#Vahri'a Korla

[mealvaan]

Two Heads are Better than One

Vahri'a's picatrix was lain amid the unwashed ceramics, a small stone keeping it spread flat. It hadn't been cleansed in a while, and some of the inkwork had worn with time and friction, for Vahri'a had stopped using it as a grimoire altogether last year. However, there was the occasional spell of use that remained within these pages and not yet on his skin. This was one of them.

He worked his fingers over the geometry, his own latent aether to the page. With the flick of his wrist, he pulled in a touch of the signature aether from atop the neighboring plates, funneling it into the equation — then the splay of his hand dissipated it in completion of the spell.

"Now it'll wash off easily," Vahri'a demonstrated. He lifted the plate vertically, picked up the basin, and ran the water over its surface. The once-stuck morsels were swept away in the current, leaving the ceramic plain and clean. He handed it to Mana.

"You can do this with ephemancy?"

"With arcanima, yes."

Mana took up the remaining plate and washed it off, then stacked the two parallel on the drying rack.

"Whew! Thank you. I'll need to learn that one some time," she said, then tapped her chin with a curious index finger. "I wonder if you could modify that spell so that it just removes the stuck-bits entirely…"

"Arcanist spells primarily work for non-living matter, save for spoken humors which we understand quite intimately. The once-living and the living are the realm of the thaumaturge and the conjurer respectively," Vahri'a was quick to answer in what Mana knew to be his 'teacher voice', though he cleared his throat out of it. "But, I don't see why it can't be done. All things are made from aether."

"Exactly," Mana said, brandishing a wooden spoon like a wand. "If I knew the alchemical composition of the food, surely I could factor that into the spell?"

Vahri'a had never thought of this key interaction between three seemingly adverse disciplines: alchemy, the culinary arts, and the magic of arcanima. Visorless, Mana was rewarded with the rare sight of her cousin… impressed. Speechless, even.

"Can I take a copy of this spell?" Mana asked, breaking the silence and picking up Vahri'a's picatrix.

"Ah, it's a little complex. Let me make a copy for you," Vahri'a offered, gently taking his book back.

"At least let me supply the aetherial ink, then. That's expensive."

"I have more than I would ever need. Consider it a gift."

"You've already done me enough favors."

The ambient sound of water crashing against bathroom tile occasionally interspersed their conversation, and had become welcome background noise at this point. What perked both their ears was a hum — coming from behind the thick washroom door, T'orii hummed a momentary ditty. Either she had forgotten entirely that the two were just outside, or she knew and didn't care.

"Our song of hope, she dances on the wind… higher, oh higher…"

Vahri'a's heart thumped and thawed.

"I know how I can pay you back," Mana chimed. She was looking at Vahri'a, who had been looking far away. He knew immediately what she meant and his ears braced to the top of his head, yet she spoke it all the same: "You've a brilliant mind, Vahri'a, but in the Goddess's name — let me help you with the matters of the heart."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Back in Everkeep, Ish'kirya thought he had the best bedroom setup achievable to man. It was a massive project he undertook when he turned twenty-one and finally started earning his own money (the True Vue way), when his first cashed check was lush.

Oddly, Ish'kirya was inspired by the luxury pod hotel he stayed at. It was a rare visit to the 4th Level, and he hadn't expected there to be amenities of any sort on the production floor, yet it seemed like those who worked in the factories stayed late oft enough to require such a thing.

By the time Ish'kirya had finished with his bedroom, it was the pod's concept taken to new levels of comfort and automation. Everything predicated on a pre-programmed 'morning time'.

Half a bell before the morning time, the room would gradually fill with natural ambient sounds — miscellaneous bird calls, the gentle rustle of wind through leaves, and a dash of white noise that helped everything blend together (and leave out unsightly audio blemishes).

A quarter of a bell after that, the room would slowly introduce a golden glow, starting from the gradiated strips he placed on the floor and slowly rising to the ceiling, until the whole room was bathed in faux-sunlight.

Once the scheduled time hit, the birdsong would hit its apex in a much more forgiving alarum, and a beam of sunlight would soak in over his face from a carefully placed electrope light. The upper half of the mattress floated up and forward, while the latter stayed steady; the bed would prop him up in a reclined sitting position, the perfectly placed eye-beam moving with it, and he'd wake to a synthetic sunrise.

By the time the project was done, his room was a holy sanctum, the comforts of which had never been achieved even by the Residential Sector commissioned for millions of credits by Praxis Park. He achieved it himself, and that was the beauty of Alexandrian society. Everything was by design. There were no gods. Only mankind could determine what was best for mankind.

Ish'kirya awoke in the Sheshenewezi Springs inn room. Sunlight filtered through the dilapidated window as distant, uncurated birds called — eagles, he thought. He still lay vertical, but the sun beam hit his eyes anyway. Rubbing stardust out of his eyes, he sat up, awake.

Huh.

He didn't like looking at his face in the morning light, ignoring the mirror entirely as he brushed his teeth and splashed his cheeks with lukewarm water. How he missed closets that would cycle outfits out for him, mists that tacitly applied his lotion, primer and foundation.

Truly, Ish'kirya couldn't be bothered with any of it, and he got right to the meat of the day. Straight from the sink, he sat at the bedside bureau. Little pieces of electrope were undergoing delicate engravings with a needle and pocket knife. He had a nice laser cutter that he used to hook up to his computer at home for electrope matters…

"You're up early," grunted Iron Lotus, who finally awoke. Ish'kirya turned around. He was still getting used to seeing her without her helmet, before her own morning ritual.

"Woke with the sunrise. What can I say?"

"You say a lot. Is the levin rod ready then?"

"Nope. A little bit of patience goes a long way, you know." It was taking longer than he expected, though he'd never admit it in so many words. Lotus stood and took a look at his workdesk. He looked up at her expectantly, hoping his return-fire gaze would deter her from watching over his shoulder.

"You're working with a pocket knife?"

"There's a needle here too, if you look with your eyes."

"Mm."

"What? Use your vocabulary," he scolded, turning his chair all the way around. "We're not fuckin' lush on tools, you know."

"There's probably something better to use."

Ish'kirya hated these vague sentiments. His mothers were big fans of them; nudging him in an indeterminate direction, expecting him to get it with the faintest 'suggestions' of advice and patting themselves on the back for words that barely counted as hints. He gave Lotus a withering look, but her back was turned. Great. He'd be passive aggressively nudged to success from—

"Here."

By the time he turned his back, Lotus had approached him. Between fur-lined digits was what Ish'kirya could only describe as a tiny spear (he had seen the like in RPGs); a thin implement with a bladed edge on the end, sharpened to a tight point. The whetting wasn't even, but the end was precise enough despite the more than apparent handmadeness to it.

"What's this?"

"Scalpel."

Ish'kirya took it into his own hands and twirled it. A scalpel, she said. He tested it on the side of the desk, watching it curl up a wood shaving in its wake.

"Cool."

Lotus said nothing. They weren't the type for please's and thank you's, between Ish'kirya's brash demeanour and Lotus's unapologetic silence. Despite how far behind Shaaloani was, it possessed of niches that Ish'kirya hated to admit he needed. Perhaps he would learn to find it enough.

"How long will it take?" Lotus broke the silence.

"I'm a getting tired of this 'are we there yet' routine, you know. It's giving three-year-old."

Lotus stared dead at Ish'kirya, then made her way downstairs for breakfast. Truly, the preferable means of communication between them was non-verbal.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Red's night terrors, regrettably, had become a natural alarum for Imogen at this point. She awoke to his scream with a jolt still — that much hadn't been blunted and desensitised, yet — but she relaxed easier than she did the first time, her hands ghosting over Red like a shawl.

"Red. It's me," she said no louder than a whisper, and clinically shook him by the shoulders. It was a gentle jostle, like riding a chocobo carriage on an uneven road. She modulated her voice to rise slightly with every "Red", until she was speaking at normal volume (which, for Imogen, was anyone else's outdoor voice).

Eventually, he quieted awake.

"Sorry," he said. "I—"

Imogen cut him off. "I was having a weird nightmare, so cheers for that."

Red rubbed Althyk's sand from his lashes, turning his bleary blues to her. "What about?"

"I don't really wanna talk about it, honestly."

"Fair do's. Me neither."

Imogen kicked her way out of the blanket and cracked some fire crystals under the kettle, which had a permanent place on their stove. The Kugane estate that Yoki had rented was certainly intended for weddings, she thought; nowhere else would they offer a kitchenette next to the bedroom. She walked her fingers through the tea bag labels, flickering past the various citrus and ginger variants. She fished out two mild greens and dropped them into twin cups — the handleless, Hingan variant.

Red eventually got up and joined her, watching the kettle. He poured it out as she held out the ceramics. He insisted on doing the honey, too, and Imogen was particular about how squeezy 'one squeeze' was.

She wasn't used to seeing the moonlight against the grey of his hair, so she didn't look at it. She only ran her eyes along the fissures of his scars, relieved to still see most of them there.

"Kanpai," said Imogen.

"… Sure," snorted Red.

Imogen brought her tea to bed and took Red's once-place on the far side, where fear-wrought sweat still clung to the sheets. Her breath skid along the surface and turned to fog, then in her impatience, she scalded her tongue with a flinchless sip.

Red didn't drink his tea yet, and that was fine. Imogen was so easily offended by the star, but not him. She slipped a tome off the bedside table by her and waved it at him.

"We've still got a chapter of this pillowbook to devour," she said enticingly, and Red laughed. She didn't know what she'd do if that was taken away from her too, so she savoured every note, memorised the key.

"I thought ye hated th' last chapter."

"Yeah, that's why I want to read more of it. I need more kindling for my fireplace of ire. I'm a hatred-engine running out of steam."

"Or — 'ere's a wild idea — ye actually enjoy the story—"

"I would rather be devoured alive than admit such a thing."

T'was a strange metaphor, yet Red skated past it gracefully. "Right. I'll be Lord Aurumspire and you'll be Lady Bronzebosom?"

"No, let's mix it up this time. You read Lady Bronzebosom's lines."

"I'm flattered, dove. Y'think I've got the bosom to pull it off?"

"Bosom doesn't sound like a word anymore."

Red languidly held one side of the book from the top, and Imogen supported the other with a limp, lackadaiscal wrist. She thumbed the wearing pages, and noticed that they were almost through the novel entirely. Her breath hitched on something in her throat she didn't know was there. She had every temptation to just close the book on Red's fingers and try to read in silence.

Every temptation save one. One small voice in the back of her head, that she gave voice to quietly.

"Let's try and finish this tonight."

"Eager fer the climax?"

"Shut up."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The bead-woven entryway parted for a pair of chesnut brown ears, one bisecting the curtain and the other following quickly after. A'tari sat up straight on her sleeping mat, tail fraying at the ends.

It was just A'khadia.

"You should have knocked!"

