#Vavara Ashenheart

[sootcloak]

No Home But The Battlefield Still Searching For Home

[dustcloak]

30 Day Warrior of Light Challenge: Sacrifice

865 Words, Multi-WoL Verse, spoilers regarding Shadowbringer’s Patch 5.2 Trial

Gaius stood, arms locked straight and hands palm down against a wide, dust-worn table. Alliance soldiers flit in and out of the large command tent. Constant footsteps, hushed and urgent dialogues, and the ever-present sound of the clash of training soldiers cover his half-whispered reading. He never had kicked the habit of reading aloud. He doesn’t hear the soft, steady footsteps behind him.

A leather half-coat gets tossed onto the table with a solid, muddy thwump. His head jerks up, hand reflexively moving to his shoulder where his gunblade would be. A quick sweep of the room with his eyes lands on the back of a Lalafellin woman. The outer layers of her gear, a combination of leather and metal, lies pooled at her feet. Mud trails from where she stands and the entrance of the tent. His body relaxes, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slowly freeing itself.

“Still working, Legatus?” Her voice is monotone and cold as it calls up to him. He watches her face with intent. The emerald-green eyes shining in the dim light are familiar, even if he can’t place from where. Her short, messy hair is as filthy and mud-soaked as her gear.

“I have not held that position for many years.” He says, voice croaking the half-hearted protest. He’s too tired to deal with some vengeful Eorzean right now.

“Yet you wield the same blade as you did then.” He watches intently as she rifles through her piled gear and removes a holstered hand-cannon. She throws it onto the table, next to her coat. It lands with a jarring crash.

He steadies his breath, and sifts through the files on the table. He won’t get any work done if he’s antagonized by this woman all the while. Another crash as a spear easily his height in length lands atop the gun.

“You’ve read the reports already.” She says matter-of-factly, stepping up onto a stool besides where she’s tossed her gear. Her hands move quickly and efficiently, beginning the process of cleaning her weapons.

“If you have further questions, or need clarification on any tactical capabilities, you should direct them to something that can answer your queries.” She doesn’t bother looking at him as she speaks, gauntleted hands and shaded eyes making quick work of her gear. “Those papers won’t yield any more results, Legatus.”

“If you insist on using my past as a method of irritation, I will take my leave.” Gaius keeps his voice even. Still something nags at the back of his mind, the quiet confidence with which she holds herself. The knowing look she gave him when she first spoke.

“Do you intend on forcing your children to sacrifice themselves for our sins, Legatus? To let more of them go through what Milisandia endured?” She shoots a sharp glare at him. His whole body tenses, at once remembering the girl he raised, and the abomination which had consumed her. His chest swells as he sucks in breath. A shout begins to rise in his chest.

He exhales, and with a growl speaks.

“You know nothing of my sins. I refuse to allow even one more life to be lost to the flames I set alight.” He steps around the table, just a few feet closer to her.

“I know them intimately, Legatus.” She watches him as she unclasps her gauntlets, the metal clacking against the wood as it drops. She cradles one hand. “They are not yours alone.”

He follows her eyes down to her hands. They are more metal than flesh. Ribbings of steel and wires of copper are plated behind matte black plates of ceruleum-fired fibers. Beneath the shell of machina, he can barely see skin.

“They are not yours alone,” She repeats, “Because I assisted in developing the technology that killed your daughter, and what will kill her siblings if we do not act with decisiveness and care.” She reaches up with the mechanized hand, grasping the brim of her cap. She pulls it off, sandy blonde hair matted by sweat and blood shaking free. 

“I will not see even one more life paid for my mistakes. I am glad to know you feel the same. You do not remember me, but we have met many times.” There is no mirth in her voice as she introduces herself.

“Vavara Vara, formerly Vavara Kir Vara. We crossed paths when I was called to Nero Tol Scaeva’s assistance on the matter of devising a suitable control method for the Ultima Weapon. I also assisted in destroying said weapon alongside the vaunted Warriors of Light. Now, I need my rest. But you obviously have questions, and I have equipment to maintain before I can sleep. Ask while I work, and I will answer.”

He considers her. Looks closely at the mud and damage smattering the gear still on the ground. He returns to where he had stood earlier, pulls a chair to the table, and sits.

When Severa wakes from her position slouched in the corner of the tent, she finds Gaius drowsily refiling the reports he’d dredged out from storage the previous night. Besides him, a Lalafellin woman lies in a chair using his coat as a blanket.

[sootcloak]

“I am the righteous hand of God,

and I am the Devil that you forgot.

And I told you that one day ‘you would see,

I’d be back I guarantee, and Hell’s comin’ with me!”

[sootcloak]

Regret’s for the Dead

~2000 words of loosely written dialogue & set dressing with even looser editing because this time around I’m trying to do one every day and just post it cause otherwise I’ll never get them all done. It ain’t for work, I’ve got to learn to live with the messiness of creation or I’ll never post anything.

January Prompt: Revenant - A person who has returned, particularly from the dead. (Often re-contextualized in fantasy media as an undead creature with a fixation on revenge or justice.)

@seaswolchallenge

   The winds and clouds over Terncliff are often clear - leaving the moon to shine brightly down on the cliffside township. Sleeplessly, Gaius steps from the old, shelled-out building the Resistance had afforded him near the occupied square. Vaguely, he hears someone tell him ‘goodnight’ before turning out a lamp in the foyer.

   “Rest well.” He half-says, as footsteps recede from behind him. Taking a deep breath of the salt-leaden, night air he shuts the door behind him and walks out to his usual spot near the fountain. The Ironworks hand should be in bed, and the guards are a quiet sort unlikely to approach him, of all people. It’ll be nice and private. At least as private as he could get. He turns the corner to the square.

