#mentions of emet-selch

[istehlurvz]

 “In another life, I would've really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.”

[burgeaux]

Who’s this guy?

[akirakirxaa]

FFXIVWrite Prompt 11: Surrogate

Rating: G

Word Count: 650

Summary: Stella brings Hades a picture while he's working. [Takes place in the OT4 AU, while Hades and G'raha are still at odds with each other. Note, very rough draft, words did not agree with me tonight.]

[Master Post]

Hades glanced over his notes, head leaned hard into one hand while a quill rested in his other (how long until he replaced every painfully primitive quill in the house with an easier to use pen, he wasn’t sure). He had overheard only a little of Akira’s daughter’s new abilities that were making themselves known, and though his help had been spurned before even asking him — and of course he certainly did not want to help anyway — he couldn’t help but ponder over it. And the more he pondered, the more he wrote, and now his desk was covered in notes he had no way to give Akira without admitting he had overheard. Not just her suggestion that they seek his help, but also the firm dismissal of—

“Up!” He glanced down at the small voice, finding the tiny red-haired frame of Stella, shoving the sketchbook he’d made for her at him to hold, barely waiting for him to grab it before letting go and climbing into his office chair, pushing insistently until she was crammed into it with him. She reached for the sketchbook and, while for anyone else he might grumble…he handed the book back, giving her a little pat on the head between her miqote ears.

For a while, they sat like that, Stella balancing the little book on Hades’ lap as she colored, Hades himself going back to his notes, occasionally glancing at the toddler. He snuck glances at her soul, as if someone would be able to tell if he lingered too long, fascinated at how the color almost precisely matched the ambient aether of the aetherial sea. He was deep into a multi page tangent on what it could mean combined with what other signs he had heard she was exhibiting when she tugged on his sleeve.

“What is it, dear?” Hades’ voice was softer than his usual prickly demeanor; he would never use the term of endearment if he suspected her father to be near, knowing with certainty now that, if the archon had his way, that Hades would have nothing to do with his daughter. But no matter what any of them did, Stella still sought him out with just as much regularity as her father, mother, or Hythlodaeus.

Stella flipped her book around proudly, ears flicking and small nub of a tail doing its best to swish while trapped between the arm of the chair and Hades’ leg. It was a little drawing of five stick figures, one much shorter than the others, three with red hair, one with purple…and one with white. For a moment, Hades was lost in the dozens and dozens of lives he’d lived, little children destined to live chaotic lives and die tragic deaths proudly bringing their ‘father’ their little creations looking for affection.

“Eme!” Stella pointed helpfully at the white-haired stick figure, and it broke Hades out of his reverie.

“No, no, Hades,” he corrected, and she frowned, pointing more forcefully at the figure.

“Eme!”

“Ha-des,” he pronounced slowly. Where had she learned that name? Now her face had a smirk that reminded him all-too much of her father.

“Eme!” she giggled at his frustration, and he let out a groan.

“You might as well give up,” Hades glanced up from his torment to find Hythlodaeus leaning on the frame of the office door. “Once kids decide what they want to call you, there’s no changing it.” Hades slumped forward onto his desk dramatically, and Stella jumped down with her prize, running over to Hythlodaeus and holding the book up to him.

“Oh, how lovely,” he crouched down to see it better. “I bet your mother would like to hang it up. Shall we go show her?” Stella nodded and, with one last smug look at his love, Hythlodaeus led her out of the office before her enthusiasm was the death of Hades.

[krisssssssy]

I finally got to the Shadowbringers expansion which means I can now be fucking weird about Emet-Selch

Another FF villain to imprint on 🙏

Let’s goooo

[fatedroses]

I swear I'm gonna be paranoid for this specific gradient of ourple.

[laspocelliere]

Day Three: Tempest

In the Crystarium, the Warrior of Light dreamt of warmth.

Alone and heartsick, brimming with her secrets and her anger, she closed her eyes and dreamt of warm skin and gentle kisses. In the darkness, she remembered the feeling of curling her fingers around the back of his neck, combing absent and slow through the dark curls at the base of his scalp. She remembered the way his arms wrapped around her waist, strong and certain, pulling her in against his broad chest so that she could better breathe in the clean, familiar smell of him. Cedar, she knew, and salt, and something so unique that she couldn’t give it a name; burrowing her face into the crook of her own arm on the First did nothing but lend itself to frustration. 

