#I play an elezen most of the time

[housedeaubemarle]

On the fourth day of Starlight, Fate gave Ross and Ireul - an encounter with a very odd fan:

"You're going to be okay, Rossignol Martinez."

"Thanks for the support, I guess."

"Don't guess! You will be!"

Bonus:

~~

Ireul

(It's just girls having fun, coz Ireul's fun!)

Strike a hero's pose!

"You're a true hero - go get 'em."

~~

What can I say - I'm a big fan of @escherstrange-ffxiv's kids!

[privateolives]

This moment from my playthrough keeps coming up with friends, so why don't I share the time I accidentally did Aymeric so dirty with my outfit choice for the dinner scene.

So for those of you not aware, my WoL is supposed to be a sweet Thanalan country boy type. Think desert Clark Kent-vibes man but from the burning cliffsides of Thanalan instead of Kansas. And I play a paladin besides, so of course my mildmannered Lambard went through most of Heavensward looking like this:

Covered head beard to toe in steel.

But of course, when Aymeric finally invites you do dinner, that won't do. Showing up in armor would just be impolite! So I pull my ff14 bestie in for an emergency glam sesh trying to figure out what a traditional thanalan lad might wear to a fancy occasion. We end up putting this together, which I was quite pleased with!

Straight Oughtta Ul'dah looking outfit. Looks good right? It's fancy! It's traditional! It's in-character! It's just perfect.

Bit chilly for the road there, so we figure he would have used the supplied Ishgardian coat on the way there. (I didn't get a screencap of that in time sorry)

So I slam the glam on just before the cutscene and go in happily unaware of what I'm about to do to this poor catholic boy and he greets us in a similar coat to what we got... as indoor wear. Which really should have been our first warning of what was to come.

Anyway, we come in and if you, unlike myself, are a nice, observant allosexual, you might already spot the problem.

Because as it turns out, Lambard's beautiful Ul'dahn coat has one major issue when being sat at this type of dinner table.

That being that between the coat and the table, there is now a perfectly triangular window towards the BIGGEST, FATTEST pair of sword-swinging steel-carrying hobby-mining sun-kissed pair of tits to ever grace the frozen lands of Ishgard.

Keep in mind that our poor Aymeric hasn't been lord speaker for long at this point, he's yet to leave Coerthas completely (as far as we know) on any diplomatic missions. He was recently still the knight-commander, polite son of the Pope, from the isolated lands of French Warrior Catholicism, who's grown up and only ever seen tall spindly Elezen people, wearing 50 layers in -oof° degrees celsius weather all day every day every month whole year.

EDIT: It had, in fact, only been 5 years of -WillToLive° outside, thank you @maeljade

And now he's sitting at a private dinner, doomed to look at THIS

for several hours whilst his elderly butler, last remnants of family he has, hovers about the whole time serving that appears to be unseemly amounts of wine

And I took

SEVERAL

HOURS

after the cutscene to realize what I'd done to this poor man.

... Though in my defence, my ace ass was busy laughing my head off at the reaction they give your WoL to the butler mixing you a cocktail.

[fisherrprince]

Do you have any HCs for the Viera? I have been loving your HCs for the Miqo, the Lalafell and the Elezen, I'd love to hear about the Viera!

LES BNUUYS I’ve had this in my drafts forever and just not drawn a viera until now I’ve been lazy—

las bunuys I think get a lot of very similar treatment to everyone else. which mostly means More Bunny. I like to think they’re almost satyr-like and have the most animal leg out of everyone, they have long fuzzy digitigrade legs and long paws! The heels in game is to lengthen their legs to give the illusion of bunny (and also. conventionally attractive), but in the world this is so their heels have relaxed support while they stand for long periods of time doing guarding and stuff. They don’t actually need them. They’re also way tall but not as tall when they’re just relaxed and standing on their heels so what is their real height. their noses are very cute and wiggly. they have little fluffy curled tails which are also very cute. they chatter or grind like rabbits do when they’re happy, but since they don’t have continuously growing teeth like rabbits do, their back teeth just happen to be Insanely Tough. Some parts of Othard don’t have a “lucky rabbits foot” thing they have a “lucky rabbits tooth” thing. I think Dalmasca is in Othard. Viera DO stomp and binky and it IS cute except for when they stomp and it leaves a little crater.

Viera also have the bunny trait of playing “im happier than you” when they don’t get along with someone, which is a competition of showing dominance or confidence by being the chiller person in the room. They might sit down or sprawl uncharacteristically and if you know they don’t like you, this is not them getting comfortable around you, this is an insult. Sometimes Viera can come off as a little uptight and paranoid? This is probably because they can seem stiff on account of being polite, which body language is “stay very still and be very attentive”. If they didn’t grow up around other viera, these two things might not be present. They are cultural traits.

Like hares, viera don’t have a tapetum lucidum, so despite being very sharpsighted they do not have perfect night vision. but unlike hares, viera are omnivores. Also like hares, they come in a lot of colors! Anything from pure black to stark white to brown to red to almost purple. Some viera, like the veena, will change seasonally from white to brown furred. Sometimes viera will have patterns in their fur, like dots or patches, but it’s pretty rare to have rabbits with patterned skin aside from the large amount of them that have freckles. Except, like miqote, in viera born from a viera/hyur couple. There is something in hyur genetics that turns on Patterns: The Gene. scientifically significant!

This is my child she kicks like a HORSE

they also have claws. They are NOT retractable! be so careful. Also viera leverets can stand up and start walking by two days old, but this doesn’t mean their brain is any more developed than another race at two days old, so be. so careful.

[ooeygooeyghoul]

How to make a child model in Anam/Ktisis!

Disclaimer: I am NOT an expert in the use of these mods! I'm still very new and learning the ins and outs of them! This method worked for me, and maybe there are better ways to do it, but I'm just explaining how I created my baby Shiun. If you know of a better way, or have any tips and tricks, please feel free to comment or reblog with your advice for the sake of other gpose newbies! :D Link to Ktisis's download page | Link to Anam's download page Guide and Tips/Warnings below the cut! Hope this helps <3

Summon your partner in crime. So first off, I equipped my summoner job stone and summoned my trusty companion, Carbie.

2. Add your Carbie to your actors. Open up Anam and add your carbie to your list of actors, by clicking the plus sign at the top of the menu next to your character's name (remember that with Anam, you can only edit appearances OUTSIDE of gpose). Click on the little button labeled "Carbuncle" to add them.

3. Turn your Carbie into a person. With your Cabie selected, go to the "Import NPC" at the bottom right and pull up the list. Find an NPC that is the same race as your desired character and select it. In this example, I just chose the first au ra NPC I saw in the list. (You can also directly choose your desired race in the customize menu and start from scratch, but I just do it the Import way, lol) ⚠️As far as I've experienced, it's a 50/50 chance on whether or not you can alter the age of your character's actor directly. Every time I've tried this, it breaks the model and never works the way it should. For simplicity's sake, I've always just used my friend Carbie.

4. Change the age of your new actor. Now if you look at the top left of the Anam window, there's a series of dropdowns next to "Race."

What you want is the bottom right menu. Click it and you'll see "Old," "Normal," and "Young." Clicking "Young" will turn your carbie into the child version of the race it's currently disguised as!

5. Customize and boot up gpose! Now you can customize them to be the adorable mini version of your beloved WoL/OC!! The bones are compatible with Ktisis and should be as easy to manipulate and pose as adult models. If you use the Carbie method as I have in this explanation, you can simply hide your main model in the default Gpose menu for pictures.

Some things to keep in mind! ----

⚠️Not every race has a child model. The only races that have child models are:

au ra - male & female

hyur - male & female

elezen - male & female

miqo'te - female only

⚠️It is very likely that the models will break or look a little funky when you first spawn them. They have a very limited number of faces, and a limited number of available hairstyles. If you choose an option the game does not have, it will create some... interesting results. Most other customizations beyond skin color, hair color, and eye color will also likely not work (tail type/length, jaw type, etc.).

Left: invalid face selected --- Right: invalid hairstyle selected

Usually, faces 1 & 2 are the only viable options, and hairstyles 1-5 are okay. (Note: the pictures of the hairstyle icons will NOT match the hairstyle on the model.)

⚠️Clothing is also fairly limited! I'm not sure what dictates what child models can and cannot wear, so as far as I know, it's just a game of trial and error. You'll know immediately if an article of clothing isn't compatible lmaoo. Hats... rarely ever work...

✨Don't forget that you can save your model's data! When your model is customized to your liking, click "Export" at the bottom right of the menu to save the data to Anam. That way, you can load the appearance immediately without rebuilding it every time!

It's a mixed bag of what will and won't work on the model. My best advice is to experiment and play around with it! It took me a little bit to figure all of this out, so hopefully this silly little explanation helps out all the other new gposers out there :)

If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to reach out and ask! I'll do my best to help! I may edit this as I go to correct things and/or add onto it!

[hazelkjt]

quarrel — for the single-word drive!

"Quarrel- A heated argument or disagreement, typically about a trivial issue and between people who are usually on good terms."

Light snowfall danced upon the winds at Falcon's Nest, the sun fighting its never ending battle to pierce the clouds. The cold atmosphere usually gets to Hazel, but something else was currently on her mind at the moment. Someone else, more specifically. As the Au Ra waited by the airship landing zone for the next flight back to Ishgard, her gaze was fixated on a certain young Elezen tending to his bruises and aches. Despite the obvious pain he was in, Emmanellain de Fortemps had a curious smile across his face. "Ugh...I know I had asked you not to hold back against me old girl, but you may have gone overboard this time." He remarked to Hazel with a pained chuckle in his voice. The Auri woman turned her face away from the man and scrunched her nose. "I have no idea what you mean, I sparred the same way I always do." She spoke while trying her best to keep her disdain as low as she could, to little effect. There it was again. "OId girl." A term of endearment Emmanellain used for his female friends, however few he has. Hazel knew she shouldn't hold it against him for using it with her, she knows that...but regardless...

"...or perhaps the fact that you have been fighting more fiercely of late means I truly am improving! Lady Laniaitte is sure to take notice!" And the mention of her brings Hazel back to Emmanellain's rambling she was ignoring. Hazel turned back to face the Elezen, the look on her face enough to wipe the dazed grin from his. "Is something the matter, old girl?" He asked, genuine confusion in his voice. Hazel had kept her mouth shut for as long as she could, but just couldn't stand it anymore. She stands up, hands curling into fists as she stares daggers at Emmanellain. "How long do you intend to keep living in your own little fairy tale about her? There's no fucking way you're this dense. You've got something resembling a brain in there, Emm." A slight scowl formed on her face as she began to air her frustrations. Emmanellain stops rubbing his bruised ribcage and leans back on the ground, breaking eye contact with Hazel. "I...haven't the slightest what you mean, haha!" He forces a smile to the surface, but the shaking in his voice gives it away. So Hazel continues to press the subject. "Oh come on Emm, it's the most obvious thing on the star. She doesn't care for you! At all! You're just a nuisance to her!" Emmanellain begins to stand and opens his mouth to respond, but Hazel cuts him off, taking a step closer and folding her arms. "No matter how much you try and improve or impress her, it won't work! So why in all the hells are you so determined to try and woo her when-" Hazel suddenly stops mid-sentence. Idiot! What, were you really gonna say 'when I'm right here!?' How stupid can you get!?

