#halone is right theRE

[tearlunars]

forbidden touch.

[ahollowgrave]

@viiioca asked: Send 👑 to see them in something they might wear to impress others.

Odette knows that when she tells people she's a nun they often have a very firm expectation of what a nun is. Which she often fails to meet. Perhaps it is not the most confident of answers, but she can't help but to want to fulfil those ideas even if they're not the truth of her. She can't help but wonder how things would be so different if they weren't so different, you know?

Thank you for the ask! ][ Screenshot Meme ][

Bonus shot that I just really loved:

[tovaicas]

kind of always disliked that the mouthpiece audience stand-in used to indicate the pure breadth of the world-shattering betrayal the halonic faith has inflicted on ishgard, the pain and grief of having your entire paradigm of how you see with and interact with the world and how you view the war that you've been forced to fight in, lost friends and family to and suffered abuses at the hands of the church that were 'justified' in the name of halone and the grind of the DSW, that everything you fought for and suffered through was not only a lie but a war crime bc in actuality you were fighting and killing children and the extreme sense of world-rending disgust with yourself and pure raw rage at the vault which has willingly, without your consent or knowledge, made you into a murderer of the worst kind, all riding on the back of a literally world-altering disaster that forced you out of your home and made you run for your very life and the pure cultural grief considering that the holy see lost literally all of fucking coerthas in the calamity only five years ago is not the guy in this conversation who is actually ishgardian and has lived through all of the above but rather a sharlayan national with no connection to this conflict who's been living in ishgard for like two weeks

[heart-of-the-party]

you’re alone...good.

[impossible-rat-babies]

i wanna take 14’s paladin and stick it ishgard and make them weird about halone

[estinininininen]

look i've read/watched/played a lot of fantastical stories and i love creative displays of how mind-boggingly alien different cultures can possibly get.

but there is something just. so viscerally frightening to me about ishgard and their communal table salt lick and i can't stop thinking about it. ishgard is already framed as a foreign place to the warrior of light/the player so everyone in-story is patiently explaining the importance of the church of halone and ishgard's history because everyone knows the big stuff has to be explained to an outsider. but something small the ishgardians think is normal would slip right past.

i'm ready to laugh myself sick any time of day at the idea of the warrior sitting down to eat at fortemps manor for the first time, emotionally drained and scared. and one of these finicky nobles you have to trust your life with just picks up a pale rock you thought was a centerpiece with a curiously smooth, maybe even already damp worn surface, opens their mouth, sticks out their tongue, and SCHLURPS

i would feel such visceral horror. briefly wonder if i had fallen in faerie-land/the dark world/the upside-down. it would only increase as i look left and right and everyone else continues eating calmly. only maybe if haurchefant were there would someone realize how weird that would seem to outsiders and laugh at my expression.

it's like in the simpsons when homer time travels, sits back down to dinner, and discovers the butterfly effect gave everyone lizard tongues. it's so close to a normal dinner time interaction and yet incredibly far. you think ishgard must have a weird supersition about it to explain. "what, is - is it bad luck to break up a salt lump?" you ask

"no" haurchefant says. "it's just always been done this way"

and so often in any society there is no better explanation than just that but this is so fuckkng weird it would briefly make you question all normal human instincts if ishgard thinks this is okay. that is such silly, terrifying, and superfluous world bulding. it's great.

[sword-and-lance]

...and honestly even for their FFXIV versions that description's not that far off either lmao

y'know it occurs to me that Dae and Nemesis are both Somewhat Unnerving but on entirely different ends of that axis

Dae is Somewhat Unnerving because that seems to be a Dark Urge thing and she just genuinely wants to eat people 24/7--and is basically only restraining it because her sibling would be kinda peeved with her if she didn't

Nemesis on the other hand is Somewhat Unnerving just...courtesy of basically cosplaying a swamp gator 24/7 and also they lived alone in a bog shack for so long that they kinda forgot how not to be majorly fucking weird

[coldshrugs]

ffxivwrite - prompt 4: reticent

characters: estinien varlineau, hamignant varlineau, and featuring my wol, io laithe word count: 1921 rating: mature for mentions of bullying & death. summary: three short, heavily headcanoned scenes from estinien's life, at ages 12, 21, and 33. [middle section heavily inspired by this art] posted 9/5/24 | updated 10/11/24

“I challenge you, Ser, to a trial by combat! Take up your arms and fight me!”

“And what is my crime this time?”

Hamignant, small as he is, brandishes his stick threateningly, but all that swagger is betrayed by an answer that comes out slower than usual. Shaky, even. “You don’t play with me anymore.”

Estinien shifts his weight, leaning a bit more heavily on the tall crook. A stone of guilt sinks in his stomach, so he distracts himself by watching the shallow valley just below the hill they stand on and the sheep grazing there. It is late spring and their coats are full and fluffy, ready for shearing. His twelfth nameday was less than a moon ago and he is expected to help with the task this year. His parents rely on him more now, sending him on errands usually tended by his father, giving him additional fieldwork. It isn’t easy, but it feels good to be trusted.

In truth, he would very much like to continue playing with Hamignant. His little brother has a knack for making games of their chores, and should they be caught goofing off, his wit is quick enough to make even the most stern adult smile.

Estinien does not share his talent for conversation, but Hamignant never seems to mind. He is content to babble so long as Estinien is close by to listen.

The stick—his foraged sword—wriggles closer. Closer. Until it pokes into Estinien’s cheek.

His gaze slides sideways, to Hamignant’s dramatic stance. It would be funny if not for the serious set of his brow, the tight purse of his lips, and the sheen welling in his eyes. Halone bless him, he truly is upset…

Estinien shifts again, batting the stick away with his crook, and smiles at Hamignant. “Then fight me, little knight, but take care to hide your bruises from Mother and Father.”

With a cheer of delight and an expression that makes Estinien proud he put it there, Hamignant begins their spar. Their wooden weapons echo across the meadow, sharp cracks followed by the occasional shriek or grunt when their limbs take a hit.

“Ow!” Estinien pauses to nurse a sore knuckle in his mouth. Hamignant celebrates, jumping on the spot before reenacting the flashy maneuver in the air between them. His victory doesn’t last—Estinien topples him and sends them both rolling down the hill in a fit of laughter.