She traced out precious memories in her mind, head tossing restlessly on her solitary pillow. The way his warm lips felt following along the delicate shells of her ears. The way his calloused fingers traced down the hollows of her throat, across her collarbones, and settled warm and sure between her breasts. Remembered, feeling flushed and kindled, him feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, his head on her chest as he listened to her heartbeat slow down.

She’d never known warmth until she’d known him, with the sky in his eyes and the gold of the sun on his skin.

Warm and sated with familiar blankets of memory, slowly, she settled. Slowly, her restless bones fell still, remembering that she was alone, but she would never, could never, be separated from him. Not in a way that mattered. 

She knew what it was to hook her leg over his hip beneath the heavy warmth of a dozen quilts, quiet and close, shared breaths and shared body heat keeping them sheltered and secure. Tucked away in secret corners from the rest of the world; neither hero, nor knight. Neither warrior nor commander.

Two souls, bound to one another, entwined. Nothing more.

The Warrior of Light slept alone in her room on the First, a lifetime away from where she wanted, desperately, to be.

Still, she remembered what warmth was. She remembered what it was to breathe again, after a lifetime of ice in her lungs.

In the Tempest, the Ascian dreamt of cold.

The bottom of the sea was a chilly mosaic of cool tones that he was unable to shake, and yet none of them were the shades that haunted him, waking and sleeping and anywhere in between. Anywhere and everywhere, from the moment those unfamiliar eyes had pierced him. From the moment he’d traced her every step backwards through her story, combing through the fragmented secrets of her existence, and trying and failing to make sense of why she needled under his skin so.

He found colour, and ice, and winter sunlight, and he hated them so deeply it turned his blood to slush. The hero and her knight, the greens and blues of their story, their haunting, seemed to swirl aggressively across the mirage walls of phantom Amaurot, a mockery of the water lapping high above.

Stretched out and alone in his watery half-grave, Emet-Selch shut his eyes against the monochrome and dreamt of her hands on him instead, shivering with imagined cold. 

Cold eyes, cold hands, those delicate fingertips of hers pressing into his wrists, his neck, his hollowed cheekbones. Her, cradling his face between her hands, looking at him, actually looking at him, and seeing that he was more, and less, and so much beyond everything she thought she needed.

What he needed.

He imagined tracing one gloved hand down the graceful length of her spine, his borrowed flesh protected against the icy burn of her body. He shuddered with borrowed memory, wondering what it would take to heat her, to warm her to him like clay to an artists’ hands, to make her bend, and melt, and sink into him like a sigh and a promise. He thought about her hair, spilling over her shoulder like liquid, like jewelled light, and thought about twisting it around and around his fingers until he could grip so tightly that she’d never run off again.

Thought of greens; cold and unfeeling, fresh and full of life. Colours he never let himself see anymore, but now were everywhere, erupting through his vision like leaves bursting from their buds in spring. Wrong, and infuriating, and his. His to pluck, his to snap, to break, to bring back and bottle and preserve and cup in his hands like mountain water.

He shivered, and he was freezing, but he refused to wake.

Waking, she was gone again, and he was once more a vessel of nothing but memories and pain.

In the Crystarium, the hero dreamt fretful of light, but remembered the warmth of the sun. Dawn never came, because the light never left, and she shivered under its cold brightness when she woke.

In the Tempest, her enemy dreamt of darkness, and of the hero’s cold eyes. Dawn never came, because he had forged a stolen sky, but he let the molten memory of her slip through his veins, unfurling like ferns in the night.

He smiled, and slept.

[fatalwhims]

Rewatched the pre dying gasp cutscene and it is just SO GOOD. When Ardbert gives the WoL his axe and Who Brings Shadow starts playing...Emet-Selch getting unnerved from seeing a whole ancient (Azem?) due to the WoL's soul joining with Ardbert's... the Exarch appearing and his spell incantation to summon the others (which is made even better by how great his VA is, man that voice)... the arrival of Hades with the Ascian mask and his voice transforming...

Ugh. Incredible.

[sunderedazem]

if i breathe in you my life // can i still pretend you're mine

Series: your boldness stands alone among the wreck (2 WoLs)

Series Authors: @sunderedazem and @azems-familiar

Rating: Explicit Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Category: M/M Major Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply (Some) Minor Tags: Under-negotiated Kink, Biting, Aether-shock Play, Restraints, Fade to Black, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, Foreplay, Bad Decisions, Doomed Relationship

Summary:

Emet-selch acquires a new coat while in the Crystarium, and one hundred years of self-control snaps in an instant. Maybe for these shining moments, they can pretend this will not end in tragedy.