The pained look in the Elezen's eyes is quickly discarded as he lets out another chuckle, closing them with a self-assured smirk rising on his lips. "Ah, old girl, you must be mistaken. Love is not something that is created in an instant, and...let us call it general annoyance is not the natural opposite of love. The fates call Lady Laniatte and I together, and one day-" Hazel cuts him off once more with a stomp of her foot, tail flying up behind her in anger. "Would you wake up already, dumbass!? Even you can't be stupid enough to believe that!" Emmanellain's brow furrows, but his smile remains. He opens his eyes to make contact with Hazel's, but her intense stare quickly makes him avert his gaze to the side. The young man is more visibly flustered, playing with an end of his hair for a moment before continuing. "Ahh...well...have you ever heard of the expression 'Tis better to give love without receiving love, than to never have loved at all?' Quite the simple yet powerful saying, I would say." Hazel's tail drops in surprise, she hadn't expected him to give in so quickly. "...So you do know? Then why the hells do you keep trying when you could be giving your 'love' to someone who'd be happy to give some back!?" The Au Ra's cheeks slowly turn a light shade of pink as she processes what she just said. "I think um-y'know, uh-I mean, there's gotta be someone out there!" She stammers, cursing her voice for getting a little higher pitched and her tail for beginning to sway side to side.

The smile fades from Emanellain's face for a moment before another takes its place, one very obviously forced. He scoffs and crosses his arms. "What, others interested in me? When my much more esteemed and accomplished brother is right there as well? That's quite a reach, old girl." Hazel's nose scrunches again as she frowns. "Stop calling me that..." She mutters under her breath, but the flash of confusion on the Elezen's face makes it clear he heard her.

Eager to change the subject, Hazel once again glares at Emmanellain. She could feel her anger getting to a boiling point. "I thought you were past this whole comparing yourself to Artoirel thing? You don't have to be better than him at anything! Just a better you!" The young Elezen rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. "Oh, do not misunderstand me old girl-ah, apologies. Hazel. I am quite comfortable with who I am...comfortable enough I suppose. But as you said yourself, I am not that big of a fool. His reputation precedes him, as my reputation precedes me." Hazel found herself grinding her teeth as the man continued, her temper rising once again. "I understand well enough why those seeking courtship would not give me more than a passing glance. And I have made peace with that...so I instead give my love to those around me, even if I receive none in return." A sad smile rises on his features as Emmanellain brings his arms up, as is presenting himself. "After all who would harbor love for a man like me?" And there it was, her breaking point. With a growl and her tail pointed straight upwards in anger, Hazel lunges forward and grabs the straps of Emmanellain's armor. The Elezen became wide-eyed in both confusion and fear as Hazel glared at him, her cheeks beginning to burn bright red...and tears beginning to form in her eyes. Before the man could say anything or push her away, she yelled directly in his face.

"I DO, YOU IDIOT!"

Emmanellain could only stare in shock as Hazel fought back tears. "Wh-" his question was interrupted by Hazel pulling him into a tight hug. "I love you..." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, he could barely make out what she had said. The two stood there in silence, only the occasional sniffle from Hazel to break the quiet atmosphere around them. Eventually, Emmanellain spoke up. "...How long?" He asked, still too shocked to return the hug he was receiving...alongside the aches and pains from training.

Hazel prepared herself to answer by taking a few deep breaths, loosening her bear hug on the bruised man ever so slightly. "I don't remember when...but it's been a while..." She weakly gets out, slightly louder than before. Emmanellain is finally able to close his gaping mouth and begins to stir, hesitating still however. "Me?...are you sure?" The uncertainty in his voice was clear as day, almost as if he was also about to cry.

Hazel responded by holding him tighter in her arms. "Shut up and hug me back already." With a strained chuckle, Emmanellain slowly brought his arms around the Au Ra, taking a deep breath himself. "Of course." And with his final words, the two stayed in silence while awaiting the airship, both oblivious to the streak of sunlight breaking through the dull grey of the clouds.

[pointyhatspointyears]

Bout-time-for-a-pinned Pinned

Hello there. You can call me Pointy or Yasumi. (She/her)

This is both a character blog for Yasumi the lala witch, and a general gaming blog for everything FFXIV, Dragon Age or Mihoyo.

I have an FC of OCs with my partner and most of my posts are different OCs of mine simping over different OCs of hers. You won't see much OC x Canon stuff here.

Not spoiler-free, but I try to tag spoilers. Feel free to let me know if I forget to.

Runs on a shuffled queue.

I follow from my non-gaming related main, and reblog to either @eorzeanadventures for vanilla stuff or here for modded stuff and non-ffxiv related games.

Occasionally NSFW but not very explicit. Minors DNI. Will tag with #nsfw or #nsfw gpose

This blog supports and encourages cringe. If you're allergic to cringe keep yourself safe and stay away.

OOC: I play on Chaos (Europe timezone) so sorry in advance for the weird hours (and broken English)

WCIF? my lala isn't visually modded all that heavily aside from a body replacement and a C+ template. But do feel free to DM me if you see anything you like or have any questions on using posing tools.

---·:¨☆: ⨴ ⨀ ⨵ :☆¨:·---

Common tags:

My gposes: for all my own gposes, vanilla or modded

House of Beans: Everything related to our FC characters, gpose, comic, art, writing or otherwise.

Bean GIFs: all my own gifs

Bean comics: all the comics I create with gpose

OC Prompts: for ask games, memes or prompts started by others

Pointy Ears: Everything I reblog to do with elves, elezen & lalafells

Pointy Hats: Everything I reblog to do with magic & witches

Stars: STARS, man. They're pretty.

🎃🦇Fyeah Witch Pride Month 🦇🎃

---·:¨☆: ⨴ ⨀ ⨵ :☆¨:·---

Character tags:

My OCs:

Yasumi: my main lalafell. Appears to be in her 30-40's but is allegedly 69 years old. Astrologian who lives in a cave under her own plot in the Lavender Beds and is rarely seen.

Gabriel (@eukrasiancrisis): The Ishgardian prig who bought her house, used as a front. Besties with her wife, to her chagrin. He talks a lot and says little. But his astrological chart is the only one Yasu has trouble reading other than her wife's, so she keeps him around out of curiosity. For science.

Theneras: Ex- Dreamer of Everlasting Dark from the First with a shameless amount of Dragon Age references

Goose (@goose-ffxiv): That loud Limsan butch who keeps visiting and making all sorts of noise. Besties with sister-in-law, so Yasu tolerates her. She's more fun than the elezen, at least.

Not my OCs:

Yuusei (@pocketyoukai): Yasumi's wife and saving grace. Our household's favorite smith & friendly neighbor who moved over from Kugane. Older sister of Yuuko. Has a family of spriggans.

Fyrstyrm (@fyrstyrm): Yasumi's gardener and probably the only person other than Yuusei she's completely comfortable around and trusts with her home and plants.

Yuuko: The little lady of the house & adopted daughter of Fyrstyrm & Gabriel

Amalthea (@theburningshield): Yuuko's miqo'te friend who occasionally visits that Yasu detected some pretty strong ass aether with. She seems to have the echo. Not someone she's comfortable having around for too long.

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #05 - Stamp

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #5 - Stamp

Briar tilted his head as he watched Vy'thanis spread a clean cloth on his workbench and check a few tools. The half-Elezen was a little puzzled by the Duskwight giving him a slightly nervous look, even as the tall man smiled at him. Briar could practically sense the tension and it made him nervous as well. With a soft hum, he pulled his legs up to crisscross as he settled on the couch, just watching the jeweller.

Briar had never had much chance to see someone work with gems or the finer metals. Goldsmiths and jewellers were uncommon in the Shroud, although woodcarvers could make some beautiful things. Briar had heard once upon a time Gelmorra had been full of skilled artisans who worked with ores and stones to make beautiful things, but it seemed that had been taken from the Duskwights along with many things. Was that perhaps why Vy'thanis seemed a little uneasy? Briar could only hope it was a force of habit and not a true fear that he would betray Vy'thanis. That was not something he would ever do.

Still, he didn't want to rush the other so Briar sat quietly, other than brushing his red bangs back so he could see more clearly. He watched as Vy'thanis took a deep breath, gave him a quick smile and picked up what seemed to be a very plain and ordinary small stone, at least in Briar's eyes. He waited to see what tool the Duskwight would use, but he didn't expect the subtle thrum of aether to fill the room. Briar's ears perked sharply and he straightened in surprise, head tipping to one side again.

Vy'thanis gave him another smile, a knowing one this time, as he cupped the stone between his palms. The feel of magic in the air grew more intense as Vy'thanis rubbed his palms slowly over the dull stone and revealed a sudden myriad of colours. Even the brown was polished to something that gleamed like the finest polished wood but was mixed with spots and stripes of blues, greens, reds, and golds as if a rainbow captured inside it.

The Duskwight smiled as he murmured to himself, lost in his work to Briar's eyes. "So, what do you wish to be, hmm?"

Vy'thanis turned the stone over, smoothing away rough spots with a touch as he considered it closely. Coming to a decision, the jeweller nodded. He touched the stone, shaping it with magic and touch. He didn't change it over much, perhaps not wishing to remove the stone's natural beauty. He coaxed it into a shape similar to an arrowhead, although softened so the edges would not harm the wearer. A little hole appeared at the wider base of the stone and then Vy'thanis ran his hands over it for a final smoothing polish to make a simple, but striking pendant.

"There," the Duskwight said, his deep voice full of pleasure. "Beautiful."

"It is," Briar said quietly, finally speaking as he gave Vy'thanis a look of quiet awe. "What is it? I mean, I see it is in the shape of an arrowhead, but what stone is that?"

"Mmm, most call it 'boulder opal'," he explained. "It's opal found in iron-heavy stones deep in the earth. Rather rare and very beautiful."

"It is," Briar agreed, looking at the pendant. He blinked when Vy'thanis pointedly offered it to him, taking it carefully. He had worried it might be fragile given the delicate play of colour, but the stone was solid and warm in his palms as he cupped it. He turned it back and forth in the light, fascinated by the way the colours gleamed and changed with each movement.

"You should keep it," Vy'thanis said, relaxed now that Briar's response had been nothing worse than admiration and wonder. He hadn't truly expected a greedy response, but people had surprised him before. Still, given Briar's innocent reactions, the Duskwight couldn't help but feel slightly guilty for such worries.

"What?!" Briar looked up, fingers curling around the stone instinctively so he didn't drop it in surprise. "Vyth, I couldn't. It must be terribly valuable."

Vy'thanis waved away the worries. "I have several others that I will work on later. I think this one was meant for you. Here." He took a moment to look through his supplies and a bronze bale with a matching chain. "Here, let me see a moment."

Briar obediently handed the pendant back to watch the Duskwight work again. A little whisper of magic had the bale opened and through the pendant's hole, melded together again in a moment. Vy'thanis threaded the delicate chain through the bale, nodding. The burnished bronze suited the deep browns of the opal well and he leaned closer to Briar. The half-Elezen blushed but didn't move as Vy'thanis measured the chain. A few moments had it just the right length to slip over Briar's head and rest a little below his collarbones.

The opal gleamed, warm and solid against his chest as Briar touched it reverently looking up at the Duskwight again. "It's wonderful."

"It suits you," Vy'thanis murmured before perking. "Ah, before I forget. The last thing for an artisan. Well, at least one that works in jewellery," he chuckled. He turned the pendant so the slightly flatter back was toward the Duskwight. He brushed his fingers over it and his stamp appeared as if carved into the stone. "Every skilled master has his mark."

Briar smiled as Vy'thanis stepped back, picking up and turning the pendant so he could study the stamp. He ran his thumb over it slowly, feeling the delicate lines etched into the stone. "I like that," he said softly. "I can touch it and remember that you made it. For me. Thank you, Vyth."

Vy'thanis was still a moment, eyebrows raised before he blushed a little and smiled. "You're very welcome, Briar."

The lovely Vy'thanis belongs to @vythanis/ @valdiis .

[otherworldseekers]

Additional Pre-ARR Severia Lore

A continuation of the Tumet Headcanons and Young Severia Lore post.

The two traveled throughout Yanxia as Ayanga practiced his vocation as an itinerant healer. During this time, since he had rescued her, the child had not spoken a word. It was a malady not of the body but of the mind and yet even Ayanga’s most powerful songs could not heal her. 

