#arr fic

[astrology-bf]

FFXIV Write 2024 | Day 10 "Stable"

Master Post | My AO3 | Challenge Info

~ 1.8k words | Mature | M/M | WoL/Haurchefant | CW: Implied Smut, Angst, Post-ARR Spoilers

A knight of Ishgard buried his misgivings as he always did, keeping his sunny smile affixed upon his face as he made his way back from the stables of Camp Dragonhead… at least until he neared his chambers in the keep, where privacy afforded him the chance to visually express his bitterness and his frustration.

Haurchefant frowned. A frown so deep his jaw began to twist, which was accompanied by a deep huff leaving his nose. The footfalls of his boots maintained a steady rhythm on the stones beneath his feet, but every now and then his gauntlets would ring out as his fists clenched. 

Fortunately, none were around to hear or see him as he went: Camp Dragonhead at large was now retiring for the night, its people seeking shelter from the chilly blustering ending the day… yet another day where Ishgard’s savior and his friends remained in limbo - neither in safety in Halone’s city, nor out of danger from the machinations of the Syndicate.

Haurchefant huffed again before coming to a halt outside his chamber doors. 

He stared at the dark oak with that same frown. The routine of ill news from up above followed by trudging to a lonely night within his rooms was a well-practiced habit, comforting only in that it was familiar to him. He closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and shook his head before reaching for the latch.

The door swung open silently under his touch. Haurchefant took a step forward, and took a breath as he opened his eyes… and paused, breath catching as he blinked. A moment passed, and then the knight’s faintly surprised expression started easing off into a tender smile.

His room was at a pleasant enough temperature, given the fireplace was kept in maintenance, but the curtains had already been drawn and the lamps darkened so its current occupant - the Warrior of Light - could get some rest. 

Ifan was lying on his stomach on Haurchefant’s bed; clearly having thrown himself on top of it out of sheer weariness, if the fact he’d only taken off his boots and little else was anything to go by. The white of his attire still bore some dirt stains from the day’s labors, and he was snoring lightly in the way which made the Elezen’s ears quiver faintly at the endearing sound. 

Haurchefant entered and closed the door behind him, then simply stood and spent a good while gazing fondly at the sleeping figure. His eyes traced over the Hyur’s face, lingering on his dark eyelashes and the way his lips were softly parted as he slept. Then his head tilted and his smile broadened further as his gaze went to the magician’s unclothed legs, fingers twitching lightly at the memory of just how soft the ash-brown hairs dusting his calves and thighs felt under the knight’s touch. 

His legs were much more toned than they’d been even a few weeks ago: the dividends of dedication when it came to learning windriding. Estinien was unforgiving in his tutelage, and Ifan was too stubborn to concede regardless of the regimen the Azure Dragoon deemed necessary. So, between the two of them, Ifan’s progress was rapid if taxing - and Haurchefant enjoyed the benefits of Ifan’s requests to massage his legs after a rough day training.

When his frown had finally eased in full, Haurchefant quietly made his way to the dresser so he could disrobe. The fireplace was more than sufficient for him to see his armor’s straps and buckles, so he made no move to light the lamps lest he disturb the Warrior of Light… but Ifan began stirring shortly after Haurchefant had slid off his gauntlets.

Ifan pursed his lips and swallowed, fingers curling in the covers before cracking his eyes open. Then he slowly sat up and rubbed at his left side with a small grunt before gazing blearily in Haurchefant’s direction, attention caught by a faint chiming of his chainmail.

“Mm…? Oh…” Ifan blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then gave the knight a tired smile. “Evening, Haurchefant.” Then he yawned, eliciting a chuckle from Haurchefant.

“A fine evening to yourself as well, my friend,” Haurchefant greeted in turn. “There is no cause to rise if you yet need rest.” 

Ifan shook his head. “Just needed a little nap. Estinien worked me really hard today.” 

The magician closed his eyes and stretched before shimmying out of bed, feet finding his slippers after feeling around on the soft rug with his bare toes. He stood, reaching for the hem of his Amdapori robe and simply shucking it over his head in a smooth motion - having already unlaced it before falling into bed, and not hesitating despite wearing nothing underneath it.

Haurchefant averted his gaze instinctively out of politeness before he took his liberty and eyed the Hyur’s naked bod,y as he draped the robes over a chair and reached for the shirt of Haurchefant’s which Ifan had wordlessly claimed as his preferred undergarment during his stay. It hung low and loose, the sleeves had to be rolled up, and the collar was constantly in danger of falling off one bronze-skinned shoulder… but it was the best fitting garment Haurchefant had ever seen his Warrior of Light attired in.

They were his colors, after all. Undyed, simple, but soft and sturdy cloth lacking any sign of House Fortemps of Ishgard. Just the shirt of a mere knight, freely given as a token of affection. It even smelled like both of them, as it often remained on when they were intimate, and despite how often Ifan laundered it by magic; carrying a little whiff of snowy pine from Haurchefant, and a faint hint of desert Azeyma rose from the Warrior of Light. 

Ifan ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it down before smiling at Haurchefant more wakefully. Then he made his way to where the Elezen was still doffing his armor, and wordlessly began helping the knight in removing it.

“How are you feeling?” Ifan asked, still smiling up at Haurchefant.

“...I will confess some frustration.” Haurchefant answered. His expression grew strained, and another barely audible huff escaped him. “Those voicing skepticism over your asylum remain intractable. One would think them more grateful for all you have done for Ishgard; at least sufficiently so as to think better of leaving you out in the cold.” He shook his head, and then pulled his now loosened chain hauberk up and off before he set it down.

