#half Elezen/half Garlean

[theimperialnuisance]

“You picked the wrong person to mess with!”

Have an Atticus and his friendly voidsent for your Wednesday afternoon c:

[charmiespecs]

Light Party 🔥Four characters in my FFXIV FC adventuring together! After all that healing, Mylon definitely appreciates the marshmallows!

[bearer-of-the-torch]

Every so often I just get a giggle out of how cobbled together some of the character models are in this game.

Cid and Hien are both put as Midlanders for their short height but they have builds closer to Highlanders so THEIR BODIES ARE MODELED WITH THEIR CLOTHES. If you swap their clothes from their defaults they will shrink in breadth and leave a horrendously visible neck seam.

Raubahn is so tall he breaks the height slider.

Garleans are not a separate race in the code and if they are not short enough to be a Midlander (like Cid), they're ELEZEN with custom faces.

Speaking of custom faces, Nero only has about half as many facial bones as a lot of other characters (post-DT I presume) so his facial expression range is much smaller.

Au Ra did not exist properly until Heavensward so Yugiri had to be built on a Miqo'te skeleton to accommodate her tail. Miqo'te Yugiri is still used for the ARR patch quests.

Child skeletons do not accommodate most animations so they just don't play.

Idk I think it's fun sometimes.

[myreia]

Polyphony at Twilight

Rating: General Characters: Jehantel, Aureia (WoL) Word Count: 3,103 Summary: A wandering minstrel and an ex-Garlean operative share a meal around a campfire where both reveal more secrets than they intend. Read on AO3

Deep in the Twelveswood, in the shadow of a hollowed out tree trunk, a campfire crackles, its flames dancing to and fro to their own rhythm as they reach for the stars.

Jehantel leans forwards, forearms on his knees, and observes the woman across from him. She sits cross-legged, brows drawn together and lips pursed with concentration as she stirs the pot strung over the fire. What was once his evening meal is now theirs to share, his simple stew bolstered by spices and meats far too fine to have come from these woods. Some Gridanians may find her half-Elezen features a novelty, but his visitor has always struck him as quite ordinary. Dark hair and ruby eyes of a kind he has seen countless times before, and a face that can blend in naturally in a crowd.

What is not ordinary is the quiet power with which she carries herself. It is not noticeable on a cursory look, but a keen eye will note what many will not—the efficacy of her movements, the precise way she surveys her surroundings, how she never quite fully relaxes even when in safe company. She’s a soldier. A warrior.

A spy.

Not anymore, perhaps, but some habits never fully die. He knows that more than most.

“I must thank you, stranger, for this gift,” he says, nodding to the pot. “You did not have to go out of your way for me.”

His guest shrugs and keeps stirring. “I was in the area,” she replies.

“That is becoming a common refrain, I see.” He chuckles, thinking back to the first time she stumbled upon his quiet camp. She was haggard and exhausted, bleeding from a cut on her cheek and drenched to the bone from a day of endless rain. She sheltered with him for the night; breaking bread and allowing him to tend to her wounds. She didn’t say much, though her gaze never strayed far from the brilliant bow she carried with her, its pulsing light a beacon in the dark.

It is a magnificent weapon, one seemingly composed entirely of aether. That she still carries it with her only confirms his suspicions—she is no ordinary archer, nor is she a member of the Gods’ Quiver. For what purpose, then, did she return? This is the third time their paths have crossed, one too many for it to be incidental.

And so it is with burning curiosity that he asks his next question. “Have you reconsidered my offer, young one?” Jehantel says, catching her eye.

Her hand slows, the wooden spoon scraping against the sides of the pot. “The answer is still no,” she replies shortly. “I’m not interested.”

“And yet you have found yourself here, in a place not easy to find, far from the roads most travelled. Nevertheless, I am grateful for the company. Rare is it for these old bones to meet new faces.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. With a shrug, she returns to the stew and absorbs herself in tending it, stirring with a little too much intention. A performance, in its own way, and a convincing one. Not all those who playact are actors, just as not all who dance are dancers.

Exhaling a long breath, Jehantel rearranges himself on his log, stretching out his long legs and tipping his hat to the sky. Evening is settling in and the Twelveswood is bristling with activity. Beyond the leafy canopy, a swath of pinkish purple sweeps across the sky like the brushstrokes of a painter, and the first few stars emerge from the haze. Insects hum in the dark, their rhythmic chitters a counterpoint to the hoots of nocturnal birds and the flutter of bat wings. The woods is a symphony in the dusk, its melodies rising and falling in harmonious rhapsody to those with the patience to hear it.

Before him, the campfire dwindles. Humming to himself, he reaches behind the log to dig through his meager belongings and withdraws his lyre. A small, battered thing, much beloved and well trusted. His constant companion. They have journeyed far and wide together, and they will do so again.

Hesitant fingers touch the strings, the familiarity of the movements at war with the stiffness in his joints that now besieges him in his later years. It has been some days since last he played, his hands and wrists requiring rest. There is always a moment’s pause when he returns after a recess, the fear that his fingers will stumble and fall as if the skill earned from years of playing has simply vanished overnight. But the fear is never long-lived, dissipating the moment he closes his eyes and plucks the first few notes.

He plays. He sings. The music soars, the ancient Gridanian battlesong resounding to the very roots of the trees. The forest quiets and even the wind holds its breath, as if the whole of the Twelveswood is listening.

But there is one in the audience who is not.

Jehantel slows, drawing out the last phrase to an aching stop in an elongated ritardando. When he cracks open his eyes, he spots her on the far side of the fire—knees drawn into her chest, head crooked into her shoulder—staring absently into the flames. The stew bubbles away, forgotten.

“You are displeased,” he says softly.

His guest looks up. “No, I…” She sighs and passes a hand across her face. “I’m sorry. It’s lovely.”

“Your countenance would say you think otherwise.”

“I don’t, I…” She loosens her grip on her knees and falls back into her cross-legged position. Though he calls her young one, it has not occurred to him until now just how young she is. Old enough to be long out of the unpredictable ebb and flow of young adulthood, but young enough that she still has much to learn, about herself and the world. Just as he did when he was her age. By the Twelve, he may have even been younger than her when his companions were lost and the course of his life was changed forever. “It’s hard for me to hear, that’s all.”

“The lyre? Its notes are not for everyone.”

“No, the…” She grimaces. “The song. All of it.”

He frowns. “Is it perhaps the lyrics that are not to your taste? I once met a fellow who abhorred rhyming schemes. For what reason I know not, but once he learned to avoid the tavern at night, he was gifted with pleasant dreams.”

Not his best work by any stretch, but it serves its purpose. Her lips twitch—another hidden smile—and she quickly looks away, letting her hair fall across her face.

“It’s not that, either,” she says after a moment. “I don’t like… I’ve never enjoyed… I… never mind.” In the growing dim of twilight, she seems an echo of herself, as if lost in a distant memory. For someone so confident she is strangely tongue-tied, unable or unwilling to explain herself further.

A sentiment he understands well.  

“If the music does not speak to you, it does not speak to you,” Jehantel says gently. “There is no shame in that.”

