#dragon-fire over Ishgard

[coldshrugs]

hi Azia! since I'll probably never play FFXIV but want to gobble up everything you've ever written or will write for Io and Estinien, I was wondering if you could kind of summarize or describe the context for their relationship in the canon universe. what do I need to understand about their history in order to better appreciate the way they fit? how do they meet and what brings them together? are there some universal truths for each WoL that heavily contribute to who Io is (kind of like how Hawke in DA2 loses half their family, or every Shepard in Mass Effect is deadish for two years)?

no pressure to answer if you don't have the time/energy or just plain don't want to! ok thanks love you bye 💙

🧍

Hi Ells. I am so sorry....

Understanding Estinio

General World Lore: The story of XIV begins five years after a Calamity (an event of large-scale devastation that leaves the land and people struggling to recover). This is the seventh Calamity over a period of 13,000 years. Other notable world happenings are:

the Dragonsong War: a war between man and dragon that has raged in and around Ishgard for one thousand years

the more recent advancement of the Garlean Empire: Garlemald is a technologically advanced nation seeking to "unite" the world under its rule

Warrior of Light Things: The player character is almost a completely blank slate. Their appearance and combat proclivities are entirely up to the player! Their backstory is not really mentioned, and the only thing we know about them from the start is that they're an Adventurer, which in this setting is someone who wanders here and there, helping with whatever odd jobs they can in hopes of earning a living and maybe some local fame too. A little network of unionized Hometown Heroes. But some things hold true for most WoLs (headcanons notwithstanding):

They have a gift called The Echo. A few other characters have the gift, but it can manifest differently from person to person. The WoL's Echo allows them to visit scenes from the past, sometimes through the eyes of another and sometimes as a kind of bodiless spectator, usually triggered by high emotion from a person or place. It also has a few other functions.

They join the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, an organization that's a bit of an open secret, determined to stop Primal summoning (Primals are replications of gods, the will of a people made manifest, and they are powerful and destructive. If most people venture too close, they become enthralled). Recruited for their prowess in combat (or healing, maybe, if you're not Io) and apparent inability to be tempered by Primals, they, of course, become the team's most powerful asset.

Io Laithe is my WoL, a viera born in the Garlean-occupied region of Dalmasca. When she was 19/20, her home village suffered a violent raid, and her family was lost. She managed to escape and flee far to the west. At the beginning, she's around 29 and an accomplished archer, among other things. Io endures more loss over her story, friends and lovers, and she blames herself over and over. She struggles to lay down her grief and represses her anger for so long that she almost loses herself to it at one point, but she claws her way back with the help of her friends. She's soft-spoken, and reserved, but is also deeply kind and surprisingly funny. (This paragraph is short but I feel like I talk about her so much lmao. Trying not to gush too hard)

Estinien Varlineau was born to a family of sheepherders, in a small farming community outside Ishgard. When he was 12, his village was razed to the ground in a dragon attack. He found the charred remains of his parents outside his home (his dad had tried to shield his mom from the dragon fire). His younger brother was inside, trapped under a collapsed beam but already gone. He was the only survivor, and was taken in by a man named Alberic who held the title of Azure Dragoon (the most powerful lance-wielder in the land, but I'll spare you the specifics. There's dragon-y magic and a literal dragon eye that gives them powers. This was supposed to be quick omfg). Estinien swore to avenge the deaths of his family and trained with Alberic, eventually becoming the next Azure Dragoon. Eventually, he gets his vengeance, but the cost is so much more than he expects. At the end of it, he is begging for his own death, but his friends (the WoL included) refuse to let him go out like that and save him. He's since been on a journey of self-discovery; who is he without the drive to avenge those he lost, without his duty or his post? In personality, Estinien is blunt and abrasive, he cannot read a room (but he would like to leave it). He has a sharp sense of humor and often teases his few friends, he's extremely sentimental, he's very protective of the people he cares for, and can't stop himself from helping a kid in need.

Relationship Summary

They overlook each other at first. Io finds Estinien too harsh and rude. He thinks (since she is seeing Haurchefant at the time, who is... affiliated with a noble house of Ishgard) that Io is another pretty girl grabbing at coattails--surely not the "great warrior" he's heard about. And it takes a journey into dragon country for them to warm up to each other, when he learns she can easily hold her own, and she sees how protective and kind he can be to their traveling companions. They become friends and it's easier than either of them expected. They don't talk about their loss with each other though, not for a long time. Both hear the other's story from someone else, and it endears them to each other, an unspoken, invisible bond in addition to what they've already faced together. Just as Io saved him at the end of the Dragonsong War, Estinien saves her when she faces off against the might of Garlemald and almost dies. It's a long time before she gets to thank him for that, but when she does, it's around the time he agrees to join the Scions too. They spend more time together, and they become almost inseparable. And as the world hangs on the brink of what seems to be another Calamity, they quietly fall in love and almost lose each other again. Neither confesses to the other until things have settled down. But once the confessions are out of the way, they easily fall into warm domesticity. They spend the better part of a year mostly in one place, living together, working together, making the smaller trips they need to but always returning to a home base. Now, there's the itch to travel again. They just pulled a stint of traveling separately but ended up in the same place. He very much wants to continue roaming, and Io does too, but part of her is starting to think about a family. I haven't decided when or if they talk about this lmao. They love each other so much, but both have a strong streak of wanderlust, and both are legendary heroes who belong to the world as much as they belong to each other.

Why they compel me:

I don't know if you guys know this about me but I love to think about grief :> It's the shared trauma, the love transformed into anger, and how new bonds can heal someone. I did not plan for Io's backstory to be so similar to Estinien's, and even before I shipped them, their friendship was a highlight for me. I love that they do most of their recovery on their own. I love that they always come back to each other. Big fan of people who might not appear outwardly soft all the time, but are just SO mushy for their partner.

They are both symbols of hope for their people, for better or worse. They understand that about each other, what it's like to have some of your personhood stripped away so you can embody an ideal.

Estinien is impulsive and straightforward, Io is cautious and thoughtful. He pushes her, and she grounds him. They both relish the peace the company of the other brings, and they are more certain of the other's ability and resolve than they are of themselves. They are best friends, they are family, and they admire each other.

Some key reads, chronologically:

close quarters | oh no, she's hot…

oblivious | a mutual friend notices io and estinien seem… different.

what i see in you, i hope you find in me | io realizes she is not in love with zenos

pang | estinien has his own realization

see you in the morning | the night before they depart towards unknown danger, estinien tries to soothe a worried io

in this state | io is unconscious, estinien keeps watch

mustering | estinien tells io about his brother, the first time he's talked about him in decades

take another step off the edge | FIRST KISS!!!!

And then their tag is filled with gposes I've made, art I've commissioned, writing prompt fills, fics from the two AUs I've written for them, and tons of quotes or poems that fit their vibe. I'd share a playlist but I don't have a playlist... there are five now T^T BYE!! 💗

[houserosaire]

Prompt #5: Stamp

The ruin had been a church once, not so very long ago. Silvaineaux had just seen his thirtieth summer and he remembered when it had held pride of place in the small village, tall and intact and gleaming with bright-hued glass. It had not compared to Ishgard’s cathedral even then, of course, but it had been beautiful when he was a boy.

It was certainly not beautiful now. The gleaming tiles of the roof were scattered under the snow and the windows gaped like empty eye sockets in the broken remnants of the walls. He swung down from Joyeux almost reluctantly, the crunch of his boots meeting the snow loud in the emptiness that once had been a street. “Wait here, mon fidèle ami.”

Joyeux whistled a low response, quietly, as if the silence oppressed him too.

Silvaineaux reached up to scratch at his cheek. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He said, and left the reins draped over the pommel.

