#XIV Write 22 Oakmoss Story

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-Finale): Iamb-ish Pentameter.

SCENE: From left to right, OAKMOSS, IDANWYN, and ANNE-SOPHIE stand amidships on the Nixie, looking at the ship’s crystalline core. All have thoughts of ESCAPE and FEAR silvered at the edges with HOPE.

ANNE-SOPHIE [to OAKMOSS.]

If I profane with my unworthiest hand    

this haunted ship, Her spirit clothed in mists,    

Would you, one passing priestess, ready stand    

to bless my rough touch with Sophia’s bliss?  

OAKMOSS (scoffing)

Good soldier, tju do wrong tjour hand too much,    

an unszeemly example for a witch.    

Tjour szaints have hands that gather tju to clutch,    

then szing their pszalms and push tju in their ditch.  

 ANNE-SOPHIE (with wounded pride)

You mean Witchdrop? Where I might meet my end?    

IDANWYN [to ANNE-SOPHIE]

Aye, lovely, sae ye best offer yer prayers.    

ANNE-SOPHIE (holding her hands to her breast in shock)

You, too, Captain? And here I thought you friend!   

Then pray I shall, lest faith turn to despair.    

(ANNE-SOPHIE exits stage left, the FURY’S LOOKING-GLASS following after her.)

OAKMOSS [to IDANWYN]

Szaints are not Godsz. They give not, only take.    

(OAKMOSS exits stage right, shedding fur, feathers, and cracked gems.)

IDANWYN (sotto voce)

Sounds lit’ ye, e’er chasin’ me Nixie’s wake.

(The lights fade until only the Nixie’s glow is left; curtains fall.)

---

((OOC Note: I got this weird ‘what if they were all in the same room’ thought, and so here we are. Apologies to Shakespeare and fans of iambic pentameter everywhere.))

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-20): Anon.

(Continued from here.) (♪ - you know I had to do it to ‘em.)

"A heartbeat without harmony is moonlight without dark. The heart seeketh equilibrium; With balance will your worry part,

So still this broken melody, and therewith, shoulder thee one last step, only leaving an empty hearth down by the sea.”

--”Equilibrium”, Michael-Christopher ‘Koji’ Fox.

When Oakmoss awoke after a full twelve bells of deathlike slumber, she was surprised to see Miovont still snoring beside her. They had asked naught of one another save for shared warmth and camaraderie, then fallen asleep amid gentle banter; apparently a ‘canary’ was different from a ‘cannery’, though the words still sounded too similar for her liking. Lips brushed together like sunflower-yellow feathers; that was a good way to help her remember the difference.

“Is it customary where you’re from to give someone a goodnight kiss?”

“No. But now I will have to give tju one in return. Szo that the szcales will tip in my favor; szo that I will have to find tju again to right the balance.”

Restorative though Miovont’s company had been, she was still largely a solitary creature, both by nature and nurture. Oakmoss was less-than-conscientious with her morning routine; splashing and singing off-key in the waters that flowed beneath the ruins she called home, dressing in heavy robes and cascades of chiming amulets. By the time she settled into the tattered leather seat at her desk, the Dark Knight was awake and clothed. The pair exchanged a few words about how, all things considered, it really had been quite a fulfilling adventure. After informing her that Fotiá had recorded everything that had transpired while she was beholden to Master Sari’s directive, he gave her left shoulder one gentle squeeze in farewell. His footsteps echoed within the temple ruins, then quieted as aether carried him back to whichever one of his many duties demanded his presence this day.

To have Fotiá record her in the SJAGA state...it was ingenious. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought to do so before. Summoning the recalcitrant eidolon forth, she took careful notes of all it displayed for her on an aetheric screen of sunset gold. The Kotelleloix family’s Kulix Sacrae, created by a High Allagan explorer who had seen similar vessels in their travels to Meracydia. Experimentation on the original corrupting its delicate matrix, causing the loss of a filter that would keep its varied contents discrete even as it allowed for controlled mixtures. Late Allagan magi deciding to use the imperfect vessel as the prototype for all other kylixes forged within the facility. Three hundred years past, a mysterious figure stealing one of these inexact copies from within the forge.

No wonder he had been so effusive with his praise. Her ability to tap into Master Sari’s perfect Allagan-wide defense systems had given him information that he would’ve been hard-pressed to find anywhere else.

Dismissing Fotiá after a failed attempt to teach it Thavnairian Rat Screw---her efforts repaid with a few singe marks on the back of her right hand from its overeager slaps---she turned her attention to her hoard of a desk. Rummaging through its many piles eventually rewarded her with an oxidized copper box containing mostly-clean and mostly-blank pieces of parchment, stuck to coordinating envelopes with what she hoped was agave sap. Smelled similar enough, anyway. Taking a moment to distill her best Common from the noble rot of her mind, Oakmoss began to write.

A bell passed within the cluttered ruins, the sun wending its way through the firmament, bright rays half-obscured by heavy-bellied clouds brushing fog through the Black Shroud. Leaf-shaded light dappled the Veena Viera when she emerged, her canny aethersense guiding her to a node that was perfectly balanced between astral Wind and umbral Water. Two nimble hops saw her feet land securely on a mossy rock, and there she waited for the messenger.  Once the road sparrow was comfortable enough to approach her outstretched hand, it landed, and she breathed gentle golden fire within the creature. A temporary enchantment familiar to these birds that travelled between summoner clans; an extension of her will that would fade once its task had been completed.

Oakmoss, once of Kisne, sometimes called Sorrel, Woodear, Plum, Sjaga, Jessamine, Lotus, watched the road sparrow take flight. A small willow-twig basket of letters was tethered to its left leg, augmented to feel as light as the enchantment that guided it onward. As a patch of fog swallowed its retreating form, she allowed herself a moment’s peace. Before long, she would be on the run again; enacting the Balance that her Goddess demanded, no matter the cost to her person or her psyche. For now, though, she could take her ease; a Viera content to be alone in the thorny wood.

---

Pavi--

I would meet with you presently, should you have the desire to do so. I have made quite the discovery in that cave you followed me to. I believe what lies within may be beneficial to both of our Deities.

--[A brand depecting the forest lichen oakmoss, with two of its branching tendrils extended into long green rabbit ears.]

---

Savo and Erah’sae--

At your earliest convenience, I would meet with you in a place of your choosing. The elementals have not seen fit to exile me from the Shroud permanently, but I understand if you prefer to meet somewhere else. As extra incentive, I will offer you each a three-card reading, and a guided vision quest if desired, gratin gratis. ((Gratin is mostly-obscured by a doodle of a slice of cheese.))

--[A brand depecting the forest lichen oakmoss, with two of its branching tendrils extended into long green rabbit ears. This one has little mushrooms and what appear to be minor arcana cards scribbled around the ‘signature’.]

---

Miovont--

Thank you for everything. After some time alone, I would be happy to lend my aid to you again. A spiral may never be in perfect balance, but ere long, it grows to accommodate inexact oaths.

--[A brand depecting the lichen, oakmoss, with two of its branching tendrils extended into long green rabbit ears. This brand includes a little yellow bird between the rabbit ears, and a discarded tin can complete with a rough-edged open top drawn to its side.] ---

To the Captain and First Mate of the Free Trader Nixie--

I believe I can help you uncover the memories that encase your ship’s ghost. There will be a price for all involved. You may speak with your ‘Cabin Boy’, Miovont, as to my qualifications; Rinh also may be willing to vouch for my expertise, if not my trustworthiness. If you are interested, I can make myself available to you anon.

--Oakmoss Vithsyna. [A brand depicting her summoner’s horn, in profile.]

--

---

((OOC Notes & Mentions: Yeeeeah used anon and some synonyms in all the letters :’D. This concludes Oakmoss’s ten-part story, and holy crap, I have never written this many lengthy entries for the XIV Write challenge, especially not as part of a continuous story and in conjunction with related RP. If you’ve read these, you have my gratitude, and I truly hope that you’ll reach out for RP if you’re interested; an offer that goes for all of my characters, of course! Anne-Sophie’s story starts tomorrow! This post mentions @bough-waker​ who is awesome, and I’m excited to RP with her again. Same for @savothesewercat​ and @erahsae-ffxiv​ ! The rest don’t have tumblrs, so far as I know, but I’ll bug them all the same.))

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-18): Lurid. (Extra Credit!)