One day, Ayanga was given payment in the form of an old, battered and stringless shamisen, the only possession his patient had to give. Some time later, he was able to trade his services for new strings for the instrument. Ayanga had no skill with it, but Severia became entranced by its sounds. She taught herself to play by listening and watching other musicians in the towns they visited and learned to communicate her mood through its tones. She was never seen without it; shamisen became like an extension of her body.

But healing was not the only task that Ayanga Mol performed as they traveled. Early on he became entangled with the Doman Resistance against the Garlean occupation and agreed to use his itinerant ways to carry messages for them. This he did for several years before he was finally caught and executed by the Garleans leaving Severia alone once more. The Garleans were aware of Ayanga’s “little sister” but she slipped through their net when they tried to capture her. Ayanga’s last words to her were to run far, far away.

Through much hardship Severia eventually found her way to Kugane and stowed away on a ship bound for Eorzea. All she had were the clothes on her back and her beloved shamisen. The ship arrived in Vesper Bay and Severia slipped ashore. She did not know the language or anything of the lands she had come to. Her shamisen became her salvation. She played on street corners and roadsides as she traveled and lived on the meager offerings of her listeners. She also listened very carefully everywhere she went. Slowly by ear she picked up the common tongue. 

And then one day as she played her music, that so many Eorzeans found quaintly foreign, to a small audience of folk in the southern parts of the Black Shroud, she made a decision. A kind Elezen woman, after placing several gil in her offering bowl, asked the young musician what her name was. In a rough whisper, for it had been 11 years since she used her voice, the musician spoke. “I am Severia Zetsuen.” 

The name was chosen carefully. She had learned from her listening the word “sever” and liked the sharp sound of it. She was cut off from her former life. Cut off from her tribe and family. Cut off from the kind stranger who had become her brother. Her life had been cleanly severed when she boarded the ship bound for the west. So let her be Severia. The word Zetsuen echoed this meaning. For it encompassed the idea of having one’s connections and relationships severed, one’s fate interrupted. This she took from the language of Yanxia, for having left that land, she now realized how much it had become a part of her. 

Newly christened, Severia boarded a chocobo carriage bound for the city of Gridania, of which she had heard many things. Still unaccustomed to using her voice, Severia sat in quiet anticipation of her new future. It was fortunate that the garrulous passenger traveling with her had no problem filling her silence himself. 

[dawnslight-aegis]

18. hackneyed (make-up)

“What are your plans for Starlight?” The question slipped out before Aymeric had the chance to think better of it, and he winced at the flat stare Estinien sent him in response.

They hadn’t known each other terribly long, and been tentative friends an even shorter period of time, but even so, Aymeric knew how sensitive the other man was to any even oblique mention of his family.

He cast about for a follow-up statement that wouldn’t sound completely trite, and settled on a peace offering: “My mother makes an excellent holiday roast, if you’d like to come by. Far better than anything we can afford on our pay, and I wouldn’t wish the Congregation’s idea of Starlight dinner on my worst enemy, much less a friend.”

A grunt was his only answer, and Aymeric sighed internally. He hadn’t expected much, honestly. The dragoon-in-training was recalcitrant on his best day, but he was also unfailingly loyal, and completely unconcerned with social status in a way that was incredibly refreshing. Aymeric liked him a great deal, even with his sour attitude – and if Estinien accepted the invitation, maybe it would stop his mother from fussing about him being lonely, which always inevitably led to her trying to persuade him to live at home rather than the barracks.

Aymeric had not had many friends in his youth, and truthfully, joining the Temple Knights had been as much an attempt to find somewhere to belong as a place to prove himself and serve his city. He had hoped that his fellow recruits would judge him on his own merits, but the highborn gave him a large berth for the same baseless reasons they always had, and most of the lowborn sneered at the idea of another noble son playing knight – especially one who was his father’s heir. Spending his nights in the comfort of his childhood home would only make that problem all the worse.

Most days he attempted to distance himself from his parentage – both the truth and the rumor – but no one, not even his detractors, could begrudge him going home for Starlight.

And so he was sitting at the dining table, regaling his father with only slightly embellished stories from his recent forays into the highlands, while his mother put the finishing touches on a meal she still insisted on cooking herself, when there was a dull thud against the heavy wood of the front door.

His father always dismissed their meager household staff to their own family homes for the holiday, so Aymeric rose and hurried to the door himself, trying not to be too hopeful. Perhaps it was merely a group of carolers, or a friar accepting alms for the children of the Brume.

Opening the door revealed a rather disgruntled young elezen man, hair released from its customary tail, and clad in linen shirt and calfskin trousers that looked nice, if a bit rumpled, and entirely unsuitable for the season. Aymeric stared at him in shock for a moment, before his face cracked into a wide grin. “Estinien! I did not think you were coming!”

His excitement was met with a glare. “Are you going to let me in or not? It’s bloody cold out here.”

Aymeric stepped aside just in time to avoid being pushed aside as Estinien shoved himself through the doorway without waiting for an answer.

“My apologies. What made you change your mind?”

Estinien folded his arms across his chest, thin mouth set in an irritated line that Aymeric was beginning to suspect was partially embarrassment. “I never said no. And you were right, what they serve at the barracks tastes like chocobo’s arse,” he declared loudly, and Aymeric could hear a soft snort of laughter from his father in the dining room.

As they walked towards the dining room, Aymeric murmured a quiet, “mind your language in front of my mother, please.”

Estinien’s ears turned a bit pink, and suddenly he went from looking like a man of two and twenty to a boy of fifteen. “I’m not a bloody imbecile, I know how to behave,” he hissed back, and Aymeric very politely did not point out the hypocrisy in his word choice.

As they entered the dining room, so did the Lady de Borel, heavy silver platter held in delicate hands that had begun to shake more often than they did not. Leaving Estinien to stand in the doorway, Aymeric darted over to his mother and took the platter from her, ignoring her protests as he did so.

“Well, who’s this, then?” asked his father, peering at Estinien over his spectacles, and Aymeric smothered a laugh at how uncomfortable the man looked. ‘Twas uncharitable of him to find amusement there, but the man looked as if he had stepped onto a battlefield filled with dragons, rather than a friend’s home with his elderly parents.

“Estinien Varlineau, ser,” he responded, awkwardly, shifting his weight as if unsure of his welcome. “Aymeric invited me.”

As Aymeric put down the heavy platter of food, he decided to throw the poor man a lifeline. “Father, you will remember that I mentioned a young dragoon who saved my life two moons ago? That was Estinien, who has since become a good friend of mine. As he is unable to return home for Starlight, I invited him to ours.”

His mother gasped and walked over to Estinien, taking his hands in her own. “Oh, of course! Thank you so much for looking after our boy. Come, sit.” She tugged him towards the table and Estinien followed, looking a bit overwhelmed as she ushered him to the seat next to Aymeric’s own. His father rose and pulled out her chair for her as she walked back around the table, sinking into it gratefully, and Aymeric squashed a twinge of worry for how unsteady she seemed.

Estinien sat as he was bid, casting a slightly bewildered glance in Aymeric’s direction as he carved the roast and deftly transferred it to plates. “That’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t it? As I recall, it was you saving my damned fool hide. Twice.”

Aymeric shot him a warning look, then shook his head, face falling back into a pleasant mien. “Ah, but if you had not wounded that dragon as you did, it would not have fled the battlefield, and instead finished what it began with the rest of our company. Thus I owe you my life, and my thanks.”

Ducking his head and fidgeting, Estinien didn’t say much throughout the dinner, only speaking when spoken to (and without any more swearing, praise Halone), save to compliment the cooking, which made Aymeric’s mother glow with pride. They had scarcely finished eating when his parents excused themselves, his father gently guiding his mother up the stairs as she leaned on him in exhaustion.

Aymeric sighed. Clearly she had overtaxed herself today – ‘twas likely that this would be the last Starlight dinner she cooked herself.

Turning to his guest, he held up the half-empty bottle of wine, then refilled only his own glass when Estinien shook his head. “I am glad you came. They worry too much, and I think you being here eased that somewhat. Or at least made them less likely to openly fuss over me.”

A faraway look came over Estinien’s features, doubtless thinking of his own parents, and he shook his head. “Wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Fancy house aside, you actually live like people.”

“Glad I am to have disabused you of the notion that I am some spoiled little lordling, playing at war,” Aymeric responded, a faintly bitter twist to his words.

“Oh, have no doubt, I still think you’re spoiled. Just in a normal way, not the highborn brat way.” Estinien grinned and tossed back the last dregs of his wine as if it were a mug of ale.

Aymeric laughed and shook his head. “’Tis better than the alternative, I suppose.”

Wood scraped over stone as Estinien shoved his chair back. “I should be getting back, I’m sure they’ll have us doing drills in the morning.” He turned away as he stood, then paused, not looking back. “Thanks,” he muttered, then tromped towards the front door without another word.

Whether he meant for the invitation, or for the arrow to the eye of the dragon that nearly killed him, or for the offer of friendship, Aymeric didn’t rightly know, but it warmed his heart as surely as the wine did.

[anneapocalypse]

Then vs. Now: Ariane Clairière

If you're seeing this post, consider yourself tagged. :)

This is not the earliest screenshot I have of Ariane, but it is the earliest one with her glasses (which I decided were canon as soon as I got my hands on a pair, right around level 15 when she first left Gridania) and the first outfit that really felt like her (I'm still a fan of the Brand-new Robe), and I think it's pretty representative of her in early ARR!

Little has changed about Ariane's core physical appearance, other than her hair, which I've been playing with ever since I unlocked the aesthetician. She's had a whole Hair Journey, which has involved cutting it short for the Heavensward Depression Haircut, growing it out to Great Lengths over the next couple expansions, dabbling in bangs, and of late, settling back into a shoulder-length style. (While I still like her starter hair a lot, I will probably never return to it permanently as it completely hides earrings and I love putting silly earrings on her. Elezen ears were made to be adorned!) I also darkened her freckles a smidge (which you can do at the aesthetician since freckles are considered a face paint). The graphics update was also very kind to her. :) I've changed the color of her ear clasps a few times before settling on gold which is probably what they will stay, as I've found that gold works best with her coloring--a principle I tend to apply in her glamours as well. She's moved on from the round spectacles to other frame shapes, with the Elegant Rimless Glasses being the all-time favorite.

I don't use any appearance mods for Ariane; her face and body are fully vanilla and haven't fundamentally changed since her creation. She has undergone a lot of character development since then, and still is! For the most part, her character and backstory have developed organically along the way, but there have been a couple of major changes. I initially imagined her as an only child before deciding that she would have a sister. As a Gridania starter, and with little knowledge of the lore at the time, my starting concept for Ariane was "hippy dippy little wood elf," but she's since evolved away from that a bit as I've developed her backstory and personality and her complex relationship with Gridania and the Twelveswood and with conjury/white magic as a discipline.

It's a little over two years since I created her, and her adventures are far from over!

[dustedbooksandreadingnooks]

At Home Day 6 of Glamtober

Kizuna wouldn't call Ishi's house his own, but it is the place he feels the most comfortable. Not for the location or the privacy, but because anywhere Ishi is feels like home to Kizuna.

"[I win again! Are you sure you're not losing on purpose?] " "C-Cheating! You're cheating somehow I just know it! One more game!" "[Oh alright. Are you sure you don't want to build your deck again? Maybe you can borrow some of my cards for better chances.]" -Kizuna Stryker and Ishi'li Jusumhi

Ishi belongs to @candycryptids!

