#feat. gil bellows

[arbiterofthedead]

Born of Ash

How does one march forth if all ends in the cold embrace of oblivion?

The answer is rather simple.

With ones head held high...

"Master Grimveil, we are almost there." A voice had called out from the darkness of his cabin within the sea-faring vessel. His gaze was slowly peeled off the map he had been given before nodding ever so faintly to recognize the news being shared.

The trip to the New World was a long one, but one he knew was worth the effort. With new lands to explore there were no doubt equally new mysteries to expose to the light of the ever-burning sun. A small hint of anxiety of traversing new lands had been a near constant companion since he had departed from Eorzea...but now was the time experience something few ever would.

Rolling up the map Valerian would securely store it before he would move to a rack that had been set at the door where he had let his new twin blades rest before he retrieved them before securing them to his back.

Emerging from his cabin he would do his best to keep out of the way of the ship crew as they went about their various tasks, some were suspicious as his very presence but even they knew not to ask too many questions of the Captain who was convinced to ferry him this far.

Ascending the steps to the top deck he would raise his right gloved hand to block the oppressive light of the sun from impacting his eyes until he could adjust to the light of day. As promised when he ventured to the bow of the vessel he could see a what looked like a towering palace built upon a cliff, an impressive feat or architecture to be sure.

"There she be, Tural." A bellowing voice has said as a burly Sea Wolf moved to his side, Valerian would turn his gaze upon the man and instantly knew him to be the Captain of the vessel. "Blessed by the sun as they say, I hope this 'ere venture is worth it."

"Time will tell...Captain." He said as he reached for a pouch at his left side before he would offer it to the Captain. "As promised at journeys conclusion." The Necromancer said as the Captain took the bag before jostling it to the sound of Gil clattering within its confines.

"Good lad...I look forward to doin more business with ya'." "Likewise...Captain."

[guginosource]

JETT (2019−) dir. Sebastian Gutierrez

[frostsong]

9—25 (EC): ACHIVEMENT.

noun: a thing done successfully, typically by effort, courage, or skill.

rating: g

characters: original characters, wan non

tags: post-heavensward, baking with dragonets, skyrise celebration, ty @soulsow again for the prompt!

summary: nonnie learns to cook. 

wordcount: 519

there were fewer things wan non enjoyed more than being right.

as she had learned, man took much more time preparing their food than her own kin ever did—while there was the occasional hunt it seemed most people had grown to depend on livestock and farming for their meals. thus, cooking fascinated her, and as she sought to learn as much as she could in her indefinite banishment from ‘home’, she instantly took to becoming an apprentice.

finding both a competent and unafraid cook was no easy feat. nonnie sought to make food that she herself enjoyed, and supposed that she learn to make everything else after—for if she couldn’t do that, how was she supposed to move on to impressing the others? there were still few cooks so ready to accept a dragonet into their kitchen, and unfortunately even in the manor of her hosts the servants were still uncomfortable having her hover over their shoulders as they prepared the family’s meals. she and euphemie had discussed this so in private—and nonnie was not too headstrong to push the matter any further. just as her own kind still struggled to come to terms with the war’s sudden end, man too had suffered plenty. 

in the end they turned to the cooks at the firmament. while the meals prepared for the volunteer workers were heartier in nature, they suggested those who dealt with the sweetmeats of the skyrise celebration for her taste—and it was there that nonnie finally found her mentor.

nonnie liked candied fruit well enough. she also enjoyed the faces of those around her as her fangs sunk with ease into the sweet-rich coating of syrup, cracking it like glass. the recipe was relatively simple compared to the rich dulcet pastries that she had become familiar with at cygne cross, but nonnie sought naught but perfection.

fairegoers flocked to the stall where she worked alongside the cooks, ensuring an even coat of syrup over each piece regardless of their size and quantity. nonnie realized that once she set her mind to something, she would see it through to the end—and in her candied fruit, with days to weeks of practice she started to see improvement—and with her gradual improvement came achievement in the happy faces and filled stomachs of many an eager customer. 

nonnie came to earn gil, too—and while it had been still more convenient to be accompanied by one of her hosts she was eager for the day she could enter any establishment to purchase whatever it was she could afford. overall her time in the city thus far hadn’t been without a few hiccups—but nothing that wasn’t worth all the merriment it had brought her. now, she knew of things her siblings had merely heard of: never again would wan non see the world only by the songs of her kin, bellowed from weary throats that wound each word with the very smoke that hissed from the charred corpses they’d made of their former enemies. 

the wafting scent of a succulent pig, cannon fodder turned to brilliant fireworks—there were better things that had smoke. 

[serararku]

Eyes of Amethyst Finale

The tower groaned and rattled, throwing Thalen onto his stomach. The floor rolled like ripples over a pond before the room began to tilt and turn. He didn’t have time to think when the whole place began to collapse, and he watched helplessly as his prey and the woman slid down the ledge and into freefall! Osric had been watching from the base of the tower, eyes narrowing as he’d heard the gunshot. Already preparing to leap - he froze, the sound of the explosion and the ground shaking breaking his concentration. “Gods damnit, Thalen.” This was why he liked details. He quickly glanced over the structure - trying to figure which way it was likely to fall before his attention was drawn by a woman’s piercing screams.

