#ffxiv creative writing

[sootcloak]

Long-Forgotten Familiarity

January 2021 Prompt - Falling

Exactly 420 (NICE) words of dialogue and more establishing moments which should help me further place how Vavara and Gaius relate to one another. Short, quiet, and uneventful.

@seaswolchallenge

    “You’re certain?” The voice on the other end is cloaked in static. The wind whipping around her forces her to press the linkshell further into her ear with one finger.

    “Legatus, please. Have some confidence in me.” She breathes the words, a metallic whisper.

    “It’s hostile territory, if something goes wrong-” Gaius’ voice is calm and steady, but there’s an anxious edge to it.

    “I’ve failsafes in place. I’m not a greenhorn.” She interrupts.

    “I don’t like sending you alone, Lieutenant.” She hears him sigh over the linkshell, can picture him reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose as he does.

    “But, the information on the final Weapon is too important. Get it, and return safely.” She nods to the pilot of the airship, and walks steadily to the edge of the deck.

    “As if there’s any other possible outcome.” She steps off, tumbling down into the dark. Wind whipping. Weightless. Her eyes flicker with light and life as she drops, the aether burning in her as she tunes her core to it’s roaring song.

--

    “As if there’s any other possible outcome.” The linkshell cuts. Just static and dead air. Gaius leans back, shoulders meeting cold, white stone. Why was he worried? A monster like her would be more than a match for any unfortunate soul who crossed her. She’d survived for years under the Empire’s nose before taking flight to Eorzea.

    He’d sent men and women on countless missions, each more uncertain than this one. And yet, a flighty, gnawing anxiety stings his stomach. His mind flies, unbidden, to seeing the footage of her role in Bozja. Roaring flames. An awful, ruthless revenant standing atop wreckage and death piled high. Those eyes, shining emerald like the light of the lifestream, ever visible through the smoke and shade.

    Then, that night by the fountain. The bottle of Lominsan rum. A confession of past deaths, of a strange undeath. There had been kinship there, in the ashes of past lives brought low. Someone who not only tolerated but understood him - that burning need to make it right, to take one’s fate back into their own hands. But none of it will come free, and thus far the price has never fallen on him.

    He shakes his head. It does not good to dwell on such thoughts. He pushes away from the wall and moves for the square. Best talk to the Ironworks rep there on the progress of their research. At least then, he’ll have something to occupy his nerve-wracked mind.

[sootcloak]

Here’s a Health to the Company

January Prompt 2021 - Tea

~1800 words of set dressing, friendly bickering, and light conversation. Good intentions and good fortune abound, for once. Features Lyse heavily, and Raubahn to a lesser extent. Spoilers for Stormblood’s post-patch cycle.

@seaswolchallenge

“It’s been ages. You have to swing by!” Lyse’s voice carries through the camp. She rests her hips on the map table, a Resistance officer behind her trying to work around the fine, lacey tassels of her dress. On hand is glued to her ear, the linkshell in it abuzz with occasional, painful bursts of static.

    “Kzzch - both busy. Besides, what would we do. Gossip about lovers?” Vavara’s voice, blending with the static and buzz, rings over the shell. It emerges from the interference like the shadow of a shark breaking the surface with it’s fin. The sarcasm is palpable despite the humming static.

    “Oh come on - there’s this tea I’ve been making that I was dying to share with you.” Her voice gets quieter as one of her officers shoots her a glare. She takes a deep sigh as she tries to listen through the buzz.

    “I haven’t had a drink like that in a long time - can’t taste it anymore. Thought you knew that?” It isn’t an accusatory question, just confused.

    “I do, I do - but trust me; This one’s worth having, especially for you.” Lyse says. 

    “I don’t know - my mark is-” There’s a dogged tone in her voice, tired and worn down.

    “You said it yourself a few days ago, he’s gone to ground, right?” She leans on the last word, stretching it a few moments longer.

    “Yes, he has. But that doesn’t mean I can traipse off to take a vacation.” Vavara’s voice reluctantly returns, slow and deliberate.

    “Just leave someone else to keep an eye out, and have them ring you if he moves. It isn’t hard, Vara. Just delegate some. You’re not the only one with keen eyes and sharp ears, you know.” She keeps her tone peppy while maintaining a low volume.

    “...” The other end isn’t totally silent, a quiet grumble barely cutting over the white noise. Lyse’d heard breezes with more bluster.

    “Oh, come on. You never take time for yourself!” She exclaims.

    “I read.” Vavara says halfheartedly.

    “What, instruction and repair manuals?” Lyse jests.

    “I… Well, it’s…” Vavara’s voice, stammering and stunned, betrays a kind of shock and surprise. 

    “Wait - no, seriously? Your response to being told you need to relax is to look at all the technical manuals you’ve sifted through? No, we’re taking some time. That’s final.” She says. She crosses her free arm across her chest.

    “Just you and I? Not in public?”

    “Ah, yeah my place. Raubahn might step in for a moment, but probably not long. That a problem?”

    “No, no. It’s fine. Send me the details, I’ll show.”

    “Wonderful!”

--

    Lyse’s nose wrinkles at the stench of the pot in front of her. She nods sullenly to herself, then closes the lid. Carrying it as one would an explosive, she brings it to a small table besides the hearth in her small, streetside home. The bustle of Ala Mhigo’s streets is audible outdoors.

    The dusty light streaking into the building from the windows casts an orange-red glow throughout the sandstone rooms. Rugs are cast across the sparse floor - overlapping in many places. Hanging over the hearth is an old turban and mask, a pair of heavy metal knuckles flanking the cloth and brass.

    The first knock on the door is soft and subtle. A soft tapping which could be confused for the building settling. 

    The second, which follows almost immediately afterwards, is a pair of heavy bangs akin to the buckling of shields and splintering of wood. She can hear the metal of her hinges strain.

    “Jeez - yeah, yeah! I heard you!” She sets the pot down alongside the cups and saucers. When she reaches the door and swings it wide, the grinning face of Raubahn looms overhead. In his shadow below by his knees is a scowling woman of deathly pale skin and hair the color of gravel and sand. She glances up over her shoulder at Raubahn. As her gaze flits back to Lyze, she speaks.

    “Ran into each other on the way. I asked him to be quiet, lest I draw unwanted attention. Ex-Imperials aren’t historically wanted here.” Her voice in person is always a little jarring. There’s a metallic bent to it, like she was still speaking through a linkshell. And it’s soft - quiet as a breeze but with none of the gentleness.

    “It’s been a long time. You look well.” She continues. One of Raubahn’s hands drops to her shoulder giving her a strong shake.

    “Nevermind that - you haven’t been in the city since we got it out of the Empire’s hands. Things have cooled off since then.” He glances up from her, “May we come in?” His voice is loud, but not {a word for obtrusive & rude}

    “Oh! Yes, sorry.” Lyse stands aside, and the duo quickly cross the threshold. Vavara moves to close the door. Raubahn reaches over and throws it shut. “Food’s almost done, go ahead and sit down.”

    As she darts back over to the kitchen, Vavara puts a few feet between herself and the General. She shoots him a side-eyed glare.

    “Did you have to make a scene?” She says, voice a quiet hiss.

    “Better than making others believe we’ve something to hide.” He moves to the table, pulling a chair out and taking his seat with a relieved groan.

    “Don’t we?”

    “Maybe in your eyes. But any doubt which could have been shed on you has long been proven false. At least in my eyes. Shouldn’t have to hide in the city in which you grew up.”

    “It is not that simple.” Vavara stalks over to the window, drawing the curtains closed.

    “I know. Forgive my bluster and noise, then. I had hoped it would reassure, not invoke anxiety.”

    “Forget it.” She steps lightly to her chair, hopping up onto it and slinging her spear and rifle onto it’s back in one fluid motion.

    Lyse emerges with a small basket of steaming bread, sliding it onto the table before pouring a cup in front of each seat. Her face beams. A smile like sunlight in the dim room.

    “How’s Tahve’ir?” Lyse says as she plops down into her seat. Vavara’s eyes snap to hers, a look of surprise on her face.

    “He’s working. He’s struggling to keep up, too much to do and too little time to properly rest. It takes a long time to adjust. I remember that.”

    “Good lad. Registered with the Flames, ‘fore I left. Never pegged him as the sort to run out of energy on the job, though.”

    “Yeah, last I saw him at the Stones he was practically buzzing with energy. Thought he’d be able to keep up.”

    “He did. Still is, despite his exhaustion. But he needs to sleep. I don’t. He’s learning the tricks to keeping himself standing, though.” She takes measure of the expressions of the other two, then continues, “Before you ask - he’s currently fine. An old colleague is watching after him, she’ll keep him safe and give him time to recuperate when necessary.”

    “Always best to have someone watch your back.” Raubahn nods.

    “Yeah, Papalymo was that for me - reminding me to take time for myself. Rest. Eat. Sleep. All that.” She speaks with a melancholic nostalgia, then perks up for a moment, “Oh, right! The tea. One of his old favorites. It tastes awful, but the texture was always really pleasant and I remember that you can still feel temperatures.” She takes the cup in front of her in one hand and sips quickly. Her face wrinkles and she grimaces.

    “Yeah, yeah that’s awful.” She confirms.

    “Can’t be that bad.” Raubahn’s eyes widen as he takes a hearty draught. He has to fight to not spit the dark tea out. After a forceful gulp he chokes out a question, “Seven hells, what is that?!”

    “Some old Sharlayan tea he used to keep his Aether refreshed.” Lyse explains. “Papalymo always brewed it when he woke up.”

    Vavara holds the cup in both hands. The clay is hot, a pleasant stinging in her right hand seeping through the leather of her gauntlets. Emerald eyes regard it for a moment, and then with a gentle, cautious motion she takes a drink.

    It’s thick, almost syrupy. The heat is stinging. Her senses of taste and scent are mostly ruined, but there’s a bitterness to it that even she can feel. But the warmth is pleasant. Glowing. She pauses, and then takes another small sip.

    “Thought it would suit you.” Lyse says, a hint of pride in her voice. “I found it in some of his old notes, and I knew I just had to try it. It was awful!” She sets her own cup back down in its saucer. Makes a tiny clink.

    “Then why-” Raubahn coughs into a handkerchief. “Why put us through that, if you already knew?!” He clears his throat, and reaches for one of the pieces of fresh-baked bread.

    “Like I said - it suits her.” She jerks a thumb at Vavara, “Papalymo actually liked the flavor, but mostly drank it because it helped stabilize his aether for spellcasting. Vara’s not going to be slinging spells like that around, but it’s still-”

    “I like it.” She interrupts Lyse. Eyes on the slowly draining cup between her hands. The ghost of bitter roots lingers in her mouth. Her words are barely audible. There’s a profound emotion at the edge of her mind - something akin to longing. A memory given the faintest of forms.

    She can almost, almost, taste it.

    Lyse’s smile is like a sunbeam. She grabs her own cup in a firm grip and hoists it towards the rafters.