They land fulms away from the sheep. Some come over to sniff them, like curious friends checking for injuries. Hamignant reaches up to pet snouts, red cheeks stretched in an open smile.

Estinien lies back to catch his breath. Clouds drift overhead in lazy wisps, and the grass tickles his neck and ankles as a warm breeze passes through the meadow. He closes his eyes, listening to the soft bleating of his charges, and even though his knuckle still throbs, he is happy.

“We should make a pact, Es,” Hamignant says, and his excited voice does not negate the sense of peace. “When we grow up, let’s both be knights. We can live in Ishgard and wear armor, protect beautiful maidens from harm, and fight dragons!”

“Best not to wish for dragons, Hami, like Mother says.” He chews his bottom lip. “Besides, I don’t want to be a knight. I like living here. Someone must stay and care for the farm.”

Hamignant’s smile sags. “Fine,” he pouts, though he looks less defeated than before. “You can stay in Ferndale all your days, and I’ll be a great knight of Ishgard. I will come home every Starlight and tell you about my adventures. That could still be fun, right?”

Estinien grins and rights himself, then offers a hand to help his brother up as well. “The finest plan you’ve ever had.”

At age twenty-one, Estinien is still getting used to his height.

Hitting striking dummies with Alberic is one thing—they don’t dodge, and they don’t hit back. And sparring with his unit is pitiable right now, as many of them adjust to growing bodies. It is something else entirely to swing the unfamiliar length of his arm at a sneering face, or struggle to take an unwieldy step backward before the very real fist meets his cheek. To fight and defend himself seriously.

He hits the training yard dirt with a weak groan that is all but drowned out by a roar of laughter. His ears ring from the impact. Four soldiers, all fledglings like himself, still in a training unit, stand over him.

“And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay down, Varlineau.” The one that threw the punch. Taller than he is, and stronger, and probably some noble’s son or nephew. It’s been a few moons since his official enlistment, but Estinien has not learned their names. He is here for one reason, and he cannot make room for useless information. And why should he, when another puts a foot on his chest as he tries to stand?

They erupt again over such a hard-won victory.

“We heard you last night, whimpering in your bunk like a freshly-weened babe. That the Azure Dragoon should waste his time with you,” one scoffs.

“No better than an orphaned Brume brat. We should drag you back to Ferndale and let Nidhogg know he missed one—”

The ankle holding him down makes a sickening snap when he twists it. Striking dummies certainly don’t do that. The boy goes down with a pained scream.

Estinien stands. He says nothing, only wipes his bloody nose with the back of his hand, then swings. 

He spends three days in the gaol, and they do not bother him again.

He’s been in this room too long. His body is stiff from disuse, even with the daily practice of simple stretches. By chirurgeon’s orders, he has been forbidden from any activities that might reopen his wounds.

By fucking Halone and all the rest, he is bored.

At least he doesn’t want for company—that is not to say company has ever been a strong craving for him, of course. But Estinien could do worse than the Warrior of Light making her near-daily visit, even if it’s simply because this is the single place in Ishgard where she might escape the pitying gazes and prying questions about her… entanglement with Greystone. He enjoys a few hours of quiet, tolerable companionship, and she has a moment of privacy; an even exchange, in his mind.

Io sits in a ratty armchair, legs curled under her, by a sunny window so thickly lined with sympathy flowers, the room resembles the Holy Gardens of the Vault. Or, more kindly, the meadows ringing Ferndale in late spring. She wears the evidence of mourning around her eyes, red-rimmed and darkened bags from lack of decent sleep. He knows the look well. Still, the backdrop suits her.

Today, she knits, softly humming to herself in time to the rhythmic click of the needles. She’s lost in it, and her silence is appreciated. They talk during these visits, yes, but it isn’t like before. He thought her a friend before Aymeric’s mad plan shook their lives. Now… “friend” seems both too frivolous and too forward. They’re vulnerable in this room, Io grieving her lover, Estinien bandaged and weak—vulnerable, but distant.

He misses how they were before.

So he watches the wool slipping between her fingers with each meticulous loop, the way the half-formed garment hangs heavy from her hands. And all of it—the dappled light on the flowers, the repetitive scratch of Io’s work and wordless song, the weight of wool he used to know well, the herbaceous scent of medicinal salve rising from his wounds—dredges up the memory of another life. If Estinien closes his eyes, it could be twenty-one years ago. He could be there, if only for a moment, if only as a visitor.

Grief wails inside him. It is the roar he’s felt for years, through the Eye he used as a tool. Strange, to feel it now as part of himself, bottomless and inconsolable and so full of love. Stranger still to realize they were not so different in the end.

When was the last time he’s cried? Estinien is barely aware of where the tears trail down his cheeks, numb to everything but the homesick ache he has fought for half his life. He rubs his face before Io has the chance to see him.

“Io.” Estinien clears his throat. With her head still tilted towards her craft, Io’s eyes shift to meet his. “There is something I would ask.”

She pauses, waiting for his question.

“Why did you save me?”

Her answer comes in the form of a furrowed brow. She continues knitting without a word.

“I was ready. I was. And now? I don’t know how to be, I don’t know how to live without it. I’m unfit for anything else.”

Io’s lips thin a bit, tightening into a frustrated line, as she works. She shakes her head. Maybe she’s angry he asked. For all he lacks as a conversationalist, he is an expert in offending, even when he doesn’t mean to.

He lifts himself off the pillows piled at his back, ignoring the fire in his shoulder.

“You could’ve left me, or killed me. I feel him, Io. The echo of his loss; when it hits me… Io, you could’ve killed me.” The words leave him in a rush, riding the swell of pain that belongs to him and the adamant traces of Nidhogg that are part of him now.

Her sigh shames him. “Kill a man—my friend—when he doesn’t want to die? Let you fall to anguish and pain?" She lays the needles in her lap and her dark gaze all but dares him to argue. He’s never heard her speak with such a firm certainty. “No, Estinien, I could never have done that. Nidhogg’s isn’t the only grief you carry, nor are his memories the only ones worth saving.”

Silence encloses them, balancing on the knife’s edge of comfort and unease. Neither looks away. He counts the agitated rise and fall of Io’s chest until they are breathing in sync, then until both are steady.