He didn’t have time to calculate - the Dragoon crouched as low as he could go, planting a fist into the grass as he focused his aether into his legs. The dirt beneath his feet shot up with him when he launched himself high and far into the air, the wind hissing past as he aimed at a nearby tree. As soon as his feet touched the trunk he was airborne again, bouncing off the forest and skybound, heading straight for the falling woman. “URF!” The air was knocked out of her lungs when he managed to wrap an arm around her; in her panic she coiled her arms and legs around his body and squeezed for dear life. With a grunt and a turn Osric planted his feet against the tree he’d been rushing towards and drove his lance in to balance himself, quickly scanning for Thalen. Kiban rushed past with his maniacal laughter, but the Dragoon ignored the Strangler -- the bounty was of no concern to him. “Hold on.” He whispered in her ear, but she was too terrified to respond. The Gunslinger was dropping fast. He used his tail to twist himself upright, and was clinging to a chunk of stone in a desperate attempt to cushion his fall, but at this height…

His eyes darted to a hundred places in under a second, highlighting the path he would take to lead him straight to his partner. “There you are…” Osric adjusted his hold on the woman and pushed off the tree - ignoring the creaking sound it made as he focused on his target. The Dragoon didn’t go up, but forward, lunging head first into the lethal shower of stone, wood, and fire.

Osric’s feet landed on the side of a wall before he jumped again. Four steps down a wooden beam and he was gone. He tucked his legs in as he soared through a hole, his lance swatting away anything that could potentially harm or kill from the woman’s head as he landed on and clung to a spiraling and smoldering boulder. Then he pushed off again, weightless, sailing through the billowing smoke, flipping and twisting in the air like a dancing dragon. It was the first time he could cut loose in over half of a year -- he almost forgot what he was doing. Almost.

He wouldn’t be able to hold Thalen the way he had the woman, but it’d be better than letting the man continue to fall. He grunted as he made contact with Thalen’s falling form - trying to focus on manipulating the aether around them to slow their downward progress as he braced for an...uncomfortable landing. Osric landed in the grass like he was stepping off a six fulm drop, graceful like a strider floating on the surface of still water; he bent his knees and cradled the woman in his grasp, but nothing was broken or injured -- not a scratch. Thalen on the other hand was a different story.

“Fuck! Shit! Godsdamnit!” The Miqo’te landed hard on his feet and rolled down the incline to keep himself from snapping his ankles and shattering his knees. He lost control after his third flip, spiraling out to flop and slide the rest of the way. Yet despite his grunts and curses, he still wasn’t a piece of modern art on the side of a rock thanks to the Dragoon. He stopped on his back at least, so his face was at no risk of grinding against the stones beneath him. He slowly opened his eyes with a grimace just in time to see the rubble blown skyward from the explosion coming down on their heads. “AHK-!” He flinched when a rock the size of a brick buried itself into the ground between his legs, almost permanently removing one of his most precious tools for his most beloved vice.

“What was that about this being an ‘easy’ job, Thalen?” Wielding the lance with one hand wasn’t an easy feat - but the grip in his left was a work in progress, and the woman - who now stood behind him as he knocked away falling debris - was still in shock, unable to do much more than cling to the back of his armor. He shot an annoyed look over his shoulder as the last of the debris settled - before turning and guiding the young woman towards Thalen - waiting for the man in question to right himself so they could leave.

Thalen rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. He checked his body for any serious scrapes or bruises, but thankfully Osric’s acrobatics saved him from being crippled or worse. “Yeah, yeah… least nobody got hurt, aye? Now where’s that bastard?” As soon as he finished speaking, both Thalen and Osric glanced over across the wreckage to see Kiban laying in the grass, his body twisted and broken, but he was still very much alive; somehow he survived that terrible fall, but it was unlikely he would survive til sundown. “Beautiful… now we just scrape 'em off the ground and-” SPLAT! A crumbling part of the tower slid off another rock and rolled over the Strangler like a boot stepping on a grape.

“You were saying?”

Thalen looked like a priceless vase just slid off a table right in front of him, and he was just out of reach to stop it. He stared at the red stain beneath the rubble, as the Twin Adder guards and the onlookers came rushing in. The Gunslinger was almost trampled over when they swarmed Osric, their deafening chorus of cheers growing louder in a fever-pitch. They clearly had front row seats to his double-rescue.

Osric’s eyes widened at the rush of people, taking a step back and holding his right hand out to give himself - and the woman standing behind him some space. “Easy - if you don’t mind. She’s had a bit of a day and some space would be beneficial.”

"Back up! Back it up!" The Deputy shouted out from behind the crowd. "Clear out! Give them some room!" The crowd continued to swarm the hero of Quarrymill, reaching out to touch his arms and shake his hand. "I SAID GET OOOUUT!!!" Like a knife gliding through a loaf of bread the masses split in half at the bellowing of the Roegadyn officer. A representative of the Conjurer's Guild ducked under Grand Talon's massive tree trunk arms and stepped around the Dragoon to check the woman for any wounds. Meanwhile the Deputy plucked Thalen off the ground like he was a vegetable. He turned to his assistant before grunting, "Search the rubble for any bodies. We need to get that paperwork started now."