(Continued from here.) (♪)

Having a guest over was always a little strange for Oakmoss. A customer was one thing; if they were there to purchase a card reading, a tincture, a guided mushroom trip, she knew what to expect, how to conduct herself. The first time she and Miovont had met, he was a customer; here, in this erstwhile lair of hers that didn’t even belong to her, he shared her pixie apples and gazelle jerky for breakfast, washed down with dark syrah. They even helped one another shower beneath the gentle falls that served as her door; casual intimacy that they both pretended was something mundane, when below the surface it was anything but.

She hadn’t felt this way about anyone since Daníval, the father of three of her children. The other seven had different fathers; not at all uncommon for her kind who chose the traditional way of life. He had been a good mate, and had sought her out in Kisne three times. Later, he bent Veena traditions to visit her and the children she bore him, bringing them gifts he’d woven with delicate care from his post in the mountain forests. His glacial-water eyes were always warm when he looked upon them, his summer-sky hair full of beaded braids swooping in a caress upon his children’s shoulders when he crouched down to listen to their tales. Even now, almost a hundred years later, the thought of him stirred a gentle warmth within her heart; she hadn’t heard from him in decades, and didn’t have the courage to try to find out if he still lived.

Instead of seeking closeness with Daníval or any of her ten grown children, she’d fled from Othard, leaving them all behind. It irritated her that Miovont’s presence dredged up these memories from the peat bog of her past; especially because it made her have to wonder if she knew what love really was. Devotion, she understood, perhaps better than most; but love? She feared it whenever it grew close, like a great shadowy beast stalking through the wood that she hoped would pass her by.

Fortunately, she and Miovont had a common purpose. Duty, too, was something she knew well, even if others labored to see it. Everything she did was in service to her Goddess; to right the balance, to take back what was taken. To give, too, in equal measure; to never lose sight of the day-to-day symmetry in favor of the big picture.

As the pair walked through the caves, she in her summoner’s garb and he in the same too-clean getup from the day before, she pretended not to notice the local Duskwights who skittered forth from their hiding places to exchange information with him. Associates, he called them, reluctant to use the word ‘spies’; it seemed they supported his efforts in culling corrupt nobility. So long as they kept intruders out of the Allagan facility, she was content to refrain from prying; it pleased her to see that they’d constructed some manner of local ward over the emptiness once covered by the heavy door. Miovont unlocked the ward with an engraved coin; she asked about it, and he demurred, which she respected. Oakmoss had many secrets of her own, and knew that those like her often kept such confidences to protect others more than to deceive others for personal gain. Some of her personal deceptions were not strictly necessary, she supposed, but there was fun to consider, too.

Once inside the facility, Oakmoss pulled her eidolon into being, its oranges and golds providing lurid contrast to the dull green and blue lights around the trio. It insisted upon playing one game of tic-tac-toe with Miovont; something he was familiar with, she’d learned, since he had once been the koinonos of another descendant of the Sophic line; Nepenthe Isidoros. Oakmoss could understand why the woman had chosen Miovont for the position of summoner’s guardian; he was discreet, competent, and fully grasped the weight of an oath. He was also easy on the eyes, and had a jovial personality despite the curse that killed him a little more each time he availed himself of its powers.

There was that thought again, that beast stalking the wood; love, or at least companionship. She couldn’t ask him to swear to her; she wouldn’t. Comfortable allies were one thing; the deep bond required between a summoner and her koinonos was something Oakmoss quailed away from.

As Fotiá and Miovont’s game concluded---a cat game, again; she should really teach it new games---she instructed the eidolon to patrol the hallways as it had before. The Summoner and the Dark Knight examined the forges that could have made his Kulix Sacrae in relative quiet. It was only after he examined the chimerical dragon in its biostasis vessel nearby that he started asking her questions.

A lot of questions. And the Balance demanded she answer them. She knew how to; but she didn’t want to do what she needed to in order to make it happen. The roiling fear grew within her; an even-larger companion to the dread beast of love, of bondings. An oath that had allowed her line to survive as long as they had without resorting to selective breeding like the Isidoros line had.

Oakmoss extracted a few more binding promises from Miovont before giving him the key to what he sought. She could only hope that this time, the program wouldn’t tax her like it had before. That he could show restraint in its usage, though their presence within this facility increased her capabilities. That when she returned to herself, someone would think to share the knowledge she accessed with her, since ‘Oakmoss’ wouldn’t remember it at all.

These were the conditions of the vow her distant foremother took when she encountered the greatest Allagan summoner to ever live: He would allow her line to continue, but they must become part of the Allagan defense network comprised of all the Meracydian summoners that had tried to defeat him.

She hated him. That hatred was passed down in the blood. And yet, he had understood the true nature of a summoner by his end; to pass on the story from master to pupil. To keep the strength of deities alive and in the hands of their worshippers. To protect the lands that gave them life.

“Initiating Sari’s Directive,” said Miovont, the command unraveling her ancient robes, mutating their form

“Executing Sari’s Directive. Port Sigma-Ypsilon-Alpha-Gamma-Alpha, alias unit SJAGA, online.” It was her voice, and it wasn’t. Everything faded to ersatz blue; not like Daníval’s hair or eyes, gentle and natural and pure. The great beasts had come, and she had stepped right into their path.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-19): Turn a Blind Eye.

(Continued from here.) (♪)

Kccck. Kccck-kccck-kccck.

Was he talking about killing nobles again? Kccck-ing them?

Error. Error. Port Sigma-Ypsilon-Alpha-Gamma-Alpha, alias unit SJAGA disconnected from Hyperstellar Downconverter Reserve Rho mainframe. Ending program ‘Sari’s Directive’. System.exit<0> . Reconfiguring armaments.

Kccck. Kcck-crack-crack.

Where am I? Oh...Sophia preserve...

Her hands flailed through the air. All was light; her eyes scorched by the blue. She felt Fotiá willingly dissipate, its aether flowing into her horn, returning its borrowed strength to its Caller.

“Oakmoss, we need to run!”

Crack-crack. Sloshing, followed by the sound of wet limbs slapping against glass.

“Miovont?” Her throat was singed raw, tamed levin of the facility’s memories already sinking into her mind; the dreams of the conquerors, dissipating before she could grasp them. Always thus, when she was connected. When she fulfilled the oath that had allowed for her line’s survival.

“Yeah, it’s me, Oakmoss. That dragon is waking up; something in my blood is calling it. Can you use aether travel?”

Use aether travel? She was barely present within her own body! Clawed hands flailed again; she found his tunic, but not quickly enough to stop her from falling to the floor. “The...wardsz...” She fought the nausea that sucked at the bottom of her esophagus, doing her best to ignore the sickening organic sounds emanating from the biocapsule.

Strong hands grasped her elbows, drawing her to her feet. Miovont draped her left arm over his shoulders, keeping his right arm encircled around her waist, using his legs to propel her forward. “Come on. Take a few steps. It’s going to break out any minute. Can you see?”

So many questions. Hadn’t she just answered a bunch of his questions? But that was...not her, not really. Befuddled, she did her best to aid him, taking a step here and there on her own when she could. The scent of cave mushrooms and silver moss informed her that the pair had arrived at the gap where the door had been. Oakmoss’s vision was still largely occluded by floating afterimages akin to those one gets when returning indoors on a sunny day. Miovont appeared and disappeared in flashes of bone-white and deep grey; her own robes were almost too bright to behold, even in the dark.

“We have to ward the door,” she managed. As if on cue, the sound of shattering glass filled the air, followed shortly by the slap of wet limbs in pursuit. Oakmoss frantically ran her hands over her many gems, knowing each one’s purpose by feel; none of warding. How could she have been so shortsighted? But there was no time for self-flagellation.

A hurried exchange between herself and the Dark Knight led to the latter prising free one of the gems set into her very flesh. These stones ran in two neat rows down the backs of her legs, where the backseam of fine stockings might cover them, were she to ever to own such things again. Desperation meant an oblong honey amber was now liberated from its organic setting, gouts of blood coursing over her velvet skin; the healing gem she’d forced within the wound couldn’t cleanse the blood that had already been spilled. “Pleasze do not think lessz of me for what I am about to do,” she pleaded with him, immediately wishing she hadn’t. Why should she care what he thought of her? Raw as she was, though, she hadn’t the strength for pretense.

“I won’t.” Following her directions after only the barest moment of hesitation, he added his own blood and intent to the yellow amber stone, holding it between thumb and forefinger before the point of her summoner’s horn. “Ready!”