"On fuckin' what?" A'khadia popped his head back and punched a fist through the curtain in its stead. A'tari chortled, her laughter its own little song, as she waved him in.

"Okay, you can come in now. Thank you for finally showing some decorum."

"Don't get used t' it." He cut a path through the generous space that they'd been given for the festivities, astral wind prickling in his wake. He wasted no time in sitting, cross legged, across his sister. He wasted even less getting to the point. Even the Warrior of Light couldn't dodge it.

"Ye alright? Y'left the council faster than I could blink."

"Of course! I just… had so many ideas, I needed to write them down."

There was no parchment in sight; they both stared at the empty space where it would've been. A'tari was a bad liar when it came to A'khadia specifically, for the sheer reason that she already knew he'd call her bullshit no matter what she said.

"Tari, s'kosher if yer overwhelmed. No one ever makes me do a speech 'cause they know I'd rather jump off'a cliff."

With a great, windy sigh, the Warrior of Light was toppled to her deathbed with mere sentiment.

"It's different for you. They ask me to do speeches wherever I go. Just because I'm a bard doesn't mean I'm good with words!" She pressed her palms into her eyes until she saw stars, the pressure staying her impending headache. "And I don't know anything about war tactics or intertribe politics. I'm not a leader! All I do is hit things until they die."

"Ye saved the star more'n once. Yer more right to be a leader than I am."

"Saving the world doesn't mean you're any good at leading it."

Only recently, she'd accepted the mantle of sage advisor, someone worth following. Past the stars in her eyes, she hears flashes of echo-embedded memories: a horrific wet gurgle parting wisened scales into soft palates of flesh — chalkboard screeches, manic and unyielding to metre, amid blinding gold — and not so far off in the distance, the full, swelling silence of Elene'shpya amid the fading twinkle of electrope.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Khade. Why does everyone think I know what I'm doing? Why does everyone think I'm you?"

A'khadia's hand was ilms from A'tari's shoulder before it retracted, fingers frozen mid-stretch. "Me?"

"You built all of this, palisade by palisade. You made every decision that kept these people alive. I gallivanted my way around Eorzea and fell into success."

A'khadia shook his head. "That ain't fair, Tari. Lizha designed the layout, the farms… I just helped hunt down th'seeds. Dusa stopped me makin' some stupid, headarse decisions n' took 'em into her own hands. And without yer help with the O'ghomoro, we'd all be tempered by now. It's never bin' just me."

A'tari breathed deep of her brother's words.

"I wish the Scions were here," she said, curling up into herself. She couldn't keep the secret from her twin for too much longer, but how she missed them. Alphinaud taking care of silk-spoken words, Alisaie having such a way with compelling ones — swooping in when A'tari suddenly forgot all the vocabulary in the star, Echo and all. Urianger and Y'shtola's thoughtful solutions to age-old problems, Thancred and Estinien's furtive efforts with people on the ground — where A'tari couldn't keep track of the small, moving parts, tunnel-visioned entirely on the monstrous threat in front of her. G'raha and Krile's innate senses for space and aether, concepts she could only dream of grasping, to see beyond what the barely-mage was capable of. And, though she never thought she'd miss it rather than fear it, Tataru's unstoppable sense for business — it encompassed everything she was struggling to do here today.

All these thoughts filled the silence between them. They fell into it often, the twin satellites.

"Let me help ye wit' the speech," A'khadia offered.

"No, you can't do it for me. I can't keep letting people do things for me because I can't. You've already done enough for our people, all because I was scared—"

"Never said I'd do it for ye. Lemme help."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It's been eleven years since Dalamud ravaged Eorzea. All those years ago… near everyone we knew was suddenly gone. We'd barely grown beyond cubhood, and now we had the weight of the Antelope's legacy on our shoulders.

It weren't easy. All the family we had was each other, y'see — our mother and Nunh were in Thal's hands — an' the options weren't plenty. We made the 'ard decision to part ways. But it wasn't 'cause we decided t' give up.

I had no idea how I was going to help other people, let alone a tribe. I wanted to figure out who I was, what I was good at. I travelled across Eorzea and threw myself at everything. I'm sure many of you know the habits I fell into, drinking deep of my cups, staying up until the Lover's Bell, living from paycheck to paycheck. A'khadia supported me despite all that.

An' I didn't know how t' live without people aroun' me. I wasn't built ind'pendent like that. I travelled 'tween the tribes and y'let me learn yer ways. Ye didn't have to, and some of ye couldn't — I was another mouth t' feed on top of everythin' that'd happened. But ye all humbled me. I learned so much about our people. A'tari kept me company on the suns that no one could spare a hand.

It was in finding my own way that I learned how to be strong for other people.

It was the strength a' other people tha' helped me find me own way.

The Rising always sits under the constellation of the Goddess, the Balance. Nald'thal presides over it too. They both call us to keep, well, balance — between the self and the people. Between each other. To give when you take, to help when you're helped. It's one of life's many cycles that the Traders preside over.

Thank ye all for comin' to our Risin' memorial celebration today. Ye've helped us all so much, an' we wanna return it. Tari and I'll be sittin' here all evenin'. If ye need advice, a lil' helpin' hand, or even jus' an ear to listen, we'll do our best. We ain't miracle workers — we ain't the Warden — but we're both better listeners than talkers, anyhow.

… That's it! We're gonna sit down now. Come one, come all!

Yeah, jus' lemme take a leak first.

— Khadia Nunh of the Windrunner Antelope Tribe, and the Warrior of Light of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn The Seventh Astral Era, Yr. 11

[tavro]

quick 1 hour animation of my FFXIV character before bed ✦

[mealvaan]

Memory

"Ooh, I remember. That happened what, four years ago?"

"Erm... 'Bout an epoch ago, Vahri. I was like, nine."

"Oh. Right."

Meindo rattled on about a memory that Vahri'a hadn't realised was so long ago. Her words turned to a vowely mush, as if she were speaking in another room despite being one fulm across him.

He called this affliction of his "the demon" (to no one but himself, of course, because it was stupid and melodramatic and frankly, personal). After that fateful hunt, his perception of his own life had been utterly fucked.

Parts of his life that had been truncated together now occupied a large stretch of once-blank land, and the rest all huddled shoulder-to-shoulder to make space. Events from his early 20s felt far closer than they actually were when he looked at a calendar, and he struggled to play them out without imposing his slightly more aged face over that of his youth.

Sometimes, Ma's passing felt like it was two moons ago. Sometimes, it felt like it never happened. Sometimes, he felt like she had been dead since he was born, and that wasn't right either. The demon was behind all of this, of course.

It was the same demon that guided his hand into his pocket every time he was in a rush, only to find for the umpteenth time that, yes, his house keys were still there. The very same demon that made him double, triple check that he turned the stove off and safely packed away the fire crystals before leaving home. And when he used to use arrows, it was the demon who compelled him to count them again to be sure they were at a nice, round number.

That demon relished in anchoring him to the past or torturing him with a hypothetical, disastrous future, but never found solace in the present. The present was a relative past. He rarely ever felt it in the moment — always two steps behind or two steps ahead, out of time.

"... So I wanted ta' ask ye about voidsent."

"Wait, why?" Vahri'a had only just tuned back in to Meindo's monologue. "What do voidsent have to do with All Saint's Wake?"

"I jus'— Augh, look, I'm jus' tryin' ta keep me and me friends safe."

"But you can just avoid the festivities altogether, can't you? You didn't even like All Saint's Wake when we last went."

"'Cause I was like, nine, Vahri. I'm a full grown adult now. I ain't scared a' merches in costumes tryin' to sell me shite. I dunno if tha' rumours are true about voidsent, so I dun' wannit to stop me goin', but I wanna be ready. On tha' off chance somethin' happens."

Vahri'a spoke low. "I don't think you can be ready."

Meindo grumbled. "If you ain't helpin' me, then I'll ask someone else."

"No, no, Mei, I'm sorry, I didn't mean you specifically—"

"S'fine. Let's talk about somethin' else."

Vahri'a sighed. He knew this tack and followed suit, otherwise the conversation would end period.

"Okay. If you want to. Uh... how's training been?"

"Oh yeah, you remember when I first applied t' be a Maelstrom Jade?"

When was that? Vahri'a asked himself, knowing only the demon would answer.

[mealvaan]

Sally

One expects their room to feel empty when their roommate is gone, but not always. T'orii was a dam — the only thing holding back the catastrophic disarray that Mana was capable of. Without eyes that could be offended, for hers were so forgiving, Mana had no reason to maintain a respectable private life.

Every object in the room had something to say. They echoed the pretty, enchanting words of upper market vendors, for whom deception was a disservice to their truly quality products. The fixtures around her didn't heckle or bargain with reality, no, they all had a different promise to offer. And every promise tasted sweet.

Mana's attention flittered around the room to hear out each of these voices. She'd wanted to compare the taste of water crystals from La Noscea to that of Ala Mhigo, and that took her fancy for a moment — until her undried, unhung clothes from noontime's wash clamoured up her nose, the smell having taken on a new, musty smell. She had a Living Lexicon article she clipped from the Mythril Eye that she wanted to read, and keeping the mind spry was mighty important, but also she'd scuffed her new shoes on the pavement the other day and needed to repair the scratch before it became too apparent. She'd laid out everything she wanted to do out in the open field of the apartment with hopes that it would spur her to a decision, but this only made their heckles louder, each indecipherable from the other.

There was really one simple task that she could do — a task that could kick it all off and was urgent enough to have the honour — which she didn't want to do at all. There were two dishes from last night that needed washing. She'd left them in a soapy tub overnight to let the dried garlic mince unstick from the plate, and now they were due a clean. But Gods, it was still going to be a terrible scrub. Their sponge had lost its texture for the most part and was merely there to dispense soap suds.

Two dishes. That's all it was.

But it wasn't the easy task, really.

Mana kept herself anchored to the bed with one foot that hooked into the duvet. The rest of her body stretched to grab the Mythril Eye clipping she left on the floor. She realised half-way in how much more effort this was compared to just standing up and grabbing the thing. But if she got up, she'd have no excuse to put off standing tasks like hanging up the laundry and washing the—

Oh, "truculent", Mana hadn't heard that word before. It served as a segue to examine Garlean propaganda pieces over the cycles. And Garlean art differed from Eorzean art fascinatingly, too. This spurred Mana to pick up a book from under the floor and start comparing the two illustrative styles in meticulous detail…

Mana awoke to a pamphlet on her face and a knock on the door.

"C-Coming!" she chimed, hopping up from the duvet and, to her chagrin, over the mountain of incomplete tasks that were still sprawled out over the inn room like furniture. She thwipped around and kicked her shoes under the bed, threw the crystals into a drawer, shoved her wet laundry back into the still-damp tub. But the dishes weren't going anywhere, more than apparent in the sink.

Mana opened the door with a shy creak.