Chapter Start:

They set out for Rak’tika in three days.  It’s a decision G’raha can appreciate - three days is scarcely enough time for them all to regroup following Il Mheg’s restoration and the admittedly humiliating defeat that the Eulmorans had suffered there. But it is enough time, if only barely, and the Eulmorans will have to reconstitute in Eulmore proper prior to setting out for the thickets of Rak’tika. It’s near impassable by airship, after all - and really, he must try not to feel so smug about that. The Scions will have a head start - if only a small one, but with all luck it shall be enough.  And, more importantly - it also gives them some small amount of time to acclimatize themselves to the presence of a personality G’raha knows to be needlessly abrasive, on occasion. Emet-selch is quite the acquired taste, after all. Though- he will admit, Corrain and Lelesu had been less immediately wary of him than had been expected. Between the pair of them, they’ve even gone so far as to seek the enigmatic Ascian out - if only to pester him with questions.  But even more surprisingly - Emet-selch has almost seemed to enjoy the pestering. Or at the least has been remarkably tolerant of it. 

Click for Ao3 Link!

[picaroroboto]

sometimes i think about how its implied that Azem could see the future in some way

[galehowl]

once again too lazy for context, but just know these are originally some pieces from a big storyboard and the point is that Ray is a very smart person and ends up crashing into a tree

[misedejem]

Getting the wind-up philos minion out when replaying shadowbringers feels like bullying lmao. Like, Emet-Selch is right there, spending an entire expansion alluding to the fact that he misses his polycule, and you can just…. Have a little Hyth standing there now while he’s doing it?

At this point the only version of Hythlodaeus he’s seen in 12000 years is the shade he made in his underwater depression city who doesn’t even have the man’s face - maybe because it’s been so long that he no longer recalls what it looked like - and meanwhile you can just buy his chibi likeness off the marketboard whenever you want. You know, if you walking around with Azem’s fragmented soul wasn’t enough to torment him

[meullie]

more gposey stuff definitely not inspired by another kh cutscene nuh uh

[cosmodynes]

departure bay

a gift for @azurillturtle​ brought to you by cancelled flights

prompt: azem passed out on an airport bench with head in hades's lap while hythlodaeus deals with baggage claim

[akirakirxaa]

A Talk

Persephone is uncertain about the future, and finds a friend in an unlikely place. Timeline: Post-Stormblood Rating: G Wordcount: 714 Words Verse: Written in the Stars (Unsundered Azem AU)

My dearest Hades, I don’t know what to make of this ‘ambassador’ from Garlemald. He claims that their Emperor is interested in peace, but having met the man before, I feel skeptical. Gosetsu has returned to us, though with a former enemy in tow. I’ve written about her before, Yotsuyu, but she has no memory of any of the things she did — or that were done to her, for that matter. I’m torn, Hades. Should she be made to suffer when she can’t remember why? Slain for crimes she doesn’t know she committed? Should she be allowed to live when she is the reason so many of these Domans’ loved ones no longer do? While it’s not my decision to make, you know me. I never could stay out of these kinds of affairs. I—

“You seem sad.”

Persephone jolted on the cushion she’d spirited away to a quiet corner, barely managing to avoid blotting the page with the pen she held. She looked up and saw the pale skin and raven hair of the very woman she’d been writing about; far from the icy glare she remembered from Doma castle, Tsuyu’s eyes were wide and childlike, as if she’d never suffered the horrors Persephone had seen for herself in the woman’s past.

“What was that?” Persephone cleared her throat, attempting to look a little more dignified, brushing her auburn hair back out of her face and almost marking her face with the pen in the process.

“You seem sad when you write in that book,” Tsuyu clarified. “What is it?” Persephone looked down at her book, sunset eyes softening in fondness.

“Ah. It’s meant to be a journal, but I’ve been using it to write letters to someone I care deeply for.” Persephone slipped the cushion out from under her, setting it next to her and patting it in invitation. Tsuyu sat, curious eyes looking at the leather bound tome that Persephone tried to close casually, unwilling to share these private thoughts with anyone. Well. With any but one.

“Are they family?” she asked. Persephone ran her hand along the cover.

“Sort of,” she said with a chuckle. “He’s my husband.” Tsuyu’s eyes widened.

“I didn’t know you were married!”

“Yes, well. He’s missing, and, until I find him, it can be…difficult to talk about.”

