#implied wolmeric

[lilbittymonster]

Day 5: Stamp

Read on AO3

Kugane’s market district was just as vibrant as she remembered, the streamers and paper lanterns swaying in the sea-blown breeze as people milled about a well-worn memory. No one stopped her to thank her for some heroic deed or another, no one stood gawking at her from a corner in awe, she was...just another patron of the market. It was freeing in a way she hadn’t been free in a long time.

She slowed her pace, taking the time to really look at all of the stalls she was passing. A blue wooden box propped up with two bamboo brushes caught her eye and she carefully wove her way closer to inspect it.

“Finest calligraphy supplies this side of Thavnair!” boasted the saleswoman behind the counter.

“Hello, are those inks in that box, or just brushes?” Kitali asked her in Doman as she approached.

“Yes, these are both inks and brushes,” the woman smiled. “There are full colour sets here, and traditional black here.”

“Could I see the colours?” Kitali asked.

Delicately, the woman lifted the box from its place and handed it to her, cover open. Nestled inside were eight uniform sticks of various pigments, all stamped with a gold dragon. Kitali bit the inside of her cheek to hold her amusement at bay. Surely no one could accuse him of heresy should she send him these…

“How much for these?” she asked.

“For the ink and the brushes, 300 gil.”

“And this is just the ink and brushes, no stone?”

“Correct. If you would like to pick out a grinding stone as well, we have plenty to chose from. Come, see what we have over here.”

She beckoned Kitali with a hand to the other side of the stall where there were several small stones laid out, ranging from plain dishes to intricately carved dishes with fitted lids. Most were the same flat black stone, but a couple had bits of shell and wood inlaid into their design, two even having what looked like gold.

A small round dish, roughly the size of her palm, with a large crescent moon dotted with inlaid shell sat nestled between two much larger stones almost the size of tea saucers. Gingerly she plucked it from its seat, and to her delight it had an actual lid over the well. Perfect for keeping little paws from stepping into wet ink.

“How much is this one?” she asked.

The shopkeeper quickly consulted a list behind the counter. “That one? 65 gil.”

Kitali fished out her small coinpurse from a pocket and counted out her total.

“Would you like this wrapped as a gift?”

“Yes, and preferably something that can be shipped,” Kitali said as the woman pulled out a sheet of thick paper. “It’s a gift for my husband.” The word still felt so strange to speak aloud, this small secret.

“Ah, how lovely! How many years?”

Kitali thought for a moment. “By the time this reaches him, it will be one year.”

“Congratulations,” she said warmly as she plucked the box and brushes from their resting place. “He has used inks before, yes?”

Kitali shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

A small white card was plucked from a stack and placed on top of the ink box.

“Instructions for him, then. Thank you so much for your patronage, miss, do come again!”

Kitali clutched the parcel against her chest protectively as she walked off, content with her find but still taking the time to circle the markets in full. She wasn’t needed to discuss financial matters with the East Aldenard Trading Company representative. She could enjoy her homecoming in peace, however bittersweet it was.

At a leisurely pace, Kitali slowly wandered back towards the ijin district to wait for Alphinaud and Tataru to conclude their business. Lyse and Alisaie were sitting some distance off at one of the tables sharing a plate of what looked like takoyaki. Lyse noticed her coming down the stairs and waved her over, sliding over to make room on the bench.

“Ooh, what’s that?” she asked, nodding at the package.

“A gift,” Kitali said simply.

“Who’s it for?” Alisaie asked around a mouthful of dough.

“A friend in Ishgard, I promised them I’d send a souvenir,” Kitali said evasively, hoping the thinned truth would satisfy them.

It did, and their conversation turned back to wondering over the delights of the city while Kitali looked on, amused.

[quinn-borel]

g'raha, for the character pov thing?

