#Malachi Bloodforged

[heroicn0nsense]

Landslide

(technically co-authored with @quorgidog)

The gulls are screaming their dissonant chorus over the dockyard. Rude and indiscriminate, they caw over the shouts and conversation, never matter how important it may or may not be. Sailors learned to talk around them, over them, under them. The mingling cacophony of voices was an audible reflection of the static in Malachi’s head.

There hasn’t been a clear thought between his ears since he left Ala Mhigo. Not even the salt of the ocean air, and the waves lapping at the pier’s struts could help.

He rolls the linkpearl between his fingers as he stares past it to the wooden boards of the dock beneath him, and then the sea between the cracks.

It’s a risk, a huge one. Linkpearl wasn’t the most secure method of communication, and it was nigh midnight in Kugane, half a world away from Vylbrand. Still, Malachi places the call, and tucks the pearl in his ear.

The ringing lasts for the better part of an eternity before a low voice, rough and wracked with sleep, finally hails him. It’s a voice that paints a picture of the fumbling, grumbling, and cursing that came before it as Odibrand fished for his own device in the darkness. And it’s perhaps the clearest image Malachi has managed to capture in weeks. It draws the ghost of a smile across his mouth. 

“Good morning.”

There’s a rustling on the other end of the line, and Malachi knows he has Odibrand’s full attention. He’s awake now. “...it’s half midnight.” Odibrand keeps his voice quiet. He’s not alone.

“You’ve retired early.” Malachi muses.

“Yeah, well, some of us actually sleep.”

Touche. A sound leaves Malachi’s throat that might have been a laugh.

There’s a half beat of silence, but Odibrand is quick to break it. “What’s up, boss? You don’t use this line.”

“Nothing urgent,” Malachi assured, but the quiet that follows tells him Odibrand is not convinced.

The gulls are so loud, they reach through the pearl to Hingashi.

Malachi inhales and feels his chest expand. 

“I’m leaving for Radz-at-Han,” his voice is even. But it’s a certain sort of evenness that Odibrand has become all too familiar with; his teeth are holding something back.

He feels the air on the other end of the line turn sharp. Another rustle, shift, and a soft, not so distant murmur. 

“You’re putting yourself in the same fuckin’ continent as the Empire?” The sharpness digs its way in to Odibrand’s voice, “you’re either ballsy or stupid.”

Again Malachi chuckles, a deep rumbling sound. Pause. 

“I just wanted–” He stops short and falls into yet another pause. So strange for a man so eloquent, a man who always knows what he means to say, to pause so often. He can practically feel Odibrand straining to hear. “I just wanted to say… I’m proud of you.”

He’s fairly sure the noise Odibrand makes is a choke, not a cough, but he masks it well. 

Pause. 

Shift.

“...Are you dyin’? C’mon, this isn’t funny.” There’s a strain that touches Odibrand’s words.

Again Malachi is quick to reassure him. “No, no. Nothing like that.” Not yet, anyway. But he doesn’t say that much, even if the taste of the possibility sits like iron on his tongue. “I just don’t say it enough.”

Odibrand exhales in a sigh that Malachi can hear. “Thanks, I– I mean… Yeah. Thanks.”

Pause.

“Why Radz-at-han, though? Nixie goin’ somewhere?”

“Official business. We just happen to be going to the same place.”

“Official. Yeah.”

In the quiet that starts to settle again, Malachi hears another slurred Hingan murmur. And he can hear Odibrand adjust the Prince no doubt curled at his side, but the sleeping tiger has already started to wake.

“...I love you, too, Mal.”

The response catches Malachi off guard, even though he knows it shouldn’t. He, too, exhales a sigh that Odibrand can hear. “Thanks.” Another beat, and his voice quickens, “Listen, I don’t know when I’ll be in touch again. Take care of yourself. Take care of him.”

Odibrand mutters something in Hingan before he responds, “I will.”

Idanwyn’s voice sails over the Nixie’s railing, “Marshal!” It’s chased by Falkgara’s bellow to weigh anchor. The window was closing.

“Call me when you get there,” Odibrand pleads.

“I’ll try,” Malachi is unsure how well these assurances are sticking, but he continues the effort in earnest, “and when I return.”

“You better.”

The third voice is closer now. The tiger is up, it seems. “Hi daddy–”

“No! No. You are not saying that, ever again.” There’s an impish cackle that grows farther away as it continues. "He says ‘hi dad.’”

“Good night, Akihiro.” It’s the last thing Malachi says before he taps the pearl to end the call. The voices in his ear fade. 

Again, the Captain calls for him. The gull calls turn once more to static, syncopated with the heavy thud of and jingle of his boots against the gangway.

To Thavnair, then. To Thavnair.

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV|21-21: Feckless. Jeveh’li Rivenroot.)