She laughs darkly. “Oh, it speaks. Believe me, it speaks, like the drunkard at the tavern who doesn’t know when to shut up.” Her gaze wanders, sweeping out from their shelter in the great tree to the forest beyond. She follows the scurrying of squirrels as they dart through the underbrush, the flight of a bat as it arcs through the air, the green glow of a wind sprite dancing above tall blades of grass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your playing again. I’m sure if you played for anyone else, they would love it. I know it’s precious to you, like it’s precious to a lot of people. But when I hear music like that, I feel like someone is stabbing me in the head. Soft or loud, it doesn’t matter. I need to scream to blot it out or walk away, otherwise I will well and truly lose my mind. That’s why I can’t accept your offer.”

Shaking her head, she returns her attention to the campfire. It is dying in earnest now, reduced to glowing embers and red hot logs. Cursing under her breath, the stranger rises to her feet and fetches kindling. She tosses it on the blackened remains and kneels down, attempting to blow life back into it. When it fails to catch, she tucks her hair back behind her ears in a businesslike manner and hovers her hand above the embers. A ball of fire-aspected aether appears in her palm, yellow-orange and bursting with energy.

The kindling sparks, the fire roars, and the stew continues to bubble.

“There,” she says happily and sits back on her haunches.

Jehantel surveys her curiously, his lyre lying heavily in his lap. “Perhaps you would find it to be a different case if you took it up on your own volition,” he continues. “There is joy to be found in music and song, yes, but as with most events in life, if it is forced upon you without invitation, then it is more anguish than delight.”

She stares at him, the glow of dancing flames reflected in her ruby eyes. “Jehantel…”

He returns her gaze. “You are no archer of the Archers’ Guild, are you?”

“No, not really. How did you know?”

“You brought foreign herbs where a Gridanian would have harvested from their local garden, you bought meat when you could have hunted your own, you just performed an exemplary example of controlled thaumaturgy without a focus, and—most important of all—your bow is attracting moths, my dear.” He nods at the gleaming weapon lying in the grass. A couple of the small creatures flit about it and bounce off its limbs. “Dare I ask where you obtained it? I imagine the story could make for quite the gallant ballad.”

“I don’t think there’s much gallantry in falling down a hole into underground ruins.”

“Perhaps there would not be, but perhaps there would. Where is your sense of imagination and wonder, young one?”

“I just don’t think it would make a good story!” She blows out a puff of air and grabs the spoon, then returns to stirring the pot. “There isn’t anything interesting about getting lost in a maze and tripping traps.”

“And yet even after your escape, you’ve returned for more.”

“I, well—” She cuts off and raises her head, looking at him sharply.

He smiles. “I am of the Twelveswood, my dear. I recognize a Padjali weapon when I see one. And I have heard more than one tale about what awaits in Gelmorra below, and the Wood Wailers’ call for adventurers.”

She falls silent for a moment. To his surprise, her expression softens and she busies herself with the bubbling stew, giving it one final stir. “Dinner’s ready,” she says quietly, scraping the bottom with the spoon. “I think it may be a little burnt… I may have overdone it when I relit the fire.”

“Dinner with company always tastes better than dinner alone. No matter how burnt.”

The stew is, all things considered, delicious. Though she has said many times she is no cook, it is clear that she knows a thing or two about cooking in the wilderness. She may not be a hunter—at least not by the Gridanian definition—but she is at home in the wilds. The mark of someone who has wandered very far indeed.

“If I may, my dear,” Jehantel ventures after some time. “You are a combatant by nature, yes? Perhaps your aversion to music is simply a dislike of the ballads spun by songsters in taverns and inns. The power of song can enchant and captivate an audience, for certain, but it can be so much more. A talent, a skill to shape the very outcome of conflict.”

He glances at her, watching her closely. Though she pretends to be more captivated by her soup than she is by his speech, she sits with a straightened back and an ear turned towards him. “The archer upon the field can shift the tide of battle. It takes a stalwart and steadfast soul to remain behind, to support the company from the rear and watch as their comrades forge ahead only to fall in bloodied soil. How he must have raged then, watching his fellows fall and unable to look away and abandon his duty lest that moment cost another his life. Such inner turmoil gave rise to action, the only action he could take. In desperation, with his bow as a makeshift instrument, he sang and by the strength of his voice, he gave the gift of spirit to his comrades.”

She scrapes the last of her stew out of the bottom of her bowl. “I know the stories of the minstrel companies,” she says flatly. “I think it’s rubbish.”

He raises an eyebrow. Clearing his throat, he sets his bowl down at his feet and clasps his hands in his lap. “By all means,” he invites, gesturing with a hand.

“You see the power of song as one that invigorates on the battlefield or gives comfort to the dying. Beautiful and well-meaning in theory, but in practice? I know something of war music, Eorzea’s not the only realm to have it. What about the war horns, signalling the moment before the charge? Or the sound of a thousand soldiers marching in formation, more important in number than they are as people. What about the klaxons blaring as a warning when your fortress is breached? Or the same damn music they play in the mess hall every night, lulling you into a stupor so you never think twice, or the processional marches when your unit is paraded on display at the capital as a reminder of the good you’re doing for your nation? The anthems sung, again and again, as a reminder of where you come from and what you are fighting for with no room to question why?”

Her eyes glint as she speaks, the words falling faster and faster until her voice rises in a crescendo. “That was the music I was raised on, Jehantel. And there may be a world of difference from the ballads you sing and the songs I heard as a child, but there is one thing that remains the same. In peace time, it may be pleasant and entertaining, but in times of war? It’s propaganda wrapped in romanticism, making you believe whatever your leaders want you to believe.”

The campfire pops, spitting sparks, the crack echoing off into the distant woods.

Jehantel meets her eyes. “Have you considered, young one, that you are a cynic?”

“Have you considered, old one, that you’re a sentimentalist?”

He chuckles. Oh, to be properly scolded by the sharp tongue of youth.

His guest sets her bowl aside. “Perhaps I can’t stand to hear music in the same way you can’t stand to pick up your bow,” she says solemnly. Her gaze passes behind him, peering through the dark to where his bow rests upright against a tree. “You live in the woods, but you’re no hunter. You have the build of an archer, and yet you can’t bring yourself to draw it. A treasured belonging you bring everywhere because you can’t bear to let go, but it makes you sick to look at it.”

Her words strike true. Guilt twists in his gut, fierce and raw, like wound that will always find a way to rip itself open long after the initial injury. He inhales a sharp breath, the pang of familiar tears stinging in his eyes. Still, he holds steadfast and true, and follows her gaze to the Artemis bow.

“When did it happen?” she asks quietly.

His shoulders sag. “Decades ago,” he replies. “I lost my companions. My comrades. My friends. All in a single night of slaughter.”

“And you left everything you knew behind because of it.”

“Aye. I did. A simple minstrel is all I am now.”

“A simple minstrel in search for lost battlesongs.” Though the remark is pointed, he can hear the soft smile behind it. “You have not forgotten who you are, Jehantel.”