With the softer tone he recognizes, she says, “We all need reminding that burdens, even ones as heavy as this, can be shared.” 

Her mere presence gives the lie to his words. He would’ve done the same, if it were her. He sags back into his pillows, exhaustion replacing the wyrm’s overwhelming emotion.

And they return to the shred of peace they fought for. Io hums, and the needles click, and that is enough. He listens, occasionally mustering a courageous glance, and thinks about the uncertain future until the rays of sunlight tilt his direction instead of hers.

“I think it’s time to get on.”

“Me?” Io’s lips stretch into a crooked smile over the yarn. “Fine, I’ll kill you next time.”

His laugh is rough and unfamiliar sounding, closer to a cough. It hurts his broken ribs.

Io’s raspy chuckle is a far more pleasant sound. “Where will you go?”

Estinien sighs. He knows where he wants to go. The question is whether he will be welcome. “If it’s all the same, that is my business alone.”

Io nods and does not push the matter. Hm. There is always another question… In the absence of one, something settles in him… A sense of solace he didn’t know he was allowed. 

So he confesses: “To make amends.”

[sleepymoonlady]

Roevember Day 28: Memory

Rose felt something within her tremble as she approached it--the chasm carved into Coerthas like a festering, maggot-eaten wound. In all her adventures, she did her best to give this place a wide berth. It was a year ago that she made an exception in the case of saving Lord Francel, dire as his situation was. She had considered making this stop after that, actually, but the timing... just wasn't right. The threat of Garuda (how quaint the "mightiest of all primals" seemed to her now) loomed heavy, and coming to pay her respects, knowing that tomorrow may bring another innocent soul tumbling into Witchdrop's greedy maw just felt insincere. To them, at least.

But today was different. The recent storms had died down, as a mercy. That left her with a clear view of Witchdrop. Maybe that wasn't a mercy after all, but still. As she stood upon the precipice, unsure of what to say, her gauntleted fist tightened around the bouquet she had brought. White and Blue--ironically, those were her favorite colors. Ishgard's colors. Did she ever suspect that soldiers wearing those very colors would be the ones to...

Rose sighed. This wasn't why they were here. Not to wonder--not to torture themself. No. She was here to put her at ease. And so, after what felt like an eternity, they spoke.

"Hey, mom."

Two words. Just two words in, and she already felt the tears welling up. Was she really ready for this after all? To confront the place where... where...

The memories came flooding back, more vivid than the Echo and twice as disorienting. She remembered her mother's face--the terror etched onto it as she saw Rose for the last time. The inquisitors and their Temple Knight lackeys weren't confident that Rosette would come quietly, of course. They must have feared that, defiant to the last, she would try to fight her way out. Even unarmed, that was a possibility--Rose remembered how strong her mother had always seemed. An invincible and gallant knight. So, the Temple Knights had raided their home for "leverage." As a blessing, Ruby and mum were out at the time. So it was only Rose, a fearsome and dangerous child of six whole years, who was being held at swordpoint, as a message: submit to Halone's judgment, or watch us kill your child. A message that even the fearless Dame Rosette Duimuste could not ignore. Rose had never seen her mother scared before then--they didn't even know she could be scared.

Staring at the spot where her mother had stood that horrible day, she still remembered the last words she ever spoke. She remembered how brief that fearful look had been. A split second, quickly replaced by an impassive, grim look of determination. "You've made your point," was all she said to the inquisitor's threats. Then she turned to Rose, that grim look just as quickly being replaced by a sad smile. "I love you, M̷̧͎̰͉̉̎̄̕a̶͓̟̞̠͕͗p̷��̛̖͋̑l̴̡̨̻̬̤̄͐̚͠e̷̠̭̊́͑̕. I'm so sorry."

Rose still remembered the confusion and the terror of it all, the pit in her stomach when she saw her mother turn to face the chasm. She remembered how she screamed as she watched her mother take a step, then another, then another, until she stepped only on air and--

Rose shook her head, dispelling the reverie. Finally, she continued. "You didn't have to be sorry, you know. I never should have seen that, but... I never blamed you. How could I have?"

"But that's not why I'm here. Gods know I've enough memories of that day. I'm here because... we never did get to do this properly, with all of the chaos. Gods, there's so much you've missed," Rose chuckled somewhat grimly.

"Ruby got into the Studium. The bloody Studium! Gods, if you could have seen how happy she was when she got that letter. And I..."

Rose continued, as she felt tears begin to well up again.

"I never did get to tell you who I really was. When I came out to her, Mum said you'd have been so proud of me. Told me that you and I... had a lot in common. I wish I could have told you while you were here. I wish I could have asked you for advice about my transition. You never even got to hear my real name."

Rose smiled, as she felt a tear roll down her cheek, already half-frozen in the Coerthan winter.

"Vermilion Rose. Heh. I thought you'd appreciate it. I... I guess what I really came here to say, mom, was this though:

You haven't been forgotten. We still love you. We think of you every day. Gods know you've been my inspiration--if I've ever been any sort of 'Warrior of Light,' just know that that's because of you. Your memory... we're all keeping it alive. The best way we know how to. In my case, that's... just thinking of what you would do when the going gets tough. You were my hero. Still are."

Rose bent down as she continued, lowering the bouquet to the spot her mother had stood all those years ago.

"It's over, you know. The War. After all these years. After every drop of blood spilled, we... we did it. We did it! Ishgard is at peace. What those bastards made you do... nobody will ever, ever have to do that again. I promise. So..."

Rose smiled, wider this time--true joy creeping in through the despair as she said it: "you can rest now. Please. Gods know you deserve it."

Rose stood, and turned to walk away. Before she did, she noticed--the sun was up, finally. Its gentle rays shining upon the flowers left for the kindest woman she had ever known.

"I love you, mom. I promise, I won't take so long to visit again."

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

Prompt #18: Hackneyed

---

Mathye inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled and closed his eyes. Exhaled and opened them. No luck. He was still staring down Ran'jit's chief flunky and assorted minions. Halone was quiet--the Greatwood was still filled with the tainted Light. Priming was out of the question--even more so that Ran'jit had figured out a way to temporarily block their Eikons. Mathye didn't trust that Eulmore's general wouldn't come flying out of nowhere to hit him on some vital energy point. Which meant he had to do things the old fashioned way.