“What happened?” The question brought back unwelcome flashes of Amaurot burning and buildings crumbling and so many people calling out for help, more than she could ever reach by herself… But she knew Tsuyu didn’t mean it maliciously, so she swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Something terrible happened to my homeland,” Persephone began. “We lost many people and we didn’t agree on how to make things right. And in the chaos, we were separated. I haven’t seen him since. I don’t even know where to look.” She started as Tsuyu grabbed her hands suddenly, clutching tightly as she met Persephone’s melancholy gaze.

“You’ll find him!” she insisted, with a brightness that made Persephone realize the darkness she’d been slipping towards. “You’re brave and strong; if anyone can do it, it’s you! Gosetsu’s told me stories…” Persephone smiled as the woman, looking years younger than in that crumbling castle, went on about what she heard about the ‘Warrior of Light’s exploits, some true and some clearly embellished by her samurai friend.

Before long, Persephone had tucked her journal away and Tsuyu had fetched a plate with really far too many dango to be good for them. Persephone told slightly modified tales of her exploits as Azem, and Tsuyu drank in every word, excitedly reacting with joy or fear or concern as the stories called for.

“Persephone, your life is so exciting!” she exclaimed after a mouthful of the sweet treats.

“Seph.”

“Huh?”

“You can call me Seph,” Persephone reached for another skewer. “It’s what my friends call me.”

“Are we…friends?” Tsuyu seemed to shrink a little, as if the sudden invitation had somewhat frightened her back into her shell.

“If you want to be,” Persephone gave her a smile around her mouthful of food, caring little for how silly she would look, and Tsuyu relaxed again.

Not my decision to make, no, but I never was good at minding my own business. Wouldn’t you agree, Hades?

[birues]

Sacrifices

Characters: Emet-Selch, WoL

Word count: 1.9 k

Summary: Twelve millennia ago, youngest member of Convocation Elidibus decided to sacrifice himself to save his people. Now, the young Oracle of Light decides to sacrifice herself to bring Minfilia back so the world can be saved. Respective Emet-Selch and Azem/WoL conversations on these sacrifices throughout time. And about the sacrifices of their own.

---

World Unsundered

Azem runs. Two legs on the ground one dart to the front followed by another. No aim. For once traveler of the Convocation has no desire nor destination. Would that she could lash out the rage. Would that she could lash out at the improbability of their mad plan. But here they are, hatching on her heart like a dead star. Dying star. Dying…

Themis. Gaia. Themis. Gaia. The tip of the spear swings between them as the Convocation argues, argues, and argues. Eventually, Themis grabs it to stab it into his own heart. Oh, that child. 

And the others. The sacrifice hasn’t been made yet. A council of boundless wisdom and they-

The mask hides, only until the tears reach her chin. Her breath struggles to get out. It won’t be long until he comes for her. The cracks are getting bigger with every argument. Both are too stubborn for their own good. He dresses up madness as duty, she still looks for a way out where all she can see is the bottomless despair engulfing even the sun. Oh, she ran away. Run away into desolation. Into the devastated land that once was a bustling port town and its surroundings. But none can escape the all-seeing eyes of great Emet-Selch. Not with their souls bonded, three of them. 

She shoots a look at the sky that threatens to break out into catastrophe once again. Alas… after everything she owes him at least that much. 

The fond smile that appears on her face begets grief. It took him even less time than she guessed it would take. 

“Here you are.” The anger fueling him has a different hue than the normal. “The world is threatening to break apart and here I am going after a convocation member who throws tantrums like a child and walks away from the meetings.”

“A child?” Ah. Bitterness. The shell splits open. “I didn’t ask you to come. I won’t apologize for leaving. You simply weren’t listening to what I had to say.”

“I tire of these arguments, Azem.” A strong grip on her shoulder and he faces her now. He’s not wearing his mask. Good. One swift move and neither is she anymore. “Do you truly think you’re the only one who cares for the boy? Is your opinion of the rest of the Convocation that low that you think we’re making this decision lightly? That I am making this decision lightly?”

The grip on her shoulder tightens. 

“Look at the sky! Look at it! The world is dying! Who are you to deny the Emissary his agency? His duty?!” 

Her hand finds his. 

“I don’t. I didn’t.” She gazes at the man who’s going to carry the shattered world on his shoulders. So does her composure shatter. “But I refuse to believe there isn’t another way. I cannot-”

Maybe it’s her despair. Maybe it’s his. But the anger ceases as he scoops his dearest friend into his arms. “We’re out of time, my dear.” 