    “Then to your health!” She throws the cup back and downs the whole thing in one, awful, sloppy gulp. The hot tea dribbles down her neck, and as she comes away from the cup she smears at it with her free arm. “Ugggghhhh, I hate it!” She shivers with her whole body. Raubahn’s laughter feels like it shakes the stones beneath them. Both glance over to Vavara, who’s not broken her gaze on her own cup, as though unsure if it would be taken out from under her if she looked away. She takes small, long sips. Her eyes eventually, with painstaking slowness, close. An expression of uncertain contentment falls over her in settling shades.

    Lyse shoots a genuine smile over at Raubahn, and the two fill the room with chatter. White noise and pleasant conversation. An atmosphere of warmth. For her part, Vavara is satisfied to just sit there and soak in the small sensations - the phantom of warmth in the room, the ghost of bitterness in the drink, the way her aether hums and simmers rather than roaring aloud and boiling within her breast.

    In the way that for once, she feels both at ease and alive.

[sootcloak]

Though I Walk Shadowed Paths

~1000 words. Urianger’s involved. Generally self indulgent. Not a ship thing, just a moment of emotional vulnerability. Takes place immediately following my response to the ‘Scion’ prompt. Found Here

January Prompt: Apart - (of two or more people or things) separated by a distance; at a specified distance from each other in time or space.

@seaswolchallenge

    Vavara’s boots echo as she storms out of the Seventh Heaven. Her gear on her back clatters. Eyes aglow and face knitted into a focussed snarl. She whistles once, loud. A grey feathered chocobo in travel packs trots over.

    Kweh?

    She wordlessly throws her gear into place on the bird. Her hands grip the straps and buckles tight enough to make it creak. Her teeth are gritted. A soft, heartbeat pulse of emerald light trickles down the gunmetal seams running down from her eyes. Her shoulders shake once, then three times. A shaking, breathless, tearless sob.

    She pulls herself up onto the bird in one motion. Turns her face from the bar.

    “Lady Ashenheart-!” The doors slam open as her bird takes the first step. Urianger’s voice. Makes her gears catch just a beat in her chest. She turns her head just enough to catch him out of the corner of her eye.

    “I’m leaving.” She says, voice firm even in her soft tone.

    “I have been able to surmise as much.” He says, feet coming to rest besides her bird. “You are well prepared and provisioned, I expect?” Tone grave, eyes sharp, he looks from her to the bird.

    “Aurash is fed and prepared for whatever journey you have in mind?” He continues.

    “Yes.” She nods.

    “Good. If you would do me the honor for a moment, I would like a word with you ere you depart. It is my understanding you do not agree with many of our decisions and plans, yet we still find ourselves with common enemies and goals.” His words flow as cool water.

    “Can’t change my mind.” She says.

    “I expect no less of you - you made your decision long before this day, I do suspect. And thus it would not be considerate of me to believe my words would be that which sways you.” He says. She turns fully in her seat to face him, the bird chirping quietly.

    “Walk alongside Aurash - I’m not about to stay in town after that fuss.” She gestures up and out of town with one hand, towards Coerthas.

    “As you wish.” He nods, and keeps pace with the bird as it trots slowly out the gate. Neither say much as they head up the hill. But his eyes are both sharp and quick - he sees the jerks in her posture. The way her eyes remain straight ahead, as though locked in place. Her tight grip on the reins. The tell tale signs of someone working to keep their composure. If she could cry, he imagines she would be.

    “It had been my hope that you would remain for a short time - we are to expect Lyse’s arrival in a few days. It is certain that she comes bearing news from the Resistance. That said - you are more than capable of seeking that information on your own. But since you are to leave, I wish to assure you of something.”

    “Speak plainly.” She says with a bitter curtness. Pain barely hidden in her voice.

    “Of course. Though we may stand apart, as I said earlier we share many commonalities. Should you have need of support of any kind, you are welcome to reach out to myself or the other Archons. I know you and Miss Miria have had your conflicts. Her passion often blinds her to the harm she does, or the harm she allows herself to ignore. I bid you remember that even should we stride apart from one another, we are not enemies.” The pair reach the gate as he finishes. She pulls Aurash to a stop and glances across to Urianger.

    “Is that all?” Her words are hoarse.

    “One last thing - if I may.” He leans on the last half of the sentence, his tone dropping in volume and formality.

    “You may.” She says, voice spread thin and worn down. Too tired to protest.

    “It seems you do not consider yourself to be among our number - this I can plainly understand. Your path has been shadowed and harried by much darker shades than many of us would dare to dream. Every manner of war and battle, you have long waged it under too many banners. You have offered yourself to a dozen kinds of deaths - I have seen two of them. To see others hasten themselves to similar pain as you have long endured, I imagine it to be vexing and irritating.

    “But I and the other Archons, no matter our differences, we will miss you dearly. And look forward to a time when we may stand together without tension or pain. Once there was a time I would have left such things unsaid - I have learned to ‘speak plainly’ as you commanded earlier lest they be left forever unheard.”

    She takes a sharp, shaking breath. Her eyes shine dimly, in line with the beat of her core. She squeezes them shut. One hand finds the feathers of her bird, steadying herself in her saddle.

    “Regardless of Miss Miria’s words, you are not cowardly for seeking a different path. And you have not betrayed us by giving name and number to the risks we have long taken. Should a time come when we stand face-to-face again, I will welcome it with open arms. Rejoice at your return, even. Please, as you wander long and far, do not forget that you may yet find a warm hearth here in the Rising Stones.” He offers one arm, wide and outstretched.

    She strikes over into it, a shaking sob taking her. Her arms wrap around his neck. Her face buried into his shoulder.

    “Daft bookworm.” She scolds under soft gasps, gears catching on one another and metal scraping. “You just can’t let me have the last word…” His outstretched arm loops around her shoulders.

    He holds her through a dozen more shaking tremors. Not another word passes his lips until she gently pulls away. Her face, dry as a doll’s, lies without the tension he saw earlier. Just the quiet resolve he’d seen time and time again. She nods to him, once. He steps away, expression soft and warm.

    “Never, Lady Ashenheart. If it is not too much trouble - do remain in contact as much as your work will allow.”

    “I will try. Tahve’ir would have me roasted alive otherwise. He’s too soft on you lot.” She says, takes stock of Revenant’s Toll, and then pushes Aurash away on the road. Doesn’t look back.

    He watches her go, vanish around the bend, and then quietly returns to the Rising Stones. 

A furious calm on his face.

[sootcloak]

Like A Rope Pulled Too Tight

~750 words of dialogue between OCs.

January Prompt: Moment - A very brief period of time.

@seaswolchallenge

    “How’s the food” Vavara speaks below the volume of a breeze - her tone confident the linkpearl will catch it nonetheless. The grass beneath her stomach shifts with the breeze, the tall blades surrounding her swaying back and forth. The shawl of old, dyed scraps of cloth and canvas covers her almost entirely. The brim of her cap, barely peeking out.

    But the rifle, it lies uncovered. Gleaming brightly in the high noon light. It’s stock and receiver is in her shoulder, under the shawl. The barrel stretches and stretches outwards, hidden by grass instead of cloth. The scope is held near her cheek, one luminescent eye peering unblinkingly through it.

    “Not good.” The voice on the other side says. He clears his throat and takes a deep drink of something. “Tastes like sawdust. All grainy and bland. Don’t know if they even have any spices here. Even the booze is watered down.”

    “Shouldn’t be drinking on the job.” Her reprisal is sharp, biting.

    “You know it wouldn’t matter if I did or didn’t. One target, open air and clear Thanalan plains all about? This couldn’t be easier for you.” She can hear the chair creak as he leans back. His feet hit the top of the table with a dull thud.

    “He’s a mage.” She shifts her posture ever so slightly, the barrel bobbing up and down.

    “And?”

    “We don’t know what kind, just that he carries a stave. Could be able to sense the danger and shield himself, if he knows what he’s doing.” She hears him groan as she finishes.

    “You’re paranoid, Ma’am.”

    “Tahve. Paranoia has kept me kicking.” Her words carry a kind of tired kind of resolve.

    “Thought you were about to say it’s kept you alive. Woulda laughed.” She huffs once, the closest she gets to laughing while working.

    “You’re keeping quiet, right?” She asks.

    “Yeah, yeah.” He straightens in his seat. Wood creaking. “I’m not new to this. Been more than a year since you decided I was ready to come with you on hunts. Not gonna blow my cover.” As he finishes, she hears a woman ask something illegible. He loudly answers her, the feed on the linkshell cutting.

    “...” She waits. The wind still. Birds flying overhead. Insects chirping and buzzing around her. Heat baking down. Awful, burning heat. Makes her arm ache near where it meets skin. Like a brand.

    The stillness always gets in her, like a coiling, binding rope drawn too tight. Doesn’t need to blink anymore, but sit still like this too long and you’ll feel that burning in your eyes again. A kind of violent anxiousness in her bones and metal. The relief she feels when the linkshell clicks back on is palpable.

    “You’re just antsy cause I’m not Leo. Where is she, anyhow? Loves taking down mages, after what she went through.” He returns, as though nothing happened.

    “Chasing a lead - Lambs may have slipped up.” She says. She idly checks the bolt, the click-clack of the metal breaking the idyllic quiet.

    “Lambs of Dalamud? Again? Thought they were gone after Amdapor got cleared out.” He sounds more frustrated than curious.

    “Went East, apparently. To Othard.”

    “Oh, Leo’ll hate it there.” He takes a deep breath as he finishes speaking, and she hears him sit up straight and lean forward.

    “Yeah, she does. Sticks out too much, not like here in Thanalan where the lion mask and big, red mane can be written off as gladiatorial showmanship.” Her cheek finds the stock as she speaks, eye focussing in through the glass.

    “Oh, shit. He’s-” She sees the target before he finishes, stepping out onto the street flanked by two men in dark robes. The robes cover platemail, can see the outline through the thin fabric.

    “Yeah, I see his escort, too.” She says, voice monotone. Bored. Her finger inches forward into the guard. Her body stills.

    “Do I need to-” The report of her rifle bends the grass away from her, like a parting sea around the barrel. It’s ports exhale streams of steam. The noise is thunder and fire - and she hears the panicked screams twice. Once through the linkshell, another time through the echoing distance. In one moment, all at once, that tension is gone. The anxiety and stillness stripped away.

She doesn’t look to confirm the hit, just pushes to her knees and pulls the rifle onto her back. She breaks off into a low jog back towards where they left the birds.

“No. Just confirm it.”

“Yeah… Yeah, you hit him square. Center mass. Dead before he hit the ground.”

“Aye. Return once you’re clear, then.”

[sootcloak]

Either Way, I Get Paid

~1000 words. Heads up this one gets relatively graphic. Content warning for descriptions of violence.

January Prompt: Reaper - A person or machine which harvests a crop.

@seaswolchallenge

    More than anything else, his back hurt. Not stinging, unbearable pain, sure. But it hurt. For hours, he had been on his knees. Hands held behind his back by loosely-tied rope. It wouldn’t be hard to slip free - but all told there were five people in the guild building and two of them had their eyes glued on him.

    So, he kept his head and eyes down. Didn’t want to end up like the elezen teller, who tried stopping them and got his head bashed into his desk so hard the wood splintered. Could hear the blood from his head dripping onto the stone floor below. Occasionally, he could hear him breathing. If he wanted to get him the help he’d need, cooperation was key.

