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domesticatedanimal · 8 months ago

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FFXIVWrite2024

Prompt 9: 'Lend an ear'

Uh, this one goes some places. 1.0 Spoilers. Death, some violence. Big sadness hours.

The Refugee

But if it all burns down

And the flames devour everything that we are

I will hold you for the minute

I will hold you for the minute it takes

Ghost - The Future is a Foreign Land

The camp is more sand than it is wood, on windy days, and it had been windier than usual, lately. The refugees were spending their days sweeping it out of their hovels and lean-to’s, picking it out of clothing and hair, or simply giving in and accepting their dusty fate.

To say things had been getting worse would be an understatement. More travelers were arriving by the day, drawn by the promise of wealth that Ul’Dah held. The inns and empty houses had filled up first. Then it was empty market stalls, tents put up in alleys, and dark rooms made in the cracks of the city’s exterior walls. Humble shacks went up in the sands outside the city - scraps of wood and metal propped up against ancient stone bricks. Within months, the jewel of Thanalan was surrounded by a half dozen rings of camps.

Sif was lucky to have arrived early. Whatever had happened to tear the world apart, it had happened when she was already within sight of the Eorzean coast. Three sisters, their mother, and an immature sibling had shared the tiny cabin in the rotting ship, bobbing along in storms that never seemed to end.

She remembered praying to gods known and unknown to end that trip, even if it meant sinking the vessel and all on board. Those memories stung all the more, now that she was alone.

She navigated the labyrinth of tents with practiced ease, dodging left and right as other dejected forms brushed past. She clutched her pack tightly to her chest. She was freshly sixteen and taller than most, but her kind were rare in the camps, and she knew she was an eye-catching target.

A dozen yalms away from the tent. Now ten.

Strong fingers closed around her arm from behind. Sif shrieked, a piercing yell that cut through the wind.

“Gods damn you!” She growled, as Jennie laughed. “Your sense of humor is pretty rotten.”

“You take any longer to get home, and your food will be rotten.”

Sif had met Jennie a few weeks after arriving at the refugee camps. Both saw the benefits of sticking together, as opposed to trying to make it alone. Despite her dark hair and clothing, Jennie was in a perpetual good mood, and her jokes usually provided a welcome distraction from reality. Neither girl had dared share much of themselves with the other. Too much had been lost.

Under a flap of canvas and into their small camp, the pair finally felt some relief. Sif greedily tugged at the strings of her pack, pulling out her bounty. A stale loaf of bread, a few onions, and a third of a wheel of sharp cheese, still in its rind.

“I guess, sandwiches it is?” Jennie smiled. She always smiled. It’s what Sif loved about her most. She would wake, hearing Sif sobbing through the night, and she’d light a candle, sit close, and smile, rubbing her back until the tears passed. It was impossible to tell her age, but she held a quiet wisdom that simply didn’t belong to a Hyur in her teens or twenties.

Sif busied herself with slicing the bread and cheese while Jennie brushed out as much sand as she could and tied their canvas door closed. The shack was barely large enough for them both to lay down. Two walls were wood, reclaimed from a collapsed bridge, pressed up against Ul’Dah’s exterior wall. At some point, they had attempted to seal the wood and stone together with mud, but they had never managed to do it right. Within a few days it had cracked off, but by then they were surrounded by neighbors, and the worst of the chilly night wind was blocked. The canvas door was new, replacing an old rusty sheet of tin that they would have to drag in and out of place every time they left.

They ate as the sun set, the last light of the day breaking into their room through a thousand cracks and holes. Jennie liked to watch the dust dance in the light. She’d give the particles names, interpreting their random dances into stories. It was another thing Sif loved about her.

“Do you ever think about what you’re going to do, after all of… this?” Jennie’s general gesturing through the room was barely visible in the dying light of their last candle.

“There’s an ‘after this?’”

“I’m serious!” Jennie laughed. “Things have to turn around eventually. Don’t act so defeated.”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” Sif was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I think there really isn’t anything after this. It’s just been this for so long.”