   Moonlight falls in shafts down through the clouds. The horizon beyond is dappled with stars and darkness both. And there, in the square proper besides that lovely fountain is a monster.

   He had once thought her a woman, maybe even a heroine as with many of these other Eorzean adventurers. But she wasn’t an adventurer. She was a huntress, of men and other monsters alike. He had thought her small, weak, and fragile when he had met her all those years ago. A mind limited by a flawed body. He had not yet seen her dance as a vicious, cutting gale. Or watched her erase lives from fields away with the casual disinterest of a scribe scratching tasks off a list. And while he did not see the wound made, he has seen the scars. She is not fragile.

   The lalafellin woman’s hair hangs in loose, tangled curtains around her back, rather than the braid she wears in the day. It’s greying blonde like dusty sunlight falls over a dull brown, sleeveless tunic. It was rare to see her out of uniform, let alone in something which could be broadly considered sleepwear. She did not like to lay bare her failings to the world.

   Her left arm glints in the dim light of the lamps and stars. All metal and thick Garlean ballistic fibers. Cords in place of muscles, gears in place of joints. The scar where it joins her shoulder is jagged and stark, even against her deathly pale skin. Her left leg, too, is left mostly exposed to the night air below the knee. Much the same fashion, save for the thick exhaust ports along her small calves.

   It was, in truth, easier to look at the metal and wire, though. At least then, the horror of machinery making skin stretch and bulge in wrong places was avoided. That the ports along her right calf break through skin is a fresh horror.

   “If you’d prefer I move -” She calls without moving, “- you could always ask.” She reaches besides her, hand meeting the neck of a bottle.

   “A drink?” She asks.

   “Vavara. That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I’ll be on my way-” He begins, his boots hissing on the sand-dusted stone tiles of the road as he turns.  Emerald eyes, shining from the way they catch the light, meet his as she turns in her seat.

   “Don’t give me that, Legatus. I doubt you can sleep any more than me.” Her knowing, confident tone grinds against him. The low, soft way she speaks forces him to focus and listen to hear. Like being grabbed by the collar and held firm.

   “Your ‘Blessing’ pry into my past again?” He says. His frustration bleeds into his tone.

   “No. It’s the rings under your eyes. Your gait. You’re tired. Can’t sleep though, else you’d not be here. ‘Sides-” She pulls the bottle back to herself and throws her head back with a swig. “My hallowed ‘Blessing of Light’ has yet to grant me the honor of near-omnipotence. Just headaches, here.” She grins with bright, fake teeth. A sigh pushes out from his chest, and he closes the distance and sits alongside her on the fountain. She offers him the bottle, and he just shakes his head. A shrug. Another long draught.

   “Thought you didn’t drink.” He says. His eyes measure her reaction. She looks away from him, off towards the sea. Her metal hand reaches up and waves dismissively before batting a stray strand of hair from her cheek.

   “I don’t.” She declares. “Stomach’s half gone with the rest of what I’d need to get drunk. I like the way it burns my throat, even if I can’t taste it anymore. Reminds me of when I came back to Eorzea.” Her words are upbeat, if reserved. She shows him the bottle label without turning her body. An old Lominsan rum. Still dust on the bottle. Mostly full. He glances up to the cap, where the wax has been freshly broken.

   “That’s right, you mentioned you’d served.” He says. His speech almost feels automatic, as though he were running on muscle-memory alone.

   “Planning on filling the night with polite conversation? You’ve already looked at my file, Legatus. Not to mention we fought back in the Praetorium. Hells, I’m sure you were briefed on me in one way or another when I went rogue.” She takes another sip. He takes a long breath and nods, old memories coming unbidden.

   “It was shortly after the Meteor Project - I was assigned additional protection since other legions were having their leadership covertly culled. I remember.” He admits. His words get heavier as he speaks, as though weighed down by gunmetal. She just nods and waves the bottle at him.

   Neither say much else for some time. The night stretches, stars and the greater moon slowly tracing paths across the distant black. The sea wind drifts in and out. She drinks, slowly emptying the bottle bit by bit. He watches the buildings around him, tracing the scars of ammunition, shells which blew the road apart but was rebuilt. The barricades placed throughout the streets. The towers looming overhead. Fine white stone stitched apart by dark black metal.

   Were the Empire to return at this point, would they erect more of these structures? Make a prison of this port? The resources to hold this point simply do not exist - and yet to turn after seeing so plainly what these people would be made to endure again. Is that cowardice? Or would standing be a pyrrhic path to vengeance, bleeding them further with more shells and bullets scattering them and their homes.

   He shakes the ideas from his head. Steadying his breathing again. He can’t afford to get bogged down in emotions, especially now with the last of the Weapons on the horizon. He leans forward, hand reflexively moving to his forearm, where his old cannon would have been mounted.

   The sound of a  bottle tapping against stone jerks him out of his thoughts. Vavara’s eyes are closed, head tilted straight up towards the sky.

   “I joined the legion because of you.” Her words drag his heart into a pit in his chest. A sinking dread.

   “Do you regret that decision?” He asks, certain the answer will not be something he likes.

   “No, I don’t.”

   “Then, why-”

   “Would I have deserted? Why do I now hunt the Empire’s finest? I don’t regret joining. I learned much and more in the Empire’s service. I’d never have survived as long as I have were it not for what I learned there - probably would’ve starved in an alley or gotten shelled when the Resistance took the city back. Then again, Zenos’d’ve never chopped me up. Whether I went along or not, though, the folks I enlisted with would have died all the same.

   “I don’t regret the decision in the same way you can’t really regret getting gored by a bull. Just happens. Can murder the fucking bull so it doesn’t happen again, though.” She lets herself stew a moment, before throwing a long swig back and then shaking her head. Sends her hair scattering.