His heart lurches and finally he summons the strength to tear his gaze away from the bow. He finds her watching the fire, warming her hands above the flames. The weight of old grief is plain as day, etched across her face. Were she anyone else he would consider playing her a melody, something to soothe the ache in her heart. But she cannot hear the melody for what it is. In her ears, it is corrupted and twisted, malformed from what it should be.

Just like his remembrance of his bow.

Whatever has caused her grief, it has not carried her away from the fight. If anything, it has pushed her towards it. Steeled her, tempered her. Reforged her anew. That is the adaptability of youth.

He clears his throat. “Young one, if I may,” he says hesitantly. “Why do you find the strength to press on?”

His guest exhales a breath and rises to her feet, brushing grass off her clothes. “Because there’s work to be done and a life to live,” she replies. “And if I stop now, it means that they win.”

Wind whistles through the trees, rustling the canopy above. Night has fallen in earnest now, and the Twelveswood is ever more alive.

“Thank you for the stew,” his guest says, stooping to collect her bow. It gleams in her hand, illuminating her in a soft aura of greenish white as she slings it onto her back. “And the company. I should be going now.”

Jehantel raises a hand as if to say farewell, before a new idea gets the better of him. “My dear, if I may,” he says. “Would you sing a melody of your homeland? I will admit I have a certain amount of curiosity.”

She laughs, hands falling to her sides as she finishes adjusting her bow. “No, Jehantel,” she replies. “Goodnight. And goodbye.”

Out through the clearing the former Garlean agent strides, her footfalls soft as the first spring rains. The light of her bow bobs in the distance, growing smaller and smaller until it vanishes into the darkness of the night.

“Farewell, Mistress Malathar,” Jehantel whispers to the trees, a smile on his face.

A third and final visit. He will not see her again.

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #19 - Taken

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #19 - Taken

Note: Continuation of this story and this story!

Trigger Warning: Mentions of injuries and being injured/choked.

Briar swallowed carefully, lips thinning as it made his throat ache. He reached up, slim fingers brushing over the bandages still carefully wrapped around his neck. The wounds were healing steadily, but the damage had been done. The chirurgeons had been optimistic and supportive as they tended him. They kept telling the half-Elezen that, with time, the pain would lessen and he would speak again.

Green eyes slid shut as he leaned back on the pillow, breathing slowly. Technically he could speak a few words, but it hurt and his voice was raspy and strange to his ears. It was simply easier not to.

But it was strange to have no voice of his own so suddenly. Briar had never realized how much he valued his own laugh and his ability to voice his thoughts until it was taken from him. Until Zeno had half-crushed his throat, metal claws tearing his flesh. It was a blessing he had not bled to death, but he had not expected to be robbed of something so vital.

Tears stung the corner of his eyes when Briar suddenly thought about what he could not do again. He couldn't call Jack, his sheepdog. He couldn't whistle for his sheep. He couldn't sing 'the morning song' to his chickens.

He could not speak the names of those he cared for.

A thousand little comforts and freedoms were taken from him with one flex of the Garlean prince's hand. A brutal violence done to him so casually and easily that it was unsettling. By a man who called him 'beast'. A man that killed far more casually and callously than any animal Briar knew of.

Yet here he was. Voiceless as any 'beast', robbed of something so vital that many races referred to themselves as 'Spoken' with pride. The half-Elezen wondered if he could be called 'Spoken' when he no longer had a voice to share with others.

Shaking his head with sudden frustrated anger, Briar opened his eyes and wiped them. He shoved messy red curls out of his face, absently tying them back as he moved to stand. He wobbled a bit, still weakened by the injuries but he couldn't stand the walls of the infirmary another moment.

He needed to get out. He needed to breathe in open air and see the sky denied him for days. He needed to feel part of the world again. Even if it was only for a short time. Briar wanted to feel real again. In the quiet corner of the infirmary, he felt like a silent ghost watching the rest go by.

Fortunately for him, there were enough wounded to keep the chirurgeons busy which allowed Briar to slip from his room unnoticed. He felt better as he walked, although he still had to touch the occasional wall for support. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as he stepped out into the afternoon sun and felt a breeze against his skin.

As always, Rhalgr's Reach was a bustle of activity. It allowed the half-Elezen to make his way toward the river in the middle, finding a quiet corner where he could slide down to sit on the short grass and lean against one of the warm stone walls. He closed his eyes and simply breathed, focusing on the sun and the wind, on the warm earth beneath him and the quiet water beside him.

Briar wasn't sure how long he'd sat there, not sleeping but almost dozing, simply trying to quiet his mind before a voice startled him. It was sharp in his ears and close enough that he jumped, eyes snapping open as he turned to look at the white-haired Elezen marching toward him with intent. His ears tilted back in a bit of worry.

"Briar!" Alisaie said as she halted in from of him, hands on her hips. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be resting!"

Briar opened his mouth to answer, but the effort made him grunt with pain, hand to his throat. He shook his head and just gestured around with helpless frustration. He rubbed his neck and patted the ground beside him, attempting to convey what he meant. What he needed in that moment.

For a moment, Alisaie simply glared at him, blue eyes narrowed. Then she studied his face and sighed. "I suppose I understand," she huffed, suddenly dropping to sit beside him. "I hate convalescing as well." She looked at him a moment, frowning. "How are you?"

Briar shrugged, rubbing his throat again, feeling the tingling itch of healing from the claw-marks. He attempted a smile, but he suspected it was shaky given Alisaie's expression.

"Right," she murmured. "Stupid to ask. You can't--" She looked a little stricken for a moment. "You can't yet. You will. It'll heal, Briar. It will."

Briar couldn't help but smile at Alisaie's determined voice. He wasn't sure he was as certain as she was about his voice returning. Still, if Alisaie Leveilluer wanted something to happen, it was very likely to. She was too fierce and stubborn for it to be otherwise.

Alisaie studied Briar's face and blew out a breath, reaching over to rest her hand on his. "It's going to be all right, Briar." Her fingers curled around his firmly.

Briar turned his hand to squeeze hers back. He might not be able to speak, but he did mouth 'thank you' to her. She nodded and leaned her shoulder against his as they settled against the wall in companionable silence.

[starsworn]

The Unwilling Combatant

Content warning: Mild depictions of battle, graphic depictions of an eye wound, mild depiction of a migraine.

-----

Daephrin had never been to Bozja before. It was terrible in ways he didn't think he was capable of imagining. Magitek monstrosities roamed the land freely, their spiky claws ready to eviscerate anything they could catch. Bullets rained down from what felt like nowhere, even though he knew it was artillery some distance away. There was the snowy mud everywhere, slippery and sticky, getting into anything. The worst was the spots of red mud where someone had bled in the dirt there. Even the wildlife here was intent on murder.

He didn't want to be there. As if anyone did. Yet somehow, Jaxon did. Jaxon was somewhere in this mire of mud and magitek, and Daephrin didn't know where.

"Jax!" he screamed to the winds as he scanned a ruined building that might've been used for cover. "Jax!!" No one came.