As if you mind. A whisper from Halone, quiet mirth in her tone. Mathye smirked. She was right, of course. His goddess knew him well.

"Is that the best you can come up with?" He addressed the Chief Flunky. Names were irrelevant, he was either going to scare the bastard absolutely shitless or kill him. Both were preferable.

"I have heard every single hackneyed insult under the sun when I was home. I doubt there is anything here on this world that would stick, and based on your particularly...inspired insipid performance, I'm inclined to think that I'm right! 'Monster' is not going to get any sort of rise out of me. I've heard it before. I'm going to continue hearing it. Demon? Also heard that one before too. Darkness-damned? That's new but it doesn't have the bite that you think it would have!" The flunky and assorted minions were starting to back away in fear at the expression on the healer's face. Mathye hummed, tapping a finger against his chin.

"Let's see...I've been called frost-gash manwhore, I must admit that one was creative! The one who said it got disemboweled a few moments later. Unfortunate for him, my baby brother was in the room with us. He's very good with a sword, I'm quite proud of him." Mathye took one step forward, and the Eulmorans took one step back.

"Stay away!" The Chief Flunky got out, panic in his tone.

"Mmm..." Mathye pressed his lips together, thinking. "No."

[myreia]

Exile from Delight

—chapter 3: unlikely gifts in unlikely places

Rating: Mature Characters: Thancred, Hilda, Aureia (WoL) Pairings: Thancred x Hilda [background Thancred x Aureia and background Aymeric x Aureia] Chapter Words: 3,459 Summary: Hilda isn’t supposed to mean much to him. A good time, a fun time, a distraction from his sorry lot. But sometimes the best of distractions come hand-in-hand with a sharp tongue and a quick wit. Call it the gift of insight, if you would. Prompt: v. laughter | gift Chapters: one • two • three Read on AO3

On a day like today, Ishgard’s favourite market is an anomaly.

It should not be as bright as a summer’s day. And yet despite the white-grey sky and the flurries in the air and the snow drifting about on the ground, the Jeweled Crozier sparkles like a gem. Lanterns glow above the vendors’ stalls, nailed to posts or strung on lines. Brightly coloured pennants flap in the air above the stalls, buffeted to and fro by the wind. Merchants call at passersby, welcoming new customers to browse their wears. A bard has set up several blocks down, playing the soaring notes of their violin to a rapt audience.

Though the crowd here is a mix of servants running errands for their employers, off-duty soldiers, on-duty Temple Knights, and unimportant scions of lesser noble houses, the Crozier is the common ground between lowborn and high. More Elezen than Hyur here, immediately noticeable given both he and Hilda are a good foot shorter than most passersby. All are welcome, no matter their station. It is a paradox, both frenetic and calm. Some stroll, others hurry, the great need to rush contrasted against the great need to slow down.

Is the ring still there, he wonders? Gods, why did he let her bring them in this direction. He would rather be anywhere else.

“Hilda,” he calls, hurrying after her.

She strides up the slope ahead of him, her long legs taking it at a robust pace. Her gaze darts from one stall to the next, but she never stops to take a closer look. She must know these vendors like the back of her hand—and there must be a reason why she has led him here of all places. “Aimless” and “Hilda Ware” do not go together.   

“Hilda—”

She glances over her shoulder, a cross look on her face. “What?” she replies, folding her arms. She’s made her stand in the middle of the street, obstructing the flow of traffic in both directions and drawing more than one annoyed look. “Isn’t it about time you turn around and fuck off? Halone smite me for wanting to do your sorry arse a favour.”

He sighs. “Look,” he says. “I apologize for my… abruptness. And general boorishness foolishness.”

“You apologizin’? In earnest?”

“Aye. You of all people do not deserve to receive my… well.” He shrugs. “I have been a fool in many ways. Your blunt honesty has only made that more apparent, and I’m sorry I did not take it well. You’re right.”

“In what way?”

“In every way.” He pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat. An itch scratches at the back of his mind, a fervent desire to walk straight past Hilda and to the pawn shop. “Particularly where Aureia is concerned.”

“She’s my friend.”

“I know.”

“One of the best I’ve had.”

“I know.” He meets her gaze. Raven hair and ruby eyes. “She and I would have called each other that, once upon a time.”

A disgruntled cough cracks through the air and he can feel the disapproving glare of an elderly noblewoman on him. Hilda must have seen it too, for she grabs him by the elbow and pulls him aside to the wall of a nearby building.  

“Listen,” she says under her breath, brushing her fringe out of her eyes. “I’m not here to tell you what to do. It’s breakin’ my mind that I am even here tryin’ to have this conversation. You called me disposable earlier on, and I was quite miffed about that and I thought—yeah, well, you’re just some dumb old sod who can’t keep it in his trousers.”

Old. He isn’t old by any stretch, but the remark stings more than a little. “A fair assessment, I won’t deny that. I should tell you about the time the call of drink was so strong the table appeared to be quite the lovely companion.”

“…don’t tell me you tried to tumble the table.”

“As friends would tell it, aye, that is something of the truth. I… do not recall that evening very well.” He can’t remember the details, but he does remember Moenbryda’s laughter. He should have known better than to have challenged her.

Knowing what came after, he’s glad he did. There will never be a night like that again.

Across the street, the bard finishes one number and begins another. A mournful, aching tune, dancing upon the wind.

“Tell me somethin’,” Hilda says after a moment. “That night in the Forgotten Knight… why did you come and talk with me?”

Thancred turns his head, his cheeks chafed in the bitter breeze. Gods, he could do with a scarf or two… “I was at the bottom of the bottle yet none too pleased about it,” he replies. “I was angry. Aureia and I… we had exchanged some sharp words earlier that day. Sharper than usual, you know how she can get. And I thought I could… I don’t know. Make amends, somehow. Or attempt to. So I went looking for her in the one place I knew she would be.”

“And you found me instead of her.”

“Aye. Needless to say, that plan did not go as intended.” He sucks in a breath. “If you’re concerned I only approached you because of her, put your mind at ease. Only a shallow-minded fool would take you for her, and vice versa. You’re clever, Hilda, and wise beyond your years. And perhaps the most honest soul I have ever met.”

