#magnai oronir propaganda

[mosthuggableffxiv]

I see my boy Magnai didn't make it.

It's ok, I'll give him plenty of hugs instead.

I'm sure he'll appreciate it

[thecat-inthehat]

3. Scale

A sequel to this. Content warning for insinuations of child abuse, and canonical Buduga actions. Set approx 8 years before the events of Stormblood.

(2155 words) [Masterpost]

---

Sometimes Daidukul Buduga hated his life. He hated the orders of Kete Khan, he hated the way the sun beat down on him, he hated how his feet ached as he walked into Reunion. He especially hated how everyone, even the Qestir, sneered at him as he walked in. They would not bar him, nor would they start a fight, but the Buduga were not well liked. 

And for good reason. Kete’s raids on the other tribes--capturing boys, men, supplies, and herds for their own--earned them the ire of most of the Steppe. The Dazkar especially hated them with a passion, as their men were considered homemakers and precious. The Qesi, the Horo, the Dataq, the Dotharl… all despised them. The Buduga had earned the ire of the Steppe, and Daidukul wondered how much longer it could last them. 

Based on how the merchants in Reunion looked at him, not long. He only had a few meager supplies for bartering, little and less Doman coin that might be of use, and little physical skill to trade. He needed bandages for one of the new boys, rope for tents, and a whole other assorted list of items. Kete had loathed to let Daidukul go, wanting to keep him close at hand in intimidation, but even he knew that attempting to walk into Reunion would be a death sentence. Reunion might be a place of neutrality, but enough tribes wanted him dead that it would be overlooked. 

And now Daidukul was in Reunion, alone, trying to ignore the daggers being glared at his back while doing some shopping.

“And what do you want?” The Goro merchant asked, glaring at him suspiciously as she petted her husband’s mane. 

“Rope, if you have any. Some of our yurts were destroyed by the spring storm.” Daidukul said, pulling out a sack of fruits gathered from their last raid. “I’m willing to trade a batch of apples for a few yalms…?”

The woman was about to protest, but her husband at her side knickered at the word “apple”, and she sighed. “Yes, yes, my love, I know you want them. Where did you get them?” She asked, her eyes narrowing. 

Daidukul knew better than to lie. But he could imply his discomfort. “Kete ordered a raid on one of the Adarkim septs.” Add a grimace of distaste here, a swish of his tail… Spinning the truth into a way that she could accept and maybe even feel sympathy for him, not unlike how he plied Kete with buttered words to protect himself or the younger brothers. 

The Goro’s lips pursed, and she idly pet her husband’s mane as she considered. “Well. If it was the Adarkim… How much did you need?” 

Dai felt some of the tension drain out of his shoulders, and he smiled gratefully. 

On and on it went, talking to various merchants, trading stories, and being careful with his words. Some still drove up the price regardless, but a few had learned to recognize him and his distinctive hair, and were cautiously willing to let him barter. He had come to Reunion enough times in recent years to be at least somewhat known, despite his green clothes, and a few were treating him fairly. He didn’t see the Ura colors, which was a shame -- Khuril was always more than happy to trade what they needed, among other things. 

Azim was turning in the sky, casting Reunion in a warm golden glow that made his scales feel hot. It wasn’t unwelcome really, as it helped get his mind off of how his feet hurt and loosened some of the muscles around his neck and shoulders. If he could just get what he needed and went home, then maybe he could avoid being pulled for guard duty that night. 

A glint caught his eye, and he couldn’t help but look up, shading his eyes against Azim’s light. An Oronir stood on the top of the overlook, gazing down at Reunion. A strange weapon was strapped to their back, and every so often it gleamed with golden light. 

“... Magnai?” Daidukul murmured, squinting at the figure. He could spot the golden braids, the broad shoulders. That had to be him. The damn brat was going to make him climb the overlook to talk to him, wasn’t he… With a sigh Daidukul headed for the north of the village to start heading up the hill. What in the hells was he even doing here, the Oronir were to the east this time of year, tending to their sheep herds. 

By the time he got to the top, his feet were aching, and a lance of pain was traveling up his left calf. He had to pause to let himself breathe and move his aether around, giving himself a second wind as he attempted to make the ascent. Normally his feet didn’t ache this much, but with the raid only a few days ago, and then working hard on Kete’s orders afterwards… if his feet had just healed properly when he was a boy, this wouldn’t have been such a problem, but of course not. Kete had to make sure none of the new brothers ran away, didn’t he? 