No, not no one. Someone came. A Garlean rounded the corner of what had once been a wall and halted some thirty fulms away. The featureless helmet obscured even the direction of the Garlean's gaze, but Daephrin knew they were looking for him. He ducked low in the ruins and readied his rifle. One deep breath and he popped back up over the stone wall with the barrel pointed at the Garlean.

His stomach gave a sick twist. He'd never aimed at anything more sentient than a dragon before (and recent revelations made that quite bad enough). Garleans might be the enemy, but they were still Spoken and it felt wrong to shoot them. Yet what was he to do? Try to reason with them through a hail of bullets?

His hesitation cost him. The Garlean moved out of sight, back behind the far wall of the ruined building. Daephrin was about to abandon it to continue his search when he heard a faint groan. His ears flicked at the sound and he lowered his rifle back to his side. Quiet as a mouse, he crept along the stone towards the source of the noise. Caution made his nerves jangle. It could be anyone making that sound.

A muddy lump stretched out on the ground caught his eye. Somewhere under the dirt, it looked like the armor wasn't Imperial in design. Emboldened, he moved forward. He spied a hand splayed against a fallen stone. A hand with brown skin, rich as mahogany, streaked with the black of drying blood. Daephrin's heart caught in his throat. "Jax?"

The hand twitched slightly. Abandoning caution, Daephrin darted across the ruins, stumbling over fallen stones and the remains of what was probably a table of some kind. The walls - what remained of them - were thorned with embedded shrapnel. As Daephrin drew near, he saw dark curls spread across the tile floor amid a pool of darkening blood. He skidded to a halt next to the lump on the ground, rifle forgotten as he knelt to offer succor. Carefully, he swept back the curls.

He screamed.

It was Jax, but blood coated his face and matted his hair. One sapphire eye was...was...destroyed. Shrapnel jutted from the socket and what was left leaked fluid down the half-Elezen's cheek. The other eye was open, but staring unseeing. Daephrin's entire body gave an internal wrench of grief, bottomless and all consuming as he screamed again. "Sorren!" Then the remaining eye blinked. Still unseeing, but alive.

Somewhere behind him were the others that had come to find his lover. "Help me get him to the airship!" he demanded as he turned over his shoulder.

And stared down the barrel of a gunblade pointed directly at his head. He didn't have enough time to take a breath before everything exploded in pain.

Jack-knifing up in bed, Daephrin clutched at his head. Pain shrieked at him, throbbing in waves through his skull as the migraine took hold. Half-blinded by agony, he reached to his left in desperation. His hand met warm flesh. A muscular arm attached to a strong shoulder. "Sorren?" he croaked.

"Mmrr," replied the half-Elezen in bed with him.

That response was enough. Though his head still throbbed with pain, he turned and burrowed against Sorren's side, the half-dream, half-memory fading. Most of it was incorrect, made up by his mind in the "what if" moments he often fell prey to in the dark of night. Not the least of which was that he hadn't even been in Bozja since he found Sorren in Garlemald, or that he'd mixed up who Sorren had been then with who he was now, or that he'd even come in contact with a Garlean at all. It was all a shitty dream brought on by a shittier midnight migraine.

"Don't do that again," he whispered against Sorren's shoulder in the darkness.

Sorren grunted sleepily and threw a heavy arm over him, tugging him closer like a favorite teddy bear before his breath evened out in sleep once more.

Daephrin shuddered and bit back a whine as his head pounded. He buried his nose against Sorren's skin, breathing in his scent and warmth. He was here. He was alive. There was nothing to fear.

[myrfing]

i do have a whiteboy xiv oc. he’s half garlean half landisian elezen but born in limsa after his mother fled imperial territories where he was orphaned. he’s tall and pretty but would live in a trailer technically if translated to the modern real life day, so generally I think he would be popular here. especially since he has suicidal tendencies. He turns pink in the sun and dies to bahamut though

[strawbebbynya]

please tell me more about your FFXIV OCS! any and all of them!

You're gonna hear about my newest girl and a few tidbits of my retired wols. Yayyyyy I'm answering finally

First is Isheaux n Chichiho. Chichiho is a lalafellin chirurgeon who took care of Isheaux while he was freaking out about the Echo and being able to see @blorbos-of-the-7th-dawn's character Origin, who he thought was an imaginary friend. She left her home to become a chirurgeon and help others, having been raised in a loving but oppressive environment, not allowed to take risks. She fell in love with Isheaux a while after meeting him.

Isheaux is an elezen lancer who became a leatherworker after retiring from adventuring and marrying Chichiho. He is the childhood friend of Origin, as stated, but dreamed of seeing beyond Gridania one day. When that need was satisfied, he returned home with Chichiho and took over the leatherworker guild.

Meteor Shielde is The WoL™️ in the world Chiho n Isheaux live in. In Origin's Eight Universe he's not the WoL, but the adopted son of one of the main WoLs. I imagine in that AU he retires from adventuring to help take care of his adopted brother, Arenvald. He's also younger than Arenvald, who we sorta aged up by a couple of years.

Meteor was the daughter of a runaway princess of Ala Mhigo and a Yanxian merchant whom she fell for. He was born on the cusp of the rebellion, but his parents were killed by Garleans while trying to escape. Meteor was found by the rebellion n taken to Lil Ala Mhigo, where he was adopted alongside Arenvald by Regana Shielde, one of the Eight and Raubahn's younger sister. He learned archery to help feed his family and became an adventurer shortly after Arenvald became a Scion, doing anything he could to support his friends and family back home.

I'makhei Ruwah is my current and separate universe WoL. She has no ties to the others listed here for now. She's the daughter of a Garlean defector and a miqo'te man, born and raised in Gridania. She faced a lot of prejudice as half Garlean n miqo'te, which lead her to become a romantic who dreamed of being swept off her feet. When she was 18, she met Nhaz'a Jaab, a mercenary from the tribal quests, and had her daughter (currently unnamed). She spent a few years with Nhaz'a, being treated no better than a slave, before she finally left him. She worked as a server in Ul'dah until she finally saved enough money to buy her family home to Gridania once more, long after her daughter had left to live her own life.

When she proved she had an innate ability for healing magic, she joined the Conjurer's Guild and became an adventurer, ending up a white mage and saving the realm with her incredible power (and help from the other scions)

[astarmaux]

Character Profile

basics ––––

NAME: Saedre Astarmaux

AGE: 30

RACE: Half-hyur/elezen

GENDER: Female

SEXUALITY: Heterosexual

MARITAL STATUS: In a relationship w/ @voidtekarc

SERVER: Diabolos, Crystal Data Center

physical appearance ––––

HAIR: White with very, very faint light blue sheen under certain lighting.

EYES: Purple with golden flecks

HEIGHT: 5'9"

BUILD: Slender

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: Two small beauty marks. One just under the left of her bottom lip and the other just below her right eye.

COMMON ACCESSORIES: Usually wears large round spectacles, books, satchel of odds and ends, cloak (she loves her cloaks), and whatever else she may need at the time.

personal –––-

PROFESSION: Traveling scholar and educator specializing in aetherology and astromancy.