    Steadying his own breathing, he focussed on the sounds of the wind outside. It was blowing, gently and steadily. Always did near Tailfeather. White noise. Keeps him grounded. He can see the trees bend outside, through the window. Listening to the wind under the other people’s voices, loud and boisterous as they may be, was steadying the jitters in his hands. Could hear it jostle the door, even through the table and dresser pushed up against it.

    “Hey, long-ears.” One of the voices makes him jerk in his bindings, head springing up. He matches the gaze of one of the pirates, a tall woman with deep, blue-green skin and broad shoulders. Her face is covered in a tied rag, same as the rest of them.

    “Ask him what the code is-” Another, a stocky and round miqo’te man, pipes up from where he’s sitting behind the counter. He’s attempting to get a jimmy into the lock mechanism of the gil safe. The sound of the file on the tumblers grinds at his ears.

    “-I’m gettin’ to that, dumbass.” Broad-shoulders responds. She jerks her head back to look down at him.

    “What’s the fucking code?” She asks.

    “Wouldn’t know-” He says, truthfully.

    “It wasn’t on the giraffe.” A monstrously huge roegadyn man says, turning from the unconscious teller to broad-shoulders. His face looks like it’s gone through a shredder or meatgrinder, heavy scars running across it in even stretches. “Gotta be on him. Let’s just-” His voice is heavy and slow, like a machine chewing dirt.

    ��No, no, no.” The round one says from the safe. “Not letting you get our bounty even higher once this is done - we get the gil, we get out, we forget this ever happened. No way you add another body to this.”

    “Hrmph.” Meatgrinder just turns back to the teller, lifting his bloodied face up off the counter and checking his neck for a necklace. He drops his head with a meaty ‘plap’, and then grabs firm hold on one of the unconscious man’s ears. He pulls. A piece of flesh and something shiny rips free. Light from the window catching on an earring with an old, fake gemstone in it.

    “So if you didn’t know the code, but you work here anyways, what did you fuckin do? Mop the floor?” Broad-shoulders asks, inching closer to him. “Or maybe you did favors for the management to keep you on? A good cabin-boy, and all that?” He can’t see her jaw or mouth, but the smirk is there. He can feel it. She darts forward, snatching one of his long, furred ears in one hand and pulling him up off his knees by just an inch or so.

    He bites his lip until it bleeds, trapping the scream of pain in his chest. He can still hear the wind, whipping up to a howl outside.

    “What’s the fucking code?!” She shouts in his ear, making his vision swim with pain and disorientation. Before he has a chance to respond, something hard strikes him in the gut, sending him rolling across the floor. He coughs, air refusing to fill his emptied lungs. Broad-shoulders walks over towards him, rearing back for another kick.

    “I told you not to fuck with him!” Whining, high-pitched. With the headache coming on, some distant part of him laments how listening to his captors is going to grate on him.

    “Should just kill ‘em both and rip the safe. No witnesses.” Meatgrinder’s voice is like gravel in his skull.

    “We’re not killing them!”

    “I bet he knows, and I’m gonna get it out of him regardless of what you two loam-skulls say.” She snarls above him, turning to face her comrades.

    “Nah, fuck you. This wasn’t our deal, and I’m-”

    “You sit down.”

    The voices are loud, and they start to yell over one another. They’re all standing, getting close together. Through bleary, teared eyes, he sees Meatgrinder move to hop the counter towards the round one. His foot goes up on the wood. Glass shatters. The wind outside roars briefly, a muffled crack filling the room.

    The wall, the Miqo’te’s face cloth, his eyes, and his greying hair, are painted a deep scarlet. An awful smell seeps into the air. Meatgrinder, his chest bearing a cavity the size of someone’s arm, falls forward without making another sound.

    Broad-shoulders starts to make for the wall, away from the windows. She makes it a few steps, and then something takes her knees out from under her. Blood, her blood, splatters across his tear-soaked face and jacket. The roar of the wind is loud enough to make his ears ring, like thunder under water. She hits the ground on her back.

    Adrenaline pumping, the world’s gone silent and he can’t hear her screams. Can see them, though, from the way her face stretches and the way she grips at her leg. Can see the blood soaking her pantleg.

    The round, stocky brigand breaks out of his stupor and throws both hands up, dropping the pick and his tools. They must have made a ruckus when they hit the ground. He could feel them clatter from where he’s lying. 

    A shadow falls over them, a small figure landing on the windowsill. A single, long braid flows with the wind, a brimmed cap held snugly over her head. The wind courses through the room, near-silently making everything rustle and move. In the dark of her shadow cast by the setting sun, he can see her eyes. Shining, as though there were a light behind them, in emerald-tone hues.

    Resting on her shoulders by a strap is a rifle, it’s ported barrel still smoking.

    She drops from the window onto the ground, light as a breeze.

    “Patch them up.” She says. The way she speaks is soft and clear as a mountain stream, has the same deathly chill, too. The miqo’te begins to speak, but she tosses a bag down by broad-shoulders.

    “Patch them up, or he’ll die and get added to your sentence,” She nods at the teller, “and she’ll die and be on your conscience.” Her head nods to the side, towards the unconscious roegadyn woman. Without a sound as she moves, her gaze returns to the last standing pirate and she pulls the rifle from it’s strap. It finds its place against her shoulder like a glove fitted to her, despite its heft.

    “I don’t care. I get paid either way.” She says with an air of finality.

[sootcloak]

Face The Light

~1500 words of bickering dialogue and tense exchanges.

January Prompt: Scion - A descendant of a wealthy, aristocratic, or influential family.

@seaswolchallenge

    The atmosphere in the Rising Stones should have been warm, jolly even. The Archons returned from their stint afar, a cure for tempering discovered, and the Garlean Empire destabilized all in such a short time. Several causes for celebration. And yet -

    “You’re leaving - again.” Her voice is biting, fiery. It’s a growling thing, all passion and heat. The dark-skinned vieran woman, clad in imposing plate and standing head and shoulders above everyone else, casts her shadow and gaze both over Vavara’s back. She crosses her arms, the sound of metal-on-metal rasping. Any conversation which had been quietly humming in the background grinds to a halt, eyes slowly turning towards the center chamber.

    “Coward.” The word is less spit than fired as one would launch an arrow.

    “Aye.” Vavara says. It’s a hoarse, metallic whisper, as though heard through a linkshell. Distant.

    “So all that talk about being at our side when you’re needed - about having common enemies and goals? Bluster and hot air?”

    “Watch your words.” The metallic whistling which rides under her voice rises, like a distant siren warning of danger. A faint breeze blows through the Rising Stones.

    “Oh as if you ever watch yours. You don’t get to just walk away. This is bigger than you, than me, you can’t just abandon what we learned in the First and leave it in the past. Can’t run away from this.” She steps up, arms moving to her side and fists clenching. Can hear the leather twist and stretch in her grasp.

    “Not my fight. Can’t run from something I wasn’t party to.” Vavara adjusts the strap of her rifle, Dreizack and Long Goodbye tapping against one another.

    “Oh fuck off, you’ve been to bleeding Amaurot. You finally, finally admitted you’re blessed as I am. You can fucking toss that ‘above it all’ attitude right this fucking minute. You were chosen for this, same as me. It will find you, whether you run or not.”

    “Then it will find me on my terms. Last warning,” Vavara turns her head and shoulders, eyes casting a deep, emerald light onto the carpet. “Watch your words.”

    “Ohhh~ Spooooky~.” The Warrior of Light spreads her arms, waggling her fingers and sneering. “That kind of cheap trick works on second-rate pirates and brigands peddling Somnus, but I’m better than-”

    No one has the time to respond before Vavara’s pulled her rifle from her back and fired a round. It strikes the center-mass of her chest, plate-mail cracking and shattering. Her eyes go wide, and the wind whips around the chamber.

    With it, Vavara glides across the ground, stopping just shy of arm’s length of the other woman. The rifle’s barrel presses into the broken armor, where a shell of aether stopped the bullet right before it struck skin.

    “You’re not better than me. And we were not chosen for the same purpose, if there was any at all.” Vavara’s eyes are wide and unblinking, burning with aether and resentment. It’s a cold, searing light. “Just because you’re willing to traipse off and die a dozen more times for people who are just there to profit off you does not make you a hero. Makes you stupid and gullible. A weapon at best, a disposable one at worst. So you can drop the goddamn superiority complex.

    “You can claim you’re a hero all you like - but you’re not. You’re fucking dangerous. You encouraged a child - a twelvedamned child who is impressionable and fucking powerful in ways she did not and does not understand - to take on a primal’s aspect full-knowing it could get her killed. That she was following your lead - potentially to her death. How did Ysayle die, again?” Vavara pulls the rifle away, the wind swirling around her and a quiet, rapid vortex. Cutting and sharp and vicious, unbound.

    “How did you get Haurchefant killed?” The words aren’t accusatory, but venomous. Poking at a wound already there, prodding it back open.

    “That wasn’t-” She stammers a moment, flinching as though struck.

    “Your fault? Then who did he shield when you dashed out thinking you were fucking immortal?” Vavara presses further, stepping in so the wind pushes the tails of the viera’s armored coat backwards.

    “I am-” A brief, halfhearted defense starts, shot down immediately.

    “You’re not fucking immortal, Twelve fucking take you. Echo keeps your aether steady, stops your body from being taken by the lifestream and helps you stay in tact in the between times while you’re fucking medically dead. All it’d take to kill you is a well-placed auracite bullet or a potent stream of aether. Trap the soul, shatter the stone, same as a twelvesdamned Ascian.

    “What was that spear made of again, which would have run you through had he not fucking died to stop it? Right - pure light-aspected aether. Would’ve done wonders for your complexion, I’m sure.” Vavara says knowingly.

    “So shut the fuck up and stop pretending you’re better than me when you got two of my only twelvesdamned friends fucking killed, and nearly put the blood of a fucking child on my hands. All of you - racing off to be made martyrs - you’re just putting other people in harm's way. That’s not fucking heroic. It’s childish irresponsibility.

    “And I’ll have no part in it.”

    “So what, you’ll just run and decide you’re above fighting and dying? That you’re too important to put yourself on the line?! That’s not practical, it’s selfish! To put their deaths on me, you fucking bitch, is the height of irony! You were off murdering Crystal Braves when Haurchefant was killed! You were still off in your own blood-crazed spree when Ysayle died! Taking unjustified ‘revenge’. If you’d been there, with us, they might not have had to make that sacrifice!” The fire in her voice reignites as Vavara moves to leave again. All the shame in her posture and body evaporates, wrath and indignation subsuming it wholly.

    “What happens if the twins are in danger and need help, and no one’s there to stand with them? Would their blood be on your hands then, if not because you ran them through but because you decided that they weren’t worth saving?

    “That this wasn’t your fight? As though we haven’t just gone over how it’s everyone’s fight? How we haven’t just gone over how Fandaniel is trying to recreate the Final Days?” She’s nearly shouting. There’s a magnetic quality to her speech, the gravity of a star pulling you in.

    “...” Vavara’s eyes shut, her grip on the strap and stock of her rifle loosening a fraction.

    “I swear to Nald’thal if you say ‘they made their decisions to fight’ I’ll run you through. As though Ryne didn’t do just that. Make a decision of her own free will.”

