#ishgard rest is a good thing

[osric-giroux-ffxiv]

Looking For Contact - Osric Giroux

Art by @robasarel

×—ʙᴀꜱɪᴄꜱ—×

ɴᴀᴍᴇ: Osric Giroux (formerly Slater - for a brief period of time, Cress)

ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ / ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛ��ꜰʏ: Male

Ʀᴀᴄᴇ: Midlander // Hyur

ᴀɢᴇ: 32

ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ: 22nd Sun of  the 4th Umbral Moon

ʙɪʀᴛʜᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ: Ishgard

ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ: Ishgardian

×—ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ—×

ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 6’0”

ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴛʏᴘᴇ: Athletic/Muscular

ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ: Black

ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ: Blue

ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ: 1) A small scar on the right side of his face, along his jawline (difficult to see if he is not clean shaven); 2) In the center of his chest - it appears surgical in nature; 3) Several well healed small scars along his back.

ᴄʟᴇᴀɴʟɪɴᴇꜱꜱ / ɢʀᴏᴏᴍɪɴɢ: Osric keeps himself well groomed and well dressed - growing up in circumstances where appearances were paramount, it was a message that was all but beaten into him. He was to look the part of perfection, even if he was reminded that he was far short of it at every possible opportunity. His only small act of rebellion in that regard may be keeping the stubble - but that started during his time as a mercenary and he found he had a preference for it.

ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴅᴀʏ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: Dark blues and blacks - he’s no longer part of the noble class and so he’s perfectly content to dress in more comfortable clothing, but also something appropriate to the climate he’s in. 

ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱᴏʀɪᴇꜱ: A pair of earrings, occasionally a watch - there’s not much extra he wears. He doesn’t feel a need for it. 

×—ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ—×

ᴀʟʟᴇʀɢɪᴇꜱ: None of note

Ɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱᴇꜱ: None of note

ᴅɪꜱᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ: None of note

ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟꜱ: Fairly high, and fairly consistent. He has things to get done that have to get done and there’s no one to rely on but himself.

ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴀʙɪᴛꜱ: Food is the first thing to get neglected if he’s busy or distracted. He may only get one meal in if things start to get hectic. It’s an issue he’s aware of - and sometimes he catches it, sometimes he doesn’t. When he does eat, it’s healthy food - he’s a very talented cook - which isn’t something a majority of the people in his life know about him. 

ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ʜᴀʙɪᴛꜱ: He tends to be up early - that was something that started with his training, but getting to bed early is hit or miss. He’ll ruminate,  that will keep him up, and so sleep can be hit or miss, depending on what’s happening in his life. 

ꜰɪᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ: Very - whether it’s training with the wolves or simply keeping up with the type of training he used to do as a Dragoon - he’s not one to neglect training for long. 

×—ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ—×

ɪɴᴛʀᴏᴠᴇʀᴛ / ᴇxᴛʀᴏᴠᴇʀᴛ: Introvert

ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇʀᴀᴍᴇɴᴛ: Leans Melancholic 

ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: He tends to have a more passive style - a result of growing up in a household where he was not permitted to have a voice and was invalidated at every turn. 

ɢᴏᴀʟꜱ / ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇꜱ: To have a family, a place, a purpose. All grand and vague - but as he starts over he’s having to re-establish what his goals are yet again. 

ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜꜱ: Loyal, empathetic, willing to do whatever is necessary or possible for those he cares for, resilient (even if he doesn’t see it)

ᴡᴇᴀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱᴇꜱ: Stubborn, internalizes a good number of things, tends to personalize, loyal to a fault

ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ: Being alone for the rest of his life, his children growing to hate him, being replaced, not being good enough (never being good enough)

Qᴜɪʀᴋꜱ / ᴛɪᴄꜱ: Rubbing the back of his neck when nervous or anxious, rubbing the scar in the center of his chest when overwhelmed

ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛꜱ: He was responsible for burning Bleakpoint to the ground after the Ashen Wolves mission to the village. He was also responsible for the death of a captain for the organization Chimera. He's also directly responsible for the death of Kenward Slater - for which he felt no remorse.

Ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛꜱ: More than one can list on this page. 

×—ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ ɪ—×

ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ: Camilla Slater (Deceased)

ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ: Kenward Slater (though this is not the individual listed on his birth certificate) (Deceased)

ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ(ꜱ): Benedict Slater (is the individual listed as his father on his birth certificate) (Deceased)

ꜱɪʙʟɪɴɢ: Edalene Slater

ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ: Idalia and Evran* Cress

×—ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ ɪɪ—×

ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ / ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: Heterosexual

ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ: Single - recently divorced

ꜱᴘᴏᴜꜱᴇ: N/A

ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ / ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ(ꜱ): N/A

ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ(ꜱ): N/A

Acquaintances: (His ex-wife) Vahalia Cress, Valeria Cress, Carrera Blackheart, Hyaka Taka, Castien Bancroft, Cyrus Black, Nijah Wolff, Dawn Aethwyn

ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴɪᴏɴꜱ: Freyja, Tyr, and Vidar - All wolves who are present on his property in the Coerthan Highlands.

×—ʟɪꜰᴇꜱᴛʏʟᴇ—×

ᴏᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: Former Dragoon, then mercenary - transitioning to training wolves

ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ: Middle

ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ʀᴇꜱɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ: A home in the Coerthan Highlands

ᴠɪᴄᴇꜱ: Alcohol

ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴏʀ ʟᴏɴᴇʀ: More of a loner

ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ / ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ: N/A - he fell away from any type of faith/religion after leaving Ishgard initially several years ago.

×—Hooks—×

Ishgardian Nobility - Osric grew up in and around Ishgard’s nobility. After several years away he returned to the fold and only recently stepped away after his divorce. If you’ve spent some time within those self-same circles you may have come across him from time to time. 

Military Service - As was expected of him, Osric was part of the military force defending Ishgard, a former Dragoon, prior to abruptly leaving under undisclosed circumstances. If one was part of the service during the same time period there’s the off chance that you’ve crossed paths.

Wandering Mercenary - After leaving Ishgard, Osric worked with different mercenary groups without settling with any particular group until the last four years. This led to him meeting a significant number of people, albeit only briefly, as he rarely stayed in one place for more than a few days.

Changing Paths - A recent near death experience, his divorce from his now ex-wife, and the birth of his children (all within a handful of months) have led Osric to re-evaluating and making some changes. He’s moved away from fighting on the front lines and has moved towards a supportive role - in either developing and training troops (which he was assisting with prior to the divorce) and now in breeding and training wolves to assist in battle or simply for protection. 

×—OOC—×

A bit about what I’m looking for:

18+ is a must 

In-game RP or Google docs (or whatever platform one prefers to use rather than Google docs) is preferable - Discord can be utilized as a last resort if necessary.

Active and clear communication (For a variety of different reasons, whether that’s in regards to boundaries and preferences or for scheduling purposes -ie - my work schedule can be a bit hectic and clear communication makes setting things up, especially in game things, much easier.)

Consistency - this would also be part of communication.

To engage and collaborate, with the main goals being character growth, engagement and really…to have fun. 

Any interest in getting to know Osric a bit better feel free to poke me here or in game if you see me, as I’m always open to discussing possibilities. Discord is also available on request.

[headcanons-n-shit]

since there was already a prompt abt pining can i ask for hcs on how the ffxiv boys (+leofard?) would go about expressing their interest in a particularly dense wol? 😊

We do love a dense motherfuker

Thancred is fucjing suffering over here. He cannot possibly make his intentions any more obvious. The problem is that hes accidentally played himself-- hes spent so long disguising his feelings as jokes, or as ploys on missions, and now you just assume that his flirting and holding your hand and wanting to be in your space all the time is just what the two of you do. He ends up having to go all rose petals and sappy love confession under the moonlight like some kind of storybook love interest. Its so sappy, embarrassing, but its also so, so sweet.

Urianger is, unfortunately, painfully Sharlyan about the whole thing. He gives you nice paper, expensive ink, masterwork tools, intricate glasswear for your alchemy lab. Practical, highquality armor. A delicately embroidered handkerchief. He thinks hes being overly forward with his affections, you think hes just being a really good friend, yshtola would rather drown herself than watch the rest of this soap opera play out.

Literally what else does G'raha need to do to prove his devotion to you??? The man unwound time and unraveled space just to be by your side. He was practically your sugardaddy your entire time on the First. He almost, almost thought you were flirting back with him when you brought him food from the Last Stand, and then Alphinaud and alisae and krile trotted in behind you and it took every ounce of his Exarch discipline not to retreat with his tail between his legs. Pls this man is suffering.

Estinien literally can not. Look me in the eyes. This stinky dragoon has spent a good half his life behind an armet. He is a horrible mix of country bumpkin, career soldier, aymeric's half-assed attempts to pound courtly decorum into estiniens dumb empty head, and Nidhoggs instincts. He wants to cook you food, drag you into a corner and kiss you silly, send you flowers, and bring you something he killed with his bare hands. He ends up doing all four. Not necessarily in that order.

Aymeric is dying. You are going to be the death of him. He has gone through great pains to discover your favorite flower and have them always displayed in your room. He has written you letters full of poetry. He has showered you with gifts. He has invited you to dine with him. At this point the other nobles are asking whether its going to be a spring or summer wedding, and he doesnt know how to explain how you are still woefully oblivious bc he cant explain it himself.

Haurchefant gave you a LITERAL DOWRY. He handed you the reins to an extremely expensive war-trained black de chocobo in front of everyone whos ever mattered to him and also half of ishgard, and then he had to stand there dying internally while you praised him for being a "good friend". There are bets not on whether hes going to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to his room to. Ahem. Prove his devotions. But rather on how long it will take him to break.

Sidurgu. Barely has memories of the Orl traditions around courtship. His mother had often regaled him with stories of how she had courted his father. Food, presense and friendship, proofs of skill. And yes, it frustrates him that you seem to brush off his attempts, but. Well. It took almost five years for his mother and father to get together, from the way they told it. Hes learned a lot for your sake, and for rielles. He can learn patience too.

Leofard is a pirate. He doesnt dance around the bush, he strikes when the metal is hot and takes what he wants. It works well with garlean airships and the odd unfortunate merchant. Not. So much with you. One, because your consent and emotions are important to him. Two, because you are so. Fucking. Dense. He steals silks and jewels and fancy foods for you, spends time with you, saved your life from diabolos, told you his sad life story. Hes one step from throwing himself at you like some fainting dame, and its embarrassing.

(Hes not gonns stop tho)

[gatheredfates]

For the relationship ask thing: Kor & Alphinaud!

Have your followers send you NPCs and you describe your OC's feelings/relationship to that NPC! I have nothing to say except I went insane.

He is just a child.

She reminded herself of this fact through gnashed teeth and folded arms; he is just a child, he does not deserve your ire.