“You,” he groused as a way of greeting, “are a son of a bitch.” 

Magnai turned to face him, and his solemn expression dropped into one of concern. “Daidukul, what-- Damn it, he sent you out again, didn’t he?” 

Daidukul leaned on his knees briefly to catch his breath, and felt the second wind start to push back the pain. A hand touched his shoulder, and a burst of Magnai’s sunbright-aether flooded his senses, and the pain receded even more. He let out a shaky gasp, and felt his knees almost give out from under him in sheer relief. So he just decided to sit down in the grass and let himself rest for a moment. 

Magnai knelt down next to him, his brow furrowed in worry. “It’s nice to see you as well, Daidukul. My apologies, I didn’t realize you were down below.” 

“It’s alright,” Daidukul said, waving off Magnai’s hand. “What are you even doing here, the Oronir aren’t due this way for another several moons.”

The young man let out a sigh and decided to sit as well, dragging a hand over his face. On his back the … weapon? Glinted again, and Daidukul could see what looked like a pulse of aether moving about the stone. It looked vaguely in the shape of an axe, Magnai’s preferred weapon, but what was it? He cast out his senses just a bit, and Magnai’s own aether was nearly eclipsed by how strong the weapon seemed. 

“I went on pilgrimage.” Magnai said, glancing back at the weapon. When he looked back at Daidukul, the gold of his irises seemed to perfectly match the aether that pulsed through the axe. “I found a…” 

Dai waited for him to continue, and when he didn’t, he looked at the weapon again. There was something niggling in the back of his mind again, and Daidukul felt his mouth drop open. 

“You… You found it? The Scale of the Father?” He demanded, staring at it. 

Magnai huffed a small laugh, and ran a hand through his hair and didn’t meet Daidukul’s eyes. The youth was arrogant like all Oronir, but this was the first time Daidukul had seen him be meek. “Aye. I’ve spent over a year searching for it, and Father finally showed me the way.”

Daidukul didn’t ascribe to the Father as much -- the Buduga tended to call themselves Nhaama’s spear, and prayed to Her more often than not. The Oronir, by contrast, were fiercely devout in their worship to the Father, believing themselves to be directly descended from Him. Any conversation with Magnai was always peppered by his beliefs and that confidence that the Sun flowed through his veins -- a confidence that he backed up by his sheer prowess on the battlefield. And now with a sign of the Father’s ironclad favor, surely he should have been strutting around like a preening yol, declaring his superiority for all that would listen. 

Except Magnai seemed… settled. Thoughtful, quieter, and less of a dire need to prove himself. 

“... He really did, didn’t He?” Daidukul asked softly. 

Magnai sat his arms on his knees, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands, and stared at the flowers in the grass before them. He didn’t speak immediately, letting the wind and the sun wash over them as the reality of what exactly he had accomplished crashed over them. What must it be like, Daidukul wondered, to be shown such favor by a Father that loved you, guided you into claiming His personal favor? To be cherished like a beloved son? He was a man of six and twenty, and yet he craved the confidence that this boy of nineteen summers had, he craved the easy acceptance and celebration of his ability. To be loved, unconditionally, by a Father that cared. 

“When I said to you that I would become Khan, I did not think it would be like this,” Magnai said softly, and his golden eyes flickered up at him. “Not with Father’s favor, and His eyes, watching my every move. But… we’ve talked for so long about what changes need to be made, how the Steppe has faltered and run themselves aground. This has to be a sign that we are on the right path.” 

“Magnai, this is--” Daidukul himself off, looking away. Sure, saying all of that was well and good, but… 

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Magnai continued on, relentless. “There are less merchants in Reunion this year, and even less will come next. Tribes have been lost, the winds grow stagnant as the Ironmen occupy the south. They will come for us, sooner rather than later.” 

“I know, but what chance do we actually have?” Daidukul murmured, and ripped up a blade of grass, shredding it anxiously between his fingers. 

“Isn’t this a sign, my friend?” Magnai asked softly, and it struck Daidukul how uncertain his voice sounded. “That we are on the right path? That Father has seen what I planned to do, what you told me of your own tribe, and granted us favor?” 