Soft fingertips traced along the edge of his tome as his tail swayed leisurely back and forth.  The chronometer on the wall read about midnight, but so long as there was lamplight, the student of Baldesion would stick to his studies until tired eyes forced him into slumber.  Another page down, another page to go.  And so on, and so forth.  ‘Twas a fascinating read, though not particularly interesting to any outsiders who did not have a fascination with history and natural science.  That was the choice for the evening, at least.  It was a tome he had picked up awhile back, before the impending final days, upon his initial return to Old Sharlayan.  Not that he had any time to read for leisure during that time, but he had promised himself that he’d get to it.  Though, for some reason, the tome was shelved instead of on his desk like his normal ‘to-read’ books would be.  He couldn’t remember why…

That is, until he turned to the middle page, which had a bump as if something were placed underneath it.  Curious, he flipped to the next page to find the exact reason why he shelved that tome in the first place.

He sighed, frustratingly so, as he pulled the envelope that was nestled in the binding.  He figured the contents of the book seemed familiar because he read a tome just like it.  But, no, he had read the tome before, up until that point at least, where he bookmarked it with a piece of mail.  

It was several moons prior when he first opened the tome.  Just in the middle of his reading, Krile had delivered to him a message, he recalled.  She was incredibly enthusiastic about it, too, and encouraged him to open it at the time…

…But the royal blue and gold wax seal, with the emblem of Ishgard on the back of it, gave him cause for hesitation.  But out of guilt, he couldn’t throw the envelope away, especially in front of her.  So he placed it in the tome for a later date.

Several moons later…

Two scarlet eyes gazed upon the unopened envelope, his teeth biting into his bottom lip as he read the familiar penmanship on the front that read, ‘To: G’raha Tia’.  It was Quinn’s.  But the seal?  That was from the Lord Speaker’s desk for certain.  The envelope itself was of a nice, starchy white parchment and for sure the contents were of a similar quality.  G’raha tapped it on his desk a few times—it was too late to open it, but he couldn’t just throw it away.  It was the last letter she had ever sent him…the only letter, really, as they hadn’t need for written prose when the Scions had their own linkpearl network.  Still, she thought about him, and that’s what caused a slight pang in his chest.  

He should have expected this.  He should have known it would come to this.  He should have better prepared himself for the inevitable.  When he saw her lamenting in Pendants over a lover that was a world away, he should have known her heart would never shift towards him. 

So, why did it hurt so?  Why did he hesitate?  Why couldn’t he let go?

The woman was spoken for, with a man of a much higher station.  A man he could not look in the eye.  He was too ashamed to do so—too ashamed to speak to the man whom captured his interests’ heart years before he got a chance to finally speak to her once again.  

He lost his chance when he locked himself away.  Those bygone days where they had archery matches against each other and stayed up late looking at the stars brought him fond memories, yet another pang in his chest.  He wondered if she remembered…

It didn’t matter.  In the end, she lived her life and found love amidst her duties.  There was no room in her heart for him.  That was a fact that she made clear on the First—Aymeric was who she fought for.  Aymeric was who she loved.  Aymeric was who she lived for...

....

G’raha’s lips made a thin line as his stomach churned at the thought.  The memory of The Warrior of Light pinning him against the wall, gripping his cloak, tears in her eyes as she finally snapped at him for his plot to have her consume the light.  She danced at death’s door, and she said with gritted teeth,

“Had I died here and not in my home with him, I would drag you through the seven hells with me.”

The memory of her pure anger and hatred towards him burned in the back of his mind.  And while she did come to forgive him, his actions were reason enough to not ever fully trust him.  Yet still, she granted him her friendship.  He should have been grateful that he was even invited to the wedding…

...

Both hands gripped the envelope, and with one quick movement the parchment ripped in half.  Were there a hearth, surely he would have thrown it to the flames.  But alas, all that he could do was toss the paper into the bin underneath his desk.  

“Live and let live.” he muttered under his breath as he picked the tome back up, continuing his studies as per usual.  

[humblemooncat]

#MiqoMarch - Day 25, Cute

When your choice of sleepwear happens to be your hubby's work shirt, so you gotta hit him with the cuteness so you don't get in trouble.

And then he gets all flustered instead. Cute. ♡

Just a lil fluffy implied Kimeric. I couldn't not when I dyed this shirt blue and all that came to mind was "Well, I wonder whose shirt that is"

[siblings-of-light]

Just try telling Aymeric to take a break. He'll agree with you wholeheartedly, swear to relax after just this one more thing, and then three hours will pass and he doesn't even notice. Sometimes, subtlety and sweetness are far more effective methods of persuasion.