A sob. “He’s too young.”

A sigh.”I know.”

Her words are muffled, pressed into his shoulder that she is. “Does Hythlodaeus know?” 

Novagrandt, the First Shard

Emet-Selch knows how to find the hero. Not that he has to try. Her soul, that unmistakable unique flame, has never been hard for him to follow nor feel, though dimmed that it is. 

Alas, he supposes, Even if he was diminished as the miserable souls inhibiting the broken words it wouldn’t take him long. A desolate place. Just out of sight enough that she wouldn’t stumble upon acquaintances. Just close enough that she would be there when she is needed. Across eons and countless lifetimes… To his dismay, he’s still privy to the traces she’s left in this reincarnation. Insulting. Infuriating. Heartbreaking. 

There she is, his greatest hope sitting under a tree gazing at the night sky she has earned. Lakeland night offers some cool breeze, the last tatters of what passes as summer here. 

“I must admit, I didn’t think it would be you who would storm out like a child who’s throwing a tantrum.” 

It’s after he utters the words he realizes how familiar they are. A small huff, a different voice carries the same pain. “I knew it would be you who would come to annoy me.” 

He shrugs. Oh, the sweet irony. He can say he’s only repaying her but… that would reveal too much of his cards. He’s revealed enough already. Enough that he’s earned that look a few times, the furrowed brows and eyes albeit different, same hue, piercing to his very being. No. This is not her. He needs to remember. 

This is not her.

“Someone needs to knock some sense into you. Since your comrades are busy enough with their insignificant bickering not to notice, I took the liberty.” 

“Oh great Emet-Selch, how would I ever repay you.” She laughs but it’s empty as the void. She turns to her backpack, in the pretense of searching for something—an excuse to gain seconds to gather herself no doubt. 

She settles for the grapes, which end up in his lap. Of course. 

"A villager gave them to me. Wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Somehow I doubt you would say no."

She shoves a couple to her mouth. “For grapes? Never.”

“Maybe you should’ve saved some for that poor child, though I must concede heroic sacrifices hardly work wonders for the apatite.” 

“They don’t.” A sigh. "Regardless of what I think, though, she has made her decision. Who am I to deny her agency?” A grape gets crushed between Emet-Selch’s fingers. Surely he has heard wrong. But the wretched hero continues, reflecting his own words back to him, unwarped by cracks. “Her duty?”

Ah, the crude cruelty. A blade hurts more if it is rustled after all. Not that she is aware of it, this shade. Parroting back the words. 

“Yet, you have made the attempt.”

“That I did. There should be a better course.”

“Maybe that is your problem, hero." Reproach, old and soar, tinges in his being. "Have you ever thought about that?”

“And which problem of mine do you refer to?”

“You, in your nativity, genuinely believe if someone tries hard enough there will always be a better way." Azem. Leaving. Swearing she will find a way. "But most of the time, there simply isn’t. Sometimes you have to make hard choices. You have to make sacrifices.” 

“That’s a bold claim." My my, that hit a nerve.  "That I do not know what sacrifice entails. You do not know me."

“Believe me, my dear, I know more about you than you probably know about yourself." Because he does. He did make an effort to know this particular shard who has brought low so many of their brethren. "Of course, you’re inclined to think what you sacrificed is unparalleled to any-”

“I never said that.”

“Regardless, those sacrifices which you hold so holy have taught you nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

It’s always the same. Almost the same. And for a moment it’s Azem whose hurt soul flinches. Whose head bows down in defeat. “Maybe you’re right.” A broken laugh as if it’s her who carries the burden of twelve millennia. “Maybe I’m destined to fail to save those I hold dear. Everyone has their fatal flaws.”

Emet-Selch looks away. Averting his eyes as he often did in their youth, the only manner of escape he allows himself. A sigh which he does not know how she interprets. He needs to change course before he makes a mistake.

“I for one do not understand your meaningless melancholy over this. As far as I understand, the original Minfilia was one of your closest friends.”

“She was.”

“The gunbreaker’s dilemma, I understand. He has taken care of the child for some time now. But surely your affection for real Minfilia far surpasses whatever affection you hold for a lass you have just met. One would think you would be happy to get your friend back.” 

“And what manner of existence would that be? Let’s say I’ve brought her back despite her wishes. That I sacrificed a child to bring her back. She would be disgusted with her own existence.” She grimaces in sympathy. “She would be miserable.”

But she would be alive. 