“Where’s that sunbright confidence, Oronir? Have you suddenly stuck your tail between your legs?” Daidukul asked, eyes narrowing slightly. 

Magnai didn’t meet his eyes, and instead unhooked the axe from its strap on his back and laid it across his knees. He ran his claws over it, and took a breath. “I climbed Skypiercer with naught but my fists and nerve. I found the tomb of Enkhtuyaa Khatun and her love, and read their story. Every time this weapon has been found, it is because change must come to the Oronir tribe, that the Father wishes our course to be corrected. I am not merely a brother to them now, I am the Eldest. I have to--” 

His voice cracked, and he bit his lip. Daidukul reached out and gently laid his hand over Magnai’s, giving it a small squeeze. 

“We have a duty, now, and the weight is heavier than the mountains. We must be what Father wishes, Daidukul. And I … I don’t know if I can do this alone. I can’t do this alone.” 

“You know I don’t worship the Father like you,” Daidukul said softly, running his thumb over the scales on Magnai’s fingers. There were some new there, scarred over from the cuts he must’ve gotten climbing the highest mountain in the Steppe. 

“I know. I have never claimed otherwise,” Magnai said, glancing up at him. “But… we’ve been friends for years now, and He has kept watch over us, even guiding us to meet. Surely that means something.” 

“It does. It does,” he murmured, and took his hand back to drag it through his hair. He let out a sigh, and glanced to the Dawn throne, where his tribe was camping just north of it. “So now I suppose that our plans have to become solid, not just… words on the wind.” 

Magnai nodded slowly, and let out a sigh. “Whatever it is, whatever you need of me, I will help. You believed in me when naught else did, Daidukul.” 

Daidkul inhaled, letting his lungs fill as he took in the scents from the wind and Reunion down below. This was … so much. He had talked with Magnai before about steering the Buduga on a better course, but it had always seemed so impossible, Kete’s reach too far to do anything about it. Every little act of rebellion he had tried seemed to make life worse, or worse for the brothers that were not in Kete’s favor. Maybe he didn’t have the Father’s favor, or even the Mother’s, but … Magnai did. And they would work together. 

“... I need to overthrow Kete.”

[thecat-inthehat]

8. Clamor

Actually Magnai Oronir is a good character and I’m going to make it everyone’s problem! 

----

Magnai sipped at his tea, running his lip along the chip in his favorite mug absently as he watched the horizon. He stood on the edge of the Dawn Throne, foot tapping lightly against the stone bowl, and the wind tugged and pulled at his furs. It was cold, and it made him sip his tea again, to try and preserve some warmth. The clouds overhead were dark and ominous, and he could not see the Sun rise. It had been like this since the Red Moon had fallen. 

He... was worried. 

“Enjoying the morning?” Daidukul asked, walking up beside him and stretching his arms over his head. Despite the cold, he still neglected to wear anything over his chest, baring himself for all the world to see. “The first of the Khans and Khatuns should arrive today. There’s still time to change your mind, you know.” 

“No. It is better this way,” Magnai murmured, still lost in thought. “It needs to be done. The previous Khagan was content to lord over his throne with no regard for those beneath him. He was unfit.” 

Daidukul clicked his tongue, and took Magnai’s cup from him, draining the last of his tea. “Your first year as Khagan, and already the Father decides to test you. I do not envy you, Brother.” 

“You could’ve claimed the oovu,” Magnai groused when he got his empty tea cup back. “I could be at your side, giving you advice and calling you an idiot.” 

“Tsh, that would cause the Steppe to go into an uproar and you know it. The Budugua, kidnappers of every tribe’s boys, sitting on the Throne? It wouldn’t be tolerated.” Despite the light tone, Daidukul’s single eye glared out over the horizon, and his expression was anything but peaceful. “We all have our shadows to work under.”

“... You did the right thing, taking Khan from Kete,” Magnai said softly, and he gave his friend a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. “He would’ve driven the Buduga to ruin in less than ten years time.” 

“I know, I know, I was there. But did I have to lose a bloody eye to do it?” Daidukul sighed. “The Dazkar won’t be so quick to forgive and forget. They regard us as little more than beasts, and rightfully so, for everything that Kete did. They’re far from the only ones, and you invited them into the Dawn Throne.” 

