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syrcus · 2 months ago

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FFXIVwrite 2024 Prompt 5: Stamp

Non-WoL OC. Set during Shadowbringers, spoilers for 5.0 story. Either the beginning or middle of the Thancred/Denh ship depending on how hard you squint at it. 1562 words ao3 link

The arrival of the Warrior of Light is rarely a quiet affair. The Rising Stones' main door slams, their voice bounces seemingly without end off the stone walls, amplifying itself. Denh ignores them. After all, she has a job to do, though it may drain and vex her. Whatever business brings Quoye Mhoros to Mor Dhona can remain their own, as far as she's concerned.

She retains her focus with intent, channelling aether from the environment around her, into the pit of her heart, turning it over and allowing it to flow down through her arms and to the hand she holds. Her fingers tingle with the warmth of it, and perhaps a little with inactivity, but over the past weeks this particular aetheric manipulation has become a speciality of hers. How many days has she spent, lately, sitting in this chair immobile, doing naught but preserving the empty husks of the people she loves?

Her gaze glides over her current charge, a knot gathering in her core. Thancred was once one of her closest friends, almost more, and yet. And yet, in recent years she has avoided him, treated him with pointed indifference whenever their paths were forced to cross. She has been cold, she has been immovable, and now that he's gone it shames her.

"Denh!" Even through the thick wooden door of Dawn's Respite, Quoye's distinctive holler is barely muffled. "Anyone seen Denh? Somebody point me at- Oh, is she? Should've known." And with that, the door bursts open, and the Warrior of Light through it. Denh's breath leaves her in a weary sigh. She doesn't look at them, or even otherwise acknowledge them; she keeps her eyes on Thancred, committing his face carefully to memory. Even the most minor change could bode ill for him, in this state. Were his eyes always so sunken? she wonders. Is this a worrying sign, or did I simply fail to notice? Gods, when is the last time I truly looked at him? Nobody had expected this, of course. She could never have been expected to know, all those years she spent angry and hurt, how easily the people she loved could be taken from her. She'd thought she had more time.

Quoye's footsteps echo against the walls, quick and excited, far too upbeat for a room like this. The candle on the dresser by Thancred's cot sputters, flickering in the disturbed air as the Warrior of Light draws to a stop beside her.

"Hi Denh," they chirp, sounding altogether too pleased with themself. Quoye's energy is infuriating at the best of times, even moreso now. She sets Thancred's hand down atop his chest and turns to them.

"What do you want, Quoye." What are her odds, she wonders, of successfully setting them on fire? She'd never let it show, of course, but she's considered the question more and more often of late: Hydaelyn's Blessing may protect them from primal influence, they may have bested some of the world's strongest in combat, but surely a fireball to the face would take down even this vaunted hero? Some hero, anyway. What good have they done for Thancred and Shtola and the twins? Quoye grins impishly back at her and laughs, bright and clear, blissfully unaware of the resentment Denh holds for them. Too bright for a room filled with such stagnant misery.

"I've got something for you," they reply, in quite possibly the most aggravating singsong tone Denh has ever heard, brandishing a sheet of carefully folded paper and wiggling it above her head. "I think you'll like it." She considers snatching it, but Quoye is considerably taller than she is and could easily pull it from arms reach - which, she realises, is likely exactly what they're hoping for. She squares her shoulders and fixes Quoye with a level gaze. She will not embarrass herself for their amusement. They can give her the note or not, it makes little difference.

"Then hand it over and be on your way." She keeps her tone brusque, matter-of-fact, and for added effect extends an open hand. The intent is clear; put it in my hand and get lost. Quoye blinks a couple of times, perhaps surprised she didn't rise to their bait. Her tail flicks with irritation. "Now, Quoye. As you can see, I am busy and I am tired." Hearing herself speak, she sounds tired. More than she'd expected. When is the last time she held a conversation that wasn't just a brief exchange, updating Krile on the vital signs of her closest friends? Quoye visibly deflates, apparently realising, at last, that this is neither the time nor the place for such gleeful behaviour. What thoughts exist in that empty skull? Denh finds herself thinking.