   “If I were to change anything though, I’d have left earlier. Got real on board with some of what we were doing, twisted it up in my head that eventually it’d pay off and the poisoned promises the Empire made would come to fruition. Bet that sounds familiar. Lest I remind you,” She gestures at the masks on his hip.

   “We are of a similar profession, ‘Shadowhunter’. We were then, and we are now.” Her right hand reaches over to cup her left forearm, squeezing the metal tight.

   “Paid dearly for our failings and ambitions, too. Best we can hope is to shoulder the cost ourselves, ‘stead of it falling on someone else.” He grumbles something akin to an agreement, but otherwise says nothing. His brow furrows, mind tracing their collective past’s outline. Matching them against each other. She interrupts him before he can stew in the silence too long.

   “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. The Emerald Weapon’s pilot. Wasn’t fast enough.”

   “I… It was not your hand which set this in motion.”

   “Again, you’ve read my file. You can say it was not mine alone, but I certainly had a part to play in this.”

   “It would be foolish to assume everything in your file is accurate. Plainly, news of your death was exaggerated as mine was. Much the same is at work in the other details of your service as well, I would assume.” He says. His hand slowly drops down to rest on the masks at his hip.

   “Legatus...” She looks at him with a strange, vexed look on her face. “What about me looks alive to you?”

   He takes a long moment, breath slowly filling his chest. The scent of ceruleum which lingers on her fills his lungs. The way her shining eyes gaze back at him feels like oncoming traffic. Headlamps and flashing lights. Her porcelain skin, segmented and rigid in places where it tries to mimic the real thing, shifts as she leans back. There is true flesh there, but it’s grey and without vigor. Poisoned, even. It meshes with the prosthetics and the replacements in uneven patches, rimmed by nasty, discolored scars.

   “What irony would that be -” She sighs, looking away from him. “- what poetic bullshit.” She looks down at the label of the booze, holding it away from her. “Maybe this is working on me.” 

   “Legatus, listen;” She swings the bottle as she speaks, back and forth with the cadence of her speech. “I don’t breathe, I don’t have a heart anymore, I can’t really eat or drink. Veins are filled with more oil and ceruleum than blood. My aether is stored in my core, so I technically have a ‘soul’, but it can’t be changed in the same ways as yours. I’ve also been pulled and cut apart, limb from limb, more than once. I’m about as alive as your gunblade. Or some autonomous, revenant thing going bump in the night.” Her prosthetic elbows into him, a steady, pressurized vibration felt in the metal. A too-lax grin flashes on her face, sharp teeth and ill-fitting humor meshing awkwardly.

   “I do rather like that image, I’ll admit. What I’m saying is this - everything my file says I did in the name of the Empire? It’s true.” She takes a long drink, looks out to sea, and speaks in a soft, somber tone.

   “Though at this rate, I doubt any of those who dwell above will see me judged for my sins. Trapped here as I am.

   “So if anyone has a right to judge me for my failings - it’s a fellow dead man walking. Namely, Legatus, you.”

   She holds the drink back towards him, half-empty as it is. The slosh of the bottle is audible as she pauses dramatically.

   “So. Changed your mind on that drink?”

   “If you insist.” He growls, taking the bottle from her hand. He tips it back quickly, a short, shallow draught. He hands the bottle back, a grimace on his face.

   “I prefer Garlean wines.” He says through a restrained cough.

   “Oh, that so? Sorry to offend your delicate tastes, my lord.”

   “Stow it.”

[sootcloak]

Just a sleepy potat. That is all. Dismissed.

[sootcloak]

[Etiquette - Noun - The customary code of polite behavior in society or among members of a particular profession or group.]

[sootcloak]

Been seeing everyone doin’ stuff for whitherliliesbloom’s Butler AU. The incredible amount of effort and work everyone’s been putting in is a little out of my depth, but I was still pushed to grab some mods and do what little I have time for to take some screenshots for Vara fitting that aesthetic and theme. Anyhow - hc’s down in the cut.

Vavara Vara is not a student at St. Lucia, as she’s too old by a full score to attend such an academy. Rather, she’s on-campus staff. Specifically, she’s effectively a nurse. She acts as chirurgeon and attendant both for attending students who require specific aid or consistent care.

As a member of the staff, Vavara is afforded some level of leeway in her dress and behavior. She technically follows dress code and proper etiquette as is required of her, but she still manages to have a biting, bitter edge to her interactions with students who are not in her care. A visit to her office for any injury or ailment is dreaded for fear of the chiding waiting around the corner.

In contrast, for those students who require chronic care, or who’s frequent injury is the result of other student’s actions, she is the picture of devotion. Her demeanor is ever distant and chilled, certainly, but no student leaves her office unwell. For those who need a stoic, uncompromising steward, she is a welcome presence in their school life.

As she walks with a cane and a heavy limp, and given she was previously employed at a military academy, rumors of every color have spread in regards to her past. Some speculate she was injured in some far-flung campaign, while others think her a victim of collateral damage.  Despite the buzz, her fellow staff and the teachers have not commented on either her condition or history. The few times she’s approached about the gossip and rumors regarding her condition, she’s simply refused to acknowledge questions regarding her history at all.

Vavara seems to have little interest in, or even basic knowledge of, the high-pedigree families and students enrolled at St. Lucia’s. When someone attempts to bring her into the drama and gossip revolving around the big families, she becomes cold and near-unresponsive and only responds in curt, barely-polite disinterest.

[sootcloak]

[Craven - Adjective - Contemptibly lacking in courage; Cowardly. - Noun - A cowardly person without spirit.]

[sootcloak]

No Answers To Be Found [Yet]

[sootcloak]

Long-Forgotten Familiarity

January 2021 Prompt - Falling

Exactly 420 (NICE) words of dialogue and more establishing moments which should help me further place how Vavara and Gaius relate to one another. Short, quiet, and uneventful.