“If they did not have an alliance with the Mol and the Qerel, I would not consider it,” Magnai said, rubbing his temples. “As it stands, that triad is too important to ignore for a meeting such as this.” 

“Well. We’re going to regret this, you realize.” Daidukul chuckled ruefully. “Inviting over twenty different Khans and Khatuns to meet on the new moon to try and forge alliances and preparations for winter? Ah, an axe to the stomach would be easier than this.” 

“You have the right of it,” Magnai said, and squared his shoulders. “Come. Let us see what we can do to help Baatu set up the table.”

----

“This whole thing was your idea, Most Radiant Brother,” Daidukul murmured softly at his side, just barely keeping the mirth from his voice. “I told you that you’d regret this, but no, don’t listen to your best friend...”

Magnai didn’t let his eyes roll, but it was a very near thing. The only sign of the growing and incessant pounding in his temples was a slow blink, and he desperately needed a bracing cup of tea to try and quell this headache. The thunderous clamor of the table only grew as he sat back in his throne, and he steepled his fingers in front of his face to keep from yelling at his fellow Khans and Khatuns. 

Daidukul stood next to his throne, close enough that the two could trade words as the other leaders roared at each other for slights that were summers long past. Currently the Gesi Khan and the Bayaqud Khatun were bickering over hunting grounds divided by the western river, and their “discussion” had boiled over into shouting about decades long raids on one another. 

“Enough.” Magnai’s voice rang out across the table. He added just a touch of aether to his words to make them tremble with power to get the point across. “You are Khatuns and Khans of the Steppe, sons and daughters of Azim and Nhaama, not petty merchants squabbling in Reunion. You will conduct yourselves as such. I have called you here on this new moon to discuss the state of the Steppe, as the previous Khagan was negligent in their duties.” 

“You may have triumphed at the Naadam, but you have not won our respect!” The Khan of the Noykin responded, whose words was met by rumbling approval. “A whelp like you, claiming the oovu! Barely three and twenty summers you’ve seen, and we are supposed to listen to you?”

“Because in you and yours infinite wisdom the glory of the Steppe has fallen, and even the Father is ashamed to show His face upon us.”  Magnai snapped back, setting his shoulders. “After the Red Moon fell, He refused to show himself, and dark clouds have gathered as a sign of His displeasure. Already we have runners from the far off tribes clamoring to tell us that the plains are barren, that herds have been lost. An early winter, and possibly a dzud is in store for us, and you are squabbling over past slights.”

This was a turning point, he knew. To bow to those he had triumphed over, to admit weakness, to scrape and grovel for any scrap of respect the other Khans and Khatuns would give him was not an option. He was young, far younger than any of the other Khagans in the last century. He had not even been Khan of the Oronir before he had claimed the oovu, though he had been making overtures towards the position for some years yet. He had won his title as Khagan just this last spring at the Naadam, battling for three days and nights to claim his position, with his brothers and sisters at his side. 

He would not squander this. 

Father Azim charged the Oronir with protecting the other tribes, to guide them with a firm but gentle hand upon the right path, to correct the errors that stood before them. Arrogant, yes, but there were lives at stake, whole tribes that might vanish if what he feared was coming became true. He knew not what had befallen the fate of Nhaama’s lesser moon, why She had suddenly cast her child out of the sky, but it could only be an ill omen. 

“Arrogant to the last, Oronir, and you bid us listen to your wagging tongue!” The Qerel Khan said, his necklace of bones shaking as he gestured round the table. “A young one like you has little and less place at this table--”

“I have earned my right at this table and this throne because I have bested you all,” Magnai growled. “Or do you wish to combat me again, Baasan Khan, and be hobbling with a splint for two moons once more?” 

The Khan’s eyes narrowed, but he held his peace for the moment. He had not forgotten the way Magnai had thrashed him, evidently. 

Magnai glared at him a moment longer, then turned to the table at large, his voice rising once more. “I have extended the invitation for the Khans and Khatuns to join me on the new moon to discuss the state of the Steppe, not to hear petty bickering. Under normal circumstances, I am glad to help resolve disputes between two disparaging tribes, or help officiate alliances, and rise to the defense of tribes that have none. But now is not the time. 