She snorts. “Say,” she says, elbowing him in the side. Her eyes are twinkling. “I do think that’s the first time you’ve given me a genuine compliment—at least one that wasn’t about my tits or my arse or my—”

He groans, a strangled noise spluttering in his throat. It only makes her laugh more, and soon he is laughing too. She leans an arm against the wall and doubles over, her body shaking with another round every time she glances up and looks him in the eye. By rights it should not be this funny.  

When their laughter finally exhausts itself, a cold silence settles around them, as crisp and sharp as the chilled air. They stand side-by-side, slumped against the wall, shoulders knocking together, and watch the passersby. The snow falls more thickly now, coming down in large, soft flakes. The kind that sets the scene for many the Ishgardian romance.

But this is no romance.

“Do you regret it?” Thancred asks.

Hilda ruffles her ponytail, brushing snow off of it. “Nah,” she replies with a shrug. “Some of it I wouldn’t do again, if I’m honest. Or maybe I would under different circumstances. But I have some big damn regrets in my life, and I’m afraid you’re far out from making the list. Sorry. You’re too insignificant for that.”

He frowns. “I don’t need you to pity me, you know.”

“Good thing I don’t. And… you’re right about one thing, y’know. I’m not a good friend. I’m an awful one.”

“…I wouldn’t say that—”

“This ain’t about what you’re saying, this is about what I’m sayin’.” She folds her arms and turns to face him, a determined look in her eyes. “I’m bein’ selfish, continuing on like I have even after I promised her… Suppose it doesn’t matter. The point is, you’re not the only one being unfair to her.”

“What is between Aureia and me is not your responsibility.”

“No, but I certainly didn’t make things better, and I’ll admit that freely.”

They fall silent again. She shuffles her weight, sliding her boots back and forth in the slush. He can easily imagine her taking off at a lunge and sprinting through the market. And maybe she would, if something wasn’t tethering her to this wall. To him.

“Whatever it is between the two of you, I complicate it,” she murmurs after a moment. “And I don’t want that. To be complicated. For either of you—”

“There’s nothing between us,” he interrupts, ignoring the sharp pang in his chest. “She has made that very clear. The Lord Commander has captured her heart. What’s past is past.”  

“Say that all you want, I don’t believe you. I know some of the story, not all of it, and before you ask it’s not my place to tell you what she told me. I hold my friends’ confidence, I’m no gossip—”

“I wasn’t accusing you of that. Nor was I asking.”

“Right, well.” She blows out a puff of air, red flushing her cheeks. Perhaps it’s just the cold. “You still care for her. You should tell her so. So, why don’t you?”

He looks away, his eye catching a bright piece of tattered blue fabric as it dances on the breeze. A piece of a pennant, torn off by the wind. “Because she already knows.”

The blue scrap tosses and turns like a leaf, falling over and over as it sails over the crowd, tumbles by the stalls, swept off towards a horizon of noble manors, towering bridges, and the ever looming shadow of the Vault. He tracks it for as long as he can, until—

Her laughter is unmistakeable. As is the profile of the man at her side.

The way his heart both plummets and races tells him all he needs to know. Still, he cannot help but stare across the market as Aureia descends the stairs from the level above, her arm looped casually through the Lord Commander’s. Her raven hair has grown out some, save for the uncharacteristically delicate fringe that brushes across her forehead. The deep red ends remain missing—he cannot fathom why she insists on dyeing it now she has no need to keep her identity sequestered away. He isn’t sure what is more surprising—that she is here in Ishgard when she is supposed to be in Limsa Lominsa, or the elegant fur-trimmed gown she has squeezed herself into.

The again she has always proven to be remarkably adaptable. And from all appearances, she has adapted quickly and expertly to highborn society.

He bites his tongue. Aymeric de Borel is a good man. Too good of a man. Fiercely determined with unshakeable ideals and all the recklessness of a revolutionary, and yet he has the patience to play the long game. A solider who never loses sight of his compassion. A politician who wears his heart on his sleeve. Despite the envy he has felt for him at times, even he will begrudgingly admit that the man is a wonder to work with.

He and Aureia match each other well.

Hilda nudges him. “There’s some affair up at the Fortemps Manor,” she says matter-of-factly. “Count Edmont’s idea. The younger lordling told me so.”

“I… see.”

“Want to crash it?”

It wouldn’t be the first time. “No,” Thancred replies after a moment.

She smiles faintly. “You splittin' up from me?”

“Aye.” He meets her eyes. “I suppose I am.”

She pauses, watching him quietly for a time, a strange look on her face. Something akin to warmth. Fondness. Huh. And here he thought he didn’t matter much to her. And so it does not take him by surprise when she cups his face with her hand and leans in close, her fingers brushing his jaw in one final moment of bittersweet intimacy.

“Yeah. I am, too.” She kisses him chastely on the cheek. Then the gentleness breaks and she gives him a pat, grinning from ear to ear. “If you tell her a word of what I said, Waters, I will shoot you. That’s a promise.”

“Understood.”

With a wink and a nod, Hilda backs away into the road, gives him a jaunty little salute, and joins the flowing crowd. Her ponytail bobs, dark hair swinging back and forth as she marches on, growing distant, distant, distant, and then—gone. All the times he has watched her walk away, and this is the one where his heart pangs with a tender ache. He didn’t thank her before she went—should he have? She gave him a gift, knocking some sense into him the way she did. But when next they meet, they will be… strangers? Acquaintances? Two people looking for a fresh start, or perhaps none at all?

His days in Ishgard are limited. There’s a good chance he won’t be back once the Scions move on.

Thancred leans against the wall and arches his neck, turning his gaze to the sky. Though the grey clouds thicken, the stuttering light behind them implies a sun trying to break free. If they’re lucky, this freak storm will be over soon.   

“Thancred?”

Her voice washes over him, clear as a bell. He turns and finds her a pace away, ruby eyes looking him up and down. Snow settles about her head and shoulders, catching softly in her dark hair and clinging to her eyelashes. Judging from how warm and glowing she appears, she’s unbothered by the cold—though whether that has more to do with her natural control over ice-aspected aether or the Lord Commander’s massive wool cloak about her shoulders isn’t for him to say.