“Made peace with her loss, have you?”

“How can I?” Emet-Selch almost raises his brows, such a vehement rebuke… “It was my carelessness that led to the events of the Bloody Banquet."

“Yet it was your beloved mother who claimed her, no?” As she claimed the broken pieces of Azem’s soul. Fury lurches at his stomach. “ Hydaelyn has always excelled on cruel jokes.” 

“It was Minfilia’s choice, Emet-Selch. She offered herself in the hopes of saving the world.” She abruptly halts her words. Uncharacteristically. And he wishes he didn’t recognize the retreat, the way she tucks her words back into her throat when she realizes it will be pointless. 

“Go on, hero, speak your mind.” he spits the word as a poison. “Draw parallels between your friend’s misguided attempt on something she didn’t understand and my brethren’s noble sacrifice. To convince me that– Look! We’re not so different after all!” Go on, insult Hythlodaeus’ memory. “The sacrifice, if I may add, which is the very reason you and your miserable ilk continue to stand on this very star.” 

He expects fear, at least a tiny speckle of shame. But instead, she furrows her brows and bears her gaze on his like dual suns. Ah, there it is again. That look. Someone in the fog, without a compass, desperately trying to find their way. Azem’s crystal burns in his pocket. It would be easy, so easy to get her back, even if she’s— wrong. So very wrong.

Alas, she hasn’t earned that yet. 

“You’ve lost someone very dear to you, haven’t you?” A pause, and her face crumbles. “To your god?”

Hythlodaeus' sad smile as he walks away flashes in his mind. She had learned of it way too late. By his request. Not even having an opportunity to say goodbye. What was it that Hythlodaeus said? “In matters of sentimentality, she is even worse than you.” 

Yet here she is. With half a soul and no memory.

“How very astute of you, hero. Yes, everyone I ever loved either sacrificed themselves to Zodiark or got splintered to pieces by your mother.” Like you. “There really isn’t a third option now, is there?” 

She ponders her words as the silence stretches. Oh, an argument builds in her chest and the defiant twist of her mouth reminds him too much of Azem during the Final Days, it hurts.

Her words, however, are worse. 

“And what makes you think that the people you labor so hard to bring back would be okay with the blood you spilled for this endeavor?” 

Emet-Selch breaths in. Reins in the wrath threatening to explode.  Breaths out. And gets up to leave. That’s enough masochism for a day.  “You’re once again under the illusion that you’re truly alive.”

“If you succeed,” she calls out. He stops in his tracks before stepping into the portal. “If you succeed and a version of me ever finds herself in your paradise, know that I will not be okay with it.”

“If you ever find yourself in my paradise, I assure you, you shall not remember any of it. No matter how fiery your oaths of remembrance are, they will be washed clean by your rebirth. Such is the law of the underworld.” And as he looks at her over his shoulder, he pities her, truly. “Do not take it personally.” 

As Hades finally steps into the shadows, he pretends not to hear her final words. 

“I may not. But you, Emet-Selch, will remember.”

He does not need her to remind him of his burden. 

[reassambled-dragoon]

6: Halcyon

Please allow me to encourage you to listen to this as you read.

   “So you do still visit.”

   Storm jumped slightly, the familiar voice pulling her out of old memories. For awhile, the years fell away, and the burnt rubble and ruin became the ghosts of a thriving, healthy, well-cared-for village. Hellsguard and Highlander once again populated the streets and walkways, waving cheerfully to passing neighbors. It was sunny and hot, with a perfectly cool breeze that kept the summer day from being oppressive.

   She stood in front of her childhood home, looking towards the man who had hailed her. Ghosts still filled her mind and the streets, and her breath caught. Standing just out of reach, an achingly-familiar, wry smile on his lips, was a tall, golden-eyed, white-haired man in black robes. She blinked, and he was replaced with a brown-haired, tired Garlean, shoulders stooped from millennia of despair and destruction. Storm shook her head slightly, then peered at a twenty-year-old, blue-eyed, white-haired Miqo’te, standing proudly in brilliant crimson clothing that bore metalwork made by her hand, with a rapier and focus to match.

   “...Storm? Old friend, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

   The concerned words and gentle touch to her face dispelled the illusion, the halcyon day collapsing into dust that still smelled of the fuel her people had used to burn Riversong to the ground. She blinked tears away, then dredged up a smile for X’rhun. Storm raised a hand to gently keep that touch, turning her face slightly to kiss the black-gloved palm. “This place is full of them, Rhun.”