But Kor was very tired of children. She had only recently interred one to the sea — to the crabs, the fish and the three-day rot — and the arrogant intervention wore thin in the repetitive belief that Alphinaud knew better simply because he was the prodigal grandson of a man who gave his life to Eorzea. He intermingled with the potentate, both of city-states and non, and she watched with loosely contained annoyance how he prattled on.

But she watched. That was one thing the Captain was good at, she supposed — watching. Guarding. He monopolised it with lazy gestures and self-assured smiles, and she fell easily into the role of dog to its master. Not because she respected him exactly, but because it was all she knew. Because she couldn't be better.

Should she have said something? Should she have intervened? She saw the way they looked at him like he was a thing to be used, a stepping-stone to their aspirations, armies and Warrior of Light. When Ilberd glanced to her she could see intention in the edges of his easy smile, "Daughter of Ala Mhigo, don't you see the opportunity?"

If looks could kill she'd encase him in the amber of her eyes, right at the juncture where equitable manner bordered on ridicule.

Why didn't she? Because the last time she had said something, the last time she tried to intervene, it only sent the child running.

Right into the jaws of the deep.

He is just a child. He was tired. Alphinaud doesn't complain (perhaps he knew better the limits of her patience), but she could see the weariness in his eyes — exhaustion hugging the corners, hoping to fuse with the rest of the cold truths.

And they were cold. Not just of the temperature, for Ishgard was abysmally frigid, but of the loss of their comrades and the fall of their station; how their pedigree had diminished to the kindness of an foreign nation determined to arise from the ice, even if their sanctuary to accused murders might isolate them all over again.

Or heresy. Koret thought herself more superstitious than religious, though maybe it was all the same in the end. An offering to a deity, a prayer for good luck (give Llymlaen a Dagger just so she can throw it at the bastard again), click your heels three times or whatever-the-fuck. She wasn't praying to anyone when she rescued Tataru and he from the Tribunal. She only knew outrage and the acrid taste of bile in the back of her throat at the thought she could lose them too.

"Are you alright?" It was the first time she reached for him since the banquet, her fingers just a little too tight on the groove of his shoulder. Kor hadn't even thought about it, so natural was the movement, but when he jumped and fixed his gaze to her, she immediately knew her misstep.

"...I am fine, my friend," he answered, and before she could whip her hand away he had laid his own atop of it. They stood there for a far too long in their strange silence until Kor thought to squeeze once and finally relinquish her hold. She stepped back, awkward in her intimacy, and could not look directly in the eye.

"Good."

She soon realised he was learning the values of leadership, too. He saw them in Aymeric's careful navigation, Estinien's brute force and Ysyale's hope. All had their merits but all had their flaws. He internalised them and stepped carefully over the ruins of his mistakes until his friends were whole and hearty again.

Not a leader, just a comrade... a friend.

He is just a child, but fucking hell he's a clever one. Kor couldn't deny his intelligence, especially given what she knew of Sharlayan, but she was reminded of the old idiom of teaching a man to fish: teach a boy bureaucracy and he might become a man through it. Show him what it means to lead, to plan and to prepare; allow him the privilege of the floor, but be prepared to challenge him when he oversteps. Do not squander his inexperience, but allow innovation to bleed through tried methods.

Frankly, she appreciated his methodology, for it allowed her little room to think about herself. He was the enthusiastic foreigner, not the diaspora grasping at the hems of the little culture his father felt prudent to leave him. He could meet the gaze of M'naago, Lyse and Conrad instead of staring just a little too far to the left.

She only had the left these days. When she woke up screaming in the night, disorientated from a lack of vision, his were the hands intermingled among the many that grasped her frantic fingers. "You are safe," he reassured her, squeezing tightly in the din. "Koret, you are safe."

She wasn't sure she believed him, but it was comforting all the same. There was a familiarity in their company now, whether she liked it or not. Kor teased him for his whimsy and his innocence (the art, the sword — fuck, he was a terrible swimmer) while he offered wisdom beyond his years and a hope they could make a difference in the world.

So who was holding him — why did he need to be held? It was her job to protect him, her job to guard; she knew the job well well since the banquet, it was the one thing she was good at. Kor ran to him so desperately, wrenching his lifeless figure out of their arms as if her violence might be the one thing that would bring him back to her, yet his weight was like an anchor that pulled them roughly to the ground.

"Alphinaud!"

She cradled him, one hand in his hair while the other gripped him far too tightly, but he did not wake. Not even when she shook him, not even when the other Scions had to pull her from him, not even when her voice cracked in its snarl. "Wake up you fucking — WAKE UP!"

She wondered if he was a child in body only, given all the things he'd seen. Weeks for her was a whole year for him; a year of separation, strife and sorrow. Alphinaud was so infuriatingly formal when she found him, as if embarrassed by his failings on the Source, and balked when she wrapped her arms tight around him to prove to herself he was real.

"A-Are you alright?" By the navigator did she laugh! It was a desperate, pained sound, but how could she hope to encapsulate anger and relief in the same breath?

"Just dandy. Now shut up."

And he did, bless him. He hugged her tightly back.

She wanted... a lot of things then. Mostly she just wanted to apologise. She wanted to apologise for failing him and forcing him to this foreign world. She wanted to tell him that she was alright, even when she was igniting from the inside and spewing hot ichor across the floor.

Kor wanted to lie to him, but she was a terrible liar. When she writhed on the floor of the Crystarium, and the veins in her hands turned a vibrant gold, she wanted to scream that he was just a kid! He was a child discussing how much time she had left, contemplating how they might survive if she were to purify in front of them. He did not deserve it. Alisae did not deserve it. Ryne did not deserve it.

He had weathered the brunt of her suicidal ideation for far too long. Enough. Enough.

"If the fucking bastard is going to disown you, I'll just adopt you myself. It can't be that hard. You're like, what, seventeen —?"

The way Kor paused was enough to make them snort with laugher, so stunned was she that she rendered herself speechless. The Captain looked like she had swallowed a lemon, as if she only just became reacquainted with the passage of time, and her single eye narrowed to glare at the twins suspiciously.

"How old are you?"

"Literally or figuratively?" Alisaie asked, slicing through the tension of the hour with impish wit.

Koret Swan threw up her hands as she came to the horrific realisation they weren't really children anymore. But they were hers — they were her kids — and they only laughed harder despite it.

"I think I should like to watch you contemplate a bell longer," Alphinaud teased, that self-assured smile appearing when Alisaie snickered, and she had a mind to strange him anew.

"I think I should like to kick your arse," Kor answered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fuck me."

"Brother, we graduated! She swears openly in our company!"

Never mind, she was going to kick both their arses. They could be orphans.

The end of the universe was no place for anyone, least of all them. They held her hands in theirs, small when pressed against the leather of her gloves, and it was their steps that carried her to the precipice of apathy.

It wasn't that Kor would not continue (they had come so far, seen so much, done too much), but that she knew what taking those last few steps meant.

She thought she knew death a thousand times. She swore It was her friend when her sister died, a siren calling her so sweetly from the craggy rocks as it ushered her into the king-tide. It wore the faces of friends — occasionally her enemies if it suited — and soothed her aching bones when exhaustion became almost too much to bear. "There is a solution," it cooed, "if you're brave enough to take it."

No! She wanted to live! For fuck sake, she wanted to live — and she wanted them to live! She didn't want to walk towards the yawning void with its songbird's dead-eyed stare; she wanted to be home in Mor Dhona with the their annoying merrymaking and cheap, frothy beer. She didn't want to keep stepping over ground earned with her loved ones' lives while the Endsinger herself prised her ribcage higher with her butchers knife. I will take everything from you, and you will only know despair.

Kor did not feel worthy. Tears streaked her cheeks as she tried not to cry, and the tension in her jaw was excruciating when she stalled.

There was no bravery in death, but they were so brave. Alphinaud sensed her pause and took the first step forward, turning just enough to face her, and smiled as he squeezed her fingers in his.

"Come, my dearest friend," he softly encouraged, "There's not much farther left."

I love you, I love you, I love you. She wanted to tell them more than anything but her mouth would not make the sound. Instead, Kor looked to both of them, desperately trying to memorise every inch of their faces on the chance she might lose them forever. I love you. I don't want you to do this. I don't want to do this.

Acceptance was the swallow that felt like ingesting razor wire. When this was over she would bring them back, and she would give them everything.

They deserved everything.

Hence, she walked.

[agent-cupcake]

Éphémère

I’ve been attempting to fill short kinktober prompts with the Final Fantasy XIV cast to procrastinate the larger project I've been doing. We’ll see where it goes. Most of them are AU's of some kind idk.

Pairing: Aymeric de Borel x f!Reader Kink: Semi-public / Blowjob Tags: Explicit, light D/s dynamic, alternate universe: modern Word Count: 2.7k

“What are you doing here?” Aymeric asked, his blue eyes widening with surprise upon seeing who had been knocking. You hadn’t called, although you should have. You didn’t want to risk being turned away, to be told you couldn’t steal a few precious moments from his busy life. Besides, you had a good cause this time. 

Given that your hands were full, you shut the door with your foot. His office was the same as ever. It was not quite as grand as someone might expect, clearly inhabited by somebody who favored efficiency over aesthetics. The air smelled like him and the corporate scent of floor polish and new upholstery. While the blinds covering the windows facing Ishgard were wide open, those over the windows looking into the main office space were closed. It gave a very strong illusion of isolation and intimacy, like it was just you and him. Emboldened by that thought, you fixed Aymeric with as serious a stare as you could. 

“I heard that you’re working way too hard, and that your staff is worried about you,” you said, having decided upon a cold open approach so he couldn’t wriggle out of your accusations. “I’ve even heard that it’s putting you in a bad mood. The men are losing morale.” You waited a beat for his response, but he just looked at you, completely befuddled. Eventually, you prompted him with a prodding,“So?” 

“So… what?” Aymeric asked.

“Is any of that true?”

“True?” he repeated, his dark eyebrows pinching in the middle. “Ah, no…  No, it is not.” Aymeric finally forced a reassuring smile. He wasn’t very good at faking. “I appreciate the concern, but I am fine.” You gave him a doubtful look, slowly meandering over to his cluttered desk. There was nothing to be said, you both knew that you were right. He could try to downplay it all he liked, but even Aymeric had his limits. He sighed. “I cannot afford to take a break yet. I promise to rest once this matter is resolved. Perhaps I’ll take a day off. We’ll go somewhere—anywhere you wish.”

“We won’t be going anywhere after you work yourself into a nervous breakdown,” you told him flatly. 

“Please, don’t say such things. I promise that I will be fine.”

You sighed. “Either way, I brought you something to eat,” you said, setting the bag of takeout on the tiny bit of space left on his desk. “I had a feeling you skipped lunch.” 

“Lunch?” he asked, brow furrowing. “What time is it?”

“Past lunch.”