He flashes her a smile. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says.

Aureia’s expression falls. “I thought you were investigating the Gnath,” she murmurs.

“Aye, I was, and now I have other tasks before me. And what of you? Have you finished in Limsa Lominsa already?” Or did you leave the twins to take matters into their own hands? The Warriors of Darkness should not be their responsibility. He bites his tongue, reining in the words. It’s frightening how easily he falls back on provoking her, how readily he relishes in getting a rise out of her when he isn’t thinking.

It should not be this way. It was never this way before.

“Not yet, but I will be returning shortly. Alphinaud and Alisaie have found a promising lead.” She hesitates and sweeps a lock of loose hair out of her face. The tips of her ears are turning red with cold. “I have duties here, too. And, well—” A faint smile tugs at her lips and she glances over her shoulder, seeking out Aymeric. The Lord Commander is easily visible further down the market, head and shoulders above the rest as he speaks to the local jeweller. A much more prestigious vendor than the pawnbroker further down the road. “I suppose I have finally taken your advice to heart.”

“How so?”

“There is more to life than fighting, no matter your duty or your beliefs.”

A lump forms in his throat.

Aureia turns back. “Are you cold?” she asks gently. Her boots crunch in the snow as she takes a step towards him.

Thancred flinches and shuffles back, covering the movement by crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “I am well,” he says, shivering. It’s difficult to ignore the gooseflesh rising beneath his ragged shirt now she’s pointed it out. But he’s endured worse than a little cold. He will not let it bother him, not in front of her.

He has given her enough cause to worry about him in the past. He will not do so again, not even over something as insignificant as this.

She pauses. “I’m glad.”

Silence falls about them, as thick as snow.

Gods, when was the last time they had a discussion without arguing? Spoke without anger? Conversed without exhuming the multitude of grievances big and small, picking at open wounds that are still bleeding and old hurts that have long since scabbed over? There are some things that have been said that can never be taken back, but he still finds himself wishing for days long gone, when they could simply… talk.

He misses that.

Perhaps she does, too.

Aureia smiles tightly. “I must go,” she says. “Have a good day, Thancred. I mean that.”

She turns too quickly to see him raise a hand in farewell. Off she goes, not unlike Hilda before her, crossing the market with purpose. But instead of disappearing into the crowd, she returns to the Lord Commander, uncaring of who spots her or what gossip she may cause. She slips her arm through his, her expression brightening, and draws him to one side. They speak quietly together for a time, lost in one another and infected with joy. When he bends to kiss her, she rises up on tiptoe and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her.

They are happy together. And, in a way, it is a relief that she has found that. He can think of no other who deserves happiness as much as she.

Thancred looks away, that familiar itch once again scratching at the back of his mind.

His boots slip in slush as he shoves off the wall, earning a yelp and a gasp from yet another disapproving noblewoman. He weaves in and out of the crowd, excusing himself more than once as he hurtles down the road. When he reaches the pawnbroker’s stall he is frightfully warm in the chilly air and embarrassingly out of breath.

“Can I… help you, sir?” the greying Elezen asks as he skids to a stop before him.

Thancred grips the edge of the counter, his boots sloshing in the trampled snow. “I wish to inquire about a ring I saw in your possession,” he says. “Quickly!”

The pawnbroker’s eyes narrow behind his spectacles. “I have many rings, sir. They are a commonality in a shop such as mine. You must needs be more specific.”

“Ah—ha…” Choked laughter bubbles across his lips and he shakes his head, sweeping hair out of his good eye. By the Twelve, he must look like a madman. “Of course. You are right, sir, my apologies. It is silver with a black gemstone at its heart. The Ul’dahn crest is engraved on the reverse, if you know where to look.”

“I have perhaps come across such a thing. I trust the item is of some importance to you?”

“Aye—well.” He shrugs. “Not to me, exactly. To a friend.”

“I see.”

“Do you have it? I saw it in your shop not a fortnight ago—”

“A moment.”

“Do you have it or not? It is of vital importance—”

“A moment!”

He shoves his cold hands deep in his pockets, biting his tongue before his urgency gets the better of him. The pawnbroker fusses about with his trays and his drawers, content to take his time as he searches his stall. The ring will not change anything; he can’t even place a finger on why it’s so important to retrieve it. Perhaps it’s for Aureia, perhaps it’s for himself, perhaps it’s for the last vestige of a time neither of them can return to.

“I have it, yes.” Something small and metal clinks against wood and the tension flees from his body. He stares, astonished, as the pawnbroker shoves a small tray across the counter to him. “Is this the item you requested?”

Thancred exhales a long breath. The ring is exactly as it was the last day he saw Aureia wear it.

“Bought it off a half-Elezen adventurer,” the pawnbroker drones on, detached. “Poor woman. Down on her luck. Came here hefting a rusted greatsword over half her size and desperate to sell every trinket she owned. Anything for the gil. Thought it strange how someone like her could end up with a gem like this and from Ul’dah no less, but I pride myself on knowing when to hold my tongue. Wonder what happened to her—”

“How much, sir?” Thancred interrupts.

The pawnbroker pushes his spectacles up his nose. “Fifteen thousand.”

“Done.”

The snow finally slows as Thancred winds his way back down to Foundation, seeking out his favourite haunts in the lower part of the city. The ring sits safely in the inner pocket of his shirt, pressing against the soft spot above his heart. The band is too small to fit his fingers comfortably; this will have to do for now.

He does not know what he intends to with it. To gift it to Aureia now would be… overstepping. Crossing some kind of boundary, no doubt. Most likely she has no attachment to it, given how easily she disposed of it upon her arrival in Ishgard. But the itch in his mind has been sated, and he would much rather know where it is than see it lost to time.

Minfilia called him sentimental more than once. Moenbryda, a fool.

They were both right.  

Raising his face to the sky, he takes in the cautious rays of a late afternoon sun as it breaks through the clouds and moves on.

[peculiarmarsu]

In the series of “my FFXIV characters dressed up as their patron deities”: Chervil as Halone. I’m trying to keep her mainly as Paladin, so right from the beginning I felt Halone to be a suitable deity for her. I think the outfit looks rather fitting too!

I’m so glad I in fact had a gold Sharpie pen to draw those patterns on the dress.