Ifan paused, then rose up and reached for Haurchefant’s cheek with his right hand. The Elezen’s lips curved into a smile again on that side of his face, still marveling at just how warm his body always was thanks to the brand he had been given by Ifrit. 

“I’m not out in the cold,” Ifan said, gazing up at Haurchefant. “I’m with someone who’s doing everything he can to help me and the others. And I’m grateful for him.” Then he tilted his head and nodded reassuringly. “It’s all right to be upset, though.”

Haurchefant shook his head again, more firmly this time, and smiled down at the Hyur resolutely. “I shan’t sully our time in private with such matters, my friend. Slow progress is still progress, and there are worse dooms than your company. If such can be called a doom and not an act of grace.” 

Ifan sighed, grinning as he shook his head up at the Elezen. “You and your effusiveness. What am I going to do with you, hm?” he asked, before reaching for the laces of Haurchefant’s undershirt and loosening them. The magician’s eyes immediately went to the faint dusting of icy blue hairs on Haurchefant’s sternum… soon followed by his fingers, lightly grazing up towards Haurchefant’s neck before the knight had placed his hand over the magician’s.

“Permit me but a scant few minutes to raid the larder,” Haurchefant suggested, bringing Ifan’s fingers to his lips so he could kiss them. “I feel in need of an impromptu supper.”

“Just supper?” Ifan asked, with a coy grin. 

“Indeed. Followed by your hindquarters for dessert.” Haurchefant answered, with a smile that was too courteous by half. 

Ifan’s grin widened as his eyebrow rose, and he canted his head languidly. “Well. If that’s the case… you can have a few minutes while I make sure dessert is to your liking.” he said, giving Haurchefant a small chuckle.

“It has yet to fail to whet my appetite, I can assure you.” Haurchefant said, chuckling in turn with a light grin of his own. Then his expression became more sedate, and he craned his head down to press his lips to Ifan’s in a long, languid, and heedlessly impious kiss. 

His fingers curled within the shirt he shared with Ifan, and his arms tightened as he slightly lifted the magician up to get a better angle, better able to find the places within Ifan’s mouth which left him breathless… and breathless he was when Haurchefant rose up, their cheeks flushed pink and darkened bronze, and their lips set in soft smiles of quiet affection as the Elezen gazed down at Ifan lovingly.

Ifan took in a breath, lips parting as if ready to say something. Haurchefant found himself tensing for some reason that he couldn’t quite identify. A tension settled in the air, as did a silence that was broken only by the crackling of the fireplace and the muffled sound of Coerthas’ chill winds from outside the keep.

No words came. 

The Warrior of Light gazed up at Haurchefant in silence, still held tightly in his arms, as his joyful expression gradually faded into one of guilty confusion.

“...I’m sorry,” Ifan whispered, brows falling at the ends as he kept staring up at Haurchefant. “I don’t know why I can’t say it.” He took in another breath, one that was near-pained, and lowered his chin until he was staring vacantly at Haurchefant’s sternum with his gaze turned inwards.  

The Elezen’s smile gradually cooled into a sadly sympathetic look. He pulled Ifan more tightly up against him, one hand threading through the magician’s hair and pulling him out of his thoughts with the soft slide of his fingertips against his scalp. 

Ifan let out a resigned sigh, fingers curling in Haurchefant’s undershirt. He buried his nose against Haurchefant’s chest and inhaled lightly to refresh his memory of the knight’s scent, filling his mind with him in an attempt to ignore the voids left in his heart… dug out in Syrcus Tower, and again in the Sil’dihn Aqueduct. 

After a less tense silence, Ifan raised his head and gazed up at Haurchefant again, doing his best to express with the wine-dark blue of his irises what he was otherwise still too freshly injured to say.

Haurchefant smiled widely, taking in a slow and happy breath at the sheer fondness in the magician’s eyes. He squeezed Ifan again, putting his own thoughts aside in favor of the feeling; being in his chambers with a man he cared for, who didn’t care about his birth or rank, and cared about his city though he had no real reason to. 

“How could I want for words?” Haurchefant said softly, reaching up to brush a lock of Ifan’s ash brown hair out of his eyes. “How could I want for words… when you look at me, so?” 

[totaldramadrawingsandstuff]

Some art I did of one of my favourite fics (don’t judge me) called ‘Expect the unexpected’

The creator of said fic is Hashag_i

my drawing is of chapter 7, my personal favourite chapter

Please go and show their fic some support!

[scionshtola]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love💗(hi kels ily and your writing so much!)

🥺this is so cute, ty friend!! (hi azia ily and your writing too 💗)

the pain of perception | cori/y'shtola (shb, pre-relationship)

Corisande lifts her head in Y’shtola’s direction, her familiar features—the heart shape of her lips, the curve of her nose, her downturned eyes—just as obfuscated by the light as the rest of her body. There was a time that Y’shtola could have known what Corisande was thinking just by a simple shared glance. Now, though she could make her best guess, she could never be sure what was written in their expression. What Y’shtola might give to see the curve of Corisande’s gentle smile once more, before they venture toward a battle that could change her forever.  Y’shtola glances down at their hands, still pressed palm to palm between them. Corisande had not shied from one touch—perhaps she would not shy from another.

with certainty | cori/y'shtola (arr, pre-relationship)