    “Before the Final Days kills everyone, the Empire will burn their fields and their crops.” The wind dies. Vavara’s eyes open, dull and without light or life.

    “What?”

    “Before the apocalypse comes, someone on my list will take men and women off the streets of Imperial provinces and do unspeakable things to them. Before the Empire falls and you declare a hollow victory over the enemy, pirates will make townships vanish as their people are spirited away into slavery.” She grimaces and continues, each word slow and deliberate.

    “Before you have the chance to martyr yourself to defeat the ‘greater evil’ or defend the ‘greater good’, a thousand other ‘lesser evils’ will rise up and destroy everything someone holds dear. So I will take my cheap tricks which work on second-rate pirates and somnus dealers over your grand theatrics every day.

    “And when I must, I will take those same cheap tricks and apply them to those same ‘greater evils’ you spend years mustering the strength to face.” She slings her rifle back over her shoulder. Her hand brushes the shaft of her spear briefly.

    “And fail.” A weight like gunmetal weighs on Vavara’s shoulders. The words fall like snow on her back. “As with Zenos.”

    “Yes. And one of those failures, I will die alone, afraid, and full of regrets. But I alone will die, and drag no one down with my rotting corpse. If you had failed when you faced Emet-Selch, how many people would have died?” She turns, taking one slow step away after another.

    “That’s different.”

    “I don’t care if it is. You chose those stakes.”

    “It worked out.”

    “How long will your luck hold?”

    “I have faith.”

    “I’ve seen enough to know that’s a quick way to die. I prefer to have options.”

    “That’s rarely how this works - you have to make decisions with limited choices, even if it means walking a more narrow road.”

    “That so, Azem? How many are you willing to let die on that narrow road?”

    “...” A stunned silence hangs in the air.

    “...” She stares at the back of her head, at the careful, greying braid. The realization that a line had just been drawn slowly falls over her. The purposeful use of the old, ascian title.

    “Do not call me that.”

    “I’m leaving, Azem.”

    “Coward. Traitor.”

    “Aye.”

[sootcloak]

Regret’s for the Dead

~2000 words of loosely written dialogue & set dressing with even looser editing because this time around I’m trying to do one every day and just post it cause otherwise I’ll never get them all done. It ain’t for work, I’ve got to learn to live with the messiness of creation or I’ll never post anything.

January Prompt: Revenant - A person who has returned, particularly from the dead. (Often re-contextualized in fantasy media as an undead creature with a fixation on revenge or justice.)

@seaswolchallenge

   The winds and clouds over Terncliff are often clear - leaving the moon to shine brightly down on the cliffside township. Sleeplessly, Gaius steps from the old, shelled-out building the Resistance had afforded him near the occupied square. Vaguely, he hears someone tell him ‘goodnight’ before turning out a lamp in the foyer.

   “Rest well.” He half-says, as footsteps recede from behind him. Taking a deep breath of the salt-leaden, night air he shuts the door behind him and walks out to his usual spot near the fountain. The Ironworks hand should be in bed, and the guards are a quiet sort unlikely to approach him, of all people. It’ll be nice and private. At least as private as he could get. He turns the corner to the square.

   Moonlight falls in shafts down through the clouds. The horizon beyond is dappled with stars and darkness both. And there, in the square proper besides that lovely fountain is a monster.

   He had once thought her a woman, maybe even a heroine as with many of these other Eorzean adventurers. But she wasn’t an adventurer. She was a huntress, of men and other monsters alike. He had thought her small, weak, and fragile when he had met her all those years ago. A mind limited by a flawed body. He had not yet seen her dance as a vicious, cutting gale. Or watched her erase lives from fields away with the casual disinterest of a scribe scratching tasks off a list. And while he did not see the wound made, he has seen the scars. She is not fragile.

   The lalafellin woman’s hair hangs in loose, tangled curtains around her back, rather than the braid she wears in the day. It’s greying blonde like dusty sunlight falls over a dull brown, sleeveless tunic. It was rare to see her out of uniform, let alone in something which could be broadly considered sleepwear. She did not like to lay bare her failings to the world.

   Her left arm glints in the dim light of the lamps and stars. All metal and thick Garlean ballistic fibers. Cords in place of muscles, gears in place of joints. The scar where it joins her shoulder is jagged and stark, even against her deathly pale skin. Her left leg, too, is left mostly exposed to the night air below the knee. Much the same fashion, save for the thick exhaust ports along her small calves.

   It was, in truth, easier to look at the metal and wire, though. At least then, the horror of machinery making skin stretch and bulge in wrong places was avoided. That the ports along her right calf break through skin is a fresh horror.

   “If you’d prefer I move -” She calls without moving, “- you could always ask.” She reaches besides her, hand meeting the neck of a bottle.

   “A drink?” She asks.

   “Vavara. That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I’ll be on my way-” He begins, his boots hissing on the sand-dusted stone tiles of the road as he turns.  Emerald eyes, shining from the way they catch the light, meet his as she turns in her seat.

   “Don’t give me that, Legatus. I doubt you can sleep any more than me.” Her knowing, confident tone grinds against him. The low, soft way she speaks forces him to focus and listen to hear. Like being grabbed by the collar and held firm.

   “Your ‘Blessing’ pry into my past again?” He says. His frustration bleeds into his tone.

   “No. It’s the rings under your eyes. Your gait. You’re tired. Can’t sleep though, else you’d not be here. ‘Sides-” She pulls the bottle back to herself and throws her head back with a swig. “My hallowed ‘Blessing of Light’ has yet to grant me the honor of near-omnipotence. Just headaches, here.” She grins with bright, fake teeth. A sigh pushes out from his chest, and he closes the distance and sits alongside her on the fountain. She offers him the bottle, and he just shakes his head. A shrug. Another long draught.

   “Thought you didn’t drink.” He says. His eyes measure her reaction. She looks away from him, off towards the sea. Her metal hand reaches up and waves dismissively before batting a stray strand of hair from her cheek.

   “I don’t.” She declares. “Stomach’s half gone with the rest of what I’d need to get drunk. I like the way it burns my throat, even if I can’t taste it anymore. Reminds me of when I came back to Eorzea.” Her words are upbeat, if reserved. She shows him the bottle label without turning her body. An old Lominsan rum. Still dust on the bottle. Mostly full. He glances up to the cap, where the wax has been freshly broken.

   “That’s right, you mentioned you’d served.” He says. His speech almost feels automatic, as though he were running on muscle-memory alone.

   “Planning on filling the night with polite conversation? You’ve already looked at my file, Legatus. Not to mention we fought back in the Praetorium. Hells, I’m sure you were briefed on me in one way or another when I went rogue.” She takes another sip. He takes a long breath and nods, old memories coming unbidden.

   “It was shortly after the Meteor Project - I was assigned additional protection since other legions were having their leadership covertly culled. I remember.” He admits. His words get heavier as he speaks, as though weighed down by gunmetal. She just nods and waves the bottle at him.

   Neither say much else for some time. The night stretches, stars and the greater moon slowly tracing paths across the distant black. The sea wind drifts in and out. She drinks, slowly emptying the bottle bit by bit. He watches the buildings around him, tracing the scars of ammunition, shells which blew the road apart but was rebuilt. The barricades placed throughout the streets. The towers looming overhead. Fine white stone stitched apart by dark black metal.

   Were the Empire to return at this point, would they erect more of these structures? Make a prison of this port? The resources to hold this point simply do not exist - and yet to turn after seeing so plainly what these people would be made to endure again. Is that cowardice? Or would standing be a pyrrhic path to vengeance, bleeding them further with more shells and bullets scattering them and their homes.

   He shakes the ideas from his head. Steadying his breathing again. He can’t afford to get bogged down in emotions, especially now with the last of the Weapons on the horizon. He leans forward, hand reflexively moving to his forearm, where his old cannon would have been mounted.

   The sound of a  bottle tapping against stone jerks him out of his thoughts. Vavara’s eyes are closed, head tilted straight up towards the sky.

   “I joined the legion because of you.” Her words drag his heart into a pit in his chest. A sinking dread.

   “Do you regret that decision?” He asks, certain the answer will not be something he likes.

   “No, I don’t.”

   “Then, why-”

   “Would I have deserted? Why do I now hunt the Empire’s finest? I don’t regret joining. I learned much and more in the Empire’s service. I’d never have survived as long as I have were it not for what I learned there - probably would’ve starved in an alley or gotten shelled when the Resistance took the city back. Then again, Zenos’d’ve never chopped me up. Whether I went along or not, though, the folks I enlisted with would have died all the same.

   “I don’t regret the decision in the same way you can’t really regret getting gored by a bull. Just happens. Can murder the fucking bull so it doesn’t happen again, though.” She lets herself stew a moment, before throwing a long swig back and then shaking her head. Sends her hair scattering.

   “If I were to change anything though, I’d have left earlier. Got real on board with some of what we were doing, twisted it up in my head that eventually it’d pay off and the poisoned promises the Empire made would come to fruition. Bet that sounds familiar. Lest I remind you,” She gestures at the masks on his hip.

   “We are of a similar profession, ‘Shadowhunter’. We were then, and we are now.” Her right hand reaches over to cup her left forearm, squeezing the metal tight.

   “Paid dearly for our failings and ambitions, too. Best we can hope is to shoulder the cost ourselves, ‘stead of it falling on someone else.” He grumbles something akin to an agreement, but otherwise says nothing. His brow furrows, mind tracing their collective past’s outline. Matching them against each other. She interrupts him before he can stew in the silence too long.

   “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. The Emerald Weapon’s pilot. Wasn’t fast enough.”

   “I… It was not your hand which set this in motion.”

   “Again, you’ve read my file. You can say it was not mine alone, but I certainly had a part to play in this.”

   “It would be foolish to assume everything in your file is accurate. Plainly, news of your death was exaggerated as mine was. Much the same is at work in the other details of your service as well, I would assume.” He says. His hand slowly drops down to rest on the masks at his hip.

   “Legatus...” She looks at him with a strange, vexed look on her face. “What about me looks alive to you?”

   He takes a long moment, breath slowly filling his chest. The scent of ceruleum which lingers on her fills his lungs. The way her shining eyes gaze back at him feels like oncoming traffic. Headlamps and flashing lights. Her porcelain skin, segmented and rigid in places where it tries to mimic the real thing, shifts as she leans back. There is true flesh there, but it’s grey and without vigor. Poisoned, even. It meshes with the prosthetics and the replacements in uneven patches, rimmed by nasty, discolored scars.

   “What irony would that be -” She sighs, looking away from him. “- what poetic bullshit.” She looks down at the label of the booze, holding it away from her. “Maybe this is working on me.” 

   “Legatus, listen;” She swings the bottle as she speaks, back and forth with the cadence of her speech. “I don’t breathe, I don’t have a heart anymore, I can’t really eat or drink. Veins are filled with more oil and ceruleum than blood. My aether is stored in my core, so I technically have a ‘soul’, but it can’t be changed in the same ways as yours. I’ve also been pulled and cut apart, limb from limb, more than once. I’m about as alive as your gunblade. Or some autonomous, revenant thing going bump in the night.” Her prosthetic elbows into him, a steady, pressurized vibration felt in the metal. A too-lax grin flashes on her face, sharp teeth and ill-fitting humor meshing awkwardly.