“I see. I must have lost track of the time, I… Thank you.” He placed a hand over yours and smiled, a real smile, and you felt your chest clench. Even overworked and exhausted, he was beautiful. Far more beautiful than any man had a right to be. “I dare not consider where I might be without you.” 

You smiled, even knowing it was a platitude. He was the most resilient person you had ever met, and one of the most solitary. Aymeric would be just as okay on his own as with you, but you liked the idea that he needed you, if only for a fleeting moment. You liked to think that there was something only you could give him, something of value. 

And, just like that, you came to the conclusion that he didn’t look like he needed a meal. He looked taut as a bow string and ready to snap, he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked like he needed a bit more than lunch. 

“Hey, while I’m here, maybe…” you began, faltering with embarrassment as you tried to figure out the best way to phrase it. 

“Is there something else?” 

“I know there’s nothing I can say to make you take a break so I won’t ask. Still, I want to do something to brighten your day and honestly you look like you could use a pick-me-up,” you blurted out, speaking fast to keep your nerve. “I’ve thought about it before and I’m pretty sure I can fit under your desk,” you said, leaning forward to double check. Yeah, there was plenty of room. Three cheers for long legs. “Think of it as stress relief. Like a massage or something but, you know, with my mouth. What do you think?” 

Done with your awkward proposition, you looked back up at Aymeric with as innocent an expression as you could manage, meeting his eyes as if you hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary. It was always hard to predict how he might react to any given situation, mostly it was a question of whether or not his Catholic guilt and relentless sense of propriety would win out, but you pretty well expected the way his mouth snapped shut, a muscle in his jaw ticking as his entire body went taut. 

And then slowly, carefully, “Are you…” 

“Offering to give you head in your office at three in the afternoon on a Thursday?” you finished for him. “Um… Yeah, I guess I am.”  

“I… I don’t think… That is,” he cleared his throat, “obscenity of that sort would be extremely inappropriate for a man in my position.”

“C’mon, are you going to tell me that you’ve never thought about it? Doing secret, naughty things is the best part of getting a big, isolated office with a big, roomy desk. Or so I’ve been told.” 

Aymeric swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to the door and back. “Even if I were comfortable with such an egregious breach in etiquette, it would be wrong of me to do so while everyone else is working so hard.” 

“You’re looking at it all wrong,” you argued. “If you work while you’re super stressed out, you won’t do as well, and you act all grumpy, and everybody is unhappy. If you take a teensy tiny little break to let me help you relax, you’ll work better, be nicer, and everybody will be happy... If you need an excuse, you can blame it all on me. You can say you got lured in by the irresistible charm of a succubus who would simply not take no for an answer.”  

He let out a single laugh, dry and nervous and humorless. “Is there any truth in that?” 

“I am pretty insatiable when it comes to you.”

Aymeric reached up to take hold of your chin, gently pulling your face towards his so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. And you knew that look. Conflict. Doubt. Desire.

“If you don’t want to, I’ll let it go,” you said. “But if it would make you feel better, I want to. I’d do anything… sir.” 

Aymeric’s expression hardened, his eyes darkening a shade, and it was a stare that demanded your submission. It was the kind of look that was usually followed with orders like remove your clothes or don’t move unless I say or open your legs or-

“Get on your knees.” Even half whispered, even though he always left enough space in his demands for you to deny him if you were truly uncomfortable, that wasn’t the sort of order you turned down. 

“Okay,” you said, your voice soft. His fingers squeezed your jaw a little bit tighter, his eyebrow raising ever so slightly. “Yes, sir,” you amended. Aymeric released your face and leaned back, watching as you fell to your knees. Although there was enough space under his desk for you to fit, crawling under it was kind of awkward. Good thing your skirt was flared, scrambling around like this in anything tight would have been impossible. 

“Is that okay?” he asked. “Should I move back?”

“No, sir. This is…” You breathed out, steadying yourself. “Perfect.”

Knowing you had a time limit, you undid his belt and the button of his pants, slowly pulling the zipper down. Aymeric was kind enough to shift his hips so you could push his trousers down and out of the way. Wanting to savor things at least a little, you traced the outline of his dick through the dark boxer briefs, feeling him harden beneath your touch. Aymeric’s hips shifted and he cleared his throat, prompting you to slip your fingers beneath the waistband to pull those down too. 

He wasn’t hard yet, but the choked noise Aymeric made and the way his hips jumped forward when you began to stroke his cock made you think that he wanted this at least almost as much as you did. He caught himself quickly afterwards. Always playing the stoic.

You realized early on in the relationship that, power dynamic notwithstanding, Aymeric was not the type of man to demand things of you sexually, at least not for his own pleasure. There was an element of trial and error to figure out what worked. It was all pretty complicated. So was he, for that matter. Pretty and complicated. 

Continuing to stroke the base, you paid your respects, kissing and licking your way across his cock. Every inch of him was perfect, though you could admit a preference for this particular part. Perfect, and, as you liked to think in your wildest moments, yours. Alternating between using just the tip of your tongue and the flat, you traced the veins running the length of his dick, following one along the underside until you reached the head, lavishing extra attention at the point where they met. You knew that got him, one of his hands finally finding its way to the top of your head. Humming happily, you did it again before pulling back to swirl your tongue around the swollen crown. His fingers curled against your scalp, not grabbing or pushing, but very insistently there. 

Now that Aymeric was fully hard, you couldn’t help but think about what he felt like inside of you. How full, how complete you were when he fucked you. The mere thought of it was enough to make you moan shakily, wrapping your lips around his cock and pushing forward, sucking and licking enthusiastically in the hopes that he would be able to feel your arousal. Your appreciation, your affection, your adoration. 

That wasn’t something you ever told him, not with words. You knew better than to distract him with too many of your feelings. He was so busy all the time, distant in a way that often left you cold. Not because he was cruel, or unfeeling, but because he lived in service to others, to lead, there was only so much of himself that he could give. Scraps, moments, little fragments of the most magnificent man you’d ever known. And he had been clear about that from the start. You made peace with it. For such a self-sacrificing man, the very least you could do was live in his service. If it was Aymeric, you didn’t mind so much. 

Finding a pace and rhythm that worked took a moment of experimentation, getting your hand and mouth to work together. Plus, you were trying to be quiet, and clean. That’s how these office affairs went, right? Top secret stuff. Aymeric’s hips pushed forward, throwing you off. 

“You needn’t hold yourself back,” he told you, his voice slightly muffled from above. “The walls are quite thick and-” he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I know you can do better.”

You hummed in understanding, although it probably didn’t sound like much with his cock in your mouth. It was one of Aymeric’s many contradictions. No matter how neat and put-together he always was, nights with him often ended with you teary eyed and dripping with sweat, your thighs slick with cum and saliva leaking from your open mouth, blissed out and sloppy. He wanted to know that you were enjoying yourself so much that you’d be reduced to a swooning, helpless mess. And still, he insisted he wasn’t any sort of sadist. Pretty, complicated, and terribly repressed. 

You gave him what he wanted. It sounded obscene, wet slurping and your little choked moans stifled by his cock, the slick back and forth of your hand working the base, the movements smoothed by your saliva. It was already messy enough to be dripping down your chin and onto your skirt. Probably onto his expensive trousers. He had spare suits at the office though, it was fine. 

“If you’re going to hump my leg, move your skirt out of the way,” Aymeric said. Embarrassing, although he said it with a measure of warmth. 

You stopped, pulling off with a slick pop and a shaky laugh. In your haze, you hadn’t even been aware of what your body was doing. “Ss-sorry, sir. I didn’t…”

“That wasn't a request.” You couldn’t see him, but you could imagine the imperious set of his sharp features, the way his perfect lips blushed dark pink and parted when he was turned on, how his inky dark eyelashes would flutter open so he could look at you with those gorgeous eyes.

You whimpered, a sound you couldn’t help. A bit awkwardly, you hiked your skirt out of the way, shuffling a little closer so you could better grind against his leg.

“Good girl,” he murmured softly. Sweetly, using the hand on your head to pet your hair. You shuddered hard, raising your chin and opening your mouth. Aymeric met you halfway, his hips pushing forward while you moved down, your saliva-slick hand jerking him off in tandem with each bob of your head. 

Now that you were actively trying, the pressure between your legs was intoxicating. You wondered how much he could feel with the heavy fabric of his trousers in the way, if he was aware of how hot you burned for him, how wet every little catch of his breath or groan he couldn’t hold back left you. The friction wasn’t enough, but it was good. At this point, he was practically hitting the back of your throat with each thrust, and you couldn’t tell who was guiding the pace. It was all you could do to sneak in a breath here and there, to remember to use your tongue, to try and keep your voice down as you well and truly lost yourself in the hazy depths of lust and need, shamelessly grinding against his leg. 

Aymeric clearly wasn’t concerned about volume control at all, the office was filled with wet squishing choking noises and your muffled moans. His breathing had become erratic and you could hear the low groans he tried to fight back. You wanted him to come. Desperately, desperately. You wanted to make him feel good, to make him relax, to narrow down his world until it was only you and him and the pleasure he could derive from you. You wanted him to throw you onto his desk and fuck you until you were screaming, to claim you because, God help you, you were his. Not just for a fleeting moment, a single afternoon, a day off, but always. Every second of every day, his. 

“I… can’t…” was the only hoarse warning you got before his hips stuttered, his hand holding your head in place as he came. You braced yourself to take it. For any other guy you wouldn’t have, but Aymeric... 

Aymeric. Every part of him was perfect, you would take anything he gave to you. 

He moaned so prettily, even if he tried to muffle it, the sounds stuttered and choked. You swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, desperate to prove yourself, to take whatever he saw fit to give you. To be his good girl. 

And then he stilled, his hand relaxing. His cock twitched in your mouth, and you pulled back with an unseemly amount of saliva. Like you thought, most of it was on your skirt. Not to mention your sore knees, stiff legs, and the lingering taste of cum in your mouth that was not nearly as pleasant when the act was finished. You needed to get up, the moment was over. He needed to get back to work. But, selfishly stealing a few more precious seconds, you rested your forehead against Aymeric’s knee, and he petted your head, and you let your eyes close. Just for a moment. 