House is Aether * Siren * Lav Beds * Ward 11 * Plot 25. Also belongs to candycryptids, we decorated it together! Shader is Neneko Shimmer Glam items/tidbits/extra shots/photoshoot under the cut

Kizuna, Dragoon: Sign: (I) Win Head- Werewolf head (modded) Body- Martial Artist's Sleeveless Vest (Midnight Blue) [Upscaled for TBSE Non-Op] Hands- Free Spirit's Ringbands Leg- Quan (Midnight Blue) Earring- Menphina's Earring Ishi, Ninja:

Head- Classic Spectacles (Regal Purple) Body- Ala Mhigan Gown (Void Blue/Iris Purple) Leg- Isle Vacationer's Shorts (Regal Purple) Earring- Menphina's Earring I am so glad to be able to pose my boy again TTOTT Making him look As Intended was a labor of love, I don't even care if it gets completely covered up most of the time! Be ready to see a lot of him I worked very hard. Lore! -Kizuna and Ishi love playing triple triad and other card games together! -Kizuna has selective mutism and is widely non-verbal, mostly communicating through signed language and writing. Even when he does speak its very quiet and he believes his voice to be damaged. -Kizuna actually lived most of his remembered life as an elezen. Only after Operation Archon did the fantasia-like spell cast on him start to break, and his body reverted to its natural state (which is some sort of Au Ra/wolf hybrid). If this seems confusing, trust me it's confusing to him as well. He has a lot of lore.

Here's some extra shots from this gpose, including the stills that I edited into Kizuna's hand motion!

[sjofn-lofnsdottr]

— B A S I C S

Name: Bellinor Lanverlais

Nicknames: Dusk, which is the name he goes by in almost all circumstances. The vast majority of people don't know his actual first name.

Age: 39, I'll tick him over to 40 when Dawntrail starts. Happy birthday?

Nameday: 21st Sun of the Second Umbral Moon

Race: Elezen, Wildwoodishgardian

Gender: Dude

Orientation: Pansexual, polyamorous

Profession: Gunbreaker, will still do DRK and DRG things occasionally. Also a carpenter.

— P H Y S I C A L A S P E C T S

Hair: Blondie blond blond with some white highlights that he doesn't want to think about but luckily blend in pretty well. He also has a beard. He will never shave it.

Eyes: Dark Green

Skin: Light skinned, but does look like he goes into the sun occasionally. He promises he goes into the sun occasionally.

Tattoos/scars: Nope!

— F A M I L Y

Parents: Extremely alive. His father is named Bernon, and he was a pikeman in the Ishgardian military until he and his wife deserted left, and he is currently a maverick Wood Wailer who should probably hand in his badge. His mother is named Gwenolie, she was a chirugeon in Ishgard, which is how she met Bernon in the first place. She retired completely upon reaching Gridania ... as far as Gridania knows, at least.

Siblings: His twin sister, Orianne. Her nickname, of course, is Dawn. She's a botanist most of the time, unless she feels like the Scions are not doing a good enough job keeping an eye on her brother. Then she's a lancer who recently picked up reaper, since it's hard to feel like you're pulling your weight when your brother and his boyfriend bro are both extra special dragoons, you know?

Grandparents: ALSO VERY ALIVE, although they're all getting on in years. Gwenolie's parents are Lionnet and Aurelle Tirauland. Lionnet is a (mostly) retired chocobo trainer, Aurelle is a retired knight. Bernon's parents are Ciceroix and Iliette Lanverlais. Ciceroix was also a pikeman in the military (now retired) and Iliette is a retired archer.

In-laws and Other: It's kinda funny this asks for in-laws but not ... partners? Farron is Dusk's almost-husband, which makes Farron's semi-adopted dad, Bjalla, Dusk's almost-father-in-law. Farron also has two kids, twins, named Sverre and Kara, who seem keen to adopt Dusk. The twins live on the First. It's a whole thing. And Estinien is ... <waves hand vaguely>.

Pets: Dusk and Farron are currently raising two amaro babies, which probably count. Their names are Eo Lad and Sul Lad, and they're adorable. There's also Duck, of course, but he's not a pet.

— S K I L L S

Abilities: He has an excellent memory for names and visuals. He is an excellent carpenter. He's also usually pretty good in social situations.

Hobbies: He enjoys woodworking, playing piano or cello, or painting when it's Hobby Time.

— T R A I T S

Most Positive Traits: Kind, determined, resilient.

Most Negative Traits: Sore loser, has a very difficult time telling concise stories, tends to hide when he's Not Alright from most people.

— L I K E S

Colors: Greens and blues.

Smells: Sawdust, and the way super cold, crisp air smells.

Textures: I have never thought about this question, and I do not intend to start. He probably likes when he runs a hand over something he's sanded and it feels perfect, though. Does that count?

Drinks: Likes finding new teas to try. Also a closet wine snob.

— O T H E R D E T A I L S

Smokes: Not tobacco! :D

Drinks: As mentioned, he is into wine. He usually stops drinking once he feels himself getting tipsy, but ... not always.

Drugs: don't worry about it

Mount Issuance: His chocobo Pike, of course. He also has an amber draught chocobo named Lance.

Been Arrested: Uhhh unless that one time in Ul'dah counts, nope!

I was tagged by @alixennial, thank you! I don't want to tag every single FFXIV mutual I have, so uh ... if you're one of them, do the thing if you want. :P

[guillotine-of-the-snake]

Derrinall Evramont

B A S I C S

Name: Derrinall Evramont

Nicknames: N/A

Age: Technically 33

Nameday: 9th Sun of the 1st Astral Moon

Race: Duskwight Elezen

Gender: Male

Orientation: Pansexual

Profession: House Amelune Knight Captain

P H Y S I C A L     A S P E C T S

Hair: Short, well kept black hair

Eyes: Light emerald eyes

Skin: Pale skin that fluctuates between fair and grey in certain lighting

Tattoos/scars: A variety of scars across his entire body, one most prominently across his face.

F A M I L Y

Parents: Names lost to time, dying soon after he was born

Siblings: Grew up an only child

Grandparents: Dead long before he was born

In-laws and Other: Has found a new family with his partners Yein and Nolanel, along with their adopted Fae daughter Dinky Dinky

Pets: None he would call pets, but he does care for the birds around Yein's home

S K I L L S

Abilities: Swordplay and formal knight training as well as skills inherited from a DRK Soul Crystal he found on a corpse.

Hobbies: Playing the harp, wood carving, training House Amelune's knights

T R A I T S

Most Positive Trait: Deeply loyal and trusting of those he holds in high regard

Most Negative Trait: Views himself as a tool or weapon more than he does a person

L I K E S

Colors: Purples, Whites, and Blacks

Smells: Cigar smoke, lavender, the crisp and cold air of Ishgard

Textures: Cold metal, warm skin, strings of his harp, rough grain of wood

Drinks: Dry red wines, the teas Yein makes

O T H E R    D E T A I L S

Smokes: Smokes cigars at formal events and cigarettes on a more regular basis

Drinks: Lightly drinks throughout the week, but during large events or more serious matters he refuses.

Drugs: Only partakes in their use alongside his partners.

Mount Issuance: Was given the option to have a chocobo granted to him by Lady Amelune but he declined.

Been Arrested: Never since being resurrected, but back in the times of Gelmorra he was arrested for stealing food during his time as an orphan.

Tagged by: @iron-sparrow

Tagging: @the-white-snake, @qara-wen, @dinky-dinky, @captain-styr and anyone else who reads this that wants to take a crack at it.

No pressure for anyone to respond and I apologize if you already got tagged for this.

[hex-xiv]

chapter 1. The Kane family's disappointment

“Did you hear me, Silas?” The older Elezen spoke as he adjusted the clasp tying his shirt together. 

“No, Father, my apologies.” Silas stood there with both hands at his sides, his head hanging low with a red hand mark slapped across his cheek. 

The Kane family came from an affluent background. His grandfather before him secured a place in Ishgardian noble society among others. Their family dabbled in knighthood and the exportation of goods, becoming quite well-known for their products and business. 

Silas Sr., the current patriarch was known to have a quiet disposition, however, even he had his limits. He knew his only child had a troubled upbringing from bullying his closest friend's daughter to causing chaos in Sharlayan’s Studium. When rumours circulated that his troubled son was courting the Eirwen daughter, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was a farce. 

When asked, Silas, his son confirmed that he was courting her. What he didn’t know was that it was a whirlwind romance. Silas was cruel, calculating and mischievous. 

“Silas,” The older Elezen’s voice rang out again, taking Silas from his thoughts a second time. 

“What?” Silas’ tone was low as he pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. The slap to his face still stung and he wondered how and when Chione could pack a punch… or slap.

“I’ll say it one more time.” Silas Sr said, turning to face his son. His eyes narrowed upon seeing the hand mark. “Our family will be hosting a banquet and the Eirwen household is invited specifically. Your mother wished for you to have this.”

Silas Sr took the box from his desk and walked towards his son. The box was of a red velvet fabric with black and gold dragon metal carvings. “Use this,”

“What?” Silas asked, looking up at his father, cutting him off. 

“It’s your mother’s engagement ring, the one I’d given her at your age.”

“What do you,” Silas couldn’t finish his sentence when his father opened the box. Inside was the rose gold band with a red stone in the centre of smaller diamonds that circled the stone. Along the band were other small diamonds that split off into two before reconnecting making the band whole. Silas knew of this ring, he’d seen it growing up. 

His mother always wore it proudly as it was the Kane family heirloom. A staple in jewellery to showcase their wealth and power. A piece of jewellery that now mocked him of a future he couldn’t have with the one he loved most. 

“No,” Silas muttered, closing the box. 

“The banquet will be held in three days, I hope you’ll have something written. Make sure it’s from the heart and what your intentions are, Beau Eirwen will want to know. Chione is his only daughter and you are my only son, but you two have a history…”

“Father, I said no,” Silas spoke louder, cutting his father off from saying any more. He looked up to his father and quietly shook his head. 

“Why not?” Silas Sr asked, narrowing his gaze again. 

“I’ve done something, I did something stupid.” Silas shook his head, lowering his head. “I hurt her.” He whispered. 

“What did you do?” His father asked, his tone low and menacing. 

Silas watched as his father's hand gripped around the box tightly, but careful enough not to break the metal pieces. His father repeated his question while lifting his son's chin with one finger. 

“She thought I was cheating,” Silas started but was cut off. 

“Did you?”

“No!” Silas quickly answered, shaking his head. 

“Then why does she think you cheated and left you with this mark on your face?” The older Elezen used that same finger to tap the bruise forming on his son’s cheek. 

“I was playing a stupid game with my friends and I said some things to make it more believable.” Silas tilted his head away, avoiding his father’s gaze. “She wasn’t meant to hear, but she heard everything.” His voice was low and apologetic. 

“Apologise to her, now. Head to the Eirwen estate and get on your knees if you must.” Silas Sr said with absolute certainty before turning to make his way towards his desk. 

“No! Did you not hear me? She thinks I cheated on her, she wants nothing to do with me!” Silas yelled following his father. 

“That is why I told you to apologise, make things right with Chione or get out. I will not have my son ruin our family name because he couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

Silas gazed up at his father with disbelief followed by a scoff. His words were like venom and once again his father was turning his back on him. 

“I will not apologise. If you wish to throw me out into the cold winter air then so be it.”

Silas Sr turned towards his son and gripped his arm tight. “If you will not go willingly, I will make you go.” His eyes filled with anger. 

Silas knew of one way to get his father off him. He still held the box in his hand, but his attention was on him and his arm. He quickly took the box from his father and tossed it behind him, shattering the delicate metal wings, neck and tail of the dragon. 

On reflex, Silas Sr raised his arm and balled his fist then crashed it into Silas’ left cheek. “Get out. Don’t return until you’ve made things right with the Eirwen girl.” His voice trembled with anger and sadness. 

Silas got up to his feet, his nose and lip bloody from the punch. “That will never happen.”

“Then I disown you, you are no son of mine. The Kane family disowns you, Silas. Leave or I will have you escorted out.” Silas Sr said coldly. 