"Vahri'a! What are you doing here?"

T'orii and Vahri'a had been out on an anti-date. As she understood it, Vahri'a was invited for the sake of repelling men. She hadn't expected her cousin to come back with T'orii, especially not with his arm in hers. Her blood felt bubbly like champagne; she was happy for T'orii, whatever this meant for her. But did it have to be Vahri'a she brought back to their desecrated inn room?

"I was escorting T'orii home and she insisted I stay the night."

"Oh, should I give you two space?"

"N-Not like that," Vahri'a assured her behind a crumpled fist.

"You don't mind?" T'orii asked Mana, and she could tell there were a thousand thoughts behind those sharp eyes.

"Of course it's fine!"

"Great. I'm going to hit the showers."

T'orii skipped past them and left the two Cirkans alone. Mana could see the red dusting Vahri'a's cheeks behind his visor; she hurried to pour him some water, which gave her ample excuse to block his view of the sink.

"Here, have some water." She offered it to him, but stood perched against the basin with her hand outstretched. Vahri'a hesitantly took the glass — the offer was odd — and didn't drink it.

"Thank you," he said all the same.

"So, how was your night out?" Mana asked, her smile lopsided, ready to pounce up into a grin.

"It was… nice." Vahri'a took a seat on a stool by the vanity, tousling his hair one way. "Er, Mana. Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?" She was barely paying attention. The offer was an automatic response. It was only after her question mark piqued that she realised Vahri'a Korla was asking for help in only so many words. "Yes, of course you can."

"How's T'orii been lately?"

Mana cradled her chin, sinking against the kitchen counter some. It was a difficult question to answer in earnest, and Vahri'a could likely tell given her pause.

"Sorry, I shouldn't ask through you," Vahri'a mumbled.

"No, it's fine. Are you worried about her for a particular reason?"

"Nothing's wrong, it's just… I don't know. If things are weird or bad for her right now, I don't want to make it worse. This was already a bit of an odd request, so…" Vahri'a was made of sharp angles, but she noticed his guilt made him soften up and deflate. This time was no different. "Sorry, that's probably nothing. Ignore me," he added briskly.

"You're not making anything worse for her, Vahri'a."

"But I could, right? I have too much baggage. I very well could."

"Anyone could. That doesn't mean you're going to."

They simmered in thoughtful silence together for a bit. How could Vahri'a possibly think he would drag T'orii down? He wasn't the one living with her and messing up the room while she was away. He wasn't the person she felt she had to take in because that 'perfect stranger' was also such a mess. Vahri'a would have gotten the dishes done.

"I mean, she's just been through a lot. I know I have, too. I feel like struggling people need solid anchors. That's why it's good you're in her life, Mana. But maybe on my part, it's not a good idea to want to…" He trailed off. "Gods, I'm taking leaps and bounds with this, aren't I? It was just a nice night."

Mana's black irises swam with stars as she looked to Vahri'a anew. He was thinking the exact same thing she was, perhaps; she'd inherited the chaos of the city that he'd lived in for half an epoch, and only now realised how small it made her feel. Amid the myriad things to do and sights to see, how difficult it was to lead a normal, stable life. How difficult it was to feel like you weren't another puzzle piece in the chaos; that you were a problematic fixture in an out-of-control world.

"Vahri'a. Can you help me with something?"

His ears perked in surprise.

"You need my help with something?"

It was a first, she knew.

"Mhm. I have these two dishes I haven't cleaned, and I need help scrubbing them."

Mana slyly curled away from the sink and revealed the sudsy, since-cold tub of watery porcelain. Vahri'a stood and took a look, brow furrowing as he noticed just how splattered these dishes still were.

"Do you have any other plates?"

"Pff, nope."

"You meant to do these while T'orii was out?"

"Yep."

"What happened?"

"I just… didn't."

Mana couldn't tell him why. Perhaps there was some tirade of explanation she could run headfirst into, give him a life's worth of justification for her failure here. But she knew it was something she didn't know, and that she wasn't perfect, and that was okay.

"Okay." There was levity in his chest. Perhaps a lilt of amusement in his voice. Mana beamed, fangs and all, as she handed Vahri'a the sponge.

A more comfortable silence washed over them like a warm tide. Clan Cirka was symmetrical lines and perfect circles, made hammock-beds and an impenetrable mist. Yet its children existed, imperfect and shy of it, for you couldn't expect the same of people. He washed the dishes and she dried them off, and while everything else hid away in the balance, maybe tonight, that was okay.

[mealvaan]

Third-rate

Damned to the grave of Never-best

For whom the bell won't toll

I take my weary final rest

Without a curtain call

My metred verse is an excuse

For half-hearted attempts

At finding peace for a recluse

The keeper of contempts

Intone the beat of my weak heart

To syncopated breath

My sentiment requires law

Instinct, my cause of death

Chaos innate to spokenhood

The brilliance of man

A foreign object that I should

Yet fail to understand

This is beyond the mortal trend

That causes us to trip

An ilm before the treeline when

Godhood is in our glimpse

This is beyond the limping start

Miqo'te have survived

Allag's imbalanced old ecarte

Could not predict my strife

My struggle to break through the grain

Of mortal perception

'Yond which my fam'ly stood to gain

A godly conception

Behold the greats with whom I share

The Goddess's illustr'ous hair

Indulge in pitied pleasure for

I can't keep measure any more

[mealvaan]

Quarry

Limsan footpaths leave no tracks. Here, marks part crowds like the sea. Waves of riviera townies crash against storefront shores. A hunter's ears are sharpened to the slightest sounds: the crunch of grass underfoot and the trill of lesser prey. Limsan heckles make up an oppressive chorus of 'bugger off' and 'bloody hells'; the reserve may as well be dead silent.

Still, Vahri'a had to try. He attempted to weave through the bodies as if they were birch trunks, only to get elbowed in the face by a man built like an oak. It was red, black and green: his fingers left his muzzle splattered with blood, and his eyes shut so tight he saw mossy static. Maelstrom colours. Before he could bang his head into the pillar behind him, someone caught him by the armpits and dragged him out of the billow.

"Let him go, Vahri'a." It was Nem. Vahri'a was the target of her exasperation, a stray dog running after a squirrel. He so often swallowed his feelings like ice-cold water, but this lit a fire at the bottom of his stomach.

"It's our job to guard Mealvaan's Gate," he bit.

Such an even-toned voice wracked with venom. Vahri'a had spun around and looked at her frenzied, blood running down his muzzle. He must've looked bestial to her. Perhaps she didn't think he was capable of it.

Two blinks of stunned silence sunk between them before Nem replied.

"It's our job to assess the shipments. Not run after interlopers and get ourselves punched in the face. Are you okay—?"

"What's the use of that, then?" Her hands were quite off him at this point, especially as he began to gesticulate madly. "We scan the crates, and if we say 'no', we just let them run off anyhow?"

"Let the Yellowjackets handle it. 'Sides, Vahri'a..." She shook her head in disbelief at needing to explain this to him. "It's just Somnus. It's not the end of the world."

Vahri'a knew well the type that shipment would catch. He could see crystal clear his delicate little hands, no larger than a pubescent child's despite being well into his teenage years, eager to sleep the night away. The dream of an easy life and its incongruence to reality, a gap that only closed when he indulged. Sae thought he might not know, but he could see in his sandstruck eyes that he was barely there with him, and it was his smile — how grateful he was to be visited by his eldest brother — that gave it all away.

"Just Somnus." It was an echo of thunder. Nem frowned like crumpled paper.

"It's not great. But it's not like someone's shipped in an Imperial acceleration bomb. Just be glad we're alive. Come on, let's get you to the infirmary."

"I'll make my own way."

"Vahri—"

Into the roiling ocean, Vahri'a trudged. The sea gave him a wide berth for his crimson face, the image of the insatiable hound. He'd gotten a scent for it now, that Black Brush plague, and he was going to dog it. Nem knew as she watched him walk away; she wilted quick and returned to the thickets, with skint hope that her hunter would come home.

[mealvaan]

Solution

Each time Vahri’a’s head topples to the wall beside, the bombination of the upper level floods into a roar of chatter and clanking about. Whether it detracts from his concentration or enhances it, who’s to say?

The brief of the assignment is written in brilliant bold letters at the top of his workbook — decidedly kept separate to his grimoire, in preservation of his immaculate handwriting. Aim: To transpose Ruin into an orb of 5 ilm diameter and reduce channeling time to 50%. It should be simple. In theory.

Yet underneath, the contents is shy and ashamed, hiding behind scribbled ink. Attempts to transpose the sigil come across more as abstract art than a workable geometry. 

He has been here for two bells now.

The lichyard of the basement is all he has to bounce off of. A vacuum of thought. There are a couple of skilled casters taking the opportunity to practice reps in the arena, but this is a relatively quiet and private affair he easily tunes to muffled phonetics. Other arcanists often work at home, but his is a hole in the wall. 

Way off to the other side of the circular expanse, however, is another he hadn’t noticed on his first sweep of the room. She’s a short and wiry Seeker of the Sun, all ankles and wrist bones, in a set of suspenders and rolled trousers. Rendered in autumn colours, with auburn hair and patches of brown skin woven with burgundy burns. She adjusts her glasses every so often and squinting through them as she makes her way through one of the guild’s many tomes. She’s got piles of books set off to the side of her, none opened. Sprawled onto her desk of discarded crates are a number of parchment pieces, each playing with the same sigil that’s been etched into his mind for the evening.

As if alerted by the Twelve, her gaze darts up.

He catches it, lips thinning and stretching — not into a smile, but rather a sheepish impulse.

She grins proper, the tips of her ears and the corners of her lips stretched upwards.

He raises a hand in a bare wave.

She gets up. Gathers her materials. Strides over to him.

He isn’t going to get any work done.

“I didn’t realise you spent your studying time in the Gate, Vahri’a. Thought you’d be the type to skitter home after every class.” He doesn’t know her name, but she talks with the lilt of someone who’s known him for ages and has the right to affectionately resent his withdrawn tendencies.

“Don’t you do that?” he asks, returning his gaze to his work. An ear remains lofted in attendance of his fellow arcanist, who assails it with laughter.

He supposes ‘assail’ isn’t the right word. There’s a distinct flutter to it that makes it a bubbly, digestible affair…

“I can never concentrate in here. There’s too many people milling about usually. But I needed the research, and the Navigator heard my prayers, wheeling everyone away from the Gate for once. Save our quietest classmate. But no, I study at the Docks. The noise doesn’t bounce around on the open sea.”

“Did you have much luck, then?” Vahri’a asks curiously, looking over her papers.

Given the dissonance between his workstation and hers, he expected her penmanship to be equally dissonant. It’s not quite the steady hand he uses to draw all his glyphs, but hers is neat by certainty. A single, quick stroke marks a circle, a line, and a poke of the pen for the dots. She doesn’t waste time, and her work is all the cleaner for it.