   “I do rather like that image, I’ll admit. What I’m saying is this - everything my file says I did in the name of the Empire? It’s true.” She takes a long drink, looks out to sea, and speaks in a soft, somber tone.

   “Though at this rate, I doubt any of those who dwell above will see me judged for my sins. Trapped here as I am.

   “So if anyone has a right to judge me for my failings - it’s a fellow dead man walking. Namely, Legatus, you.”

   She holds the drink back towards him, half-empty as it is. The slosh of the bottle is audible as she pauses dramatically.

   “So. Changed your mind on that drink?”

   “If you insist.” He growls, taking the bottle from her hand. He tips it back quickly, a short, shallow draught. He hands the bottle back, a grimace on his face.

   “I prefer Garlean wines.” He says through a restrained cough.

   “Oh, that so? Sorry to offend your delicate tastes, my lord.”

   “Stow it.”

[sootcloak]

Anomalous Site #1: Expedition Log [PHOTOGRAPHIC, OBSERVATIONS]

[Recorded images and accompanying audio lie open on a tomestone, it’s contents in the midst of editing. The voice of a woman, tired and growling, plays through the near-broken tome’s speaker.]

“-ordered to take rest and a reprieve from the Front. What shit. They don’t want to make sure I get rested and recover, they want to make sure I don’t go AWOL on the front and disturb the situation.

“I mean they’re right to be worried, were it my call I’d have already moved against the summoner again. But that’s besides the point.

“Regardless, this is the start of my audio logs in regards to our observations on the anomalous sites, recorded by the first-response teams as ‘Factory’ and ‘Bunker’.

“First off, the topology of-”

[A young man’s voice cuts over hers, a thin veil of static hushing his volume.]

“Ma’am, you should probably start with the logs from previous surveys.”

[A pause, and then the first voice speaks again.]

“Right. As I was saying, the topology of the region surrounding Anomalous Site #1 is at odds with information gathered on the First at large, and particularly with information on Kholusia’s ecosystem. However, logs left behind by previous surveys from an undetermined third party suggest that wellsprings of aetherically untainted groundwater may have allowed the region to remain untouched by the ravages of the Light.

“The survey seems to have been performed by a military scout, as the survey records denote a ‘battlefront’ and some unstated conflict. Given the nature of Norvrandt’s scattered and lost histories, there are many possibilities as to what conflict is being referred to here. However, the Anomalous Sites are home to a form of automated intelligence. A series of Norvrandtian figures designated ‘2P’ and ‘2B’ have spoken of these ‘machine lifeforms’.

“I will refrain from speaking at length on the topic of the conflict between the androids as represented by ‘2B’ and ‘9S’. Instead, I will simply move to understand the ways in which they have made a stable and secure home in Norvrandt, safe from the scourge of Light.”

[There’s a scuff and a brief cough from a distance away.]

“Ah, yes. One last topic. The physiology of both the ‘machine lifeforms’ and the ‘androids’ seems to largely resemble my own. However, from base-line observations they do not seem to bare aether which would be returned to the lifestream upon death as I do. And yet, upon repair they return to life same as I do with the Echo and the magitek core crystal. Even their memories are in tact, which is a feat even I’ve not been able to achieve fully.

“As such, we went into the Factory’s er- what did the siblings call it?”

[The voice from further away speaks two words in crunchy, static-filled audio.]

“Corpse room.”

“Right. The corpse room. I’ll begin to attempt reverse-engineer the mechanisms in place within their systems as unobtrusively as I am able. Once my work is concluded, I’ll hopefully have learned of a way or two to improve my own system’s performance.

“That concludes our cursory observations. Anything you’d like to add, Tahve?”

[There’s a long, near-silent pause only punctuated by the speakers humming with buzzing static. Eventually, a soft-spoken, smooth voice pushes through the tomestone’s speakers.]

“Yes, actually. Neither Anomolous Sites have shown any signs of biological life. No birds, fish, or anything else of the like. Given Site #1′s verdant nature, this is actually gravely concerning. I’m currently running chemical tests on the water and air samples we took back, particularly from the basin of Site #1′s valley, where all that silt and dust was gathering. Once that’s turned up, we should have an idea as to why no creatures have made Site #1 their home.

“This concludes our statements and findings for now.”

[A small page sits next to the tomestone as it briefly switches off and then loops again. It reads, “File 1: Once compiled, send to Scions via pixies as per contractual obligation.” Another note has been scratched hurriedly onto the bottom of the scrap of paper. “Deadline: <illegible>”]

[sootcloak]

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Rating: Teen And Up Audiences                                                               Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence                                                Characters: Hilda Ware, Rostnsthal (Final Fantasy XIV) Summary:

Once a Garlean engineer in service to the VIth Legion, a jaded bounty huntress is wounded while assisting the Skysteel Manufactory in their research and weapons development. Despite the gravity of her injuries, her past in service to the Empire looms overhead, and she must face the demons of her past or allow an innocent to fall in her place. However, she need not make the journey and face this looming shade alone, as she's joined by associates of the Manufactory.

Revolves around original characters based within the canon and established norms of Eorzea and Hydaelyn as a setting. Though some creative liberties are taken at some length.

As I mentioned in some ramblings, I finally bit the bullet and set up an account to post my XIV writings from. The whole Crow’s Shadow three-parter is up there and good to go. God bless the fact that I never need to use Tumblr for writing long-form prose again. That shit’s hell. Just doesn’t like formatting the way I need it to.

[sootcloak]

Crow’s Shadow: Carrion Circle

Second part of a short serial installment I’m working on as a general exercise on plotting, editing and the like. You can find the other parts linked here - {Part One: Repair Required} - I’ll add the last link once Part Three is up. Same spoiler warnings as Part One apply. Same general content warnings apply.

~2400 words, featuring Hilda the Mongrel and Rostnthal the Reborn. Centered around a tense cross country trip, and the looming specter of a dangerous foe. Twelve help me I’d hoped I could fit more of the plot into this one the last part is gonna be so long, such a pain to edit.

A cold, mountain spring cuts through the highlands. The water runs babbling over old, long-smooth stones. Along its bank, a cart is still. A pair of chocobos sleep, curled in on one another. Bright yellow feathers pool starkly against the grey and white of the highland’s snow-covered earth.

The campfire, dim and growing colder by the minute, pops and sizzles in the moonlit dark. Every few moments, the earth rumbles with a heavy snore from deep in Rostnthal’s chest. The old Sea Wolf is leaned up against the back of one of the birds, a canvas sheet thrown over both he and the chocobo. Hilda lies beneath the cart itself, nestled up in a tight ball of quilts and jackets.

In the back of the cart, Vavara rifles through the packed supplies. She loads specially marked shells into her revolver. It’s reflective white metal glints in the moonlight. It has a mirror shine in the dead of night, it’s engravings doing little to break up the perfect polish she’s maintained. It is a slow process, painstaking with just one hand. The cartridges hum and vibrate in their chambers, the ether concentrate within nervously singing to her heightened hearing.

Six shots in each cylinder.

If he’s there, it’ll take at least fifteen of these to break his barrier. Even with aether-charged rounds, the inadequacy of her armaments hangs over her. Missing an arm means choosing between her spear and a firearm. Damaged as she is, she might not even have enough aether at her disposal to ignite the spearblade.The core nested between her lungs is pressed cold and stark against her heart, like a long-dull knife. Her soul, nestled within it’s crystal depths, aches from long-faded scars. Her whole body would be a treasure trove for him, secrets to decipher, power to steal. Weapons to wield.

Even then, measured against his life - her secrets, her safety, all things are cast into the pot.

--

She loads a spare cylinder with slow, committed strokes. It’ll take a long time to reload the weapon, even with this preparation.. She didn’t pick this hand, but she’ll play it till the cards are on the table. Folding was never an option, anyways.

Light falls on the small camp, the morning sun casting light into the narrow crevice beneath the cart. Hilda wakes up with a yawn. Her arms stretch across the dirt, eyes squeezed shut. She growls softly deep in her chest, and sits up. Her forehead slams into the wood with an audible crunch.

“Seven hells-” She snarls.

“Gyahah!” Rostnthal’s laughter echoes over the small glade, watching with a gleaming eye as she clutches her forehead.

“‘Ey, Ashenheart! I won! Ye’ owe me a drink when we get back!” His grin is audible, a chuckle reverberating in his voice.

“I never agreed to playing your game.” Vavara says. “Besides, I owe you more than a drink if we all return safely.”

“Heh. Humorless. What with ye’ hangin with the Scions lately, thought you may’ve lightened up some. Guess even they can’t get ye’ out’a that shell.” His voice is no less mirthful, seemingly unfazed by her chilled tone.

“A’ight, come get yer food. Breakfast’s done.” He slaps the side of the kettle, ringing loud and full. Still groaning and clutching a bloodied face, Hilda drops into a cross-legged sit besides Rostnthal.

They goad and poke at one another, the words fading into white noise as Vara sits atop the cart.Her eyes’ light dims, old, ash-soaked memories rising from the shadows of memory. A wave of nauseating nostalgia hits her in the gut.

“You not eating?” Hilda prods Vara with an empty bowl. The old, smoke-scented memories submerge into the dark again. 

“Not right now. I had hardtack before you two were up.” She pushes herself up to her feet, her arm stretching, slight shoulders squaring for a moment under the winter overcoat.

“I’ll get the birds ready while you two eat. We need to move soon.” Her footsteps crunch in the snow as she walks away. A hanging tension in the air slowly seeps into the air as she walks away.

“Y’know,” Rostnthal calls out, voice low and rumbling. “Ye’ still haven’t told us where we’re goin’. Or anything else of substance, really.”

“Yes,” She says as she hoists the barding onto one of the birds. She glances over her shoulder, eyes dimly glowing with an unnatural, cold light in the shadow of the brim of her cap. “I am aware.” The words are biting, dismissive.

“D’ye intend for us to go into whatever trouble is brewing blind?” His tone is calm and grim, his one, good eye locked on hers.

“I do.” She returns his gaze, ironclad.

“An’ if that means things get bloodier than they ‘ad to?”

“It won’t. I can’t protect you on the battlefield. Not in my condition.” She turns away, leading the chocobos to the cart’s front. She clips their barding in, the ‘coos’ and ‘kwehs’ of the birds giving her occasional pause to double check her work.

“So you won’t be there.” She says without turning. “I’ll be leaving you and the birds out of danger. When my student finds you, you’ll take him to Dragonhead.” 

“Wait, what?” Hilda pauses halfway between bites, eyes narrowing. “I came out here to help, not to be a damned taxi. You’re not traipsing off on your own, ‘specially not after all your talk about this fucker who’s hunting you.”

“You want to help?” Vara’s grip on the wood tightens, words turning venomous. “Then I’ve told you how. You want to die? Then go on, follow me after we part ways.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” Hilda’s tone sours, “What’s your deal? We went over this on our first day out, and now half a week in you’re changing your tune? We know it’s dangerous, we get it.”

She sets her half-finished meal aside, standing up. Her hands come to rest on her hips, Rostnthal’s eye moving to rest on her.