Silas quickly left his father's office, tears in his eyes when he stopped at the top of the stairs. There stood a portrait of him and his parents. His mother, Aliette was ecstatic to finally have an updated portrait. The last time they’d had one done was when he was just a baby, barely able to form his first word. And now he was standing there with his family at 16 years old, just a bit shorter than his father and taller than his mother. 

“Young master Silas,” Carlyle called out, grasping his attention. “Your father… you know he means well. Don’t take what he said to heart. He only wants you to secure a future. He…”

Silas lifted his hand to silently cut him off. He continued to gaze up at the portrait when he pulled a flip knife from his belt. 

“Young master, don’t do anything you will regret later,” Carlyle spoke and watched as Silas moved towards the portrait. 

He stabbed the bottom of the canvas where he stood and heard the steward gasp. “Young master!” Carlyle said a little too loud just as the patriarch was exiting his office. 

“What’s the meani-” Silas Sr’s voice echoed out. “SILAS! STOP!” He yelled running to his son.

But the moment his father pulled him away, Silas had already cut the bottom of the canvas and continued to rip the canvas even as his father pulled him away. 

Silas dropped the knife and canvas. He was successfully removed from the portrait with his eyes filled with tears. Servants and guards who heard the commotion only saw the damaged portrait and the young master descending the stairs. 

With tears in his eyes and a broken heart, Silas left the Kane estate with the clothes on his back and never returned. 

|| @chioneeirwen for mentions ||

[nabaath-areng]

My family have their own respective relationships to ffxiv through osmosis after this decade and it's so funny to me

Bio dad: hates rpg combat but is super into the idea of such an extensive world in a game with lore books dedicated to it (upon getting the first lore book when it came out he asked me if its my gamer bible)

Mom: doesnt like to play games except candy crush and is not into fantasy at all, but loves watching live letters with me and ADORES lalafells (asking me to show them when shes nearby while i play)

Sister: not a huge gamer but still into them due to being the younger sibling of someone who plays a lot of games. Made a male elezen character on my account once to try playing with, but spent most of her time hiding under bridges in central shroud yelling "WHOS STOMPING ON MY BRIDGE" in chat everytime a player crossed it like that fairytale with the goats and the troll

Mormor: highly enthusiastic about the concept of the fan festivals and comparing it to båtmässan (local boat convention?? Idk how to explain) and asking me when i'll go to the next one

[driftward]

@yzeltia sent me an ask of "18) a/b/o (Zoisette/Y'shtola)" but sent it to my main blog. Answer here, but I have to apologise to Y'zel here.

I have nothing against Omegaverse, but it is kind of outside my usual wheelhouse, and there's no ideas in it I really want to explore. My apologies! Your ask shall have to go, essentially, unanswered. But I appreciate the question, anyroad.

(an AU, obviously) ~*~

Travel was simply the worst.

Y’shtola stood on the pier, waiting for the ferry that would take her to Vesper Bay. She stood, back ramrod straight, head up, hand firmly on her staff, staff planted firmly to the ground. She was composed at all times, as a woman of culture had to be, but during this most difficult time, she was especially composed.

Her body wanted one thing. She, however, wanted quite nothing to do with that.

And others, well, they wanted her.

It was unfortunate that she was a Miqo’te as well. Their people had a decidedly lopsided gender and modality presentation compared to most. More women, and most of those women Omes, like Y’shtola herself. Of course, it was just hormones, perhaps a slight shift in temperament, a difference in what role they played in having children. But the reputation was that a Miqo’te Ome woman was nearly always in heat, and nearly always sexually available.

And it seemed that society at large had settled on the conceptual idea that they were definitely always sexually desirable.

She could almost feel the oppressive wave as someone approached her on the dock, and she tilted her head only slightly to watch as a Hyur woman wandered up to her, eyes dilated, with a small, lazy smile on her face.

“Which way are you going, sweetheart?” she said, her voice thick. Y’shtola could feel the tenseness in the air, the gentle pull. Almost certainly an Alak in heat.

“My own way,” she said, tersely, lifting up a hand to palm the woman’s face and push her away. 

The other woman looked offended, even as she stepped back. “Well, no need to be that way about it,” she growled, beginning to move off.

“I might be interested,” a voice piped up, this one belonging to a Roegadyn man. The Hyur eyed him before moving off in a huff, leaving him looking dejected and Y’shtola amused. Well, biology might have its say, but the whims of humanity always took the yoke to steer the actual ways of the world.

The others on the pier, whatever their modality or state, were polite, and kept their distance. There were a few other Miqo’te women huddled together who looked over at the commotion, and they looked at each other before coming to the combined decision of making their way over casually. Still chatting with one another, acting as though they were not really paying attention, but soon they were near enough to Y’shtola to serve as a kind of buffer.

She caught the eye of one and gave a small acknowledging nod. The effort was hardly necessary, as she knew how to take care of herself. If not with sharp words, then her staff and magicks would certainly do. But she would not dissuade such help as it was offered, and it was a kind of shared social nicety her people shared with one another. Look out after one another, fight for one another, each taking their turn as others may have been hobbled, and thus they could form their own destiny, despite whatever opinions modalities might have had on the matter.

As she waited she heard, rather than saw, someone else approaching, their footsteps heavy. The other Miqo’te women glanced at each other and towards this new person nervously. Not yet intervening. Y’shtola turned, and smiled, and made sure to greet the newcomer, to make it obvious that they were friends.

“Zoissette!” she said, holding a hand out to meet them. Zoissette gave that strained smile of theirs in return. The nearby Miqo’te women visibly calmed, and returned to more casual chatting.

“Y’shtola,” said Zoissette, taking and shaking her hand firmly before letting go. A tall Elezen woman. A fellow Ome, like herself. A military woman from the far North, clad nearly always in heavy armor. Preferred to keep her distance, but a friend for all that. Y’shtola had come to appreciate her as a comrade in arms over the past many summers.

Y’shtola took a deep breath in, and felt that warmth of aether that hinted at how Zoissette might be just this moment. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Heat?’ she asked. It would have been a rude question under most circumstances, but Zoissette was near as kin, and hesitated only slightly before nodding.

Well. It seemed they would be in the same boat while on the same boat for this voyager. Y’shtola was relieved. Though she would not wish such a state of matters on anyone, if they were both likewise miserable, at least the company of one another might serve to soothe it.

“Alright! Prepare for boarding! You all know how this works!” called out the dock worker, a burly Roegadyn man yelling over the hum of the crowd. “If you’ve got luggage call, get it to the porters or carry it yourself! If you’re an Ome, we got a single sealed room below decks if you wish to avail yourself of it, priority to those in heat! Bets and bonded, you’ve got the run of the place, just behave yourselves. If you’re an Alak, you’re stayin’ topside, that goes double if you’re in rut! Either way Alaks, give each other some space, and if you get in a fight, whinin’ to th’ captain about how hot your blood is won’t save you from the magistrate - if she’s feelin’ kind! If she’s not, it certainly won’t save you from the drink, so keep your hands to yourself!”

“That will be us, then,” said Y’shtola. “Care to share a space?”

She glanced over to see Zoissette suddenly digging for a notebook. The other woman flipped through it rapidly, and then began to trace a finger down the page, frowning deeply to herself.

Y’shtola snuck a glance. It appeared to be a list of time tables, weights and dosages.

Odd.

“I, uhm, just remembered,” said Zoissette, snapping the notebook shut and putting it away. “The Admiral wanted me to make a report before returning.” She looked to the dockworker, and waved a hand. “Excuse me! I think I need to take the next ferry! Can that be arranged?”

Y’shtola tried not to look too disappointed as the porter eyed Zoissette before yelling back to the ferry coordinator. “Hey! We got a flopper here! Can we swing her?”

The coordinator looked something up, shook their head, shrugged, and yelled back. “We got space on the next one and the fourteener!”

The dock worker looked to Zoissette. “Which one you want, then? Swing back by at twelve or fourteen bells?”

“The twelver should be fine, thank you.”

“Alright then. Get off with you, be back for that one or else your fare’s forfeit, got it?”

“I understand.”

“Great, get outta here.” The dock worker turned to yell again. “She’s taken the twelver!”

“Sorry,” said Zoissette to Y’shtola, at least having the decency to look sheepish.

“’Tis of no great matter,” said Y’shtola. “I will simply have to endure the Ome cabin in relative solitude. You shall make it in time for your briefing, I hope?”

“Yes. More than enough time.”

“Very well. I shall see you in Vesper Bay.”

Zoissette just nodded before heading back up the pier, and Y’shtola readied herself to board the ferry. As she did so, she thought of how odd the whole exchange was. Zoissette was a woman who prided herself on planning and organization. How did she manage to forget a meeting with the Admiral?

Such thoughts were pushed out of her mind, however, as she boarded the ferry.

The Ome cabin was not so much a cabin, as much as it was a tiny corner of the hold that had been partitioned off. It was less a nicety, and more a necessity. While one’s modality did not necessarily have to dictate one’s behaviour, too many people leaned into it, and allowed it to lead wheresoever it might. In the tight confines of a ship, that meant close proximity to Alaks could frequently drive Omes to heat, and Alaks themselves might let themselves into the blood fire and fall to violence. Bets often tried to manage the tangle of emotions, aether, and hormones, keeping the peace, and that was made simpler by keeping Alaks topside in the sea breeze, and Omes relatively isolated below decks.

It was a cramped space, guarded by a single male Lalafell at the door, probably a Bet. That race, in particular, had strong cultural norms around modalities, and supposedly had a keen sense of what state others were in. These attributes allowed them to be seen as fair, and lent them the history to build the trade empire of Ul’dah. Whether any of it was true or not, they were generally trusted with this kind of task. This one had simply looked Y’shtola up and down briefly before waving her in.

Many of the Miqo’te women who had kept close to her on the pier were here, now, and there were others aside. A Roegadyn male sat in one corner, his arms wrapped around his legs, facing away from the group, his head bowed. Two Omes, obviously deep in heat, were off to one side, pawing weakly at one another and necking half-heartedly in an attempt to stave off the hunger by tending to it as best as they could. Others were in a tight cluster, playing a game of some sort, trying to keep themselves distracted.

Y’shtola herself found a hammock near the entrance close to the top, and climbed up into it, laying down on her back, tail tucked and held between her thighs. She held her staff tightly to her chest, and stared at the ceiling, and tried not to think of the itch, of the need pulling at her even now. Slow, deep breathing, keeping herself as calm as she could manage under the circumstances, even as she lay with her body rigid.

One week of it, that she had to deal with this hateful biology. One week of being watched hungrily. Of others with lesser control seeing her as little more than a snack. One week of feeling a sharp edge to everything, sensitive to every little movement, nerves feeling raw and exposed.

And another hour to port.

She disembarked quickly in Vesper Bay, and managed to avoid any would-be boorish suiters that may have picked up on her current state as she made her way to the Waking Sands. A sympathetic look from Tataru on her way in, and at last, she was safe, from others, from herself. The Waking Sands was always a safe haven. They had the usual mix of peoples here, men and women, Alaks Bets and Omes alike, but they were respectful of one another, knew where they stood with one another.

They all showed up at the appointed time to the scheduled meeting, of course. Minfilia took charge at first, gathering reports from happenings over the last season. Y’shtola looked around, and as was usual when she was in such a bothered state, she found it difficult to keep her thoughts away from ruminating on modalities, on how it affected them all, and her most of all.

Of course, everyone knew that modality was merely suggestion, not destiny, but social and cultural norms and rules and stories persisted despite that. But here, the Scions were each like to make and follow their own destinies, make their own rules, despite whatever role society thought they each should play, despite whatever opinions their hormones might try to sway.

Minfilia was perhaps as typical as they came. An Alak, with the supposed natural leadership qualities that came to them. She was yet unbonded, but also sought no bond nor even mate, placing the mission above all. A sentiment Y’shtola well understood.

