#Gelmorran

[the-wardens-torch]

FFXIVwrite2024: Halcyon

Prompt #6, Entry #4 Masterpost so far

((This thing fought me SO HARD. However, the prompt was to spot-on to ignore considering Fal's father's last name, and the fact that I wrote about names for my last prompt as well. This bit comes directly after this bit, by the way. Which I wrote... too many years ago.))

Uther was already talking about arcanima and what sorts of things his son could do with it, oblivious to the fact that he wasn't listening.

Falerin had managed to still the shaking in his hands, although a pair of sharp blue eyes still seemed to peer at him from the darkened corners of the room. It had been months since he'd had the dream about those eyes, and now, thanks to what his father had just said, he could put them to a person. His grandmother. The Duskwight witch, ever preoccupied with herbs and charms and fortune-telling.

"What was her name?" he asked.

"Didn't you hear me before? I brought you here to show you the possibilities of someone with a unique talent like… yours, not reminisce for what never was and never will be."

When he had said the word "yours," Uther's gaze had lingered on the tiny red glow emanating from just behind Fal's head where Ruby was hiding. Unfortunately the soft reflection of her light against a backdrop of dark hair made her easy to spot in Uther's dimly lit house. Her wings quivered softly against the nape of his neck. She had always had a tendency to hide herself from prying eyes, but that tendency seemed especially prominent around Uther. Fal casually moved a bit of his hair over his shoulder to block her.

"Look. The way I see it, you have a lot to answer for here… I haven't even touched on the fact that you had a kid with a married woman and left him to rot halfway across the world."

Uther sighed. "Her name was Laragenie Alcyone. Its a name that appears nowhere in the annals of Gelmorra, or in the Ul'Dahn citizen's registry. From all I can tell, its just a name for a fish-eating bird. Utterly worthless."

He said it with the callous contempt of a spoiled child given an inadequate birthday gift, even down to the way he crossed his arms after he was done speaking. But the distant look on his face betrayed his real sentiment.

"Honestly, I don't understand why the sudden preoccupation. Of all the things we could be talking about right now, you choose this nonsense?"

Falerin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, studying his father's face carefully to gauge his reaction to what he was going to say next.

"Its because I saw her in a dream."

Uther's eyes widened for a split second as he made a nasal sound somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. Fal wouldn't have even had to be looking directly at him to see that the revelation had caught him off-guard.

"Ah. That would be just like her to still be spreading nonsense even after her own death. She fancied herself an oneiromancer… One who can read the future through dreams. Junk science and parlor tricks, all of it."

Falerin froze. That certainly wasn't the answer he was expecting. Uther picked up the nearest book and shufffled the pages.

"…And did I not tell you that you inherited her eyes? They're practically a mirror image of hers. It's... strange. Your mind was probably reconstructing what you saw when you last saw yourself in a mirror. Not everything has to be a melodrama."

"I see." Falerin mumbled. His father's use of the word "mirror" sent a sort of hollow chill through Falerin's body as he recalled the unfamiliar female voice that had spoken to him in that dream.

…We see one another from opposite sides of a mirror of blood…

Falerin clasped his hands in front of his mouth and resting his elbows on the table to disguise the renewed shaking in his hands.

((Also, kingfisher birds are in the family Alcedinidae, a name that shares the same mythological root as "Halycon," and here's a picture of my personal favorite species because I just love birds so much you guys.))

Photo by whistling wings photography.

[placesyoucallhome]

And that life itself could not aspire To have someone be so admired I threw creation to my kin With a silence broken by a whispered wind

All of this can be broken All of this can be broken Hold your devil by his spoke and spin him to the ground

[wyrmwinds]

I finally received my friends’ Verified Dawntrail Seal of Approval so I will be playing it (in a bit, as I am currently busy) and they have noted that Arcadion has some especially good lore/gpose stuff for me specifically while not giving any details so my current guesses are:

One of Midgardsormr’s grandchildren is running the fighting ring

Once she regained enough of her power, Azdaja wants to wreck shop in the fighting ring

Tiamat got lost on the way to Meracydia and is having a brief stint in televised bloodsport

The duskwight lore was in Gamer Paradise all along

[crystal-verse]

Fun lore:

Since he's a god, K'pheli cannot be tempted by a primal.

Odin possesses the body of whoever landed the killing blow.

K'pheli is a Dark Knight and also a system.