[coolchulainn]

drawing your ffxiv guys without context is just the way of the world but I was looking at my art of them thinking about if any of that would make sense to someone with no context so I do wanna give the basics (rare coolchulainn textpost)

.

kaitan is an old eccentric wandering hedonist with an unknown and unimportant past. looks stern and stoic at first sight, but he's a friendly reliable shady uncle. you can trust him with your life, but probably shouldn't lend him money. he has no ambition beyond simply enjoying everything in life, but his skill and confidence tend to attract high expectations that he fairly easily lives up to. more competent than hardworking. friendly and easy to get along with, but being well suited for performing heroic deeds makes him often overshadowed by his actions, so very few people truly understand him.

believes in justice, but has no interest in enacting it. doesn't care to change the world, because he likes it fine as-is. all ways of life are equally worth living to him, so in the wrong crowd he's a horrible enabler. since simply being alive is the most valuable thing to him, he thinks everyone who's ever died for anything is an idiot, and doesn't understand grief at all. he approves of everything that exists and doesn't hate even the things he hates, so he's a difficult person to deal with for people who do have things they absolutely can't accept. because he tends to attract admiration, he particularly likes people who hate him.

his body is that of a flesh and blood person, but in truth he's a conceptual wish-granting mechanism, a holy grail. it malfunctioned and developed a personality that rejects having a purpose to fulfil, but people can't help but place their hopes in him anyway, and he's still built to turn those into results. even if he did know that at some point he long since forgot it as something unimportant, but viscerally rejecting the one way of life that should come most naturally to him is a fatal contradiction that will definitely break something if he becomes aware of it.

his image color is hot pink. his imagery is bells, the sunset, a bird flying underwater, and a shooting star that lands at your side. he often wears hats or sunglasses because his eyes are sensitive to light.

.

althoorn ran away from home at a young age and ended up in ishgard, where he served as butler to house haillenarte for well over a century until he got framed for a political assassination (because being an obvious outsider made him a convenient scapegoat) and had to flee the city some 20 years before the events of the game. he was knighted by his first master in hopes of securing his position in ishgard's volatile sociopolitical climate for the rest of his long life, but didn't learn to actually fight until after he fled, so he's got a lot of complexes about that and spent those 20 years becoming a paranoid cocktail of resentment towards and longing for ishgard. genuinely a modest and helpful person at heart, but also compulsively polite for fear of what will happen if he outlives his usefulness again. repressed as all good catholics are.

a bitter weakling who can't stop getting shreds of hope stuck under his fingernails as he claws his way to desperate survival. objectively a pretty competent and capable person, but things never really work out for him and he's lacking in protagonist power, so he thinks of himself as weak. he holds great disdain for the reality of ishgard's knights precisely because he keeps the ideal of knighthood so close to his heart, so he can't forgive either himself or others for not living up to those impossible standards. the longing for his old humble life, the distant ideal he holds dear, and the prey animal instinct fear of death all constantly fight for priority in his head. easy to break, but hard to keep that way.

getting framed the same way a second time and having to return to ishgard only to win the trial by combat he'd feared all this time and proceed to unveil ishgard's past sins makes him incredibly unstable and vindicated, and he develops a god complex intense and delusional enough to let him briefly transform into a primal of halone able to [save/punish] ishgard. the shock of estinien getting hogg'd crashes it back down and he's ashamed of it now, but he can't forget that taste of the ideal self who can do everything right either, and struggles to reconcile his legitimate capabilities with their inability to actually get him anywhere.

his image color is dark blue. his imagery is the jackalope and wolpertinger, living dolls, and sir dagonet the knighted fool. he wears gloves most of the time because his hands are permanently damaged by frostbite.

.

their formal relationship is that althoorn is a retainer kaitan hired. the reality is that kaitan is able to fulfil althoorn's ideal without even believing in it, which makes kaitan the most unforgivable person of all, but because kaitan is someone who accepts everything, he is also one of the few people althoorn dares to be hateful around to begin with.

kaitan is the actual warrior of light, and despite althoorn by all rights becoming the hero of the dragonsong war while kaitan was MIA after the banquet, it's kaitan who actually killed nidhogg while althoorn struggled to save just a single person. althoorn's zealous desire caught him the eye of both god and the holy grail, but neither can change that he is fundamentally unchosen.

their dynamic is basically that they're a fate-style master and servant, with althoorn as the master. the point of compatibility is that althoorn is so deeply scared of death that no matter how much he hates his own cowardice and weakness, he never ends up being actually suicidal or self sacrificial.

[cinnabun-faerie]

Thank you so much for answering my previous ask ☺️ if possible could I please have some cute headcanons for Alphinaud G'raha Tia Thancred Y'shtola Aymeric Emet-Selch Jullus Zenos Hermes and Urianger with a WoL that turns into a blanket burrito when it gets cold outside? (It's actually cold where i live 😅 so it made me think of this ask idea) thank you and please keep up the good work

A/N: It's quite cold where I am as well! I hope you keep warm!

Note: Established relationships, fluffy

Warning: Spoilers if you haven't made it to Endwalker!

Alphinaud

"Do you have room in there for me?"

"Maybe."

he thinks that you're so adorable when you're wrapped up like that

perhaps before joining you, he could go put a few more sticks on the fire

he'd rather not have you nor him freeze to death

actually he would ask if you want to go and sit together in front of the fire for a while

you'd grudgingly agree

it's much warmer with the fire and you're cuddled up with him in a chair, head resting on his shoulder

Aymeric

Seeing as Ishgard is always cold, he understands why you'd be so bundled up

honestly you look so cute like that

but how was he supposed to hold you and get warm?

you had all of the blankets

perhaps you'd rather some body heat to help

"Sweetheart, can I hold you in the blankets?"

"Please!"

He would chuckle at your eagerness to engulf him into the blankets

"We can stay like this til morning if you'd like."

"I'd hope so or you'll end up a Knight-cicle."

Emet-Selch

Rolls Eyes

It wasn't that cold

but if you were that cold, then he could just go get you another blanket

the things he does for the love of his existence

"If you keep rolling your eyes, Emet-Selch, you'll never be granted access to the blanket."

"You're not going to share with me? After I get you two more blankets? I can't believe you."

"Two? Maybe we can call a truce."

when he finally joins you under the blankets, you realize that he's just as cold as you are

you lay on top of him and tuck the blankets around both of you

"Don't worry, I'll get us nice and warm."

G'raha Tia

G'raha was your blanket burrito buddy

he got a bit cold as well and the best thing to do was to cuddle up together

at least then he could pull you close to him

he was so cute for this as you were so fond of the way he nuzzled against you

"Shall I get more blankets?"

"No. I'm warm just like this. And I don't want you to move."

"Thank goodness. I didn't want to stop holding you, even for a moment.

Hermes

When he'd see you in your little blanket burrito, he would chuckle to himself

he should have known that you would be in here if he couldn't find you elsewhere

he would not try to wake you, but he would go to his side of the bed and cover himself with an extra blanket that you had not stolen for your burrito

his back was to you when you woke up to see him laying beside

"Hermes?"

you had moved closer to wrap your arm around him, your hand finding his

"Hm?"

"Missed you."

"Missed you too, love."

Jullus

Whether you were used to the cold or not, you were constantly cold

and being with him in Garlemald didn't help

but he had a solution for that

he had the fluffiest blankets reserved just for you and him

and when he sees you all bundled up like a burrito, he would have the cutest smile on his face

he adored you so much no matter what you did

he would join you in bed and pull you close so he could kiss your forehead, nose, cheeks and finally your lips

his heart would melt when you snuggle up next to him

Thancred

He loved teasing you whenever you were wrapped up like a burrito

you just looked so cute

and you had the best reactions of course

"Cold are we?"

"Yes."

"And what if I am too?"

"Get your own blanket."

"I'm wounded, Y/N. My own partner doesn't want to share with me."

You would tug Thancred on the bed before wrapping him and you up in the blankets, earning a laugh from him

"Shut up."

"You know, if you want to get warm, I know a good way."

"Thancred!"

Urianger

Whenever you got cold, you had this habit of wrapping yourself up in a blanket burrito and waddling out to wherever Urianger

there you would simply throw yourself at him

and he'd always catch you and set you in his lap

he knew that you preferred the blanket and his body heat

at least then he could read to you and you could warm him up

Y'shtola

"Is it burrito season?"

"It is. Will you be joining?"

"When have I ever refused."

Whenever you got cold, she always joined you

sometimes you formed her own burrito or other times she would just join yours

and whenever either of you were cuddled together in one big burrito, it wouldn't be long before you both would be fast asleep

Zenos

How could you be cold when he always pulled you close, providing you lots of heat?

regardless, he found you wrapped up in the blankets to be rather endearing

his heart might even skip a beat when you start wrapping him up in the same big blanket with you

"Are you satisfied?"

"Yes."

[dapperpea]

FFxivWrite2024 / Day 7 / Morsel

** SPOILERS FOR EW LOCATIONS **

Sharlayan, Archon decided, was not at all a desirable place to be. Too much like Ishgard, with its snooty, judgemental elezen hierarchies and its lonely brickwork and its rules for everything. He probably needed to file at least three forms and have them approved by commission before he was allowed to so much as sneeze. The two cultures would either get along perfectly and stop fussing the rest of us, he thought, or else they would drive each other to madness and be a good show in the meantime.

The worst part of staying in Sharlayan–well, the second worst part–was the fact that it was nearly impossible to get decent food. There was one place, at least, which was the only thing keeping him from teleporting himself back to the mainland for every meal, aetherial costs be damned. But he absolutely refused to give in to the other Scions who sighed and told him the food was fine, just sit down and eat, stop fussing. In his opinion, they were raised here, and it wasn’t their fault, but they were brainwashed to think archon loaf and its like was food. (It was not; it was neither palatable nor fit for consumption in any way, and being forced to eat it, in Archon’s opinion, was commensurate to a crime. In fact, he was appalled to share the name.)

And so he found himself sidling up to the Last Stand as the chilly evening wind blew over the waves and curled over the seaside tables, at odds with the orange-red sunset on the horizon.

“Dickon,” he nodded a greeting as he approached the cafe. “Any recommendations tonight?”

“Again?” Dickon chuckled at him. “You’ll make me get used to this kind of income. Usually it’s just the fancy blokes and a student or two for their nameday.”

“My dear, so long as your island refuses to eat proper food and until I am blessed with a kitchen in which to make it, you will have my patronage.” Archon smiled despite himself.

“Very well, very well. We got some fresh fish in; how do you feel about a fried mackerel with lemon cream butter?”

“That sounds delightful.” Archon paid for his meal and wandered off to the wooden deck, finding a table to eat and watch the sun send itself to sleep beyond the horizon.

[felicityaugust]

CH 9

“I dun remember drinking all of this…” It was past midday, quite a few hours since the Moogles came and gone. The merchant had a miserable look as he shook his empty bottle.

Her lips pursed as she bit back a smile, her fangs needled the inside of her lip. She had spent her morning inspecting the fantastic stick that was gifted to her but-- no way she turned it, whacked it, or attempted to bend the sturdy thing, it was nothing more than what it was. A stick. Drunken little Moogle bear-bat-cats. She still deigned it-- the normal stick, important enough to keep though, and had settled it against her shoulder. 

“Did you help yourself to some of my stuff, a little, hmm? That's not free you know.” The merchant asked her.

“What? I didn't drink that smelly stuff!”