For that, she’s gotten farther than him. She doesn’t conceal her mistakes in a big, black box. All of her experimental failures — even the ones that are excessively silly, like deconstructing the core of the glyph and dispersing it to its arms — are on full display, their page remaining their own domain, with notes scribbled into the margins.

“Working on it still, but I’m stumped,” she admits, showing off a particular sheet. The heart of the spell is circled with great aplomb. The margins scream in all capital letters, which he can only just make out for its colloquialism and alternative spelling: WERE TH FUCK DO I PUT THEES? 

“I would assume you keep it where it is,” Vahri’a says, frowning.

“But should you? See here—”

She grabs one of her books from under her arm, setting the rest down beside her — decidedly parking in his study space — and flips through the pages until she reaches a dog eared entry. Gods, did she dog ear a book from the archives? The page falls to a spell of a similar casting time to the one they’re attempting, Bio. She points to the top of the sigil, furthest from where her palm connects to the tome’s spine.

“This largest push is at the end,” she says, circling a more complex set of large circles with her digit. “It’s ‘cause you want to have your aether, let’s say, ‘valves’ opened proper by these little bits so they’re all oiled up to let go of bigger amounts. It makes the spell imbalanced, which isn’t a problem for this one ‘cause it’s all about volatility in the first place. But Ruin’s got to have that trajectory, and let you channel more quicker…”

Vahri’a blinks. He holds the book’s other end to get a proper look, eyes flitting between his grimoire’s open page and her book’s example.

“Now, let me see what you’ve done?” she asks, side-stepping to get a better look at his workbook. Her brow furrows as she sees his work — redacted clouds of meaningless scribble. “Well, you’re no help. Did you just draw a bunch of tits?”

“No,” he says flatly, shaking his head in disbelief. “None of those were correct, so don’t worry for them.”

“But maybe parts of them were. Better to be able to use the scraps than tossing out the whole boar. Walk me through what you tried, then. Or we’re both hopeless.”

She has a point. He hasn’t made any progress thus far, and she has. He may as well take her help rather than spurn it and flunk the coursework.

The work had proceeded for bells, but those bells went by at a ship’s pace. Time speeds to a brisk walk as he explains his theory to her, and she posits some rightful critique — and he does the same for her when they eventually wheel a chalkboard out of the classroom and work that way, each with an eraser and piece of chalk to parry the others’ suggestions aside. But it’s a spar, not a duel — a collaborative effort to better the other.

By the end of it, they’re tired messes fighting off the concentrated La Noscean heat, but they’ve got a working prototype that their tutor might actually accept. 

The two fall to a natural silence as they copy the geometry down into their respective books.

“Hey, Vahri’a.”

“Mm?”

“You don’t remember my name, do you?”

Air skids to a halt in his throat. 

“Ah…”

There’s that laughter again. Gradated and effervescent. Like a glass of champagne. 

“Gods, you’re the worst.”

“I’m sorry.” He realises just how much he’s pied off his classmates. 

“It’s fine. Remember it this time.” She extends a hand to him. “H’nemti. But you can call me Nem.”

“Are you sure?”

“… About my name?”

“About the nickname.”

“If it means you’ll remember it, then I’ll take what I can get.”

The rest of the eve is little, but precious. Their work is preserved in ink, its dust dissipated. He says his formal goodbyes after checking his bag twice over, and she waits for him without poking at his habit. They ascend the steps in a close file.

Every so often, she turns back to chat with him, her merriment skewing her glasses one way. By the end of it, he manages the littlest of smiles, and hers carves dimples into her cheeks.

[mealvaan]

Fuse

“The Heavens bless us, and so we keep their hearth as it were. We don’t dare disturb the holy balance: as above, so below.”

For cycles, Vahri’a had endeavoured to keep his grimoire a sanctum.

On the tail end of his picatrix, there hides a secret commonplace book. Sketches that would be filed away in throwaway journals he’d purchase by the bulk have been smuggled in through the temple’s backdoor. Still never held to even dim light, nor shown to the curious, but they are equal to the immaculate spreads he had sheltered from their spidery scrawl years ago. These refractions of his innermost self, the reflections of his eyes onto paper — they are as good as God. 

This stamps the signature of his soul to the page. Within each margin note of a brilliant thought, each arrow drawn with conviction between two ideas, from bow unto paper, he devotes a little bit of himself. He feels closer to his arcane focus now more than ever before, and all it took was to treat it like the back of a napkin.

Look hither and take heed, says his grimoire. The taste of this teaching would pair nicely with your charcuterie on ephemancy, no?

Truthfully, the book had become equal parts himself and the clan he’d stepped one foot into. These sketches and soliloquies are his attempts to understand his family better, in the way he’s best learned how. Who knew such a vital pillar to his life could be learned at twenty-six! Nothing goes without being captured and dissected, each thought subjected to entomology. Following his grimoire’s call, he navigates the thumb index to a tab left blank, but he knows it from memory to be the beginning of his notes on ephemancy. 

Ephemancy, they called it. Never had he dreamt arcanima could be wielded so religiously, both parts of the phrase “ritual worship”. The arcanima of Limsa Lominsa is a relatively new art compared to its fellow schools, and juxtaposed to its rigid structure comes the informality of being the youngest. Despite its roots in Allag and Nym, no one treats it as an ancient, sacred art — it is a precise science to be practised in the here and now, and from its predecessors it can borrow, but never revere. Limsan arcanima is a tool, not a rite.

Limsan arcanima never borrowed from the Heavens, however. Ephemancy is a blend of two arts — the precise methodology of turning one’s aether into something entirely of the imagination, with the vulnerable act of appeasing the ambient, celestial aether to borrow its lifeblood. Ephemancy is both a mundane implement of use in the sun-to-sun and a sacred ritual guarded by its keepers. Ephemancy is an alchemy of two opposing ideologies. This is far from incidental — this is the magic’s true purpose. The clan is built around these parallel towers. The sun shines right through their windows, twice a day. 

How Vahri’a longs to carve the sigils into his skin. Ironic that he once challenged Savarah’s belief in the resurrection of the arcane tattoo, and now he yearns to adorn himself with one. And not for the matriarch’s convictions, or even that which lay close — for the mere curiosity of it! Damn him to the Hells for the blasphemies he entertains, but who would want for further reason than to feel the Mother Moon’s presence glowing upon them, every single day—?

“You write too much,” remarks the venator, and he glances up from his archive. He hadn’t even procured his quill. No, her eyes bore into ink long dry. 

“Do you think so?”

“I wonder if you’ve ever lived.”

She draws her hunting knife from her constellation rune. She wields it like it’s an old friend, in that it wouldn’t care what she did.

“Let’s move, wanderer.”

[mealvaan]

Break a Leg

Cradling his lute like an ill babe, Vahri’a ambles his way through thickets and over roots towards the clearing they’d deigned concave enough to be an amphitheatre. Between curtains of verdant growth and a gathering larger than most pubs could accommodate, the greenery’s as good as one in his book.

Not that he had ever taken to a proper stage. The mere thought had made his heart an epicentre not sennights prior; it since had been laid to rest for its insolence.

This is enough for his rickety esteem, blown to insecurity by harsh side winds, clinging to sanity via clothesline pegs. The efforts he puts himself to are too immense for two eyes — that which scan his strings for any sign of wear or thinning, and check the pegs to see if they’ve inched away from his scrupulously fine tuning. Too immense for two shoulders, which slouch over the instrument to shield it from… what exactly? Light would do nothing to hurt the wood, yet he acts as if it’s harsh enough to kindle flame.

And then there’s the forks in the road. A mental labyrinth to funnel a racing mind. Each beat is an opportunity for mistake, and underneath that, a net of his own design. Should he rush into a stanza of backing that isn’t yet to be, he knows the acoustic path to lead it back, and the way forward for a delayed piece. The script has been combed with fine teeth to its individual syllables, and where his litanies of memorisation may fail him, he’s pored through the thesaurus and embedded the suitable substitutes to his skull.

He cannot explain it, but he knows his words have power. His lyrical will coupled with a melody can drive a stoic to tears, turn the tides of battle, make the air thrum with feeling — all inexplicable, yet apparent with its weight. He refuses to sling it around. Not the potent story, nor the history that comes with it. Whether it would be roiled forest creatures or the ghosts of the Shroud’s past that would get him first, he prays he shall never know.

No amount of dress-rehearsing tragedy can ever make one ready for it. Yet he, cursed with his mother’s narrow throat and blessed with her cantabile voice, refuses to leave it to fate.

[mealvaan]

Turn a Blind Eye

TW. Alcoholism, drug addiction (and predating on it).

“Hey Li, could you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Could you step a little over to your left?”

Vahri'a is oddly sheepish. It’s odd to see the eldest, often a gaunt shadow cast over the lot of them, in the blundering state that he is now. Crawling through his drinks, sip by sip, despite having had five of them at this point. Hammering his five digits and the tip of his tail against the table’s edge. Nervously eyeing the other end of the room as if a predator stalks the entrance. 

A woman in smithing attire with her mitts slung over her shoulder enters the restaurant bar with an entourage of friends. Vahri'a becomes one with the table. 

“Just pretend I’m not here.”

“Mhm.”

Vahri’li can’t believe his older brother slept with her, and clearly wasn’t courteous about it. He thought Vahri'a might know better than to act like that, but who is he to tell him off? Li’s the younger of them both and not remotely experienced in romantic affairs. At most, he’d just be cause for Vahri’a to make a bigger mess.

He serves his brother up another drink and watches as it shrinks, ilm by ilm, to near-nothing. 

* * *

"Ah, look! That’s the friend I was telling you about…! Isn’t he severe? I mean, in an impressive way…”

Vahri'li can’t say he recognizes the man, if for his type. Skin like a counter platter — and only ever the kitchen counter, never further — with burns to match. The stranger eyes Vahri'sae like he’s struck ceruleum and he’s pretending it’s dirt.

“Between you and me, Li,” Vahri'sae whispers like wind chimes, improvising a melody. “Have you heard of dreamweed…?”

“Nope,” says Vahri'li decisively. Honest and clean. Chef’s sleeves.

“Leon has. He says he can tell me alll about it at his place. For free! Most people in Limsa aren’t so nice, huh?" 

"No, I guess not.”

It’s not his job to tell Vahri’sae not to make mistakes. Especially not mistakes he’s still making, six fulms deep into his fascination with the illicit offerings of La Noscea. Who is Vahri’li to clip his younger brother’s wings? If Sae makes mistakes, he’ll make them, and Li will be the shoulder to cry on. But to scold him would be a bridge too far. He keeps his teeth and tongue to their own.

* * *

“Oi, Li. Could I get a fuckin’… bottle of wine for the road?" 