To connect the dots: K'pheli kills Odin, Odin tries to possess him and instead gets added to the system, and K'pheli wields Zantetsuken as his Dark Knight weapon.

[bakuzen-xiv]

wait a minute. ELF??

Bro why u look at me like that chill!!!

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #16: Third-rate

Bloody, dirty, and sore, Locke marched across the room and dropped the pouch full of Gelmorran flowers on the counter. Even cut from their roots and taken from their garden, their blue petals pulsed, flashes of scarlet light leaking from the pouch’s opening. “Rough go of things?” Odranne asked, though her face only briefly showed concern. It soon dissipated, replaced by a smile as her eyes fell upon the pouch. “Not so rough you didn’t return with the flowers, it seems. Well done.” “Only just.” Locke dropped into a chair and groaned softly. It was immediate relief for his feet, even if it did nothing for the rest of him. “Don’t think you should send anyone back there though. Whatever you’re doing, make it work just with what I brought back. Dangerous down there.” “What did you find?” She looked back up from the petals, seemingly curious. “An annoying but chivalrous ghost.”

Odranne lifted her eyebrows. “Oh?” “They kept mentioning ‘Her Highness.’ We robbed a dead princess, I think.”

“Long-dead,” Odranne said. “Centuries ago, back when Gelmorra had monarchs and nobles and, well, people. But her garden endures, fortunately.”

“In large part because of her knight, I think. They were more than happy to kill to protect it.” Locke ran his hand through his hair, brushing bangs stiff with sweat and dirt back from his face before rubbing his eye. The headache still throbbed behind it. Experience told him it was there to stay, at least until he got some food in his belly and a good night’s sleep.

“You dispatched this annoying but chivalrous ghost then?” Odranne asked.

“Nah. Not really suited to killing ghosts. Blades and bullets don’t work so good. Fought them to a draw instead.”

A draw was a generous interpretation of their duel, considering the knight had made him look like a third-rate swordsman, but they weren't present to argue that fact. Locke wondered if they had managed to save the garden, but only for a moment, then he shoved that worry to the back of his mind. It wasn’t his problem.

Odranne nodded wordlessly. Was that disappointment there, in the gentle downward turn of her mouth? Or a trick of the light? It was gone when she looked at Locke again.

“Oh, well. You brought back more than enough flowers. With a little luck, this will be all I’ll need. We can call this a success.” Odranne rose from her seat and retrieved a package wrapped in brown paper and a coin purse the size of Locke’s fists held together.

“This,” she said, holding up the parcel before handing it over, “is our friend’s medicine. Do be careful with it.”

Locke wrapped the package up in his cloak and set it at the top of his bag. Barring another woodland incident, it seemed safe enough.

“And this is your pay.” She set the purse on the table; its contents clicked and jingled pleasantly. “You seem accustomed to, ah, shall we say less than ideal conditions? I expect you’ll make it last.”

Locke tilted his head to one side, unsure of what to make of Odranne’s comment, but in the end he decided it didn’t matter. After a quick peek into the coin purse — it was, in fact, real gil — he stowed it away in his bag and stood up.

“Pleasure doing business,” Locke said, though he didn’t think he meant it.

“Likewise. Safe travels, delivery boy.”

Locke nodded and made his way across the workshop. Behind him, he heard the clink of glass bottles and the click of a pestle and mortar as Odranne assembled her equipment. He opened the door and stepped through, leaving her to her work.

He walked through Gridania, head down and eyes forward, avoiding crowds when possible and pushing his way through them when it wasn’t. He briefly entertained the thought of visiting the botanist’s guild and bartering for a bit of wood, but his tools were in the nook he’d found for himself up in Ishgard. Fixing his prosthetic meant heading north again or wasting money on a set of tools in Gridania. Anything of quality would cost him coin he wasn’t willing to spend.

It was Coerthas or rebuild his arm with shoddy equipment.

In the end, he chose neither.

Locke set off southward, back in the direction of the old hermit’s hut. Were he rested, fed, not suffering a clairvoyance-induced headache, still in possession of a functioning left arm, and in the mood to potentially be hunted by a wolf-like thing with too many mouths, he’d have chosen a shortcut through the deeper parts of the forest.

Instead, he did the sensible thing this time and stuck to the road.