“How do you know it's smelly, then? Eh!” 

“Oh come off of it, you see this nose? I can smell your breath from here.” She scoffed, and crossed her arms over her chest. 

“What about yer nose?!" He repeated with a sputter, "If your nose is so good, you probably could tell how much it was worth. All I see on your face is some white paint!” The merchant groaned, clutching his forehead as he bent over in the wagon, sounds of discomfort roiled from his belly. 

“It's not paint, their stripes.” She hissed. “Besides, what good would your booze do me? I ain't gunna ride in a wagon full of strangers so I can be caught unawares.” 

“You're one to talk! Wasn't I, the merciful and kind soul that I am, who took in a screeching little cat maiden who was being ousted from Ishgard for being a heretic?! I'm the one who should be careful to not be caught unawares!” The merchant's face was flushed red and it was clear he was well done swimming in the bottom of the bottle long before the Moogle helped ease him of it. 

Her eyes were wide as she looked at the two white haired elezen sitting across from her that had matching suspicious expressions. 

“I'm not a heretic.” She snipped, pulling her bag closer to her hip and lifting the stick away from her shoulder. The boy elezen looked at her kindly, 

“We mean you no harm, friend. It is clear you haven't had even an onze of what he has.” He laughed quietly, pointing to the merchant that had fallen back asleep. A quiet truce fell over the wagon for the rest of the ride that was mercifully, uneventful. They arrived at the gates to the tree embraced city and the elezen twins were gone with a short nod of goodbye. She hopped out of the wagon and looked back to the seats and saw the merchant was still passed out on one of the benches.

“He'll be like that until sunrise tomorrow morning, don't mind ‘em.” 

She turned and looked down at the lalafell who was in charge of making sure all visitors were discharged from the wagon. 

“I was just wanting to tell him, thanks, you know, for giving me a ride all this way.” 

“We'll let ‘em know for you.” Another hired hand said as he joined them. “And I'll let him know the Moogles swiped his ale. I told him he should of made an offering to the trees.” 

She gasped. “You saw them too?” 

He suddenly laughed. “Or did you actually drink that ale? Ain't no such things as Moogles! Those are just tales!” He and the others laughed amongst themselves. Her cheeks began to burn red and she hurried away in embarrassment.  

I know what I saw!!

[pumpkinmagekupo]

Day 28: Succession

After the painful fight with Sophia, Krile escorted Mizuki back to the Rising Stones.  She could only heal so much.  Once they arrived back, Krile ordered Mizuki to rest and went to make a documented report about what happened. Though Krile had to usher Mizuki back to bed on several instances.

"I'm resting- I can rest in a chair.."

"Bed. Rest." Krile said sternly.

A day or two had passed before Y’shtola reappeared

“I thought Mizuki was with you?” She noticed the severe lack of the orange mage who was quite good at writing reports.

Krile sighed deeply, setting her quill down “Mizuki was so reckless! She got herself quite injured. She left to fetch help but came back with just herself..”

Y’shtola chuckled with a shake of her head “aye, that sounds like Mizuki.”

“Tis no laughing matter! She needs rest before we head back to Azys Lla.”

Y’shtola frowned “you left her unattended?”

“Well yes. She must rest-“ Krile stopped mid-sentence “she wouldn’t- surely she knows better!” Krile ran to the room where Mizuki slept but found the bed empty and a note placed atop the well made bed.

“Mizuki isn’t one for resting: willingly.“ Y’shtola added with a musing tone.

Krile looked panicked “but her wounds haven’t fully healed- she’s going to make them worse!” Krile gripped the note tightly “does she not trust us?”

“She’s never given much thought to her own health. You can thank her master for that. Mizuki just wants to be useful.” Y’shtola said with a slump of her shoulders. “I can assume she headed back to Azys Lla.”

“I shall make haste!” Krile announced, running to grab her things quickly.

“I shall call for Master Garlond, he should be able to bear us there quick enough.”

They indeed found Mizuki in Azys Lla, sitting against the wall leading into the sanctum. At first glance it appeared as though she was sleeping, but as they approached, they noticed how badly torn and burnt her robes were and very blood stained.

“I did it-” she announced, with a tired smile "They gave me a little trouble but I succeeded." Mizuki gestured to the singed hat beside her “and I found my hat.” she added,

“That really isn’t important right now.” Y'shtola sighed deeply. "where are your wounds?"

Mizuki offered a little shrug "Perhaps...mentioning where I'm not bleeding might be better." she chuckled.

"How could you be so careless?!" Krile shouted, her eyes brimming with tears "what if you hadn't succeeded?"

"But I did," Mizuki answered.

"We will be taking you back to Ishgard," Y'shtola started "where we are certain, you will be resting properly."

"They're not that bad really-"

"I have already called ahead to Count Fortemps," Krile announced, "he sounded quite concerned-"

Mizuki's shoulders slumped, that was going to be another lecture about her wellbeing..

but at least nobody else got hurt because of her shortcomings.

Continuation of Day 27

Prompt List

[paintedscales]

FFXIV Write 2024 :: Day Eighteen

Prompt: Hackneyed Characters: Nomin tal Kheeriin, Ruyah Tchuvu, Francel de Haillenarte Word Count: 697 Notes: Neo-Ishgard / Steampunk AU; also not exactly the happiest with this one, but hey. It's done.

Master List

“This hair clip has a linkpearl?” Nomin asked, picking up the decorative opal clip, its shape that of a crescent moon. Appropriate for that of the Keepers of the Moon.

“Indeed. With it, I’ll be able to hear everything that you are party to, and I shall be able to guide you in discussion with the others with things I would say while remaining perfectly safe here,” Ruyah replied, sitting back in the chair. Her tail curled as a smile spread over her lips. “Lucia put it together, you see. She has quite the way with little things like these.”

Indeed she did…

Nomin sighed, though took the hair clip. She would have to figure out how to put it on after her glamour took hold.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ruyah -- or rather, Nomin glamoured as Ruyah -- was dressed for the event, sporting an emerald green dress with fetching white adornments to accent her ensemble. In her hair was an opal hairpin, a veritable treasure there upon her head to make her look all the more striking for the evening. She had a fan in one of her hands. It was unfolded and hid the lower half of her face as she walked about the area.

“I hear Lord Francel close by. Approach him.”

Nomin looked around before she spotted the bright green of Francel, and she slowly walked over, fanning herself all the while. She did her best to mimic what Ruyah showed her.

The linkpearl whispered into her ear again, and so the act of being a puppet began. Nomin had been thankful that she had plenty of practice listening and speaking at the same time so that she could regurgitate the words as quickly as they were given to her. A spoken script.

“A fine eve to you, Lord Francel,” Nomin greeted, picking up part of her dress before offering a brief curtsey. Another practiced form.

“Lady Ruyah!” Francel greeted, bowing in kind. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I’ve been informed your brother, Lord Stephanivien, would not be in attendance tonight. An unfortunate circumstance to be sure,” Nomin recited, a sigh escaping her lips in her act of disappointment. “I was hoping that I could bend his ear and ask some questions about his inventions with the Skysteel Manufactory.”

“Ah, yes…” Francel gave a brief nod, a sheepish look crossing his face. “I understand that some of these drones he’s been creating with some Garlean influence must seem like a threat to those who neighbor so close to us in the Black Shroud. My Lady Ruyah, please allow me to assuage any concerns: my brother does not seek to allow these works to threaten the rest of Eorzea, merely work in repelling any Dravanian threat.”

Nomin snapped the fan shut, a frown creasing on her lips with the severity of the words that were given to her.

“You must ask your brother to reconsider his inventions if they are meant for violence,” Nomin said. “Be they for good intentions or no, I must stress that espousing the hackneyed rhetoric that is proliferated throughout the whole of Ishgard is simply that. I want the Council of Menphina to be on good terms with House Haillenarte, but I simply cannot agree with such inventions. For if they are as powerful as we have seen samples of, it worries me and my people that it may one day be used against us.”

Francel looked shocked, and then a sheepish expression fell upon his face.

“I…I can see your concerns, Lady Ruyah…” Francel sputtered. He was not terribly fond of being confronted, it seemed. “I…can pass along your sentiment to my brother. He desires what’s best for Ishgard and her people. But I greatly doubt he would want to jeopardize the relations between our people.”

Nomin relaxed, unfolding her fan once more and covering the bottom of her face. Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “Very good. And if at all possible, I would very much enjoy a meeting with him so that I might talk to him in person one of these days.”

“I can see what I can arrange, but I can’t promise you anything.”

[calico-heart]

25. Perpetuity

(NOT sure if this one will actually be canon but I had the brain wiggles so I figured, what better excuse to put it to paper and see how I felt about it than ffxivWrite??)

"Lyrha, have you given much thought to the institution of marriage?"

One ear quirking, she glanced over the edge of her cards to peer at X'rhun. "What, like them fancy nobles do in Ishgard? Seems a bit of a scam t'me, but I reckon there's good money in it." She focused on her hand, determined not to let his wiley distractions put her at a disadvantage. Not that such resolve prevented running her mouth right back, "Why? Has yer livery attracted one'a them frippetous damsels?"

X'rhun's lips tightened. "Well, no — to your last question. At least, not lately. And yes, to the former, although… I was, er —" He swallowed, staring hard at his cards. She tried to divine his strategy from the tells. "— referring more to marriage for love, as is sometimes practiced in other places."

"Shame." She smirked. "I think I'd've made a grand mistress to you, Lord Rhun Red-britches."

"I daresay you would. If you did not instead sweep my noble lady off her feet and the pair of you abscond with her dowry thereafter, leaving me destitute in coin and heart." He chuckled.

I might have, not so very long ago. She thought ruefully, but pushed the notion aside and laid down her chosen Triad card. "Wit' Same rules in play, that takes ye on both sides, givin' me the lead." She grinned. He'd be hard-pressed to win now, with so few moves remaining.

X'rhun's brow furrowed as she tapped the magical cards triumphantly and they changed from red trappings to blue. "So they do. Hm…"

"I'll accept yer surrender for a modest fee, were you so inclined." She offered.

"Pfah, as if you have ever been modest in anything, my dear."

She shrugged, "Modest by my reckonin' if not yours."

"A generous offer, but I find I am committed to our match."

"Suit yerself."

After a moment of thoughtful observation which Lyrha was sure was more showmanship than actual effort, he placed a card down very delicately. "As Addition rules are also imposed, I think you will find that…" He gave her just enough time to do the math in her head, and smirked only after her fur began to bristle. "The board is now mine. In its entirety."

And indeed, as he tapped the cards a sea of red overtook them.

Lyrha thought it was very good manners of her to not backhand the board and send the game flying; instead she threw her ale at him.

X'rhun, anticipating this, was well prepared to evade it. "Now now, don't be a poor loser! Twas a perfectly legitimate move on my part."