[vahalia-cress]

⸸ A Dove in Hand ⸸

The routine was simple enough, stand still and allow the stranger to feel over your limbs, calculating every measurement of her being to make a properly fitted dress. A dress Vahalia knew deep down, would not come to pass though there was a purpose to her always playing the necessary part.

The seamstress continued her work, hovering in circles around Vahalia with her tape in hand, going about her work as swiftly as Vahalia had allowed her to.

Watching herself in the mirror, Vahalia’s eyes flicked to Castien within the reflection who stood vigilant behind her, swathed in velvet and rich fabrics, a dapper woman in a well-tailored suit, and while Castien never complained about the role she had been there to serve, Vahalia could see it in the crimson stare that all the halfling wanted was to be out of that unusual cage of fabric she had not been accustomed to wearing.

“Black suits you Miss Bancroft.” Vahalia smirked into the mirror as she watched Castien’s eyes find hers.

“A favorite of yours. Funeral colors most say, and they’re right, however, I do enjoy the pop of reds here and there.”

A funeral?

Certainly, it was the season for grief. Vahalia knew all too well the grief that trailed her like a curse she had not evoked on her own, like an itchy pair of socks no one ever wanted but they served a purpose when necessary, “Reds, yes they would accentuate your eyes.” she hummed.

A fourth person had entered the room, donning soft whites and a gown embroidered with soft blue and lavender florals, a face Vahalia had not come to see before. Her arm lowered and she motioned for the seamstress to cease her work – a break was needed and the woman didn’t seem to shirk from the idea of taking a small break as she bowed and stepped back with her tools in hand, finding the large kit she had arrived with.

“And whom do we have here?” Vahalia turned to look toward the newcomer. Castien remained silent as the much shorter woman beside her smiled.

“Apologies my Lady, the Lord Whitlock has summoned me to place me into your meeting today to help oversee preparations. My name is Kaevia Sun’rael, I’m the Physician and Seer of House Whitlock. I will be the one to oversee your nuptials in the coming days and have been tasked in assisting with the preparations of the ceremony. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” the woman bowed gracefully at the waist.

“Certainly a proper little thing, aren’t you.” Vahalia mused as she stepped down from her place and walked closer to the woman clad in gentle tones. Her finger extended and curled under Kaevia’s chin as she rose from the bow, Vahalia’s delicate fingers curled where they did to gently raise the woman’s chin to have a proper look at her.

Kaevia was much shorter than Castien though easily four ilms below Vahalia herself. Vahalia’s golden hues scanned over the other woman’s face, finding soft pools of lavender for eyes, deep brown hair, and smooth, pale skin decorated with a freckle just under her right eye. Were a dove capable of shifting into a Hyur, Kaevia was certainly the epitome of just that made flesh.

“Sweet little dove.” Vahalia purred, “Where do you hail from?”

“Ishgard.” Kaevia answered without a pause.

“I see. A Physician and Seer? Quite the resume you have my dear of someone who looks so young, tell me, how does one become both?”

“An orphan of Ishgard. The Sister’s oversaw my education in healing arts and traditional practices and I had access to the Astrologicum in later years where I chose to follow the way of Nyemia over Halone.” Kaevia replied and she stood proper once more when Vahalia released her face, seemingly abated and appraised her.

The Witch-woman hummed, seemingly pleased – or curious though Kaevia found it hard to tell. The Priestess spoke once more, “House Whitlock took me in as a teen and I have been with them ever since as their Ward.”

“You are devoutly loyal to House Whitlock then I presume?”

“I am.” Kaevia confirmed.

“Then you are, by default to be loyal to me as well. Well met Kaevia. Tell me how old are you?”

The woman in white folded her hands proper along her midsection, lacing her fingers ever so delicately, “Twenty and three summers, My Lady.”

“Ah, that would explain your youthful face, my dear. Well, tis a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to getting to know you better as I’m sure we’ll be spending moons together and more.”

A serene smile graced Kaevia as she looked between Castien and Vahalia, Castien simply raising a brow though she did not reply and simply exchanged looks between Kaevia and her eyes eventually pinning to Vahalia across from her.

“Come Kaevia, you must help me decide on a flower arrangement to go with my dress. I’m sure the seamstress can show you the fabric she intends to use and perhaps you can share your opinions with me?” Vahalia held her hand out to the Seer.

“Of course, my Lady. I would be delighted to assist you.” she reached for the offered hand. The pair turned to make their way back to the station to begin yet again with the fitting.

“There is much to prepare,” Vahalia spoke aloud but the swift and sharp gaze that lingered in the mirror to Castien, was enough to cause the Halfling woman to turn and excuse herself in silence from the room, leaving the women to their work while she had much of her own to see to.

There was much to prepare indeed.

w/ @castien-ffxiv & @kaevia-sunrael

[tovaicas]

ysayle’s backstory of having to literally run for her life from the calamity and that she was very nearly just a number that Didn’t Make It to ishgard or was turned around at the gates of judgement to die bc space is limited and she is unimportant is only used as an aside rather than the very real horror that that’s a huge, major reason as to why ishgard is Like This right now, why the brume is overflowing and there’s not enough food or supplies to go around even for nobles, and why aymeric can’t keep control over his own people

[valkariel]

Tricolor

Inspired by this Mirapri.

Head: Quaintrelle's Hat - void blue / ruby red Body: Raincoat - void blue / ruby red Hands: Pink Beryl Halfgloves of Casting - snow white / gobbiebag brown Legs: Fat Cat Shorts - void blue Feet: Dirndl's Pumps - ruby red / void blue

Alt Hands: Pink Beryl Halfgloves of Healing Alt Legs: Orison Skirt (WHM) | Tights of Eternal Passion Alt Feet: Patrician Gaiters | Loyal Housemaid's Pumps

Earring: Pearl Earrings Neck: The Emperor's New Necklace Wrists: The Emperor's New Bracelet Right Ring: Halonic Inquisitor's Ring Left Ring: Eternity Ring

Main Hand: Mog's Staff Off Hand: --

Fashion Accessory: White Lace Parasol Minion: -- Mount: -- Location: Faeberry Atelier

Shader: Faeberry Studio

[driftward]

Title: FFXIV Write 2024 - 24. Bar (Another Take) Characters: Zoissette Vauban, Aymeric de Borel Rating: Teen Summary: Zoissette catches Aymeric up on everything he's missed, including telling him about her new relationship. Notes: WoL|Sette timeline. I realised I never established the earring in her WoL timeline and well

Aymeric was one of the first people Zoissette went to visit after she returned from the First. He had been a stalwart ally of the Scions. They needed to talk about the developing situation in Garlemald, probably, since that would definitely affect Ishgard. He was a dear friend of hers. Their courtship may have fallen apart, but it had made for a stronger bond between the two, not a lesser one.