Y’shtola prodded at the scars, her eyes narrowing when Corisande did not react. She turned their hand over and skimmed her fingers along the inside of their wrist, brushing the singed edges of what was left of their wrist wrappings. They had not found a moment to replace them since the battle, swept from one task to the next as they were. “Pray, which healer is responsible for this remarkably poor work?” The sharpness of her words contrasted the gentle hold she kept on their arm. “I should like to have a word with them. A burn so deep as this one appears to have been would take hours to heal properly.” Corisande would laugh, if it did not feel like so much work. If her skin did not itch, did not feel stretched taut over her bones, fragile and paper thin, at war with the ironic spark of warmth blooming in her chest. Still, that Y’shtola should take such immediate offense to the shoddy quality of care they received was enough to bring a small, fond smile to their face. If only they had someone else to blame. “I will keep that in mind for next time.”

an echo of loneliness and a growing hope | cori/y'shtola (arr, pre-relationship) (why did i title it this lol)

When she opens her eyes, Corisande cuts a lone figure against the dark horizon, the blue crystals of their Ironworks gear glowing in the night. Visage hardened into a grim expression, hair blowing gallantly in the breeze as the moonlight coalesces around them, they look every inch the hero Eorzea knows them to be and very little like Y’shtola’s dear friend. Loneliness echoes in her chest at the sight.  She approaches Corisande and touches their elbow lightly—always their elbow, avoiding the flinch that comes when she touches their wrist ever since the day they defeated the Rhitahtyn sas Arvina. She tilts her head down to meet Y’shtola’s gaze, and a myriad of things to say run through her head. You should not have to do this alone. Please be careful. I will come with you

sweet distraction | cori/y'shtola (rodeo au 🤠)

Their lips curled into a sly grin then. “You look like a quick study.” Y’shtola did not like the way her heart skipped a beat at their words. Music started up again on stage, and Y’shtola’s protests died in her throat when Corisande moved their hips in time with it. They tugged on her hands with each slow swivel, and Y’shtola could not stop her gaze from following the long line of their legs, from where their dark jeans tucked into their tall brown boots to where they clung tightly to the curve of their ass.  “Please?” Corisande asked. “Just one song.” “One song,” Y’shtola relented. Corisande beamed down at her, and Y’shtola could not help but smile back.

untilted tipsy kiss prompt | cori/y'shtola (post enw)

They pull her closer, the silk of her robe smooth under their fingers. The taste of wine lingers on her lips, sweet and inviting, and they chase after it, deepening the kiss. “You let me go on for so long,” Y’shtola says between kisses, breathless and giggling against their lips. “I enjoy your going on. Though,” Corisande says, her body warm and mind abuzz from more than just drink. “You may have to repeat some points.”

[lilbittymonster]

Do they have any pets?

They do!

Aymeric's cat, Arienne, who adopted him when she was still a kitten.

(Art by @mewidiann)

Thanks for the ask @ubejamjar

Ship Asks

[vihola]

How do I get over this

[kannedia]

21/6 [ARR] - This is New

Occurs during Crystal Tower questline.

Oscar accidentally flirts with his maybe crush.

"You know how cruel children can be." G'raha finished with a sigh. He didn't bother to look up.

Oscar hadn't said anything. For a mercy, there were no apologies. There weren't any of Oscar's many usual questions either. Which meant Oscar was probably staring.

"Hmmm…" Oscar half hummed.

G'raha glanced up at him quickly before backing away. Oscar had leaned forward ever so slightly. Considering his elezen stature, it was probably more into his personal space than Oscar had intended.

"They remind me of… hmm…" Oscar continued, his brow creased. He looked as though he were trying to remember something. "They remind me of the stars Alberio. Very pretty."

Well. That was certainly a new one. Pretty? For a moment G'raha couldn't help but wonder if Oscar was flirting with him. No. He was probably calling the stars pretty.

Putting that aside, G'raha could vaguely recall said stars coming up in his reading before. Something felt off with the comparison. He looked back up at Oscar, who was standing up straight again.

"You are referring to part of the Cygnus constellation, my friend?" G'raha questioned with mild amusement.

Oscar nodded with his usual grin.

"…Then if I recall correctly said stars are yellow and blue." G'raha corrected.

Which earned him a nod and a quiet thoughtful noise from Oscar. "True, but they shine just as brightly."

G'raha glanced away again. It would be best to end the conversation there.

[sharlayandropout]

Food

At the Find, in the months between the Labyrinth and the Tower.

[shonenkun309]

May is very promising I'm telling y'all!!!

THE WAY HE'S LOOKING AT HER IS- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[laspocelliere]

Day Thirteen: Butte

The heartbeat of nature.

They were words she hadn’t heard – wouldn’t hear, not for many years – but were written on the inside of her bones regardless. Imprinted, somewhere on her soul, where none could take it away. The sunrise over the hills of Thanalan was sharp and golden, warmer and wider than the watercolour mountain sunlight she’d first seen as a child. The one that had entranced her, and first opened that calling in the ice-packed recesses of her bruised heart, had become the resting place by which she measured every subsequent sunrise she made sure she was there to see.

Stretched out on her meagre bedroll, she watched the colours unfurl across the sky with something almost like reverence. Pearly pinks and dreamy purples wove in and out of fiery golden light, stretching across the desert horizon so fully that it was nearly impossible to find the edges of the world. From where she’d made her camp, near enough to the edge of the cliffside, it looked as though she were peering out from over the edge of the world.

Shifting onto her stomach, she watched the light grow stronger, chasing away the barren shadows from the land far below. Nearby, alerted to her movements, her chocobo lowered his head towards her, a gentle rumbling sound near-purring from his throat as he laid his feathery head near her arm. Absently, she stroked the soft down of his head, surprised at the fondness she felt for a creature she had only agreed to take on for practicality’s sake. 

It was only because of his gift of flight, after all, that had allowed her to spend the night safe atop this isolated butte. Steep enough on all sides to prevent anyone sneaking up, and high enough for her to see them coming anyway. A monolith in the desert, surrounded by an ocean of stars at night, and swimming with sand and sunlight at dawn. It was a raw, untouchable beauty, so far removed from the lush mountains and rivers of her childhood, that it all nearly caught in her throat just trying to breathe it all in.