"Uugh…" Thalen groaned, remaining limp in his grasp. "All in a day's work…"

"Kiban deserved the noose for his crimes, but if it weren't for the Warden's incompetence those civs would still be alive." Grand Talon nodded at Osric before his grimace returned when he gazed at the Miqo’te. "But what's done is done. Make sure this is the last time I have to deal with you and your recklessness, K'thalen." Without another word he dropped him onto the grass, turned his back on the duo, and began making his way to help his team identify the bodies.

"Never heard him so calm before…" Thalen sighed, rubbing at his shoulder. "Gonna be sore somethin' fierce tomorrow. No payment neither… but at least we saved the girl, aye?" He glanced up at Osric while he strained to stand, cracking his back with a wince and a gasp. "Good jumpin' by the way, Oz. Couldn't a pulled this off without ya. And… thanks for not lettin' me splatter. My next scheme'll be less risky for sure."

“Your next ‘scheme’? The company has plenty of work - couldn’t you take one of those jobs if you’re low on gil?” Osric crossed his arms over his chest as he took a step towards Thalen - giving the individual from the Conjurer’s Guild space to do their work.

He simply shrugged at Osric halfheartedly, like he always did. "Newbies been floodin' in recently, and there ain't enough solo jobs to go 'round. Plus…" Thalen paused as his ears lowered a bit; the telltale signs that a Miqo’te was undecided to reveal something personal. "Bah, 'nother story for 'nother day."

"Who… are you guys?" A timid voice called from behind. The woman they rescued was sitting on a fallen log, revived from her stupor but still clearly trying to process what happened today. She reached up and brushed her pastel blue hair away from her deep purple eyes, and her focused gaze darted between Osric and Thalen inquisitively. "You're not Twin Adder…?"

Osric turned around, giving a small bow in the woman’s direction. “No, we’re not. I’m Osric Slater - this is K’thalen Tia...we’re members of the Ashen Wolves.” She slowly blinked at him, appearing more coherent with each passing moment.

"I'm Coroh… Coroh Veldha." She gave Osric the faintest of smiles. "Thank you… for saving my life. I um… I don’t want to think about what would have happened to me if you two didn't show up when you did… I've never been so scared in my life."

"Gonna get worse with all this madness goin' 'round, darlin'. You outta learn to protect yourself… these'r some real dangerous times we live in." Thalen stepped to Osric’s side so he could get a better look at her. "Good job givin' Kiban that revolver I kicked over, aye? Woulda been messier if you tried to play hero."

The woman began to tremble as she wrapped her arms around herself; the adrenaline must be wearing off. "Are you adventurers? Bounty hunters? … mercenaries?”

Osric gave K’thalen a pointed look as he motioned towards the women. “It looks like giving the young lady your jacket for a moment or two wouldn’t be the worst thing...don’t you think, Thalen?” He turned back towards Coroh with a nod, as Thalen gave him yet another shrug before pulling off his weathered leather jacket. “Adventurers...At times I suppose we’re bounty hunters, and I did work with a mercenary company or two before I signed on with the Wolves.”

“Thank you…” She timidly murmured, almost disappearing under his jacket. “I wish I could be as brave as you guys… I might be stuck in this dead-end job for the rest of my life...”

Osric tilted his head. “What job is that?”

“Working here… at this mill.” Coroh gestured to the rundown town surrounding them, and the billowing smoke from the wreckage of that tower. “I just… push lumber through saws all night. I want… I want to be like you guys.” She paused to gaze up into Osric’s eyes. “You know… like heroes.”

Osric blinked, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “‘Heroes’ may be a bit strong.” He tilted his head. “Well - if this job is no longer meeting your needs, what stops you from finding another one?”

The woman opened her mouth to answer, but the words never came. Her gaze dropped to the ground and she fell silent for a long time, seemingly struggling to find a reason why she couldn't just leave. Thalen decided to clear his throat to break the awkward silence they were all trapped in. "Ain't nothin' gonna change unless you take charge, lass. Me n'Oz here… we didn't wake up one day n'just become adventurers. 'Slotta work… sometimes dangerous, sometimes scary. People die in this profession too… good friends and wicked foes alike. But there ain't no courage without fear. And if'n you don't chase your dreams, then…" Thalen gave Coroh a gentle and sympathetic smile. "You'll regret it for the rest a your life."

She seemed to light up a bit and sit up straight, but she was still slightly trembling; she would need some serious time off to work through this traumatic experience. "Thank you both again… I'll never forget your kindness!" Coroh lifted Thalen’s jacket off her shoulders and handed it back; turns out she wasn't cold after all.

"A pleasure." The Gunslinger turned to Osric to pat him on the shoulder. "Let's get outta here 'fore the Deputy decides to give us some trouble. First drink's on me."