Oakmoss channels a short burst of aether through the tip of her horn. "I kall tju!" she screams; only fury will carry her beyond the pain, make her incandescent. "Tju fell to my hand, and by my horn tju are szummoned! Guard thisz place as tju guarded tjour beliefs in life!"

The amber quivers within Miovont's hand; there's something fetal about those first twitches of promised life. As the confluence of magicks and intent hit the stone, it begins to expand, floating out of his hand towards the medial point of the opening where the doors once stood. A bubble grows like blown glass, the aether from her horn the fire that gives it shape and purpose. Within seconds, a great pane of amber covers the large opening, and within its center stands a male Viera, golden-haired and brown-skinned, wearing Rabanastran armaments. His eyes open, and look unflinchingly towards Oakmoss. "Witch," come his words, drenched in blood and hatred.

As she’d hoped, the Rava’s desire to exact revenge upon her proves his second undoing, just as it had his first. Miovont's intent fills the soldier's lungs, and he retches, then turns as if swimming in syrup to face the oncoming dragon. The horrifying mess of half-finished limbs slams into the amber as it catches sight of the soldier within it, and the two are locked in perpetual battle, the amber solidifying right as the soldier's sword connects with chimeric fangs.

The scene is all that remains in the pinpricks of Oakmoss’s vision; then, all fades to eigengrau.

--

He’d carried her so far. All the way back to the closest thing she had to a true home; her repurposed temple ruins behind a waterfall in a neglected part of the Lavender Beds. Why do I often use waterfalls as doors? He’d set her gently on the silken sofa she’d liberated from some forgotten estate, using her magicks to make it a more portable size.

When she awoke in her smallclothes, it was thanks to his having found the right healing potion on her messy shelves. As the draught coursed through her veins, it brought succor and shame in equal measure; she was fully awake, now, and wished only to forget. A glass of wine was not enough, but it was a good start. How much longer could she expect him to turn a blind eye to all she was continuing to unfold of herself before him?

"I wiszh I kould szay that Bjeldal deszerved his fate. To be entrapped and carried like that for yearsz. But...he wasz right about usz. He attacked my mother and I, when I wasz younger. Szaid we puszhed the magicks of the Wood too far; that we would bring the Allagan doom upon all." Her explanation sounds hollow, even within the safety of her reinhabited ruins. She does her best to suppress the memory of the golden-haired Rava; everything about him radiated the sun itself. Amber had been the only thing that would hold him. "I have alwaysz been trouble. I hope at leaszt today, it gained tju the knowledge that you were szeeking. And that tjour associatesz remain safe." The Viera looks to Miovont; after a moment, she is able to meet his eyes.

Mio is tired, so his dramatic nature is muted, as is his confused expression; his right eye opens wider than the left. “Oh, I just assumed you had a good reason to trap that fellow in amber. No need to explain it to me.” The Duskwight settled onto the couch as he continued. “And this excursion was immensely useful. A grand adventure and grand company as well.” He frowns. “I’m sorry for what you had to do in there.  No one should be used like that.”

"Tju mean ward the door? Oh! Oh." A light rose flush of embarrassment touched her velvety cheeks. "Already I have forgotten. Like a dream that fadesz the moment tju kick the furs off of tjour legsz." Oakmoss mimes doing so, though her legs are slow to comply. "I offered. But, I truszt tju szee why I do not want that information uszed lightly. Szo much plugging and unplugging, and...perhapsz there isz nothing left of Sjaga Kisne." This, too, is an offering; her forest name, without the Allagan auspices around it.

Miovont gives the name the barest notice; a nod to the secret he’s promised to keep.  “I do. A casual disinterest for your well-being is all it would take for someone to cause you harm, with no way for you to stop them.” He sips his wine, content to let his long limbs slacken as the alcohol courses through them.

Oakmoss---still her preferred name, even within her own mind---turns a glance up towards her bed, wondering if she has the strength to ascend the moss-slick stairs to reach it. If she has the strength to request his company for the safety and peace it provides.

When at last she is able to stand, she rests her hand on his pauldron for a moment, and he follows her to bed.

(Continued and concluded here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-16): Deiform.

(Continued from here.) (♪)

Seeing as Oakmoss was often considered untrustworthy by many---a reputation she’d earned thanks to her sticky fingers and general indifference towards the law---she thought it wise to bring some manner of proof of her discovery to Miovont. This largesse served a dual purpose; it could also help her verify her theory that his chalice and this laboratory were related. If there was no reaction from his strange curse, she didn’t necessarily need to reveal the Allagan ruins to him. Though...there was a conundrum, she realized with a frown; he was apparently some sort of spy. He liked to trill a little line about “wherever Duskwights are” when asked how he collected his information, and she and Fotiá hadn’t been very subtle about uncovering this place set within Gelmorra’s labyrinthine tunnels.

A problem for the near future. Far more pressing was her need to gather up her piece of proof, return to her current base camp, and set out to find Miovont. After searching the assembly line for a quarter bell, she discovered half of a mold used to cast the chalices within the forge. Tucking it away within her sleeve, the gems from the door rattling against the dense alloy, she gave the chimerical dragon one last uneasy look before leaving the Allagan facility behind, her Sophic eidolon sent back to the aether in a shower of golden sparks.

Within her cave behind the spilled rivulet, she dismissed her summoner’s garb, opting for the prosaic method to dress for travel. After securing her pouch-laden belt and tucking her ears through the serge-edged slits in her hood, she retrieved her staff from where it rested against the wall. It was not a traditional summoner’s arm these days, but she was not a traditional summoner; in Meracydia of old, her foremothers had wielded spells of destruction to aid their eidolons in battle.

Oakmoss wasn’t as powerful as those deiform ancestors, but her line had kept the old ways alive. As the broken caves of Gelmorra led her out into the Shroud, she paused for a moment, tapping into the aetheric tie she’d affixed Miovont with some time ago. He, too, was an inheritor of a skill writ in blood; one far more lethal to him than the Veena’s was to her. This thought stirred a thread of...something...deep within her. Sympathy, perhaps? She didn’t really recognize it, whatever it was.

All she knew with certitude was that he was to the North, and that she would go find him. So he could help her, of course. Maybe...so they could help one another. The quiet thought nurtured that foreign feeling inside of her; she found herself more welcoming of it the further north she went.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-17): Novel.

(Continued from here.)(♪)

Though the Veena’s advent was sudden, preceded solely by a whistling pop in the air nearby before she took form, Miovont was only startled for a moment. Her arrival allowed him to dispel his preoccupation with the deed he was currently washing from his hands in one of Ishgard’s many heated fountains; distraction being his chosen coping mechanism, after all.

Oakmoss Vithsyna, the sorceress less-than-supreme, steadied herself and looked around. Velvety nostrils flared open and shut, catching the lingering scent of blood in the air. "Ha! Miovont. Thank tju for making it szo easzy to find tju." She stepped forward a few paces, then stopped. "Ehhh...it is me, Oakmoss." She pulled her hood a few ilms back from her face as proof, before letting it fall forward once more. As if she needed to introduce herself.

The Duskwight favored her with a smile. “It’ll take a few more Viera who have a habit of popping out of the aether near me before I fail to recognize you.  Hello, Oakmoss!” Mio stopped short of continuing his pleasantries, eyes narrowing and shifting to the left for a quick moment.  He considers telling the ne'er-do-well they might need to scoot, but decides against it for the moment.  Surely she’d be ready if such a need arose.

“Why are tju washing tjour hands in that freezing water?”, she queries him with a frown. "That isz even more unnatural than the kold, to me. If we were in Szkatay...ah, but we are not, and Etheirys is diverse." She takes pains to keep her accent to a minimum; too, she has been speaking in her outdated slang much less frequently these days, thanks to a certain sewercatte pointing out that it was, in fact, outdated.  Her questions continue as she approaches the waters that flow despite the early autumn snows dotting their surface, each flake becoming translucent before joining the confluence. "What are tju doing this far north? I thought tju lived under the ground, or on the big vessel." Oakmoss eyes the fountain, then cautiously dips her fingers within it. It is, in fact, warmer than one might expect.

Her companion feigns a huff. “I’m known to travel far and wide. Usually seeking good food and entertainment, but if you must know, tonight I'm,” Mio juts his chin out, his head dipping low on his long neck, and adds a light touch to the word, “working.”  His violet eyes scan their surroundings; the street is still clear at this bell.

The Viera flicks a few water droplets at his face. "What kind of work? Tju are dressed far too nicely for work."