Silent, yet strong.

With her fingers buried in the soft feathers of her chocobo’s head, his doelike eyes fallen shut with contentment at being petted, she stared forwards at the endless horizon as the sun rose. Somewhere beyond, there were people she’d been sent to meet, tied to her by the inexplicable curse she’d been saddled with from birth. The one that was suddenly being referred to as a gift. A Blessing.

Warrior of Light.

The title tasted strange in her mouth. Like metal.

Or blood.

She couldn’t say yet that she trusted these Scions that had appeared, nor Minfilia’s intentions. But they allowed her her space, and it kept coin in her pockets more steadily than it ever had been as a gladiator in Ul’dah, or the sellsword groups before that. That, at least, was worth seeing through, even if she didn’t necessarily believe that earnest look in the Antecedent’s eyes – the one that almost spelled out the word messiah in bright, crystal blue – when she looked at her. 

Sighing, the young adventurer, rolled over, her back pressing firm against the unforgiving rock beneath her. Her chocobo – she really should give him a name – rested his head comfortably somewhere near her shoulder, and she let her shoulderblades press into the bedroll, the dry dirt beneath, and the malms of solid stone beneath that. Beneath the cloudless sky, her arms were yet unblemished, her hands still to grow the callouses that would become permanent fixtures from years of swordplay. She slept through the nights without issue, and her mind was quiet.

In her mind, the horrors were behind her.

She was younger than she’d ever be, and had no idea of it.

Dawn broke over Thanalan, and she stared up into the sky as the colours changed. Until the blue was so bright she needed to shut her eyes against it.

Or be blinded.

[lavampira]

3, 7, and 16 for alia/minfilia pls 🥺

couple development questions

ty kels!! excited to give them more attention <:

3. by contrast, what was the moment that first made their ~heart~ soft for the other person? not necessarily a conscious realization of “I love this person,” but a moment that had them like “oh… I adore them…”

there isn’t really any specific or grand moment that strikes them, but anytime that d’alia able to make her smile or laugh or listens to minfilia share her hopes does it for her. and for minfilia, it’s any of the times that d’alia lets down her guard to be a sillier, softer version of herself, but equally anytime that she faces hardship with the sort of determination that she admires.

7. do they (or would they) pursue the other character’s affection, and if so, how? do they tell the other character how they feel? try to earn their admiration? woo them with romantic gestures? flirt with them, skillfully or otherwise?

they do pursue it! the mutual admiration is sort of the foundation to their affection, and there’s a lot of light flirtation and testing the waters on their feelings before they decide to act on them, which d’alia is the first to confess, but both of them actively seek it. minfilia is the better flirt verbally while d’alia is better with gestures between thoughtful gifts or meaningful touches.

16. if they had the ability to just spend free time with their partner, what would they do? would they go out or stay inside?

for d’alia, it’s a little of both - she knows minfilia is often stuck inside the solar dealing with bureaucracy and handling other things as the antedecent and wants to take her somewhere to relax, but she also enjoys their quiet time alone, especially the more she becomes known as the warrior of light. minfilia expresses a lot that she wishes she could go places with her, too, so they do spend a little more time out together! when they do, it’s typically lunch and dinner dates, and strolls through revenant’s toll and long talks on a bench and the occasional shopping excursion, or participating in some event festivities in one of the city states. and when they stay in, they do things like having tea and talking by the fireplace, or sitting intertwined while one reads.

[mx-paint]

.

[astrology-bf]

May DWC Day 6: Confidence

@daily-writing-challenge

Sequel to DWC Day 5's Prompt: "Complication"

(CW: Violence, Death)

“You look troubled, student." greeted Raya-O-Senna quietly.

Ifan flinched. “Please don’t call me that, Lady Raya-O.” He said with his head bowed. Were it not for all attention being focused on preparations for the impending assault on Castrum Meridianum, the sight of the Warrior of Light standing deferentially before what appeared to be a young girl might have been comical to onlookers, even in spite of the Padjal’s horns and her other symbols of authority.

Raya-O’s expression didn’t change despite Ifan’s attempt at formality, her face set in her usual mask of breezy amusement. “Why not? I don’t recall releasing you from your training.”

“You didn’t, but I've forfeited the right anyway.” Ifan replied.

“Have you?” 

Ifan blinked. “...Didn’t you hear what I did? At Cape Westwind?”

“I did.”

The magician hesitantly raised his head, then winced a little at the rather pointed expression Raya-O was giving him. She had a way of looking at him that made him feel utterly transparent. “...Master, I…” He swallowed and lowered his gaze again. “I truly, truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Sticking up for me, teaching me, but… I failed you, just like I failed Lalai. I drew aether from the land in anger, and I...” He didn’t finish.

“Hm.” The Padjal hummed and looked off to the side, threading her fingers together behind her back. “Did you feel better, after?” she asked.

There was a pause. “No.”

“Because it wasn’t -her-.” Raya-O didn’t need to refer to Livia by name for Ifan to know of whom she spoke.

“......Yes.”

“And you intend to sin a second time, when you face her.” she suggested with a faintly wry note.

“No!” Ifan exclaimed, looking up at his master. “I… I don’t intend to, I just…”

“Just…?” she asked, eyes flicking to his face.

He winced again, cowed. “...I don’t know if I’m going to be able to control myself. I might give in again.” 

“You might not.” she countered with a faint smile.