Hissing, she demanded to see up his sleeves. He refused on the basis of pride and a few stuffy words about the importance of trust between colleagues and lovers, which, though she knew he hadn't cheated, provided her with ample excuse to accuse him of such until their argument devolved into fits of childish laughter. They swayed now instead of struggled, his arm rested gently about her hip, and Lyrha was struck again by how different — everything had become, where X'rhun was involved.

These past moons especially… a kind of routine had set in. An expected comfort, perhaps. Two dozen small things they once hesitated to initiate now came easy, and the adjacent change in her own self felt… safe. She kissed him. Hard.

Pale blue eyes, warm upon beholding her, narrowed after a moment of breath-catching. Something snagged. The faintest of frowns — well concealed, maybe, but she knew him too well. Trust her to let her guard down a moment too soon.

"Take a walk with me, will you?" He suggested, "Tis a beautiful night."

--

High on the starlit cliffs above Ala Gannha, they strolled at an easy pace. Lyrha twisted her tail around X'rhun's as they walked, blinking slow in easy relief when he twined his with reciprocal affection.

After a while of idle chatter, she got the sense he was still working up to something.

Finally he observed, "You know, you neglected to answer my question earlier."

"…Eh?"

"Regarding your opinion on marriage for love." Arms folded behind his back, he squeezed his own fingers.

"You're still thinkin' about it? I assumed ye were only askin' t'keep me distracted."

"Humour me." A tentative smile, "…If you don't mind."

Blinking several times, Lyrha turned her attention to the road ahead of them. "Well… it's not exactly traditional for a Miqo'te." She mused.

"Is that your objection?" He laughed, then smirked, but there was something strained about it that perplexed her. Even moreso when he appended, "…Is it a Nunh you're after, then?"

She snorted. "I'm not lookin' fer either."

X'rhun did not immediately quip back.

Green eyes squinted curiously at him. "What's got ye so fixated on it, anyway? I thought ye t'be jestin' about me stealin' away with another; are ye truly worried I might have eyes fer someone else in that regard?" She raised a single brow, "Really?"

"No, I—" He gave a shaky laugh, "I will confess I do question, sometimes. You are so young, I'lyrha. But tha—"

"Oh no, we'll not be startin' yer gobshite again." She huffed, shouldering forward to intercept him. "I know me own mind, a rúinsearc."

"I'm well aware." He stopped to avoid collision with her, and held up a placating hand. "Even so—"

The sound of his heart hammering twiched her ears. "Even so nothin'. Fuck that, y'hear me?"

"Will you — let me finish, Cielo?" He crossed his arms, leaning back on one foot.

"Not if ye be meanin' t'doubt my commitment to ye." She scowled, reaching up to tug at his forearm with half-unsheathed claws.

"I don't doubt it." He assured, intense stare pinning her down and doing most of the work to convince her of his sincerity. He relaxed his arms with a stiff exhale, and let her bare them. "But pray forgive an old fool his sense of inadequacy, all the same."

"S'long as y'properly make it up to me, later." She scowled theatrically.

"I shall certainly endeavor to." He smiled.

Tugging playfully on his surrendured forearms, her tail flicked. "Really… marriage, though? What lordling makin' eyes at me gave ye that idea?" She struggled to remember any recent diversions who might've given such impression.

"Nay, nothing of the sort." He insisted, stepping forward as she tugged him along.

She waited expectantly for several seconds, only to realize no additional context would be forthcoming.

"So—?", she prompted, frowning.

"Twas only an idle curiosity." He answered. "Think no more of it."

Well, that was a bleeding lie.

With a little growl, she tugged him again, only to find his resistance returned. "Will ye be insultin' me a second time, now? By presumin' me gullible?"

"Lyrha, you made your sentiment clear enough, we needn't discuss it further." He pretended to be interested in the meandering of other late-night travellers on the terraces below.

Her sentiment? But why would her sentiment matter so fuckin' mu— Oh.

Lyrha blinked again. Didn't let go, but leaned back on her feet. "Rhun, are —have ye been proposin' to me?"

"I was—," an exhale, "merely attempting to gather some discreet sense of your openness to the idea, nothing more." He insisted hastily, "You needn't fear an unwanted overture."

If it was him asking, though, that… changed things considerably. Possibly. Struck uncharacteristically speechless, Lyrha's tail gave an irritated sweep as she licked her lip. Finally, she chagrined, "I'd hardly call whatever ye just attempted there discreet."

Despite that she'd certainly managed to miss the more obvious tells.

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off in a sudden burst of impulsiveness, "If — I was open t'such an idea. Speakin' hyperthetically—"

Still stiff, X'rhun's jaw clenched. "Hypothetically?"

"No. Well — yes, maybe that too. Regardless," she waved a hand. "What… makes such a barmy thing different in yer mind from what we've already got?"

X'rhun tilted his head, glancing down at their feet — perhaps hoping the ground might conveniently swallow him up. "Practically speaking? Nothing. I've no wish to constrain you, Cielo, not even if I thought such a thing were possible. I've no need of a dowry." He started to reach for his signet, then seemed to think better of it, and adjusted the edge of his sleeve, instead.

"I think…" He started, "Pfa! Tis a silly, fanciful notion. But — well…" Closing his eyes briefly, he tilted his head, "Pardon my forwardness…"

As if such a thing needed pardon! Especially when asked for! She thought. "Aye, yes, I'll make up me own mind about whether t'be offended, a rúinsearc. Now stop stallin'"

"…You lilt often in your shanties of lasses waiting for their sailors to return and wed them, or leaving their homes altogether in search of wayward husbands. Even the one you sang to me, about the spinning wheel… There is a romanticism to it, is there not? A sort of — promise. I found myself wondering if they were only songs to you, measures by which to pass time… or if the decision to voice them sprang from a particular kind of longing."

Ears flicking, Lyrha stared down at their feet for a moment, too. "So… ye'd been considerin' it on the basis of such bein' my preference?"

"Aye, well. In part."

She looked up again, and found his gaze waiting for her. Despite the fact she'd faced down voidsent queens and blasphemous behemoths, this somehow set her heart racing like few other fears ever had.

X'rhun additionally seemed to have developed a nervous fidget. "Later, you see, it occurred to me that — perhaps they weren't only songs to me. After a while, owing to — who sang them..." He gave a fretful hum. "Tis — a little embarrassing, I must admit."

What did you even say to such a thing?

Yes or No… obviously. But — Lyrha traced the tired lines of his face, worn by years of toil 'neath an unforgiving sun. They made him look older than he was — an expression of the life he'd lived more than the years it took to get here.

He knew all her scars and shames. Knew what she'd cost others, and what she could have cost him, if things had gone differently. And still he spoke to her of marriage!

"Well… that's certainly somethin' to stew on, isn't it." Lyrha chose her words carefully. A bit of wiliness tugged her lip, eyelashes batting, "If it's truly on yer mind all that much — I suppose ye'd have t'ask me properly sometime, an' find out."

(FFxivWrite 2024 - Prompt 25)

[osric-giroux-ffxiv]

Time

Time. 

A concept. A creation. Something he never had enough of when he needed it and always had too much of when he didn’t want it.

A conundrum, a headache, and the thing that seemed to be dragging everything forward whether he wanted it to or not.

Osric scowled at his coffee mug, as he swallowed down the now cold coffee, setting aside the cup with nothing short of disdain. He’d lifted the cup expecting the comfort of a warm drink, and received not even lukewarm, but ice cold coffee - a testament to just how long he’d been sitting and going through letters and flipping through books. It wasn’t the first time he’d let the time get away from him like that. 

With an irritated sigh he pushed away from the table, setting his pen down and closing the book as he moved towards the small kitchen area of the cabin that had been his home for the last several weeks, grabbing the carafe in hopes of salvaging what remained of his morning drink.

The day before he’d lost his hours to time with the twins, as had become his routine the last few weeks - a day focused on research on the local canines, and then a day with his children, doing what he could not to focus on the outside distractions but simply on being present with them - they’d only be this young once…and it currently seemed as thought he was unlikely to have any others.

Osric glanced up, his focus having been on Evran’s sleeping form, settled on the bed beside him - clinging to one of his hands tightly as the little boy slept - and turned his gaze out through one of the windows as lightning flashed outside. The locals had said it was going to storm - normal for this time of year - and they had been correct. Not that Osric minded, a good reason to stay inside and nap with the twins. Evran tugged at his hand as Idalia, who was settled against his chest, made a small noise, shifting for a moment before settling once again. 

He pressed a small kiss to the top of the little girl’s head, rubbing her back gently, making sure she was still asleep before letting his head rest against the headboard. 

They’d changed so much in a few short months. The way they were beginning to pay attention and track movements and sounds, their desire to explore - everything they could  get their little hands on (though it still seemed that they were trying to figure out how their little hands worked) they wanted to gnaw on (stuffed animals, blankets, his hand - nothing was safe from their little mouths…much to his amusement). 

Even the way they looked was a little different it seemed every time he saw them. 

Though that may have been by the nature of how frequently he saw them.

He glanced down, shifting his hand within Evran’s little grasp to rub his knuckles against the boy’s chest lightly. 

It was simply the nature of the arrangement. Time was going to move on, as it always did - and he wasn’t within the same space. He was going to miss things, whether he wanted to or not. But that would have happened even if they had been living under the same roof…or that was what he tried to tell himself.  

As much as he wanted to remain here, like this, he was going to have to return to Ishgard before too much longer.

He could only tread water for so long, and his children deserved more than a father who was simply content with  getting by. 

His attention was once again drawn to the little boy beside him as Evran released his hands, both little arms reaching up over head as he continued to doze happily, blissfully unaware of the storm outside of Osric’s thoughts. With his hand now free, he reached up, setting it gently on Idalia’s back, just as a particularly loud thunderclap outside jarred the little girl awake, causing her to blink owlishly and whimper. 

“You’re alright, baby girl…I’ve got you….” Sleepy bluish-green eyes blinked for a moment before slowly closing again, her head nuzzling against his chest as Osric hummed lowly, his hand gently rubbing her back and the storm continued outside.

Soon…he’d need to leave soon, but for now it seemed that maybe, for once, time was on his side.

A tired exhale left him as he ran his hands over his face before reaching for his freshly refilled coffee - now appreciating the fact that the drink was the appropriate temperature. He’d made the decision that he’d be returning to Ishgard within two weeks' time.  He had the information he needed, he’d made the contacts he needed, and most importantly, he’d spent time with his children.

He could only delay returning and attempting this endeavor of his for so long. He put it off for long enough.