HOBBIES: Reading, seeing the world, unearthing hidden treasures, and consuming copious amounts of coffee.

LANGUAGES: Common

RESIDENCE: Old Sharlayan

relationships –––-

SPOUSE: Never married.

CHILDREN: None but may want to have children one day.

PARENTS: Iaerian Astarmaux (father; alive), and Edone Astarmaux (mother; alive)

SIBLINGS: Ithyae Astarmaux-Burnes (sister; alive)

OTHER RELATIVES: Edwin Burnes (brother in law; alive), Alphant Burnes (nephew; alive)

traits –––-

extroverted / introverted / in between

disorganized / organized / in between

close minded / open-minded / in between

calm / anxious / in between

disagreeable / agreeable/ in between

cautious / reckless/in between

patient / impatient / in between

outspoken / reserved / in between

leader / follower / in between

empathetic/ unemphatic / in between

optimistic/ pessimistic / in between

traditional / modern / in between

hard-working / lazy / in between

cultured / un-cultured/ in between

loyal / disloyal / in between

faithful / unfaithful / in between

additional information –––-

SMOKING HABIT: never / sometimes / frequently/ to excess.

ALCOHOL: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

possible hooks –––-

Aetherology and astromancy - Loves talking with others who have a passion for the subjects as well.

Fellow Sharlayan? Let's nerd out.

Traveler - Always eager to travel and for good adventure.

Her relationship with a Garlean may or may not be to everyone's liking. Idk.

Honestly, whatevers clever!

what I’m looking for ––––

Saedre could always use friends, enemies, colleagues, etc.

oocly, I am ––––

Not a new FFXIV player. I've been here awhile.

Semi-selective RPer. I've seen too much in RP communities that I am very cautious even though I tend to be pretty welcoming unless given reason otherwise. I am also just not someone who RPs every single day of the week nor wants to, so this doesn't always fit in well others who RP pretty consistently. Being selective saves myself and others time so I like to be upfront.

NOT interested in ERP ever.

you can contact me via ––

Tumblr DM @astarmaux

Discord - Ask me.

In-game on Diabolos - Saedre Astarmaux

Tumblr DM @astarmaux

Discord - Ask me.

In-game on Diabolos - Saedre Astarmaux

[purple-cat-demon]

Soooo I got inspired by fellow FFXIV player, @sweetvanilledani to do a background story of sorts on my characters. I finished T’uula’s so here it is and I hope it’s not too flat. Also I do switch tenses a lot, sorry in advance 🤣

T’uula Callisto

Originally from the Azim Steppe, she came into the care of the Mol Tribe after being found half drowned in a nearby river at the age of six.

The patterns on her clothes suggested she came from the Kagon Tribe, and that she may have been separated during a night migration.

As she got older, her knack for getting into fights with the older tribesmen led the elders to believe she could be of Dotharl descent; a reincarnation of one of their fallen warriors.

In her teen years, she started having visions of a time well before hers. She dismissed them as possible past life memories. But when the visions started showing much different lands than the Steppe, she went to the elders for guidance. They were aware of some phenomena called the Echo but rarely ever discussed it openly as it contrasted with their beliefs of the Dawn Father and Dusk Mother. Nevertheless, the elders saw it as a sign for her to journey to Eorzea.

Upon arriving in Kugane, she finds a merchant ship bound for Eorzea and hitches a ride, not prepared for the rough seas ahead.

Thanking the gods after making port in Limsa Lominsa, T’uula explores the area with the extra time granted to her before heading off to Gridania.

None of the jobs offered in the port town seem to align with her pole-arm skills; but she takes an interest in both Blacksmith and Armorer, and decides to come back later to enlist in both guilds.

The airship ride over Gridania was pleasant enough; her curiosity over the set of elezen twins also traveling to Gridania, kept the trip interesting.

Gridania’s a whole different environment than the Steppe—a new sense of vibrancy for the young au-ra.

She finds the Lancer guild and starts to feel more comfortable knowing her weapon of choice has a chance of being improved upon.

However, being in a different place made her penchant for fighting increase—if not for the interference of Yda and Papalymo, T’uula would’ve most assuredly been sent back to the Steppe.

They bring her to the base of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, where she learns more about the visions she’s been having and of the Echo. She has a better understanding as to why the elders were so adamant about sending her off.

Her first major assignment is defeating the primal named Ifrit. While she was used to fighting creatures much larger than herself, this primal was a god; even she had her doubts about completing the task. But she does it, and with that victory, comes two more primals to contend with, Titan and Garuda.

Her life is swept up in a series of victories, betrayals and heavy losses with the introduction of the Ascians, and the growing power of the Garlean empire. And once again, she finds herself in a new place.

If T’uula thought Gridania was vastly different from the Steppe, Coerthas provided even more of a contrast in regards to climate and atmosphere.

Clad in a constant chilly and almost bleak background, the lands north of Gridania were harsh to say the least.

And T’uula absolutely hated the cold, it made her more grumpy and prone to tussles with the locals.

While traveling to Camp Dragonhead, the trio—T’uula, Alphinaud, and Tataru—stop in a small town located just south of Boulder Downs. Both Alphinaud and Tataru strike up conversations with the locals to get an idea of what the area is like, while T’uula tries to make the most of the situation and partake in a warm drink. The pleasantness of the warm drink is cut short as an elezen starts to poke fun at her shivering in the cold.

She’s about to snap when a hyur steps in to diffuse the potential brawl.

Take a wild guess as to who the hyur is that steps in 🤣 So basically I’m doing background stories for both up to where they first meet each other. The way I kinda have them is that T’uula was granted the Echo but Scott wasn’t, he sorta tags along with her because her adventuring path seemed waaaay more interesting than whittling the time away in Coerthas. Plus he helps her around the Coerthan terrain.

[bozjabun]

Random Prompt Time:

Part of a series of prompts I was trying to finish a year ago and super Did Not. Featuring my partner's character Lissandra Kolaire and elements of future ship stuff! It is unedited because I am lazy and work is beating my ass. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“’Selfish’ and ‘selfless’ are based on perception.”

Lissandra Kolaire scowled, and slugged Rem Verin in the arm. The two had been out drinking, as they had been doing off and on since they met on the Bozjan Front. Now settled in Tural for work, the Elezen woman and her red-headed Viera friend had spent the last few nights catching up and sampling the sights, sounds, smells, and snacks that the nation had to offer. Rem had landed some weeks back after losing sight of a job in Kugane and eventually sent word to “Fix,” the name Lissandra had earned in Bozja after her skill in repairing magitek devices and turning them against their Garlean makers.

They’d shared correspondence before, kept in touch and answered questions or calls to action on occasion. They’d worked well together in Bozja, establishing a rapport shaped by combat and close-calls. Rem had been fighting far longer on the front than Lissandra or the mercenary company she’d joined up with. Still, as good as the Bruisers were, Rem was prone to wandering off - to taking assignments or trips that should’ve been team efforts and completing them alone.