Not a bell before nightfall, he found himself approaching a ramshackle little inn. Grimy lamps stood guard over a worn down sign just outside, the name illegible to literate travelers, the little picture above the name eroded by time and weather until it was illegible to Locke. He ventured inside, reserved a bed for a pittance, and purchased a meal of watery vegetable soup with a chunk of stale bread on the side.

By the time he’d dunked his head into a shallow basin, wolfed down his dinner, and passed several ticks listening to two old stablehands argue about chocobo racing, he should have been ready for bed. The previous night had been long, spent delving into Gelmorra’s halls and journeying back to Gridania, and everything ached. He needed, and wanted, rest.

But before he knew it, his feet were carrying him outside and off to the side of the inn. A gentle breeze ghosted across his skin, the light chill a relief against his newest wounds. It was a clear night, perfect for stargazing, though he hardly spared them a glance as he shed his outermost layers and drew his sword.

He had eyes only for the memory of the Gelmorran knight who’d bested him.

[karygurl]

FFXIVWrite #6: Halcyon

The funny thing with amnesia is, the victim literally does not know what they're missing.

Cassandra's memories only went back to about a year before she joined the Scions, when she'd awoken startled and disoriented behind a locked door in a Gelmorran ruin. In addition to her own panic, she'd given the archaeologists who were investigating there quite a fright.

Once she'd found her footing, she'd searched wherever she could think of for fragments of anything familiar, to no avail. The elementals were little assistance despite her tutelage in conjury, their abstract understanding of the world amounting to little beyond their almost affectionate term of endearment of her that felt something like, "daughter of far earth."

It was many years and many disappointments later that she found a lead, or rather, Thancred did. He'd discovered that a simple melody that she'd often absentmindedly hum under her breath was actually a Bozjan lullaby. Though she wasn't able to follow the lead for some time, once she'd concluded her business on the First, she'd taken only a brief respite before heading to the war torn country to not only assist the resistance, but try and discover her roots.

Unfortunately, as Headmaster Montichaigne taught her much later, once memories had been seared with aether, they were locked away until their owner returned to the aetherial sea. Though she didn't consciously know the incident that led to her amnesia, the explanation felt right, that the memories she wished with all her heart to recall were still there somewhere, out of reach.

Memories of shockingly brilliant blue bricks lining the roads, dusty and warm in the midday sun. Trees with thick bark that grew in small discs, appearing almost as if to be scales. The distinctive clink of metallic carving tools striking stone. The echo inside buildings with ceilings of soaring domes overhead. The scrape of caravan wheels and plumes of dust billowing from swathes of cloth.

An older brother who always snuck her a sticky sweet, her favorite. Parents who toiled hard and loved their children just as hard.

Halcyon days, lost to her forever. But then, by the grace of Hydaelyn (or perhaps Azem?), there were just as many joyous memories to be had here in her present, too.

[theblackestnight-ffxiv]

[ffxivwrite2024] prompt 16: third-rate

“Seven hells, I’ve had it!” D’zinhla threw up her hands, scowling daggers at the paperwork on her desk.

From behind her, she registered Airraim’s curiosity-tinged concern. “What’s wrong, love?” she asked, and after the sound of a few footsteps, a hand rested on her shoulder.

D’zinhla was immediately contrite–but still very frustrated. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Airraim,” she said in a softer tone. “It’s just… Well, this folio!” She wrinkled her nose as she gestured at the offending documents. “It was so promising! There’s some very old works in here! Padjali and Gelmorran, besides Gridanian, things I’ve never found before! But because it wasn’t stored right, and especially because it wasn’t printed on the right materials, I could teach a class in incorrect archival procedures from just what’s wrong with this singular folio!”

“Mmm,” and she felt Airraim gently squeeze her shoulder. “That’s a deep disappointment.”

“Gods, is it ever. The only pieces that haven’t had parts lost to degradation are pieces I already have well in evidence in other, much better preserved folios.” She couldn’t help the scorn in her voice. “Meanwhile, the pieces new to me? I can tell, even as old as it is, that the paper was hardly worth the pulp it was made from. Too thin in some places, too thick in others, the thin places have worn away entirely and left me with missing sections.” She sighed, shaking her head. “It was kept well, there’s hardly any book-rot, the spine is cracked but that’s manageable, but when the very paper is fallen apart, that hardly helps preserve the information within!”

“Perhaps it was all the paper they had available?” Airraim ventured.

“Perhaps,” she said, biting her lip. “But that means whoever took possession of it later should have seen to it that copies were made, if not a restoration. Though there’s not a whole lot that can be done to restore what was already of poor quality to begin with.”