@seaswolchallenge

    “You’re certain?” The voice on the other end is cloaked in static. The wind whipping around her forces her to press the linkshell further into her ear with one finger.

    “Legatus, please. Have some confidence in me.” She breathes the words, a metallic whisper.

    “It’s hostile territory, if something goes wrong-” Gaius’ voice is calm and steady, but there’s an anxious edge to it.

    “I’ve failsafes in place. I’m not a greenhorn.” She interrupts.

    “I don’t like sending you alone, Lieutenant.” She hears him sigh over the linkshell, can picture him reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose as he does.

    “But, the information on the final Weapon is too important. Get it, and return safely.” She nods to the pilot of the airship, and walks steadily to the edge of the deck.

    “As if there’s any other possible outcome.” She steps off, tumbling down into the dark. Wind whipping. Weightless. Her eyes flicker with light and life as she drops, the aether burning in her as she tunes her core to it’s roaring song.

--

    “As if there’s any other possible outcome.” The linkshell cuts. Just static and dead air. Gaius leans back, shoulders meeting cold, white stone. Why was he worried? A monster like her would be more than a match for any unfortunate soul who crossed her. She’d survived for years under the Empire’s nose before taking flight to Eorzea.

    He’d sent men and women on countless missions, each more uncertain than this one. And yet, a flighty, gnawing anxiety stings his stomach. His mind flies, unbidden, to seeing the footage of her role in Bozja. Roaring flames. An awful, ruthless revenant standing atop wreckage and death piled high. Those eyes, shining emerald like the light of the lifestream, ever visible through the smoke and shade.

    Then, that night by the fountain. The bottle of Lominsan rum. A confession of past deaths, of a strange undeath. There had been kinship there, in the ashes of past lives brought low. Someone who not only tolerated but understood him - that burning need to make it right, to take one’s fate back into their own hands. But none of it will come free, and thus far the price has never fallen on him.

    He shakes his head. It does not good to dwell on such thoughts. He pushes away from the wall and moves for the square. Best talk to the Ironworks rep there on the progress of their research. At least then, he’ll have something to occupy his nerve-wracked mind.

[sootcloak]

Here’s a Health to the Company

January Prompt 2021 - Tea

~1800 words of set dressing, friendly bickering, and light conversation. Good intentions and good fortune abound, for once. Features Lyse heavily, and Raubahn to a lesser extent. Spoilers for Stormblood’s post-patch cycle.

@seaswolchallenge

“It’s been ages. You have to swing by!” Lyse’s voice carries through the camp. She rests her hips on the map table, a Resistance officer behind her trying to work around the fine, lacey tassels of her dress. On hand is glued to her ear, the linkshell in it abuzz with occasional, painful bursts of static.

    “Kzzch - both busy. Besides, what would we do. Gossip about lovers?” Vavara’s voice, blending with the static and buzz, rings over the shell. It emerges from the interference like the shadow of a shark breaking the surface with it’s fin. The sarcasm is palpable despite the humming static.

    “Oh come on - there’s this tea I’ve been making that I was dying to share with you.” Her voice gets quieter as one of her officers shoots her a glare. She takes a deep sigh as she tries to listen through the buzz.

    “I haven’t had a drink like that in a long time - can’t taste it anymore. Thought you knew that?” It isn’t an accusatory question, just confused.

    “I do, I do - but trust me; This one’s worth having, especially for you.” Lyse says. 

    “I don’t know - my mark is-” There’s a dogged tone in her voice, tired and worn down.

    “You said it yourself a few days ago, he’s gone to ground, right?” She leans on the last word, stretching it a few moments longer.

    “Yes, he has. But that doesn’t mean I can traipse off to take a vacation.” Vavara’s voice reluctantly returns, slow and deliberate.

    “Just leave someone else to keep an eye out, and have them ring you if he moves. It isn’t hard, Vara. Just delegate some. You’re not the only one with keen eyes and sharp ears, you know.” She keeps her tone peppy while maintaining a low volume.

    “...” The other end isn’t totally silent, a quiet grumble barely cutting over the white noise. Lyse’d heard breezes with more bluster.

    “Oh, come on. You never take time for yourself!” She exclaims.

    “I read.” Vavara says halfheartedly.

    “What, instruction and repair manuals?” Lyse jests.

    “I… Well, it’s…” Vavara’s voice, stammering and stunned, betrays a kind of shock and surprise. 

    “Wait - no, seriously? Your response to being told you need to relax is to look at all the technical manuals you’ve sifted through? No, we’re taking some time. That’s final.” She says. She crosses her free arm across her chest.

    “Just you and I? Not in public?”

    “Ah, yeah my place. Raubahn might step in for a moment, but probably not long. That a problem?”

    “No, no. It’s fine. Send me the details, I’ll show.”

    “Wonderful!”

--

    Lyse’s nose wrinkles at the stench of the pot in front of her. She nods sullenly to herself, then closes the lid. Carrying it as one would an explosive, she brings it to a small table besides the hearth in her small, streetside home. The bustle of Ala Mhigo’s streets is audible outdoors.

    The dusty light streaking into the building from the windows casts an orange-red glow throughout the sandstone rooms. Rugs are cast across the sparse floor - overlapping in many places. Hanging over the hearth is an old turban and mask, a pair of heavy metal knuckles flanking the cloth and brass.

    The first knock on the door is soft and subtle. A soft tapping which could be confused for the building settling. 

    The second, which follows almost immediately afterwards, is a pair of heavy bangs akin to the buckling of shields and splintering of wood. She can hear the metal of her hinges strain.