Until Fix. They two of them became fast friends, each covering the other in ways neither had expected or anticipated. They were complimentary in excess, and had received no end of teasing and innuendo for it. They didn’t mind, though. They laughed it off, usually turning their attentions and ire on other members of the Bruisers.

Here in Tural, however, there were no Bruisers to turn on. They’d spent the better part of their catching up enjoying what seemed like endless amounts of alcohol and food, of lights and sounds, endless numbers of deeply attractive travelers for them to appreciate. But, as always happens when you introduce mezcal and tacos to fine company, their conversations turned from “what have you been up to” and “did you see them?” to “what do you think happens when we die” and, on the part of Lissandra, “what’s the most selfless thing you’ve ever done and what’s the most selfish?”

Rem’s answer had earned him a shot in the arm, and set him to snickering laughter. “I mean it! Look, ok, I’ve told you the story of my eye, right?” The viera ran a hand over his ever-present eyepatch, a tattered mess of cloth that really served to cover half of his face.

Lissandra nodded, stumbling alongside Rem as the two made their way down one of the market rows of Tuliyollal. “At least once, if not two or three times. You were helping those Bozjans escape… what was his name? Your ‘nemesis?’” she offered, only teasing a little as she made finger quotes in the air.

“Yeah, yeah, that. Would you say that was selfless, or selfish?” Rem moved around her in that way he was prone to, sliding just behind her to put his good eye on her left and watch her mull the question over.

It didn’t take long. “Selfless, obviously. You stood alone against a small battalion, to hear you tell it. Let the Bozjans escape out the back to safety. Fell when the temple got bombed. Fucked up your eye in the process.” Lissandra rattled off the recounted tale with practiced ease - she really had heard it four or five times by now. “How is that selfish? From what perspective?”

Rem broke into a wide, almost feral grin. “Mine, of course.”

He grabbed Lissandra’s arm and spun the Elezen woman to the side, sending them both stumbling into an alley between market stalls and a grand stone staircase. Lissandra’s back hit stone - startled, she blinked and there was Rem’s face suddenly very close to hers. “It was the most selfish thing I’d ever done. I wanted that man’s blood more than I wanted anything. I’m glad the Bozjans got away, don’t get me wrong.” His breath was hot on her ear, her nose picking up hints of the dangerously sweet mixed drinks they’d clearly had far too many off.

“But I didn’t do it for them. I did it for me.” His voice had dropped low, almost to a growl, as he pressed Lissandra into the wall.

He paused, grinning at her. Both their cheeks were flushed now, though whether from the alcohol or their sudden and intimate proximity it was hard to tell. Both of Lissandra’s eyes were locked on Rem’s singular visible one, their breathing heavy and slowly, subtly syncing.

Lissandra Kolaire narrowed her eyes, and placed her hands on either side of Rem’s face. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she murmured while glaring at the viera, before pulling his face up and into a long, leisurely kiss.

[winterdeepelegy]

Prompt #24 - Bar

Glace had already been here for a couple of bells, and though he nursed his way through the first pint whilst enjoying minimal conversation, he was halfway through his second when three Hyur men arrived. He ignored them at first, including when he heard them making snide remarks outside about his chosen mode of transportation, a motorcycle parked just on the edge of the fence line. There was still plenty of room for chocobos, carts, and all manner of other steeds to be accommodated. "Bloody godsdamned machine," one of them scoffed. Glace heard what might have been the disgusting snorf of a throatful of phlegm being spat... and it better not have been at his ride. He noted this and took another swig. He counted the pairs of footfalls entering the tavern behind him - two of the men entered. The third didn't make his appearance until after the telltale sound of something large and metallic crashing onto its side in the dirt. Glace slammed his tankard down onto the countertop and clenched his jaw, but he neither turned to look at the men nor did he say anything. Not yet. Not with Brass Blades sitting at another table close by... as if they would have done much. One of the newly arrived men laughed, "Tell me you didn't!" "Shite sure I did... damn thing has no place here," answered the third man. "...Bring that Garlean heap o'trash here, the whoreson deserves to find his toy broken." Glace's lips curled back with a snarl, and the barkeep moved down to the far end of the counter with a sighed "Not again" and ducked down like he was looking for something. Rather, he wanted to avoid getting in the middle of the brewing storm. One of the Brass Blades got up to see what happened outside, the other remained at the table with a wary eye on the small group. "I should've pissed on it too," said the Hyur. "Prob'ly would've peeled the paint right off it." He finally decided to read the room and noticed a lack of what he expected - there were no Garleans in the room. He'd incorrectly assumed the identity of the motorcycle's owner and noted the only other plausible owner was the Duskwight standing at the bar. "Oi, mate, you know anything about the metal monstrosity outside?" Glace licked his lips and stared down into his tankard for a moment, seething regardless of the gelid calm in his posture. "Yeah," a hefty pause, "It's mine." "Oh, well then... serves you right. Bloody arse, you've got no --" Glace moved before anyone else knew it was coming. He was a dark blur as he lunged from the bar counter to the table, grabbed the Hyur off the ground by his throat and plunged him through the thick wooden tabletop. The surface was reduced to large splinters and the Hyur now laid there in silence; that was except for the strangled groan he let out from under the Duskwight's iron grip. The man's comrades ran back outside with hardly a moment's hesitation after such a monstrous display of strength from an Elezen. The nearby Brass Blade, half in his cups, stood up with a hand on his sword but hardly had to advance on the confrontation due to the now bloodied Hyur landing on his table next. Glace threw a substantial amount of gil onto the counter to pay for his drinks, as well as the busted table, and left to inspect the damage to his motorcycle. He found the other Brass Blade talking to the other men who ran outside but paid them little mind. The bike was damaged, the paint scuffed and dented in a couple of places, but it was nothing he couldn't fix. He looked up and locked eyes with the Brass Blade who shook his head and went back into the tavern. With consideration to how this all began, he wasn't going to hold Glace accountable, not when the instigator was still present and easy to apprehend.

[forgotten-contract]

How they met; Krile + Silvaire

While Silvaire met the young woman known as Krile only in passing at the foray into tracking down the missing scions - as attentive as he was to skills of others, the man made it quite apparent that he had no interest in helping that situation, and left it to the Warrior of Light to handle. It wasn't until that same Warrior of Light requested his assistance with the plight of the Warring Triad that he was properly introduced - and strongarmed - into meeting the Lalafell on open terms.

She was clearly able to piece together his lies and half-truths, just as sure as she was aware of the guarded nature of their young companion Unukalhai; yet she unaware of how that the Elezen lord was actually quite similar to that displaced 13th resident. Through the events Krile kept her peace about picking into Silvaire's secrets, although not without a passing comment here and there at his expense; a type of pointedness that brought more questions to the minds of the Scions who'd - up to this point - held his lacking interest in their affairs as common sense. Krile was the first to properly point out the ease in which he would relent to the requests of the Warrior of Light alone; as if obligation demanded a polite hand. Silvaire for the most part found himself at odds; both in the Promethian curse of well controlled annoyance, as well as a genuine respect and admiration for the way the Lalafellan woman could handle him in almost all conversations. Krile and The Warrior of Light were the only two to properly notice the change in his demenor at the death of Regula; unknown to them, the history of a relationship of having raised the youth alongside Varis lingered in the history of this once-Garlean hound. A sorrow buried just as quickly behind the umbral dark of his voidsent affliction, brushed away as 'a waste of time'. After all is said and done, Krile and Silvaire leave these lengthy exchanges with the knowledge that the other is someone to keep an eye on - for good or bad, was yet to be seen.