Quoye sighs, looking vaguely ashamed, and places the note on a nearby table. "Sorry. Wasn't thinking, see… Everyone's fine, Denh. I was just talking to 'em all and they're fine, so I didn't…" They speak quickly, rubbing awkwardly at the back of their neck as they do. They look around at the lifeless Scions, their ears a little more lowered than usual. "Anyway. You'll want to read that soonish, I've gotta get back and he didn't say as much but I reckon he was mayhaps hoping for a reply- Not to rush you!" They wince. "Slightly to rush you, 'cause like I say I can't loiter long. I'll be out front. Sorry." And they leave as quickly as they came.

Alone again, or as alone as one can be in a room filled with empty bodies, Denh regrounds herself. She tries to ignore the note on the table, retrains her focus on Thancred; poor Thancred, sickly and grey in the candlelight. She breathes in deep, closes her eyes, drawing the aether back around her ready for use as she has done so many times. It's delicate work, sustaining someone's corporeal form without them inside it, with little margin for error, but in recent weeks it has become as natural to her as breathing. Today, though, when she reopens her eyes, they float unbidden back to that note on the table, and the aether she's so carefully collected fizzles and dissipates. She tries to draw it back, but the unknown hangs in her mind like a bad omen. Quoye hadn't mentioned the sender by name; had she imagined it, or had their gaze lingered on Thancred when they'd said 'he' was hoping for a response? She quickly shakes that thought free. Hope helps nobody, she learned that one young. Hope leads to disappointment, hope lets one down. That settles it. I have to read that hells-damned letter.

"Sorry, Thancred," she says quietly, almost a whisper. "I shan't be away long." She leaves the room in a few determined paces, grabbing the note and stuffing it into her shirt for safekeeping on her way out. She passes Krile in the main foyer, hurriedly asks her to take over aether-sustaining duty for a little while without giving any excuse for her own abandonment of it, and skitters off up the stairs. The dormitory hallway has never felt so long, nor had she ever realised before just how far down it her own room lies. Try as she might to keep it away, by the time she reaches her door a small, irritating hope has settled in her chest. She locks the door behind herself, and only once that's done does she pull the paper from her shirt and really look at it.

It's folded neatly, carefully, though now slightly crumpled. A small drop of wax seals it closed, pressed flat with what looks, from the imprint, to be a one gil coin. She flips it over, and sees her own name handwritten across the front in spindly, vigorous cursive. Her breath catches. That is, without a doubt, Thancred's handwriting. She sinks to the floor, picking free the wax seal absentmindedly. What could possibly be so important for Thancred to write to her from across the void, and send the hero of the realm to deliver it? Perhaps he can offer some insight on his, and the others', condition.

She unfolds the letter.

Denh, Truth be told, I am not wholly sure you will welcome this correspondence. You were, if I recall, not entirely pleased with me when last we spoke. Would you believe me if I were to tell you that it feels like a lifetime ago? In some ways, I suppose it has been. I have had more time to think since my... "collapse" than one may imagine, and it is my - perhaps vain - hope that you might wish to become acquainted with the man I have found myself to be. I am deeply sorry. For all I've had you endure. If you are not averse, I should very much like to hear back! How are things at the Rising Stones? Sincerely, Thancred. p.s. You may wish to employ a wax seal of your own, should you choose to reply. Quoye showed an unnerving degree of interest in the contents of this letter when I asked them to deliver it.

A lone droplet of water lands upon the page as she reads the last line, smudging the ink. Another quickly follows it. She blinks, brings a hand to her eyes, and is almost surprised to find that she's begun to cry.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2024 #fic tag #c: denh #fic: denh #♥ denhcred #the battle i've fought with my internet to get this posted dear god #please forgive all typos and dodgy formatting if present i'll fix it when my internet can stay connected for more than three whole seconds #changing ''day'' out for ''prompt'' bc i am. so behind already lmaoo #it's no longer a daily challenge to me i'm just doing what i can when i can #especially w/ this internet on the fritz like this my god #5.0

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aubreyxd · 9 months ago

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hello in every language

#language #langblr

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pandamothium · 6 years ago

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Take me to a different view Change it All I ever wanna do is Stay here ————————————— A gift for my dear friend @chase-gatsby of our OCs Romilda (mine/left) and Mhoya (chase/right) 💕❤️🧡💛💚💙💜💕 Song lyrics: Underdressed by Verite

#mhoya duskblade #romilda hosni #my oc #and her sweet thing 😏😏#ily chase 😭😭😭#MhoRo for life baebey #ammoonart

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hanseelie · 2 years ago

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huevember day 17 - @syrcus’s Quoye Mhoros 💎