And also she simply had to tell him the news.

She showed off her new earring to her, two black carnations, with two little pearls dangling from them on silvery chains. It was beautiful, and was now her most precious possession.

"A symbol," she said. "Of Y'shtola and I dedicating ourselves to be bonded."

"Congratulations," he said warmly. "You two deserve each other, and deserve the world. I couldn't be happier for you."

"It is definitely the best relationship I have ever had," said Zoissette, looking down and fiddling her fingers together. "She has been with me for so many years, and I admire so much about her... and she feels much the same of me. I hope you do not find it offensive for me to say so."

"While you do indeed have my heartfelt congratulations and I offer you my assurance that I share your outlook, that your relationship with that woman is the best thing that I think has ever happened to you, I do want to say... best relationship? That is a terribly low bar to clear given your history, Sette. And I shall not take offense if you will return the favor."

"I feel like I should take some offense on your behalf! We were good together. Not great, but... it was nice, for a time."

"Ah yes," he said, dryly. "The very image of two upright Ishgardian citizens, courting as the Holy See claimed Halone intended. Keeping each other carefully at arms length, coquettishly fluttering our eyelashes across the table at one another. Never revealing our true feelings, playing our proper roles, showing up to balls and dancing terribly."

"Sharing lovely meals, talking about our respective interests-"

"While not being truly interested in said interests I am sorry Lady Vauban but I could not keep up with half your discussions on mathematics or aetherology."

"-nor I on the particulars of terrible High House rivalries and petty politics but we did not dance that terribly."

"Sette I did not know how to tell you this at the time, but all of the dances you knew were horrifically out of date."

"Oh."

"Coerthan, I believe? From perhaps a few dozen years ago?"

"... Riversmeet was not exactly avant-garde."

"Rearguard even perhaps."

"You certainly had no complaints about my rear. Or my oral technique."

"If there is one regret I have about the ending of our courtship, it is the loss of that talented tongue. I can only hope that I learned something from the experience that I may pass on to my next partner."

Zoissette smiled smugly at him.

"I do not miss how you get when you are insufferably correct on a matter, though."

"Of course not, since it never happens that I am wrong."

"Telling lies in Halon's city? I cannot believe you."

Zoissette just hummed smugly at him, and after a moment, they both broke into laughter.

"Seriously though. Back to the matter at hand, which is this... congratulations. I can think of no union that could be any more blessed in the eyes of the Fury, and I hope I can look forward to an invitation to the bonding ceremony, whatsoever form it takes, and wherever it shall occur."

Zoissette sighed. "Of course, though I do not know yet. Something which I need to talk to her about. We have very different backgrounds, I am certain we will have very different ideas on what is right and proper. I am sure she knows enough about how we do things in Ishgard, but I have precious little idea about the traditions and culture of the Jaguar tribe. Or she may even want to follow the rites of the Night's Blessed. Or perhaps something else altogether. I just do not know."

"Night's Blessed?"

"A community that took her in on the First."

"Ah. I see." Aymeric hummed thoughtfully. "Well, this actually does explain much about a missive that preceded you by mere bells."

"Oh?"

"Well, I was not going to mention it. Discretion being the better part and all that, you know. But I think you two should, in fact, have that conversation. Rather sooner than later. And perhaps with each other instead of through me."

"...Aymeric?"

"You see, I have in my possession a latter from one Lady Y'shtola Rhul, asking me for advice."

"What sort of advice?"

Aymeric smiled at Zoissette, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Advice on the proper way to go about courting one Ser Zoissette Vauban, in accordance with the traditions and manner of a proper Ishgardian noble who wishes to make a good impression, both upon the lady and her family. Along with any, shall we say, hints I might be able to provide on said noblewoman's preferences in the same."

Zoissette blinked at him, several times, and her mouth hung slightly open, and Aymeric laughed.

"Ah, now that is a rare sight, and one which I rather enjoy more," said Aymeric. "Zoissette Vauban, flummoxed."

She snapped her jaw shut, frowned, and crossed her arms at him, sticking her nose in the air, but that only caused him to laugh more. And then laugh even more when he noticed the twitch of the side of her mouth as she valiantly resisted joining in.

Zoissette sniffed in mock disdain, but then dropped the act. "She really asked for that?"

"Indeed," said Aymeric. "I believe she not only takes this most seriously, but if I had to guess - and to be clear, I am guessing - I think she is doing this for your benefit, Sette."

He reached over, and took one of her hands, clasping it in his, and he smiled warmly at her. "And if I had any doubts that she deserved you, I think such a gesture would dash them to nothingness. I do not know her as well as you, of course, but we did interact much, from the Shiva matter all the way up to the Alexander incident. She never minced her words, or made any pretense at her lack of tolerance for those parts of Ishgard she disdained. I still recall her choice words over finding out about the Witchdrop, and her sharp opinions on the old system of trial by combat.

"And yet, she is willing to take up at least some of our traditions. For you."

Zoissette felt her eyes water, and not knowing what to say, said nothing, just wiped her face with the back of her free hand. Aymeric pulled her in to a tight hug, and she returned the gesture.

"You are well loved, Zoissette," he said. "And thank you for sharing that with me."

"How could I not?" she sniffled into his shoulder. "You are one of my dearest friends. Thank you, Aymeric."

"Now," he said, breaking the hug, and patting her on the shoulder. "Tell me all about your adventures on the First. I am eager to hear of what our Warrior of Light has been up to."

Smiling, Zoissette walked along with him, and began to tell him the tale of all that had passed, sparing no embellishment as to the Scions' accomplishments, and making sure to fill him in especially on how she had come to appreciate and learn again the depths of one Master Matoya.