[velnica]

🎄 Happy Starlight 2023! ✨

Thank you for all your support this year as I expand my OC & bard boys lore. It’s been a blast and a half, so let’s have even more fun next year!

Love ~ Vel, Fjora, Cora and the bard unit

After the Final Days were thwarted and the various contingents returned home, the populace—soldiers and civilians alike—needed something positive to cling to. Not just hope on the ephemeral Warrior of Lights, but also something nearer and dearer to their heart: a return to normalcy. Thus for Starlight this year, the bard unit had been roped into performing on stage, and Sanson asked for every one of his team to join him and Guydelot.

They were supported by Fjora, Cora, and Haurchefant, who had settled—for now—in Gridania. To Sanson's shock and Guydelot's amusement, Commander Vorsaile had raised his hand to join the festivities, and who was Sanson to reject the chance for more merriment? Group assembled, they took to the stage, ready to share some Starlight cheer for one and all.

Individual photos and bio of the bard unit under the cut 💖

The following character bios are written to fit into my WoL's canon timeline and therefore will not reflect the game's information. Edit 25 Dec: I have updated some of their ages to a few years younger, to explain their absence from being conscripted at Carteneau.

Warrior of Lights:

Fjora Swiftmane: A Rava Viera of fourty-eight summers who left Golmore in search of freedom, only to find it eventually trampled under Garlean ruthlessness. She joined the Dalmascan resistance for a time, though Livia sas Junius' massacre ended her involvement. Fjora left Othard with anger and grief in her heart, and Hydaelyn's calling to be her champion was the start of her healing journey. She is an Uhlan, a heavy-infantry lancer whose skill is now augmented by her Dragoon training.

Corentin Arceneaux: A Wildwood Elezen bard of twenty-five summers, born to antique trader parents in Othard. He became a ward of Rasho and Tansui after his parents were murdered by the Garleans for being undercover Resistance financiers. Cora stayed in the Ruby Sea until the liberation of Doma, when he decided to travel with his long lost sister/close family friend Fjora. His weapon of choice is his giant Hingan bow and his magic-imbued Sanshin. At present he is entangled in some kind of strange relationship to one Hancock Fitzgerald, to whom he owes money for breaking a priceless vase in his collection.

The Twin Adder Bard unit:

Sanson Smyth: A young Midlander lancer who captains the Bard unit. He is steadfast with a strong sense of morality and justice, a trait that often puts him at odds with his Adder superiors. Yet with the support of Guydelot and Vorsaile, he vows to stay true to his conviction and lead Gridania to a better future. At twenty-two years of age, he still thinks himself inexperienced, despite the accolades that he is fast accumulating on his mantelpiece. He is in a long-term relationship with Guydelot.

Guydelot Thildonnet: A talented, wilful Wildwood bard who was infamous for his truancy and recalcitrance towards any kind of authority. In recent times he's seen a marked improvement in his attendance, and one might even say he's turned a new leaf into the straight and narrow, all under the stern command of Captain Sanson Smyth; a feat backed by the medal tally that the man cared little about. What most people do not know, however, is that the twenty-four year old bard owes this change to his genuine interest and commitment to this unit... and to Sanson himself.

Karinae Béringer: Sanson's second in command ever since he was made Captain, Karinae is a skilled Duskwight lancer who's ready to defend her friends and comrades at any moment's notice, no matter when or where. Usually you would find the twenty-three year old in the Druthers, hustling free drinks out of any poor souls with her captivating charm—except for Dietrich.

Perinnault Deschamps: A novice bard with brilliant aim and a keen sense of tempo who joined Sanson's unit before the liberation of Ala Mhigo. At twenty and one summers, the Wildwood Elezen is eager to learn everything there is about being a bard, and is improving markedly with every mission that he undertakes.

Dietrich Eltz: Despite his splendid marksmanship, the twenty year old Midlander is a sensitive soul who is prone to crying at the drop of a hat when overwhelmed. His voice had been likened to the sweetness of a spring bloom, and his good looks had won him the admiration of many; yet all he wants is to learn how to become confident in his own skill, and to be admired by the merit of his battlesongs.

Minh'to Zhwan: A twenty-three year old Keeper of the Moon lancer who was temporarily assigned to Sanson's unit just after the Ballad of Oblivion quest, Minh'to gained the utmost respect for the Captain after they survived and routed an Ixali skirmish. He asked to be transferred permanently and is now thriving under Sanson's leadership, which allows him to learn a myriad of combat skills from their joint Alliance training. He is fiercely protective of his twin sister.

Aemi Zhwan: Stuck in a rut at her previous unit with no pathway to improvement, the twenty-three year old Keeper of the Moon conjurer eventually asked for a transfer to Sanson's unit at the insistence of her twin brother just before Ghimlyt. After surviving the bloody battle, she vowed to support her newly-found comrades in any way she could, having been awed by Guydelot's prowess in the field. She was a sickly child growing up, and Minh'to stepped in to be her protector.

Dya Nakhiri: A studious conjurer, the twenty-four year old Highlander can often be found sequestering themselves in the corner of the Nest, surrounded by books on conjury and battle tactics. When the bards joined Sanson's unit, suddenly their horizon was expanded and now they are deep into research on how to better align the bards' songs with the conjurers' healing spells. Despite their stern countenance, Dya is quietly warm and welcoming once you endear yourself to them.

Supporting casts:

Haurchefant Greystone: Stolen away by accident to the First at the moment of his death by Crystal Exarch, Haurchefant had been living and training there for nigh ten years, all to better support Fjora when she finally comes to save them all. After a harrowing reunion, they decided to rekindle their relationship, though the plan went awry when Haurchefant became tempered by Fjora's absorbed Light. After an intervention by Hydaelyn before she departs, his soul becomes stable enough to be housed in a Hannish simulacrum, crafted personally as a gift for the Warrior of Light. He now travels with her and Cora, ever ready to defend his friends and family once more. Counting his time in the First, he is now thirty and eight summers old.

Vorsaile Heuloix: The High Commander of the Twin Adders is no stranger to challenging authority, a trait that had served him well during his mercenary days. Ever since the affair with Gylbarde's Journal, the thirty-five year old Wildwood had taken a shine to Sanson and his upstanding integrity and despite not being his direct superior, he's been mentoring the Captain to be his protégé—in defiance to every Adders protocol that keeps him employed. He still grimaces when people affectionately calls him 'Vorsie' though he might be warming up to the nickname at the slowest of snail's pace.

[myreia]

❤︎ OC Kiss Week 25 ❤

Hello! 🌹

I've decided that I am going to do OC Kiss Week this year! I am a very beginner artist (started in December, have a lot to learn) and I thought it would be a fun way to learn how to draw more people and characters interacting. I can't promise that anything will look that great, but I want to give it a shot! 🩷

official ockiss info here!