#huevember #huevember 2022 #ffxiv

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utagori · 3 years ago

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中世（ブドウ、帽子、フクロウ）ショナ語

Medieval (grapes, hat, owl)

Medieval (mazambiringa, ngowani, zizi)

mhoro

#kudhirowa #Mufananidzo wemusikana #drawing #イラスト

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magicricket · 3 years ago

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A couple more of my ffxiv catboys :’ ) 1) I’rhys Tia. Using the echo he works as a freelancer/delivery person finding people/objects, he basically functions like a clairvoyant / empath. Also, he has rbf. He is a grumpy boy, don’t touch him. 2) Moren’ra Mhoro. He is an artist who wants to draw all the weird creatures he can find and gets a bit in over his head when he decided to start dabbling in black magic and summoning to sate his curiosity.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ff14 #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy #fantasy #original character #miqote #catboy #my ocs #oc

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eternalparquet · 6 years ago

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Buon giorno mondo... #BuonGiorno #BonJour #GoodMorning #BuenosDias #BomDiaJambo #Gutenmorgen #DzienDobry #DobroJutro #Foguni #MwaShibukeni #NakaSoubasi #Inibara #Kiambote #Mbóte #Lumela #Mhoro #Hujambo #Nangadef #Ekúàárò #Sawubona #SbehelHir #JóReggelt #SawuBona #Molweni #Anisokoma #Habariza #Asubuhi #Günaydın #Ekuowuro #Ohayogozaimasu (presso Eternal Parquet)

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lifesamarize · 2 years ago

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Shona Wörterbuch

Kurzer Einblick unserer gelernten Shona Wörter 😊

Hallo - Mhoro

Guten Morgen - Makadi

Guten Mittag - Masikati

Guten Abend - Maneru

Danke - Maitjebasa

Wie geht’s dir? - Mamukasei?

Gut, wie hast du geschlafen - Tamuka kanamamukao

Ein Bier - Doda doro

Hab einen schönen Tag - Iva nezuva rakanaka

Wie war dein Tag? - Masuerasei

Mir geht’s gut (am morgen) - Damukaa

Uns geht’s gut (am morgen) - Tamukaa

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princeyfinnegan · 4 years ago

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The God and the Philosopher

In the endless desert, the philosopher stood before a tall palm tree. If his calculations were correct, this was the right place to enact the ritual. A sandstorm howled in the distance, as gusts of wind flew across the sands. The philosopher laid his book of knowledge on the ground next to him and began to speak the words that had been whispered to him all those years ago.

“I seek the keeper of all things seen.” He stopped moving for a moment. Nothing had happened. He was confused, yet he could not give up now. He spoke the words again, louder and more articulated this time. And still, nothing happened. So he drew a large breath, and shouted the words as loud as he could, as if he was speaking directly to the gods themselves.

The storm stopped abruptly, and the sand settled to the ground. The sky cleared, and the sun began beating down on the philosopher. The palm tree in front of him creaked and groaned, twisting and turning this way and that, as if controlled by the wind. But there was no wind. Instead, there was silence.

And then the palm tree began to split in half. The bottom of the tree let out a loud cracking sound, causing the philosopher to cover his ears. The split moved up the tree at a slow yet steady pace. Once it had almost reached the top, the splitting ended and the two halves of the tree shot apart from each other, opening like a doorway through which a terribly bright light shone. The philosopher, however, was too intrigued by this new doorway to cover his eyes.

Suddenly, a shadow formed at the gateway and a figure stepped out. This was a being larger than a human, but humanoid in shape. However, there were things about it that struck the philosopher as inhuman. Its skin was a dark turquoise, its eyes were white and covered a strangely large portion of its face, and it had six arms, in each of which was a different book made up of a different material. But the philosopher was paying attention not to that, but to the fact that he had finally done it. He had summoned a god.

“Mhoro, dear mortal,” the god said. It spoke not through its mouth, as it did not have one, nor a nose, but somehow inside of the philosopher’s head.

“M-Mhoro,” the philosopher spoke, stunned at the visage of this deity, “Who… might you be?”

The god laughed. The philosopher would have laughed too, if he wasn’t so confused.

“Mortal, you have no manners in the face of a power as old as I. But, I assure you, you are not the only one. I am Anaishe, deity of sight. And who are you?”

“I am… nothing but a philosopher.”

“Nothing but, but that title is not nothing, dear mortal. So, why have you brought me here?” Anaishe requested.

