bear to catch the ferryman’s eye again. Your stomach clenching at the mere idea. Thankfully, the ferry is full. Farmhands lean against one another, hats pulled low as they doze. Their hands are weathered with dirt packed under the nails, in the knuckles. They breathe in sync. A trio of adventurers in the front have a map out; they’ve been arguing in hushed voices since boarding. They talk over each other in familiar patterns. A child leans over the edge of the boat, their mother’s fingers clutching the back of their tunic. She points out a turtle sunning itself on a rock. Their laughs match.

A sharp, green shoot of yearning sprouts along your rib, pierces the soft muscle of your heart. 

Your pack rests solidly against your legs. A short but effective wall between the seat you claimed and the rest of the passengers. It isn’t personal, you try to say with your expression, you just need your space. 

The ferryman’s hands pull the rudder and the boat responds in a graceful, slowing turn. It comes to a stop with a gentle bump against the dock. There is a chorus of rough laughter from the bow and as you watch the adventurers clap each other on the back, share long-lived grins. They’ve had that argument before and they’ll have it at least twice more before it’s done. The mother and her child are the first ones off, carefully aided by dockworkers. The child squeals with laughter as a worker pulls a flower from behind their ear. You rub at your chest. Falling in behind the farmhands you shoulder your pack. You will lose your fellow passengers soon -- to the crowd and to their paths. You don’t know their names and only some of their faces yet still you grieve these minuscule relationships.

Laughter and song pour out onto the street from an open door. An tavern, bustling and busy in the middle of the day, bards reciting old favorites. From the street you glimpse skirts flaring in the steps of a spirited dance; flowers blooming with each turn. It would be easy enough to slip inside, find a corner to claim, build more tiny relationships between strangers.

The letter you carry -- carefully folded in your chest pocket -- is time-sensitive. And the address it bids you travel to is far from this harbor town. Isolated. You linger. You could delay your trip for a day, perhaps two. 

You leave the open door behind. Guided, as always, by the chilled hand of your most holy bride.

[mimble-sparklepudding]

10. Stable.

My chocobo got loose from her stable,

And to catch her I was quite unable,

For in spite of my labours,

She broke into the neighbours'

And ate all the fruit off their table.