“I want to teach.”

“Teach?”

“A lot of children survived. I see them around the camps. We’re going to need teachers.”

It was Sif’s turn to smile. “You’ll be in demand. I’ll bet there’s good money in it.”

“It’s not always about money, you know. My father was a great teacher, of sorts, and we never had money.” Jennie laughed, but it sounded forced. It was the first time either of them had mentioned a parent. Sif capitalized on the moment.

“What did he teach?”

“Hm? Oh, well, it’s going to sound silly.”

“I like silly.”

“You do not like silly,” Jennie smiled. “He was a fisher. He used to show the kids in town how to cast, picking out which crabs need to be thrown back, that sort of thing.”

“I think that counts. That’s teaching.”

Jennie pressed on. The seal was off of the bottle. “We were in a town called Aleport, on the west coast. When I woke up, I was the only one left.”

Someone large and heavy passed, the warm light from their torch breaking through the shack’s gloom. Jennie was crying.

“I remember hearing the kids,” she continued, “I didn’t know them, but it was the first thing I remember hearing.”

“I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s ok,” she sniffled. “I mean, nothing is ok, but oh, you know what I mean.”

“We were in a ship,” Sif began, breaking a few minutes of silence. “Biggest ship I’ve ever seen, but an ugly dry-rotted mess.” Jennie’s fingers felt around, finding Sif’s and entwining with them. “It was everyone left in my family, all of us that made it out of Dalmasca.”

“Dalmasca? You’re from Othard?”

Sif absently rubbed her ear. “Not a lot of Viera from anywhere else.”

Jennie laughed, and Sif cherished the interruption. “Can you believe I forgot? For just a moment I… It doesn’t matter. Go on.”

“We were fleeing a war, or the end of one. I never really knew. ‘Too young for such worries,’ my mother always said.” She felt the tears rise. “My sister spotted the land first. She liked to sit out on the front of the ship, uh, the bow, watching the waves.” The natural question didn’t need to be asked. There was no sister in the shack with them that night.

“Did you see it happen?”

“I heard it. A roar. Like the world was tearing itself apart. At the time, I thought it was the boat breaking up, but what everyone is saying now, about the dragon?”

“How did you make it?”

“A few parts of the ship were floating, after I woke up in the water. There were a few of us, but I’ve don’t think they made it here. We made it to the beach by morning, but went our separate ways. None of us knew what happened or how bad it was.”

Jennie pulled herself over, and the girls leaned on each other for a while, letting tears fall in the darkness. Sif felt like an uncorked barrel, months of pressure spilling out all at once.

She didn’t realize she was falling asleep. It didn’t last long.

When Sif opened her eyes, Jennie was gone. She could hear her voice outside, alongside a dozen others. Instincts kicked in, and she was on her feet and pushing through the canvas flap before she could think.

The night was aglow with flame. Ulms away, something exploded, sending a chunk of something sharp and hard into Sif’s cheek. She reeled in the sand as the blood fell. Strong arms, wide as trees, caught her and held her upright. An aging Roegadyn she had seen from time to time. He left her without a word, disappearing down another path. Dozens of pale and shouting faces flowed around her. She choked and coughed, the superheated air scorching her throat.

The noise. When was the last time she had heard noise this loud?

“Sif!” Jennie’s voice cut through her confusion. Her heart vibrated in her chest as one foot shot out in front of the other. Adrenaline carried her forward. “It’s an attack. I don’t know what to do!”

They collapsed into each other and braced themselves against the panicking refugees who threatened to run over or through them. Sif’s eyes darted around, picking out large black shapes against the burning huts on the outskirts of the camp.

“Amaal’ja.”

The beasts were marching through the camp, torches held high. Sif watched as fleeing refugees were cut down. Then the arrows came. Thick and heavy shafts rained into the ground nearby, jutting out of the sand like saplings.

“We have to get back inside!” Jennie shouted against Sif’s shoulder.