“Well… for research purposes, I presume. I must tell my family of this!”

“Ah, yes, you do seem to get excited about that. But… is there not something you want me here for? After all, this was your life’s work.”

“How… did you know that?”

“Dear philosopher, I am the god of sight. I see you’ve been building up to this for some time.”

“Ah, yes. Well, there is one thing. I have so many questions, of course, of a deity such as yourself-”

“Say no more. I understand. However, as I am a god, I am quite busy. I begin to lose my power after too long out of the Afterlife. So, I will grant you this opportunity, however briefly. Ask me any three questions, and I will give you the answer, truest I can provide.”

“Oh! Al-Alright then.”

“Whenever you’re ready, dear philosopher.”

“Well…” he took a long time to think before he spoke his first question, “What is the Afterlife?”

“Ah, a good question. The afterlife is separated into pieces by the gods that control it, and only one is seen by those who have died. You move on, of course, it’s not just silence for all eternity, but it’s truly dependent on the way you want to move on. From there, the Afterlife is split into three levels; that of the gods like myself, that of the sojourners, and that of the bound. The gods do their work from the top level, placing souls where they need to be. Those souls are most likely the sojourners, those who chose to leave the Afterlife and move on anew. Whether by reincarnation, by moving into nonexistence, by becoming a distant star, or by other means, my compatriots and I are happy to put it into motion. And then there are the bound, those who choose to remain in the Afterlife and make their own societies of the bound souls. The bottom level of the Afterlife is made up of glorious cities, monuments, and palaces made by the bound, and we give them the choice to go out into the world once again when they want, which is why you may see ghosts but still choose to come back as a butterfly if you wish. And, as we may not have all knowing of this Afterlife, your memories if you return to the world are erased. That is the way of the world.”

“What an intricate system!”

“I assure you, it is, dear philosopher. You may ask me your next question.”

“Alright… What are sins?”

“Ah, of course. Sins are nothing but a common misconception. Literature has been made about them for years, yet they hold nothing. Live your lives as you will, the Afterlife and the gods take all in their time. You may live a life of perfect tranquility and still have your time. You may slaughter villages and still have your time, but the other gods and I may judge you as we may, and deliberate on how this will affect your sojourning. Bringing others to their time is the only reason for our deliberation.”

“That is good, I plan not to bring… bring others to their time.”

“Good, but know that if you lie I will see through you.”

The philosopher paused for a few moments of quiet deliberation. The sand still stayed where it once was in the storm, as if all had frozen and all of this was occurring in just one second.

“I have my final question now,” the philosopher said.

“Good. Speak it, dear philosopher.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why? That is my final question, and all that it holds is inside.”

“I see. All who have come before you to ask me questions have not asked me one as deep and challenging as this one, but I will say all that is within my grasp. Before the universe, before life, came the gods. We were created from nothing but the sheer will to exist in a plane of reality. And, as we are made of nothing else, we cannot die. We cannot live. We cannot do many things that a species as advanced as you could. Of course, the universe did not spring up from nothing as we did. After millenia, we found ourselves lacking purpose. We found this empty plane boring. So we crafted a single speck of life by mixing our practices from those thousands of years ago. And that tiny hope blossomed into a new universe. The stars, the planets, and all life around them are from that single piece of energy. But we made a pact with each other: to never leave this universe, and to respect it and its inhabitants. And so that is where we have stayed.”

“But-”

“Yes, I know, dear philosopher. You have many more questions for me. But I am afraid my time is nearly out. May our paths cross again, dear philosopher. In this life or the next.”

And in that very instant, Anaishe turned swiftly and stepped back behind the lit gateway. There were only a few mere moments before the tree began to put itself together, as if its splitting had just been reversed. It reformed, and the light from its strange doorway extinguished. The philosopher, stunned, revisited the encounter in his mind. He understood the answers to these questions in a way that he never would have expected to. He walked away from the tree to return to his family and tell them of this.

But suddenly, he recognized something happening. His memories of this momentous event had begun to disintegrate inside of his mind, and he knew why. No mortal could remember the Afterlife, or all would be spoiled for the others. He turned back to face the tree as the sandstorm picked back up and began to throw sand all around as it had. In his last moments of remembering, he picked back up his book of wisdom and deeply breathed in, unprepared for whatever would come next.

And so, in the endless desert, the philosopher stood before a tall palm tree.

#short story #questions #is it the future? is it the past? nobody knows...

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