Her partner kept her hand on her shoulder, brushing back and forth with her thumb. “Though it could mean that copies are out there that were not kept with this piece.”

She flicked an ear. “True enough,” she conceded. “But they haven’t been found by me, or anyone I know of, so they might as well not exist until they are found. Still, I suppose that might have been done, make copies and keep the original as intact as it was… I could only hope that such copies, if they exist, were made before all this damage.”

“But for now, it doesn’t get you the new material you wanted.”

“Well,” and she hummed, considering the documents. “It does get me evidence of these songs, incomplete though they are. And they are new to me, even if they could have been whole and entire, and are instead piecemeal. Still,” she sighed, and lifted a hand to pat Airraim’s. “Thank you for hearing me out, love. I know the minutiae of document preservation hardly interests you.”

“But it interests you, and therefore, I care to hear about it.” Airraim bent and pressed a kiss to the top of D’zinhla’s head. “You heard me out about my latest batch of fragrance failing miserably.”

“But that I can follow better, it’s-” She stopped herself with a wry smile, twisting in her chair to look up at her partner. “Sorry, you’re right, thank you.”

Airraim smiled, and it filled her with a flood of warmth. “Of course,” she said. “Now- what do you need to go on from here?”

D’zinhla knew she was being shepherded away from her indignation and onward into something more actionable, but she could bite back the ridiculous obstinate urge to resist the attempt. “Well, now I need to start transcribing what I can, before this terrible paper degrades even further. So I’ll need my inks-” 

Her partner chuckled. “I’ll leave you to it then. But I think I will take this time to go put some more tea on.”

“A lovely idea, but no rush for me, I’ll need to keep it off the desk while I’m working.” She was already preparing her workspace, thinking mindfully of what needed to go where, what hazards needed to be mitigated, what steps would need to be taken. She heard another chuckle, and Airraim’s steps away, but it faded into background as she focused on the work in front of her. She could indeed salvage something of worth out of this, even if it wasn’t the prize she had hoped it to be!

[voidsentprinces]

Heavensward sent us into the sky, Stormblood into select seas and lakes, Shadowbringers to the depths of the ocean and highest peak, Endwalker to space and the ends of the universe. So after Dawntrail I want a Gelmorran Duskwight expansion that sends us deep underground.

[gatheredfates]

Tonberry - Tell a story of a time you were blinded by rancor! Is it still ongoing, did you act upon it, does it compel your actions?

Hi, my name is Sea, and I have a lot of thoughts about how utterly fucked up Ishgard is as a nation. I'm putting it under a readmore because there's a lot of dark topics involved (and I ranted a bit).

I've explored bits of it here, here and here, mostly through Elandervier's perspective, but when you actually look at the control enacted by the Holy See, perpetrated by members of the High Houses, it's honestly horrific. Here is a nation overseen by powerful factions ruled by men, in which those beneath them are granted power and prestige based on their politics, money and gender. If you are not rich, cunning or cruel, you will be fed straight into that war machine. Before the Warrior of Light, it didn't matter how 'good' you were or how hard you tried. Aymeric was a good man and still got a knife in his belly because there were people in Ishgard desperate to hang onto a world where a few powerful men held complete control. They wanted to keep doing whatever they wanted to populace so brainwashed by propaganda they didn't have time to see that the call coming from inside the house.

People see Garlemald as being the 'evil' militant faction and, while that is true, I think it comes at the cost of overlooking just how similar Ishgard was towards the dragons. In my opinion, there is so much environmental storytelling indicating young peasants were militarised and drafted into war whether they liked it or not — especially if they were hyur — and high society was strictly regulated to keep the status quo. Garlemald may have been upfront about its fascism but Ishgard has a lot of demons they still need to exorcise.

Both Elandervier and Alaice are products of that machine, and both deal with that in different ways. El is nothing if not rancor. She is the daughter of a middle-class house desperately trying to rid themselves of their Gelmorran roots, and her entire childhood was a lesson in abuse from a mother too frightened to break the machine if feeding her daughter to it make her more comfortable. She had to smile to lordling boys cruel to her because they were lordlings — because going against them was to be branded a heretic at best and a trip to the Brume at worst. At least those outside of Ishgard did not risk the Temple Knights enacting their 'justice' late at night because they were bored or looking for a bit of sport.

