#portentous

[howifeltabouthim]

If you asked me today if there was a single action, one event, that might have changed the course of what followed, I will unfailingly point to this: the day you broke into that Kazivar House and let curiosity bid you stay, when a wiser man would have fled. But you did not, and so I call this the beginning.

Jenn Lyons, from The Ruin of Kings

[driftward]

Title: FFXIV Write 2023 - 15. Portentous Characters: Thancred Waters, Y'shtola Rhul, Yda Hext Rating: Teen Summary: Thancred has trouble with language. And maybe a few other things. Pre-1.0 Notes: The idea of Y’shtola helping young Thancred with the more formal language of Sharlayan is one I am borrowing from @autumnslance

Thancred arrived at the Last Stand with an exaggerated sigh, falling, more than sitting into his seat, letting his arms almost flail with the motion as he did so. He smiled faintly as Yda giggled in response.

“And how is young Master Waters finding Sharlayan today, then?” she asked.

“Brain-picklin’ ‘orrid, Yda, I don’ know how you tolerate it,” he said, dramatically flopping back in his chair and holding his arm across his forehead. Yda laughed some more.

“Cor, you put on a convincing mummery of being the queen of drama when you put your mind to it. Thinking about changing your study focus, then? I suspect espionage requires some talent to put on a show, but to see you lay it on so thick, well! I think you might’ve missed a calling to a traveller’s troupe.”

“My life is just SO 'ARD, Yda,” he exclaimed, and she continued laughing in response. “My new master’s a real - wait. Hang on.” He sat up suddenly, looking around, paranoid. “Is this one of 'is tests? You have to tell me. Is he going to come out and get my bottle?”

Yda, still amused, just shook her head at him, and he relaxed back into his chair. “…an’ Y'shtola’s provin’ to be a real taskmaster as well.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. How many words does a body need, anyroad? In Limsa, we don’ spend Gil on words what don’t need it, but she’ll spend a 'unnert Gil on a two-Gil word an’ call it bein’ precise. Precise, sure. Precisely a pain.”

“Well, I think you’re doing great. You don’t clip your words nearly so much as you used to. You did let a bottle slip a moment ago though.”

“Nah that was on purpose. Still. She’s not 'alf as bad as Papalymo, but still she can be fussy. Sit up straight, chin up, speak from th’ chest, tack back-”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“-and did I mention all the words? Sure we’ve got some jingo back home, but here - like prodigious. Big word, I thought you just used it for big things, like look at that Roegadyn, he’s got a prodigious -”

“Thancred!” said Yda, before letting out a peal of laughter.

“But apparently it means 'eliciting amazement’, so you could also say the same if 'is member were tiny, right? Or like right now, my face when I’m learnin’ all these words. I apparently should be chagrined. Which if you’d asked me last sennight, I’d thought chagrin was one o’ the Bismarck’s fancier dishes.”

Yda continued to laugh heartily as he went on, before she seemed to finally get herself under control and watch him keenly. He quickly sat up a little straighter.

“Ah, but, of course, I am learning. It is taking some time, and perhaps a bit of difficulty, but with such an excellent teacher, of course, I think there may be, shall we say, 'hope for me yet’. I may yet learn to put many such important words to use, such as, ah, defenestration, lugubrious, feckless, and so on. With enough work, perhaps I too could sound as appropriately portentous as any proper Sharlayan.” He leaned back in his chair, to look up into the faintly annoyed expression on Y'shtola’s face. “Why hello Y'shtola.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared down at him for a moment before reaching out to flick him soundly on the forehead. “You are using a less common definition for that word, but I suppose I shall accept it. Your attempts at flattery are hereby noted and ignored.”

Thancred just rubbed his head as she walked over to one of the empty seats and sat down primly with her lunch, while Yda fell back into giggling.

[tricksterfiction]

Prompt #15 Portentous

Handmade Heaven - MARINA

It was mid afternoon, Sen stood hesitating on the door way to her mentor's home. Her hand hovered over the handle, she knew she didn't have to knock to enter. She wore a comfortable loose sleeved green shirt, with a grey skirt, her redwood cane strapped to her back.

Sen had been practically hiding away at Gaelicat's Rest, the quiet inn halls were often hers alone to relax in. She felt safe from outside forces.

Now she had been dreading this talk for what felt like ages now, she had made the decision, clutched in her other hand was her military commendations letter - it was in of itself portentous of her future, what awaited her. Success in misery.

But... she made a promise to her... girlfriends...?

Gods, no - she shook her head, kissing and scheming with Giovanna over the mysteries of Avielun didn't count. Then offering herself to being used as a scratching post by said mystery didn't count either.

Was this really the right choice? Was quitting her career actually going to be worth it? Or would she be signing herself up for more confusion, forcing herself into an even more vulnerable position?

Her hand lowered, then leaned her forehead against the grains of wood.

Resolve had left her, she turned on her heel meaning to retreat to recoup her nerve elsewhere. The door opened as she was half way down the path and was called by Madame Dubois, "I was waiting for you to come in and now you are going to leave?"

Shit...! Sen thought scrunching up her shoulders, looking very much like she was caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Heyyyy." She drew out, "I was uh- going to go... uh-" She looked over the the moogle box, "Fetch your mail." Opening the box she felt around to find it completely empty, then slowly closed it.

The wizened Elezen frowned in a perfectly disappointed way, "You clearly have something to talk to me about, mayhaps why you have been avoiding me outright?"