Ifan went silent at that. The Padjal turned towards to gaze at the sight of the Castrum in the distance, giving Ifan the time he needed to collect his thoughts. 

“...Even if I don’t,” he said. “I think it’s fairly clear by now in which direction my soul points. As I said, Master, I appreciate your training, but… It’s ‘Warrior of Light’, not ‘Savior of Light’. War. Fighting. I’ll always just be better at killing people than saving them.”

Raya-O smiled again, still gazing at the Castrum. “I would think one who appreciates my training would remember my lesson regarding a different way of fighting back.”

It took Ifan a moment. Then he closed his eyes for a moment as he let out a breath. “...By healing.” 

“Mm.” Raya-O-Senna looked off to the side with that same small smile on her face. Then she turned back to Ifan and raised her right hand towards him. Cupped in her palm was a polished ivory jewel engraved with the sigil of a healer’s cane.

Ifan stared at the soul crystal. His lips parted in shock, and he looked up at Raya-O with a shake of his head. “I can’t accept that. I haven’t earned it!”

“You’ve worked hard and learned well, my dear student.” she said with a fond warmth in her eyes. “Your heart may never lie with nature, but you have more than sufficient skill in the White to wield this. And you will need to wield it to overcome the trials ahead. Besides… I took a blood oath to Nophica to entrust this soul crystal to a worthy successor who truly understands A-Towa-Cant’s legacy.” There was a teasing note in her tone as she echoed Ifan’s words from when they first met.

Ifan shook his head again sharply and took a step back. “I’m not worthy.”

“I believe you are.”

He hissed, closing his eyes and clenching his fists. “...I still have to face her.”

Raya-O stepped towards him. “Ifan, you once asked me what makes you unusual. It’s quite simple: you enjoy using magic to destroy and to kill, but you still restrain yourself and insist on using your power constructively. You not only try to be better, you still fight in others’ defense even knowing that you’ll have to put your soul on the scales every time.” She reached for his wrist and raised his hand, gently pressing the Soul of the White Mage into his grasp. “I simply wish to make sure that, when that happens, your heart is fairly weighted. I know you will have to kill, but there is a difference between doing so to satisfy yourself and doing so because you must. And I have faith that, in spite of all temptation… When you choose to act, it will be for the right reasons.”

—

Ifan watched as Livia sas Junius landed with a crashing thud. The twisted, shattered, and melted wreckage of the platform serving as their arena attested to the ferocity of their clash, as did the sparking and smoking remains of magitek devices scattered around them. Lingering crackles of ianthine levin still arced across the charred plates of Livia’s once-white armor, and the air between her and the head of Ifan’s staff still roiling and reeking of ozone in the wake of his last spell.

A hiss escaped the tribunus. Fighting through the aftershocks, she forced herself to her feet.

"άστραφτε."

The chant had barely grazed her ears before the ray of focused levin struck Livia’s chest with a shattering crackle and a blinding flash of violet. Her cuirass fractured as it impacted the guardrail behind her, the force of Ifan’s magic sufficient to cause the steel beam to buckle and give way. Livia skidded before coming to a landing in the dirt beyond the platform's edge. The tribunus was coughing blood into her helmet as Ifan stepped forward, leering down at her, silhouetted by the light from Castrum Medridianum’s still-blazing ceruleum refinery.

His face was calm beneath a warforged mask of ash-flecked sweat. But his eyes gleamed.

The air whistled as Ifan whipped his staff up and pointed the headpiece at Livia, fixing his attention upon the break in her armor. The lingering sparks in the air stilled before they slowly began to collect in Livia’s proximity, the air around her growing volatile in a nascent coalescence of ambient aether. 

He smirked. She’d given him a good fight, and clearly still had the will to continue - but shorn of her technology and strength she was as good as chaff near a flame. Just like Rhitahtyn.  

Livia sas Junius. The Witch of Dalmasca. That she was an infamous butcher in his first mentor’s homeland made it all the easier. 

“Aether flows through all things, apprentice. To wield aether is to wield the lifeblood of creation. The slightest shift echoes throughout all life, thus is the way of life to spread both kindness and suffering.”

Ifan blinked as the gravelly baritone of Dedelai Totolai's voice echoed in his memory. That lesson…

“Doesn’t that mean we should just use magic to be kind all the time, Master? Why use magic to fight at all?”

“Do you love magic, Ifan?” 

“Of course! It’s the best thing in the world!”

“How would someone using magic to torment and kill people make you feel?” 

“It’d make me mad. That’s not what magic is for.”

Ifan’s grip tightened on the staff. His jaw clenched, and he inhaled through his nostrils.

“And how would you stop them, then, if not by fighting back with magic?”

“You’re right, I guess. But… Then how do you know when to fight, and when to be kind?”

“My boy… That’s a question you’re going to have to ask yourself every day of your life. That’s what being a mage is. The delight of freely using magic tempered with the duty to use it only when it is worthwhile and useful.”

Ifan’s hand began to shake. The air crackled in an unborn roar as the aether neared the peak of criticality.

“…I hope I’m a good mage.”

“I think you will be a great mage.”  

Ifan let out the breath he’d been holding in a pained gasp and released the aether with it. The gathering inferno shimmered into gentle nothingness as he lowered his staff.

“Enough!” he shouted. The sound echoed briefly over the ruins of their arena before being swallowed by the sky. “Enough,” he repeated, taking another breath to still his shaking. “We’re done here.”

Livia managed to find the strength to stand. Her breaths were shallow, wet, and ragged, yet she still gave a mocking laugh. “Lost your nerve, adventurer?”

Ifan remained still. “You’ve lost. I’m not interested in killing you.” he said coolly, not rising to the bait.

“Liar.” she spat.