The Steppe has angered Father and Mother, and they have sent their wrath upon us. I know not the reason, but I will not those under the Sun’s gaze fall to something that can be prevented. You all fall under the shelter of the Oronir, and We are to be your protectors, as children look up to their fathers. We face an unprecedented crisis, and I will not let you lose your tribes because we could not come to a consensus here, at this table.” 

The Khatuns and Khans all stared at him, and more than a few of them were taken aback. Only Temulun Mol Khatun gazed at him steadily, seemingly unsurprised at his words. 

“We’ve no proof the Red Moon falling is an ill omen--” Noykin Khan tried once more. 

“Are you deaf or willfully ignorant?” Magnai demanded harshly. “Or do you not listen when advice is given, and instead are content to wag your tongue about? Tis better to be safe and prepare than to come out of the winter with a thousand thousand dead herd, and children with starving bellies. Even if it was not an ill omen, we are to prepare, and help one another, as Father Azim bid.” 

He shook his head, and set his hand down on the table. “... Now. Tell me of the state of your tribes, and what you will need for the winter. We will get through this together.”

[thecat-inthehat]

24. Beam

make up day! It’s Magnai again. I’ve rp’d this guy for over a year at this point, I might as well show him off. 

---

With a final grunt of effort, Magnai hauled himself over the cliff face and nearly collapsed onto the warm rock beneath him. He very carefully did not look at the three hundred fulm drop that he had just scaled, and instead focused on catching his breath. It was hard to do so at this altitude, as high up into the mountains as he was, but he breathed deep anyways.

The sun warmed him from above, even through the biting chill of the mountain air, and he sent up a small prayer of thanks to the Father for keeping him safe. The climb had not been easy, nor had the beasts welcomed his intrusion into their territory, and more than once he had been forced to defend himself or simply run away. But still he pressed ever on, certain he would succeed in his mission. It might’ve been more apt to call it a pilgrimage, even, given the relic he sought…

He lay there a few moments more, allowing himself to rest just enough to regain some of his strength. He was well versed in exertion and rest, and when he rolled to his feet, his legs only trembled slightly. He pushed forward anyways, intentionally lengthening his stride to stretch out his muscles from the grueling climb, and cast his gaze upwards. The clouds parted once more to show him where to go by letting a single column of sunlight fall down, and it seemed as though it fell atop a cairn. He sent up another thanks to Azim for guiding him, and made for his destination. 

As he walked, he could see smaller cairns piled atop themselves, guiding him further and further inwards. They were old, worn and weathered by what looked like decades of being by themselves, with nothing but the whistling wind and the Mother and Father for company. He touched one as he walked past, brushing off a covering of moss gently, and was surprised to see words carved into the stones. They were Oronir, as well, so he had to be on the right track. 

He went back to the beginning, and began to read the story that was laid out before him, taking care to honor the memory of the cairn makers. 

It told the tale of a fierce Oronir warrior, bright and gleaming as Azim himself. She journeyed far and wide, seeing the breadth of the Steppe, taking her yol to ever dizzying new heights. The warrior had met new people, sung songs in praise, and honored the Father with each victory she claimed. She never aspired to be the khatun of the Oronir, only wishing to be as free and far reaching as the sun Himself, to see the lands that the Father and Mother had made. 

She journeyed until she found her Nhaama, a Borlaaq woman, and fell in love. They were happy for a time, until she attempted to bring her Nhaama back home to her parent’s yurt. There was a fierce feud between the Borlaaq and the Oronir, having raged for several bloody summers. Her parents decreed her a traitor, and would not recognize her beloved as her Nhaama. The warrior became furious and distraught, and left with her lover to join the Borlaaq. 

But the Borlaaq, for all their welcoming of a daughter of the Oronir, were not a home to the warrior. They did not know of the Sun that flowed through her veins, they did not understand the bond they held. It was innocent ignorance, but nonetheless it grated. She longed for her home, for the comfort of her fellow Children of the Sun. She was Oronir, no matter what her parents, or her khan thought. 

So she and her wife journeyed far, seeking the Scale of the Father. A relic that only those of worth that were meant to hold, one of the Dawn Father’s own scales of midnight, glowing with his essence. She would find it and prove her worth by wielding the Divine Light, shepherding the Oronir as their Sun, to guide them away from this pointless feud. 