He crossed to what had been the door of the church in determined strides. No door hung in that empty and half broken frame, and the space within had been open to the sky for years. He could not see the flooring under the snow, nor the blood. Yet the dragon’s fire had left its mark on what remained of the walls. Its skull too remained,  empty of eyes and teeth alike.

Silvaineaux spared it one long look, but then turned away. He had not come here for the dragon. Nor only for the memories he had left in this place, though they crowded around him thick and fast until he could almost feel again the heat of the fire that had seared the altar and smell the reek of dragon and blood.  

He closed his eyes as though that might shut them out. The air was cold. He smelled neither blood nor scales even if the faint scent of charring lingered even now. Silvaineaux thought of the page in the book that had brought him here on this fool’s errand, imagining the old picture, counting the pillars, then he opened eyes and turned. He counted the pillars, found the stretch of wall he wanted. 

It still stood even if it was burned black. He tugged off his glove to run his bare fingers across it. It was cold enough to burn and his fingers  came away dark with soot, but he could feel the ridges of the carving he had expected beneath. It was the work of a few moments to tug out the paper he’d brought, to run the edge of a pencil over it until the marks beneath appeared on the sheet. The hawk with its rosary, beneath that the words. ‘In memory of Baron Aristide de Rosaire who gave his life in this place.’  

He had not noticed it on the day he almost lost his own life in this place. No one would notice it now, hidden as it was beneath the char on a ruined wall. Yet his forebear had left his stamp on this place, his blood in this land. 

Silvaineaux reached out again to set his own hand over the shape of the hawk on the wall and finally turned to look at the place nearer the door where the far fresher blood should have been. His breath left him in a sigh that was equal parts relief and grief. There was only snow, the blood hidden away beneath all the intervening years of it. The thing he had half feared was not there either. 

No youthful spirit lingered to rebuke him.

Rolling his paper he tucked it into his jacket and crossed to kneel in the snow there as he had knelt on that spot once before. The last time it had been to take something up. This time he had brought something to leave. He tugged a small metal plate from the pouch at his belt to tuck in against the stone of the wall. It had no family’s crest to ornament it, no embellishment, only a few carefully chosen words.

‘In memory of Florent Gagnon who gave his life in this place.’

[owlespresso]

The Lord Commander being hopelessly enamored with his Azure Dragoon and the Warrior of Light.

Aymeric loves slowly. Patiently. He bears long years of Estinien coyly slipping in and out of his bed, refusing to define what's between them.

They busy themselves with their respective responsibilities, stealing kisses in shadows, indulging in late night rendezvouses in the offices of Estate Borel. Their history is long and storied, and that expansive, well-weathered bond is what gives him the patience to entertain the late night escapades.

He stays up into the shy, first hours of the morning, waits for Estinien to fall asleep so he can admire how the moonlight cascades across the high planes of his cheeks, caressing his cut jaw and shining silver on long strands of hair—knocked loose from his ponytail by Aymeric's long, prying fingers.

He indulges in the view for as long as he stays awake, burns the sight into the back of his retinas. For he knows all too well that Estinien, like fine silk or fresh snow, will slip through his fingers in a matter of hours and spirit off to some far flung province or state that is in need of his talents.

In Estinien's absence, the Warrior of Light slides quietly, and then not so quietly, into his life. Brief, formal meetings at Camp Dragonhead become recurring rendezvous in his personal quarters. He wiles away with you into the late night, sharing opinions and experiences over tea and hot cocoa and whatever else you may happen to desire at that very moment.

You speak of all the land you have seen, tell him of your comrades and conquests, of what you have gained and lost in equal number. He teaches you the intricacies of Ishgard's political system, introduces you to key players and ensures that your allies obtain the supplies they so desperately need to remain afloat. He takes shameful pride in showing you around the stern grey manors and palatial ballrooms of the High Houses.

Rarely does he ever have the privilege of knowing something you do not. Rarely can he ever guide you when you are so (too) frequently abroad and away from him.

He bides his time. He takes your jacket when you stumble in from the cold, stokes the fire whenever you start to shiver—calls upon the cooks when your stomach growls. He takes care of you with an indulgent diligence that does not go unnoticed by your fellow Scions, on the rare chance they accompany you to Ishgard.

That Thancred fellow is too sharp for his own good, but Aymeric has no problem with letting others see how well he takes care of you. How patient he is.

He reclines in his chair and listens to you recount your adventures through the far east. Another roaring success, an entire nation freed from Garlemald's prying grasp. You guide him through the hilly paths of Yanxia, beneath the crystalline waves of the Ruby Sea.

He sees the world through your eyes, and wonders when you became his.

Your travels, as exhilarating as they may be for him to hear about, have clearly exhausted you. He cannot help but wish that you at least had Estinien at your side to lighten the load, since he can't be there himself. The dragoon's feelings for you are as plain as day to Aymeric, who has known him for more than a decade across negotiating tables and inside old training rooms and out in the thick of battle, tossed between enemy fire and dragon's breath.

Estinien is being irresponsible by avoiding you, in his humble opinion. But he is no saint, either. When he sees you off, it's with a smile and a reassuring pat on the back, or a hand on your shoulder—gestures that would be scandalous to Ishgard's upper echelon should they see it. He watches you go, whether it's across the Steps of Faith or shimmering out of existence to reach another aetheryte.

He is not a saint, because every time he watches you leave, he wonders what he could do to make you stay.

[mrlarkstin]

A Brief History of a VERY Tired Elezen Pt.1

Mister Eramus Larkstin, Ishgardian Elezen, son of Yanlite and Oselle Larkstin, raised by Marie and Fenris Furor in Gridania.

Early Life

Born in the Brume in Ishgard to a temple knight (Yanlite) and stable hand (Oselle). His father was sent off to fight in the Dragonsong War and went MIA. Oselle had a heart condition and relied on both their incomes to afford her potions and herbs, upon Yanlite going missing and presumed dead as his squad had been wiped out, she thought it best to pack up with her son and venture to Gridania in the hopes the Conjurer's Guild would take pity and help her. She left a note in case her husband would return. By some miracle.

Oselle passed away just outside the gates to Gridania with Eramus in her arms. He was found with his mothers body by a lovely Hyur couple called Marie and Fenris Furor. They searched everywhere for his father but couldn't find him. They took him in and raised him as if he were their own.

Yanlite was alive and returned to Ishgard a couple years later to find his wife and child missing. In a panic he tried to follow her footsteps from her note and raced to Gridania. Upon his arrival he quickly found his son, playing with a little girl in a garden while a Hyuran man worked. Instead of racing over, he stopped to watch. Wondering where his wife was. During the night, he approached the house and knocked where he learned that his wife is dead and that the couple had been taking care of Eramus along side their daughter, Kaolin.

Yanlite saw the happy house, Eramus sleeping in a comfortable warm bed while a fire raged in the hearth near by. He couldn't, in good conscious take his child out of that and instead asked if it was possible for him to just watch from a distance and leave gifts on his birthday. He couldn't take him away and back to the broken down house they used to call a home. The Furor's were understanding, sad, but agreed. Yanlite planned to reveal himself to Eramus when he was older.

As the years went on Yanlite watched his son grow from a distance. How he'd get into fights with Wood Wailers, how he'd disappear late at night with a Duskwight boy called Foulques. How he befriended a boy who loved to talk about dragons, another Orphan from Ishgard. He'd listen to the two talk and talk while the boy helped his mothers shop. He had his mothers heart. And then the calamity hit and his son went off to fight and Yanlite was called home.

Yanlite never got to return to see his son.