[♪]

Sunlight illuminated the crowded-yet-lush room, motes of dust drifting dreamily. Jeveh’li was procrastinating; his white-collar imprisonment on this strange ship made that quite easy. He had no linkpearl, no daggers, no damned ring that evidently half the star was in pursuit of; just the sounds of the harbor outside, the smell of fresh roses and clean linens inside. Better than the hammocks and sounds of Nora’s curse-born chattering. Better than Erian’s final, gut-wrenching cry for aid that none could answer.

Jeveh’li closed his eyes. “Happy thoughts, Jev,” he muttered to himself. “Good music. Pretty women making that good music. Fireworks over the islands. A bower made of flowers, and a Roegadyn woman waiting for you there.” Unbidden, his thoughts strayed to Idanwyn; he grimaced. “Nope. Different one.” Tragically, no bigger, burlier female Roegadyn arrived to save his imagination; just the thoughts of the runt of a Sea Wolf some ten years his junior, who was evidently the Captain of his current cushy prison now.

He padded over to the baths; again, so much luxury crammed into such a small space. After he��d rinsed off in the shower, he soaked in the neck-deep waters for over half a bell. How had that daughter of Lluantoum managed to get her own ship, anyhow? And with such a...oh, how could he put it...diverse crew?

The Keeper’s thoughts shifted to Seran Lancier, the quartermaster, his fecklessness at the Drowning Wench transmuting into thoughtful words and a keen investigative mind once aboard the Nixie.

Malachi Bloodforged, on the other hand, had kept his temper even after the merry little chase Jev led them on. The Miqo’te would have to reassess his personal prejudices about the Flame Marshal, who, until actually meeting the man, had been little more than red tape for the Spinner’s Lantern.

Rinh...complicated feelings about a female Keeper, though she didn’t seem overly tribal. It had given him greater pleasure than he’d ever admit that she’d been affectionate towards him, even as a ruse; greater pleasure still to drive the point of the knife against her belly, to push her away.

Seabirds rode the afternoon winds; one perched near the porthole above his bunk as he toweled off and got dressed. He wasn’t really sure why he bothered getting dressed; few talked to him when they turned in for the night, other than to make sure he hadn’t sprung his house arrest. He’d give it a few more days; deep down, he was pretty sure he didn’t have anywhere else to go, anymore.

[heroicn0nsense]

Doodles Malachi in between RP posts I guess.

[heroicn0nsense]

Resonance

Malachi Bloodforged had never been much of a religious man, but there is one time a year he prays.

It's not long after the revelry of Midsummer has left behind a darkened sky, and the unforgiving, arid heat of the Thanalan day gives way to a cold, bitter bite as the moon rises. It harkens a change in season, a fading light. Perhaps in more ways than one.

The anniversary of the event isn’t for another month or two. The memory of the date is etched into Malachi’s skin with scars healing aether could never seem to penetrate. And yet, every evening at sun down, Saikhan catches his husband’s ritual. It’s a corner littered with candles and a barely worn rug arranged in a make-shift altar. Some candles are new, and others barely more than melted stumps. This week the altar faces the northwest. Next week, Saikhan knows it will shift east. It’s there he’ll find Malachi on his knees, murmuring an old Gyr Abanian dialect with hypnotic and sorrowful cadence. It even stirs something melancholic in the Xaela’s own jaded heart. 

He’ll never disturb him. But he knows it won’t be long before the spiral.

Every so often there were days the Marshal would avoid the markets, and even their own kitchen, as the scent of cooking meat would make him wretch. But they’d come more often now. Those days Saikhan would do the cooking, and season the ingredients so thoroughly their shared apartment smelled of saffron for days.

The night terrors and sleeplessness weren’t uncommon. But their frequency always increased. Those nights Saikhan would hold Malachi with arms pinned to his sides as he thrashed and trembled, until consciousness could finally tear its way to the surface. It’s then Malachi’s wild, amber eyes would find solace in the meeting of his love’s red and yellow gaze. The next night, Saikhan will remember to put chamomile in their evening tea.

Some days there’s not much more Saikhan can do but to keep Malachi’s cup of coffee warm and full as he buries himself in work for the distraction. He knows his husband will never address these horrors head on, but it does give him relief to watch Malachi pause for a moment to ponder how his tepid mug became hot again, then smile softly to himself before diving once more into his pile of bureaucracy. 

And then sometimes, all he can do is let Malachi pray.

Like he let him pray tonight.

Tonight, he noticed Malachi let the candles burn a little longer, even after he’d completed his ritual. They continued to illuminate the altar, much as the street lamps illuminated the decorations lining the Ul’dahn streets. Though Malachi stands at the window, it’s with a glassy eyed stare, and Saikhan knows it’s not the festivities he’s watching. Instead it’s the ghosts that weave between their bodies and through the alley ways. The temporary gilded pillars always did resemble urns, didn’t they?

The feeling of Saikhan’s arms snaking about his waist is enough to break the trance. Malachi blinks twice and stares down at pale hands and their long black claws that gently twist and tease at the fabric of his shirt. He can’t help but give a soft, inquisitive hum. Perhaps it’s more of a grunt than anything else, but it at least lets the mage know his tactic was successful.