“We signed on for this. We knew it’d get bloody, we knew it’d be a close thing. Y’think we’ve not learned to read you? That we were blind to what we were getting into?” She says, defiantly staring down at Vavara.

“So you’re going to ride in and save the day? Vanquish the bad man with your shiny gun and sporty marksmanship? You think you have what it takes to stand against  a man who’s decided he’d rather be a demon?” Vavara takes a deep, steadying breath. There’s something about the question which makes Rostnthal’s hairs stiffen. The skin on the back of his arms and back prickles. He’s still watching Hilda, a blooming anxiousness slowly taking up more space in his chest. He pushes the feeling down.

“Wouldn’t have stepped up if I didn’t think I could help” Hilda says, “An’ I may not be some vaunted champion of the realm like those you’ve been keepin’ the company of, but I-”

“You sound like a child. Too busy playing hero to see the danger you’re in.” Vavara’s chiding words cut through her momentum.

“What do you believe you are wagering? Your life? That in failure, you would die?” Her laugh is a single, wrenching cough. “This isn’t a battle of life and death. I’d sooner shoot myself in the head than allow any of those ‘vaunted champions’ to face him. Even the Warrior of Light, no especially the Warrior of Light.

“He does not kill. He captures. And those he captures become another one of the Empire’s experimental weapons. You would not die, you would become a monster to be sicked on your allies, your friends, and your loved ones.

“So I will face him alone. And you two will ensure an innocent boy does not become a monster because my past came to call. And if after hearing that, you still want to be the hero? Fine. You can be like all the others before you and die like one, too.” Her voice nearly chokes at the end. Shoulders tense, she pushes out a hoarse, whistling breath.

“I’ll do what I do best. Survive. And whatever I have to do to make sure he gets through this too? I’ll pay that price. Worry about yourself.”

“Vavara.” Rostnthal says, leaning in. “What’s so important about this kid that yer so concerned about ‘im getting captured.”

“Nothing. He’s just-” She begins, only for him to hold up one hand to silence her.

“Ye’ never go this far ‘just because’. I’ve seen ye’ in the ‘eat of battle. Cuttin losses ‘as never been somethin’ yer averse to. Even with lives. So if this kid is a hazard to himself more than anyone else, I reckon ye’d try and save him, sure. But to be willin’ to train and tutor a complete greenhorn, let alone throw yerself into the fire for ‘im?? Doesn’t add up.”

He waits. His eye locked on her back, her greying, braided hair shifting with a breeze. Hilda glances between the two, silence bubbling and steaming with tension.

“He is Blessed.” She speaks with a hushed admission, her voice accompanied by an undercurrent of choked, hissing metal.

“And from my observations, he has an aptitude for its power rarely seen. But he is young, foolhardy. I took him in because he otherwise would have found the Scions. And I refuse to see them make another martyr.” She glances back to the other two, over her good shoulder.

“His power will invite controversy and challenge, especially if he cannot wield it. And should Llain capture him, the prospect of an anti-eikon weapon imbued with the power of the Echo is a looming threat I cannot risk. If he can wield the Echo, if he learns how to use it to reinforce his sense of self and being, then he would retain his sanity through any kind of augmentation. Any kind of torment.” Her hand reaches up and rests flat against her chest, claw-tipped fingers scraping against the cloth and leather of her coat. 

“His soul could reside in even steel and crystal, and be unharmed by the process. But if he is captured before he learns to understand and wield the Echo, he could well become a weapon of terrifying power. An incarnation of death made manifest in steel and ceruleum.”

“I refuse to be the mother of death.” She says, softly, almost-inaudibly.

Rostnthal opens his mouth to speak, but the glare he receives from her in return stifles him for a moment.

“None of that changes what you must do. I trust you enough to determine your own path, if you will not heed my warnings. I will tell you what you need to know, even if it is not all you want to know.”

“No, it does change what we need to do. Whether you think so or not.” Hilda says, her confidence returning.

“That kid. What’s his name?” She asks, eyes fixed on Vavara’s.

“Tahve’ir.”

“Well, he’s going to need a teacher still, by your tone. So getting him out isn’t enough. I’ve got to make sure you both get out.”

“And if you can’t?” Vavara says as the two share a long, grim stare.

“Then I get him out, and come back for you. You said he doesn’t kill, and I doubt he can make it back to Garlemald in a single night. So, we get Tahve’ir out, and if you get caught in the meantime, I’ll run back and get you out in the night.”

“Nah.” Rostnthal’s voice rumbles softly, quietly. “Ye’ ain’t got experience with that kinda work. I’ve ran with the yellow jackets and the like, bustin’ slave rings and smashin’ smugglin’ ops. If she gets caught and we have to pull out, I’ll go. An’ you’ll take the kid.” He looks towards Hilda, a confident spark in his eye.

“Alright. Best not mess it up, y’old drunkard.” Hilda says, she cocks a nervous grin and playfully jabs his arm. He just chuckles grimly.

“So you won’t heed my warnings.” Vavara’s voice is distant, a kind of shrill, haunting whistle riding under the injured voice. “It always happens like this.”

“Chin up.” He says, crossing the distance between himself and her in a few steps. He drops to one knee, and rests one hand on her shoulder. He grips her softly, confidently.

“I’m not ignorin’ what ye’ said. We can’t win in a direct fight? Then we’ll just have to run ‘im ‘round the bush. Keep ‘im guessin’. Keep ‘im dazed. We’ll work on strategies on the way there.” He takes a deep breath, and then stands. He climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Have faith.” He says, patting the birds with a solid, steady palm. “‘Ave faith, an’ all will be well. Besides. Yer not meant t’look so glum. Doesn’t suit yer’ image. Times like these, a snarl’s better.”

She just takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and nods.

She jumps up into the back of the cart as Hilda finishes dumping the last bits of the kettle, and scooping her bowl back up into one hand. The dinnerware sack lands in the back with a cataclysmic, chaotic crash.

As soon as her boots are fixed upon the wood, Rostnthal whips the reins and the birds kick up dust as they run.

--

The sun sinks back low in the sky again. Pale-red light streaks across the untamed mountains between Ishgard and Ala Mhigo.

A small shack with a sprawling, chaotic garden sits on a low, narrow plateau. Heavy, metal boots scratch into the wet, snow-melt fed earth. A man with sandy skin, a straight back and strong shoulders stands at the edge of the homestead. His hair is neatly, painstakingly pulled into a long, salt and pepper braid. It rests on his armored pauldrons, and hangs down to his waist. His eyes, a gilded, ember orange, take in the small, humble abode.

In one hand, he holds a thick, angular blade. It’s gunmetal edge reflects no light, despite the bright morning. Coarse and rough, like a painted, sharp thorn of ink clutched tight.

In the other, he holds a stark, shining revolver. It’s pearly white metal casts myriad colors onto the ground around him, and up onto his own blackened platemail. 

In the light of dusk, his aura shines bright and ethereal around him. Dancing, half-there reflections in intangible glass.

He takes a deep breath, and cracks a cheery grin His shadow stretches over the gardens in the evening light. He can smell the faintest hint of ceruleum in the air.

“Finally. Progress.” His smile is all teeth and ambition.

[sootcloak]

Crow’s Shadow: Repair Required

The first part of a short, serial-style work I’ve been cranking away at for far too long. This is part one of a (planned) three-part series. You can find the second part, Carrion Circle [Here]. I’ll add another link to the third part once it’s up. Beware of some major spoilers for Stormblood if you’ve not gotten through it yet, and some general spoilers for the MCH quest kinda. Lastly, if you’re a purist when it comes to in-game lore, you should be warned that I take some creative liberties in regards to the character around whom this blog is centered. Also I hate this hellsite’s text post coding, it makes the formatting look so goddamned wrong.

3064 words, featuring Hilda the Mongrel, Rostnthal the Reborn. Centered around a wounded OC, a tense cross-country trip, and the looming specter of a dangerous foe.

    Hilda stares with a rare, dumbfounded expression on her face. Curled in a ball on her old, ratty armchair is a familiar, Lalafellin woman. Her sickly, pale skin, greying blonde hair, and scarred face were unmistakable. Vavara had become a common sight around Foundation ever since the gates were opened after the Dragonsong war. Her work alongside the Manufactory and Lord Stephanivian was shrouded in some level of discretion, but it was no secret that she was an expert in Garlean-style magitek.

    But the whispered words which surrounded the woman seemed an understatement, if her eyes were to be believed. It was rare to find Vavara out of her usual Company-style overcoats. The few times she was caught out of uniform, she was in battle-ready armor instead. Now Hilda understood why. Her body, small and compact as it is, is almost entirely mechanical. Covered in intricate layers of dull, grey plates and brassy webbings of cogs, she looks not unlike the tools and machines of Idyllshire. Like clockwork muscles and cable tendons, her body is simultaneously relaxed and completely rigid. Here and there, where the metal fades, she can still see skin. Sickly, near-grey, and oddly textured like a doll’s porcelain, but still skin. Tangled in a blanket, eyes shut, and body snoring in strange, buzzing whirrs, it takes a few moments of shock to realize two more things.

    First, Hilda hadn’t ever told Vavara where she lives. Nor had she given permission for the huntress to remain with her.

Second, one of Vara’s arms is missing. Just gone. A bare, brass socket lies exposed to the air where it would meet her left shoulder. Hilda glances around, but the limb is nowhere to be seen. There is, however, a note on the end table besides the table. The messy, big letters on the page are of an immediately recognizable hand.

        Hilda,

    Vavara was out testing one of Stephanivian’s new gizmos last night. Something went wrong, it’s all a bit fuzzy until we can look at the damned equipment, but it blew up in her arms. She soldiered on as well as you’d expect from her, but when we caught up to check on her we found her in shambles. We were all as surprised as you probably are - what with all the metal bits and all. Save for Stephanivian, that is. Seems he was already aware of her illness condition state whatever you call that. She was adamant that she not be seen like this, so we needed a place to keep her where untrusted eyes wouldn’t find her.

    So I borrowed a key from Joye and let her in. She should be asleep until tomorrow morning, or at least that’s what Stephanivian says. He’s making replacement parts for her damaged bits, but he couldn’t give me an exact time to give you as to when they’ll be done. I’ll have Joye run over as soon as he has an estimate.

    I know it’s a good bit to ask of you, but we all owe her and hers a solid turn. This is a good chance to make good on that. Please look after her for a bit, and don’t let her run off and do anything dangerous, no matter how angry she may look. She’s too busted up, at least based on how we found her, to really argue with you.    

    Keep her safe for now,

    Rostnthal

    Hilda’s hands crease the paper, her eyes drifting back and forth between it and the sleeping woman. 

    “Well shite. There went my plans.”

    Vavara’s eyes open to the dim, flickering light of a nearby hearth. Her body hums with angry, buzzing pain. As she takes in a ragged, grinding breath her eyes scan around the unfamiliar room. She can feel the damage all throughout her body. She can feel the way her breathing hitches every three-and-a-half seconds. The way her right arm can’t rotate exactly as it should. The way her eyes won’t focus. Her ears are ringing, ever so slightly. 