Eramus returned from the Calamity, battered, beaten and broken. Blood, bodies and hopelessness all around him. Foulques missing, the little boy he used to visit in a shop dead along side his family. Luckily his parents (the Furor's) were safe, aside from damage to their home, they were safe. In honour of the little boy he befriended he got a tattoo on his shoulder. A little red dragonette in a tea cup. A symbol about how the two would chat about dragons in the boys parents shop over tea.

Eramus spent a lot of his time trying to find Foulques, but never found him until many years later. No, his life was upside down and a mess. That was, until a strange man entered his life.

[nihilnovisubsole]

i wasn't going to keep cluttering people's dashes up with my ffxiv stream-of-consciousness posts. but after a chance run-in with @arcanistvysoren in the dusk vigil one night, i was encouraged to make more. so, hey! heavensward! that was a lot!

one thing you can always count on final fantasy to do is give you leitmotifs. sad scene? leitmotif. climactic battle? leitmotif. quest accepted? leitmotif. hey, dragonsong is nice. why not?

it's difficult to overstate how habitually this game throws beautiful atmosphere at you and makes it look effortless. i know i keep repeating myself, but it keeps being true. the quiet desolation of riding through the coerthas western highlands at night with a blizzard battering you and fog obscuring the horizon. ough

i was looking forward to royce's role as a self-exiled ishgardian in this part of the story, and i was very much not let down. heavensward spends a lot of time emphasizing what an irreplaceable asset the warrior of light becomes to ishgard, so the bitter taste that she would have experienced during the early coerthas ARR quests rises to a nauseating pitch. oh, now the ishgardian authorities care. now they want her around. now they want to heap praise on her for pulling them out of the fire. when they did nothing to help save her squad five years ago and went damnatio memoriae on her when she vanished. they're lucky she's too heroic to let them burn.

i'm not exactly sure how she works through her feelings by the end. i'll have to think about it. write about it, maybe. we'll see.

the dragon plot is fine. it works! it's cool! it's all very mythic in scale and appropriately tragic. i'm just more drawn to the expansion's mundane side. it's easy for final fantasy to get carried away with itself when it's got aether and primals and multiverses flying around, so we need the periods where we deal with interpersonal conflict to keep it grounded and speak to lived human experience.

i mean, the windows into how ignorant ishgardian citizens are and how deep their religious indoctrination actually goes? that's meaty. a church covering up everything from their archbishop's love child to the history their core theology was founded on? that's the good stuff

god, it's hilarious how much estinien and aymeric were engineered in a lab for fans to fall in love with them. they're elves, they're tall, they have deep voices and piercing eyes and swooshy hair, they're brooding, they're burdened with great and terrible responsibility. estinien is beat-for-beat the "character 1" archetype of otome games: mysterious and mean, but defrosts over his story arc. you have dinner at aymeric's house! the dev team had to know that these fellows were going to have a following and leaned into it.

actually, wait, does aymeric fall into the "responsible authority figure" otome archetype? is haurchefant the "flirty, excitable younger guy" archetype? am i onto something here? pepesilvia.jpg

poor haurchefant ):

speaking of characters, cid is growing on me. i didn't pay much attention to him in ARR, but i like that he continues to play a major role. he's a fun guy to have around. royce draws heavily from cyan garamonde, who's a notorious technophobe, and i wonder whether she inherited some of that character DNA too. you are a good man and i trust you but do not dare augment my lance. more power means more parts to break. cold steel will never fail you

the vault and baelsar's wall are awesome as dungeons, but lol, lmao. there is something to be said for bark trigger volume. filthy rats! [crackling fireball noise] sickness must be purged! [explosion] filthy rats! [griffin sword swing] sloppyyy!! [another explosion] sickness must be purged!

i have finally found a part of the game i dislike: leap of faith. UGHHH. why am i good at every GATE except that one. UGHHH

oh i have THOUGHTS about that duel with raubahn

emmanellain's job is just beach

[paintedscales]

WoLstinien Week 2024 :: Day 8 :: Estinien Day

An experimental piece that touches upon early life to the end of Heavensward for Estinien.

Word Count: 734

Life was once a picturesque moment in time. Surrounded by verdant trees, peaceful sheep, and the quiet watch of mountaintops.

A simple time, with simple chores, and simple activities.

Life once had a cozy cabin, built from spruce and pine. Life once had cozy beds made with goose feathers, blankets made with fleece, pillows full of cotton to cradle the head to sleep.

A simple comfort, warm and welcome.

Life once had a mother, a father, and a little brother. Mother, who would make warm meals made of mutton, popoto, onion, and garlic. Father, who would guide and teach, showing how to herd and shear the sheep. Brother, who would tail behind, who filled idle bells with fun, who would sometimes find trouble for two.

A simple family, unburdened by politics and city life.

At the flip of a gil, life was burned to the ground, scorched and charred.

Everything lost.

Simplicity lost.

What was once verdant and peaceful now burned. In the skies, a dragon dark as night. A dragon, vengeful and filled with unbridled rage. The dragon, the source, the reason for that spark.

From the spark, an ember took root, hot and burning. In time, the ember was nurtured: blazing within.

“For everything you took, I shall inflict upon you a thousand fold! Nidhogg!!”

Life became driven with a lust for revenge. The lance became the weapon of choice. Sharpened tip for piercing, for the steel was made to drive through. Into the skull. Into the heart. Straight through any fleshy or hardened parts.

Life became watched over by former Azure Dragoon now as acting father. Too young with far too large a heart. Mentor, father, guardian.

From simple sheep herder, to Temple Knight, to Knight Dragoon. Then finally: Azure Dragoon.

Wyrmblood. A name entrenched in crimson. A name that many come to know, but no longer Varlineau.

From the heart of Ishgard, the Eye of the nemesis stolen and spirted away. An act of treason, and so the hunt began. Of course, spry and elusive, those of Ishgard could never keep up. How could they? They were not as driven, that much was observed. They could never match the same resolve.

A fateful day for a fateful encounter. An Adventurer, but not an ordinary one. Nay, for the Eye of Nidhogg did respond to their presence, foul and noisome. Preposterous.

“Our paths will cross again. You can be sure of it.”

But for all the paths that crossed, never did the thought cross that their paths would be intrinsically linked from that point forward. From biting cold, to zephyrous cliff, to the belly of fire, to desolate lands that float adrift. With the truth of the matter learned, and the beast slain, perhaps a new path forward could be carved.

Despite the bickering and the loss, it was supposed that peace must needs come at a cost.

Finally, within the Adventurer, an equal seen. In each others’ eyes, the same storm of a painful past, stripped of a simple life, a place of warmth and comfort. Were things drastically different, perhaps friendship could have been forged instead of the barbarous thorns that still lingered?

A thought entertained, though snuffed quickly as it came. For the torturous might came surging forth with both Eyes now held. A victim to rage, a vessel for hatred. Notion of peace, torn asunder, giving back in to the stormy depths of vengeance and eternal suffering.

Mutated. Mutilated. Morphed.

An end to man was the goal. An end to self of man for one. An end to all humanity for the other. A goal that both would see to, no matter the cost.

Upon those final steps, one with faith, the other with resolve, did man and dragon stare down.

To them, from the dragon filled with roiling rancor: a promise of damnation.

To them, from man desperate for release: kill me, please.

A battle fought, a battle won. From comrade to man, a curse undone.

Scars left behind, a tale told upon the burns left behind on skin. Each a different experience, a different side.

Ministrations from chirurgeons and fretting abound, an annoyance did tick that a disappearance occurred without a sound. Independence was now within grasp, for that day on the bridge as Azure Dragoon was his last. Mantle hung and inspiration taking hold, a new adventure on the horizon past the mountainous cold.