Vahri’to is a hazard to himself and others. He can barely walk straight, occupying the breadth of a two-way footpath which each step. His words are an incomprehensible slurry of phonetics. But he’d asked nicely — nicer than he usually does.

‘No’ isn’t a viable answer.

[mealvaan]

Waldhorn

TW. Animal death.

The venator is the harbinger for his own coming. This single solid note occupies the clearing, filling the orifices of the treeline, summoned from his throat as one draws breath. Not long after its herald is oft the underwhelming percussion of thwips and thunks. Then after, the cacophony of silence offset by the thundering heartbeat of the forest running for its life. 

The marmot wonders if he means to warn them. The note is synonymous to death; perhaps even predators want for peace, spurred by nature nonetheless. The forest’s bounty wanes after Dalamud feasted at their table. There is not enough room in the forest for all of them now, and the band would be damned before sharing their spoils, but still each hum of that singular note is as good as a siren—

Or sirensong, as the marmot watches their bretheren emerge at the sound. Beauteously crafted in its simplicity, enough to invoke curiosity from poor, wistful souls. Even half an ilm of their snout will be the death of them, yet they will die bathed in song, and for that? One is envious.

The orchestra rises to its sudden crescendo. Cuts into the wind that ricochet off the aether end in their kin’s puffed chest. 

They are not spared, as they feel the arrow find purchase in their heart. They had not been mesmerised by the sound, but rather the beauty beholden by another. They take their last breath knowing they too had been tricked, and was it truly so damnable? Is there not a place in Heaven for those who watch and wait for all the sounds the star has to offer?

The venator cradles the twin marmots like babes he never knew.

[mealvaan]

Confluence

Never has the Canopy been so tirelessly busy. The plaza is oft buzzing with the leisurely indulgences of wealthy Eulmoran citizens, but this is not guileless white noise that fills an empty space — this is cacophony that endeavours for purpose, the bustle a byproduct of the work. Like smoke to a machine.

Koa-Varr is one of many mystel stacking crates to the high heavens, a makeshift Tower of Babil within the real thing. He wipes sweat from his brow and congratulates his acquaintances from the Derelicts on a job well done. He doesn’t know how he’s become the defacto leader of this small band of alley-rats, but he’ll accept the responsibility.

For his is a packet of blight upon this ornate place, tattered hempen shirts and sooty cheeks smudging the delicate reds and golds of the Aetheryte plaza. Come to think of it, he’s never had the opportunity to look at these big slabs of crystal up close, let alone attune. Gatetown was where he’d been born and where he’d stayed. Where else could one go? 

There is no time like the present. He ambles up to the aetheryte. For a moment, Koa-Varr considers whether he should put this slab of crystal to the test — a logical methodology, a consideration of all properties at once. But all sense has been abandoned in this place they call Eulmore. He simply listens to the thrum of ambient aether, feels the course of life taking him into its embrace, and allows the beacon to encompass his thoughts…

As he attunes to the aetheryte, he feels a familiar entity passing through the water beneath. As he opens his eyes, he sees her.

Meido-Koa. The youngest of the Koas. She’s so much older now than she was when he last saw her, and so much has changed. Her white tresses have been cut to the length of her chin, and her face bears a myriad scars and chips — if only because they had been dusted with the Derelicts’ air. The cost of a clean visage.

She stops in her place, frozen in shock. He, too, leaves his connection with the aetheryte.

Kicking up rose petals and still waters, the two bound for each other. He wraps her up in his embrace, that he protected her with when she was but a babe. She’s bulkier now, sturdier, and he can’t carry her like he used to. His bad leg gives way the moment he tries to lift her, and she’s but a flutter of shellshocked laughter in his arms.

“Where are our brothers?” he asks her quietly. “I want to see you all.”

The air between them falls frigid, giving way to icy shards. They prick at the skin above his ankles where fountain droplets once rested.

Her voice, a broken vase held together by string and bits of clay.

“They’re all gone, Varr.”

* * *

There’s a loud thump, a sharp pain echoing from his forehead, and the blossoming of dim light in his blurry vision.

“Aghhh…”

It’s one of the most vivid dreams Vahri’a has had, and it’s propelled him into the ceiling. He looks to the chronometer across his lofted bed — it’s only five in the morning. The apartment above him won’t be pleased. 

He tucks himself into bed, but his eyes remain open. There are shallow points between the aetherial sea and the corporeal shores.

What is real, what is a dream, and what once was and now remains but a story for the people of this star?

[mealvaan]

Cutting Corners

TW. Animal disfiguration.

The chalkboard is adorned in clean arcs. Dots and lines fall into perfect orbit with their circular core and remain static. Whether they love him or hate him, Mr. Korla is a man of painstaking detail. Each diagram is a work ready to be published, then dissipated into powder and dust. By the end of it, there is a full arcane sigil drawn from memory — that which summons the Emerald Carbuncle, the first in a tried and true syllabus. 

As Mr. Korla dusts off his hands, some of the chalk dust gets into his snow-laden hair and ancestral marks along his jaw. No one notices. 

“It takes a while to draw, does it not?” he asks the class, pacing along the front row but regarding the whole of the fifteen-or-so person class. “You may ask yourself — why bother? Are some of these lines not repetitive? These circles, overlapping for most of their bodies? What is the point of this auxiliary appendage?”

He gestures towards a singular ‘tail’ to the geometry that extends outwards. 

“What is the point of summoning a being with these excessive accoutrements if it means using all this expensive aetherial ink? These are questions I asked myself when I started my studies at the Gate. Perhaps it isn’t even that — perhaps you think yourself beyond the basics, and you believe you’ve devised a quicker, more efficient way of doing things. I won’t argue with that inherently. You’re welcome to prove me wrong, but you should be prepared to lose some of that precious ink in the process. 

‘As I said, I had the same thoughts. So allow me to make demonstration of my findings, that I might save some of you the trouble.”

In one swift motion, the eraser swipes the visage of that auxiliary appendage off the board entirely, ending in a puff of white smoke. 

Mr. Korla turns to the diagram and breathes in deep, chalk dust be damned. He raises his palm, beginning the somatic gesture better suited over his own picatrix, tilted back vertically to hover over the board’s face. The students watch in abject curiosity or offended bewilderment.

There is barely any aetherial conduction in the chalk itself, and none in the board whatsoever. Were it made of wood, perhaps there would be some conductivity to salvage. Alas, between the difficult material and the sheer size of the sigil, the effort takes thrice the amount of aether it would normally. The most perceptive of his pupils can see the tendrils of aether blurring the edges of his palm, though his corporeality isn’t threatened in its entirety. 

From the board emerges the spitting image of an Emerald Carbuncle. Its button nose, its large lops, its short front quarters, its fluffy belly—

But its tail is nowhere to be seen. It’s a clean cut with no ragged edge or seam — its hind rounds off in a logical arc, and then it lands onto the teacher’s desk. 

It stays wobbled on its legs, but not for long. The weight of the ears on its head greatly imbalances the poor familiar, and it topples over square onto its face. Teetering on the edge of organic and inorganic, it merely exercises a grunt of acknowledgement — not of pain — when this occurs, but one pupil still draws his hands to his mouth and squeaks in pain on its behalf.

Mr. Korla dismisses the carbuncle with a wave of the hand.

“The tail is important because it is designed to create precise balance for the carbuncle. This type in particular will jump for latitude in its spells, and it requires perfect internal balance to ensure its landings are sprightly and clean. Otherwise, you will lose valuable aether you have channelled in the process.

‘Now, what about these?” He gestures towards the overlapping circles. “Surely this could be represented by one line through the arc—” He draws it as such— “Instead of unnecessary loops?” He erases the circles around it, leaving that newly drawn line in their place. “Let’s see.”

“Sir, we get the point…”

“Let’s see,” he reiterates curtly but calmly, channelling his energy into the board once again. He feels his head swimming, and his eyes shut tight to set off the visual vertigo that might ensue thereafter. There’s less on the board now, though, and thereby less aether needs to be reshaped. He can see the thought process behind such whimsy of efficiency, after all.

Limping out of the chalkboard is the victim of his laziness.

The carbuncle is without a muzzle. Each intricate slope that comprised the creature’s mouth is erased, and the result is a mere stub that goes from its cheek to its cheek — a plateau of aether. It attempts to chirrup, but what results is a garbled, muffled noise. The student that had gasped earlier nearly faints.

Mr. Korla’s steely gaze does not yield. His arm extends forward in a wordless command. The carbuncle attempts to gather winds in its maw, but the breeze merely blasts into its nose and — perhaps predictably — topples it backwards in its own shock.

His point made, he dismisses this carbuncle as well, returning it to the ambient aether.

“These sigils have been developed over thousands of years. Through the most ambitious of ancient societies in Allag, to our closer predecessor in Nym. Thousands of sigils, thousands of hands, and thousands of new iterations.

‘I have the utmost faith that in the future, should you study hard, you will be able to manipulate these sigils. One of you will find a shortcut somewhere where it was missed, or a new geometry that changes the entirety of the structure we use on this sun. One of you may develop an entirely new school that branches from arcanima, and we will all wistfully remember your time as a neophyte caster in this classroom.

‘For now, remember this. These are the most simplified sigils that this school has to offer, looked over by at least an epoch of trained arcanists. You would do well to learn them and understand each purpose. You do not have to do it in the way I have demonstrated,” he casts a quick look at the boy of a faint heart, “but perhaps a more practical application would be suitable for some of you, since the theory did not click.”

He rattles off the sennight’s assignment and leaves the class in a brisk walk. In a storage closet away from the hustle and bustle of the training grounds, Mr. Korla smuggles a sip from a bottle of whiskey kept in the depths of his book bag.

[mealvaan]

Gaudy

“I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality in these past few sennights, so — here,” says Vahri’a, and he hands Mana regalia in a burlap pouch.

Trapped within the bijoux is the last sunset over a La Noscean shore. The deep rouge of the Warden’s blush trickles into the bottlegreen of the ocean. What little light the Lover has captured hits just upon the crest of a wave, and then there is nothing. Each slight twist of her index and forefinger exhibits another wave in the tide, another facet cut into the magnificent jewel.

Mana had never heard of the Crescent Children, but she finds herself daydreaming of what their matriarch must look like in accordance with the premium quality of her craft. She imagines a wizened old sort, years Ahxe’s senior, whose calloused hands boast years of nicks and cuts that bear no threat, for each is merely one in a myriad. Whenever she tries to imagine a matriarch, she cannot help but invoke the image of the Mother Moon — skin cast in the hue of midnight, punctured by pinpricks of starlight freckles, and silken white hair enveloping her whole self. 

The matriarch probably doesn’t look like that, she decides. She holds up the jewelry to the pointed tip of her ear, attempting to catch a glimpse of something so far from her peripheral reach. Inexplicably, her ears wilt not long after. 