With the right currency, even the Lord Speaker of the Ishgardian Parliament can be tempted . . .

-- Dorayaki

[kootiepatra]

#FFxivWrite2024 - Day 4: Reticent

Over the course of his life, Aymeric de Borel had gotten exceptionally skillful at reading people. He had to be.

Navigating the tangling, centuries-deep system of Ishgardian power was a fraught proposition under the easiest of circumstances. And his circumstances were anything but. Plenty of men of far more prestigious pedigree than him had been crushed amidst its machinery before—some too trusting of curried favor, others too quick to collude with unsavory elements, still others too blithely confident in the security of their station. The continual jostling for position never ceased among the nobility. Only a fool would rest easy. And Aymeric was no fool.

Being of a minor noble house meant that he faced both disdain and flattery on a regular basis—sometimes from the same people, just on different days. Many of his peers saw him as a threat to their ambitions. Many others saw him as an opportunity to advance their own. And the doubts and rumors of his parentage only threw further complications into the matter.

He had to mingle among them with grace, careful not to snub any who might become a useful ally, or a dangerous foe. He had to appear at social functions and make himself seen, all the while refusing to react to the gossiping whispers and pointed stares. He had to display a drive to succeed without stoking too many fires of competition. He had to prove himself someone who could be trusted, without leaving himself vulnerable to undermining. He had to maintain cordial relationships with the powerful, while being fully cognizant of their willingness to stab him in the back—metaphorically or otherwise.

…And all of those things would have been true were he simply trying to work his way up the ranks, and not trying to push for substantial changes to policy once he got there.

It was no exaggeration to say his ability to feel out a person’s intentions had kept him alive this far.

It had led him to surprising allies, indeed. The count of House Fortemps was among those who stood to lose the most should Ishgard alter its course. His bastard son could have been one of Ishgard’s harshest detractors—mayhap even joined up with the heretics—were he not so unwaveringly committed to the good of others. A former Garlean spy, of all people, one who came into his counsel with nefarious purpose, had proved herself to be of a noble heart, and now served as his trusted right hand.

He hoped to add the Scions of the Seventh Dawn to their number. But first, he must be sure—truly sure—that he could trust them after all. So it was that he requested this meeting. 

Of course, he would not deny that his personal curiosity factored into the equation. ‘Twas not every day, after all, that one ran across a hero strong enough to fell primals. Aymeric had long admired the kinds of people who did great deeds against very long odds. They fascinated and inspired him in equal measure. But one needed look no further than the Heavens’ Ward to know that great might—even great service to the realm—was no guarantee of great character.

He could but hope the old truism about meeting one’s heroes would not apply in this instance.

The young Master Alphinaud was not so difficult to get a read on. He was earnest. He was well-studied. He was principled. He was young. His inexperience did concern Aymeric, but it was quickly abundantly plain that, despite his impassioned insistence on an alliance, he had enough backbone to not simper and scrape before the Holy See. This, of course, was a mark in his favor. 

Not many outsiders were eager to forge ties with Ishgard these days—and in fairness, why would they be? So Aymeric would be loath to allow this opportunity to fall to the ground. Time would tell if the youthful commander could be guided to handle their situation with a bit more delicacy.

And as for the Warrior of Light… Aymeric found her remarkably difficult to read. This came as a surprise, indeed.

Which is not to say he mistrusted her, exactly. Her behavior set off no alarums to him. But she was rather different than what he expected. From the effusive tales of Haurchefant, he had half-prepared himself to meet a dashing, gregarious, self-assured folk hero who would swagger into the room in full knowledge of how beloved she should be. On the other hand, having known his fair share of soldiers, he would have also been unsurprised by a stoic, stony-faced, battle-hardened figure like Ishgard’s own Azure Dragoon. 

While he had not been entirely sure what to expect, “pastel” and “soft-spoken” were not at the top of his list of guesses.