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 19: Taken

The wind had stopped screaming, cutting across mountains and around and through the great tempest that lay at Ishgard’s center. A faint keening noise remained in its wake. The freezing cold lingered, and snow still fell from the sky in heavy patches, landing on the shoulders of all six men and the body of the dragonet between them. It was too cold for any of them to dwell, and silence couldn’t last long in those circumstances.

Looking up from the body, Matthieu examined the faces of all present. At times, in Parliament, he was able to read the expressions of other speakers, but he was no great detective capable of determining guilt with the subtlest of clues, and the widened eyes and darting glances of everyone around him gave him no further insight. He drew himself up to his full height, which placed him chest-high to the shortest of the five elezen.

“Who did this?”

The question pushed the other five out of a daze, and they all spoke at once.

“I was still pulling the karakul - “

“—Didn’t see anything but I did hear the shot—”

“—My shard fell in the snow and I was hunting for it--”

“—Couldn’t even see the shard, couldn’t make heads nor tails--”

Aubineaux whistled sharply, and halted the speech of the rest. “Only heard that screech,” he said, his sullen expression fixed on the snow. “And the shot. Just the one.”

“So any one of you could have done it, then.” Matthieu fumbled behind his shoulder to grab the shard he’d tied behind his back. It didn’t offer much warmth in this weather, but he clutched it tight in one glove when he had it.

“You could have as well,” said Ophoix while wringing his hands together. Matthieu opened his mouth to protest behind his scarf, but fell silent.

“So any one of us could have. Fine. We should take the body back to Whitebrim, and quickly. We need to let them know this happened.”

Matthieu stepped towards the dragonet’s corpse, kneeling down into the snow and picking up one limp wing in his free hand. The bullet hole was visible in its belly; in the cold, blood had already stopped flowing and was beginning to freeze. Never before had he seen a slain dragon so close, nor one so young.

“Alort, can you help me? We should be gentle with this.” He patted around the corpse’s sides to see if the bullet had punched cleanly through. With their rifles lacking aetherotransformer enhancements, it was unlikely. The round was probably still embedded in its torso.

“Alort?” he repeated himself. “The sooner the better, if you please. Before the wind comes back.”

Neither Alort, nor any of the other Fellows, replied. Matthieu looked up to see them all glancing away, avoiding eye-contact. Even stern-faced Aubineaux seemed pensive.

“Let’s just think about this for a moment,” said Constant, stepping forward. He hadn’t bothered with a scarf for the expedition, and was biting down on a cracked lower lip. “Just a moment to think.”

“We don’t have time to think about this. We have a lull in the weather, and we should take it. We can get back to Whitebrim from here and report this - “Matthieu stopped mid-sentence, grey eyes narrowing in understanding.

“You don’t have to be worried, any of you. Whoever did it, it was an accident. A mishap, and a tragic one. We all felt the wind, and lost sight of where we were going. In this weather, with the shriek we heard, it wouldn’t surprise me if somebody mistook it for a bateleur and fired an unlucky shot. We’ll get this cleared up.” He turned the dragonet over to check its back, and saw there was no exit wound. “It’s light, I can carry it myself.”

“No, no, just - “ Constant’s voice rose to a shout as Matthieu started lifting the dragonet from the ground. “I said hold on, I said just hold on.” When he stopped halfway to standing, Constant held both hands in front of him, palms outstretched. “I just don’t think they’ll see it that way.”

“What Constant means, I think,” said Alort, drawing out his words slowly to come to a conclusion in a shaking, whimpering tone, “Is that peace is good, now. Nobody wants tensions with the dragons again. And, you know, with all the trouble with poaching leather.” He swallowed, and paused to wipe something off of his face. “With all that trouble, they might think it wasn’t an accident. They might come down hard on us, on all of us, s-since we don’t know who did it.” “Yes, thank you,” Constant leapt on the explanation, nodding enthusiastically. “I just think we could...let the cold take care of it, and that would be fine. It’s a heavy snow, wouldn’t you say? We could just walk back to Whitebrim, and then you’d get your horns, and Aubineaux would get his mutton, and the snow would keep falling, and that would be that. It’s simpler.”

“Snow melts, Constant.” Aubineaux’s hard expression suggested he’d regained his bearings. “It’d come out, sooner or later. And there’s a bullet in it.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Matthieu, relief in his voice. “And you heard that shriek, didn’t you? So did its parent, I’m sure. They’ll be looking, and if they find the body when the weather clears, it will be worse than if we reported this to the knights at Whitebrim.”

Finally letting go of the dragonet, Matthieu stood and held his hands wide. “I understand it’s frightening. I’m not asking anybody to admit to anything, but you’re my constituents, and this was an accident. I’ll do what I can to smooth things over with the knights, and while I have no voice in the Horde, they’ll help soothe the parent as well. Nobody wants tensions to rise, so we need to do this in the proper way. Do you understand?”

Aubineaux’s response was to unstrap his carbine and aim it at Matthieu’s chest. “Your rifle, please, Mister Buison.” His speech was flat and without affect, businesslike in his command.

“What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?!” Gaspardieux had remained silent after their first outbursts, but the drawing of a rifle on one of their own made him take a few steps back from the circle.

“Quiet, man. He can’t go back. Your rifle, please. And don’t try to teleport.”

Matthieu had frozen in a way that the cold alone couldn’t have inflicted on him, his hands by his sides and fingers trembling, mouth agape despite the feeling that it was starting to dry and freeze. “You’re serious,” he said.

“I am. If you want this reported, then we’ll report it. You shot a dragonet, panicked, and fled into the blizzard. We’ll say it was an accident. A new hunter took fright in the snow. Tragic, but it happens.” “You can’t - “ His mouth flapped open and closed behind his scarf. Many of his colleagues in the House of Commons would have been shocked and amused to see Matthieu at a loss for words. “You’re all fine with this?!” Again he looked around the other Fellows. None of them would meet his gaze directly, focused on the snow.

“It’s not that I dislike you, or anything,” said Ophoix, still wringing his hands. “It’s just – if we teleported away, I know the others wouldn’t report it. But you would. And they would come down on us quite hard.” “Not if one of you admits to an accident!”

“Mister Buison.” Aubineaux hadn’t yet pulled the trigger. “The rifle. Now.”

With shaking hands, Matthieu unstrapped his carbine from his back and threw it on the ground in front of the dragonet. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he caught a flash of Constant creeping forward into the snow to pick it up off the ground. A sudden wind brushed through his hair, as the blizzard seemed ready to pick up again.

“Good.” Aubineaux nodded in approval, though at whom was unclear. “Next, your clothes.” “That’s cruel,” said Gaspardieux. “You can’t – that’s sick.”

“It’ll be like the old days, just after the Calamity. People would go mad in the cold, and strip off their clothes and run out.” Constant mused on the notion as he stepped back, tucking Matthieu’s rifle under his arm. His tone seemed appreciative. “It’s faster than you’d think, Gaspar. You fall asleep quickly. I’ve heard it feels warm.”

“I won’t be party to that. We could just take him back, under guard, and say he did it. We could still say it’s an accident! Maybe he’s right, and the Temple Knights would only punish him lightly.”

“Too much risk. He has adventurer friends, and they might get curious. And I wouldn’t expect him to play along.” While not taking his eyes off of Matthieu, it felt as if he was looking directly at Gaspardieux. “But you would, right, Gaspar? There are other ways we could do this, if you wouldn’t”

Looking between Matthieu and Aubineaux, Gaspar’s expression was a wince of apology as the wind pucked up to a howl again. “I’m really sorry, Matthi - “

As the wind drowned him out, Matthieu dove to his left, where Alort was watching the proceedings with a dumbfounded expression. He landed hard in soft snow, and felt it caking his face and getting caught beneath his scarf. Scrambling to his feet, he bolted out into the snow, with no sense of direction and only panic to move him.