Here, Magnai arrived at the central formation, and the breath was stolen from his chest. At the center lay a gleaming weapon, the handle turned upright, as if waiting to be used. It looked as if it was made out of polished black stone, and along the entire length were cracks that glowed like sunlight, pulsing steadily under the morning sun. 

He stepped forward, and instantly felt his scales prickle with the sheer amount of aether that surrounded it, and it almost drove him to his knees. The air practically hummed with it, a faint whine that was just on the edge of his hearing. On the dais was more carefully carved letters, and he had to fight to get close enough so he could read it. He traced his fingers over the letters, reading the inscription. 

The Scale of the Father sits here, placed by mine own hand. It waits for a child of the Sun to have need of it, and come claim it. Before it had been entrusted to Monx Khan’s yol, kept alive for many moons by the power that flowed through the Scale, and the beast did not relinquish it’s prize easily. 

To you, seeker of the Scale, I entrust the bounty of our Father. Atop the highest peak I have placed it, to be closer to our Father and Mother, away from any unworthy. Your arrival proves your worth, for your death would be sure if you were not meant to hold it. 

Magnai stared at the inscription, then the Scale, and sank to his knees, the tears starting to leak down his cheeks. He was worthy. He, a boy of yet nineteen, was worthy of the Scale of the Father, of Azim’s Divine Light. His breath hitched, and he couldn’t hold back the sob that wracked his frame as he lay his forehead against the dais. Their most sacred relic, a weapon that had not been seen in Oronir hands in over a hundred and fifty years, and he was decreed worthy of it. 

With it came the terrible weight of what the Scale, of becoming the Most Radiant. No longer would he be just a youth with uncommon skill and tenacity, but a paragon of everything his tribe was supposed to be. A leader, a warrior, and the Eldest Brother. He wasn’t sure if he could bear the responsibility. His mother and father told him that the Scale of the Father only appeared in the hands of the Most Radiant when the tribe was destined for change, and the burden was both great and horrible. They recounted each tale, as far as they could, speaking of Jaliqai Khatun’s migration, Monx Khan’s triumph over the Doman armies, and the peace brokered by Enkhtuyaa Khatun and her wife Nergüi Borlaaq. Each had done great and impossible things, bolstered by the love of the Father, by his guiding hand. And now he stood before it. 

He reached out a trembling hand and wrapped it around the sharp blade, nicking his skin and letting the blood flow along the veins of Light. It pulsed quicker, the light from the inside seeming to shine brighter and brighter as his blood worked its way downwards. He dragged his fingers up, and gripped the haft of the axe, and began to pull. It resisted, having grown fused to the rock around it, and he pulled again, sweat beading at his brow. He struggled with it for minutes on end, and each passing second let doubt worm its way into his heart. What if he wasn’t worthy? What if the finding of the Scale was a fluke, and he was not fit to wield it? Would he die here, unable to leave, shackled by the wards that protected this sacred place? 

No, no, he would not. He would do this, he swore. 

With a roar, he put all of his weight into it, and there was a crack that sounded like a clap of thunder. The stone dais beneath him split into three pieces, and he fell back on his tail with the Scale in his hands. He stared up at the sky in shock, the weight of the weapon on his chest as he tried to catch his breath. The Sun gleamed overhead, and Magnai closed his eyes, sending up a prayer of thanks to his Father. 

When he finally was able to stand, using the weapon for support, he looked to the dais and the crack that had split it open. Light shimmered down into it, and with a jolt he realized it wasn’t an altar, but a tomb. Inside were two skeletons, their heads pressed together, horns interlocked. The dress was old but recognizable, as was their marriage sash that bound their hands together. The last wielder of the Scale lay peacefully with her wife, forever slumbering underneath the protection of the weapon that had granted her the change she had needed. 

Magnai bowed his head, shutting his eyes. “May you rest peacefully, Enkhtuyaa Khatun, Nergüi Borlaaq. May I be worthy of your legacy.” 

He turned, and looked down at the weapon. Enkhtuyaa had been known for her fanciful spear work, a lance as deadly sharp as she had been. But what lay before him was not a lance, but an axe, his own preferred weapon, with the stone of the tomb still clinging to it to make the blade. Divine light still pulsed through every ilm of it, flaring up at his touch, even through the rough parts that he would have to whittle down. But it was his. He was sure of it. 