Her entire early life was a palatable pantomime. Smile like this, walk like that; why are you inspiring their ire, why are you cracking the porcelain? The well isn't fetid. The tart is sweet because there is sugar, just ignore the poison.

Because El wasn't originally from Ishgard she knew she'd never fit in, and the powers that be were happy to remind her if she thought to put a toe out of line. They called her strange and heckled her; they made fun of her and went out of her way to give her attention because they knew the result would be negative, even if their initial attentiveness was 'kind'. They knew they held all the power to rip what little comforts she had because they had the prestige and she had none, and they spared no effort to put her in place.

The difference is, El didn't want the prestige. She wanted to break the wheel. When they tried to take everything from her, she turned it on them and fled. Highborn fathers lost their pedigree sons born from pretty women offered to the machine and, though she knew others would take their place, she at least got hers.

The worst part was, even when she had established herself in Dravania, she still had people come after her. Sometimes they were mercenaries paid for by the high houses, sometimes they were the lords themselves... and sometimes they were women, children and peasants who equally left the city but had nowhere else to go. They learned of a witch in the northern bogs who practiced dark magic and figured their odds were better than the city that claimed to care and protect them. She'd have young girls fall at her door with wild eyes and swollen bellies because going back would be to face objectification and heresy for crimes committed onto them — not by them. The outrage was palatable, she wanted nothing than to rend them from the inside out, but she was one woman against an oligarchy.

It's an anger that is difficult for to put into words and cannot be levelled against a single person, even if she detests most highborn. El has the recognition that even those higher than her were at the mercy of those higher still, and she did not gain any luxuries by defecting. Yet it still influences her every action. She's compelled to violence and manipulation because they conditioned her to savour it. She makes herself malignant and unknowable because she's too traumatised to know who she really is. She might have escaped the machine but its teeth still mangled her limbs. It's hard to live with.

[tahri-nhupuju]

A while back I talked about some of the world-building I've done for my FFXIV ttrpg campaign. I wanna do that again! Last time I talked about some Keeper of the Moon stuff, and we won't stray to far from that this time, as I talk about a shared tradition between the Keepers and the Duskwights: The Daywatch.

Also called Sunswatch, Dawngurd, or any other permutation depending on regional dialects, this is a tradition of Duskwights hiring themselves out to serve as lookouts and camp guards for the notoriously nocturnal Keepers.

This tradition has persisted since at least Gelmorra, and to this day it's considered a badge of honor for any Duskwight to have "taken the daywatch", hearkening back to old Gelmorran views of the abovegrounds as a dangerous place, and the Keepers as being exceptional survivalists and badasses for living there.

Today however, the tradition has a somewhat muddled reputation. Given the percentage of traditionalist Keepers and Duskwights alike who have to resort to banditry or poaching to make a living, the practice is often associated with hardened criminals, especially in Gridania. Some Duskwight criminals even capitalize on the confusion, and use "taking the daywatch" as a slang term for getting into trouble and/or killing someone, referencing how common it is for the thing you're guarding the Keepers from to be Gridanians.

This has even led to a fringe conspiracy in Gridania that "the Daywatch" refers to a secretive order of duskwight and keeper assassins who secretly plot any number of nefarious plans, akin to the Illuminati (our real-world one, not the gobbies).

[placesyoucallhome]

They all laughed as he turned around slow They said you ain't welcome 'round here anymore You just might as well go He wiped the blood from his face as he slowly came to his knees He said, I'll be back when you least expect it And hell's coming with me Hell's coming with me

[flame-of-tar-valon]

End-of-Year Special 9: Snakemolt

The Tree-Blessed kept the wrath of the forest at bay with their spells. A parade of Moogles flitted in and out of the treeline, keeping things as calm as they could. The Wood Wailers and Gods’ Quiver marched on the outer edges of the group, but their numbers were thin and the civilian populace too large for them to keep a neat perimeter.

Sylphie stood near Beatin, who was shepherding the youngfolk. Normally, Nia’a would have been standing alongside her.

This was not any normal time.

The entire population of Gridania, barring those few who balked at the notion and opted to take their chances, was beginning a long and uncertain trek to the labyrinthine tunnels that had, once, centuries ago, been their home away from the persecution of the Elementals, and which today served as little more than a cellar for the ubiquitous Mun-Tuy beans. It was a long walk, in no small part because the Mun-Tuy Cellars were the only Gelmorran settlements still maintained by the people of Gridania, and were thus located at quite the distance from the city.