He heard shouts and curses, as he expected he would. What he didn’t hear behind him was the crack of a rifle.

[ofdragonsdeep]

14: Telling

Having a marked effect or impact.

Ar'telan is tasked with investigating the source of recent Dravanian activity.

It had been a gruelling climb. Though the gloom that so often pervaded the air around Mor Dhona had not followed them out onto the lake, the sun beat down upon the rusted hull, no protection in its twisted wreckage. The lower sections of the ship - those that were not sunk into the lake proper, at least - had been crawling with Imperials attempting to scavenge the hull for parts, and they had not taken kindly to the intrusion.

Ar'telan had not wanted to be here at all. It had been Ishgard's envoy, Aymeric, who had requested the foray, using it as a means to test that the alliance being offered had meat. Ar'telan did not claim to understand all of the politics being thrown around. His job was to go where he was pointed and do as he was told. He was not even particularly good at that.

Ishgard had a lot of words for their dealings with dragons, and Ar'telan liked none of them. He especially despised defiling the final resting place of a great wyrm, clambering all about the aether-scorched husk of his body as if it were little more than set dressing. He liked the Imperials being there far less, and had thus far managed to justify the foray with also removing the Imperials, but they had all retreated by now. His companions had stayed behind, on what remained of the airship's hulk, to make sure none crawled back on board to catch them by surprise.

Ar'telan made the climb alone.

Sun-dried hide crunched beneath his boots, his book held above his head to try and ward off the worst of the light. Perfectly preserved despite the lake water, the airship that served as its scaffold groaning with every passing wind. It would not be long before the entire thing collapsed into the water, he hoped. Perhaps then they would leave it be.

His ascent was watched. Dragonflies, not dragons true but close enough, buzzed past him at regular intervals, curiosity in their beady eyes. They did not attack him. Nor did the biasts, sunning themselves in the hollow cavities of the dragon's corpse, though they looked. It was clear from their stances that one wrong step would change that state of affairs, though Ar'telan had no idea why they were only watching. None of the dragons he had seen so far in Ishgard had watched. They had shrieked and cried like creatures possessed, and deigned to speak only when death seemed to beckon. Ar'telan knew that if the alliance with Ishgard was pursued, it was only a matter of time before he was forced to fight to the death.

But he did as he was told. Went where he was bade. All he was good for.

The top of the structure was the nose of the Agrias, the top of the great wyrm's coils still lashing it tight even in death. Carefully, Ar'telan picked his way across the blasted metal, and was confronted with a nightmare.

The area was littered with corpses. Two great dragons lay dead on the metal, and countless others hung from the metal, flash-cremated in the moment the ship itself had died. Over them, like a grisly vision, hung the head of the wyrm himself.

Midgardsormr.

The name was known among his people. Spoken like an oath, the father of dragons the closest thing to sacred they had. Without even thinking, Ar'telan dropped to his knees, head bowed in reverence.

Whatever Ishgard hopes to achieve from this, I…

"How curious, that it is thee who comes upon my place of rest."

Ar'telan started at the sound, jumping to his feet, fingers tightening around his codex protectively. The words spoken were not the ones he had understood, but that was so often the case in Eorzea that it took a moment to register the cause.

Dragonspeak.

Before him, illuminated by the light of the sun, hung a ghost. Blue and aetherial, the head which regarded him still burned with the holy fire of life, despite being suspended from something so devoid of it. Midgardsormr. Father of dragons. Somehow, he had defied death itself.

Ar'telan's first instinct was to remember Bahamut, a corpse with life, hung like a trophy in the fragmented prison of Allag's moon-ship. But he felt no wave of Tempering, no incessant tugging on his soul. Only awe.

"I have seen thee, since thy arrival on our shores," said the shade. "Thou art not of Eorzea, but thou art blessed by Hydaelyn."

"I am… I am Meracydian," Ar'telan signed, wondering if that would mean anything to the wyrm. Surely it had to? Even with Bahamut dead and Tiamat silent, he had to know. Surely?

"And yet thy feet move at the beck and call of Ishgard," Midgardsormr said, disdain rippling through each carefully-chosen syllable. He was so close that Ar'telan thought he could reach out and touch the Song, yet he kept a respectful distance. "Dost thou regret, proud child of Meracydia, to be directed as a hound?"

"I am not-"

"Thou art a coward."

Ar'telan caught the noise of surprise before it left his throat. His fingers tightened around his codex at the slight, his taut muscles longing to disprove it.

"Thy steps falter. Thy course, lost. 'Tis only by the grace of thy Mother that thou art alive to stand before me at all."

The Echo. The Blessing. He was nothing without it. He would have died in the Bowl of Embers with all the others, one more Tempered for Ifrit's army of thralls. What right had he to still be standing when he could not face the outside alone?

Ultima had cracked through Hydaelyn's shield like it was nothing, disintegrating what feeble strength she had to throw at it. She was fading, she had acknowledged as much. Why had he deserved to live when so many others had died at the Praetorium that day?

Why had he deserved to live when a part of him had not wanted to fight Lahabrea at all?

"And yet She doth place Her faith in thee."

His voice was less scathing now. Curious, perhaps. Certainly not pleased.

"Thy coming could have been a gift, mortal. Had thy steps brought thee here before the hooks sunk in deep. But there is no conviction in thy countenance. No strength in thy steps. Thou art unworthy of Her gift."

"I did not ask for it to begin with," Ar'telan replied, though some not insignificant part of him screamed at the blasphemy of talking back to the father of dragons. "I didn't ask for any of it. I didn't want any of this! I am not a fighter, not truly. Yet I…"

"Thy fate demands far more of thee than excuses, mortal." Midgardsormr's spectral head tilted to the side, those burning eyes watching him through the fire. "Full many more have a fate unchosen. Thou must rise to it yet. Wilt thou? Or shall thy coward's feet carry thee away once more?"

"What do you want of me?" Ar'telan asked. Midgardsormr rumbled in response, a sound almost like a laugh.

"Prove thyself," he said, and the aether around him began to ripple. "Stand before me and survive, and there may yet be hope."

The aether gathered into a bright, shining point, and one of the dragons on the floor began to stir with something which might once have been life.

"After all that She hath given thee, 'tis the least that thou canst offer in return."

Ar'telan flipped his codex open, one hand hovering above the pages, feeling the arcane ink laced into them begin to respond. Stand before him? Midgardsormr was a creature so ancient he outlasted every tale Meracydia had, stories that had spanned ages, survived calamities. There had been no time before Midgardsormr, to Meracydia. What was one man supposed to offer against the span of timeless ages?

But he had never turned against a dragon's edict before, and even if it cost them Ishgard, he would not do so now.

As Ar'telan wove protective magic around himself, Midgardsormr made a noise that sounded almost pleased.

[ffxivaltaholic]

Prompt #4: Reticent

#FFxivWrite2024

"Normally I can read you with ease... What is on your mind friend?" His voice was gentle, a kindly tone from the blonde Knight as he hovered over his closest friend, watching the raven-haired Elezen working away on a sketch. Many days he had seen Tsirae working on a design for his family's business, but this one seemed to have completely absorbed the young Knight, so much so, he did not respond when addressed.

Not wanting to startle the man, Roland would occupy himself by getting them a hot drink, something to fight back the bitter cold of Ishgard's nights. It was the act of placing the steaming drink that finally broke Tsirae's concentration and he glanced up, emerald eyes accented with dark circles from lack of sleep. "Ah.. Thank you.." The Knight muttered and reached for his drink, the warm cider was comforting and finally he was paying attention to his Captain.