There was a brief silence.

Ifan grinned. Then he let out a single, short laugh. His head canted to the side with a predatory glint in the blue of his eyes. “True…” It was momentary, however. Ifan took another breath and straightened up, his expression settling. “But I’m not going to let you bastards turn me into a monster by giving in to that urge. I owe it to my mentors to heed the wisdom they’ve entrusted to me. As for the people you’ve murdered? My friends? As much as they must despise you for what you did to them, I know they care about me more than they want revenge. And I value their memory more than your death. It’s done. We’re done.”

His words echoed between them. Neither moved. The delicate features of Livia’s helmet contrasted with the twisted face of rage behind it.

“We… are not… -done-...” she snarled, taking a stumbling step forward. “We aren’t done until one of us lies dead, you filthy savage. You say my death has no value to you? I -defy- you!” Her voice crested to a vicious, frenzied cry. “You -will- remember Livia sas Junius as your victim, or she will be remembered as your killer!”

With the last of her strength, she surged forward and raised one of her gunblade gauntlets at Ifan. The magician inhaled through his nose again, and he raised his weapon as he steeled himself for what had to be done.

Twelve, forgive me.

A thundering crack split the air. Livia’s cry cut out as she stumbled to the side, then forward once more, then fell prone.  Blood began to pool beneath her from the crack in her breastplate, the fracture widened in a mangle of spalling. A hand slid forward through the dirt, a bloodied whisper of a name left her lips, then she was gone.

Ifan blinked, frozen in place. Then his head whipped towards the source of the sound, where he saw– 

“Cid…!” Ifan gasped. His friend's gaze remained fixed on where the now-dead tribunus lay, face caught in perfect tension between determination and disbelief.

He was still staring at Livia’s motionless body as Ifan approached him once he’d leapt down from the wrecked platform. Only when the magician’s hand grasped his shoulder did Cid take a breath. He blinked. Then he lowered his gunblade, his hand starting to shake now that the moment of crisis had passed. He looked at his friend. “We should… get going, aye? Biggs and Wedge’ll be here soon…” he said, somewhat dazed as he made a poor attempt at putting on a brave face.

Ifan frowned. He squeezed Cid’s shoulder and stepped closer to him. “You didn’t have to do that, Cid. I’d have finished her off…” he said quietly, staring at the Garlean with incredulous concern welling in his eyes.

Cid let out a leaden breath. “I know. But…” He gave Ifan a forced, but still strangely genuine look of confidence. “You know the motto. ‘Freedom Through Technology’. Reckon that covers freeing my friend of taking on more weight than he needs to. Even if it means…” He didn’t finish his sentence, his face instead falling into another thousand-yalm stare. Ifan knew he was thinking about what he’d just done… and who he had yet to face. Who they had yet to face. 

The floodlights of the Enterprise came into view as Biggs and Wedge raced to collect them for the second phase of their assault. After a few moments of simply gazing at Cid in quiet appreciation, Ifan drew the technologist into a tight hug that was soon made tighter as the Garlean returned it. Ifan’s eyes stung as he blinked back his tears, not seeing Cid do the same.

Neither man could afford to waver, for the Black Wolf yet awaited.

[biff-adventurer]

today i met tiny chris

poor wean's da got et by a 'bon. now he wants 'em all dead. wiv' crossy eyes like them as drawed in the picture shows. dinnae get et and ye might be his new da.

he actually made me think about two things - the npcs/people we've helped along the way, and the writing of accents.

it's no secret i gave biff this accent - it tells you he ain't a city slicker but rather a rural boy, it tells you his folks ain't got a lotta money (at least, one would think), and it associates him with a specific cultural/ethnic profile (gaelic, i know/studied a little more about irish than scots so i lean irish)

i think we should, as a society, be wary of continuing to associate class with specific ethnic communities, but i'm not learned enough to make a post dedicated to my specific thoughts on that (yet? tbd)

mostly, i think it's important to look at the way characters speak as a vehicle of writing. when you write a character's accent, is it useful for what you're trying to establish in the scene? is the noble supposed to fail to understand the vernacular of his server? is it useful if the character is always going to say "dinnae" instead of "do not"? when dealing with non-western characters with accents, how far is it okay to go until the dialogue goes from representation to racist charicature?

writers have the power of flexibility. writing is about persuasion more than anything else, and we should remember to persuade our audiences that these are people. they aren't real, so don't bother with "realistic" - but they represent real ideas, concepts and associations in our world. it's important to be careful what you do with these, intended or not! and if you make an oopsie? acknowledge, accept and continue on your journey to being your best.

my preferences for writing accents based on my experiences, observations and education lean thus:

pick and choose what words require emphasis. if the whole sentence requires it, then so be it! but make conscious choices. words weigh differently, and they carry double the weight when they're written out to represent an accent. just really think about whether or not this is the point you want to say to, t', ta, or tae. the whole sentence doesn't need to be written out phonetically b/c avoiding doing that helps us steer clear of reiterating caricatures.

include culturally specific verbiage. "what's the craic" or "how's it hangin'" depending on who your character is. in india, lots of people greet each other with religious phrases (in english, it'd sound like saying "god is good"/"good is god" call and response) - so a thavnairian character could say anything between "sisters be with you" to "mindhurva guide your path today" (and also yours, brother/sister). but also: wain, wean, child, sweetling,

be careful which non-english words your character uses. i don't call it chai tea latte, i call it chai latte. my wife doesn't call it green tea latte, but matcha latte. i actually don't drink chai latte, i drink chai. but i call it both chai and tea interchangeably; so, when i want someone to know how to prepare my tea, i might ask for chai instead of tea. because with chai, you get half or whole base milk instead of water. you get dried ginger or an array of spices depending on the auntie. with tea, you get dried up leaves and some hot water. big difference for me.

above all, make sure it's legible most of the time. you can do this by avoiding writing a character's accent out completely phonetically. this isn't to say "conform your character to what people think they should talk like". this is about being aware that writing implies an audience. if you want your writing to connect with people, the important parts should be clearly communicated in the text. especially if you're writing in english. if i wanted my characters to speak hindi, why would i bother writing the story in english at all? you want people to see your character a specific way. write them the way you hope they'll be seen--if you've done a good enough job, it will lead to so much joy and satisfaction. if you haven't--it's back to the drawing board! but you get the chance to learn even more.