Mio steps closer and holds the back of his hand to his mouth, whispering, “The kind of work you’d rather not be spotted being dressed for.”  He puts his hands together, eight knuckles in a row with his thumbs aligned with the invisible grip of his greatsword. He swings his hands out slowly, and makes a “kccck” sound at the end of the faux swordstrike.

It takes her a moment to process this information, but when she does, her expression brightens considerably. "Ah! Tju mean tju let the ghost in tjour blood out to kill the stuffy-shirts?!" Her delighted exclamation carries across the cobbles.

“No!” Mio replies, just as loudly. Then nearly silently mouths, ‘yes’.  “Do you mind if we stroll? I’d like to go this way!” Mio points away from the erstwhile crime scene.

Oakmoss’s near-refusal is evident in how her limbs stiffen, ears flattening, before she remembers he's the entire reason she's here. "Ah! Yes, yes. It szmells like a...a charnel housze, here." Why does she know that word when she doesn't know so many others?

“Your nose is amazing,” he says, his voice too-light with smothered desperation. He is already on the move, hoping the erratic Veena will take the hint and follow him.  “The, ahem, work happened up that hill, the house yonder.” Mio points up, away from the direction he means to walk, to the highest manse in sight.

Oakmoss follows his gesture, and her keen ears catch the sound of voices calling out marching orders; her eyes spot two patrols forming, visible by their bobbing lanterns moving about the property. "Szeems their missing member has already been noticed. I will follow; I would like to szee how tju handle tjourself after completing szuch tasks, as it happens." After a few more steps, she adds rather cheerily, "And if tju fail, I will obszcure us from them."

“I made quite a ruckus, so their cherished noble’s passing was noticed quickly enough.” Mio walks without haste.  “I’m sad to say, I don’t think there’s much for them to find.  They’re looking for a figure covered in blood and chainmail.  Not a gentleman on a late-night stroll with a lady.” Mio offers his arm to Oakmoss.

Oakmoss looks to his proffered arm, thoroughly confused. "Do tju need me to inszpekt tjour arm, Miovont?" She already is, wondering if he'd sustained a wound...and also if there were any telltale markings of his recently-committed murder. No one has ever offered her their arm for any other reason before.

His bone-white tunic, devoid of blood and gore, would be obscene to anyone who had seen Miovont not too long ago.  That sort of act is supposed to leave a mark on the one who committed it.  Clean, Mio winks. “Just act like we’re in the middle of a wonderful date. Good food, mulled drink, maybe some music.”   Up the hill, the clanking of armor grows louder, lanterns guiding the greaves of the house guard on the move.

The Viera seems quite fascinated by the cleanliness. "How very uszeful," she muses aloud, then registers his words. "Ahhh...I have watched people do thesze thingsz. Dates, I mean. I even went to a muszical...event? Isz that what they are called?" As her left ear swivels back towards the sound of approaching armor---never a good sound to her, one that reminded her of the Imperial invasion---she loops her arm through his. Despite her less-than-romantic getup, she actually settles into her place at his side very well. The novelty of such casual closeness, even if feigned to ensure their safe passage, delights her. "In addition, szome yearsz ago, I...ah. Never the mind." Her hips sway as she walks, an undulation that would be sensuous if not for her bulky travelling gear obscuring it. "Where isz our date takingk usz, then, bloodless bloodszpiller?"

The feel of the Viera’s clawed hand on Miovont’s puffed sleeve is a welcome reminder of life; another step away from recent memory. “If it was above ground and the act was on a stage, it’s a musical event.  If it’s below ground and much of the crowd is on drugs, you call it a show.”  Mio does his best to stroll; years of practice grant him success.

A hoarse laugh bursts from her throat at his distinction between show and event. "Okei, I wasz definitely at a szhow. I do not think I would be allowed into an event.”

Mio winks at her; her cowled hood hides the friendly gesture. “My sources say two hundred yalms ahead is a building still under construction. The cellar’s been built upon a natural cave and a way out that doesn’t pass any gates. Shall we?”

Oakmoss nodded, murmuring a wordless affirmative. “Let usz away to thisz cellar of yours. Do you have showsz, there?"

Miovont thought this over. “Given its literally-underground nature, I imagine my sister might try to host something there, but hopefully not tonight.”  The sound of armor clanking grows louder as guards travel towards them in haste.

Her arm flexes against his, and she murmurs, "Do we need to run? Or V---" she starts to say 'vanish,' then stops, seeing as she's already clutching the gem that will invoke said spell.

The Duskwight puts a hand on hers and makes an “mmm” sound, deferring his answer.  The guards jog right by them. Mio lets out a sigh of relief. “Seems it won’t be necessary. We’re here.” He stops next to a house with signs of active construction out front; stacks of brick and lumber beside a large workbench.

Their ruse effective, the pair drop their linked arms, and Oakmoss follows him down into the cellar. It proves to be more than just a storage room; a door at its rear wall, half-obscured by barrels of dry goods, leads into a network of tunnels that spiderweb beneath Ishgard itself. Oakmoss feels profound relief at being beneath the earth once more; it is warmer down here, for one, and she enjoys the comfort of being surrounded on all sides by the weight of stone.

From time to time, they pass sconces carved into the bedrock, each holding a single red candle that burns with calm, orange fire. Oakmoss takes a moment to reflect on these fires, so lovingly-tended by the subterranean denizens of these caverns; such beauty and peace in tamed heat. All of humanity’s potential, symbolized by a candle. The momentary peace smooths a gentle hand over her frayed nerves, and she turns to Miovont, who stands patiently beside her.

“Tju are not carrying tjour sword,” she murmurs, her words carrying easily in the close confines of the cavern.

The Duskwight’s shoulders rise and fall; he answers with his customary insouciance. “Why carry a sword when Joulant’s blade is just on the other side of the veil? The whole point is to walk away looking like someone who didn’t just ‘kccck’  a noble.”

"Ahh...yes. Tell me more about the oath tjou have with...Joulant." She speaks the name carefully, both to ensure she gets the pronunciation correct, and because she seems half-afraid that speaking a thing's name may call it into sudden existence. Probably reasonable, given her skillset.

“When any new bearer takes her soulstone, they make an oath that’s a combination of the original one that separated Joulant from her shadow and another binding our will to hers.  You’ll forgive me for not reciting the words verbatim.  The gist is, we will carry on her desire for a better Ishgard.” He raises a brow at her, shifting forward a few steps; the unspoken question of ‘can we continue moving?’ evident in his movements.

"Ah...thank tjou." Oakmoss fidgets in place, then follows along, her eyes looking to the rocky earth. "And...this oath. It is made in szome szort of...vessel, yes?"

Mio gives Oakmoss a look of curious concern, born of wonder. “The oath is made with her soulstone in hand.” Pausing his forward advance, he  holds out his left palm, the roughly-circular scar visible in the dim light. He hesitates as chooses his words. “Our blood is already joined at that point, no vessels required.”

She examines the scar closely, her pupils wide in the flickering firelight. "The time tjou came and fought off my attackersz in the wood...I szwear I szaw it. A...a hand, bearing a vessel. I need to know if tjou have szuch a thing, or if I am misztaken." Oakmoss speaks haltingly, her ears half-swiveled towards him; she is intent on his answer, and fears it, whatever it may be.

“The Kulix Sacrae.” Mio’s reply is the barest whisper, confident the Viera’s sharp ears will hear. “You know about it?” he continues in a normal tone. “It plays a part in Joulant and my family’s story.  I’ll say more, but not here. Besides, we should be moving still.” Mio gestures down his intended pathway that leads further under Ishgard.

Oakmoss nods once. "Kulix...Sacrae. In the tongue of my people, that isz very closze to 'kylix sacrae'," she says this perfectly, as one might expect, "the drinking-cup. Take us where tju wish; I...need to think."

For a time, the pair stick to the business of navigating the cave structure.  Mio recalls a much muddier excursion the pair took when they were last underground together.  Voices carry easily down here, so silence is preferred.  Only the sound of Mio’s heels clicking against stone mark their journey.

After half a bell or so of walking---time moves differently underground, making its precise keeping difficult for most---the pair arrive within a large hollow. Much of the stone underfoot is littered with candles; in contrast to the amber flames in the passageways, these flames are blue, a feature common to the so-called heretics that worship Sant Shiva. Near the back of the room, a stone cistern sits full of dark, mineral-rich water.