Magnai lifted the Scale of the Father up, slinging it onto his shoulder, and stared out at the Steppe below him. It was a near cloudless day, the whole world stretched out beneath the mountains, with the endless grass oceans stretching out onto the horizon. He could see specks of herds moving around, or smoke trails of campfires rising up into the air. It … all felt so small, in a way that he wasn’t prepared for. His heart clenched, and he gripped the Scale tighter. He would do as the Father bid, and guide them all. 

He set his sights on the Dawn Throne, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, and nodded. A youth of only nineteen summers he might be, but he knew what he needed to do. 

[thecat-inthehat]

The Dawn Throne goes to those that are worthy, yet worth is more than a mere battlefield. A strong axe arm will carry one far, yet further still do allies and nerve carry thee. Does one bow and cower atop a throne, beg for respect among their peers like a dog for scraps? No.

All of my Magnai Oronir Propaganda is now crossposted to Ao3!

[thecat-inthehat]

Well! This is actually the first year I’ve participated, and I managed to get all of the prompts done, with only 1 being submitted on a make up/free day. I’m still kinda shocked that I actually managed to pull through and do it all, especially with starting work back up again. 

I will eventually be putting most of these up onto my Ao3 account, but for right now this is where they are. 

Stats! Total word count: 30,965 words Total prompts completed: 29 (used a free day to catch up on one prompt) Shortest prompt: 11. Ultracrepidarian (408 words) Longest prompt: 30. Splinter (3,391 words) Average prompt length: ~1,067 words

Things that surprised me: -How much I wrote. I know I’m a wordy motherfucker but damn. Almost 31k? - The amount of WoL AU I wrote. I guess it’s been eating my brain more than I thought.  - I wrote Nive/Y’shtola smut. I wrote 2.5k of it.  -I also wrote predominantly Nive and Emet-Selch interacting. I was expecting to write more of Hel and Arbert, but I guess my brain refuses to write for those two.  - I managed to actually write some stuff for G’raha, getting over my whining about him to crank out content that I didn’t hate. (He is not a character I personally enjoy, so anything for him is quite hard) -

Personal Favorites

8. Clamor -- a Magnai Oronir piece that I wrote out of spite and annoyance, featuring Steppe politics, Daidukul and Magnai friendship, and a look at how the 7th Umbral Calamity affected other parts of the world. 30. Splinter -- An event for the Final Days that I’ve been slowly puzzling out for the entire month, centering around the abdication of the Fourteenth, and what kind of person Daedalus was. I had the bare bones of this about a month after 5.0 dropped, but it wasn’t until 5.3 that most of this solidified.  23. Shuffle -- A look at my personal Astrologian headcanons, as well as an extended chance for the girls to interact on paper instead of my head. Also a chance to look at how Minfilia/Ryne interacts with my girls, instead of the generic options we have in game.  20. Novice -- Xylle is Sidurgu Orl’s reflection on the First and I am not taking criticism at this time. Do I ship her and Granson? Have I made an elaborate backstory for her and plotted out their slow burn? Mind your own business. 

Masterpost

The Daedalus Project (WoL AU)

1. Crux (2.0) | 2. Sway (2.x) | 4. Clinch (2.55) | 21. Foibles (4.0) | 18. Panglossian (5.0) | 9. Lush (5.0) | 23. Shuffle (5.0) | 3. Muster (5.0) | 25. Wish (5.0) | 28. Irenic (5.0) | 17. Fade (5.0) | 11. Ultracrepidarian (5.0) | 7. Nonagenarian (5.1+) | 14. Part (post 5.3)

The Daedalus Project: Anacrusis (pre-sundering era)

10. Avail | 15. Ache | 30. Splinter 

Magnai Oronir Propaganda

8. Clamor | 24. Beam 

Tikhomir Ajuyn 

5. Matter of Fact | 29. Paternal 

Shining Comet

16. Lucubration

Xylle Needs a Drink 

20. Novice | 22. Argy-Bargy

Pre-Dragonsong War 

12. Tooth and Nail 

Modern AU (Hel and Arbert centric)

6. Free day | 13. Free day 

Ironworks Shenanigans

26. When Pigs Fly 

Twinsouled

19. Where the Heart Is