[shimaiitsoh]

[lilbittymonster]

I am blorbo-fying Alberic so hard rn, he is criminally underutilised in fic even for other dragoon WoLs. Serotonin is stored in the Alberic interactions.

[myreia]

To Ash and Ember

Rating: M (for canon-typical violence, trauma, and language) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Lahabrea, Thancred Waters Pairings: Aureria/Thancred (pre-relationship) Words: 2057 Notes: Set during ARR. Spoilers for the end of the base game. Read on AO3

It is impossible to breathe in the scalding heat.

Aureia skids backwards, narrowly avoiding a blast of concentrated magic. She once thought herself so clever, climbing easily through the ranks of the Thaumaturge’s Guild and proving herself as a black mage. Spellwork is as intuitive and natural to her as breathing—she feels the pull of her aether, guiding it, commanding it. She is a master of fire and ice and lightning, calling upon it to bend it to her will. She has slain primals, defeated enemies thought untouchable.

In her hubris, she thought she was untouchable as well.

How sorely she was mistaken.

She twists, searching the battlefield for Lahabrea. Since entrapping her in a circle of flames, the Ascian has proved to be more than her match. The air is thick with ash and smoke, stinging her eyes and searing her lungs. Her mind—usually so clear, so adept at perceiving her surroundings and reacting accordingly—is a haze. She knew she would face him eventually, but nothing could prepare her for confronting him like this.

Not when he is possessing Thancred.   

Lahabrea hunts her across the field, appearing where she least expects, showering her with waves of dark magick. His power slams against her, breaking her focus, giving her very little time to throw her own spells back at him in return.

That she is still standing is a feat in and of itself.

Aureia pauses, a faint crackling echoing in her ears. She spins, staff raised, just in time to see him soar several feet above the battlefield. Her heart pounds, panic rising in her gut. Her ward is almost gone, its power all but sapped. If she can’t raise another…

She has to finish this quickly—and without harming Thancred. But how? The Ascian has shrugged off every attack and every spell, slowly draining her energy and her focus until there is nothing left. She can’t fight forever.   

“You are strong, I will concede,” Lahabrea drawls. “But even your strength is limited, Bringer of Light.”

That voice. How it curdles her blood and fills her with rage. The Ascian speaks in a manner all his own, but beneath it she can hear the remnants of Thancred’s familiar cadence. His voice, his laughter, warped and distorted into something foreign and impossible. Something horrific.

She wets her parched lips and searches his face for some semblance of recognition. Is he in there somewhere, fighting to seize control? Or has his consciousness been suppressed and locked away, all but putting him to sleep? Worst still—is he there, watching their enemy thrash her thoroughly through his own eyes and unable to stop it?

Her fingers tighten about her staff, her nails scratching the wood. “As is yours, Ascian!” she shouts. “Why else haven’t you ended me? If your strength far exceeds my own, surely you could kill me here and now.”

Lahabrea laughs, twisting Thancred’s expression with malice and spite. “Your limitations are no mere matter of raw power. You are weak in mind and spirit, girl, and you cannot hide your shortcomings. Even the lowliest of mages in your Thaumaturge’s Guild have sensed how you restrain yourself.”

She freezes, bile rising in her throat. “I’m not, I haven’t—”

“Then come, adventurer!” he snarls, eyes blazing in the red light of his glyph. “Unleash yourself here and now, if you dare. Yet know that if I should perish, so too will the mortal within whose flesh I reside—”

Aureia screams.

Forgetting all semblance of form and stance, she hurls herself forwards and releases a blast of fire. The flames shoot through the air, propelled on a storm of rage and fury, and collide with the Ascian. He falters, pushed backwards by the force, but recovers quickly. Hanging in the air, Lahabrea throws back his head and laughs—frenzied, cruel laughter. His hands move, fingers gleaming with the workings of a spell.

Too late she realizes her ward is down.

Shit.

The spell strikes her in the chest.

Aureia flies through the air, tossed like a ragdoll, and crumples on the ground. She grunts, pain flaring outwards from the point of impact. Her limbs seize, numb and useless, leaving her immobilized facedown in the scorched earth. Her staff splits and falls from her hand, the lacquered wood cleft in two from the blistering heat. Its orb flickers once, twice—and goes out, its power shattered.

Cinders sear her face, her hair, her mouth. The fire is everywhere now, uncontrolled and all-consuming. Flames wreathe her body, coiling up her back, setting her ablaze. The horrific scent of melted cloth and flesh assaults her senses. For a moment, she doesn’t understand that she is the one burning, that it is her skin that is melting. The impossibility of it leaves her dazed. Fire is her domain: her comfort and her protection, the one bright constant in a life shred to pieces. How could it betray her?

A fresh wave of flames shower across her and the blistering pain overwhelms her all at once. She would scream if she could, but voice fails her. Her throat is scorched. That, too, he has taken from her.