I'll be accepting characters in my ask box from February 2 to February 16. Send in your OC and let me know which one of mine you'd like them to smooch! Little details are helpful too, especially if you prefer romantic or platonic kisses. You can also send a prompt from @ockissweek's list:

• desperate • first • stolen • reunion • worship • forbidden • caught

I am only going to do OCs from FFXIV, Dragon Age or BG3. You do not need to be a mutual or a follower, but please make sure screenshots of your OC are easily findable on your blog so I know what they look like.

❤︎ My Smoochable OCs ❤

❥ Aureia Malathar (FFXIV) half-elezen ✦ 30s ✦ she/her ✦ biromantic asexual ✦ black mage

Aureia is an ex-Garlean agent. She comes off very strong and knows what she wants (except when she doesn't and then it's a mess). She's firm in her beliefs and stands by her opinions, though she is also open-minded and deeply empathetic in her own specific way.

❥ Niam (BG3) Half-Elf ✦ 30s ✦ she/her ✦ biromantic asexual ✦ wild magic sorcerer

Niam grew up on the streets of Baldur's Gate with very little memory of her parents. She's clever and curious, with a tendency to bite off more than she can chew because she wants to find out what happens. Likely to accidentally set things on fire or polymorph her friends into cats and dogs. Also to turn her hair green.

❥ Venara Lavellan (Dragon Age: Inquisition) dalish elf ✦ 28 ✦ she/her ✦ biromantic asexual ✦ knight-enchanter

Venara is generally quiet and reserved, with a keen eye. From the outside she appears a stoic and unapproachable, but once you get to know her she warms up. She cares deeply for her friends and though she likes to keep busy and enjoys her time alone, she always makes time for them. Might have a slight vengeance streak.

Thank you!! This will be fun! 🌹🩷

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #12 - Quarry

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #12 - Quarry

Trigger Warning: Blood, violence, injuries. Not overly graphic, but present because, well, I wrote Zenos for the first time!

This is my particular take about how the end of Rhalgr's Reach (aka the first time meeting Zenos) went for Briar.

Briar's ribs ached as he panted, one knee on stony ground and a hand steadying him. With his free hand, he reached to touch his side. He grimaced as each breath caused pain and a glance showed his fingers smeared with red. Gritting his teeth, the half-Elezen glanced at his bow, but the weapon was useless now. The slash of a sword had severed the string even as it sliced into his flesh. Forcing the pain and fear away, Briar turned his eyes toward his opponent.

Zenos yae Galvus.

The crown prince of the Garlean Empire was an imposing, alien figure in his eyes. Towering near two fulms over Briar, he was wrapped in jagged, dark plate armour with a bone-white mask. There was only the occasional flash of light from the eyes within to mark the prince as a man instead of a machine. As he watched, Zenos flicked his sword absently, sending drops of blood across the sand to clean the blade.

All around them, there was chaos in Rhalgr's Reach. The dead and the dying were everywhere. The Ala Mhigan Resistance was desperately trying to their own against the Garlean soldiers. Somewhere nearby Y'shtola lay in the sands, protected by a frantic Lyse. Krile, Aliasaie, and Alphinaud were doing their best to get the wounded to safety.

But at the moment, none of that mattered.

In this moment, there was only Zenos and the wide sand stretched between them as the statue of the Destroyer looked down.

"Will you run, Beast?" Zenos tilted his helm as he took a step toward Briar. "Will that fierce spirit break?"

In answer, Briar stood slowly, hearing the soft platter of blood drops hitting the sand. Reaching for the sheath on his thigh, he pulled out the curved knife, gripping it as he walked to meet Zenos.

"Good!" The laugh boomed out of Zenos as he walked faster. "Let the beast bare its fang at me!"

Without meeting to, Briar showed his teeth at Zenos, green eyes sharp as he darted forward. He twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the slash of the long samurai sword. Briar lashed out, knife scraping along Zeno's leg near the knee. He gave a frustrated snarl under his breath as he threw himself away to avoid a backward strike at him. The Garlean Steel prevented Zenos from being hamstrung, but the boldness of Briar's attack had him barking another laugh.

The Garlean prince attacked in a flurry of strikes, although his movements were almost lazy. Briar hissed and twisted, dodging and twisting, forced back step by step. But he gave grudgingly, teeth still showing and eyes locked on Zenos. While his determination did not waiver, he was not the warrior Zenos was and his stamina faded.

A small stumble was all it took for a brutal backhand to slam into his chest, sending his slim frame through the air to crash on the blood-stained sand. Briar rolled and twisted, coming to his hands and knees, body heaving and sweat drenching his thin leather armour. He started to rise, only to give a strangled gasp as a gauntlet-covered hand seized his throat and jerked him upward.

Briar gagged, vision blurring and full of spots as Zenos squeezed with casual viciousness. The sharp points of the armour pierced his skin, sending trickles down his neck and chest as the half-Elezen dangled from the ground. "Pathetic," Zenos sighed, voice strangely soft as he brought Briar closer to his face. "Such potential to be a fine quarry but--!"

His words turned into a grunt of surprise as Briar twisted suddenly. One hand grabbed Zenos's wrist, jerking the armour aside just enough for the half-Elezen to plunge the short blade into the Garlean's forearm. At the same moment, Briar coiled like a snake and slammed both heels into the prince's helm with everything he could manage. And it was enough, if only just.

Zenos staggered back, grip loosening around to drop Briar to the ground. The half-Elezen sucked in a deep breath, only to cough and spit blood from his injured throat. His fingers were still curled around his dagger though, now red with Garlean blood. He staggered to his feet, free hand at his own throat to try and staunch the bleeding.

Zenos stared down at the slim little Eorzean with wild red hair and green eyes that gleamed with a quiet fury. He watched as Briar showed his teeth yet again in a blood-tinted snarl, even as he swayed in place, dizzy from wounds and lack of air. That savage gaze did not waver though, despite blood trickling down Briar's chin and his thin chest heaved with the effort to breathe.

The Garlean tilted his head, absently reaching up to remove his helm. He shook long blond hair out of his face as he hooked the helmet to his waist. He studied the slow drip of blood from his injured forearm. He reached up to wipe away a small smear of blood from his nose. Elegant features furrowed a bit as he considered the battered but defiant Briar. The sight of the slim half-Elezen still standing his ground made Zenos's lips twitch up in a very faint smile.

Then Zenos simply turned away. Without another word or glance, he simply stalked away, departing the field. Briar stared after him, watching the last of Garlean soldiers quickly moving to follow their prince out of Rhalgr's Reach.

Only then did Briar shudder, knees giving way so he fell to the sand. He gave a strangled gasp, spitting out blood again. A wave of pain and exhaustion swam over his vision and he only dimly heard General Aldynn shouting his name and calling a healer. Briar made an effort to rise, but darkness washed over him. The last thing he was aware of was Raubahn's hand catching him before he hit the ground as the pain faded into nothingness.