Oakmoss can't help but exhale in awe as she takes in their surroundings. "I did not know the city of szelf-righteous zealotsz had szuch...beauty," she murmurs. After a moment too long, she remembers what he'd just told her about his oath. "No offense."

“None taken,” he replies good-naturedly.  “While I do hold to many of Ishgard’s customs,  I’ve found it difficult to be too hard on heretics, given the ghosts in my blood.” Mio winks, then scans the cave.  “We’ve reached a dead end and this doesn’t seem like the sort of place to get many visitors.  Perhaps if you have some means to ward the entrance, we could talk here in relative safety?”

Oakmoss frowns thoughtfully. "Isz it not...a ghoszt in tjour blood? I kannot think how elsze to deszcribe it." She pads silently over to the door on soft-soled boots, and draws her staff. Golden lines of aether form around her feet, and she forms them into a lattice covering the cave's entrance. With a murmured word, "Pétra!", stone fills the lattices with quick precision.

Miovont observes the strange Viera as she casts her spell. As she finishes, he inquires, “Did you leave a hole for air?” You don't spend your young years in caves without developing a healthy worry for such things.

"The stones appear and feel szolid, but they are not. Do not worry. Alszo...do not push on them too much." Crossing the cavern floor until she is about five paces away from the Duskwight, Oakmoss removes her staff from its bindings on her back, then takes a seat on the stone floor, laying the staff beside her. Thanks to her many layers and her tendency to sleep on worse floors than this, she is quite comfortable.

“Huh! That’s good, then,” he replies, watching her take her ease. “You know, I meant it as a joke, but describing my situation as an aether ghost in my blood is actually pretty apt. “ Leaning against the side of the well, Mio folds his arms. “So, you wanted to hear more about Joulant’s chalice?”

"I do. Now that the ghoszt has a name. But...tju do not need to tell me everything. Already I am hoping what I have brought tju will redressz our informational imbalance." Noting the puzzled expression on his caliginous features, she expounds slightly further.  "It isz a condition of the Goddess I szerve. Balance in everything." Not a perfect translation of the litany, but close enough.

Her terse explanation helped him understand, but it’s still beyond his full ken. “So, to keep balance, do you share next, or do I?” Around the edges of the room, groundwater drips through the cavern, heeding gravity’s summons from ceiling to floor. The chamber’s center is dry; whatever rites were performed here evidently included a hydrophobic quality, keeping the natural dampness of the cave far from the ritual site.

"Tju go first. In order to enszure my gift is...adequate, I will need to hear whatever tju have to szhare." Folding her voluminous sleeves over one raised knee, Oakmoss turns her full focus to the Duskwight, willing the nervousness rattling her ribs to quiet its tempo.

Mio thinks while he speaks, letting his accounting of the oath build upon itself. “In her travels, Joulant came across a huge chalice. We believe,” he gestures to himself, then opens his arms to seemingly include other members of his family, “its origin is early Allagan, given its appearance; solid gold, and set with large jewels. Joulant used it to draw power out of dragon’s blood in such a way to stave off its corrupting influence for several years. The same way I can call forth her armor and sword, I can call forth this Kotelleloix artifact.  Its usefulness is juxtaposed with the danger it poses to the wielder.  Not in all cases,” he amends, “but there’s a chance for unintended consequences.” Here, he judges the summary complete enough for his purposes.

Oakmoss keeps perfectly still as she listens, and remains so after his words have been swallowed by the earth. After a time, it's hard to tell if she still breathes. Just when her silence stretches on a bit too far, she gets to her feet with alacrity, closing the distance between herself and the dark knight. "I found szomething." The Veena mage reaches within one of her belt pouches and pulls out a dark, heavy object; the vertical half of the goblet cast she’d found in the laboratory. There are clearly raised, negative spaces where gems are meant to go; connecting each gem are two parallel lines about two ilms apart with flowing script between them. When molten metal was poured into this cast, the resulting object would include these features.

His lavender eyes widen as his left hand cups the mold. “Hells! The Kulix Sacrae would fit right in there!  Where did you acquire that?”

The Viera hesitates for a moment, but ultimately releases her grip on the object. "Take it; it is yoursz more than it isz mine. Are tju quite certain it isz a perfect match? Would tju need to call the chalice forth to konfirm szuch a thing?" She taps her chin. "Can tju even call it forth at will?" She leaves the details of the mold’s acquisition unspoken for the time being.

Miovont holds the heavy object with something like reverence, running his thumb over its raised portions. “Thank you!  I’ve been meaning to discover more about the chalice, but haven’t yet. This brings me one step closer to understanding the unusual artifact. You said you bought it off a merchant?” Mio asks; he doesn’t wait for an answer before he focuses inward. Placing his right hand over his heart, he pulls a globule of dark red aether forth from his chest and lets it spill onto the ground. The dark knight intones, “I call forth the Kulix Sacrae.” From the red pool on the ground, an oversized golden chalice rises upward, carried high enough for Miovont to bend and take it from a skeletal hand holding it aloft. Once the chalice is within his grasp, the hand retreats, as does the puddle of vital aether.

Oakmoss observes the ritual of the Kulix Sacrae, a faint blue sheen covering her irises until the rite is complete. As it ends and the blue glow fades from her eyes, she applauds, filled with pure joy. "I am not szure I have ever szeen much as delightful as that!"

To have her react so to this hidden part of him... Mio can’t help but blush and smile. “Aw, shucks. I bet you say that to all the heretics.”

She grins, a toothy, rangy expression that illuminates her hooded face. "If all the hereticsz do thisz thing, I would express szimilar happiness, yesz.”

The huge chalice is hard to hold in one hand, so Mio puts the mold down, then moves to connect the two. Then he hesitates. “Should this be safe?”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “It szhould be. I cannot szay for certain. If the kylix is a fit, then I will bring my szide of the balance."

Using two hands, Miovont slides the chalice into the mold. It doesn't fit at first, but he rotates the artifact until there’s a satisfying click as the two halves align. “Balance, then!” he crows jubilantly.  Mio’s not entirely sure what Oakmoss needs in this regard, but he’s happy to go along with it.

Oakmoss’s long ears twitch as they catch the sound of the perfect match. Satisfied, she intones, "In utter harmony;" again, an imprecise translation of an ancient prayer, but its meaning is much the same. Settling back down on the earth next to her staff, she speaks carefully. "I have been exploring szome cavesz, recently. Gelmorran ruinsz, in fact; tju are familiar?"

“Hard to say,” he replies, leaning back against the cistern. “Yes, I’ve visited a smattering of Gelmorran ruins.  I’ve never found anything like this in any of them, though.”  Mio points at the mold; as he does, he crouches down to remove the chalice so that he can keep it in hand, leaving the mold to stand on its own.

"I am not szurpriszed. It took me moonsz to find the place that held it." She recounts the tale of the stubborn door; how reading the book about a Lalafellin explorer helped her realize that the man was able to find new pathways because of his diminuitive size; how she summoned her eidolon and it blasted the door outward. After a pause for a sip from her waterskin, she continues to describe what she found within the ruined door; the Allagan facility, and an assembly line of chalices with one missing. Concluding her summary with how she’d found the mold and come to find him, she folds her hands atop her raised knee. “Gods of my mothers, but I have not talked szo much in szo long. I am not uszed to it.” It’s true; her voice is slightly hoarse. Nothing some rest and water won’t fix, though.

Mio gives a start at the idea of there being several of these chalices. It’s hard to give up what makes you unique. Still, it’s only a momentary tug at his heart; he is otherwise truly happy to hear all she’s told him. “Why, yes! Warn me if you intend to blow up any more doors; otherwise, I’m happy to go. “ Louder than he intends, Mio continues excitedly. “You’ve given me such a gift, Oakmoss. Thank you!  This might solve my curse or at least lead me down the right path.” Mio’s gestures are muted by the need to hold this large golden object. “Did you want to inspect this or should I give it back to the skeleton?”

Oakmoss, for possibly the first time in her hundred and fifty three years of life, declines to examine the shiny magical artifact; a decision that is clearly not sitting easily within the avaricious Veena. "Though I want to...I szhould not. Not yet. Though tju and I have stolen szacred relicsz before...it goesz againszt my principles to hold the szacred items of another when they have been szo recently-used. I am alszo concerned that my recent kontakt with the kylix's...sziblings?...may fuck up the reszults."