If Minfilia was a typical Alak, then Urianger was perhaps the most atypical one. The man was more content to stay back, in the shadows, to offer support to his fellows. He also remained unbonded and, if he found mates to quell his rut, he did not share the tidbit of with whom, how, or when with any. Well, possibly Thancred knew, as they treated with one another as brothers.

Speaking of, Y’shtola knew Thancred would be game for scratching this particular itch she had. As a Bet, he was reasonably flexible in how he could approach the matter, and they were long and close friends. She considered it, but dismissed the thought for the time being. The time on the ferry had taken its toll, and she was more frustrated than amorous just now.

Speaking of people willing to scratch itches, Klynt was a Bet. In theory. In practice, well. While the Scions did not pay any particular heed to matters of modality outside of questions of practicality, Klynt practically lived in them. Somehow. All at once. Y’shtola had seen her display the aggressiveness of an Alak in rut as well as the hunger of an Ome in heat. If most of them bucked the social narrative, Klynt did so as well, in the opposite direction by somehow embracing all narratives at once. And enthusiastically, as often as she could get away with. Y’shtola often wondered how she found the time. But though the offer had been made, Y’shtola had abstained, for reasons of her own.

Papalymo, another Bet. The Bets among the Scions, she considered, perhaps met social and cultural norms more than any other of the Scions. But they were afforded such flexibility, often looked over by society at large, by being the uninteresting in-betweens and go-betweens. They could mate and they could breed, but their role was to fit any role, while being exceptional at none. At least, so society would say. Personally, Y’shtola found Papalymo to be a stalwart companion and a more than capable leader, which was well. It would take a strong personality such as his to overcome his traveling partner, Yda, an Alak. They were not bonded and they did not mate, but they were tight friends, closer than kin. And if Minfilia exemplified the leadership that was supposed to be the birthright of Alaks, then Yda exemplified their supposed headstrong nature, often barreling into trouble without much of a thought of how to barrel back out. Much to Papalymo’s chagrin.

Arenvald was an Ome, but Y’shtola only knew that for having worked with the man for a while. He had all the supposed hallmarks of a Bet, and carried himself as much as such, often even lamenting that he wished that he truly was a Bet, if for no other reason than to get rid of the periodic annoyance that Ome life brought with it. In this, Y’shtola found solidarity with the young Hyur.

The twins were not here today, and were too early in their growth for their modalities to become apparent. And Nyx was Nyx, outside of the gender and modality cycle altogether. Though Y’shtola, if pressed, would have to admit a certain feeling of satisfaction in how they had handled, more than once, the error of someone assuming that they were a ready and willing Miqo’te Ome woman.

That left Y’shtola herself, an Ome, naturally. She also bucked the trend. She would never have been meek nor submissive, and she did not give in to base hunger. The other Scions oft looked to her for guidance, recognizing her leadership qualities, especially when it came to keeping them focused and on task, or in her particular fields of expertise. No, she was an Ome to be certain, but fit not one single stereotype that such modality brought with it.

Well, there was one other.

Zoissette, who was now taking charge of the meeting. Zoissette was an Ome, and she too defied stereotype. A natural leader, but not in the way Alaks were meant to be, but in the way Bets often were. Listening to the group, offering feedback, gracious when wrong, stalwart when right. A woman with a curious nature about her, always checking in with the others. And no, not quite right. She was also a leader at least one of the ways society held Alaks to be. She lead from the front, almost always wearing that heavy armor of hers, ready and willing to put herself between those she cared for, and those who would do harm to them or others.

Y’shtola watched, practically transfixed, oddly, almost as though she was distracted by Zoissette. Which was simply absurd, as Zoissette was meant to be the focus of attention just now, leading her part in the meeting. How could one be distracted by the lead speaker? Y’shtola watched, as she talked strategy, outlined upcoming plans, and took questions.

And she felt a pang of sympathy at how obviously tense Zoissette was. Being in the middle of heat was a pain they both shared just now. Y’shtola had mastered the art of almost being casual in how she handled it, her control iron. Zoissette’s control was likewise sacrosanct, but Y’shtola had learned to recognize her tells. The way her shoulders were higher than normal. The way she glanced around a room, not with her ordinary speed, but with almost a sharpness to her glances. The way she kept her distance even more than she normally did.

If anyone else noticed, they were too polite to point it out, and as obvious as it was to Y’shtola, that did not mean it was truly fully obvious at all. Zoissette finished her part, and shortly after, Minfilia closed out the meeting, promising that final instructions would be waiting for everyone with Tataru in the morning. The group filed out, and Y’shtola went to go find Urianger, wishing to speak with him further.

As she approached him, however, she felt that oppressive pressure radiating off of him, luring her in as much as she also felt a well trained counter pressure to avoid it. He smiled at her, apologetically, as she approached, and she stopped to give him a polite distance.

“Ah, Urianger, I meant to ask after your most recent aetherological findings…”

“And I would be best pleased to deliver them, my lady, were it not for my desire to tend to some prior arrangements of mine.”

He bowed, respectfully, and she returned his gesture with a curtsy. Well, cycles did not necessarily line up often, but in an organization the size of the Scions that met so regularly, they were like to do so sooner or later. It seemed this would be one of the more delicate times to be around the Waking Sands.

“Then allow me not to detain you,” she said. “My well wishes with you, my friend.”

“And mine upon thee,” he said, his smile now extremely grateful, as he excused himself and left.

Y’shtola sighed, and shook off the wave that came over her as he passed, clearing her head. Well. This was proving to be a more trying day than even the way these sorts of days usually were.

She eschewed further pleasantries, and went to her own room. A shower, to help her feel better, and knock down some of the pheromones. A change of clothes to accomplish much the same. Some water, and some time alone, just breathing, trying not to think overmuch about anything.

Being alone during this time was always difficult, however. Lonely. Itchy. She found herself wishing for a distraction. She reconsidered finding Thancred and bending his ear. If he was amenable, it might do much to alleviate her symptoms, for a time.

Instead, her mind drifted to the thought she had had earlier in the day. Commiseration with someone else with whom she could share this exact experience just now. Making her decision, she looked herself over in the mirror, made sure she was more than presentable, and shortly, found her way to just outside Zoissette’s room.

She knocked, and the door opened just a crack. Y’shtola looked up into a single Elezen eye, that seemed to be slightly glassy.

Trick of the light, perhaps.

“Archon Y’shtola?”

“Good eve, Zoissette. I was hoping for some company this evening. As in that proverb which has much to say about misery,” she half-joked.

Zoissette opened the door a little bit further, and stuck her head out in the hallway. “Uhm. Are you certain?”

“Quite certain, unless you’ve made other arrangements?”

Y’shtola would not pry, if so. But if Zoissette had ever had even the slightest interest in mates or bonds, she had never indicated such.

“I… have not,” she said, oddly reluctant, pulling back to look behind her at something that Y’shtola could not see.

“If you wish, I might take my leave, and shall harbor no ill will towards you for such.”

“No! No. That is… that is okay. No, uhm. Please! Come, uhm, come on in,” said Zoissette, opening the door and stepping to one side.

Y’shtola walked in.

Zoissette was not in her armor for once, which was unusual. Even prior times when Y’shtola had had cause to stop by late in the eve, Zoissette had always been in her armor, even in her private quarters. An Ishgardian custom, Y’shtola had assumed. But even armor required maintenance, and Y’shtola saw it across the room, arranged out on what looked to be an alchemy table of sorts.

And she had rarely even seen the inside of Zoissette’s room, much less been in it. They were good sized quarters, as were those of all Scions. A kitchenette, with a small stove and sink. Table, with a few chairs for guests. Icebox. A few shelves for storage. A personal space, where the aforementioned armor pieces and alchemy set were, along with many bookshelves.

And two doors, one of which Y’shtola knew would lead to a bedroom, and another to a washroom. And each room, including this one, would have a window, which Zoissette now quickly ran over to open.

Y’shtola watched, curious.

“I do not mean to question my host so immediately in the eve, but to open the window at such late hour? The Ul’dah desert will grow swiftly cold in another bell or two.”

“Yes, well, uhm. You know. Uhm. I am from the North, you know. We, uhm. Like it. Cold. So! If it is alright, I would like to, uhm, leave the window open. For a while. We can close it later. Would you like some tea?”

Y’shtola took a seat at the little kitchen table, and tried to give Zoissette a reassuring smile.

“I would be best pleased at some tea, yes.”

“Good! Great,” said Zoissette, going over and putting the kettle on. She quickly set up part of the tea set for Y’shtola, keeping a tea cup for herself, and then went back to the stove, to hover near it rather than sitting with Y’shtola.

“My apologies. I seem to have caught you quite unawares.”

“No, no, it is… fine. This is fine. I understand.” Zoissette laughed, nervously. “Ah. Hormones, right? They make everything more difficult.”

Y’shtola sighed deeply. “They do indeed. I noted that you tended to spend such time alone, which I can only well imagine may be taxing. I hope company shall ease the passage of time.”

Zoissette looked over at her curiously. “You tend to spend the time alone as well.”

“Quite so. I am close with my fellow Scions, but ’tis not the same.”

“I do not understand, I do not think?”

“Well. I certainly do not know how you handle such affairs in Ishgard. But it is not uncommon for many Miqo’te of the Sun Seeker tribes to choose to find solidarity among our fellow Omes. Those who are not in heat provide what support and comfort to those who are. It is… not the same, of course, as actually mating. But physical contact and a place of belonging, of safety, can do much.”

Zoissette frowned, lightly, rubbing the back of her neck as the kettle began to steam.

“I guess it is the same in Ishgard,” she said, slowly. “Omes have their own barracks, when such an affordance can be made. Separate tents, at least, when in the field. Alaks and Bets share space. It is not a problem unless someone is in rut, and even that is just considered, you know, bonus exercise and training if they are extra stroppy about it.”

“I see. Well, then you and I are alike, in that regard. Choosing to be alone, away from home as we are. I hope, then, that you will accept my company in the spirit with which it has been offered.”

The tea kettle was now boiling, and Zoissette prepared her own cup, before beginning to set up the rest of the full tea set in front of Y’shtola on the table. Sugar, cream, the teapot itself, and the leaves with the steeper. She quickly prepared her own cup, and moved to go sit in the window sill, glancing over at the alchemy table along her way.

“I find I am glad for it,” Zoissette said, once she was seated, clasping the cup of tea with both hands, staring at it. “Thank you for thinking to keep me company. I appreciate it. And you.”

“We are long friends by now, are we not? Speaking of, if we are to spend the evening together, we might drop the formalities, if you are amenable. You may simply call me Shtola.”

“Are you sure? That would be alright?”

Y’shtola laughed. “I am quite certain. I view us as rather close comrades, now.” She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath in of her tea.

Zoissette nodded, and took a careful sip of her own tea. Again, she glanced at the alchemy set, but then settled her gaze over on Y’shtola.

“Can I ask a rude question?”

“You may.”

“Why not Thancred? Unless I have read the situation very wrong, I am pretty certain he would. Uhm. You know. Be more than happy to. Uhm.”

“Tumble with me for all we are both worth?”

“I did not want to say it outright.”

“And thus, I did. I am impressed at how a woman who knows so much vocabulary for such perverse wordplay can suddenly be so shy.”

Zoissette coughed, and Y’shtola laughed, feeling a slight tension bleed away.

“My apologies! I do tease. But heat does bring with it such awkwardness, does it not? I would cut through it. You are right, however; I might have spent the time with Thancred, true. But we have not shared such in some time. And I am finding that I feel I would prefer to be here with you instead. As I said, two women alike in distance and solitude. We can bemoan our terrible fate together, and spend the time in pleasant company. I was hoping it might soothe my humors. And, truth be told, yours as well.”

Y’shtola sipped at her tea, slowly, closing her eyes to savor the flavor and the scents. The warmth flowed through her, despite the tinge of cold beginning to enter the room, she felt as though a weight was lifted, the tension and annoyances of the days beginning to melt away.