“You think too much,” Saikhan mutters as he gently grinds the tip of a horn against Malachi’s shoulder.

“I have to make up for your lack,” comes the dry retort, but there’s no malice behind it. 

The edge of the Xaela’s horn grows sharper. Malachi grunts again, but the subtle command gets him to move. He takes Saikhan’s hand and presses a kiss to scaled knuckles before crossing the few paces to the armchair nearby. 

Their apartment would be spartan, were it not for Saikhan’s touch. And though Malachi could do without the silk curtains, he appreciated the chair at least. It was wide enough for him to comfortably sprawl, while also accommodating Saikhan in his lap, as the mage promptly did the moment Malachi had situated. And the au ra’s long legs were crossed and draped over the armrest of the chair, forcing the Marshal to rest his  arm atop Saikhan’s knees with a sigh. 

“The city’s so dismal,” there’s the barest hint of a whine in Saikhan’s voice, and he tosses his head back dramatically. “You should take me somewhere else.”

“I just took you to Ishgard.” Malachi reaches for the tea resting on the side table. He’d nearly forgotten about it. It would be a surprise that it was still warm, if he didn’t suspect Saikhan had replaced it.

“Yes, and it was worse.”

Malachi can’t help but grunt a laugh. He takes a long drink from his cup, and Saikhan angles his gaze to count the new gray hairs littering the Marshal’s beard. There’s a momentary, heavy silence that starts to form between them as Saikhan catches him beginning to drift again. 

The mage’s claws dance along the back of Malachi’s neck. A soft tug on his hair, and Malachi’s attention wanders back to him.

“Perhaps it’s time to revisit an old friend?”

It’s less of a question than it is a suggestion. No, a command. It makes Malachi bristle, and he holds the edge of his mug against his mouth, pondering it for a long, long moment. There’s a sincere concern that lines Saikhan’s painted eyes that causes him to ponder in a different way. He’ll be fine, he wants to say, and brush that concern back under the rug so he doesn’t have to see it again. It grates against his heart that’s already raw.

Loathe as he is to admit it, Saikhan is right. Lingering in Ul’dah, the center of the Rising, would do him no good. They both knew it. And with the drumming in his head only increasing, it was only a matter of time before he unraveled again. 

Malachi exhales. His shoulders slouch, and he eases into Saikhan’s touch. “Perhaps it is.”

Saikhan smirks, and Malachi kisses him to be rid of it.

The next morning they would make for Ala Mhigo.

[heroicn0nsense]

I upgraded my office in the FC house.

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-1): Cross.

Though vessels completed this task daily, their arrivals and departures both serving as background sights for an average coastal dweller, crossing any sea was no glib feat.

A checklist, neverending, always mending when cropped down. Idanwyn’s father had called a ship’s manifest ‘wistyrwaek’ for as long as he lived. In their old Sea Wolf tongue, ‘western battle’; shorthand for the struggle that one must endure to answer the horizon’s call.

There was the cargo to consider during this struggle, to be certain. Fine cheeses and neatly-rolled bolts of velveteen from Ul’dah; check. Wineport wines, a staple, check. A bouquet of polearms from Gridania, rope looped around their centers in the hold, check. Various missives and treaties entrusted to the Captain of the Free Trader Nixie, hidden within the galleon’s core itself; check.

Too, the Captain’s Regulars must be accounted for. Falkgara Khannmagasyn, the First Mate, the southpaw Captain’s Left Hand: preoccupied of late, but ever-present, manning the helm; check. Zakuro Kaifu: the Chief Engineer, corralling her kobolds into pressing the Nixie’s ceruleum engines ever-harder; check. Miovont Kotelleloix, the so-called Cabin Boy that worked well within the allowances that silly title allowed him; check. Rinh Relanah, the tribal Keeper who could read the stars and thus served as the Nixie’s Navigator; check. Malachi Bloodforged, the attache whose connections were inversely proportional to his free time; check.

There were other able crew to consider, of course; friends and loved ones of those who currently served as the Regulars. Worth consideration, too, were those who remained loyal to Idanwyn after her aunt Hymlbyrta suffered a mutiny, half the former crew making off with more than half of the Nixie’s treasures.

Scoundrels to a person, those. Even the Nixie Herself, the spirit that swam within the crystalline core surrounding her namesake’s mainmast, seemed content to let the mutinous former-pirates go. Her vessel was Hers, now, and Her Captain an ally.

Idanwyn Lluan’s-kin, finishing her wistyrwaek, felt for a moment as if the deck beneath her feet was made of swimming stars; points of predatory light within the unfathomable abyss. Nauseated, she rested her left hand on the map table; sweat condensating on her brow before drizzling to the deck below; air filling and leaving her swimmer’s lungs in miniature tempests. On her left arm, beneath her kosode, her largely-drained aetheric tattoo threads itself with the barest hint of wind aether.

One’s sails will be filled even if one’s lungs strain to fill them herself.

(Continued here!)