And time, well,…it waited for no one.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #16: Third-rate

Bloody, dirty, and sore, Locke marched across the room and dropped the pouch full of Gelmorran flowers on the counter. Even cut from their roots and taken from their garden, their blue petals pulsed, flashes of scarlet light leaking from the pouch’s opening. “Rough go of things?” Odranne asked, though her face only briefly showed concern. It soon dissipated, replaced by a smile as her eyes fell upon the pouch. “Not so rough you didn’t return with the flowers, it seems. Well done.” “Only just.” Locke dropped into a chair and groaned softly. It was immediate relief for his feet, even if it did nothing for the rest of him. “Don’t think you should send anyone back there though. Whatever you’re doing, make it work just with what I brought back. Dangerous down there.” “What did you find?” She looked back up from the petals, seemingly curious. “An annoying but chivalrous ghost.”

Odranne lifted her eyebrows. “Oh?” “They kept mentioning ‘Her Highness.’ We robbed a dead princess, I think.”

“Long-dead,” Odranne said. “Centuries ago, back when Gelmorra had monarchs and nobles and, well, people. But her garden endures, fortunately.”

“In large part because of her knight, I think. They were more than happy to kill to protect it.” Locke ran his hand through his hair, brushing bangs stiff with sweat and dirt back from his face before rubbing his eye. The headache still throbbed behind it. Experience told him it was there to stay, at least until he got some food in his belly and a good night’s sleep.

“You dispatched this annoying but chivalrous ghost then?” Odranne asked.

“Nah. Not really suited to killing ghosts. Blades and bullets don’t work so good. Fought them to a draw instead.”

A draw was a generous interpretation of their duel, considering the knight had made him look like a third-rate swordsman, but they weren't present to argue that fact. Locke wondered if they had managed to save the garden, but only for a moment, then he shoved that worry to the back of his mind. It wasn’t his problem.

Odranne nodded wordlessly. Was that disappointment there, in the gentle downward turn of her mouth? Or a trick of the light? It was gone when she looked at Locke again.

“Oh, well. You brought back more than enough flowers. With a little luck, this will be all I’ll need. We can call this a success.” Odranne rose from her seat and retrieved a package wrapped in brown paper and a coin purse the size of Locke’s fists held together.

“This,” she said, holding up the parcel before handing it over, “is our friend’s medicine. Do be careful with it.”

Locke wrapped the package up in his cloak and set it at the top of his bag. Barring another woodland incident, it seemed safe enough.

“And this is your pay.” She set the purse on the table; its contents clicked and jingled pleasantly. “You seem accustomed to, ah, shall we say less than ideal conditions? I expect you’ll make it last.”

Locke tilted his head to one side, unsure of what to make of Odranne’s comment, but in the end he decided it didn’t matter. After a quick peek into the coin purse — it was, in fact, real gil — he stowed it away in his bag and stood up.

“Pleasure doing business,” Locke said, though he didn’t think he meant it.

“Likewise. Safe travels, delivery boy.”

Locke nodded and made his way across the workshop. Behind him, he heard the clink of glass bottles and the click of a pestle and mortar as Odranne assembled her equipment. He opened the door and stepped through, leaving her to her work.

He walked through Gridania, head down and eyes forward, avoiding crowds when possible and pushing his way through them when it wasn’t. He briefly entertained the thought of visiting the botanist’s guild and bartering for a bit of wood, but his tools were in the nook he’d found for himself up in Ishgard. Fixing his prosthetic meant heading north again or wasting money on a set of tools in Gridania. Anything of quality would cost him coin he wasn’t willing to spend.

It was Coerthas or rebuild his arm with shoddy equipment.

In the end, he chose neither.

Locke set off southward, back in the direction of the old hermit’s hut. Were he rested, fed, not suffering a clairvoyance-induced headache, still in possession of a functioning left arm, and in the mood to potentially be hunted by a wolf-like thing with too many mouths, he’d have chosen a shortcut through the deeper parts of the forest.

Instead, he did the sensible thing this time and stuck to the road.

Not a bell before nightfall, he found himself approaching a ramshackle little inn. Grimy lamps stood guard over a worn down sign just outside, the name illegible to literate travelers, the little picture above the name eroded by time and weather until it was illegible to Locke. He ventured inside, reserved a bed for a pittance, and purchased a meal of watery vegetable soup with a chunk of stale bread on the side.

By the time he’d dunked his head into a shallow basin, wolfed down his dinner, and passed several ticks listening to two old stablehands argue about chocobo racing, he should have been ready for bed. The previous night had been long, spent delving into Gelmorra’s halls and journeying back to Gridania, and everything ached. He needed, and wanted, rest.

But before he knew it, his feet were carrying him outside and off to the side of the inn. A gentle breeze ghosted across his skin, the light chill a relief against his newest wounds. It was a clear night, perfect for stargazing, though he hardly spared them a glance as he shed his outermost layers and drew his sword.

He had eyes only for the memory of the Gelmorran knight who’d bested him.

[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.

[avirael]

FFxivWrite 2024

Day 27 - Memory

Today they would finally meet the dragon Hraesvelgr. Finally they would see if this long journey had been worth anything. The day where the future of this war, the future of Ishgard and the dragons alike could be decided.

Nonetheless Estinien hadn’t spared A’viloh his daily dragoon training session after their breakfast. The later had been less meagre than before since the moogles had provided them with some food. The sooner was slowly improving too due to Estiniens patient explanations.

Slowly A’viloh began to feel like the Elezen was not just holding back half of his skills and power against him but like they were almost equal opponents instead. A’viloh had certainly not thought this possible after their first training fight, which had been horribly embarrassing for him.

Now, as they lowered their training spears, and caught their breath for a moment, Estinien reached out to him and patted him on the back, with almost the hint of a smile on his face.

“You’re getting really good at this! I am impressed how fast you learned!”

A’viloh was not good at accepting praise like that but it nonetheless made him feel incredibly proud. “Thank you… But that’s only because you are such a good teacher. My old teachers would certainly have disagreed with your opinion…”

“Don’t think I was born the fighter I am today. When I first trained with Alberic, not matter how motivated I was, I was a complete amateur too. I barely could tell the front and back end of a spear apart. Getting good takes time and training. And sometimes a proper motivation…”, Estinien said thoughtfully and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Suddenly A’viloh remembered something the Elezen has said the day before. Estinien most of the time was a quite distant and harsh man. His only motivation some days seemed to be protecting his home and the wrath he felt for the great wyrm Nidhogg. But slowly A’viloh thought he started to understand him.

“Last evening, by the campfire…”, the Miqo’te started hesitantly, uncertainly if it was too intrusive to ask such a question. “…you said Nidhogg killed your family?”

The Elezen turned his face towards A’viloh and for a second he said nothing. Then he slowly nodded. “He did. And I will never forgive him, for as long the memory of this day still haunts me in my sleep… Like I said, I was not always a fighter… When my hometown was burned to ash by Nidhoggs flames I was the only one who survived, because that day I tended our sheep outside of the village. I saw the giant black monstrosity swoop down on my village and I could do nothing to stop it. When I arrived everything was too late already. My home, my parents, my little brother… all gone…”

“I’m sorry to hear this…”, A’viloh said and guiltily looked to the ground for having brought this topic up again.

“Don’t be.”, Estinien disagreed. “It made me who I am today, a fighter, Azure Dragon of Ishgard. What is the life I would have had in Ferndale against that?”

He said this with a firm tone but something in his voice gave A’viloh the impression that the Elezen did not quite believe his own words.

“You know…”, the Miqo’te offered weakly. “My family was murdered too. Not by dragon, but monsters nonetheless. They still scare me to this day but at least for the Amalj’aa I can say, that not all of them are bad…”

Estinien shook his head. “I am not claiming that all dragons are bad - by Halone! I can’t believe I just said that! - But Nidhogg. Nidhogg and his brood are! Everything he has done cannot be forgiven and I will not rest until I have my revenge for what he did…”

“I see…”, A’viloh nodded. “But let me tell you one thing… I took revenge on my families murderers. Twice even. I will not tell you now that this was a mistake I regret or that it will not make you feel better… But I can guarantee you that it will not heal your pain.”

Silently Estinien nodded and turned to return to the others. Then he paused.

“Maybe it will not heal my pain…”, he said. “But at least it will spare many more people the same fate.”

[ofdragonsdeep]

27: Memory

An image or impression of one that is remembered.

A history of collision on the Steps of Faith

Not for the first time, Ar'telan's feet took him out to the Steps of Faith.

The sounds of combat accompanied every step. Steel on scale, the flash of fire from the maw of a dragon. The shouting of the knights. The dying of the knights. The sound of dragons hitting the stones, the life draining from their bodies.

I shouldn't be here.

And yet.

---

The first time he had approached the Steps of Faith, it had been in passing.

They had been cutting a path through the ceaseless snow, he and Alphinaud and Cid. The gates had risen like an ominous sentry from the blizzard, and he had stopped for but a moment to look.

"We haven't the time for sightseeing," Alphinaud muttered, his teeth chattering in the cold. By the cold iron gate, a single elezen in full armour had shot Ar'telan a look that could only be described as venomous, and he had taken them at their unspoken word.

Then, it had been a shadow, barely a moment spent upon it.

---

He walked past familiar faces - for a mercy, none of them dead upon the ground quite yet. With the city behind him, he drew his sword.

The horde had attacked as soon as Nidhogg had flown up from the snow, pouring onto the Steps to secure a way into the city. Barely had they returned from Sohr Khai than the attack did start, and Ar'telan had not had chance to ensure that those he knew were even safe, even alive. Such was the nature of warfare.

In the sky, Nidhogg locked claws with Hraesvelgr. It was a terrifying thing to behold, the power that the Eyes held. That Estinien's body provided enough scaffold, merged wholly with the wyrm's essence as he was, to rebuild him in his entirety. What did it cost him? If they had not risen up against Nidhogg like they had, would he have lived out the rest of Estinien's life as the wyrm? What after?

If the Ascians had never whispered their lies into Tiamat's ears, would Meracydia have answered his death with their own lives? When each body around which the aether grew frail, would another gladly volunteer to take their place?

He would have done. When he had still been home, and even now, he would have done.

---

The second time, it had been purposeful.

It was not part of his duties, assisting the Scions and Revenant's Toll with maintaining their alliance with Ishgard, fragile though it was. Very few things were - he went where he was told, did as he was told, and reported where he was told.

But Lord Haurchefant had seemed keen to show him all those parts of Coerthas which Ishgardian doctrine would allow an outsider to see. Ar'telan had not particularly wanted to go on a whistle-stop tour of all the places they had murdered dragons, but he had no way to rebuke it without whispering heretical secrets in Haurchefant's ear. And he did not trust the Inquisition to know the difference, so he had gone.

"They tell me that the way to the city was more open, once," Haurchefant had remarked. That had surprised him.

"Do the dragons pluck outsiders from the bridge?" he had asked, and tried not to show the bitterness in it.