Osric hummed thoughtfully, gaze shifting to Coroh for a moment. “Would you like us to walk you home before we depart?” His eyes narrowed as he felt the hand on his shoulder and turned to look at the Miqo’te man once again. “Are you sure you didn’t mean to say ‘drinks are on me’? After all - you’re not currently a stain on the ground - seems like that fact alone might be worth more than one drink.”

“I know a place nearby.” The woman chimed in, shooting to her feet. “Buscarron’s Druthers is only down the road!”

“Fixin’ to be a ramen and tap water kinda night…” Thalen could feel the last gil he had left burning a hole in his pocket, but the temptation to throw it away for drinks was too great to resist. “Bah… alright, alright. We kick it for a few bells, then I gotta head back. Deal?”

“Deal!” Coroh sang, looking to Osric for confirmation.

He nodded, waiting for the woman to turn and lead the way to the Druthers before pulling a small pouch of gil from his pocket and handing it to Thalen. “For drinks this evening....” He whispered in a low voice. “And try to save some of it for food. It should last you until the next decent job comes in.” Thalen blinked at the Dragoon, as his smile slowly returned.

“You know what, Oz? I don’t care what people say about you. You’re alright!”

---

Collaberino: @osric-slater-ffxiv​

[starswornoaths]

Of the Sea...

Hello! Hi! This is a bit of Hanvesh’s backstory! I decided to do a lil mini series of these for Serella and Uthengentle’s parents, to chronicle how they wound up retiring in Gridania, and this is the first part of what (I think) will be four parts! I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2,002

All things considered, Hanvesh had a pretty damn good life, he’d reasoned.

There were so few things more satisfying than feeling free on the high seas, bellowing shanties amidst cannonfire, the whistle of his arrows finding their marks on the occupants of enemy ships, the celebration of a hard won bounty and the taste of good mead on his tongue as he cheered with his shipmates after a good haul. He had not truly lived until he first felt the sway of the ocean on a ship deck, the wind on his face and a song on his lips.

For he had been recruited specifically for the fact that his songs were nothing short of magical, in every literal sense of the word — and Hanvesh made sure everyone knew about it. When their ship sailed into battle, his lyrics inspired and bolstered their men to accomplish astonishing feats they would have otherwise never achieved, and more often than not, was what had made the difference in many a decisive battle out in the briney blue. The ship’s reputation — and their coffers — grew to astronomical heights over the years; there was nary a pirate in all of Vylbrand that didn’t know what they were capable of, what they had already taken for themselves. Their galleon’s name — The Serpent’s Sting — was carved in the annals of history and lined with all the gold they had amassed. Hanvesh felt like he had, after years of struggle and dedication to his craft, at long last caught a northerly wind, and was soaring on sails filled with the sweet air of success. 

Until that self same wind dashed them all against the rocks.

It had been foolish to engage in battle with another ship in the eye of a storm, and they had all known it — but the captain had grown too cocksure, too arrogant with their string of good fortune. ‘The Navigator always steers us through, boys!’ The captain had cheered as he ordered them to sail head on into the oncoming storm in conquest for more loot. 

As Hanvesh looked down at what was left of the captain, he bitterly noted that he wasn’t saying much of anything anymore.

None of them were — save for him. He stood in shallow water, his clothes tattered, his bow broken and his spirit dead, alongside the rest of his crew. Their bodies all scattered around the remains of their beloved ship, their seafaring home, eerily still even in the rocking of the water. The waves — gentled now that the storm had passed — lapped at his ankles lazily, their froth ticking his skin. He stared and stared and stared out to the horizon, waiting, praying for a sign from Llymlaen showing him where to go.

Though, he mused sourly, surveying the destruction of everything that he had known for the better part of a decade, he wondered if, perhaps, the Navigator already had.

Somehow, astonishingly, Hanvesh had managed to make it ashore with only a few gashes and bruises to speak of — nothing short of a miracle, given that he was the only one to have made it at all. He was in shock, he realized with a manic chuckle, barely wheezed out of lungs that struggled to gulp in air even as he stumbled toward the wreckage, stepping into the gaping maw that the rocks had carved into the bilge. 

Looters would be along shortly — he would know more than most, and he didn’t want to walk away with nothing; even amongst the tattered remains of a life well lived, surely there was something to aid him? Much as it didn’t feel right to take anything from around the bodies of his fallen shipmates, if he was to even have a shot at living — for them, for himself — he would need all he could get. 

His faithful pack, a lovely hardleather thing stained a crimson almost as deep as its pockets had survived with him, blessedly, and he slung it on his back as he continued to fumble around the ship’s corpse — and the corpses of those that littered it — for anything that might be of use. He found a dagger that was still in good condition — Gilpin’s, he realized — and though he remembered the way the boatswain would often twirl it as he went about his business in mourning, he still slipped it into his belt and moved on, trying to remember the man as the lively quartermaster that he had been, and not the graying body with its head nearly severed that he ended up as.

Sure, they’d been pirates, but they had all deserved better, Hanvesh thought. And I should’ve died with ‘em. 