“The fire!”

“We have to try. We can’t fight them!”

Sif turned, feeling the fear take her. Their shack was gone - a bonfire squeezed between too many other tinderbox homes.

“Come on,” Jennie ordered, “I have an idea.”

Sif let Jennie lead them down one path and then another. The sand burned her bare feet, and the oppressive heat seemed to light the sky itself aflame. They quickly came to a small set of huts, slightly apart from their neighbors, one with sheet metal walls. Sif felt faint. She couldn’t get a breath in without coughing. The constructs beside the metal hut were already starting to catch, but what other choice did they have? Die to the fire, or be taken by the beasts for some worse fate?

Jennie pulled her inside, where Sif collapsed onto a hard straw mattress. Sif gazed around in a stupor, as Jennie grabbed armfuls of clothing, a blanket, some scraps of fabric, and threw them into a rusted water jug.

“There isn’t enough.” She muttered to herself.

“What are you doing?” All Sif could think about was the water, and what a waste this was.

“My father taught me this,” Jennie was wrapping a sopping robe around Sif’s legs. “After the tavern burned down.” She turned and flipped the blanket over Sif’s chest, pouring the jug’s remaining contents on top. “I told you he was a good teacher.”

She was smiling. Even now, she could still smile. Her cheeks looked wet. Sif’s mind swam. Her eyes couldn’t focus.

“The metal is going to get hot, but the wet linen will protect us. With a little luck…”

Sif was fumbling under the blanket, and Jennie helped her, slipping down next to her and finding her grasping hand. “You’re going to make it, Sif. I promise, there’s an ‘after this.’”

---

Smoke rose from the camps’ ashes well into the next day. Very little was left standing. No one knew what inspired the raid, that night. The Amaal’ja took few captives, and there was nothing the refugees owned worth stealing. A sultansworn paladin held a water skin out to the scrawny dark-haired Viera girl he had pulled out from under a twisted sheet of steel. He’d heard her cries as his party carted away charred bodies. She was badly burned, but she had made it through the night, somehow.

Jennie always wanted to protect people. It was another thing Sif loved about her.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #espresso depresso

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fishbrainrot · 11 months ago

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The Oak King

I was the king of sunny days and never-ending summer. My soldiers followed me, tempted by the promise of eternal glory. Songs about our victories would echo through the tall halls of my castles. That’s why I built them. To be remembered through the generations of my immortal race. If I could end this war, my name would never be forgotten. The Great Conqueror, the Oak King.

The memory of my hammer is vivid- heavy and shining in the midday sun. When it fell, my enemies could only run, hoping to be faster. I was made for battlefields- strong as the oldest oaks in the forests untouched by human hands.

But I wasn’t the only one.

I always searched for him across the battle hills. Lithe and sharp like the cold he was bringing. The king of winter nights and everlasting frost. The only relentless obstacle I’ve met. The Holly King. We had the same dream - to unite the realm. But there could be only one king. Every time we clashed, songs were written.

It’s been lifetimes since I was a king.

Fighting our endless war, we’ve crossed a line and didn’t even notice. “Humans are funny little things- as full of themselves as empty their heads are,” my wife used to say. But there’s always something older, stronger, and forgotten. We fought, the ancient forest burning around us. I almost had him. Then, we learned how deep and vicious human gods bite. Her rage was radiant. “Regrowing a forest takes time and effort,” she said. “So let me give this quarrel of yours a purpose.”

I’d like to think that the Oak King died in that battle, between the ashes of her sacred grove. The Holly King pierced his side with precision. Through a hole in the armor, he reached the heart and ended this chapter of history. The winter came, and the human realm fell asleep. But as the earth must die once a year, it has to rise as well. When the slumber was over, I had to open my eyes and go back home. Defeated and alone, with no trace of my unstoppable army.

They welcomed me as if I had left yesterday.