"Not at all! The entire walkway is warded, as is the city itself," Haurchefant had explained, with that glimmer in his eyes that always accompanied a chance to speak of the good things of Ishgard. There were not many such times, Ar'telan had noticed. "They use the power of the Eye, kept within the chambers of the Vault, as I understand it. All those of the Horde are thus repelled."

"I see." He had resisted the urge to speak of it as a blasphemy. He did not want the people of Ishgard to be subjected to the whims of the frankly vicious dragons he had so far encountered in Coerthas. Even the dragonflies, usually such docile, tiny scalekin, seemed keen to take the head of any passing traveller. Ishgard was not a nation of soldiers, though certainly they were a majority of them. There were children within the city. Innocents, noncombatants. In truth, Ar'telan didn't think that anyone deserved to die, not even the soldiers who drew steel against the tide.

But he wished he knew why.

---

The sound as Nidhogg's teeth tore his brother's wing from his body was a gruesome one, cracking bone and ripping flesh. Ar'telan ran at a sprint to where Hraesvelgr had fallen, terrified that their attempts to stand against one half-alive dragon might claim the life of another.

It was with agony on his face that Hraesvelgr turned to look at him. Agony, but not regret. Across the bridge from them, Nidhogg landed with a crunch of talon on rock.

"Thy strength… is the last… which standeth against him,"Hraesvelgr managed. "So I shall lend thee mine."

Estinien had always held the Eye in his possession like it disgusted him, though the truth had ever been more complex.

The aether of Hraesvelgr's Eye merging with his own felt like coming home. A piece of him, one he understood through some new instinct to be that to which Midgardsormr had bound himself, sung out in answer.

He felt it.

All the rage, all the sorrow, all the agony. Every moment that had driven Nidhogg through that long millenium since Ratatoskr's death, he felt it. The sight of her body, butchered by the tools of man, her soul plucked out and made lunchmeat. The lack of remorse on their faces. The assault on his own flesh as he stood shattered, realising that her song had stopped because she was no longer there to sing it.

The despair that had caught Hraesvelgr when Nidhogg had told him the truth. The Eye he had given to his brother, that his flesh might persist long enough to wrest his own soul back from those who had stolen it. Only not rising to Nidhogg's anguished chorus because Shiva begged clemency.

It was not all of them who killed your sister.

But it would be all of them who answered for it. They would know the same suffering that Nidhogg did - eternal, unceasing, a pain and agony dragged out for so long that none no longer understood why they felt it. Senseless, pointless misery. Over and over and over again.

For a moment, he understood it.

It was the same anger that had fuelled Tiamat, in her despair, to turn to something that could not be turned back from. The feeling that something so hideous, something so callous, something that ripped a hole in the heart that would never heal, had to somehow be answered. That condemning his children to die upon the lances of the villains who had first chosen to stain them with draconic blood was a fair answer - that when they died, it was only proof that the choice was right. But it wasn't. Some small part of Nidhogg still felt it, buried deep beneath the anger and the rage, but he had nothing else left. The part of him that had loved his sister still lived, but the pieces of him that knew her love was ceaseless, boundless - they had withered in the onslaught. Ratatoskr had been failed by so many, and nothing cut more deeply than knowing he numbered among them.

Ar'telan walked past where Hraesvelgr lay, his white feathers staining red. He walked until there was naught between him and Nidhogg but blackened flagstones.

He raised his shield.

---

The third time he had visited the Steps of Faith, it had not been kind.

When the Knights had realised that they did not have enough to weather the Horde's latest assault, they had beseeched Revenant's Toll for help. It had been gruff, and curt, but Ar'telan understood that the act of asking at all meant that they were desperate.

He had not, particularly, wanted to answer. He had called on everyone he knew that might be able to stand against a dragon and live to tell the tale, but he had not offered his own answer. Unfortunately for him, Alphinaud had given it for him, assuming as he often did that Ar'telan would have no complaint with the matter. He had a great deal on his plate, so it had made sense that he hadn't noticed Ar'telan's uncertainty. At least, that was what he'd told himself.

So he had found himself with the van, the only thing standing between the massive seige dragon that the Horde had deployed, and the city itself.

They should not have been able to step onto the bridge at all. The act that they could bespoke an act of treachery, likely from the heretics Ar'telan had been volunteered into dealing with. He had been told the situation was complex, but it still seemed no better than throwing sword and scale against each other until one succumbed, no thought for casualties. The Ishgardians considered the dragons beasts, and killing their young was just eliminating a potential threat. A culling, not a senseless act of slaughter. And the heretics… they were willing to witness collateral, even among their fellow men, if it meant they would stop killing.

Ar'telan had wondered what would happen if one side won.

He had refused to assault the dragons directly. When he was directed to the cannons, he had ignored them. When he was told to man the dragonkiller - a name that made his skin crawl - he had begged Riennaut to go in his stead. He had helped with clearing out the scalekin that accompanied the dragons themselves, and stitched together the wounds of those fortunate enough to escape before the dragon's feet crushed their bones, but he had not hurt the dragon.

Lucia had noticed, and said nothing.

And when they found themselves backed up against Daniffen's Collar itself, naught but that and their own bodies between the Horde and Ishgard, he had asked himself if he was willing to die for that belief. As they set the powder barrels to light, and Vishap screamed in agony, he had asked himself if he would die for it. As Vishap inhaled for one final assault on the wards, he had asked himself if he would die for it.

Haurchefant. The family he spoke of so highly, but never named. Francel, and the memory of his brother, who had given his life against the dragons to see more to safety. The knights at Dragonhead, even those at Whitebrim who had allowed them to set forth into the Stone Vigil. All of them were willing to die for their beliefs.

As was he.

But before it could break that final ward, another dragonkiller lance had rocketed down from the heavens, crashing through Vishap with enough force to sever its neck from its body. Rising from the bloodied mass it created, an extremely grumpy Foulques, lance dripping onto the stone. From the tower where the final dragonkiller stood, Riennaut looking down without any expression on his face.

But he would have died for it.

---

It was not easy for a mortal man to fight a dragon.

Nidhogg was huge. His clawed feet were large enough to crush Ar'telan into paste, if he'd been able to pin him down. Every breath was laced with fire, every action an afterimage of heat.

Ar'telan knew how dragons fought. Even without Hraesvelgr's test, he had grown up around dragons, and he knew them well. He knew the patterns they dived in, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, he knew the way their sharpened claws could be laced with elemental might. He knew to avoid the snapping jaws and lashing tail. He knew it.

But fighting back was difficult when he had to spend so much time evading. He had chosen to take this stand, but every time his sword met Nidhogg's scales he felt the pain that rippled through the great wyrm. And Nidhogg had learned, too, from their initial clash in the Aery - one from which Ar'telan had not anticipated Nidhogg would leave dead, but it had happened all the same. He had witnessed as Ar'telan had begged him to see reason, he had laughed at his futile attempts to struggle against one of the First Brood. And he knew that Ar'telan cared.

So it should not have been a surprise when he shed the dragonskin, and faced Ar'telan as Estinien.

If it had hurt to face the dragon, to lock blades with a friend was almost worse. He had chosen to take this stand, and he had known that he might have no choice but to take Estinien's life in so doing, but seeing him, his skin wyrm-blackened, his every action controlled by the ghost that possessed him, it hurt.

But he had chosen this, so he persisted.

And when the final blow rang out across the Steps of Faith, and Estinien fell to his knees before Ar'telan, both of them fire-singed, both of them wyrm-touched, both of them halfway to dying - Ar'telan wondered who had lost the most.

---

One year hence from that final clash, Ar'telan once more found himself on the Steps of Faith.

The bridge was fit for purpose now, swiftly repaired in the days that had followed that final clash with Nidhogg, to better allow supplies to reach the ailing city. Ar'telan had avoided it, preferring to teleport into the city than walk those snow-dusted cobbles.

But today was different.

He left the city with barely more than a nod to the guard on the gate - everyone in the city knew him now. He walked across the bridge, pausing halfway across to peer over the edge of the stone walls, still somewhat cracked and battered after all this time. The abyss below writhed and seethed with wind, the currents churning at a sickening pace. He imagined the Warriors of Darkness, heros-turned-villains, steeling themselves against the maelstrom to serve Elidibus's ends.

At the time, it had seemed a fitting resting place. One where Nidhogg could lie undisturbed, his Eyes no longer at the whims of mortals. In the cacophony, peace, for one so long denied it. If only they had but known. But how could they have?

It had been a long time now since Ar'telan had held Hraesvelgr's eye within his aether, the gift returned in kind as soon as the battle was done, and Hraesvelgr fit enough to receive it. He felt the echos of it still, even now - it was impossible to fully divest himself of the influence. That persistent sorrow, the mourning for a moment so long ago passed, all those that had been lost - not only Shiva, but Ratatoskr, and Nidhogg twice over. Peace, shattered in a single moment.

Ar'telan knew that Estinien felt it, too. He had not seen him in months, and had not needed to, to know. It was a strange, uncanny thing to share.

He stopped when he reached that final stretch of cobblestone, where he had faced Nidhogg one final time. There had been no body to bury, for the wyrm had died long ago - long before Estinien had fought him in the Aery. He had died with Ratatoskr, and the death throes had strangled a millenium of life thereafter.

Ar'telan knelt down, brushing the fingers of one hand against the stone. He hadn't had much sensation left to feel with when the fight had concluded, that which hadn't been burned in fire quickly numbed in the agony of wresting the aether-rich eyes from Estinien's flesh. Now, it was clean, and cold, no memory of the ash that had stained it or the cracks that had run rampant across the distant. How quickly the stone forgot. It was little comfort to know that Ishgard still remembered.

In his other hand, he carried a small bouquet of Nymeia lilies. It had felt soothing to walk across the bridge without a weapon in hand, but now that he was here, he found he didn't know where they belonged. On the walkway itself, they would soon be trampled beneath the feet of chocobos or the wheels of carts. The rising walls felt wrong, most of them having been demolished by Nidhogg's rampage long before Ar'telan had even arrived on the field.

He got to his feet, and walked over to the edge. Stared down once more into the foggy depths.

As good a grave as any.

He flung the flowers over the edge, watching as they fell until the wind whipped them from his sightline and down into the darkness. An unseen memorial for an unmourned foe. But even if Ishgard would not, could not remember what Nidhogg once had been, Ar'telan would do it for them. Hraesvelgr had shown him. The song had shown him.

He stayed there for for over half a bell, until the sun began to set over the horizon and the chill of the wind had turned his fingers numb. There would never be a grand procession, no service to the gods in memory. Ishgard would hail him as a hero, and think of feasting and merry-making to mark the night.

He had been willing to die for it that day. And though he had walked away, a part of him would always stand upon that bridge, holding half of a Great Wyrm's soul in his hands, and choose to cast it over the edge.

He had been willing to die for it. And he had.