They had hardly kept all of their treasure aboard their ship — they had far too much of it — but there was more than enough gil kept on hand for trade that he could easily purchase arms and armor for himself — provided he made it back to a town. He hoarded every coin he found in his pack — he’d count it later. Scrambling up the remains of the companionway, he made it to the captain’s quarters, brushed past the barely there door that clung to the doorway by a bent hinge, and staggered inside.

Miraculously, the cabin was largely dry — and intact, save for the bits and baubles strewn about the floor, in pieces. Hanvesh stepped over them, pulling the maps and charts down from the wall and folding them carefully into his pack; he knew he would need them desperately. Amidst the broken trinkets on the floor, he found the captain’s compass, its weighted brass casing, while scuffed, had protected the compass from the wreck, and he pocketed it for use later. As his eyes wandered around the cabin for anything lightweight that he could put to use, he felt an anger swell in his chest the likes of which he had never felt before; they all wound up like this because of Captain Marlow — their captain, the man they had trusted to know what was best for the crew! And his folly had led them all here! For a few long moments, he stood there, letting the reality of the end of this chapter of his life — and how it all ended — sink in. 

Too long, he realized with a curse when he began to hear distant shouting. Looters had already found their wreckage — or local authorities had beaten them to it, for once — but either way, he needed to leave — now. He turned to leave when he caught sight of a small flag of theirs — with their colors — still intact on the wall. His hand, still trembling and clammy, gripped at the fabric and ripped it off the wall, stuffing it into his pack and clamoring out, climbing above the cabin and up onto the afterdeck, creeping along toward the upturned stern of the ship, he peered over the railing just in time to see who was approaching. 

They weren’t looters — couldn’t have been; their weapons were too nice, too standard issue, to say nothing of the uniforms. No, these were Knights of the Barracuda. A blessing, then — provided he slipped past them undetected; if he could spot which squadron they were, he would have a better understanding of where he was. 

Hanvesh flattened himself against the deck as much as he could, still watching them through the railings as the woman he presumed to be the squadron leader barked orders to search for survivors. His elongated ears pricked up at the sound of boots thumping against the remains of the deck wood, and cursed — he was trapped.

Unless, of course, the leader of the squadron moved. Clenching his hands into fists, he silently willed the woman to just move toward the ship bilge, the same way he had come up, so that he could slip over the railing and disappear into the trees just beyond the beach. If she didn’t…he unclenched a hand and gripped the hilt of Gilpin’s dagger. His hands might feel shaky, and he absolutely wasn’t at his full strength, but if it meant making it out alive… 

Still. Best to avoid confrontation, he decided.

Blessedly, Llymlaen had decided to grant him pity, as the woman stepped up to the bilge to inspect some of his fallen shipmates. Taking the opportunity for what it was, he shimmied between the railings, his long, narrow body easily slipping between two posts and allowing him to hang from the other side. 

As Hanvesh righted himself and just before he lowered himself to hang, he caught sight of one of the Barracudas who had climbed atop the afterdeck, though had not yet spotted him in the dark. He spied the crest on the shoulder of the armor — the 9th Squadron. So, he thought, glancing back into the thicket of trees. They had crashed in the Sea of Jade somewhere? He rather hoped it was farther in toward the Rothlyt Sound; he could slip into Gridania or Gyr Abania better that way. If he was on an island just off the shore…well. He’d stolen ships before.

Bracing himself— because he could hear the Knight on the afterdeck drawing closer— Hanvesh let go of the floorboard. 

His already uneasy legs buckled underneath him in the wet sand, and though he sunk to his knees he scrabbled to stand under himself and the added weight of his pack. Though he teetered on falling on his side like a baby turtle he managed to right himself despite his muscles, his very skin protesting his movements, and sprinted into the treeline.

There came a shout from one of the Knights that he heard someone take off into the trees, and Hanvesh spat a curse, even as he begged his body to obey him and move faster. He couldn’t hope to out maneuver them with stealth; though his wounds were not grievous, they still bled, and hounds that the Knights of the Barracuda were, they’d sniff him out afore he had even gotten his bearings. In the thicket of trees that he now dashed and stumbled through, however, they were slower than he, and he used that to his advantage. 

The trunk of a mighty tree splintered near his shoulder— a bullet! Hanvesh realized with alarm when his ears rang with the crack of ignited gunpowder— they were opening fire on him! Did they think him a bandit, or worse, did they not want survivors to cry foul for them taking the Devil’s cut of his ship’s hard won plunder?

Doesn’t matter, have to keep moving, Hanvesh decided, beginning to duck and weave in odd patterns to avoid making his path a straight line: if these bastards wanted a shot at him, they’d have to work for it.

So Hanvesh ran. He ran and ran until his ears could no longer pick up on the sounds of his pursuers shouting commands at one another. He ran until the whistle of stray bullets faded away until there was only the rhythmic thumping of his feet on the hard earthen ground. He ran until he saw the trees thin out and give way to walking trails and silence reigned in the forests. He ran until he all but collapsed against a guidepost panting, flushed, and trembling like the leaves that fluttered in his wake. 

