#Not good but did a thing

[wispofwillow]

Prompt 1: Envoy

FFXIVWrite 2023

The Crystarium - Norvrandt; Then

"...And a jar of honey, please?"

"Of course. Anything more, miss?" 

Wisp hid a wince at this last with a quick shake of their head and a hastily summoned flit of a smile. The top of their tail twitched, but this, they hoped, might be obscured by the swing of their robe hem as they shifted to accept the full sack of goods from the shopkeep's deft hands.

"Thank you, no. This ought to be it." The stiffness of their smile eased a little as they fished the proper coin - well, what they hoped was the proper coin, in a currency still new to them - from the small stash in their belt pouch. 

The shopkeep - Aron, Wisp had learned he was called the last time they had been here, a month ago, no, two - smiled in turn as he accepted the coin. But he paused in the midst of the swift count of the tumbled stack, mouth working like it was forming words not spoken, rubbing one coin between blunt fingers.

"Is…anything amiss?" Their smile slipped, ears tipping back, watching that coin pass between his fingers. Coinage was not a necessity, here, in the lands spared the Flood - bartering could be done - but always there was more to be obtained, and less earned for what work they could do for any outside Il Mheg. If they'd been fleeced with false coin, not knowing enough of what it ought to look like, or even simply counted wrong…

"Amiss? Wh-Oh!" Aron followed their gaze to the coin in his fingers, and abruptly his hesitation melted into the quick laugh that Wisp remembered from their last dealings. “With the coin? No.” The shape of that laugh - the humor had guided their steps toward his stall in the midst of the somber air that often seemed to wind through even the beauty of this crystal-lit sanctuary when first they���d properly ventured here a month ago - no, two - lingered a moment even as Aron’s mouth worked again.

“It’s just…” An in-drawn breath, and his eyes dropped away from Wisp’s, his brow furrowing as Wisp’s own arched up as he visibly shifted the question he’d been about to voice. Instead: “They like honey, do they? The…Up in Il Mheg, that is.” 

Wisp’s tail twitched once, again, then stilled, fingers tightening around the rough fabric of their woven sack. A deliberately slow breath to let the stiffness ease as their green eyes met the hyur’s grey ones, to allow the brief smile to come easier. “Oh, the honey is for me. The flowers the bees here can draw from here have their own particular taste, you know.”

“...Right.” It was another long beat before he broke eye contact. Only once he did could Wisp feel their shoulders begin to relax. 

“Thank y-”

“But you are their envoy, aren’t you? Il Mheg. The Pixies.” The new voice was higher, fierce in a way that pinned Wisp’s ears back even before the hand gripped their forearm from behind. Instinct froze them, their eyes locked onto Aron’s wide - wide, shocked, but not surprised - as the speaker shifted herself into view. A slight woman, really, shorter than Wisp and sapling-thin, despite the strength in the fingers still dug into Wisp’s arm, grey threading the dark of her ragged braid. 

“I’m sorry?” It was all Wisp could think to say, as though they’d misheard.

“You. You’re their envoy, their messenger. I’ve seen you - you must be.” Her voice was hoarse with that fierceness - no, desperation. 

“Envoy? I - No. I’m sorry,” Wisp repeated, this time with full awareness, a shiver of something akin to fear raising the fur along their tail as the woman tightened her grip still further. “No.” Whoever - whatever - they were to the few Pixies who tolerated their presence at the bare edge of their domain, it was no envoy. 

“No? But - yes, you are. You speak with them. They all say so. You must speak with them.” The woman, dark eyes standing out of that desperation-scarred face, stepped closer, into Wisp’s space, into their breath. “You must-”

“Nonna…” Aron’s hesitant protest walked over Wisp’s hiss of pain, toppled by the woman’s rising voice.

“You have to help. To tell them. My son. My son crossed their border. He’d heard you could. He just wanted to see - just wanted - but he hasn’t come back. He hasn’t come back. He meant no harm, but he hasn’t-” her voice cracked, then, shredding over the words, “he hasn’t come back.”

Wisp could feel the fear in them, could see their own fear reflected back in the woman’s eyes, so close. They knew - how could they not? - what became of trespassers to Il Mheg. They’d seen the leaf men. The wanderers. The drowned. The woman would have heard rumors, stories. 

And Wisp had heard more than that. Cries, in the dark, in the fog. Whispers, in their own ears. Requests turned to impetuous threats, the demand of a child with the powers of an ageless magical being to back them. 

“I’m sorry,” they repeated again, a whisper this time. A step back. A tug of their arm, away - away. “I’m not…I cannot help you.”