E-Sumi-Yan assured him that Nia’a was not responsible for the Greenwrath. Nia’a had acted according to sound priorities with the resources available at hand. It wasn’t his fault, the man assured him in the frustratingly kindhearted tones of someone who spent far too many hours coddling children and tending the ill.

Nia’a knew that, in the end, the Greenwrath was his fault. He had warned them that he wasn’t good for anything, that his presence would be a blight on the city and its entire operation, and still they had put the fate of the Twelveswood in his incapable hands. They assured him it was a routine task, a pilgrimage for children, and had overruled him when he conjectured that there was something more at play. So what if they had overruled his warnings as the inexperienced excuses of a coward?

It was in the middle of this emotional spiral that Nia’a saw the high walls of Quarrymill come into view. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to look. It was O-App-Pesi. The man beckoned Nia’a to follow, detaching from the group and walking south, toward a twisted rift of stone that, if Nia’a knew his geography, would feed into the Rootslake. O-App-Pesi stopped at a set of imposing stone gates marking the entrance to some Gelmorran ruin — no, this was older. This had to be Amdapori.

But Papalymo had issued the same counsel, and had been categorically overruled too, as a fellow outsider. So if the stain of woodsin was enough to render even an experienced advisor's words worthless, then maybe Gridania had messed up by telling its Hearers not to hear him. Maybe Nia'a could be angry at someone other than himself.

“Nia’a Tsara,” O-App-Pesi said. “I must thank you for your time at the Conjurers’ Guild. I am pleased that we have been able to teach you more about the extent of your powers — we had hoped to cultivate them into something strong, but you should know that your failings at Spirithold are not a reflection of your value. We are all placed here to grow and learn, to try and try again, and you mustn’t give in to despair or hopelessness.”

Finally, something inside Nia’a welled up. Something that had been a long time coming. “I’m grateful to you and E-Sumi-Yan for the experience as well. Just as I remain grateful to Pawah Mujuuk. And to Hearer Marmaduke. And to the cultists in Spirithold, who initiated this entire disaster. It is only through those experiences that I realized that you are the same.”

O-App-Pesi opened his mouth to speak, looking suddenly confused about the turn in the conversation, but Nia’a needed to say his piece — he needed to speak now or he would lose the nerve.

“I spent the past six to eight years wandering the woods in search of my father. I have served your city and your connection to the Elementals for that long. I have learned your history and I know of your bargain. I know what you are, Tree-Blessed. You are the fruit of a union between Gelmorran and Elemental. You are the conduit that ensures Gridania’s presence is tolerated.” Nia tried to stand taller, to give himself more willpower. “You. Not me. And you failed at this. Not me.”

O-App-Pesi’s face had never looked more childlike to Nia’a than it did now. Eyes wide, not in fear, exactly, but in some inscrutable emotion that made Nia’a almost lose his resolve again. But some words needed to be said. And something dark came over Nia’a, and the words that needed to be said used him as their conduit:

“Your people have your rituals. My people have mine. You’ve been lurking around to find out how my people do things. Your city has treated my people like we are all Pawah Mujuuk, and Pawah Mujuuk has treated me the same way, because when I met you and told you I was a Seeker of the Sun, I was telling half the truth. I have since learned of what Hearer Marmaduke did to my father all those years ago. You may denounce Marmaduke as a heretic just like I may denounce Pawah as a poacher, but Gridania paints Marmaduke as an exception and Pawah as the norm. But why should I care? In the end, I have a home to return to, and we have kept to our ways and our rituals.” 

“Have you wondered why there are no Padjal—” Nia’a spat the foreign word as if it were a curse— “among the miqo’te? It is not because we are less divine than you. It is because we never caused a calamity that required divine intervention.”

The words spilling out of Nia’a’s mouth felt like a stranger’s. Nia’a didn’t believe anything he was saying, not one bit, and he would never dare speak this way to anyone, let alone one of the Tree-Blessed! But his body moved as if in a dream, and the beating drum of the Greenwrath was silent to his ears again — the murmuring of the Elementals had been silent since the ritual in Spirithold — and Nia’a had spent too many hours fussing over ritual and learning the ins and outs of everything that Tabit Tsalahn did every day to ensure that the clan never lost Menphina’s favor. It wasn’t different from the Tree-Blessed, and there were plenty of Dream Dancers that Nia’a now knew were just Hearers by another name. After Marmaduke's betrayal, Nia’a had scoured book after book to learn of the plight of the Wildlings, even with most books on the subject having been purged, and now an ancient divine judgment was back because of some Tree-Blessed ritual?