Still, his eyes yet availed him, and he looked up at the sign— Northeast up the path to Gridania, forty malms. His poor fortune had lifted, somewhat: at least he knew he was close to civilization. He need only make it there without dying in the process.

His spirits still heavy and his limbs like lead, Hanvesh Arcbane moved onward and upward, to what he could only hope were better prospects than the rubble of the life he left behind.

[determined-magi]

...

“ So... we are back to the beginning, aren’t we not? “

“ No, we are not, do not forget that. “

“ It feels more like we are steps backwards to where we were to begin with, Gil. “

“ We... are a little behind, yes. I will not lie, Rho’s little incident... as well as both Thannor’s, Braigons and Fleur did a little of a commotion. As did our royal friend here... “

“ It won’t be royalty in a few more years, remember, I shall abdicate to let my brother take the crown... “

The sight is rather a calming one, or perhaps the spells are acting again accordingly as they should? Who knew, it didn’t really matter. Their eyes keep gazing to the golden sky as the sun slowly sets before them, hands by their sides or laps as they take seat in the ledge of the ravine. The wind carries to them the last scents of the flowers and plants bellow, from the coming spring about to come towns, villages and cities alike.

“ More like earn fear from our people to us and them, if you ask me. “

They don’t say much, none of them. Just a hum of agreement. They watch the shadows descend on them, and the last rays leave their skin. Staying in their resting positions, until the stars are all above them, and the moon in the middle. They wonder, now what? The threat of war, civil or between kingdoms, has finally faded. As most of their active animosity against monsterkind. Though not without a price, magekind has gained similar scorn to their non-human equals, thanks to them. It was hard to ease the distrust and resentment behind them and their fellows, and had been quite a feat to achieve this tense peace, more so in such short span.

How would they achieve amendments? How could they? Even with help, it feels a little overwhelming for the seven mages. They brought the most destruction to men and monster alike, and still held the same potentialPossibly even more. The consecuences of their actions made lifting their foots harder than taking every new step, even dragged them back sometimes. Their words both barely avoided falling on deaf ears, and felt true to them as they spoke through numbed thoughts and hollow eyes. Even as they tried to believe in them as the others did (or even as they began to wonder on the concept, the closest thing to having hope as of now). And who knew if they were just listening out of fear for harsh reprimands?

They try to push the thoughts away for now, let themselves enjoy this peace...

It had been a while since they did so together, away from their people, away from the speed of life humanity had; the noises, the complexity that by the decades only grew, and need to feign more of their former selves than what they already had. In this place they didn’t have to do so, it was just them, and the forest that had seen them from rise to fall; ever watching but never judging. A thing both comfortable and yet unerving.

They keep staring, staring to the sky in thoughtfull gazes. The stars seemed particularly bright this night, even with the full moon by their sides. A few shooting stars greet them, or perhaps say their farewell? Either way, they know the day is soon to come, the killing wheel soon to rise, like all days before. Sun up, sun down; sun up, and yet sun down again. And like farmers with their roosters, they would need to leave soon, for yet another cycle to repeat, and attempt to try bring at last a once dreamed peace...

“ So... are we ready to test this one out? “

It isn’t like their usual joined magics, but it comes as close without risks they want not to take. They watch their arms take on a less solid appearance, something between smoke, fire and lightnight trailing behind their movements. So far it’s going well.

“ On the count of three? “

“ Nah.“

It is Agar who just throws himself to the distant ground bellow, followed by the others immediatelly in exhasperated sighs. Some things never changed did they? There is something oddly pleasant from feeling the wind rush through their ears, and watching the trail they leave behind, ashen and sparking. As they watch the quickly coming ground a hand gestures for the next part of the spell to work. And their body seems to be engulfed in what trailed behind them. Until all seen is a group of what seems like a mix of rireballs and lightning, trailing itself over the tree tops as the rush themsevels to the place they were expected to be at...

The city is, for most of the part, silent, except the few pet agitating slightly to their arrival. Giving a light vibration to the ground as their landing anounces them, thankfully away from watching guards. The spell takes some time to fade away, but they worry not, no one is watching them as they walk the lamp lit streets.

“ Is it really necessary to add the smoke and fire? I find unnecessary. “

“ Well, I feel like we should still have some nice aesthetics. “ Agar answers.

“ By making it look like demons are raining from above? “ Braigon inquires.

“ Is not like we’ll use it for this next time, geez “ Rhowën soon defends, in aid to his red friend.

“ Then why did you suggest this? “ Thanneth questions with a risen eyebrow.

“ Future battlefield arrivals? “ Both red and yellow mage answer.

“ You both, I swear to god... “ Gilrin sighs.

“ Perhaps we should move faster? “ Thannor suggest.

Ah, yes... right. It was supposed to be until midnight...

Likely they already know, but one can hope.