“I appreciate the gift, Vahri’a. I’m sure your contact in the Crescent Children worked tirelessly to create such a masterpiece. She’ll be relieved to receive it once again unscathed!”

“Um… what do you mean?”

“As much as I would like to dress myself with such a beautiful ornament,” Mana says, eyes resting softly upon the tip of her nose rather than meeting his gaze. “I fear it wouldn’t be polite to wear such a thing.”

“Ahxe, Aila and Mholi all adorn such things. You deserve them just as well, don’t you?”

“They are titlebearers and lorekeepers. Those gifts were provided for anniversaries and their childrens’ namedays. But I…” Mana nervously wrings her hands, attempting to keep her placid smile upon her face. “You’ve learned of our clan’s history with metalworks, or our lack of, yes?”

“Mhm…”

“Then, you know that such things are a luxury for us, and we can’t make much room for luxury nowadays. I’m really, really sorry. I just think — it would be better for you, if you were to return this and purchase something for Ataraxia as a whole. Perhaps a centerpiece for the Heart! That could be novel and lift plenty of spirits!”

Vahri’a finally takes the earrings. Thick silence permeates the air as he realizes the gravity of his request — and the embarrassing position he must’ve put his cousin in. For his own ignorance, no less.

“You’re right. Sorry, Mana.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for!” she assures. “Really, I’m grateful. Perhaps in the future, we’ll strike gold quite literally, but for now I appreciate the sentiment.”

Mana hurries back to the Siltanho house to prepare dinner for the returning hunting band. She sings while she cooks, her mind waltzing to the song — imagining a matriarch with midnight skin, but possessing deep obsidian locks, and with sunsets for eyes.

[mealvaan]

What's in a Name?

Contextual story: What’s Mine Is Yours

“‘Hi! I’m Vahri’a of the North Shroud!’ … ‘Hey, my name is Vahri’a of the North Shroud.’”

Only waist deep in the gently running waters of the baths, Vahri’a appraises his reflection for all its dents and ripples. The surface is shallow and the lanterns dim. Even when he stays perfectly still, his visage is an inscrutable blur.

He’s staked his claim on this time of day for his bath, wedging between the early risers and the hard workers, past the crack of twilight and the middling sunrise: midnight. While most are occupied with their meals, he’s absconded to the bathhouse for the rare opportunity of taking one alone.

He tells himself it’s to practice his new name. Let it roll off his tongue funny a few times so it doesn’t come out in the introductions, as the title itself is of an odd brand of mundanity already. Perhaps if it sounds natural from him, it won’t attract as much attention. He knows his surname at birth would prove far more intrusive, anyhow. 

Despite his claim of that being the sole reason and that alone, he finds this foray into the foggy waters is far easier on his nerves than the times the thermae was bustling. Growing up, he had only ever taken baths alongside other Korlas. Those of Clan Cirka are not unlike his brothers, if for the fact that they too share intimate blood, yet his beating heart regards them as strangers in a sauna. 

“‘Nice to meet you, I’m Vahri’a of the North Shroud, or just Vahri’a, if you—’ No…"

“Um—”

”Aah!“ 

After disappearing under the water with minimal splash befitting of a perfect dive, Vahri’a’s visage is submerged in the bath steam with his eyes just above the water line. Gentle ripples rise from around his muzzle. He peers about curiously in search of the voice.

A young girl, no older than ten cycles, stands at the bank of the bath. Her appearance is distilled from that of her clansfolk, Vahri’a included — blue-grey skin smooth as a pearl, hair the color of a cloud strained upon a midday sky. Her diminutive stature only takes her up to a third of the height of the wooden beam by which she roosts, and appears even shorter as her slouch grows into a crouch. Her curious eyes, cast in magenta, bore into Vahri’a and his poor attempt to hide.

Though her tone is wracked with the trepidation worthy of a wounded rabbit, her words weave a picture of volatile wonder more suitable to a rabbit about to get wounded. 

“Why are you talking to yourself?” 

Vahri’a had seen her in passing, but he knew better than to approach the kin of one so earnestly avoiding him. Not to mention his approach to children is rusty at best. It was never particularly polished in the first place. In this situation however, Mholi’s youngest daughter Ukho would not be a party he could swerve about on village grounds.

Rising up to bring the water level to his shoulders, Vahri’a attempts to save face despite the sad, dripping locks framing his.

“Practicing. I wasn’t bothering you, was I?” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had to practice saying hello before!” This point of pride has her chest swell. “Do you need help?

“I… I’m fine, thank you. Don’t worry.”

Somehow, even in the presence of a child with very little grasp of social shame, the awkwardness is palpable. A pause whose silence is only offset by a hum remains between them for a while.

“Vahri’a… Why is your family name a place?” Rather than judging, her inquiry comes mostly from amusement. “Unha Ahxe told me that you’re part of our family, so shouldn’t you have one of our names? Like Moshroca! Or Cirka, or Alonhi, or Siltanho, maybe.”

“Haha, you see, I’m not quite part of the family yet,” he navigates awkwardly. He knows little of what Ilma has told the others regarding his circumstance. “Everyone is still getting to know me.”

“Well, you haven’t gotten to know me yet. I’m Ukho Moshroca!”

While there could be a mote of indignation in her, it’s overwhelmed by the excitement of meeting someone new. That warmth thaws Vahri’a more than the calming waters of the bath could. 

"Nice to meet you properly, Ukho.”

“So.. why is your name like that? Did your old clan own the whole North Shroud?” What? The mere idea is humorous to him. Such is the mind of a child in single digit cycles.

“No, the place is just a placeholder, in a sense. It’s not meant to be anything special.”

“To me it sounded like a special title, like Unha Ahxe’s.”

“Have you ever explored the North Shroud, Ukho?”

“No, we almost never leave Ataraxia. Ona will tell you she’s left many times, but I know she’s lying.” Ukho’s cheeks puff up. “Ma would never let her go out there, it’s dangerous! So most of the people we meet are people who come here.”

Shrugging off the brief feeling of discomfort, Vahri’a gently sorts her woes. “It can be dangerous, that’s true.”

“Hey, Vahri’a-of-the-North-Shroud,” the child rattles off quickly. “Could you tell me some stories about the place you’re from? Then maybe I can show you all my magic!”

“I’d be happy t—”

“Just please don’t tell Ma, because she says that we shouldn’t talk to any stranger without her permission. But Uhya Ilma likes you, so I think it’s fine.”

Vahri’a’s heart sinks into his stomach.

A stranger.

That’s how Mholi, his aunt, a woman who had helped his mother raise him for a spell, had introduced her children to his existence. 

And why wouldn’t he be? To become one with Clan Cirka, he’d need to show the barest dedication of shedding his former ties to a woman who’d forsaken their people. But that woman was his mother, and the Korla name, his blood. With this title, he feels like a molted shell of his former self, surgically removed from the rich context of his life, and made to pretend that his past — the dirty, squandered, imperfect thing it is — is not a part of him. 

Could he be familial to Ukho while unfamiliar to himself?

A man deflated, ears pinned to the back of his head and shoulders slumped towards each other, sinks slowly to bring his chin to the water again.

“I’d be happy to, but I’ll be very busy helping out the huntresses over the next few sennights. Sorry, Ukho. Maybe some other time.” 

“… Okay.” Her disappointment is twice as evident. “Bye bye, Vahri’a.”

“Farewell, and may the Mother Moon—”

Ukho had already gone. Vahri’a knows she’s an excitable kid, and thereby she’ll be fine in a few bells.

The North Shroud is a dangerous place, rife with the remnants of Dalamud’s wrath and tempered Ixal from the frigid north. To run aimlessly about the bowers of the North’s red trees is not a fate befitting the young. A guardian would be well within her right to protect her kits from such horrors. Mholi’s decision to keep them here, to keep them safe herself, is an admirable one in that regard.

How laughable — a wanderer well into his adulthood, jealous of a child.

[mealvaan]

What's Mine is Yours

Lost in a maze of mist and trees, Vahri’a holds the scarf to his muzzle for dear life.

Ilma had assured him there was nothing to fear in the fog surrounding Ataraxia. The ill rumors he’d heard would not befall a welcome guest. This, she truly believed — throughout their foray into the mist, she would regale him with stories and anecdotes of her life. As she had gotten settled and comfortable with her nephew, she would find herself running her mouth, carried away in her fervor.

However, he knew what he had been told as a kit, in his heart of hearts. 

Mother told him of wanderers who ventured too far into the mists and fell into an eternal slumber. Their veins became the steadfast roots of trees, their hair the moss on the north side of the trunk, and their soul the possession of the elementals. She told him of huntresses who felt the mist creeping upon them, saw the dead as the fog wafted under their nose, and bore witness to the Hells from a mere sniff. They would run until their feet were blistered, their eyes windows to a realm beyond ours.

The little child within bids him to heed his mother’s warning and inhale only his own breath. The conscious adult, abiding by the child’s whims, knows why she spun these tales. 

Vahri never wanted him to come here.

As he follows his aunt’s lead, the mist thins with every step. In his head, the same thick clouds begin to blossom. They had walked for a mere five minutes, yet now he finds himself a shade of what he was — a numb jumble of limbs and sinew, stumbling along.

The moment they emerge into the village, he gasps for air.

“Oh Goddess! Wanderer, are you alright? Uhya Ilma, please help—”

Ilma turns quickly, a switch flipping in her mind. “Easy, Vahri’a,” she soothes, taking hold of both of his shoulders to steady him. “You’re okay, I’m here for you. I’m going to sit you down now, so we can get a better look at you.”

Vahri’a feels the soles of his feet no longer anchored to the ground, but rather vaguely brushing against it as he’s whisked away to a nearby rock. 

Ilma’s voice rises. “Is there anything I can do, Mana?”

The unfamiliar huntress replies without missing a beat. “Just keep him steady, uhya…”

Within a matter of seconds, he feels aether plunged into him once more — as if he were a pool of cold freshwater, and the spell a diving otter. Vahri’a’s vision refocuses on the woman who preempted them at the treeline: Mana.

Her hair unkempt frames her face with shiny, dark blue tresses. Her huntress’s marks are a vignette of curved lines and splotched dots, her fingerprints evident in each one. Her skin is possessed of that same blue-gray that stretches over his, his brothers’, and his aunt’s. Yet, she is not possessed of the brilliant squint signature to the Korla clan. Her eyes are rich, tumultuous oceans that look upon him with concern. 

Patterns glow upon her forearms, fading after her cast. They’re similar to Ilma’s tattoos, patterns mimicking an older arcanima sigil for the spell Physick, though the circles used to form the equation are of specific symbology. They represent phases of the moon.

With the help of the healing spell, he rights himself.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you… Thank you,” Vahri’a says between recovering breaths.