Her friend, her strength, her weapon, her voice. It would have been easy enough for him to kill her outright, but no—it had to be done this way. He’s playing with her, toying with her, torturing her to satisfy some wretched desire she can never understand.

Aureia groans and rolls over, head throbbing, back blistering. She sucks in a deep rasping breath, desperately clinging to her last vestiges of life. Tears leak from her eyes, clouding her vision as she bites down on her tongue to keep from screaming. The pain is intolerable. Suffocating. It hurts to move, it hurts to think, it hurts to exist.

Somewhere high above her, Lahabrea laughs, the crowing sound buzzing in her ears. But even as the Ascian celebrates his triumph, something hums in the back of her mind. A flicker of hope, searching for one last catalyst to set it alight.

Aureia stirs, pressing a hand to the blackened ground. A circle of flame roars around her, the remnants of her own spellwork and Lahabrea’s combined, one strengthening, one weakening. There is truth in what he said. Her strength is limited—and she has all but sabotaged herself.

She is holding herself back out of fear.

For every spell she throws at the Lahabrea’s smug face in anger, there is a part of her siphoning off its strength the moment before impact. Ascian or no, she cannot bring herself to hurt Thancred. The thought of killing him with her own magicks is more than she can bear. But now she must accept that eventuality.

Neither of them are walking out of this alive. Either she ends Lahabrea here and now—and possibly Thancred alongside him—or he kills her. And if the Ascian slays her with Thancred’s own hands… She doesn’t want to think about what that would do to him.

If it’s a choice between her and him, there is no question of what he would want. What he would beg her to do.

Aureia raises her head. A hot wind tears across the battlefield, pulling her hair free from its braid and blowing it about her face. She blinks, clearing her vision, and apprises her foe. There is a second part to this equation. For too long, she has rejected a fundamental part of herself—the power that resides deep within her. Hydaelyn’s gift. She has suppressed it, pushed it away, terrified of what it will mean should she accept it as a fundamental part of herself.

No more.

Mark not the Dark Minion’s subtle words. Only Light may banish the Darkness.

The presence brushes her mind like a gentle embrace.

This time she welcomes it.  

She rises on unsteady feet and turns to face her foe one last time. The remnants of her staff lie on the ground beside her, charred and broken. She takes a step, then another, white ash and glittering embers swirling about her in a cloud. She has no weapon other than herself—and that must be enough.

There is no other choice now.

Lahabrea stares at her, startled out of his victory, mouth twisted with contempt. “How—”

Aureia raises a hand, palm sheathed in blinding light.

“Get the fuck out of him, you bastard.”

The brilliance explodes outwards and engulfs them in endless white.

***

Aureia has no memory of Lahabrea’s defeat. One instant, she is crashing into him with the full force her rage and the power of her blade of light, and the next she is kneeling on the ground, shaking and hazy. The inferno roars, the circle closing in around her, as the stronghold beyond collapses into fiery ruin. She takes little note of the surrounding destruction. There’s only one thing that matters to her now.  

Thancred lies some distance from her face-down on the ground, still and unmoving. Back blistering with pain, she grits her teeth and crawls through the blackened ash to his side.

“Thancred…” His name is little more than a whisper, her throat and mouth too dry for speech.

He doesn’t answer.

She inhales a rasping breath, forcing it through her singed lungs. Blinking away panicked tears, she shoves her hands fruitlessly against his side, but her strength has been all but drained away. She curses her weakness, murmuring his name again and again in a desperate hope he will respond. Finally, after several tries, she rolls him over onto his back.

His head lolls, white hair stained grey with soot. His face is ashen, his eyes closed, his expression frozen in cool serenity.

He isn’t breathing.

“Thancred…”

Aureia clutches desperately at his hands, ignoring the painful red blisters bubbling across her palms. She is usually so certain, so controlled, but now… The uncertainty at what to do terrifies her. She is no healer; she has never had the capacity. Magic has only ever been a tool for war and destruction.

She knows little else.

“Thancred…”

She thought herself prepared for this actuality, but now she is facing it, she cannot accept it. It can’t have been her hand that struck him down. She can’t lose him, not again. Not like this. Not this way.

Not without trying to save him.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she places her trembling hands over his heart and presses down as hard as she can. She mutters the count, anxious not to lose track, giving little care to the ash in the air and the burning ruins around them. When the count is up, she tilts his chin back and presses her mouth to his, gifting her breath to him.

“Come on, Than,” she murmurs. “Breathe, damn it. Come on.”

She presses her hands into his chest again, shoulders shaking as she gasps back her sobs. Another set. Another breath. Again and again. She will do this as long as she has to—even if the whole Praetorium collapses around her—until she is certain there is nothing else she can do.

“Come on…”

Aureia stills, slowed by the pain of her injuries and her crushing fatigue. Knowing she has nothing else left in her, she presses her mouth to his. One last try. It is all she has.

Thancred groans, a faint, stuttering sound rumbling in his throat. She reels back, knuckles pressed to her mouth, and stares at him. He coughs, eyelids fluttering, and cracks his eyes open.

“Aureia…?” he croaks.

She lets out a stuttering, sobbing cry and tears roll down her cheeks, staining her face with smudged makeup and ash. Shoulders shaking, she collapses at his side and rests her head on his chest. He stares at her, a faint, exhausted smile on his face, and raises a hand, weakly threading his fingers through the singed tips of her dark hair.

He is too weak to say anything else.

They lie there for a moment, exhausted and worn, too fatigued to rise to their feet. The surrounding fires burn, explosions from the stronghold’s collapse thundering in their ears. Though the danger remains imminent, for the first time since the raid on the Waking Sands, Aureia knows peace. She has no doubt they will make it out.

He’s alive. That is enough.