[gurguliare]

the part with gwindor and finduilas's private conversation about turin and beren and etc

[ @crocordile asked for Turin and Finduilas’s “But you are queenly” convo and I kind of folded it into this. WRITING ABOUT WRITING IS REALLY HARD. ]

It was a tradition in Nargothrond that matters of war were debated before an assembly, in the great cavern where the river Ringwil raised all speech to a bellow on its back, and so—though Orodreth and all his councillors were slain, and Gwindor died first of those princes—Dirhaval had only to ask a cook who had taken a shift off to go hearken—and who later had run like a deer through the smoke in the forest, all the way west—to learn what words passed between Gwindor and Túrin before Túrin led Gwindor’s people to war; and, further, what words passed between Gwindor and the king, when Gwindor came unburdened out of Angband to his door.

The cook had short brown hair and a slumbering beauty, a long face with a short nose on a long neck, rounded shoulders not a fault when setting off her face, although she never straightened; she laughed like an old woman when she remembered how Turin had found the dwarf-helm. “Ha! oh, ha! Ha, ha, how daring we thought him, out to out-glower the orcs—none of our lords would have made themselves so ugly. And he said: ‘Valiant defense of the borders and hard blows ere the enemy gathers; in that course lies the best hope of your long abiding together. And do those that you speak of love such skulkers in the woods, hunting strays like a wolf, better than one who puts on his helm and figured shield, and drives away the foe, be they far greater than all his host?’ But I forget what else,” she added, going blank, using a Sindarin term humans had coined. I unremembered. She did not mean ‘I forget’; she meant, ‘I did not hear,’ or ‘I understood it poorly,’ or ‘I am not interested in the wretched end of a memory that began in merriment.’ And he could not press her, who would, in her politeness—determined to match his words to the words that she had learned—would say only and firmly, “I forget.”

But never mind. He guessed the drift of Túrin’s thought. Túrin (he was sure) thought always of his mother and his sister, who were to him the whole of Dor-lómin, who feasted on his feats of arms and withered when he cowered. He knew Túrin. Gwindor was another matter; do those that you speak of love such skulkers, had Gwindor had an answer?

What did Gwindor think of women?

Finduilas, unlucky lady, won passage for her lover and the stranger whom he led. When first Dirhaval heard the tale, she was a second Nienor; high-hearted and sorrowing, golden as dragon-mail—perhaps seven feet tall. She leaped barefoot from the dais, the throng parted for her, and she took Gwindor’s hand between her hands.

Perhaps she had. He found another watcher, a chemist-turned-fletcher who came to Nargothrond in Curufin’s train, and left in Celebrimbor’s ragtag, rallied flock—though now Celebrimbor dwelled with Gil-Galad on the Isle and this chemist, somehow, sat whetting arrow-points in Sirion, warning bystanders from his little pot of poison. This was an elf with weak blue eyes that shivered in their high seat, and vanished when he yawned, which was often; he said that Finduilas, before her father’s throne, pleaded amid a hundred voices, and although her voice was high and pure none other hushed, knowing it too well. First her voice, then her quick feet, and then at last her words were heard through that low hall, before her fair head plunged out of gloom, hands held before her like a diver’s hands. In this description Dirhaval heard the chemist’s blindness and the fletcher’s venomed aim, but nonetheless it lodged in him with barbs, and he dreamed of a lady who in girlhood harbored the gleam of new-hardened wheat, and now was white-haired, clad in white, alone.

But maybe she was brave and not high-hearted. If she came to her father’s other councils, none now living could confirm it: I forget, said the cook. I was away, said the purblind fletcher.

Túrin himself had spoken of Finduilas to the people of Brethil. He called her queenly, and a golden tree, though he said it—said the woodsman—seated by the mound, and meant perhaps to plant one there. Túrin had a straightforward enough imagination.

He took to reading Gwindor’s lines in his father’s louring tone; alone by the creek, he sat perched on driftwood and croaked to himself, “A woman is not easily deceived.” Nay, a woman is not easily deceived. Nor will you find many—nor will you find many who deny that they are loved, if that is true—and he felt a warm glow rise in him, as though he had announced to the forking stream that he was loved. Which he was, he thought; how else to explain the willows touching fingers to the green shapes in the current? Like a wicker bridge, woven for men to climb and meet themselves. Sunlit evening, tall overhead, sewed for the river a shirt of bright rings. To hear there was the spill of the water, going on its belly over stones. Yes: all of that and more. How was it that Gwindor, dead, could make him laugh and look with kindness on his father, who would shortly—in a little while—drive his poor pledged sister mad? Linnor had threatened twice already to turn him out, to make his way—she said—as Dirhaval, in a hut of reeds.

I have a house, Dirhaval argued. Not only that, I will never starve, for every hall accepts me. I have a place in the king’s own lodge when I hunt with his riders. She had his pen out of his fist and held the point very near to his eye. She said, You live in the hollow.

This was Sirion. The reeds grew to man-height, so thickly that they seemed to stand by leaning on stacked neighbors. It was hard enough to find a slender reed to cut a nib from. In wind-tossed thickets on the shore he did hear the whisper of pens dulling on the page, but preferred not to listen, as already he sometimes feared he would go mad.

“Hello,” said the cook.