She felt safe and comforted here.

Several long minutes in companionable silence passed, Y’shtola enjoying her tea, and Zoissette clasping hers in both hands, taking small, furtive sips. Y’shtola smiled, sympathetic. Zoissette was wearing nothing but her cotton gambeson and slops to match, which would be poor proof against Ul’dah night.

“Does it help?”

“Does what help?”

“The cold. I have heard that works for some. A distraction for nerves on edge. Or a deep ice, to melt away against the pressure of heat.”

Zoissette looked at her tea, and glanced between Y’shtola and the alchemist equipment.

“It helps,” she said.

Y’shtola nodded, and leaned back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. “Terrible, this burden of biology that reduces so many to mere beasts. The never-ending call of nature, to the forwarding of species and generations.”

Zoissette just watched, quiet. “How do you handle it?” she asked.

“With confidence and strength. ’Tis a pull, as you know, but no more. A suggestion. It can be trying, though. But I care not to be the sort of person who yields merely because the call exists. If I do bend, it shall be of mine own will, or not at all. I suspect you to be a woman after my own heart, are you not?”

“…perhaps,” said Zoissette, quietly.

Y’shtola leaned forward, interested. “And what of you, who keeps your distance? Who even now is practically unclothed, bereft of your usual armor? I have seen how you become more tense when the heat comes upon you. How are you holding up?”

Zoissette glanced once more over at the alchemy equipment, then quickly downed her tea, and cleared her throat.

“Poorly I think. I am afraid I do not have that same confident nonchalance about the matter as you do,” she admitted, matter of fact. “And actually, if you will forgive my terrible rudeness just now. I… I think I need a shower.”

“Not at all, my friend. Take your time.”

Zoissette nodded, and abandoned her spot in the window, closing it before she quickly walked over to dispense of the last of her tea in the sink. She swanned around the room, quickly grabbing a change of clothes and the things she would need in the bath, then disappeared behind the door that led to the washroom.

Y’shtola hummed thoughtfully in her absence, understanding. She herself found that frequent showers and bathing and cleaning rituals helped through her own heat, and would not begrudge Zoissette the same. This evening had hardly been planned, after all.

She finished her tea, and set it aside, beginning to wander around the room. She knew well Zoissette’s many interests already, and was not surprised to see them represented here. Many were the bells they had wiled away, talking about aetherology, and the tools of that discipline were neatly organized in a case. Books of Nymian mathematics lined her shelves, almost as many salvaged from Nym as there were recent publications from popular journals. She smiled at an astrolabe, remembering fondly a night when Urianger had deigned to join them in a discussion on astrology.

And then there was her armor. She had almost never seen Zoissette outside of it, but here it was now. Probably just the chance night that she had removed it for the kinds of maintenance such things would need. And the alchemy equipment. Unusual, that Zoissette did not simply avail herself of the well stocked alchemy lab that existed elsewhere in the public spaces of the Waking Sands. This set appeared to be nearly finished distilling some concoction or another. Curious, Y’shtola picked up the notebook nearby, and began to flip through it.

Aetherochemistry notes. Lists of masses, reactivities, time tables, potencies. Long equations, experiment notes, theories, experiment failures and successes. Notes on samples collected from various fauna, at various points in their life and reproductive cycles.

Pheromones.

Y’shtola found herself getting lost in the notebook, now. The science of pheromones was well known, of course. Well enough known that there were many laws in place against the production of Alak pheromones and hormones that would induce or increase the rut. Society had decided, as a whole, that an Alak trying to artificially increase the fire in their blood or their supposed attractive qualities that could send Omes into heat or unduly influence them was the sort of thing that would not be tolerated. Alchemicals that suppressed heat were more accepted, but only barely, the social stigma against the one having an unfortunate knock-on effect on the acceptance of the other.

This was not that, however. Pages and pages of notes of how to possibly suppress the Alak pheromone output. Of how to adjust hormones to be more neutral in their expression. Experiments of neutralizing, of how to come to be Bet like were approached, rejected. Health concerns. Notes of how to counter, then, to instead go opposite and produce Ome hormones, of how to mimic the pheromones of an Ome in heat, were more successful, more filled out.

Ultimately it seemed to tell the story of how to hide that one was an Alak at all, and instead, for all purposes, seem to society to be an Ome.

“So now you know,” said Zoissette, her voice resigned, and Y’shtola put the notebook down quickly and turned around, startled.

Zoissette had come out of the bathroom quietly enough. She was dressed, a clean shirt and simple linen slops on, and naught else, hair still wet. She ran a hand through it now, with a forced casualness that would have fooled nobody, and moved around Y’shtola, keeping her distance, moving back to the window to open it again.

“You are an Alak,” said Y’shtola. It was not a question.

“I am,” said Zoissette, making no attempt at denying it.

Y’shtola looked back to the notebook. The alchemical set up, which had now finished its distillation, the results of its output in a flask with an applicator. The armor, set up nearby, which Y’shtola now reached for and inspected.

Soft spongy pouches in various parts of its padding. A way to keep chemicals for a few days, perhaps, the heat of the body wearing the armor causing them to become volatile, and spread slowly over time. And two layers to the padding, the sponges in the outer layer, the inner layer perhaps treated in such a way as to readily absorb oils from the skin, and suppress pheromones and smells that would otherwise make their way out.

Y’shtola looked at Zoissette, frowning.

“But why? Why hide such a thing?”

Zoissette pulled herself up into the window sill, and sat, looking out.

“I do not want to be an Alak,” she said.

“Obviously.”

“I do not like it. I did not like it, when I was a knight-captain in Ishgard. Having to break up stupid fights. Being expected to be a participant in stupid fights for trophies I did not want. Not being sure if a third of my soldiers followed me because I was right, or just because they felt like I might smell right.”

“You and I both know that smell is not even the greater part of the equation, even if we stick strictly to how people feel about one another.”

“Sure, okay, or if they thought I had a good leadership aura from my aether. Or just because Alaks are ‘meant to lead’, and look, there I was in a leadership position. Forwarding the righteous cause of the Holy See.”

“Bets and Omes also have leadership positions in most nations. Most forward thinking nations who look past the vagaries of aetherochemistry, anyroad.”

“Ishgard is not that nation. And even if it was, I also had a duty to my House, to the war. A spear is meant to sire, to do their part. And doing my part would mean siring shields and quivers for a bloody war effort that has not seen its end in generations and will not anytime soon. And! To hopefully produce a spear or two in turn, to continue the grand traditions of our sons and daughters of all modalities, more spears, more shields, more quivers. More bodies, to feed our enemies.”

Y’shtola blinked, taken aback by the unexpected bitterness in Zoissette’s tone.

“Is that why you left?” she asked. Zoissette almost always avoided talking about her home, and the Scions, Y’shtola included, had respected that.

“No. I left because my brother turned heretic. By taking responsibility and accepting exile, I spared my House the shame. And more importantly, a possibly terminal, bloody end.”

Zoissette shrank, the tenseness in her muscles causing her to pull in as the fight left her almost as quickly as it had come upon her. Instead of her shoulders going up, she tucked them in, and flexed her hands into fists in front of her.

Y’shtola glanced between her and the alchemy set.

“Then why all this? Surely you have found Eorzea more enlightened than your home.”

“Have I? You still need to sequester down in an isolated cabin space on the ferry.”

Y’shtola had no answer for that. Zoissette shook her head, and left the window, moving towards Y’shtola, but stopping a distance away.

“Please give me some space. I would like to drink my potion and re-treat my armor.”

Y’shtola, after a moment, moved out of the way.

“That is why you would not travel with me,” she said. “You were nearing the end of the efficacy of your potion.”

“Yes. And I have had some difficulty procuring some of the ingredients lately,” said Zoissette, quietly, grabbing the prepared flask.

“Hold a moment, if you kindly.”

Zoissette paused, and looked over her shoulder at Y’shtola.

“We have oft talked before, about modality and gender and society.”

Zoissette nodded, slightly. “It seems to weigh heavily on your mind whenever you are in heat. Reasonable, really,” she said, tensely. “It can be hard to think about anything else, right? Trying to maintain focus despite the hormones. Your heat. My blood fire. We may be coming at it from different starting positions, but I do understand.”

Y’shtola shook her head. “Then why continue the farce? You well understand where I stand - where all us Scions stand. We would not hold your modality against you. Nay, I would fain say we would embrace it wholly, as another part of you. Same as we already do for one another. Same as I thought we had been doing all along.”

Zoissette looked at the flask she was holding in her hand.

“I do not like it,” she said. “Maybe it was because of how I was treated in Ishgard. Maybe it is because I see the effects of it in the peoples of the society that surrounds us. But… Shtola. I do not want to be some… monster. I do not want to think about how I am influencing the minds of those around me simply by -being-. If people follow me, if they trust me, I want it to be - because they want to. Not because of some quirk of natural chemistry compelling them.”

She made a fist, grinding it into the tabletop. “And I certainly do not want to get in stupid avoidable fights with people whose minds are too clouded by blood fire to step back and allow their better sense to maybe keep them from doing something stupid.”

“You are no monster.”

“But even as we speak, I am in rut,” said Zoissette, choking slightly with the effort she was putting into controlling herself. “And look at me. You came here for companionship. What companionship can I offer, Y’shtola? I stand here, and thoughts of you drown me. I want to look into your eyes but I want to stare at your breasts. I want to talk with you, but I also want to feel your body, feel your heat. I want to touch you deeply. You are, I find you, my closest friend. And so I feel these things about you more strongly than I would any other.”

Zoissette took a deep breath in, throaty, and let it out, shuddering.

“I want to be a person, not this thing.”

Her body was tense. Her muscles, like cables. Her form, tall and imposing and powerful. Her voice, commanding and melodious. Her intent was good, but perhaps wanting. Her perspective shaped by her life.

“We are not only our modalities, but our modalities are part of us,” said Y’shtola. “You will not act in any way you do not wish, nor shall I.”

Zoissette gritted her teeth. “Is that you or the hormones talking?”

“A false dichotomy, for ’tis both. I am not separate from them, no more than I am separate from mine own hand. I control myself to my own ends, but I also allow that control at my own behest, as I wish.”

Y’shtola took a cautious step closer, and Zoissette whirled to face her, backing against the table.

“You are quick to tell me what you believe your blood sings to you,” said Y’shtola, her voice quiet, patient. “But what does Zoissette Vauban want.”

Zoissette stared, as Y’shtola stepped closer to her, one step at a time. And as she did so, Y’shtola understood what she had felt all this evening. Despite her efforts otherwise, Zoissette had been having an effect on her.

And Y’shtola had already accepted that, on some level. She still felt comfortable in this space, in her own skin, with Zoissette. She felt warm, and relaxed, and safe. She felt that close companionship she had sought, she just now fully recognized the form it was taking.

“Tell me to go, and I shall respect your wishes,” said Y’shtola. “But consider asking me to stay, and perhaps we might both reap the benefits of one another. One trusted companion to another. Comrades, through many trials and tribulations, who will carry forth through many more, no matter the outcome this night.”

Y’shtola was close, now, and she was looking up at Zoissette, and she did not see the unfocused blood heat in them, the look of a person lost in rut. But she saw a glassiness, the edges of tears.

Of someone who desperately wanted to let go, but perhaps did not know how to.

And for her part, her mind was not clouded. She was not lost in her own heat. Indeed, her mind had rarely felt so clear, so sharp, so close to what it was she wanted.

Zoissette put the flask down behind her. Her movements slow, deliberate. Her jaw was tight.

“I pretended to be something I am not,” she said.

“And yet you are who you have been, this entire time, simply being you,” said Y’shtola.

Zoissette’s breathing was deep, rough.

“How could you want this? With me?”

“How could I not?”

“Are you certain?”

“I am. How certain are you?”

Zoissette swallowed, dryly.

“Would you stay if I asked?”