Eyes widening, Miovont nods his assent. “Then perhaps later.” Keeping his gaze on hers, Mio holds the chalice low.  The selfsame skeletal hand rises from the ground, wrapping bone fingers around the chalice and pulling it down.  Blood bubbles at the seam of where the artifact touches the cave floor. After a moment, it’s gone. Mio stands straight. “So, off we go then?”

She sighs, snuggling deeper into her hooded robe. The ground is warm; the wind breathes through her aetheric not-stone wall, water drips at irregular intervals throughout the cave. The blue flames please her, too; she had always enjoyed how the hottest flames looked like ice. "I szuppose...if we are not szleeping here, that isz."

“That did occur to me as well. It’s late. I wouldn’t mind saving the aether, if possible.” A voice inside Miovont screams about sleeping on cave rock instead of soft sheets.  He keeps it stuffed as far down as he can; don’t be lame in front of a fellow cave dweller, Mio!

The Meracydian mage picks up on this inner voice, perhaps assisted by his appearance; the blue candles illuminate the silver embroidery on the Duskwight's pure-white bodice. "Sztand sztill," she instructs him, reaching for her staff. Always a fun and trustworthy combination.

Mio’s already standing mostly still and continues to do so.  Part of him is leery at the staff, but he trusts his dealer well enough.

As Oakmoss concentrates for a moment, the crackling resinous sound of one of her gems being broken is audible in the gloom. An act of thaumaturgy in its most literal sense; tendrils of aether seeking what would bring him wonder and joy while he slept. Miovont felt a tug at the edges of his mind, and then, loops of golden aether outline soft shapes on the ground before him.. As the lattice fills and fades, it leaves behind an assortment of Hannish pillows, floor cushions, and richly-embroidered blankets, all encased in vibrant, jewel-toned silks. "Ah-ha-ha! I szhould have known tju were...how did they szay it at the szhow...more than? Surplus?" Reaching over to snag one of the best pillows for herself, she turns over on her left side, tucking the pillow beneath her head.

Mio has but a fraction of a moment to cycle through how he could react to such an act of kindness.  “You mean ‘extra’,” he whispers, looking at the perfect pillow pile. He will sleep on clouds tonight.  He fingers the tassel hanging from one of the cushions. A single sob shudders from the Elezen. “Oh, thank you, Oakmoss.” He’s already moving down onto the pile.  He unclasps his armor as he sits. “Twice today you’ve given me a great gift.” If she wanted more than one pillow, she would have taken it. Mio doesn’t see a need to volunteer a second; a dragon settling onto his hoard.

By way of reply, the Veena yawns wide, the sound half-muffled by the hood and the pillow it rests on. "Ehh. I owed tju," he hears, and then she is asleep, her back rising and falling with even breaths.

Miovont Kotelleloix takes one last look around the room.  He notes the sleeping bun last, then closes his own eyes.  He thinks about his past trips into Allagan ruins, journeys to Azys Lla, and imagines his tomorrow, letting the thoughts drift lazily into splotches of color that fade into sleep.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-15): Row.

(Continued from here.) (♪)

“Know now there is no time Space, between the Well and unknowing Our story starts there Well into our future, yet far beyond our past In a romance between a pair of Unheavenly Creatures...” --Coheed & Cambria, The Dark Sentencer.

Fotiá’s red-gold flames trailed beside her as the pair moved through the Allagan manufactory, its sunset hues a striking contrast to the cold blue and green lights that were a hallmark of the empire’s work. Late Allagan work, she amended her thoughts; High Allag saw the beauty of the Crystal Tower rise from ancient hands, along with similar now-lost cities rich with crystal that caught sunlight and starlight on its facets, every surface a paean to the heavens.

Even then, it didn’t satisfy their people. The firmament itself danced beneath their steps, and still they craved more; more knowledge, more conquest, more fodder to grow themselves greater than the Gods. Oakmoss wished she could laugh at their downfall, but seeing as she was hardly alone in repurposing what she found in the ruins of the rotted empire, she begrudgingly admitted that their hubris had merit.

This particular ruin was in excellent condition; a relatively rare thing these days.  From time to time, the summoner and her eidolon encountered similar doors to the one that had vexed her so; after a few more explosive attacks from Fotiá, she deduced the doors could only be opened from within, solely by channeling sufficient aether through a locking mechanism. Much cleaner method than hers, that.

The winding hallways were actually rather compact for such a facility; slightly under sixty thousand square fulms, by the Veena’s estimation. The pathways were lined on both sides by the usual signatures of a Late Allagan laboratory: fluid-filled capsules with half-completed chimerae within; consoles humming in their power-saving modes; and, of greatest interest to her, what appeared to be forges for artifacts of some stripe. After her initial exploration concluded, she returned to the row of these forges that she sensed had been what piqued her initial interest from the other side of the erstwhile door.

“++Fotiá. Initiate guarding protocol. Patrol the hallways and discourage intruders. No lethal force is to be deployed.++” She didn’t need any sort of diplomatic entanglements with the charitable Duskwight natives.

++Understood, Caller. I will do as you command.++ Off it went; no games, no banter.

Oakmoss breathed a quiet sigh of relief; it seemed the discovery was judged worthy of the Sophic eidolon’s time, so no need to redress any imbalance yet. Turning her full focus to the forges, she channeled aether through her silver filigree horn, scanning each one. Within each chamber, her aethersight revealed circular trays, each holding a round of...goblets, perhaps? Further examination confirmed this to be the case. The mage could see how the actual forging itself took place far beneath the earth; rather clever, she had to admit, using the pressure and natural materials to heat and shape each goblet before elevating the tray upward for imbuement and detailing.

Oakmoss moved down the assembly line, sweat beginning to form beneath her heavily-embroidered gown as the exertion of maintaining steady aethersight took its toll. All seemed identical until she reached the final forge. Thinking perhaps she had made an error, Oakmoss cracked one of her Super Ether gems, artificially fortifying her magical strength.

No error; one goblet was missing. For the first time in years, Oakmoss felt fear clench its frigid fingers around her stomach. Keeping her horn trained on the topmost tray of goblets, she pulled forth a mass of glowing aether, sculpting it into glyphs of discovery. She stitched the symbols into a wide net and cast it over the forge, drawing it down until it stretched over the entire apparatus, then anchored its threads to the ground below. The spell was set; it worked as woven, performing hundreds of calculations per second to allow her access to the prize within.

Four minutes passed; four agonizing minutes of aetheric depletion. Allagan ruins always taxed her thus; they were designed to sap and entrap the aether of invaders, after all, and it was only through utilizing Eras of countermeasures that she was able to levy her intent at all. Oakmoss did her best to control her breathing, catching sight of Fotiá from time to time as it drifted past on its patrol circuit. Her eyes fell upon the nearest biocapsule, surveying its contents; it proved to be a dragon of sorts, ink-black with dull red eyes trained downward. Unsettling, to say the least; she wondered briefly if the Lalafellin explorer in her book had encountered a dragon like this in his travels.

At last, her spell concluded, chiming one bell-like minor chord to alert her to its success. Oakmoss welcomed the respite and stopped the flow of aether through her summoner’s horn; the incomplete tray within the forge no longer visible to her. Loosing the spell’s anchors from the ground, she gathered the glyphs within her clawed fingers, a pale blue sheen covering her irises as she read through the information in seconds.

As she mulled over the results, her spell changed its form, converting itself from a jumble of aetheric glyphs into a small tomestone; one she tucked away carefully within a specialized pouch that almost never left her person. In contrast to her irreverent treatment of most of her other possessions, she was very protective of and careful with these tomestones she created.

“Thisz...doesz not szeem posszible,” she said aloud at last, her Skatay accent thick as it always was when she wasn’t consciously rallying her lips and teeth around the Common words. It was a habit of hers to think to herself in whatever the local tongue was; a method of linguistic practice devised on the road over a hundred years ago. These private rehearsals often came in handy; they would definitely do so now, since the person she needed to share her findings with spoke only the Eorzean tongue, so far as she knew.  What had he called these cups? She kept thinking the word ‘goblets’, but...not quite.

Chalice. The crisp word held religious subtexts; a vessel used in rites, both holy and infernal.

Her eyes looked back up to the chimeric dragon, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. The man with the ghost in his blood...Miovont. A Duskwight, with an Allagan chalice. A shadow knight, or something to that effect; she couldn’t really remember the word he’d used for it when he’d babbled at her, full of the mushrooms she’d sold him. To help him ease his troubles, he’d said; to forget, for a while. A common enough thing for her customers to say in order to justify their indulgences.