“Don’t apologize! I only wish you had a smoother landing. Uhya, this is one of our wanderers?” Mana briefly looks at Ilma before continuing to appraise Vahri’a. “You must’ve been having fun elsewhere for epochs, for I don’t think I’ve ever met you…”

“Actually Mana, the story’s a little further than that.” she begins, looking between the two miqo’te. “This is Vahri’a, he’s my nephew. You know, Vahri’s kid?”

Mana pauses, then merely shakes her head. Her brows knit together into an apologetic scribble. Ilma smooths her hair backwards, thinking on where to begin — on how much to explain right there and then, and how much would have been better to talk about after they had gotten her ailing nephew out of the proverbial woods.

“I was gone for a few moons because I was looking for him and his siblings. Vahri’a here expressed some interest so… I wanted to introduce him to the rest of the clan. See how he feels, and maybe see if he wants to stay, you know? It’s all up to him and the rest of the clan of course but… I wanted to help make his trip as smooth as possible.”

Vahri’a expects a ponderous pause, but their hostess wastes no time — a gasp leaves her lips as she launches into a bright tirade. 

“So, Vahri’a is long lost family? Of course I’ll give you both the tour then! There’s plenty of time to make up for, after all.”

Watching, gravitating eyes turn into gathering people — dozens of strangers who could be his relatives, indeed — Vahri’a finds himself in hasty agreement with their tour guide.

As the eye of the storm, Ataraxia is a haven no larger than a town square amidst the chaos of the outside world. This idyllic village of cozy huts and a canopy beyond the treeline sits pretty, shrouded in mist. The center of the settlement, which Mana introduces as the Heart, hosts a congregation of Keepers that look like him. Skin of dusky tones, just a minute past the twilight shade. Hair of pale moonlight with a smattering of darker hues. Bushy tails, diamond lips, slender ears. While they go about their day, their gazes gravitate towards him. Vahri’a pushes himself to answer each, “Ma, who is that?” with a gentle wave.

The Heart itself is a gathering of tables around a low crackling bonfire set under a gazebo-esque structure. The sunset breakfast is a gathering of mixed berries, sparse strips of jerky, and small rolls of fluffy bread, all atop the long table that is an apparent free for all. Children run by, snatching up rolanberries in their wake while chatting parents don’t so much as blink. Partaking in bisected bread rolls with bits of jerky at the center, they simply carry on.

Most cottages are residential, with one or two designated for each family branch. By Vahri’a’s wish, the Moshroca cabin is given a wide berth for now.

Some homes are not homes at all, rather hosting communal functions; Mana tours them about a few. There is a storehouse of various culinary and alchemical ingredients, galvanized with arcanima to preserve them. There is a bathhouse built into the rock that lines the river, lanterns faintly lighting the serene dark There is a small archery post where shortbows and arrows are stored; the Alonhi branch is already fletching while a young huntress, no older than fourteen cycles, works on her aim.

Lastly, there is a kitchen mostly populated by Mana’s branch of the Siltanho, though few chefs remain as breakfast has already been served. Despite the building’s purpose, it is distinctly without kitchenware.

“Watch this,” Mana says proudly, and from a constellation-esque tattoo in the form of arcanist sigils, she draws a translucent, aetherial frying pan from her thigh. With the snap of her fingers, flames wreath the bottom of the implement, which she places atop the stove. A marvel of ancient magics, he surmises, yet— 

“Uhya Mholi developed it from some older texts,” he’s told. They leave it at that. 

As Vahri’a meanders about, he is the object of the clan’s curiosity. Ilma and Vahri’a are coordinated in a vague, yet truthful story, but neither can reasonably hide the man’s name — especially not when Mana emphatically introduces him as Vahri’s first son. Some keep it at that, choosing not to assert themselves over what is clearly Ilma’s personal decision. Others express a deep pride in Vahri’a’s decision to visit his mother’s flesh and blood despite her wishes, the details of which are never expressed. Others yet raise their brows and allow the conversation to taper off coldly, no longer eager to learn of the wanderer.

Few greet their tour guide and she alone, until—

“Good midnight to you, Yutan Mana.”

Grounded and firm, the mysterious voice calls the attention of not only her charge, but the lot of the touring group. 

Like all others of her clan, this woman of fifty cycles is dressed in flowing clothes heaped over her shoulders, cascading as patterned waterfalls stopped at her sandalled feet. She stands a mere few fulms away from the group, which begs the question: how didn’t he hear her?

“Unha!” Mana exclaims. “Vahri’a, this is—”

“Ahxe Cirka, the matriarch of this clan.”

With hands carved in the roots of trees, she lifts her hood to reveal a worn visage and two raggedy ears — the left of which is pierced with glistening silver jewelry, the only indication of her status. Her eyes flit to Vahri’a’s aunt.

“Ilma, I would have thought that if we had visitors, you would have let me know.”

Witnessing the matriarch’s formality, Mana is taken aback. However, it doesn’t take long for her to bow her head and assume a deferential stance on her clanswoman’s behalf. “Sorry, unha…”

Ahxe places her hand on Mana’s head despite being half a fulm shorter than her. “Don’t worry, girl. I’ll be seeing you later for dinner. Would you allow me some time to speak with our guest?”

“Of course!” She looks at the two, wearing a dazzling smile. It didn’t take long for her to put one on. “See you later, uhya, Vahri’a!”

“Vahri’a?”

Measure cannot mask the incredulity in this single utterance of his name. The hairs on the back of his neck bristle and threaten to jump out of his skin. His greeting to Ahxe is an uneven smile and a set of words so practiced they barely sound like pieces of vocabulary to him:

“Pleasure to meet you.”

As quickly as anxiousness grabs him, Ahxe settles. She pulls a curtain of soft cloth over her features once again. 

“You as well. How about yourself, your uhya and I have a chat?” Without awaiting their answer, she begins her slow stride towards a nearby cottage.

Tail between his legs, he follows the matriarch. What else is a wanderer to do?

Akin to her garb, Ahxe’s cottage shows no difference to that constructed for the other families. However, from a single clue — that is, the building’s proximity to the Heart of Ataraxia and the river that runs through the village — it becomes clear that this was the first cottage to be built of them all, for the convenience of the main family — particularly the clan’s leader. 

Inside, the hall immediately branches off into various rooms. Ahxe takes a harsh left, her lethargic tail sweeping the floor behind her. Before them is not the usual curtain that separates the other cottages’ chambers, but a fully fledged door built for a home’s entrance, repurposed for interior use.

With a slow creak, the door opens to a room plunged into darkness. Thanks to his nocturnal vision, he can make out shapes and shadows: a low table atop which sits various ornaments, cushions lining the floor around it, and an assortment of bone discs covered in soot and charcoal, nearly unnoticed.

A shard from a shallow bowl on the table is snatched between her fingers and crushed in her palm. The fragments dissolve into crystalline powder which conjures flame unto the candle. He can see the wax clearly now: a set of old candles, rarely used. The table is covered in ceramic bowls, parchment maps, and discarded flower wreaths. A rich aroma of sandalwood and the sharp scent of jasmine wafts throughout the room.

“Take a seat, will you? I don’t bite.”

Though Vahri’a casts a wary glance in Ilma’s direction, he folds up his long robes to sit as instructed. The pillow is soft and provides plenty of give, and ere long he finds himself sinking into it as there’s little else to lean on.

“So, Vahri’a. How have you found the village so far?”

“Ah, it’s really impressive. What you’ve set up here, that is to say. This part of the Shroud is typically Sylphland, so it’s a tall claim to reside so nearby. That’s not to mention the quality of the buildings and infrastructure—”

“You can thank the Siltanho for that. We knew little of construction before they came along.”

“Mm, that’s Mana’s family?”

“Indeed. They’re a newer branch. They rarely venture out, so it’s unlike you would’ve seen them before.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen any of the clan before, truth be told.”

Ahxe leans back; in her hand, an ornate pipe with the bowl filled to the brim. Another crystal ignites it. The flicker of light betrays the firm, appraising look on her face — twin shards of obsidian boring into him. And then it’s gone, the earthy smoke mingling with the candles’ embedded aroma. It takes Vahri’a a moment, but he recognizes the emerging odor of dreamweed. 

“We have our tricks.” She exhales a ring that curls into the shape of a crescent moon. Tricks indeed. “You must be old now, you poor kit. Yet this is the first time you’ve visited our hearth and home. What brought you here?”

“Ilma thought I should—”

“Ah, but you had to agree. So why did you?”

He swallows a lump in his throat he didn’t realize was there in the first place.

“Mother never told us about this place. When I learned I had family of my blood still alive, I thought… Why wouldn’t I want to meet you all?”

“Vahri never explained the clan from where she came?”

“As far as I knew, she was an adventurer before she came here.”

A rumbling laugh releases into a spluttering cough. 

“Ack— I can’t blame her for keeping it from you, child. It would’ve been for naught. But you didn’t think to bring your brothers, then?”

There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach for an array of wrong reasons.

“They don’t care for this part of the woods anymore.”

“A true shame, that is. A shame indeed.”

Silence shrouds the trio. A feature of the smoke that has him hold his tongue, clamp his lips together, breathe shallowly. 

“But I can accept that answer, first son of Vahri. You go join young Mana again. We haven’t had visitors in a long time, and she could use the company of a fresh face.”

“If you’re sure, Matri—”

“I am sure.” Her syllables puncture. A docile bow of the head is his only mark of departure, as he lets the door open only a sliver beyond what it’d take to swallow him whole. 

Towards Ilma, Ahxe leans forward, her appraising stare accentuated in candle light. Her brightest features darkened, the shadows in her visage uncast. The face of a waning moon.

“Ilma. This place may think me its crown, but you know me as a sister of the hunt. So what I tell you now is not an order of the Goddess, nor a decree of our Bole’s will. I express what I do out of concern for my sister. Are we clear?” Ahxe’s address is serious and purposeful, in a tone that Ilma is not at all unfamiliar with, but is still a notable shift from mere formality. Ilma shifts forward in her seat, all the better to meet the matriarch’s gaze.

“Go on Ahxe. I know you must have several reservations.” Her brows scrunch closer to her nose as her eyes narrow ever so slightly in attention.

“Not unfounded ones. But first, you ought to tell me so we’re on the same page, yes? What do you know of Vahri’s sons?”

“Personally? Not much, admittedly. I have met several of them in my travels, and yet several more elude me for one reason or the other.”

“Your travels? I wasn’t aware that was what you left for.”

Ahxe isn’t offended — rather, she’s curious. Ilma sways her head from side to side as she explains.

“Yes, the moment I learned that Vahri’s children may have been in some form of trouble, I packed what I needed and left. Apologies for the sudden disappearance.”

“Hmhmhm,” Ahxe chuckles lowly, taking a long draw of her pipe before continuing. “I thought you might have gone on a long monster-slaying trip to soothe your nerves. Had I known you were on a vacation, I would have asked to come along.” It’s a dry, yet meaningful jest on her part.