The Oak King’s death was long and pitiful. She locked us in a cycle we can't escape. Every autumn I succumb to illness and he takes my life. Then I sleep. Then I wake up. With longer days my strength grows, his weakens. It's my time to kill. I sat on my throne but the only thing I could think about was running out of time. Even humans live longer.

“It’ll happen soon,” I told my wife, holding her hand under the late summer sun. She looked at me, her eyes round in surprise, and said: “Already?” I’ve never felt so out of place.

I miss my wife. If I was the sun, she was a gentle rain soothing the dry soil. Always by my side. When I fought my wars, she looked after the court. During my recovery, she was taking over my responsibilities. She cleaned my wounds and comforted me when life was hard to bear. But with time, her eyes grew morose, then cold. I’ve never thought she would think me a weakling, a burden. After all, fae were hardly ever crippled. We were made to live the life to fullest and then die a sudden death. I was drifting further and further away.

I could see my family falling apart. They didn’t know what to do or how to treat me. I didn’t know either. I was a stranger in my court. The only thing I could do was preserve my legacy. So I passed the crown to my children and left my lands to never look back.

But I wasn’t the only one.

At home, we fought great battles, not willing to yield. Here, we’ve got no armies, no audience, no bards to write songs. But seclusion gives a lot of time to think. I watched the season change, the world reflect our wounds.

For the first time since I died in the grove, I felt a slight touch of purpose.

March is a nasty month of transition. Sun slowly grows warmer, but snow is still covering the earth. We avoided each other. I don't know when I stopped craving our confrontations. It had to be gradual just like the beginning of spring. The days grew longer, we could feel it in our bones. When he found me, I was waiting- between the trees, in a clearing where early sun melted the winter ice. Snow crunched under his feet. “You know it has to happen,” I said, trying to sound gentle. And then he exposed his neck. My cut was quick and clean. I hoped he would do the same for me. I wrapped his body with a soft blanket, head by his chest. Maybe he could do the same for me this autumn. Pick me up with care and carry to safety. Snow on the nearby hills was melting, reflecting the morning sun. Was it always so blinding?

I don't know when I got lonely. It had to be gradual like the beginning of autumn.

We’re not staying together, but we’re always nearby. I’m taking care of his affairs when he’s recovering through the summers. I clean his wounds and comfort him when life is hard to bear. I don’t think we can handle each other for long, but he makes me feel less alone.

My wife has perished a long time ago, as well as my children. All devoured by the war I haven’t finished. On long, summer nights I can't help but think about them, trying to remember their faces. By now, they're only misty figures. I named every single one of them but their names feel strange to my tongue. I fear forgetting. He watches me and there’s sharpness in his eyes. Sometimes I feel like an open book, like an old sentimental fool. We exchange our true names. I’m surprised when I feel at peace, but it’s not unwelcome. Maybe he could remember who I used to be and still look at me with respect.

Respect comes from a challenge. Trust comes from respect. And in trust, I’ve found comfort.

I have my garden where I can sit in the shade and watch the flowers grow. We share the same cycle, and I can’t help but feel a warm fondness. I’m learning to cook. Thousand years ago, human food felt flat compared to dishes I used to eat at home. But my memory faded. I like cream and honey and even those funny colorful sweets. The earth isn’t that big, but diverse enough. I’m discovering unknown places, learning to appreciate new things. Maybe I’m old, but if that’s not nice, I don’t know what is.

There are years when we’re trying to forget. When his wound is healed, my body grows weaker with every day. He watches me with the same eyes, piercing like winter freeze. And I know he can see how my hand shakes when I’m drinking my morning coffee. We both know. So I’m making a list of my unfinished errands. We’re sitting on a sofa, reading books, and drinking tea because the evening chill is getting colder despite the long summer. And I say: “Let’s get it over with.” He raises his eyes and this time there’s something somber behind them. I know it’ll be quick, and when I wake up, he’ll be there to say, “It took you long enough.”

#ocs #pbf #rpg #i wrote backstory but never actually played this character #maybe his time will come #just an old sentimental fool #espresso depresso

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