Oakmoss was beginning to suspect he might have undersold how badly he needed to escape.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-14): Attrition.

(Continued from here.) (♪)

Returning to the vexatious door, Oakmoss stood defiantly before it, palms pressed together a fulm in front of her chin. “Φωτιά! Παρευ��εθείτε μου.” ‘Fire, attend me!’, in the ancient tongue passed down from her foremothers. Drawing her hands slowly apart, her eyes flew wide, a faint blue sheen hovering above her rose-quartz irises as her fingers wove the ancient sigils from a mass of golden aether. Long claws sculpted the raw potential of creation into glyphs, each geometric formation annotated in the myriad tongues her ancestors had compiled over Eras. Once the last arc was traced with a compass’s precision, she reached into the center of her diagram and plucked a red spark from its center with her thumb and forefinger, drawing her elbow back until the eidolon roared to life. The glyphs folded within its fiery body as it took form, much as a shirtsleeve is made to change which side of the garment is on when its cuff is pulled through its armhole.

It bore a resemblance to an Eorzean eidolon; a clever adjustment on Oakmoss’s mother’s part two centuries past. This aetheric tweak made it easier for her to hide the origin of her art now that one of the Eorzean military organizations had such egi at their command. These so-called summoners were but a watered-down imitation of the first Allagan order that had ultimately led to Meracydia’s downfall. Oakmoss held great disdain for those pretenders; part of which was pure envy. They had acquired their powers from those massive machines that hummed far above the clouds; part of what she considered her birthright despite never being able to make the pilgrimage there herself.

That would all change. She would make sure of it; enforcing her will upon the world around her was a witch’s praxis.

She called her eidolon “Fotiá” since that is what it was; fire, though its kindling was Sophic in nature rather than Ifritic. Sometimes, simplicity served best. It stretched its claws, speaking to her in Old High Allagan, its voice the tired sigh of a forge bellows.  ++Caller. I am here. What do you require?++

“++There. To the lower left of the door, water has weathered a crack into stone. You are to go through, and once on the other side, open the door for me.++” Oakmoss didn’t enjoy speaking in what she thought of as the conqueror’s tongue; perhaps a little foolish considering their empire was long in ruins, but a strong preference all the same. It did have its uses, however, and issuing a direct order was a clear example of its utility.

“Ahhhh----” Fotiá sighed its exasperation, a reaction the Veena expected; it did that when asked to do nearly anything. ++But, Caller...water has made this mark in the stone? You know I do not like water’s touch.++

Oakmoss tapped the silver filigree of her summoner’s horn. “Don’t make me use this on tju, Fotiá.” She would; she had, many times. It knew that. “My foremothersz did not szpend all their time fortifying tju againszt elemental interference for tju to act like a szpoilt child.”

++I was not aware that the Caller was in the habit of spoiling any of her children,++ came its droll reply. ++Very well. You know my price.++

“No! I have been working on thisz door for moonsz, foul creature!” Though she railed against it, she knew it was fruitless to do so; the eidolon’s Sophic nature had its disadvantages.

++Balance in all things,++ Fotiá intoned, and Oakmoss was compelled to respond, “++In perfect harmony.++” An old prayer to her Meracydian Goddess, though the litany itself was Allagan. “Fine. But I will complete my szide of the bargain after tju have let me in. Otherwisze, there isz no balance.”

++Very well, Caller.++ The aetheric familiar floated on a trail of embers down to the crack, the definition of limbs and horns lost as it flowed through the stone, steam hissing as it crossed the water that had formed its passage. For a long moment, all was still; Oakmoss closed her eyes and channeled her focus through the horn to see what the eidolon was seeing. To her surprise, the room within looked to be a well-preserved Allagan ruin; yet another mystery. Why hadn’t she been able to open that damned door, then? Who had been able to keep her kind out for so long?

Her thoughts were shattered along with the door itself as the eidolon swelled with power, blasting the gateway outward. If it weren’t for her warded robes...she coughed as dirt and debris settled around her feet. Once she could again open her eyes, she noticed Fotiá already awaiting balance within, its infernal three-by-three grid etched in lines of fire with the dusty air as its canvas. Pulling a chunk of magicked stone from her hair, Oakmoss noticed the gems set within it had not lost their glow; she tucked it away within the deep sleeves of her robe. The mage turned wide eyes on the wall behind her, where still-smoking shards of the door were now ingrained into the bedrock, then slowly turned to face the eidolon.

“Tju...tju...faithlessz fucking waste of aether! Tju could have killed me, and with me, tjourself!” Striding through the still-settling rubble, she seethed with fury and curses in five languages, tempted to force the creature to do her bidding out of pure spite.

Ahhhh---- It sighed again, then tapped one claw against the glowing grid. ++For that outburst, I go first.++ Fotiá drew two lines in the centermost box; an X. It weathered her tirade with the patience of a being that has served the same family for centuries. Like water, her words were to it; just steam. A battle of attrition between fiery wills and fire itself.

Oakmoss sputtered for awhile longer, though her thoughts were already calming as she looked to the structures her eidolon had uncovered. An...assembly line, perhaps? She fell quiet, taking a few steps within, mentally trying to pair up what she saw with what she knew. Suddenly, her steps came to a halt; she was tethered by her oath to Sophic principles.

++Balance in all things,++ Fotiá reminded her.

The Veena turned on her heel, and sulked her way back to her familiar. “++In perfect harmony,++” she replied as compelled, though her tone and expression conveyed only discord. “Tju took the better szymbol out of szpite, too,” she accused it, her golden aether tracing an O in the top left corner.

It was a cat game, as it almost always was between them. Fotiá was delighted, as it almost always was. The fiery board vanished in a shower of embers, and Caller and Called One faced the ruins together.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-13): Confluence.

(Continued from here.)

The door remained sealed. At this point, Oakmoss was half-tempted to consider it a wall and leave it be; something that would’ve been easier to do had she not sensed the pulse of a tantalizing, unknown object behind its fulms of stubborn stone. Bells passed; water dripped at a steady pace from some unseen rivulet. Even the faintest trickle of water could weather away these ancient stones, the Viera knew.

“I vill be back, tju fucking glorified mountain,” she muttered at length. The door did not deign to reply. Brushing her sweat-beaded green locks back from her cheeks, she picked up a faint golden aetheric thread; one of her warding lines. Through great hallways and open-skied courtyards forged by calamitous strikes, she followed its trail, eventually coming to their confluence. There was a gentle stream whose banks had been broken when the roof below it crumbled; now, it was a waterfall, and life had sprung up all around that shattered capillary. Oakmoss wondered how long the stream would last before its source was drained dry. It wouldn’t matter; she’d move on ahead of its demise.

Passing through the stream’s chill into the cavern behind it washed some of the day’s exertions from her velvety skin. Only recently had the Viera started to give any thought to personal hygiene; in her travels, sleeping in a pile of her belongings wherever she happened to land, she'd become a free ride for a number of vilekin. They hadn’t bothered her---she was immune to most of their bites thanks to the strong herbs and incenses she carried---but their presence had certainly perturbed most of those she’d met. Ridding herself of the parasitic passengers was another gift; one to make her person less-offensive to others she wished to...befriend, perhaps? Ally herself with?

She was starting to believe there was a crucial difference between those two things; one she was only beginning to grasp.

Once within her current lair, Oakmoss changed into lighter robes woven with aetheric threads. She’d launder her pile of dirty garments later; one of the Duskwight locals had left her some soap, which was either a kindness or a warning. Maybe both.

Selecting a tome from an unruly pile on her bedroll, she sat down at her makeshift table and began to leaf through it. The Veena had an easier time reading Common than speaking it; the ink on the page gave her more context clues, more time to put the sentences together into something sensible. This particular volume detailed a Plainsfolk explorer’s journey into a Coerthan mountain cave in search of draconic treasure. Though she found many of the explorer’s claims hyperbolic---did these Western dragons even keep hoards? Maybe she should look into that---he had been very precise about keeping logs of all delving methods used, both aetheric and otherwise. Oakmoss wasn’t sure why, but her instincts kept drawing her back to this book. There was something useful to her, here. That instinct of hers, knowing when something could avail her, had kept her alive this long, kept her just this side of death---or worse, imprisonment, so she trusted it completely.