    There’s dust in the air, quite a lot of it. The furniture strewn about the stone room is old, patched, and covered in a thick layer of dust. The armchair she’s nested in leans to one side, one of the legs having been replaced by a few stacked stone bricks. The wood floor is rough, coarse, and looks like the kind which would give splinters just for standing on it. The hearth, a simple stone fireplace built into one wall, is surprisingly clean. The ashes are swept, the firewood is fresh. The fire is painfully bright. The heavy rugs thrown beneath some of the seating in the cramped, dusty living space are all torn and resewn. Her eyes trail to the bare walls, where a series of hangers stand.

    Through blurred sight, she can see a leather jacket and a rimfire hanging in it’s harness. From color alone, it’s clear they’re neither Vavara’s old service overcoat or her custom revolver. A wave of cold anxiety washes through her, her feet finding the floor and stumbling towards the door. 

    She only makes it a few feet. One of her legs crumples at the knee with a disheartening, metallic crunch. She bites her lip, forcing back a whimpering cry before it can rise in her chest. Instead, she takes a few gasping breaths, each huff sounding like a music box turning through broken cogs. Finally, she gets up the strength to push herself up to her feet again.

    She dully registers quick, urgent footsteps coming from behind her. A steady, insistent hand finds its way just beneath her arm. The tense springs fused with half-dead, ceruleum-greyed skin have a sickening texture, like that of a corpse held together by staples and rope.

    “You’re too hurt to be runnin’ about. Ye’d best come along.” Hilda says, hiding the way her throat closed in a queasy, silent gag. Vavara’s remaining arm twists back, trying to grasp at Hilda’s arm. It clicks and creaks, something inside the joint protesting with quiet, metallic groans.

    “Hey.” Hilda pulls and twists her around. Their eyes lock for a brief moment. Vavara’s dull, foggy eyes sparking with a quick moment of recognition.

    “Hilda?” Her voice is a surprisingly deep rasp. The  grasping hand goes still, it’s steel claw-tipped fingers relax. “Is that you?”

    “Who else? Let’s get you back to the chair.” They shuffle back to where Vavara woke. After grabbing an old crate and dragging it in front of the worn armchair, the two sit next to each other. Hilda sucks in a breath, and breaks the brief, momentary silence.

    “I imagine things feel a bit rough. Been on the bad end of an explosion once or twice myself. Here, read this. It’ll do some of the explainin’ for me..” She hands the crumpled letter from Rostnthal to her, waiting quietly as it’s opened back up. Vavara’s eyes slowly, carefully track across each messy line of text. When she looks up to Hilda again, the other woman is already speaking.

    “Joye came by earlier today, while you were still out. Said parts were being manufactured, but some things needed to be brought in from out the Holy See. It’ll have to get cleared by the Temple Knights, checked for contraband and the like. All said and done, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your uh… Parts?” She looks to Vavara for confirmation. There’s a single, quiet nod.

    “Yeah, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your parts made. Till then, you’re gonna need someone to watch your back, I’d imagine. I know one of your friends has an arrangement with Count Fortemps, so if you’d prefer-”

    “No. I’ve no intent on relying upon his charity. I have not earned it.” Vavara’s voice is a steady, rasping hiss. No malice or ill-will is born in the words, just a stubborn, quiet kind of pride.

    “It’s not always about whether or not you’ve earned it, just-” The glare Hilda gets before she can finish is petrifying.

    “Fine, fine. You can stay here, then. Can’t promise I’ll be here all day, but you’re resourceful, and so long as I get you a cane you could even get around by the looks of it.”

    “No.” Vavara shakes her head.

    “What? Then where will you stay?” Hilda says, eyeing her up with concern. Vavara’s face is a knitted, frustrated mess barely concealed by her usual stoicism. Her narrowed eyes, knitted brow, and curled lip speak volumes. It was rare for her to emote at all, let alone so clearly.

    “I was only meant to be in Ishgard for two days, at most.” A strange, tense note rides in Vavara’s voice. Concern, or outright fear? Hilda hadn’t seen her like this since she’d returned from Ghimlyt, spending days on end beside the Warrior of Light’s bedside, waiting for him to awaken. Guilt-racked and uncertain. When her voice picks back up, it’s a mess of anxiety and fear. Each word comes out faster, not raising in volume but in intensity.

    “I cannot stay here. I have to return. I need to-” She stops herself, coming to a sudden and abrupt halt. With a clenched jaw, squinted eyes and a tense neck. she pulls a breath in. The tension does not leave her, resting on her shoulders and in her jaw.

    “Thank you for watching over me.” Vavara says, opening her eyes to match Hilda. “I will need that cane. I have a journey to make. Please tell Stephanivian I will return to collect the parts when I am able.”

    “Now hold on.” Hilda squares her shoulders. Her eyes unwaveringly stare into Vavara’s. 

“You’re barely able to see straight. It took you near a full minute to read through a half-page letter. You had to ask if it was me. I don’t remember looking much like another half-breed.” A potent frustration rises in Vavara’s body, but before it can exit in a shout, Hilda continues, Brume accent kicking into her words as she grows more insistent.

    “I’ll be coming with ye. I’ve deputies with the Hounds for this exact kind of situation. And before you try and tell me I’m not, I’d remind ye that I’ve already seen why yer always either in battle-gear or a great-coat. Whatever secrets yer keeping still, ye can keep them. None of my business. But yer health? All the Hounds’ve had their skins saved by ye at least once, meself included. I owe you this much, at least.” Hilda stands as she finishes speaking, walking across the room to wear her jacket and rimfire are hung. She snags them in one hand, turns and gives a confident smirk.

    “So let me just run and get that cane.”

    She’s out the door before Vara can muster a reply.

    Later that evening, the pair stand outside the Gates of Judgement. Vara’s shrouded in her overcoat, her usual brimmed cap pulled tight over her head, greying blonde hair spilling out of it in messy tangles. Beside her, Hilda holds the reins of two birds as they’re hooked up to a small wagon. Some traveling supplies, a small smattering of goods, and some specialized supplies Stephanivian rushed to prepare all sit in nondescript, covered bundles.

    “You shouldn’t come with me. You have work here.” Vavara says. For perhaps the first time, Hilda notes how her breath doesn’t make mist in the cold air. She can’t help but wonder if her instinct was right, if the woman she’s known for years now, who’s saved her time and time again, is just a corpse pulled by metal marionette strings.

    She casts the thought from her mind.

    “And I’ve pressin’ debts to settle with you. It took no small amount of talking to convince Joye not to tell Rostnthal we were goin’. Else you’d have two peepin’ nannies.” Hilda’s forces a grim laugh.

    “It’s dangerous.” The statement hits like a sack of bricks. There was little anyone within the Warrior of Light’s circle deemed worthy of such a warning. Least of all the woman who frequently gives him a run for his money. 

    “Always is.” Is all Hilda can muster in response.

    “You should stay. I don’t want you hurt.” The words come out slow, still rasping with that metallic hiss under the wind. Barely audible.

    “I can’t protect you.” Vavara’s hand goes to the empty sleeve on her left. She looks up with foggy, dull eyes. Were they always so dim? She’s one of the Dunesfolk, aren’t their eyes supposed to be like glossy gems? Again, she casts the thought away.

    “Please. Stay.” Vavara’s words sound pleading.

    “Eh- ‘Ilda?” A deep, rumbling voice smashes the growing anxiety in Hilda’s chest. Heavy, crunching footfalls grow louder from behind. Both she and Vavara turn to look at a familiar, salt-stained face.

    “An’ it is!” Rostnthal reaches them in no more than three strides, his excitement plain on his face.

    “An’ Vavara’s ‘ere too, I see.” He briefly glances to the cart, still being loaded.

    “Ye headin’ somewhere?” It’s not really a question. His eyes fall onto Vavara’s. “Ye sure yer fine to be travelin’?”

    She nods.

    “Good!” He guffaws, a single loud bark of a laugh. “If yer good enough to be out-n’-about, then so am I! I’ll keep with ye. After all, it was cuz I was too drunk to test the prototype cannon that you ‘ad to. I get hurt like that, chirugeons patch me up over a couple nights. You?” He gives an awkward, knowing shrug.

    “So, it’s my fault yer in this mess. I’m comin’.”

    It isn’t really negotiable. Even as Vavara’s takes a rattled breath to retort, he’s already stepped up into the cart proper. 

    The chocobo-hand stands up from besides the cart,

    “All good to go!” He shouts over the wind.

    The three step up, and Hilda spurs the birds on towards Gyr Abania.

    “Ye packed some booze, yeah?”

    Vavara shakes her head. The groan he makes can be heard from the Gates.

    Rostnthal’s voice echoes along the snowy paths of Coerthas, oft-untrodden paths suddenly as lively as a back-alley bar. He’s taken mindful, measured swigs of his flask. He snagged some few supplies from Dragonhead at a painful price, but he had very little considering the length of the journey. Sensing the growing tension, Rostnthal had sung every diddy he knew at least twice from his spot lying in the back of the cart. He’d sung the one about the slaver at least four times, and the one about the Admiral more than eight.

    “So what’s all the urgency about?” Hilda’s question breaks through the bars of off-key song. 

    “I left someone in the wild mountains, where I take my rests between work. He is unskilled, though his training has shown promise. An old enemy of mine resurfaced during the Ala Mhigan Rebellion, and has since been hunting me, and I him. Should I leave my student in one place too long, he’ll be found. And he’ll be killed.” Her words are clipped. Rostnthal’s singing stops.

    “Y’took an apprentice? So the ever-cold Lady Ashenheart does have some warmth left in ‘er.” He sounds genuinely perplexed. “An’ here I thought ye were all business and bad blood with the Empire. Rumors’d’ve me believe ye’d never have time for teachin’.”

    Her gaze towards him could curdle milk. He just laughs his guffawing laugh, gently slapping her good shoulder with one hand.

    “My strength comes at a cost, unlike that of my peers. It requires that I rest for long periods of time after difficult excursions. In recent times of repose, I took to training three such students in total. Two of whom have long passed beyond a need for my guidance, if they ever truly did need me at all.We have not spoken in some time, I have no fear for them. The man who hunts me will not seek them. My current student, though, is untrained, reckless, young, and a danger to himself more than his opponents.” Her voice lapses in and out of nostalgia and strict concern as she speaks, eyes shutting as she speaks.

    “Sounds like a handful of a kid. An’ this ‘unter. Ye think he might meet us there?” Rostnthal’s voice dips into a grim resolve.

    “I do.”

    “Care to share, or are we just going in blind as newborns?” Hilda says, eyes locked on the road and her surroundings. The sun is low, and shadows stretch across the road cast by trees and stones and looming mountains. It will be dark soon.

    “His name is Llain. He and I were once… Compatriots. He is possessed of a strength similar to mine. I will admit freely, he is better suited to it than I have ever been. He took to steel, ceruleum, and magitek as a bird does to flight. He has done so more safely, and more efficiently, than I have. We have not crossed blades directly for too long, to make any assumption on his methods now as opposed to the man he once was would be dangerous. All I can say is this: A direct confrontation is something we will not win. He is a worthy and cunning foe for even the mightiest among us.” Vavara says. Each word is slow, methodical.

    “So we just grab the kid an’ make dust?” Rostnthal thumbs at the cap on his flask, glancing up at Vara with his good eye. She just nods. It’s enough.