    “Jeez - yeah, yeah! I heard you!” She sets the pot down alongside the cups and saucers. When she reaches the door and swings it wide, the grinning face of Raubahn looms overhead. In his shadow below by his knees is a scowling woman of deathly pale skin and hair the color of gravel and sand. She glances up over her shoulder at Raubahn. As her gaze flits back to Lyze, she speaks.

    “Ran into each other on the way. I asked him to be quiet, lest I draw unwanted attention. Ex-Imperials aren’t historically wanted here.” Her voice in person is always a little jarring. There’s a metallic bent to it, like she was still speaking through a linkshell. And it’s soft - quiet as a breeze but with none of the gentleness.

    “It’s been a long time. You look well.” She continues. One of Raubahn’s hands drops to her shoulder giving her a strong shake.

    “Nevermind that - you haven’t been in the city since we got it out of the Empire’s hands. Things have cooled off since then.” He glances up from her, “May we come in?” His voice is loud, but not {a word for obtrusive & rude}

    “Oh! Yes, sorry.” Lyse stands aside, and the duo quickly cross the threshold. Vavara moves to close the door. Raubahn reaches over and throws it shut. “Food’s almost done, go ahead and sit down.”

    As she darts back over to the kitchen, Vavara puts a few feet between herself and the General. She shoots him a side-eyed glare.

    “Did you have to make a scene?” She says, voice a quiet hiss.

    “Better than making others believe we’ve something to hide.” He moves to the table, pulling a chair out and taking his seat with a relieved groan.

    “Don’t we?”

    “Maybe in your eyes. But any doubt which could have been shed on you has long been proven false. At least in my eyes. Shouldn’t have to hide in the city in which you grew up.”

    “It is not that simple.” Vavara stalks over to the window, drawing the curtains closed.

    “I know. Forgive my bluster and noise, then. I had hoped it would reassure, not invoke anxiety.”

    “Forget it.” She steps lightly to her chair, hopping up onto it and slinging her spear and rifle onto it’s back in one fluid motion.

    Lyse emerges with a small basket of steaming bread, sliding it onto the table before pouring a cup in front of each seat. Her face beams. A smile like sunlight in the dim room.

    “How’s Tahve’ir?” Lyse says as she plops down into her seat. Vavara’s eyes snap to hers, a look of surprise on her face.

    “He’s working. He’s struggling to keep up, too much to do and too little time to properly rest. It takes a long time to adjust. I remember that.”

    “Good lad. Registered with the Flames, ‘fore I left. Never pegged him as the sort to run out of energy on the job, though.”

    “Yeah, last I saw him at the Stones he was practically buzzing with energy. Thought he’d be able to keep up.”

    “He did. Still is, despite his exhaustion. But he needs to sleep. I don’t. He’s learning the tricks to keeping himself standing, though.” She takes measure of the expressions of the other two, then continues, “Before you ask - he’s currently fine. An old colleague is watching after him, she’ll keep him safe and give him time to recuperate when necessary.”

    “Always best to have someone watch your back.” Raubahn nods.

    “Yeah, Papalymo was that for me - reminding me to take time for myself. Rest. Eat. Sleep. All that.” She speaks with a melancholic nostalgia, then perks up for a moment, “Oh, right! The tea. One of his old favorites. It tastes awful, but the texture was always really pleasant and I remember that you can still feel temperatures.” She takes the cup in front of her in one hand and sips quickly. Her face wrinkles and she grimaces.

    “Yeah, yeah that’s awful.” She confirms.

    “Can’t be that bad.” Raubahn’s eyes widen as he takes a hearty draught. He has to fight to not spit the dark tea out. After a forceful gulp he chokes out a question, “Seven hells, what is that?!”

    “Some old Sharlayan tea he used to keep his Aether refreshed.” Lyse explains. “Papalymo always brewed it when he woke up.”

    Vavara holds the cup in both hands. The clay is hot, a pleasant stinging in her right hand seeping through the leather of her gauntlets. Emerald eyes regard it for a moment, and then with a gentle, cautious motion she takes a drink.

    It’s thick, almost syrupy. The heat is stinging. Her senses of taste and scent are mostly ruined, but there’s a bitterness to it that even she can feel. But the warmth is pleasant. Glowing. She pauses, and then takes another small sip.

    “Thought it would suit you.” Lyse says, a hint of pride in her voice. “I found it in some of his old notes, and I knew I just had to try it. It was awful!” She sets her own cup back down in its saucer. Makes a tiny clink.

    “Then why-” Raubahn coughs into a handkerchief. “Why put us through that, if you already knew?!” He clears his throat, and reaches for one of the pieces of fresh-baked bread.

    “Like I said - it suits her.” She jerks a thumb at Vavara, “Papalymo actually liked the flavor, but mostly drank it because it helped stabilize his aether for spellcasting. Vara’s not going to be slinging spells like that around, but it’s still-”

    “I like it.” She interrupts Lyse. Eyes on the slowly draining cup between her hands. The ghost of bitter roots lingers in her mouth. Her words are barely audible. There’s a profound emotion at the edge of her mind - something akin to longing. A memory given the faintest of forms.

    She can almost, almost, taste it.

    Lyse’s smile is like a sunbeam. She grabs her own cup in a firm grip and hoists it towards the rafters.

    “Then to your health!” She throws the cup back and downs the whole thing in one, awful, sloppy gulp. The hot tea dribbles down her neck, and as she comes away from the cup she smears at it with her free arm. “Ugggghhhh, I hate it!” She shivers with her whole body. Raubahn’s laughter feels like it shakes the stones beneath them. Both glance over to Vavara, who’s not broken her gaze on her own cup, as though unsure if it would be taken out from under her if she looked away. She takes small, long sips. Her eyes eventually, with painstaking slowness, close. An expression of uncertain contentment falls over her in settling shades.