He jumped to his feet, bowed, smiled; cursing himself indifferently, he relaxed when she smiled as well. She had a basket of baked fish and offered him a trout still on its skewer, and, when he took it, sat beside his place on the log, calling him to sit also. Wind lifted her short hair and showed her reddened cold ears, small and round for an elf’s, but pricked as though attentive to far sounds, and yellow at the center from the light.

“I have remembered something,” she added, inconsequentially. “My aunt’s husband was Guilin’s steward. Everyone in my family hated him because he  because he always making up to us with stories about the great princes. He said that Gwindor and Finduilas fought much over the Adanedhel’s love for her.”

Dirhaval considered the fish with great interest. He had been told triumph lent him a fierce expression. He had no wish to scare his friend off now.

“Raised voices—he overheard—Gwindor said, ‘Why does he seek you out, and sit long with you, and come ever more glad away?’ And that was true, I remember; they sat together in all kinds of places, on the terraces, in the treasury, and even by the earthworks for the bridge. No doubt he told her much you would be glad to know. But as for me, I think Gwindor a fool; few men would have loved her for listening. It reminds them what they hold dear in themselves.”

“That’s true,” he said. The first time he had interviewed her, she had spoken for an hour about the cavern of assembly, like an egg on its side—but so vast!—and with stalactites Finrod himself had sung down into pillars, or was it that he had worn holes in the walls parting small caves, she couldn’t decide; and the window on the river, whence a grey light came, like a shadow thrown on the gliding light of a thousand lamps and torches. And now when she spoke it was matter-of-fact and with hardly a jibe at her uncle. She was Túrin to him in that moment with her straight-sloping neck, the flushed skin of her neck and jaw with her face as fair as fair could be near sunset, the cupful of shadow under her chin. He had burned the roof of his mouth. The fish was tender, almost flavorless, flaking between his teeth like a cake of river-flesh; a little muddy, even, as all water here was. He ate the crisped-black skin for a whiff of charcoal, which coated his mouth. “Don’t you love me, your loyal hearer?”

She gave him a startled wink; and smiled, and smiled.

“I do not think Finduilas loved the Mormegil either. Or, that is, I believe they loved one another as sister and brother.”

Trying to lick his fingers clean just spread around the soot. Among the things she had told Dirhaval was that she was an only child. But he was inclined to believe her, almost. To Finduilas Túrin should have been a child. She must have wanted to love him like a brother—it would have been best, by far clearer and finer, to love him as a brother, even when her death walked near. The death he handed her down to; but if they were kin, it would have been her right to love him, blaming him.

“Do you not agree?”

“I can’t say.” Up again to pace. She followed him, basket on her arm, and settled onto her haunches when she saw he had no journey in mind. He stood when he performed, which was not hard, but it made him more restless when alone. “I think—by the time—no, Túrin did not love her, and as for Finduilas, well, surely she cared for Gwindor? If they argued. Let’s see. And Túrin pursued her at last and fell in a swoon on her grave, we know that. And he loved Gwindor; how not, when Gwindor was with him at Ivrin? But Gwindor—I suppose—Gwindor must have hated him. No. He must have hoped Túrin loved Finduilas, and that was why he couldn’t be persuaded of the truth. For he would have wanted her to be happy, in the end.”

“Oh, no!”

His mood tipped down at once. “Oh no,” he agreed, and took his sandals off and stepped into the stream. His mother had said once that both he and his father were happier than other men, but that they had no ballast, to keep steady the craft. If he took on an ounce of grief he’d sink, and yet he felt the flood almost as freedom. It made him more the master than had his dry, feckless race, his high-riding. As long as he struggled he had yet to succumb; that was the rule for a wasted evening. From here he could trace all the way on to a night of stars. He ought to go and beg a cup of sour milk from Linnor, or go and sing a service for the king. 

But it was day, it was red evening. It was his companion’s grief, filling his mind from above. She crouched and watched the far bank huge-eyed, not a tear in evidence, eyes opened but sealed, as it seemed, against sadness that strove for entry, not escape; she sat with wide mouth cracked, nostrils flared, sucking in great absent sniffs of sea-wind. She was besieged as an afterthought, safe and calm except besieged.

(Gwindor surely wished Finduilas joy. Finduilas, dying, remembered Túrin, and told him where his quest should end. The feathered tops of the reeds glowed on dark stems, like a fire in a field of reeds—there before nightfall he planted for ever the standards of the Noldor and their unsheathed swords, kindling in the dawn.)

He washed his hands and greasy beard in the river. “Your fish will be cold,” he advised. He had abandoned hope of dinner until she brought it, but that was no reason to encourage bad habits in her. Then he had to pick some scales out of his teeth, and couldn’t elaborate, but he heard her uncover the basket, anyway.

He had met her before with a handful of salt, pressing a few grains to her mouth to check their purity. “Dirhaval,” she said wisely, mouth full. “Dirhaval, I have forgotten how to cook.” Meaning she had no spices, witched ovens, and trained assistants—maybe, to her, it was really as though she had forgotten; it was at least something else she had lost.

[guginosource]

JETT 1.02: Charles Junior