    Vara’s hand rests uneasily on the grip of her revolver. In her nostrils she can smell smoke and oil and flame. In her eyes, though snow and tree and stone race past her, all she can see is a burning Castrum and a vengeful shadow in the fire.

    How simple her escape felt then. How powerful those first, few, small implants made her feel. Her clockwork muscles tense. Perhaps if she’d been more careful. If she hadn’t allowed herself to become so gravely wounded so frequently, she would still-

    A tap on the shoulder shakes her out of the old memory. She looks up at Hilda, whose eyes are still locked forward.

    “We need to go through the night, or should we rest?” She asks, tone all business.

    “You rest. I’ll drive.” Vavara answers. Hilda just groans, before stepping awkwardly, carefully into the back next to Rostnthal and snagging a fur blanket from one of the many bundles.

    Rostnthal waits a while, and then starts to sing again. Fewer lively, old tavern diddies, and more of the songs skalds would sing when night came to call.

[sootcloak]

Living Gale

So I got permission yesterday(????? Is time a thing anymore ????) to write a thing for @lordofcrowns‘ Captain Cyril Stacy, a diabolically fun villain. This piece was based around the general evocative aesthetic of the art he made for the Good Captain. So I did that. It was a good exercise, and doing it for someone else helped keep me motivated.

~2000 words of whip-snappin action and tense posturing, mostly trying to just capture the aesthetic i got from his work in my own medium. General warnings for the things which come with this kinda territory: murder, violence, abduction, etc. And lastly, if you wanna see more of that diabolically fun man, go to lordofcrown’s page.

The jade islets of the Sea of Clouds hang on umbral winds, drifting up and down on the aircurrents. The sky is dark, moody greys and greens which shift over one another. Three figures race across the shifting jadestone islets. Two chainmail-clad templars charge through the underbrush, over stone outgrowths, and across the shallow waters. Their footfalls drum against the earth, scaring gaelicats and other rodents down to earth.

The third figure is a full 30 yalms ahead of them. A heavy white coat trails behind him, billowing as he takes leaping, bounding strides. Strands of his turquoise hair hang in the air as he runs, whipped by both the wind and his own dead spring ahead. 

His boots scuff and slide on the slick, smooth stone beneath his feet, the sky suddenly opening up in front of him as he finds himself not at the edge of the island. The two templars come barreling to a halt, their pursuit stopping ten yalms away from their quarry.

“Nowhere left…” One of the templars devolves into a heavy cough, and gasps for his breath in a distinctly over-exerted wheeze. His fellow looks at him with distinct concern in her eyes behind that metal mask.

“I must say, you both have kept up admirably.” The Miqo’te man turns to face his pursuants, gilded eye smoldering as he looks the two over. “Mostly.” He adds. Both tense, and the wheezing knight’s comrade steps forward, clears her throat, and speaks.

“You’ve nowhere left to run. By orders of the Holy See of Ishgard and other bodies of the Eorzean Alliance, you are under arrest under suspicion of crimes against Eorzea and her people, including treason, aiding and abetting heretics, and murder of the highest order.” She takes a bold step forward, shield held to face him with it’s rook-like insignia, and sword leveled at his throat. 

“Halone’s Inquisitors will extract the truth of your actions from you.” The out-of-breath templar says, squaring his shoulders. He moves forward slowly, one cautious step and then another, speartip leveled at the Captain’s chest.

Beneath his cap, Cyril’s ears twitch. The clouds far below howl with an odd, almost-beast-like sound. The wind snaps, changing directions and whistling just a little faster around the trio.

“This is certainly a mistake. You should consider what you’re suggesting here.” The Captain’s voice is a halfway-point between a snarl and a purr, low and rumbling in his ribs. He holds one hand up, in something almost akin to a surrender. His other hand thumbs his belt, or rather the handle of the whip wrapped around it.

“You see, I’m just a trader. I have my permits and licenses here, with me. If you’d like-” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, the heels of his boots slowly, subtly shifting to steady his center of balance. The distant, rumbling, angry roar slowly grows louder and louder. 

“Save it.” The shield-bearer says, voice muffled by her metal mask and the rising wind. 

“We have evidence under sworn testimony that an individual with ties to certain black-market elements would be in this sector of the Sea of Clouds. If this really is a ‘misunderstanding’, you should hold your testimony for Halone’s Inquisitors. You’ll need it.” She spits her words and steps forward, closer to both her companion and the Captain. Her chin raises upwards, coming to rest at an accusatory slant as she waits.

“Ah, someone implicated me, then?” He says, words slow and flowing like honey. His eyes remain steady on the two templars, but his ears are trained on the approaching, angry wind.

“That’s right.” The wheezing knight says, inching closer with. His hands shake and jostle his own spear nervously. “So you’d better come peacefully. We have authorization to kill the target if we have to, and you’re standing real close to that ledge.”

“How brave of you.” The Captain says slowly, his lips turning into a subtle sneer, “Why, such forthright persistence is so rare these days. I’m pleased to know the Temple Knights are yet the bravest, most chivalrous warriors in Eorzea.”

“Of course we- Oh you little.” The realization hits the out-of-breath knight in the middle of his sentence. “Playing cheeky are you, I’ll be sure to teach you some real manners.”

“Don’t take the bait. He’s just trying to get you to attack. He’s better use to us alive.” The swordwoman pauses in the middle of her thought, stopping to listen.

“What’s… What’s that sound?” She says, not loud enough for her companion to hear. Her sword drops ever so slightly.

Cyril snaps into motion as soon as she finishes, hand drawing out his whip and swinging it back in a single motion. The long, sinuous leather snakes around him, curling like a dragon’s tail. The spear-bearer lurches forward, pushing against the now-feverous wind. He plants his feet, and thrusts forward with the point of his spear.

Captain Stacy twitches his wrist. 

The length spins out and away from him, like the arms of a cyclone. Whistling, it smashes into the center of the lancer’s chest. The mail rings like a cymbal, and the templar’s ribs snap loudly. His feet lift a few inches up off the ground. A resounding crack silences the wind for a brief second. The lancer lands a few paces back from where he’d stood, groaning on his side. His spear clatters to the ground where he was struck. The whip lurches back, Cyril’s arm winding and tensing back behind his head in a circular, casting motion. His coat billows out over the ledge, filling with air.

“Shit!” The shield-bearer pushes off of her back foot, covering close to half the distance between her and the captain in a single bound. Cyril’s arm circles round once more, and then reaches up towards the churning skies.

“Fast.” He notes, his voice growling in tandem with the fibers of his whip. It would almost sound complementary, if not for the predatory glint in his eye.

“But it’s pointless!” The whip snakes around him, curling inwards and coursing across the surface of his coat. The leather hisses, and his arm streaks downward, painting a thick, vertical black line in the sky as the whip follows his motion.

It falls like lightning, the whip bending outward as it hisses downwards towards her. She raises her shield, but true to his word she’s not fast enough to match the sinuous, ebony whip. It moves in a blur, first striking her shield and shoulder, then twisting around her and catching her in the side of her ribs. Her feet skid, but she holds her balance from the twin strikes.

Then it wraps around her left arm from below. As it snaps into place with an iron-hot shot of pain, she feels more than sees as the captain pulls her elbow and shoulder inward with a terrible jerk. She feels her arm pop free of her shoulder as the whip holds fast and jerks her to the side. She screams in rage and pain as her elbow breaks backwards, her shield clattering to the ground.

Through biting tears, she pushes through the pain and pushes forward yet, blade still in steady hand. She plants her feet as she nears him, his eyes burning into her with all the apathy of a storm at sea. Her good arm pushes forward, tearing the air, cleaving towards him in a single upwards, goring slash. He darts to the side, coat trailing behind him like a phantom.

There one moment. Gone the next.

Something hard and fast buries itself in her gut. His fist, she realizes dully. Her sword soars upwards and then over the ledge as she’s thrown backwards and lands with a metal thud.

She gasps for breath, lungs finding none. Nevertheless, she struggles to her knee, and then to her feet. Her eyes blearily stare upwards. She locks her eyes on him, blurred from pain and tears. Her head is wracked with the building panic born of being so thoroughly dismantled so rapidly. Her ears ring, but her sweat-stung eyes sweep off the Captain to her companion on the ground. He claws at the dirt, trying desperately to flee, but unable to get his footing.

The wind suddenly bellows, the droning that’d haunted the brief encounter opening up into a deathly roar. A monster of wood, metal and steam breaks through the mist and clouds around them, screeching all the while. A magitek-powered airship, leaden with naval cannons and watchful, dark shadows atop the deck darkens the sky behind the captain. He reaches up to hold his cap steady in the gale. The humm and roar of it’s engines rumbes in her aching, airless lungs. 

Her eyes, though, remain locked on him. He looks down towards her, and without a word just raises one arm. He points to her fallen comrade, then holds an open hand towards the vessel behind him. He closes his fist.

She makes another breakneck dash for him, legs still wobbly after having the air knocked from her. His eye shines in the umbral glow of the Sea of clouds, and he opens his arms wide as she charges him.

The moment hangs for a second, as she stares with murderous intent. The wind whipping around them loses its sound. Something guttural and crass has torn free of her chest, curses just out of reach of her panicked, enraged instincts. All the while, he stands with his arms wide and head low. The wind races out from behind him, blowing the tails of his coat up and kicking up dust around his feet.

As she rears back with one fist, he steps into her space and snags her wrist with his gloved hand. He spins around her, pulling her back by the arm. As his other hand ensnares her other wrist, she feels the coils of his whip bind her by the wrists. She tries to pivot, to face him, but her legs trip on his knee. Gravity grips her, her body once again thrown to the jade earth of the islet. He places a foot on her hips and a knee on her broken shoulder.

The pain is there, she can feel it, numb and aching as she tries to unpin herself from the Captain atop her. He waves over to the hovering ship, and like vultures, crewmen descend on ropes. As they take her and bring her to her feet, binding her properly, they throw the lancer off the island’s ledge, down towards the clouds.

“You can’t escape.” He says, all the charm gone from his voice as his sneer creeps into more of his face. “And you’re more useful to me alive.” He turns his attention, but not his eye, away from her and to his crew.

“Take her. I’ll see to her when I’ve the time. I have questions for her regarding who they received their information from.” Cyril says.

The men and women gripping her pull her over to one of the dangling ropes, but she keeps her head and eyes pinned on the Captain as he slowly walks over to her still-crawling compatriot. He drops into a squat beside the prone man, hand reaching into his coat, to somewhere near the small of his back.

“You would tell me whatever you want, wouldn’t you.” It’s not a question, but the templar nods in jerky, quick motions. The knight’s movements get more and more frantic, all the while the Captain’s gaze unfalteringly falls on him.

“Yes, of course! Yes!” The dark glint in Captain Stacy’s eye sparks a moment.

“Thought so.” She can barely hear the crack of gunfire over the winds, but the stark red of her friend’s blood staining the jadestone dirt around the Captain’s boots is impossible for her to miss.

“I have no need for a coward and a liar.” He turns his deathly gaze to the woman in his crew’s grip. “We’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted, lady knight. But for now, enjoy your rest.” He nods to someone behind her, and her vision goes dark as a club strikes the back of her chain-clad skull.