“You must, no, you must-My son - you must do something. Please, please-” a cry broken on a sob

“Nonna-”

“You must-”

“I am sorry - please-I-”

The fingers slipped, strength gone of them as that woman’s face crumpled in on its hope, fragmented in the shards of light cast out from the crystal encasing them. 

And Wisp turned, and fled, half a shadow of themselves, the heat of shame burning into the icy fear pressed into their arm where the woman’s - the mother’s - fingers had gripped them, into the numb skin of the silvery white scar just beneath where that scar had been. They stumbled a step, those cries ringing in their ears, walking but fleeing all the same. Away from the Crystarium and the thin safety of its walls. Back to the tumbled stones of the scant shelter they had found here on this world.

Back to the nightmare dressed in the finery of a dream that was - could be - Il Mheg.

_______

The Central Shroud, Gridania, The Source; Now

Leaves shushed and whispered overhead, around, through - a thin wall of sound, of safety - speaking but not speaking, a language of wind, of life, of-

“Hey. You.”

Wisp’s eyes snapped open, gloved hands following suit, instinctively dropping the small trowel that had hung limp from their grip a moment before even before their eyes had fully registered the shape, the color, the meaning of the boots planted just beyond where they were crouched, off the path leading onward to the Eastern Shroud.

They’d been drifting, again, they knew - but knowing it, recognizing it, and stopping it were such different things, yet. And there was little time, now, for self-recrimination as Wisp’s gaze traced the boots up to a moss-green tunic, and up again to a still face made all the more impassive by the beech half-mask, so alike to Wisp’s own, that shielded the upper half of the face of the Elezen man standing over them, lance in hand. Wood Wailer. 

And here were they, marks of moss up their arms for any who looked closely in the gap between glove and sleeve, hands in the dirt of the Shroud, reaching for its protected plants. A belated wave of stiff fear caught at their breath.

“I’ve permission,” they managed, when their breath rocked back into them. The wood wailer’s face - unfamiliar, still, in the short time since they’d been back, and keeping away from the city and the guild as much as possible. They cleared their throat and tried again. “I’ve the permission of the Fane, for this. Sustainable gathering - taking only as needed,” they added, unnecessarily, tipping their raised, empty hands toward the full-leaved plant before them.

The Wood Wailer snorted, then, and lifted his gaze from them to the wider forest beyond. The spear remained with its butt planted on the ground, held almost loosely. “I know. Wisp Alsentia, yes?”

Wisp nodded, hands half-signing assent before they fully processed he might not see. “Yes. Is there something amiss?” 

He started to shake his head, then paused, and lifted his free hand to scratch his chin as he looked down at them again. “You tell me. The Sylphs want to see you, I hear. You’re their envoy?”

Wisp’s mouth tightened, ears tipping back as they pushed slowly up out of their crouch, following the shift of his gaze down the path East, toward the Sylphlands, out of sight from the ground, but sensed, somehow, in any case. Wisp could not remember if that had always been so, that sense.

“That is not the word for it, I think,” they offered, softly. Envoy - that word again. 

The man’s attention snapped back to them, no real expression visible on his face, still, as his head tilted just slightly. “What would you call it, then? You’ve worked with them.”

“Aye,” Wisp allowed, “I have. Assisted them, as asked - as I could.”

“An assistant, then.” This said with a barest hint of humor. “Then, think you would assist them again?”

One ear flicked back toward him. “Are they…in need of assistance?” Their voice was only slightly less tight than it would have been had not that humor colored the question.

“You tell me.” The Wood Wailer’s head tilted just a little further, enough to look uncomfortable. Wisp turned fully back to face him, then, looking into the non-face of his mask as he looked back into theirs. 

“What…do you mean?” this time their hands echoed their words, signing the confusion.

“I think they do. Can you feel it? I think they are seeking you. Will you. Assist them?”

For a moment Wisp’s mouth tightened again, as they swallowed. Always dangerous, any agreement with any form of Fae. Any promise, all the more so, if vague.

“Aye. I can try.”

The Wood Wailer nodded, and before Wisp could react or frame a coherent question, he melted back into the woods - in the way of a trained hunter, or a shadow, or magic given other form.

Wisp stood a moment, looking after his emptiness, then turned slowly to face East again, listening to the leaves whisper. Could they help? They must.

[koobiie]

shoutout to everyone who wants to infodump but cant string together coherent thoughts to form sentences and instead just look at you like this

[verflares]

just how long is forever? // not long enough, with you

pssst. check this out on inprnt :]

[kingofdoma]

best description of morgan spurlock's legacy ever

[hinamie]

I don't want to regret the way I lived

[lotus-pear]

he's so crazy we can't take him anywhere 😭🤣

[bluhtack]

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF Sun reviews Michael Afton’s art,,

[egophiliac]

buckle up lads we're going BACK INTO THE BOOK

[some-kind-of-creature]

It wasn’t supposed to be a secret.