    Lyse shoots a genuine smile over at Raubahn, and the two fill the room with chatter. White noise and pleasant conversation. An atmosphere of warmth. For her part, Vavara is satisfied to just sit there and soak in the small sensations - the phantom of warmth in the room, the ghost of bitterness in the drink, the way her aether hums and simmers rather than roaring aloud and boiling within her breast.

    In the way that for once, she feels both at ease and alive.

[sootcloak]

Field Medic’s Winterwear

[sootcloak]

Crow’s Shadow: Repair Required

The first part of a short, serial-style work I’ve been cranking away at for far too long. This is part one of a (planned) three-part series. You can find the second part, Carrion Circle [Here]. I’ll add another link to the third part once it’s up. Beware of some major spoilers for Stormblood if you’ve not gotten through it yet, and some general spoilers for the MCH quest kinda. Lastly, if you’re a purist when it comes to in-game lore, you should be warned that I take some creative liberties in regards to the character around whom this blog is centered. Also I hate this hellsite’s text post coding, it makes the formatting look so goddamned wrong.

3064 words, featuring Hilda the Mongrel, Rostnthal the Reborn. Centered around a wounded OC, a tense cross-country trip, and the looming specter of a dangerous foe.

    Hilda stares with a rare, dumbfounded expression on her face. Curled in a ball on her old, ratty armchair is a familiar, Lalafellin woman. Her sickly, pale skin, greying blonde hair, and scarred face were unmistakable. Vavara had become a common sight around Foundation ever since the gates were opened after the Dragonsong war. Her work alongside the Manufactory and Lord Stephanivian was shrouded in some level of discretion, but it was no secret that she was an expert in Garlean-style magitek.

    But the whispered words which surrounded the woman seemed an understatement, if her eyes were to be believed. It was rare to find Vavara out of her usual Company-style overcoats. The few times she was caught out of uniform, she was in battle-ready armor instead. Now Hilda understood why. Her body, small and compact as it is, is almost entirely mechanical. Covered in intricate layers of dull, grey plates and brassy webbings of cogs, she looks not unlike the tools and machines of Idyllshire. Like clockwork muscles and cable tendons, her body is simultaneously relaxed and completely rigid. Here and there, where the metal fades, she can still see skin. Sickly, near-grey, and oddly textured like a doll’s porcelain, but still skin. Tangled in a blanket, eyes shut, and body snoring in strange, buzzing whirrs, it takes a few moments of shock to realize two more things.

    First, Hilda hadn’t ever told Vavara where she lives. Nor had she given permission for the huntress to remain with her.

Second, one of Vara’s arms is missing. Just gone. A bare, brass socket lies exposed to the air where it would meet her left shoulder. Hilda glances around, but the limb is nowhere to be seen. There is, however, a note on the end table besides the table. The messy, big letters on the page are of an immediately recognizable hand.

        Hilda,

    Vavara was out testing one of Stephanivian’s new gizmos last night. Something went wrong, it’s all a bit fuzzy until we can look at the damned equipment, but it blew up in her arms. She soldiered on as well as you’d expect from her, but when we caught up to check on her we found her in shambles. We were all as surprised as you probably are - what with all the metal bits and all. Save for Stephanivian, that is. Seems he was already aware of her illness condition state whatever you call that. She was adamant that she not be seen like this, so we needed a place to keep her where untrusted eyes wouldn’t find her.

    So I borrowed a key from Joye and let her in. She should be asleep until tomorrow morning, or at least that’s what Stephanivian says. He’s making replacement parts for her damaged bits, but he couldn’t give me an exact time to give you as to when they’ll be done. I’ll have Joye run over as soon as he has an estimate.

    I know it’s a good bit to ask of you, but we all owe her and hers a solid turn. This is a good chance to make good on that. Please look after her for a bit, and don’t let her run off and do anything dangerous, no matter how angry she may look. She’s too busted up, at least based on how we found her, to really argue with you.    

    Keep her safe for now,

    Rostnthal

    Hilda’s hands crease the paper, her eyes drifting back and forth between it and the sleeping woman. 

    “Well shite. There went my plans.”

    Vavara’s eyes open to the dim, flickering light of a nearby hearth. Her body hums with angry, buzzing pain. As she takes in a ragged, grinding breath her eyes scan around the unfamiliar room. She can feel the damage all throughout her body. She can feel the way her breathing hitches every three-and-a-half seconds. The way her right arm can’t rotate exactly as it should. The way her eyes won’t focus. Her ears are ringing, ever so slightly. 

    There’s dust in the air, quite a lot of it. The furniture strewn about the stone room is old, patched, and covered in a thick layer of dust. The armchair she’s nested in leans to one side, one of the legs having been replaced by a few stacked stone bricks. The wood floor is rough, coarse, and looks like the kind which would give splinters just for standing on it. The hearth, a simple stone fireplace built into one wall, is surprisingly clean. The ashes are swept, the firewood is fresh. The fire is painfully bright. The heavy rugs thrown beneath some of the seating in the cramped, dusty living space are all torn and resewn. Her eyes trail to the bare walls, where a series of hangers stand.

    Through blurred sight, she can see a leather jacket and a rimfire hanging in it’s harness. From color alone, it’s clear they’re neither Vavara’s old service overcoat or her custom revolver. A wave of cold anxiety washes through her, her feet finding the floor and stumbling towards the door. 

    She only makes it a few feet. One of her legs crumples at the knee with a disheartening, metallic crunch. She bites her lip, forcing back a whimpering cry before it can rise in her chest. Instead, she takes a few gasping breaths, each huff sounding like a music box turning through broken cogs. Finally, she gets up the strength to push herself up to her feet again.

    She dully registers quick, urgent footsteps coming from behind her. A steady, insistent hand finds its way just beneath her arm. The tense springs fused with half-dead, ceruleum-greyed skin have a sickening texture, like that of a corpse held together by staples and rope.