She had returned his greeting with polite deference. She had graciously demurred when he praised her accomplishments. When asked about herself, her answers were cordial, but guarded—sufficient enough to be respectful, but obviously disinclined to reveal much more than social grace would demand. She ceded the floor to Alphinaud without complaint. When negotiations were well underway, it was clear she remained closely attentive, but she offered few words of her own, barring an occasional clarifying question.

The briefest glimpse he felt he got into who she may truly be was when he caught her faintly cringing at Alphinaud’s outburst. …He had to say that went quite some way towards inclining him to like her.

The conclusion of the meeting was that it went just about as well as he could hope for (excepting  that deeply unfortunately-timed business with Lady Iceheart). Commander Leveilleur had agreed to post a watch on Midgardsormr, freeing Aymeric to justify to the Holy See why aid to this foreign organization should continue. While Aymeric did not genuinely expect the wyrm to soon stir in a corporeal way, one could never be too careful. And, even if it meant keeping a reluctant, doubtful eye on an easily-visible corpse, a service to Ishgard was still a service to Ishgard. Not even the Archbishop’s closest circle could dispute that. Should the Scions continue to cooperate, it could serve to push open the door to the outside world—if only just a crack.

If Alphinaud could bear to be patient, Aymeric had hopes that this alliance might go somewhere. Perhaps in a summer or two things could progress to where they may revisit the topic.

And as for the Warrior of Light… well, he supposed he would just have to wait and see. With any luck at all, she may yet prove herself an ally. Mayhap even a good one.

[missazurerose]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 9

Lend an ear

 “You know…if I had a single gil for every time a Scion was body snatched, I'd have two gil. Which is certainly not a lot but curious that it's happened twice.” 

“Let's hope we never make it to three gil.”

[self-chromtempt]

Quinn has questions that need answers!!

a follow-up to this comic

[transcredwaters]

THEY MUST BE WAITING FOR YOU TO MOVE ON

Waaas thinkin bout this old piece and decided to finally redraw it. the context was from a rp backstory, but I really wanted to emphasize the shock and horror + pain and realization in this remake. Aymeric was attacked suddenly right next to him when he was tasked to keep him safe, so like. . . pov one of your husbands is dying </3

[snowmists]

03 - Temper

A nonsense Bad End headcanon with implied Wolmeric.

There is a legend of an old woman that haunts the caves deep within the Dravanian Hinterlands.  

Her hair is white, but it was not always so. The stories tell of golden locks bleached white in a deal with a demon. Some say voidsent. Others say primal. Her eyes became a reddish purple. A curse from playing with too much with ancient black magic. Her skin is youthful — unchanged for near two centuries. They say she was once someone of great importance who flew too close to the gods.  

The youngest dragons that play in the streets of the Firmament are known to embellish their accounts to trick and scare Ishgard’s children. They like to say she vanquished the previous witch that inhabited those caverns, stealing her home and powers. But the older ones grow silent when pressed for the truth. They are not wont to give credence to wild folk tales.  

Idyllshire residents, on the other hand, dismiss such rumours. Instead, they speak of a mercenary who comes and goes under the cover of night. Some swear she is Hydaelyn incarnate, if not a servant enthralled to the remnants of her will, due to the light that glows about her person. (The truth of the Mothercrystal is a divisive subject amongst scholars near and far, making it a favourite topic amongst conspirators).  

But the mercenary – whomever she may be – is oft conflated with the ghostly woman. She wields powerful spells long forgotten in Eorzea to keep beasts and trespassers at bay. Lost adventurers have sworn, however, that they had received medical aid and care from a kind stranger who would quickly disappear into the wind. Goblin traders insist she keeps an exquisite Doman sword at her side. Local bounty hunters have a grievance against a spearwoman trained in Ishgard’s unique Dragoon arts. She is known to conquer the powerful marks they had been pursuing.  

This multitalented individual, according to some particular stories drunkenly shared in taverns, must surely be the Warrior of Light.  

Nonsense, most scoff in disbelief. She is long dead, entombed within the catacombs of the Vault alongside her husband. Watch your tongue. For House Borel would not take to kindly to such slanderous balderdash.  