So all the thoughts that Nia’a had left to stew in his mind had turned rancid with the inaction on his part, and they had mingled with all the emotion he had buried away in favor of the terror that he fostered and groomed into a beast on a leash that kept him alive — and tonight, on the eve of a catastrophe that would be remembered for centuries, Nia’a had lost the restraint that made him himself. And instead, he stood here and listened to an ugly, bitter, hateful person wearing his name and skin and mind hurl cutting truths at the man who had lied to him in service of the greater good. And to Nia’a’s shame, it felt satisfying.

But then O-App-Pesi said something in response that Nia’a would never have expected.

“Divine intervention, indeed. You see, the Lambs of Dalamud — the cultists who broke the covenant — are ardent followers of Menphina themselves.”

* * *

This is probably the single largest departure from the spirit of the MSQ of all of the HtGHA storylines. Limsa's story was already solid, and Ul'dah's just needed a bit of rearranging to accommodate my characters, but Gridania just felt like it was missing something. So, voilà. Greenwrath.

We're close to the end, folks! Tomorrow we'll see another blasphemous encounter with the divine, and then we'll wrap it up for the year 2024. See you soon!

[tallbluelady]

16. “You won’t believe me.” “Try me.” 

Urianger had been preparing a dinner of Ishgardian onion soup when Rowan opened the door, arms full of sundries. He was about to greet her when she held up a finger and pointed to her ear.

"Aye, Mama, I have the mushrooms... Aye, they are still wet... Aye... no, no, no, you cannot be... it's not like we sleep in different beds or aught like that!" Rowan said with growing exasperation.

Urianger merely quirked and eyebrow and took a few of the handed objects from his wife before saying aught.

She groaned. "I assume you'll check what I did with them when you come in tomorrow, won't you? Mama I... if I do it this one time, will you cease to nag me?" Rowan sighed. "Fine. I'll do it tonight. Aye. Mhm. Love you."

He leaned in to give her a kiss once she was disconnected from the linkpearl. "Is aught amiss, my love?"

She shook her head. "Nay. Tis... naught you need concern yourself with. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I feel as though I may be able to surmise a conclusion of sorts," Urianger said, eyeing the basket of mushrooms. "With thy mention of our sleeping habits."

Rowan snorted. "You are a crafty one, wise archon. The thing is, they aren't even special mushrooms."

He picked one up and turned it. From what he could surmise from the appearance, twas the kind of mushroom that featured in various portions of Gelmorran cuisine. He rather liked the taste of them as part of a savory dish. The wine derived from them however...

"What doth the ritual entail?" he asked, curious.

"Simply that I'm to spread the spores in the garden to ah... increase your ah... yield," she grimaced.

Urianger blinked. "Doth it not make more sense if I were the one to preform the ritual?"

Rowan let out a wheezy chuckle. "That's what I thought. Mama claims that our fertility rituals are the work of women only."

"I had not thought her to hold such antiquated ideals," he said, returning to the still reducing soup. 

"I believe her want for a grandchild is driving her sense away."

"Ah." He picked out a wheel of cheese from the packs and unwrapped it. "May I watch as I shall be the beneficiary of such blessings?"

"I cannot promise anything tantalizing. Any rumors of dancing naked under the full moon are unfortunately all fabricated."

"Are such acts known to detract from the spores potency? For I cannot fathom aught that would increase my potency more than sight of thee bathed in moonlight, preforming sacred rites for my sake," he said as innocently as he could manage.          

He earned a snort of laughter and a peck on the cheek from her for that speech.

[avampyone]

Hemlocke Reines

Thank you for the tag @shroudkeeper and @houserosaire ! <3

Tagging: @ffxivtribehydrae , @ilbers, @amalthea-felsblood, @drowxiv, @corsair-kovacs, @viiioca, @midnightmagicks or anyone who would like to do so!

—𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒔

Name: Hemlocke Reines (Birth name: Seraphine Desmarais) Nicknames: Hemi or Hems Age: 23-24 (He's lost track in the bustle of life.) Nameday: 13th Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon Race: Vampiric Duskwight Elezen Gender: Cis male Orientation: Pansexual (male lean) Profession: Aide to the Arrzaneth Ossuary, bartender, former scion.

—𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔

Hair: Midnight black hair that began to fade at the ends into a dark red ombre after he was fully turned into a vampire. Eyes: Blood red Skin: Very pale, perfect to an almost unsettling degree. Tattoos/scars: Hemlocke doesn't scar or else he would have many, including a deep one across his right cheek. Tattoo ink would only bleed out of his flesh if he attempted to get one.

—𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚

Parents: Ange B'londe - Father (paramour to Olivia, alive but undead), Olivia Desmarais - Mother (deceased) Siblings: Jezebel B'londe - Half sister (Not known to Hemlocke, status unknown) Grandparents: Via Ange: Unnamed Gelmorran maiden (deceased), Father unknown (A certain voidsent, status unknown). Via Olivia: The Le Malheur family, Hemlocke was estranged from his mother's side and not allowed to meet under Gloucent's rules. In-laws and Other: Pierre Beaufort (tutor, father figure to Hemlocke, alive), Gloucent Desmarais (Olivia's husband in an arranged marriage, Hemlocke's guardian father, deceased), Eve B'londe (Ange's wife, deceased) Pets: Bruce, his pet bat and Cookie, the ghost of a great dane.

—𝒔��𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔

Abilities: Natural affinity for black magic, particularly attuned to fire. The wild magic doesn't always work out in his favor, and he occasionally he casts an entirely different spell than what he intended. Hemlocke can use magic without a staff or soul crystal with no fear of his aether burning away, but it can become easily out of control the more he uses without a focus. He can successfully use the teleportation spell 'Flow', but it takes a lot out of him to do. In perilous moments, Hemlocke's 'shadow' might emerge to assist and amplify his magic. In physical combat, he's best with knives and throwing them at a distance. Hobbies: Hemlocke enjoys reading, dancing, traveling, going out to drink, and gardening. He might sing if he's by himself. He plays piano proficiently, but he's still hesitate to try again with this being tied back to bitter memories.

—𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔

Most Positive Trait: Kind and protective. Most Negative Trait: Reckless and conflicted with guilt.

—𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔

Colors: Red, black, silver. Smells: Lavender, rosehip oil, sandalwood, jasmine, and sage.

Textures: Velvet, hearth, layers, midnight, feathers. Drinks: Chamomile or Doman tea, red wine, gin and tonic.

—𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔

Smokes: No. Drinks: Often. Hemlocke likes gin the best, but he isn't really too picky. Drugs: In the past in Ishgard, Hemlocke would take a crystalline substance of white powder he brought in secret. It's equivalent to amphetamine, but he doesn't take it anymore. Mount Issuance: Nightingale, Hemlocke's easily spooked chocobo and occasionally Rose, a gentle bird mount that assists him at the behest of the Vath. Been Arrested: No, but he's had a few close calls.

[before-calamity]

The Mun-Tuy Cellars

Hey! I'm doing a Saturday Stream of FFXIV 1.0 on December 9, 2023 at 10am! Come and watch me dig up information on lost skills, explain how I get everything to work, and we're gonna explore some places. Check it out at http://twitch.tv/maria_puddingway. The Mun-Tuy Cellars in 1.0 are different than the version you see in Modern XIV, which bridges South Shroud to East Shroud. This version is a world dungeon and is of Gelmorran design. It was destroyed in the Calamity and rebuilt, because the Gridanians loved using fermented Mun-Tuy beans in their food, and needed a new place to ferment them.

These cellars are outside of Camp Emerald Moss, which would've been in West Shroud, which isn't seen in the game. Quarrymill, which is where the new cellars in modern FFXIV are located, is in South Shroud. Read on to see more about this world dungeon...

The map is confusing like everything else in FFXIV 1.0. This isn't even FFXI design, this nightmare reminds me of the like you see in Dragon Quest 2.

These round rooms are all the same and all copy-pasted, and reminds me of something you'd see in Tam-Tara Deepcroft, although I'm not sure if a similar style room is there.

Here's where the magic happens! Jars of Mun-Tuy beans fermenting in a cold, dank cave. It's weird that this is like an actual brewery, but monsters have taken it over. You'd think that...ya know, the supply of bean-related goods would've dried out by now, unless the fact that the cellars were overrun were because of the incoming cataclysm.

Lastly, you also see these big kegs, which honestly? Quite cool looking and there's nothing really like this in ARR.