With a brow raised the elder Knight simply leaned over to look at the sketch, not surprised to see it was a ring design, since making fine jewelry was what Tsirae's family was known for, but Roland had never seen him put so much effort into a design before. If the crumpled balls of paper on the desk were an indication of anything, this design was number seventeen of the same ring. "I can't tell if you're sad, frustrated or just hyper-focused at this rate, but you should take a break. It's already past midnight." Hearing his superior mention the time, Tsirae gave a soft sigh before weakly nodding. "A suppose a bit of everything." His tone was soft and now that the focus had changed, mixed with a relaxing drink, the Elezen found himself becoming increasingly tired.

Taking a seat beside him, Roland simply stared, those bright blue eyes seeming to search for the answer that was unspoken, before finally everything click in his mind and a grin spread over his lips.

"I see."

"You see what?" Tsirae raised a brow, curious and concerned by the devious little smirk his best friend wore on his face. That was never good.

"It's an engagement ring." Roland stated flatly, as if expecting some sort of reaction from the younger Knight. To his surprise, Tsirae simply nodded. "I've designed many of such rings." Perhaps he did not full grasp the hinting words from Roland, and with a slightly annoyed huff, the blonde man would motion to the crumpled paper around the table. "Not to this degree. This ring is special."

There was a momentary, silent, stand off before Roland jabbed a finger at the beautiful sketch.

"This is for Rheyla isn't it?" The Captain smirked, seeming quite confident in his guess. The silent stare from Tsirae followed by the man's eyes casting to the side was the answer he needed. "I knew it! About time, you're already twenty three. Time to marry and settle down! I married Elizabeth at twenty two, and even then I was getting flack for taking so long." Like an excite Chocobo the Captain babbled on for a few solid minutes before Tsirae's groaned and leaning back in his chair, finally caving and revealing his distress over the ring. "I just... It has to be perfect and... I keep finding flaws." This behavior was no surprise, considering Roland knew his subordinate was a bit of a perfectionist, from piano to sword work and even more so with his drawings, but the now visible cracks in the normally calm demeanor was a bit concerning.

"My friend... Nothing is perfect, just making something from the heart and she will love it... Or knowing her.. Light you on fire..." Perhaps he was trying to lighten the mood, but both men knew the fiery red-haired woman was the closest thing to dating an actual dragon at times.

"Thanks... You're very helpful Roland..." Tsirae huffed and finished his drink, slightly annoying but oddly comforted by his friend's words. "You may be right but... I should sleep on it and see. I just want to give her the best I can offer... She deserves it." There was such love in his tone now, and the Captain reached out to place a strong hand on Tsirae's shoulder.

"I know you'll succeed, don't be so hard on yourself, that's my job." Roland laughed before moving away to the door and departing with a final wave, leaving Tsirae to his thoughts.

For a little while the Knight pondered over the sketch, but he did not pick up the pencil, It was no use to keep mulling over it now, instead finally he blew out the candles and headed to bed, letting the stress and worries rest until the morning, when it would return anew the moment he reached his desk.

It had to be perfect.

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 16: Third-rate

It was another day at work in Dravania. Or at least, Esredes thought it was going to be, until he soon realized they had a guest. Normally the diplomats for the Dravanian Alliance simply went over to Anyx Trine in an airship when there was business to conduct with Hraesvelgrs' brood, and that is what happened today as well.

But the Azure Dragoon was here with them today. Not the last one, who Esredes at least had some respect for after how much Ysayle advocated for him, but his replacement, who Esredes didn't really know anything about. Everyone else at work loved him, of course. Esredes was working to maintain the balance between man and dragon, and all around him was nothing but Dragoons. Not a single person like him, not a single Disciple of Shiva- only those who were all too eager to kill him and any dragon before the war ended, yet had decided to follow the original Azure's footsteps and become Dragonriders.

Esredes never understood it. He had spent eight years and counting trying to get the dragons to trust him, as someone who fought for them. And while it worked for some, others never budged. They called him a foolish mortal, they called him eager to violence and warmonger, and he took their words. But they sometimes looked the other way when the Dragoons talked to them, as if they weren't approaching them in that spiked armor, unlike Esredes. Esredes liked his diplomatic coworkers. They accepted his position as a harrier, they were not hypocrites by any means. But it never left him to wonder, if the war were to restart, where they would point their lances. And something told him it wouldn't be at Ishgard, but him and them. Now with the Azure here for a day, all of his former coworkers were quick to chat him up along the way- conversations to which Esredes was torn between tuning out or listening intently. He could get information about what happened to his people in the war if he did, but something told him they wouldn't talk about it.

When their little league of diplomats had to present ideas and proposals to the Houses, Esredes didn't get to stand with them and speak despite his position. It would cause too much unrest, he was told time and time again. So he sat from the stands and took notes, always hoping they didn't get anything he said wrong, and sometimes they did. How could they fully understand from their position, after all? They turned when it was simple. Easy. Convenient. They never had to suffer like him. They had the best of both worlds, as no one ever admonished them for 'working with the enemy' like they did Esredes. They didn't turn up their eyes in suspicion if he even mentioned it. They did what was easy, and the world showered them in praise. All the while, Esredes remained the foolish mortal who was in the stands, or watching them chat amongst each other about their glory days as they praised the Azure Dragoon for his heroism.

Perhaps it wasn't their fault that the world gave them everything Esredes wished he had, and he knew this. He liked his coworkers, and they accepted him. But it was moments like when they all turned away and talked to the Azure that he wondered, as he often did, just how long it would be until he was finally fired from the position.

And if they truly wanted him in it at all, or if he was just a means to an end.

[carrefxur]

Day 11: Surrogate (FFXIV Writing Challenge 2024).

"The fucker nearly cleaved Blanche in half! We need orders, now!"

The knight's ears were ringing still, having been battered by the dragon's fierce assault that was ripping the Convictor's keep apart. Still, she heard enough, and began to dig. Gauntlets ripped and tore at the stone, the rubble falling parting akin to a piece of bread being torn off. She manages to find her footing, groaning in pain. Everything hurt, but that meant she was still alive. Still fighting.

Arliene's voice rumbled, mustering the strength to find order amidst the rain of chaos. "ALRIGHT MEN, here's what we do: Edgard, Fernard - you two ready the calvary below for a charge. Fracis, Annette - build what forticiations you can, hold off the horde below. ARIANE!--" Her voice boomed.

"Y-Yes, ma'am?" The recruit couldn't have been more than twenty suns old, her voice quaking from the intensity of the situation she found herself in.

"You've the most important duty of all - you are to ensure the dragonkillers are ready to fire on my word. Can you do that for me?"

"…"

Arliene sees the shaking of Ariane's shoulders. She places a hand on the hyur's shoulder, whom she stood nearly a full fulm over. The shaking stopped, terrified green eyes meeting amber, frozen in that moment.

"We need this, Ariane. We're all dead otherwise. I believe in you."

A smile was given, with a meek shake of the head in response. Arliene shook her shoulder once, reaffirming the greenhorn before turning to the rest of the defenders.

"Now, let's remind this big bastard who owns the sky! Let our convictions ring true, and shine as a beacon of hope for our people! For Ishgard! For the Holy See!"

A roar from within, followed by a roar from the outside.

Battle was upon them.

As the other knights dispersed to their duties, all Arliene could do was hold onto hope.

Hope that she is half the commander Blanche was; lest they be buried within this stone tomb.

[musesofawolf]

Day 9 - Lend an Ear

[Heavensward Spoilers]

“Hear ye, hear ye, all who seek a ballad of old!”