That’s just the thing, the rumourmongers spin. No one saw her in her later years. There are dozens of portraits of the First Lord Speaker throughout his century of life. His children and grandchildren too. Yet none of the more famous wife that outlived him. 

And further still, they continue. The current viscount is known for his strange, lonesome excursions to the Hinterlands. What compels such a busy old man to leave the city for those empty hills so often, if not to visit his immortal matriarch?  

Tourists and travellers hang onto every ridiculous theory and narrative concerning the Warrior of Light. But Ishgard’s older denizens are known to be protective of her life and legacy, even more so than the land of her birth. They are quick to shut down any talk should they overhear it, and send enquiring adventurers down the wrong path.  

She should be allowed her peace, they believe. Destiny, after all, was not so kind to their beloved saviour. It is a cruel fate — to be enslaved to a god that no longer exists. 

[[ao3]]

[quinn-borel]

Who felt romantic feelings first?

Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

What would their lives be like if they had never met?

Who felt romantic feelings first?

Scholars (myself) still are perplexed to this day which Borel caught feelings first.  When did Quinn’s lustful pining turn into genuine romantic feelings?  When did Aymeric’s manipulative use of people turn into genuine thoughts of wanting to spend his life with that person?  It’s hard to tell.  There were little pips of romantic feelings on Aymeric’s end that he brushed off during the main events of Heavensward, while Quinn’s romantic feelings for Aymeric as she watched over him post-Vault (fic to come soon) in the infirmary could be argued as her trying to push Haurchefant’s death out of her mind.  We (myself) simply are perplexed and need to replay Heavensward to really pinpoint where the true romantic feelings really hit!

Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

Oh, Y E S.  Very much so.  When Aymeric did feel those romantic feelings for Quinn he did all that he could to push them back because of his station and the fact that he felt unworthy of the Warrior of Light’s companionship.  He toiled about it for months during the main events of HW and even patch-HW. 

Quinn, on the other hand, hadn’t felt romantic feelings for someone since ARR with Thancred (early ARR, right before his Laha possession).  (To put it into perspective for my canon timeline, that’s like 4 years.)  When she thought about genuinely spending time with Aymeric and had that inner calling to stay by his side, she was torn and confused.  His ascension to a city-state leader also didn’t help her and she tried to resist as best as she could because of his station. 

What would their lives be like if they had never met?

If Aymeric was delegated to only speaking with, say, Alphinaud during the events of Post-ARR/HW and Quinn stayed off to the side, then I could see events themselves playing out as normal but Quinn never growing out of her ARR antics.  She would continue to sleep around, drink, and be merry but never really finding happiness.  Even with Thancred coming back in patch-HW content, he’s a different person and she could never see them being an item again. 

Further down the timeline, come Shadowbringers, she would have probably succumbed to the light without having much to ground her to fight for.  And even if she survived that, Endwalker she would have surely turned into a blasphemy for the same reason.

Her love for Aymeric ties further into her love for the star.  He opens her eyes to the beauty of the world and the people who are worth fighting for. 

Maybe, maybe, Thancred could fill that role, but he has his own baggage and his own wobbly sense of hope.

On Aymeric’s end, we know from EW Caster Role Quests he would have turned into a Blasphemy had it not been for the WoL, so there’s that 😊

[kootiepatra]

#FFxivWrite2023 - Day 6: Ring

The speaker of the house of lords exhaled deeply, having just returned to the sanctuary of his own home after a particularly grueling day of debates on the floor. He reminded himself that he was grateful to participate in such a debate at all—it marked how far Ishgard’s reform had already come, and pointed towards a brighter future for them all. It did naught to mitigate how very demanding the work was, unfortunately. At least it meant it was worthwhile.

“Welcome home, Ser,” his steward said, as he helped relieve him of some of the heavier outer pieces of his regalia. “Tea is ready for you at your convenience, should you wish it.”

“Thank you, Martineaux,” he replied. “I shall take it in the drawing room.”