    “You’re too hurt to be runnin’ about. Ye’d best come along.” Hilda says, hiding the way her throat closed in a queasy, silent gag. Vavara’s remaining arm twists back, trying to grasp at Hilda’s arm. It clicks and creaks, something inside the joint protesting with quiet, metallic groans.

    “Hey.” Hilda pulls and twists her around. Their eyes lock for a brief moment. Vavara’s dull, foggy eyes sparking with a quick moment of recognition.

    “Hilda?” Her voice is a surprisingly deep rasp. The  grasping hand goes still, it’s steel claw-tipped fingers relax. “Is that you?”

    “Who else? Let’s get you back to the chair.” They shuffle back to where Vavara woke. After grabbing an old crate and dragging it in front of the worn armchair, the two sit next to each other. Hilda sucks in a breath, and breaks the brief, momentary silence.

    “I imagine things feel a bit rough. Been on the bad end of an explosion once or twice myself. Here, read this. It’ll do some of the explainin’ for me..” She hands the crumpled letter from Rostnthal to her, waiting quietly as it’s opened back up. Vavara’s eyes slowly, carefully track across each messy line of text. When she looks up to Hilda again, the other woman is already speaking.

    “Joye came by earlier today, while you were still out. Said parts were being manufactured, but some things needed to be brought in from out the Holy See. It’ll have to get cleared by the Temple Knights, checked for contraband and the like. All said and done, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your uh… Parts?” She looks to Vavara for confirmation. There’s a single, quiet nod.

    “Yeah, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your parts made. Till then, you’re gonna need someone to watch your back, I’d imagine. I know one of your friends has an arrangement with Count Fortemps, so if you’d prefer-”

    “No. I’ve no intent on relying upon his charity. I have not earned it.” Vavara’s voice is a steady, rasping hiss. No malice or ill-will is born in the words, just a stubborn, quiet kind of pride.

    “It’s not always about whether or not you’ve earned it, just-” The glare Hilda gets before she can finish is petrifying.

    “Fine, fine. You can stay here, then. Can’t promise I’ll be here all day, but you’re resourceful, and so long as I get you a cane you could even get around by the looks of it.”

    “No.” Vavara shakes her head.

    “What? Then where will you stay?” Hilda says, eyeing her up with concern. Vavara’s face is a knitted, frustrated mess barely concealed by her usual stoicism. Her narrowed eyes, knitted brow, and curled lip speak volumes. It was rare for her to emote at all, let alone so clearly.

    “I was only meant to be in Ishgard for two days, at most.” A strange, tense note rides in Vavara’s voice. Concern, or outright fear? Hilda hadn’t seen her like this since she’d returned from Ghimlyt, spending days on end beside the Warrior of Light’s bedside, waiting for him to awaken. Guilt-racked and uncertain. When her voice picks back up, it’s a mess of anxiety and fear. Each word comes out faster, not raising in volume but in intensity.

    “I cannot stay here. I have to return. I need to-” She stops herself, coming to a sudden and abrupt halt. With a clenched jaw, squinted eyes and a tense neck. she pulls a breath in. The tension does not leave her, resting on her shoulders and in her jaw.

    “Thank you for watching over me.” Vavara says, opening her eyes to match Hilda. “I will need that cane. I have a journey to make. Please tell Stephanivian I will return to collect the parts when I am able.”

    “Now hold on.” Hilda squares her shoulders. Her eyes unwaveringly stare into Vavara’s. 

“You’re barely able to see straight. It took you near a full minute to read through a half-page letter. You had to ask if it was me. I don’t remember looking much like another half-breed.” A potent frustration rises in Vavara’s body, but before it can exit in a shout, Hilda continues, Brume accent kicking into her words as she grows more insistent.

    “I’ll be coming with ye. I’ve deputies with the Hounds for this exact kind of situation. And before you try and tell me I’m not, I’d remind ye that I’ve already seen why yer always either in battle-gear or a great-coat. Whatever secrets yer keeping still, ye can keep them. None of my business. But yer health? All the Hounds’ve had their skins saved by ye at least once, meself included. I owe you this much, at least.” Hilda stands as she finishes speaking, walking across the room to wear her jacket and rimfire are hung. She snags them in one hand, turns and gives a confident smirk.

    “So let me just run and get that cane.”

    She’s out the door before Vara can muster a reply.

    Later that evening, the pair stand outside the Gates of Judgement. Vara’s shrouded in her overcoat, her usual brimmed cap pulled tight over her head, greying blonde hair spilling out of it in messy tangles. Beside her, Hilda holds the reins of two birds as they’re hooked up to a small wagon. Some traveling supplies, a small smattering of goods, and some specialized supplies Stephanivian rushed to prepare all sit in nondescript, covered bundles.

    “You shouldn’t come with me. You have work here.” Vavara says. For perhaps the first time, Hilda notes how her breath doesn’t make mist in the cold air. She can’t help but wonder if her instinct was right, if the woman she’s known for years now, who’s saved her time and time again, is just a corpse pulled by metal marionette strings.

    She casts the thought from her mind.

    “And I’ve pressin’ debts to settle with you. It took no small amount of talking to convince Joye not to tell Rostnthal we were goin’. Else you’d have two peepin’ nannies.” Hilda’s forces a grim laugh.

    “It’s dangerous.” The statement hits like a sack of bricks. There was little anyone within the Warrior of Light’s circle deemed worthy of such a warning. Least of all the woman who frequently gives him a run for his money. 

    “Always is.” Is all Hilda can muster in response.

    “You should stay. I don’t want you hurt.” The words come out slow, still rasping with that metallic hiss under the wind. Barely audible.