Unfortunately, the story’s usefulness remained obscured. As day marched into night and then day once more, she continued reading and rereading those pages within the perpetual underground twilight. Oakmoss broke one of the gems set within her many necklaces to activate a simple cantrip. The book floated near her on an unseen tether as she ate something unremarkable, washed her clothes, oiled her leathers, hung them to dry from hooks near an opening where an algid wind blew without cease. She showered within the erstwhile stream, poking her head out of its languid flow to read from the dog-eared tome hovering nearby; always at eye level, turning its own pages when directed to do so.

The bog witch awoke with a start, yelping indignantly at the strike that roused her. She couldn’t remember dozing off, but she had, slumped over in a tattered woolen robe, her back to the warmest of the cavern walls. The explorer’s account lay nearby; evidently, her cantrip had expired, gravity reclaiming it. Rubbing the back of her left hand against the fresh welt on her forehead, she frowned, her right hand scrabbling into a little nook in the wall behind her, seeking the healing unguent she’d stashed there. As her fingers closed around the jar, she froze, her ears springing fully upright.

That was it. She had the solution! The jar of ointment was swiftly forgotten as she got to her feet. Breaking another gem set into one of her many necklaces, Oakmoss---not her real name, but the one she most favored---invoked part of her family’s legacy in the ancient tongue.

“Ενδυμα. Καλύψτε τη σάρκα μου.” Garments, cover my flesh. At once, they did; the Rabanastran robes of summoning clothing her. They didn’t look very practical for exploring old ruins, but they were precisely what she needed now. Oakmoss strode out of her chamber with renewed vigor; this time, the waterfall evaporated in a hiss of steam as it sluiced over her shoulders.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22) Masterpost!

Last year, I challenged myself to write round-robin about four of my alts. This year I’m going to attempt to write an ongoing story about my three main ladies! I’m planning on doing ten prompts in a row for each of them. If that fails, I’ll still write something...so if that ends up being the case, challenge hopefully failed successfully! Good luck to everyone; this is always one of my favorite times of year. 

Submission Form || Links to each entry behind the cut! Temporarily pinning this for the month since it's easier to edit daily that way.

Prompt 1.)  Cross. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 2.) Bolt. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 3.) Temper. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 4.) Flourish. (Extra Credit) (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 5.) Cutting Corners. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 6.) Onerous. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 7.) Pawn. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 8.) Tepid. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 9.) Yawn. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 10.) Channel. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

--

Prompt 11.) Meander. (Extra Credit) (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 12.) Miss the Boat. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 13.) Confluence. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 14.) Attrition. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 15.) Row. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 16.) Deiform. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 17.) Novel. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 18.) Lurid. (Extra Credit) (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 19.) Turn a Blind Eye. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 20.) Anon. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

--

Prompt 21.) Solution. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 22.) Veracity. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 23.) Pitch. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 24.) Vicissitudes. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 25.) Soliloquy. (Extra Credit) (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 26.) Break a Leg. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 27.) Hail. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 28.) Vainglory. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 29.) Fuse. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 30.) Sojourn. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Finale: Iamb-ish Pentameter. (All three!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-11): Meander. (Extra Credit/Free Prompt!)

(Though this is the start of Oakmoss’s continuous story, it is somewhat related to this entry from last year.) (♪)

“Stop! In the name of the Elder Seedseer, stop this instant!”

“Yeah, no!” Oakmoss tossed the denial over her shoulder, her ground-eating pace continuing unabated. Even this deep in the Black Shroud, the roots and rocks underfoot proved little obstacle for the Skatay-born Viera. Her high-heeled greaves made only the barest sound upon the earth; a sign to her that she was welcome here, despite what literally everyone else had told her so far. Never one to care for any laws save for the ones that she personally found reasonable, Oakmoss gained ground, eventually leaving the yellow-jackets behind.

Wait. Weren’t the Yellowjackets Limsan? Was there some sort of agreement going on between the two city-states; maybe a surplus of ocher pigment when they picked their official colors? She gave it no more than a moment’s thought; it didn’t really matter. Oakmoss would have run from either of them.

Eventually, she cut to the left, following the sign she’d marked with an aetheric bubble full of sesame oil. To her sensitive, velvety nose, the smell of the Meracydian seed was quite distinctive; to others, possibly barring Miqo’te, it would likely just remind them of their most recent meal. She reached out and popped the bubble, splattering the few onzes of oil against the half-dead tree behind it; by the time it had started to drip down the bark, she was already yalms away.

The path narrowed until it nearly ceased to exist between two towering stone ruins, the passage little more than a fulm across. In order to cross through, she turned to the side and squeezed between the ancient, lichen-riddled edifices. If they caught her here, she’d be easy pickings; but they wouldn’t, and so she wasn’t. By the time she left the claustrophobic trail and entered her current place of refuge, the Shroud had long-since swallowed up any and all cries of pursuit, replacing them with the cacophony of nature. These foreign fauna welcomed her; comfortable enough with her presence to conduct their lives according to their ancient rules. A rite she could respect; one she shared, though others may labor to see the connection.

Oakmoss passed through the leylines of her wards, checking to see if anything had crossed them while she was gone. Finding each line devoid of flaw, she finally let herself relax; her breaths, so long kept quiet and steady, now echoed raggedly against the distant ceiling of the ruins. The Veena’s sharp-heeled boots, formed to fit her kind’s large, clawed feet, pierced through carpets of moss to click against the stone beneath. Her pupils widened, nearly eclipsing her pale-red irises, as they adjusted to the gloom; the faint blue light may as well be the noonday sun to her, so fine were the details its glow revealed.

A Gelmorran cave, this was; once some place of import, given the scrawlings she had managed to decipher along its walls. Within the sprawling, half-crumbled caverns, she found much of interest, but nothing that directly helped her current mission. Oakmoss meandered through the tangled ruins until she came to the place she had last left off; the entrance to a temple, she was sure of it, bright with cave mushrooms.

The messy, chaotic Viera was sometimes called a witch; a claim she could not rightly refuse, since she had not the language for what she was in any tongue that she knew. Reader of stars; keeper of oaths; a Caller whose line stretched back to Meracydia, its conflict with Allag. She was one of a long line of women who picked up where their foremothers had left off.

So, she resumed her search. Though messy in most other aspects of her life, she was unflinchingly methodical when it came to following this particular route. Anchors between the World That Was, and the mysteries floating in the skies above; a mystery she meant to uncover with her own eyes, her own efforts, before passing the torch to her favorite daughter.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-12): Miss the Boat.

(Continued from here.)

The further she wandered within the half-ruined hallways, the more comfortable she felt. Farsialf had once likened his mother to said ruins; cold and unwelcoming to most, a half-crumbled relic of a forgotten world. At the time, she had dismissed his words as the lazy poetry of a teenager; probably the final words she’d said to him before his father came to claim him, she realized. However, her son’s words had stuck with her over the decades; though she’d never admit it to him, he was right.

Oakmoss wondered if any of her children aside from Mjrna, her favorite daughter, felt Sophia’s call. Though her kind were long-lived, the height of their Meracydian strength was still far in the past; their Allagan heritage, too, was growing thin. Perhaps in a few more generations, their oath would fade entirely; an unwelcome notion to her.

The Veena allowed these thoughts to twist and weave as they would in the back of her mind as she explored the ruins of a more-recently destroyed city. Gelmorra was home to the Duskwight Elezen for Eras; even now, she still encountered the occasional enclave here and there, their long limbs and slate skin similar to her own. There had been a few unfavorable encounters, of course, but they were more accepting of her than most; a welcome boon, given she’d been chased out of just about everywhere else.

Her steps led her to her latest quandary; a door that remained firmly shut, its aetherically-enhanced stones gleaming softly in the gloom. Here, her wards ended; her path, too, that she marked throughout the ruins so as to remember her steps. The door refused to yield to any of her usual tricks, from complicated magicks to mundane explosives; she liked it all the more for that. A proper puzzle in a civilization that was, to her, relatively recent.

She was too proud to entreat the local Duskwight groups for aid. It was possible that they would grant it, too; in order to guarantee her stay here, she provided them a number of services, from fortune reading to food. There was one associate that kept coming to the forefront of her mind, however; Miovont Kotelleloix, the man with the ghost in his blood. Perhaps he---

No. She would figure this out herself, and bring him whatever she found within. Though she was still disinclined to give things away, she’d begun to realize that gifts, freely-given, often held rewards for her later. There was an opportunity, here, and she didn’t mean to forget the airship on it.

Forget the airship? That couldn’t be right. She still struggled with many Common idioms. The correct words joined the other idle musings in the back of her mind; something to be picked up later, or discarded.

(Continued here!)