“I would stay if not turned away. You must believe that I want to be here.”

“I do,” said Zoissette. And then, “I want you.”

“Then take me,” said Y’shtola, her voice throaty with need.

The speed with which Zoissette moved, the fierceness with which she grabbed Y’shtola shocked her, and she folded into the motion, feeling herself go limp, almost as though boneless, as Zoissette’s mouth was at hers, pressing hotly against her lips. Y’shtola moaned, immediately opening her mouth, inviting her in, and Zoissette’s tongue was quick to take the invitation. Y’shtola was in the air, Zoissette pulling her up by her ass with one hand, as another hand pressed the back of her neck, bringing them together, forcing them close, holding her tight. She shivered, at the excitement, at the suddenness of it, her tail curling tightly up of its own volition.

Y’shtola was helpless before the force that was Zoissette, and her heart soared, her blood pumping furiously, rushing in her ears, and Zoissette was eager, hungry, ravenous. She forced Y’shtola to the ground, though Y’shtola was going willingly.

A hand, now pawing at the front of her blouse, between their bodies, groping her breast. Zoissette’s weight almost crushing Y’shtola, as she parted her legs to allow Zoissette’s thigh to press against her crotch. Their breathing, hot, heavy, hard, as one. Y’shtola whimpered, and reached up, to try and wrap her arms around Zoissette, to hold her closer.

Zoissette stopped, and pushed herself up to her knees, before grabbing Y’shtola’s wrists to pin them to the floor. Y’shtola could still feel her knee in her crotch. She could hear her breath. She could smell her, so close. She could feel her presence, the pressure of who she was, bearing down on her, pushing her down, and despite that, Y’shtola felt as though she was soaring.

Eyes, intense, bored into her own, but could not hold her gaze as she returned the stern look with a small coy smile, as she swept her own gaze over the tightness in Zoissette’s jaw, and wandered down to her exquisite collarbones, as she admired the power in Zoissette’s arm muscles, so close. She gave a token squirm, to struggle against the hands holding her wrists. Only just enough to make obvious her interest.

And despite being pinned, she had more than enough leverage to move her hips and grind down against that knee, still present in her crotch.

“This is what I am,” said Zoissette. “Do you still want this?”

Y’shtola closed her eyes slowly, rolling her eyes back as she did so, the slowness of the motions of her head and face a sharp contrast to the way her hips wanted to buck strongly, the way she tried to get her foot to hook against Zoissette’s thigh and make increase that pressure against her center.

“I have never wanted anything more,” she purred.

Zoissette panted.

And then her hands were free, Zoissette sitting up, pulling her shirt off. Y’shtola was torn momentarily, trying to decide what she wanted more. She reached for Zoissette’s waist, but her hands were slapped away as Zoissette stood up quickly, and turned around, removing her pants herself. Bra and smalls were quick to follow, and Y’shtola would waste no more time there, sitting up enough to discard her own clothing.

Pants were tossed to one side and shirt halfway off before it was torn off the rest of the way by Zoissette. And then she was in the air again, Zoissette carrying her roughly, as though she was just a luggage. She took the opportunity to cling tightly to Zoissette, to rake fingernails down exposed shoulder blades while she peppered her collarbone with kisses, wrapping her legs around her.

She was dumped unceremoniously on her back onto the bed. Zoissette grabbed at the waist of her smalls, and practically growled as she tore them off, ripping them down her legs and throwing them to one side, before following her, crawling onto the bed, crawling on top of her. Y’shtola held her hands above her head, and just lay there, breathless, waiting, anticipating. Zoissette pushed her knee into her crotch once more, more forcefully this time, and Y’shtola opened her thighs to grind against it. Zoissette was bent over her, hands at her bra, unclasping it, pulling it off nearly as roughly as she had handled her smalls, and threw it to the side.

They were both fully nude, now. Zoissette took the offering of her hands for what it was, grabbing one wrist and then the other, and pinning Y’shtola to the bed with one hand. Her other hand went to a breast, and Zoissette now hungrily took its nipple into her mouth, lips clamped on tight, tongue attacking its tip without mercy. Y’shtola squirmed and thrashed, feeling as though her feelings were flooding her, turbulent waves roaring through her, crashing into one another as she gasped to keep her head above water. Zoissette continued to make almost animal-like noises as she attacked her, mauling her breasts, straining at her body.

After a while, Zoissette stopped, panting from the exertion. Y’shtola gasped in deep breaths, her entire body a single nerve, raw and alight.

“Please, please, please,” she begged. “More, I want more.”

Zoissette looked deep into her eyes, and then grabbed her jaw, holding her head as she leaned in, other hand still pinning her down, and she kissed her, deep, hungry, ravenous, wanting. Their tongues writhed as they breathed in one another, as though their essence was connected through the heat of their mouths.

And then she pulled back again. Y’shtola tried to follow, but could only go so far with her hands pinned as they were, and she whimpered at the loss, at the sudden cold sensation of her lover’s lips being denied her. She looked up at Zoissette, watching her face, shivering as Zoissette’s eyes wandered, taking her all in.

“You would make a lady beg?” she asked, her voice shaky.

Zoissette pulled back a little bit, moving away while keeping her pinned, her knee leaving the space between Y’shtola’s thighs it had been occupying. Y’shtola felt a wave of dismay. Had they truly come so far, only to fall short at this last moment?

And then Zoissette repositioned herself, her whole body instead of just a knee between Y’shtola’s thighs, now. Y’shtola could not help but watch, helpless. Wholly at her mercy. Even if she wanted to, she was not certain she could have done anything otherwise. Zoissette was strong. And oh, how she wanted to reach out, to run hands down those arms, to place palms against those abdominals.

“I would make a lady scream,” said Zoissette, reaching down between them, and then she was inside, deft fingers deep inside Y’shtola’s most delicate place.

Y’shtola saw stars, and she yowled, throaty, wanton. In that instant she wanted the entire star to know she was being taken, that she was being roughly handled by this monster of a woman. That Zoissette was with her, and that she was hers, and that she belonged to her. She continued, gasping, her chest heaving with every breath, and as she let one breath out, her nipple was once more in a mouth.

Zoissette continued her not so tender ministrations, and Y’shtola had never wanted so much as she wanted now. She fought against Zoissette, not to try and throw her off, but just to fight, just to reach further for that highest high, to try to get Zoissette deeper. And the way Zoissette’s fingers were deep in her, the way she could feel Zoissette grinding against her, the way she imagined Zoissette’s clit in her mind’s eye, swollen and engorged.

The way Zoissette was beginning to spasm above her.

“Claim me!” she cried out to the stars. “I would be yours!”

Zoissette’s breathing, deep and throaty, as she came up from her breast. Zoissette’s breath, hot on her throat. Zoissette, as she finally let go of her wrists, to hold herself steady.

Zoissette’s teeth, at last, sharp on her skin, as she bit down. Zoissette’s essence, as she let go. Y’shtola’s hands, as they clung to her, and they clung to one another, as Y’shtola sang their song to the stars and Zoissette cried out her pleasure, muffled as it was by her flesh in between her teeth, but cried out still, in singularly blissful accompaniment.

Zoissette and Y’shtola, in that moment, as one.

~*~

Travel could be so difficult.

Zoissette was in a rush, pushing her way through the crowds of Limsa Lominsa. She would not be late, by any stretch of the imagination, but her tasks here were done, and she wished to be at the pier as fast as possible. She talked quickly to the bookkeeper, confirming her passage was already secured, and quickly made her way out to the pier, looking around.

The crowd was fairly typical, porters and borders, sailors and dock workers. She made her way to where would-be travelers would be gathering to take the ferry, and she saw who she was looking for, surrounded by a gaggle of people. As she got close, some of them turned to give her a gentle glare, but the rest seemed to be paying attention to a woman in the center of the group.

A woman who now spotted her, turned, and smiled.

“Kindly make way for my husband,” said Y’sthola warmly, who lifted a hand to wave at Zoissette. The group now turned to look at Zoissette, many of them more kindly than before, as they parted to give her space.

“Oh, I can see it now!” “The babe has her father’s eyes.” “And hair.” “That explains the darkness of her skin!” “Oh, and look, they have their father’s nose!”

Y’shtola just smiled wryly, turning to face Zoissette, her child at her breast, feeding peacefully enough despite being the center of attention.

“Hello, dearest,” said Y’shtola, before looking down and smoothing over her baby’s hair.

“I came as fast as I could manage,” said Zoissette. She smiled shyly at the crowd, and wiggled her fingers at them in something kind of like a wave.

“Oh, look at how tall and beautiful she is,” said one Miqo’te, an Ome who, from the feel of it, was nearing their cycle time.

Y’shtola just rolled her eyes as the babe finished. She loosened the sling a bit, pulling them free. “Take them for a moment, would you?”

Zoissette just nodded dumbly, being careful as Y’shtola transferred the sling over to her. She settled it, and smiled down at the baby, rocking them gently against herself.

“I can take them for more than a moment. You have had them all day,” she said.

“You just want to spend more time with our child when they aren’t screaming,” said Y’shtola warmly, her words without temper.

“Look at how careful she is. She’s got the makings of a great father,” said a nearby Lalafell, nudging Zoissette in the thigh and giving Y’shtola a wink. Zoissette just blushed, while Y’shtola frowned in annoyance as she tucked her breast back into her dress.

“And so strong, too. I bet your child will be magnificent when they get older,” opined another Miqo’te, reaching out a hand to touch Zoissette’s arm.

“Tall, beautiful, strong, and mine,” said Y’shtola, a touch sharply, and the woman immediately pulled her hand back, clasping her hands behind her back and bowing her head, looking appropriately abashed.

“Oooh selfish selfish, keeping such a treasure to yourself!” said one of the others, which elicited some small nervous scattered laughter from among the crowd. Y’shtola sighed, her ears beginning to fold back.

A laugh came from nearby, and everyone turned to look at a Roegadyn man, sitting on a box of crates, a long pipe in his hand. He grinned at them, and waved his pipe in their general direction. “You’d have better luck fishing in other waters, my friendly Omes. Look at them! Can’t you tell? Can’t you feel it? They’re not just mated, they’re bonded.”

The group murmured.

“Oh, that explains so much.” “What did you -think- she meant by husband?” “Well I don’t know! Can’t blame a guy for holding out hope! I mean, look at her!” “He’s right, he’s so right, I don’t know how I didn’t notice before.”

The same Lalafell still at Zoissette’s side grinned up at her, and gave her a bow. “Good luck and congratulations on your impeccable taste, good madam.”

“Thank you,” said Zoissette, smiling, before turning her attention back to the baby in her arms. Everything that she had heard while walking up was true. The baby had most of Zoissette’s features, same color hair, same color eyes that now gazed up curiously, watching the clouds in the sky.

But it was not solely her in there. Their skin was not nearly so dark as her own, though it was definitely darker than Y’shtola’s. And the baby had Y’shtola’s stripe pattern and ears. This one would be growing up, not as an Elezen, but as a Miqo’te.

They sneezed, and Zoissette laughed. The crowd continued to ooh and awe and fawn over child and couple, though now with rather less pointed attention at Zoissette. Which she was glad for. She gently stuck a pinky near the baby, and wiggled it, delighted when the child reached out and gripped it tightly.

Y’shtola looped her arm around Zoissette’s, and leaned against her.

Nearby, a dockworker’s voice began to boom out boarding instructions. “Alright! Prepare for boarding! You all know how this works!” they began.

Y’shtola bumped Zoissette’s hip with her own, gently.

“That will be us, then,” said Y’shtola. “Care to share a space?”

Zoissette frowned at her, feeling confused.

“How else would we travel?” she asked, and Y’shtola just laughed.

The porters began to gather luggage, and arm in arm, Zoissette and Y’shtola boarded the ferry with their little plus one. A small little family, new, but they both took joy in it. As this was something they both wanted.