Kaleh'a pulled the bow of his violin over the strings, and a hideous screech emitted from the strings as the Miqo'te winced and the bar goers laughed as the Bard set about tuning the instrument.

“Well, sorry about that, clearly a bit out of use.” He chuckled, and plucked at the strings, tuning by ear, the blonde furred triangles flicking, tilting, and once satisfied, flicked up and down, before he ran the bow over it again. The strings sang this time, his eyes closing, and his grin growing as a few bar members whooped in excitement. “Alright! Now that that’s out of the way, I have a special little tune for you all, my own making. How many of you recall the great Warrior of Light fighting Nidhogg?”

A roar of approval went up from the group, the mostly Elezen members of the The Forgotten Knight raising tankards and cups, and Kaleh'a grinned, raising a hand to quiet them as he laughed. “I figured! Oh, and of course, your Azure Dragoon is in this little song too! So lend an ear!” More approving yells, silenced in moments by the wavering melody of his violin as a hush fell, and the Miqo'te started building a boot tapping melody.

String by string, bar by bar, note by note, the melody came together, rose and fell and swayed through the bar, leaving the patrons enraptured, until at the peak, the warm tenor voice of the bard filled the room. The tale started with the Warrior of Light, his travels to Ishgard, how they helped the soldiers and built up a relationship with mighty House Fortemps. His voice rose with fire as he recalled the great fire of dragons, how even that was not enough to bring down that mighty fighter, and how Nidhogg roared in anger.

There was Ysayle, the sorrow of loss, and unlike some bards who painted her as evil, he captured the change of her heart, the understanding found between even her and the Azure Dragoon. His chorus rose, the swords of Ishgard with it, that fateful attack with Nidhogg slain, his eye all that's left.

Sorrow weeped from his bow and strings as the story and wavering voice called out the terrible trickery the archbishop of Ishgard had cast over his people, lamented the murder of Lord Haurchefant, and in the aftermath of that fight against the would be God King, Estinien fell afoul of the great wyrm Nidhogg’s power.

As the peak died, suddenly, the tone shifted, to one of trepidation, of fear, of pain. Discordant notes as Estinien caved to the hatred of Nidhogg, becoming his vessel, striking at the heart of Ishgard, no one believing he could be saved.

Except for one.

Strings and bow pulls pitted the Azure Dragoon against the Warrior of Light, the two dueling and battling until with the strength of many, past and present, Nidhogg's eyes are cast down, and Estinien freed. A rousing chorus rises from the strings, of victory and freedom, a new light ahead, Lord Aymeric at the helm, and as the last note left his violin, the crowd was roaring in approval, clapping and hollering for an encore, as Kaleh'a bowed deeply.

“Why, thank you! Thank you! Very kind of you!” He laughed out, and for a second, his eyes gleamed with enjoyment, before he hummed thoughtfully and tilted his head. “Well, I do have time for one more…”

The roar of the tavern could not be denied, and he laughed, lifting the bow to the violin again. “In that case, lend an ear!”

And the bard wove another tale of danger and adventure long into the night.

[houserosaire]

Prompt #30: Amity

The darkness hung around him like a palpable thing, heavy as a thick cloak or a suit of armor. But this was a weight that threatened rather than protected. For long moments he simply lay there, staring up into the depths of that black, trying to let the warmth of Sui’s body and the sound of his breaths be enough to lull him back to sleep. The darkness was too thick. So at last he carefully shifted himself, easing away just enough to tuck the blankets tighter around Sui so that perhaps he wouldn’t notice when Silvaineaux sat up.

He leaned over, fingers scrabbling over the wood of the bedside table until they closed on the box of matches. He struck one by feel, then found the wick by the light of the resultant flame. He lit a candle, then shook the flame from the match.

A single candle wasn’t a strong light, though after the darkness it was enough to make him squint. He shifted himself so that he rested between the candle’s light and Sui, his own shadow to protect closed eyes from the blessing of that light. 

Weak light though it was, it helped. By that meager light he could see the foreign wood of the walls, the frame of windows sturdy, but never made with any thought of dragonfire. He could see that he was not in some half-ruined fort or some miserable stretch of stone wall. He was not even in his own familiar rooms in Ishgard, surrounded by the endless weight of stonework and tradition. Tonight he was in the Shroud and even if the amity with dragons faltered there would not be fangs or fire here.

It felt cowardly and oddly disloyal to find some small peace in that thought, and the part of him that could not find sleep again in the darkness was all too aware that dragons were not the only thing that need concern him. There were plenty of other enemies slinking in the darkness outside the window, things with which he had a weaker truce or no truce at all. That was not a peaceful thought, and he pushed it away. Instead he let his eyes settle on the friendly little flame of the candle. Perhaps it was less fear that made this foreign room peaceful and more that here he could leave the war and the weight of the things that came with it a little further behind him, just for tonight.

His eyes returned to Sui, and he watched one hand shift against the pillow. His own ring rested on that hand, sized down but familiar, bearing his own hawk sigil and the scars wearing it in war had left in the metal. Sometimes that seemed a cowardly and selfish choice too in its way, to give that ring and all the memories that came with it to Sui to carry. But the gold was not so heavy by itself, and when he looked at it on Sui’s hand he found hope in it rather than grief. 

He could believe that peace would hold if he looked at that ring where it was. If he could change the way he felt about that bit of metal entirely by giving it away, then perhaps… Perhaps he need not worry about fangs and fire tonight, here or anywhere else.

@bookbornexiv for Sui

[jumpingjollyrancher]

Ishgard really doesn’t deserve this. Smashing her boot into a dragon’s snout, Carnation does her best to channel her frustration. She could die at any moment. Dragon fire is scorching the air; claws have rent the stone and armor around her. Ishgardian knights scream both insults and in pain. This is their life; one thousand years of endless war.

It’s stupid to be here. It’s stupid to risk their necks and burn their lives away for a nation that left them to the Garleans. “So stupid,” Carnation hisses and flips back to dodge another dragon downed by the cannons. Yet here they are, because Alphinaud believes this will win Ishgard back to the Alliance. Even Carnation cannot stretch her idealism that far.

But she won’t abandon these people now. Iceheart’s damage to Ishgard’s wards leaves the most vulnerable open to dragon fire and death. She swipes blood from her gloves and dashes for the next dragon she sees.

It takes affront to the kick she slams into the join of its shoulder. Carnation dodges a snap of its huge jaw and then lunges in. A series of hard, fast blows to its throat make the beast stagger. Carnation twists and her armored foot crushes the dragon’s head aside. It collapses and she hops backward. Her blood is singing in her veins.

The prickle on the back of her neck is as clear as words screamed in her ears. Carnation flings herself to the left. Claws smash into the stones where she should have been. She rolls, absorbing the momentum and then pops back to her feet. This dragon is the biggest yet and she swallows. She flexes her hands out and then back in. “Come and get me!”

The dragon hisses, clicking something deep in its throat. Carnation shifts her feet.

The air whistles, screeches. A blur, all blue and sharp points, impacts on the dragon’s neck. It roars for only a moment and then the lance plunges deep enough. The dragon spits sparks as it collapses into a heap. Dead in a single blow.

Carnation salutes the dragoon as they straighten up. “Nice aim!”

The dragoon salutes back. “Thank you, warrior of light.” She frees her lance and looks back to the sky. Quickly, she leaps back to the higher points of the tower. A sleek, furred tail bluer than her armor trails behind her.

“I didn’t know Ishgard let Miqo’te into their dragoons.” Carnation loses sight of her on the battlements and shakes her head. There’s work to be done.

“He comes! Vishap is making his approach!”