“Well, had I known you were looking for one I would have invited you for the trip! Although, considering I barely slept for most of it, it would not have been pleasant.” Ilma laughs.

“And were the kits in trouble, sister?”

Ilma’s expression resets to one of gravity. “One of them is in prison. Otherwise, they were all alive and well, much to my relief.”

“Not in this part of the woods though, yes? Did I hear the first son right?”

“Not at all. One of them works as a wailer, but as Vahri’a says, he isn’t particularly keen on coming back here.”

“I am not surprised.”

The shake of Ahxe’s head fells lengthy, wispy tresses from her hood to her shoulders.

“I am not surprised that one is behind bars, that one allies with our oppressors, nor that they have scattered to the winds.

‘I have my ear to dirt and my tail to roots oft. Someone needs to do it since we have settled in this place. I know what ill those boys have wrought, not that I would inform yourself and Mholi of my findings. What use is the panic, the shame? Nothing. That’s what I thought then.

‘These sons of ‘Korla’ were never a band satisfied with their lot of the woods. We received reports of their greed and hedonism on a moonly basis. Our clan was spared their thievery from the Twelveswood North, but others lost studs and crops, lost young hunts their bands were tracking until they grew and bore fruit. Those boys would not wait. 

‘These reports stopped a few cycles ago. I had a feeling the forest was never big enough for them. After all, it was never big enough for their mother. So, you can see why I needed to verify their leader’s intent.” Ahxe gives Ilma a knowing look, peering into the windows of her eyes.

Expecting something.

Yet Ilma’s response is swift and short.

“Do you know what happened to Vahri?”

“Enlighten me.”

“She perished. Devoured by a mite.” 

Leaning back from the table to her cushioned recline, Ahxe retreats.

It’s difficult to pick out in the shadows, but one can see the soft quality that melts the daggers of her eyes into silvery pools — then watch her steel herself with ease, a woman of the Shroud who has worked to greet grief in passing as an old friend each time it twists the knife of death. A woman who no longer needs to mourn. A woman won’t allow the likes of Dalamud to have pleasure in taking and taking. 

Yet even as the matriarch bolsters herself, silence reigns here. She is Ahxe the Stalwart after all; her quiet is the only moment she allows for give. 

Ilma, in contrast, has never claimed to be a stoic. Though she may not have always spoken her mind, her heart has always been worn on her sleeve. And so in the spirit of the youngest sister Moshroca, the range of emotions that dances across her face are a complex, multitudinous assortment that melds together to form one clear message.

Pain.

“It happened many… many winters ago. She was out hunting for her children, and just like that she was cornered and eaten. Torn apart I imagine, if time wasn’t enough to clean her remains.” Ilma pauses for a moment, deep and heavy breaths filling the silence as it seems that she has stopped to consider something.

“In confidence I tell you that Mholi was with her, and in confidence I ask that you do not bring it up. She had been helping Vahri hunt up until that point. She left our sister in a panic, and she left the children as well. She never came back. Vahri’a believed her dead.” Ilma closes her eyes, clenching her fist, shaking before her body relaxes itself and she meets Ahxe’s gaze once more.

“Vahri’a couldn’t have been more than twelve, fourteen winters perhaps? The past moon or so has been a haze for me, the numbers blur. So, what was the child who knew no better to do? Certainly not starve. He had almost a dozen siblings to care for. It would have been so easy for the boy to have left and fended for himself alone, but he stayed to raise his siblings, because who else was there? Certainly not Vahri, nor Mholi, nor myself.”

A snarl looses itself from Ilma’s lips, though not one directed to Ahxe. One of anger, frustration, with nary a target to mark. Held close, yet with no hunt to embark on. Her gaze falls to the side.

“I won’t claim to excuse greed or poaching. But he is my kin, and I was not there for him when he needed me most. None of us were there for him, and now he comes to us because once more he is in need, and once more he is alone in this world… at least as far as family goes. So this time, just this once…”

Ilma lets out a loud breath, looking at Ahxe once more.

“I want to do this right. Give him the chance that he never had. And I will stake my name — and whatever respect there is of me — for the first son, Matriarch.” 

The heavy pants do not subside. As emotions get the better of her proclaimed sister, Ahxe leans forward, pipe in hand, and offers the smoking thing to her.

“Calm yourself, Ilma. Return to the here and now, if you so wish… I’m not your enemy, not your predator, nor your prey.”

A few extra breaths are drawn before Ilma finally relents and takes the pipe, then takes a long drag from it.

“You're… you’re right. Of course. I’m sorry Ahxe, I did not mean to snap.” Ilma slumps in her seat, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “So much has happened in so little time.”

“How can anyone blame you? At a time like this, no less." 

Ahxe allows for the woman’s recovery, as the candles before Ilma die down, no longer stoked by the puffs of her breath. Finally, the matriarch speaks.

"First… Let it be known that what you’ve told me here today has been heard in confidence, and will remain in confidence.” A sigh. “Mholi’s will to assist those I have exiled is… well, you know your ahya. It comes as a surprise. That said, it is a thing of the past, and nothing will come of punishing such transgressions now. It’s clear to me you both have already been punishing yourselves.

‘As for Vahri'a — you vouch for him, Ilma. That means a lot to me, for you’ve never had a rotten bone in your body. It seems there are always two faces to this sort of thing — and should his account be truthful, then no, I can’t blame a young boy for doing what he can to survive. 

'The truth and your judgment of it, I take into account… as parts of a larger consideration.”

Ahxe pulls her hood back. The twinkle of candlelight accentuates the moon and stars that decorate her otherwise frayed ears, torn not only by the teeth of rabid beasts, but also the elements that claimed this very star cycles ago. 

“Only Vahri'a can speak to who he is. His actions, his words, and his beliefs in the present can rend your claims to ribbons. We do not take people into our fold for testimony alone. It is an effort built upon moons of trust, and never before a season passes. The purity of the heart is a whimsical thing.“

The matriarch’s pause is a stanza of heartbeats.

"So I will give him a chance to prove himself,” she says firmly. There is no going back on her word. “I will allow him to stay.”

It takes several moments for Ahxe’s words to sink in. Ilma thinks of a million different things she could say — how she can and should react. 

“Thank you, Ahxe.” A pause provides her the opportunity to collect her thoughts. “It’s all I ask, a fair chance for him. I know that these things take time, but I also know that with time, he will prove his heart is true. So… thank you.”

Ahxe’s rumbling laugh returns.

“Mind you, this is me being generous. Most wanderers don’t get beelined right into our territory, you know. We keep them at the outpost for at least a few sennights. We get more gifts out of them that way,” Ahxe says with a wagging finger. “But I will make this exception, given the circumstances.”

She procures one of her dry, darkened spine discs and holds it half a fulm above the candlelight. Its glow filters through the bone’s pinpricks, revealing a map of stars. Ilma watches carefully as Ahxe draws from the stars themselves, a keen eye on the constellations. She waits patiently, quietly, and though she does not read the sky in the same way the matriarch does, she understands. For at the center of the ensemble, Ilma would recognize the image of the Wanderer. The Arrow.

“This season is an era of change, and so I would welcome it this time.” Ahxe says.

“A season of change indeed.”

Ahxe tucks the star map into the pile with the others, shrouding them in starless night once more. “This time. Under some conditions. Are your ears at attention, sister?”

“Always at attention, sister.”

“First, you need to keep your family up to speed for me. I’m not keen on uhya Aila knocking my door down about this, so it’s your responsibility to inform them that Vahri’s son is here and to tell them what the plan is moving forward.”

Ilma nods fervently as she says, “Of course. I will take responsibility for telling them all what has transpired and what will happen from here on out.” She rubs her forehead for a moment. “Ugh, I’ll have to tell them about Mholi too…”

“You won’t need to tell the little ones all the details,” Ahxe says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “And it’s Mholi’s responsibility to own up to her mistakes, not yours. I just don’t want them to be left adrift the moment they meet him.”

“No, of course not. I am simply thinking of what a nightmare it will be when Ma finds out.”

A shudder runs through Ilma’s body as she says this. Ahxe’s chortle is the briefest of whinnies; she can’t help but pity the woman.

“I will make sure that they are in the loop,” Ilma continues. “Your second condition?”

“Second, from here on Vahri’a is to introduce himself to our clanswomen as Vahri’a of the North Shroud. He ought to drop the use of that name that means nothing, Korla— it will do him better in his standing with the others, anyroad.”

Ilma places a hand to her chin as she thinks of this. “That would be a discussion to have with Vahri’a himself… though, I agree.” She folds her arms together, tutting as she ponders the condition deeper. “It will make it easier for him to integrate, and not scare off the clan by making them think he’s here to start a new one.”

“I am sure he will agree.” Ahxe is convinced of it at least. “Lastly, and most importantly… Whatever comes of this, Ilma, I do not want you to blame yourself for any of it.”

The matriarch takes her sworn sister’s hand into her own two. Calloused and worked, they have seen better days, but there is a warmth to her gesture all the same. 

“If Vahri’a is rejected by our people, do not take it as a failure on your part. If Mholi cannot come to terms with the first son, that is not your doing. Yes, we are family, flesh and blood forged by the Goddess, but you are not responsible for who they are and what they believe. You are a daughter of Clan Cirka, whether your charge is a son of ours or not.

‘You will not be consumed by guilt on others’ behalf. Am I making myself clear?”

The matriarch’s dark gaze pierces. A longer silence is held in Ilma’s hands, in Ahxe’s hands. The two sit there with their stares locked in place. After what seems like several moons, the pain so ever-present in Ilma’s eyes disperses, replaced by a sorrowful tiredness.

“As clear as the night sky,” Ilma answers succinctly. “I have done my best. I have done all I can. It would be foolish to blame myself for things out of my control. It just isn’t… productive.” She squeezes Ahxe’s hands gently. In her eyes, sorrow turns to confidence. “So rest assured ahya, I will take care of myself.”

“Good.” Ahxe’s rough palm makes for a gentle pat. “You deserve to. And I’ll let that one slide between us, anhtan.” 

Ilma blinks — then laughs, realizing what she had said. “I appreciate your discretion. I can’t imagine what I would do otherwise!”

The matriarch’s pipe has fizzled into curling wisps, and the smells of dreamweed and sandalwood have finished their dance. She takes her prized possession into hand and a fire crystal into the other, leaning back into her office chair of floor pillows.

“Now, don’t let me keep you from your nephew.”

With a firm nod, Ilma turns to leave, hoisting something invisible over her shoulder. The effects of muscle memory, no doubt.

“Not even you’d be able to Ahxe, but I’ll make sure he’s properly welcomed and introduced.”

Only after the door clicks behind Ilma does Ahxe find solace to utter to herself.

“Let’s hope the Goddess is on your side, third daughter.”

* * *

Uhya — aunt Yutan — niece Ahya — older sister Anhtan — younger sister Unha — grandmother, grand aunt, or matriarch