With a polite, practiced bow, the elderly Elezen manservant disappeared towards the kitchen. Aymeric took a detour to his chambers to change into his house clothes. By the time he arrived in the drawing room, his staff already had tea service laid out for him, boiling hot, well-presented and comforting. The curtains were drawn for privacy against the already-darkened Ishgardian sky, and the fire was freshly stoked, blazing away in the hearth. 

A few letters were waiting for him by the tea tray. Hmm. Those were bound to be somewhat less relaxing. He reached down and leafed through them, skimming their postal markings. It was too early to have realistically yet heard from Keimwyda on her latest journey, and sure enough, none of the missives were from her. So they could wait.

He dropped them back onto the table and looked around. Tired as he was, he yet felt a bit restless. He had much on his mind this eve.

His eyes wandered up to the painting above the hearth: the Lord and Lady de Borel, his foster parents, casting a dignified gaze over the room. They were younger on the canvas than they were in his memory. They bore sterner expressions, too—but then, such was the style of family portraits among the Ishgardian nobles. 

He missed them.

He made his way towards the mantel and leaned against it, taking a minute to contemplatively peer into the glass-top case which was installed there. It was full of mementos of the late couple: miniature portraits, a brooch, the viscount’s military medals, a jeweled hairpin that the viscountess always wore. They were by no means the only keepsakes of theirs he had—indeed, this whole manor was still suffused with their presence and their sensibilities. He had changed precious little since their passing.

The changes in the city, however—those had been rather more stark. He wondered what they would think of it. He could not but believe they would approve. At the very least, he hoped so.

With a careful, reverent touch, he prised open the clasp on the case and lifted the cover. In the center was a blue velvet box, only a few ilms wide and high, its lid emblazoned with the crest of his house. He opened it. His mother’s wedding ring.

He carefully retrieved it, and turned it over in his fingers. It was a stunning piece of craftsmanship—a large, rectangular diamond, cut to as many facets as it could bear, glittering in the light of the fire. It was surrounded by tiny sapphires, set into a masterfully-carved gold filigree that more than a little called to mind the silverwork wrought upon Naegling. Inside the band was simply etched the sign of Halone, in whose eyes all marriage vows were sealed. No doubt some among the higher houses would find some reason to declare that this jewel was not so fine after all, but he knew full well how little stock he should place in their opinion.

He remembered sitting upon the viscountess’s lap when he was very young, gingerly touching this ring, fascinated as any small child would be by its colors and shine. She had bade him be gentle with it. She had told him how special it was—that before it was hers, it was her husband’s mother’s, and her husband’s mother’s, passed down from one lady of the house to the next. He could not now remember how many generations she said it had spanned, but it was at least those three. Those who married into the line were bestowed it when it was time. It was a mark of their acceptance, of their place of honor: an affirmation that they were truly of House Borel.

As he studied it now, he thought also of his mother by blood. He had never met her. He never learned what became of her. He often wondered if she was even alive—although he could not but doubt it. At the very least she had likely been driven from Ishgard as one of the Holy See’s many secrets that were never meant to see the light of day. He wondered how much say she had in his surrender. He wondered if he would have loved her like he loved the people who raised him. He wondered if the man who sired him had loved her at all in the first place.

But alas, these were answers which the Archbishop had not deigned to give in life, and now could not give from the grave.

He studied the ring and thought of his own place in this house. By all rights he shouldn’t be here. Against all odds, he was. The bittersweet ache of all that lay in his past sat heavy on his heart, but just as potently, he felt gratitude to those who had loved him and given him a future. ‘Twas no surprise that the entire estate fell to Aymeric’s charge as sole heir—yet it had not been lost on him that his mother’s will had specifically cited this ring. It served for a sign: he truly belonged to this house, and now it truly belonged to him, to bring it into his future however he saw fit. She trusted him with it. He did not bear that lightly.

He considered the size of the piece—it was a beautiful antique. A bit large perhaps, though not inelegantly so. Yet it would certainly not be practical for anyone who regularly worked with their hands.

Aymeric supposed that was just as well. It probably wouldn’t fit on a Roegadyn finger, anyway.

Startled at his own thoughts, he snapped the lid shut.

…He was probably getting ahead of himself.