Carnation grimaces as she sees the massive shape land upon the Steps. Now’s the time for the hero and here she is. With a centering breath, she lets herself open like a flower in the morn. Energy circles her limbs, building into a thrum felt by all around. She shouts a challenge and charges for the dragon.

~~

Vishap lies dead; another dragon lieutenant eliminated. Ishgard is safe for another day. She still has a home to return to. 

Helmet removed, J’alia guzzles water from a skein. Her limbs tremble from the exertion. Her aether feels like bare sparks holding her together. She swallows and sits on a stone displaced, but still useful. Her eyes move over the people grouped here and there on the Steps. Many are being tended by chirurgeons. A good handful more are the adventurers that came from the Eorzean Alliance.

One stands taller than the rest. The warrior of light is impossible to miss. Her height, her ears, her very being draw the eyes. J’alia studies her from this safe distance as she talks with her fellows. Despite the blood on her, despite the hours of fighting, despite striking the final blow against Vishap, she still smiles genuinely.

She looks like she has two dozen tales to share. If only there was time. Eorzea and its adventurers and its hero have their freedom.

J’alia has her home to defend. She stands as she sees her captain call. She turns from the warrior of light and puts her thoughts back where they should be. Ishgard needs her.

wolship week day 1: roleswap

[laspocelliere]

Day Ten: Stable

It happened in the night, and no witnesses survived to tell the tale.

The foundations hadn’t been stable since Dalamud, but no one would admit it. The Elders preached their sermons of light and redemption, and the youth snuck into the lower caverns of darkness and debauchery, and not a soul was the wiser to the cracks that had begun to fracture and warp the structures that had taken centuries upon centuries of painstaking craftsmanship to build. Their homes, their communities, their very lives, all nestled safely within the thick stone protection of the mountain, carved carefully within its heart where no one could find nor threaten them.

Until the threat came, at the worst possible moment.

When the ceilings caved in, there was barely time to scream. When the hulking forms of dying dragons slammed like falling gods into the sides of the mountains, the structures couldn’t – wouldn’t – withstand it. Not after the Calamity had fractured them from their very foundations. 

They didn’t stand a chance. Those who lived didn’t suffer long, buried alive beneath the ice and stone and sanctity of the secretive world that had once housed them so well.

When the floors cracked apart and yawned open into a bottomless pit from which there was no return, there was no time to mourn. Lives were lost in an instant, the darkness swallowing whole neighbourhoods without ceremony. There was no time to think, or breathe, or cry. 

There certainly wasn’t time to remember.

If there were, none present would have remembered someone who wasn’t there. A little girl they’d tried their whole lives to ignore, to explain away, to smooth over in their minds. Her sullen eyes and her brooding temper and her curse, her curse, her curse.

If they remembered her, in those last instants, surely it was the curse they remembered the most.

Surely it was her curse that had come to them at last.

They’d thought it had been Dalamud, at first. The Calamity had struck Coerthas with a ferocity that was felt ever afterwards, fire in the sky plunging them into a sentence of eternal ice. They’d clung to each other in the half-light as the red moon fell, whispering prayers and linking arms and taking comfort in the fact that they were there, they were together, they had done their best.

Meanwhile, that strange child had stood alone in the darkness, staring up at the fire above, unblinking and detached. Her fingers had trembled, and her eyes went glassy, and those who saw her swore that she’d coaxed the Calamity down upon them then, as though she’d planned it from her cradle.

Why else would she have left so soon after? Guilt ran through her veins like water. She was no blood of theirs. Not anymore.

Her parents stayed behind, and breathed relief at the loss of her.

Years later, they breathed ash, and dust, and nothing at all, and they didn’t think of her once.

There were no witnesses to explain the destruction. No one left to spread the news of an entire community, lost to the war, alone inside the mountain. Traders found blocked passageways, and assumed they’d simply closed off again, moved on, cloistered further into their ancient beliefs and archaic traditions. 

A pity, they might have said, had they known. A tragedy. Instead, they took their carts and their chocobos away, and thought nothing at all.

In the darkness, one of the last great standing Duskwight clans lay in a silent tomb, forgotten by the world.

Malms away – closer than one might expect – the Warrior of Light drew closed the heavy damask curtains of her rooms in the Fortemps Manor. The window gave her an exceptional view of the mountains she’d been raised and loathed in. Some nights, when the remembering was hard and pressed angry fingerprints across the inside of her skull, seeing the moonlight on the snow was too much to bear. The night watch in Ishgard clanked loudly beyond, and the dragons in the distance screeched their fury at more children lost to man’s spears.

She had no way to know that her entire family was already dead.

In the night, and in the quiet, she extinguished her candle, and went to sleep alone as she’d always done; with no one to miss her, and no one to miss.

[akirakirxaa]

[ HAIR ]:     while in the process of checking the receiver for injuries or other signs of harm, the sender gently brushes several strands of hair from their eyes.

Can I get a, uh... an order for some sweet sweet Akira and Haurchefant? With a side of fries.

[Prompt list here! I'm so glad people are liking AkiraxHaurch. <3 Takes place shortly after the Final Steps of Faith.]

Akira sprinted through Ishgard towards Fortemps manor, taking stairs two at a time and scrambling over rubble. Her sweet, well meaning, kind, foolish Haurchefant had been attempting to protect what little of Ishgard he could, or maybe trying to come to her assistance, and emerged during the final onslaught from Nidhogg's horde, never mind that the chirurgeons had been insistent on his being on a restricted activity regimen. If he'd been hurt again...

As she approached, she could see him at the base of the stairs to the manor, at first glance seemingly untouched apart from the soot smeared on his nice clothes (as he seemed to have not even taken the time to put on proper armor). She stormed up, the worry blossoming into anger with every step. How dare he worry her like this after what happened in the Vault?

"Are you hurt?" Akira demanded, almost sounding like an accusation, as she started looking him over, searching for any signs of blood or scratches or even bruises. "You know you're not supposed to be exerting yourself, let alone being in combat. You didn't reopen your wound did you? I swear, it's like you have no sense at all of self preservation-" She stuttered to a halt as his hand gently brushed her sweat-and-dirt caked hair out of her face, looking at her with such adoration that she seemed to have lost her words in the face of him.

"You look like the Fury Herself," he tucked the strands of hair behind one horn, his fingers just lightly brushing against it as he did so, prompting a tiny shiver from her.

"I don't think the Fury would be covered in dirt and ash," she pointed out awkwardly. He chuckled, leaning forward to give her a quick kiss on the forehead.

"So, how fairs our friend Estinien?" he asked, casually as if asking after the weather. Akira cleared her throat a little and straightened up, giving in to the lingering worry as she brushed off some of the soot from his jacket.

"He'll be okay, in time. Aymeric and Brigid escorted him to the infirmary to be treated for any wounds. Then he'll just need rest." Akira straightened the front of her armor to have something to do, eyes glancing not so subtly over Haurchefant as she continued to try to see if he was injured.

"Then it sounds like there's cause for celebration!" he gave her a winning grin, taking both her hands in his. "Let's go inside, we can have a drink and you can thoroughly inspect me for any injuries." For a moment, Akira didn't register what he said. Then she felt like her face caught on fire, and with him holding her hands she couldn't hide behind them.

"A-a drink would be n-nice," she stammered nervously. She grimaced down at her filthy hands. "And uh, maybe a bath? If that's okay?" He flashed a brilliant smile as he leaned forward and quickly stole a chaste kiss from her.

"Anything you'd like, my love," he pressed his forehead to hers, kissing her hands briefly and leading the way back into the manor. She hesitated just a moment, nerves getting the best of her for a heartbeat. Don't be silly, you just fought a dragon, she told herself firmly, and followed him inside.