    “I can’t protect you.” Vavara’s hand goes to the empty sleeve on her left. She looks up with foggy, dull eyes. Were they always so dim? She’s one of the Dunesfolk, aren’t their eyes supposed to be like glossy gems? Again, she casts the thought away.

    “Please. Stay.” Vavara’s words sound pleading.

    “Eh- ‘Ilda?” A deep, rumbling voice smashes the growing anxiety in Hilda’s chest. Heavy, crunching footfalls grow louder from behind. Both she and Vavara turn to look at a familiar, salt-stained face.

    “An’ it is!” Rostnthal reaches them in no more than three strides, his excitement plain on his face.

    “An’ Vavara’s ‘ere too, I see.” He briefly glances to the cart, still being loaded.

    “Ye headin’ somewhere?” It’s not really a question. His eyes fall onto Vavara’s. “Ye sure yer fine to be travelin’?”

    She nods.

    “Good!” He guffaws, a single loud bark of a laugh. “If yer good enough to be out-n’-about, then so am I! I’ll keep with ye. After all, it was cuz I was too drunk to test the prototype cannon that you ‘ad to. I get hurt like that, chirugeons patch me up over a couple nights. You?” He gives an awkward, knowing shrug.

    “So, it’s my fault yer in this mess. I’m comin’.”

    It isn’t really negotiable. Even as Vavara’s takes a rattled breath to retort, he’s already stepped up into the cart proper. 

    The chocobo-hand stands up from besides the cart,

    “All good to go!” He shouts over the wind.

    The three step up, and Hilda spurs the birds on towards Gyr Abania.

    “Ye packed some booze, yeah?”

    Vavara shakes her head. The groan he makes can be heard from the Gates.

    Rostnthal’s voice echoes along the snowy paths of Coerthas, oft-untrodden paths suddenly as lively as a back-alley bar. He’s taken mindful, measured swigs of his flask. He snagged some few supplies from Dragonhead at a painful price, but he had very little considering the length of the journey. Sensing the growing tension, Rostnthal had sung every diddy he knew at least twice from his spot lying in the back of the cart. He’d sung the one about the slaver at least four times, and the one about the Admiral more than eight.

    “So what’s all the urgency about?” Hilda’s question breaks through the bars of off-key song. 

    “I left someone in the wild mountains, where I take my rests between work. He is unskilled, though his training has shown promise. An old enemy of mine resurfaced during the Ala Mhigan Rebellion, and has since been hunting me, and I him. Should I leave my student in one place too long, he’ll be found. And he’ll be killed.” Her words are clipped. Rostnthal’s singing stops.

    “Y’took an apprentice? So the ever-cold Lady Ashenheart does have some warmth left in ‘er.” He sounds genuinely perplexed. “An’ here I thought ye were all business and bad blood with the Empire. Rumors’d’ve me believe ye’d never have time for teachin’.”

    Her gaze towards him could curdle milk. He just laughs his guffawing laugh, gently slapping her good shoulder with one hand.

    “My strength comes at a cost, unlike that of my peers. It requires that I rest for long periods of time after difficult excursions. In recent times of repose, I took to training three such students in total. Two of whom have long passed beyond a need for my guidance, if they ever truly did need me at all.We have not spoken in some time, I have no fear for them. The man who hunts me will not seek them. My current student, though, is untrained, reckless, young, and a danger to himself more than his opponents.” Her voice lapses in and out of nostalgia and strict concern as she speaks, eyes shutting as she speaks.

    “Sounds like a handful of a kid. An’ this ‘unter. Ye think he might meet us there?” Rostnthal’s voice dips into a grim resolve.

    “I do.”

    “Care to share, or are we just going in blind as newborns?” Hilda says, eyes locked on the road and her surroundings. The sun is low, and shadows stretch across the road cast by trees and stones and looming mountains. It will be dark soon.

    “His name is Llain. He and I were once… Compatriots. He is possessed of a strength similar to mine. I will admit freely, he is better suited to it than I have ever been. He took to steel, ceruleum, and magitek as a bird does to flight. He has done so more safely, and more efficiently, than I have. We have not crossed blades directly for too long, to make any assumption on his methods now as opposed to the man he once was would be dangerous. All I can say is this: A direct confrontation is something we will not win. He is a worthy and cunning foe for even the mightiest among us.” Vavara says. Each word is slow, methodical.

    “So we just grab the kid an’ make dust?” Rostnthal thumbs at the cap on his flask, glancing up at Vara with his good eye. She just nods. It’s enough.

    Vara’s hand rests uneasily on the grip of her revolver. In her nostrils she can smell smoke and oil and flame. In her eyes, though snow and tree and stone race past her, all she can see is a burning Castrum and a vengeful shadow in the fire.

    How simple her escape felt then. How powerful those first, few, small implants made her feel. Her clockwork muscles tense. Perhaps if she’d been more careful. If she hadn’t allowed herself to become so gravely wounded so frequently, she would still-

    A tap on the shoulder shakes her out of the old memory. She looks up at Hilda, whose eyes are still locked forward.

    “We need to go through the night, or should we rest?” She asks, tone all business.

    “You rest. I’ll drive.” Vavara answers. Hilda just groans, before stepping awkwardly, carefully into the back next to Rostnthal and snagging a fur blanket from one of the many bundles.

    Rostnthal waits a while, and then starts to sing again. Fewer lively, old tavern diddies, and more of the songs skalds would sing when night came to call.

[sootcloak]

Hands you goth popoto, hands you goth popoto, hands you goth popoto, hands you goth popoto, hands you goth popoto, hands you-

[sootcloak]

Rise Up, Dead Man

Get Your Gun, Lace Your Boots

Rise Up, Ye Sinner, Get Your Due.

[sootcloak]

Have you seen this potat?