If you died while with the league, you will no longer be acknowledged to have existed, especially if you died during a mission. A disappointment will not be remembered.

The bats and birds don’t like speaking about the people they have lost, so they don’t. If someone ask about the dead, they will tell the person they don’t talk about that.

So how was Damian supposed to know that he should have told his father about his dead brother?

[inkskinned]

you're in the habit of denying yourself things.

if someone asked you directly, you would say that you love a little treat. you like iced coffee and getting the cookie. you drink juice out of a fancy cup sometimes, and often do use your candles until they gutter out helplessly.

but you hesitate about buying the 20 dollar hand mixer because, like. you could just use your arms. you weren't raised rich. you don't get to just spend the 20 dollars (remember when that could cover lunch?), at least - you don't spend that without agonizing over it first, trying to figure out the cost-benefits like you are defending yourself in front of a jury. yes, this rice cooker could seriously help you. but you do know how to make stovetop rice and it really isn't that hard. how many pies or brownies would you actually make, in order to make that hand mixer worthwhile?

what's wild is that if the money was for a friend, it would already be spent. you'd fork over 40 without blinking an eye, just to make them happy. the difference is that it's for you, so you need to justify it.

and it sneaks in. you ration yourself without meaning to - you don't finish the pint of ice cream, even though you want to. the next time you go to the store, you say ah, i really shouldn't, and then you walk away. you save little bits of your precious things - just in case. sometimes you even go so far as putting that one thing in your shopping cart. and then just leaving it there, because maybe-one-day, but not right now, there's other stuff going on.

you do self-care, of course. but you don't do it more than like, 3 days in a row. after that it just feels a little bit over-the-edge. like. you can't live in decadence, the economy is so bad right now, kid.

so you don't buy the rice cooker. you can-and-will spend the time over the stove. you can withstand the little sorrows. denial and discipline are practically synonyms. and you're not spoiled.

it's just - it's not always a rice cooker. sometimes it is a person or a job or a hug. sometimes it is asking for help. sometimes it is the summer and your college degree. sometimes it is looking down at scabbed knees and feeling a strange kind of falling, like you can't even recognize the girl you used to be. sometimes it is your handprint looking unsteady.

sometimes it is tuesday, and you didn't get fired, and you want to celebrate. but what is it you like, even? you search around your little heart and come up empty. you're so used to denying that all your desires draw a blank.

oh fuck. see, this is the perfect opportunity. if you had a mixer, you'd make a cake.

[exoduslair]

Sooooo, karaoke night must have been wild, here’s my rendition of it. Enjoy.

[hazbinbabbling4ever]

[time-to-write-and-suffer]

I love how on Tumblr, "media literacy" has become "Um, just because someone writes about this doesn't mean they're endorsing this. I hate all these media puritans ruining everything."

I'm sad to inform you that knowing when and whether an author is endorsing something, implying something, saying something, is also part of media literacy. Knowing when they are doing this and when they're not is part of media literacy. Assuming that no author has ever endorsed a bad thing is how you fall for proper gander. It's not media literacy to always assume that nobody ever has agreed with the morally reprehensible ideas in their work.

Sometimes, authors are endorsing something, and you need to be aware when that happens, and you also need to be aware when you're doing it as an author. All media isn't horny dubcon fanfic where you and the author know it's problematic IRL but you get off to it in the privacy of your brain. Sometimes very smart people can convince you of something that'll hurt others in the real world. Sometimes very dumb people will romanticize something without realizing they're doing it and you'll be caught up in it without realizing that you are.

Being aware of this is also media literacy. Being aware of the narrative tools used to affect your thinking is media literacy. Deciding on your own whether you agree with an author or not is media literacy. Enjoying characters doing bad things and allowing authors to create flawed or cruel characters for the sake of a story is perfectly fine, but it is not the same as being media literate. Being smug about how you never think an author has bad intentions tells me you're edgy, not that you're media literate. You can't use one rule to apply to all media. That's not how media literacy works. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Aheem heem. Anyway.

[harrowedsoup]

I refuse to change my headcanon that most of the other people at Canaan House probably thought Gideon was Harrow’s pretty boy toy until she showed them she could actually fight because she acted exactly nothing like a real Cav in anyway. A teenage ruler shows up with a hot butch that clearly isn’t trained to be a ninth Cav or even a normal-ish one? Come on. They probably thought griddlehark were over compensating trying to hide by staying away from each other. 

[gatoburr0]

I HATE how this turned out WITH A PASSION.