"I-I haven't been avoiding you Madame, it was for your safety-"

Madame Dubois threw her eyebrow up, then whistling sharply a block of earth shot up under Sen to forcibly scoot her back toward the house followed by a very insistent breeze blowing her further.

Sen was in the house now, removing her boots, surrendering to her fate.

Madame Dubois was ahead of her, leading the raen out to the beautifully kept garden. Their beautifully kept garden, her hand passing over some poppies. They sat down at stone table and chairs, birds were enjoy the bird bath chirping to the chorus of buzzing bees working diligently. There was a pitcher of water set aside, Sen automatically poured them both a glass.

"Madame, I-" She began, then slide the letter across the table.

"Is this...?" She asked, knowingly. "Your last commendations?"

Sen nodded, she wasn't smiling with pride nor elation.

Madame Dubois reigned in her brief excitement at the absence of Sen's.

Then Sen without another second thought she spilled her guts.

To Madame Dubois' credit she remained silent while she listened to her apprentice. Sen clutched at her heart, her voice dipped in volume, it shook at times as the truth came spilling out. The years of discontent, her career did not matter, nor did the plans for real change within Gridania matter. Ambition had all but left her a husk of indecision, doubt. Quietly, the quietest she had been yet to imply that included abandoning the art of conjury in favour of something better.

The writing had been on the walls. It wasn't simply a funk, no amount of time would quiet this exceptionally loud knock at her door for change. Ultimately, she expressed how she saw it all as bars to her cage, she tapped the commendation letter.

The silence stretched between them. Sen tentatively watched her mentor for her reaction interrupting it with a, "I'm sorry I know you must be feeling-"

"Betrayed to the highest order?" Madame Dubois supplemented venomously.

Sen sucked back in her words, bracing herself now.

The elezen stood not only as symbol but a tower over tradition. Sen quailed under her shadow, not moving.

"You-" Rage was boiling, years of frustration, hopes - dreams all turning to ash. Sen saw her jaw work and grinding away enamel. "Would... Throw it all away?"

Sen swallowed hard, then she pinched her shoulders back - her resolve coming back to her, "Yes."

All seven hells broke at that, unlike ever before did Sen experience real rage from her mentor. The short snaps, the huffy frustrations, the yelling over her tantrums, it all paled in comparison to what Madame Dubois unleashed now.

Once she was screamed at to get out of her sight, Sen didn't run to the elezen's surprise. Sen had reached the door, then turned to look her in the eye, tears we were welling over - strong as she was to stand her ground she wasn't immune to feeling like shit while it happened, "I pray Althyk keep you, you'll need his strength to carry you through these changes as much as I have."

Madame Dubois was suddenly speechless.

Sen left, quietly shutting the door behind her.

[chocoblep]

#15: Curry

“You have to try the Hamsa curry,” Asana had said, leading him into a large, airy eatery named Mehryde’s Meyhane. She and Rhyle had just arrived in Radz-at-Han, and as they’d walked through the city they’d discussed what they would be doing–speaking with the alchemists and researchers here and at an outlying village called the Great Work. It was a possible lead as to the viability of getting him home where he belonged, though he was doubtful that this place would yield results. After all, it was better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed on most occasions.

The golden-scaled Raen sat with him at one of the smaller tables and, when the server came around, ordered two servings of the curry he’d agreed to try. They’d chatted, him asking her questions about this very colorful place, and her asking some of her own about his home. They were not particularly well-acquainted, but he felt somewhat safe with her. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of this establishment, and occasionally the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as someone passed too close to where they sat. Every time, his fingers itched toward his quarterstaff, which sat leaning against the table.

When the food came, he thanked the server, who shot him a dubious look that felt almost ominous. He turned his baffled expression on the plate in front of him, wondering what this meal had in store for him, and then on Asana, who had already dug in and was contentedly eating. She flushed happily, gesturing to his plate. 

“Try it!” she urged, food tucked in her cheek that she didn’t chew until after she’d spoken.

He picked up his spoon, flaring his nostrils to catch its scent. It was fragrant, but the scents he caught were foreign to him. Appetizing, but foreign. There was a sense of warmth radiating from the dish; so much so that when he lifted the first spoonful to his mouth, he blew on it before he took that first bite.

Rhyle nearly choked, spitting the bite back onto the spoon. His entire mouth burned. When he swallowed his own saliva his throat burned, and the air that entered his lips when he opened them to speak made everything even worse. Immediately he reached for his water, chugging a quarter of the glass, but even that didn’t relieve much.

“You okay?” Asana asked, blinking over at him with an innocent expression on her face as she chewed.

“It burns,” he managed, huffing out a hot breath in an attempt to ventilate his mouth. “Is it poisoned!?”

“No, it’s got some spice in it, but not poison.”

“Spice?” Rhyle questioned, and then Asana laughed.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, putting her spoon down, “You’ve never had spicy food before, have you?” She looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

Rhyle was not amused, and stared at her with a deadpan look on his face to prove it.

“Goodness, I thought you were strong and could handle it,” she commented, and Rhyle’s eyes narrowed.

He was strong. He could handle the burning food. He’d just been surprised by it, that was all. Determined, he picked up his spoon again and took another bite. That burning sensation was back, but this time he chewed and swallowed.

The rest of the meal passed with Asana enjoying her food immensely and Rhyle eating mechanically, determined to defeat the burning curry. Asana explained a bit of the city to him and he listened, even if his eyes were a little mistier than normal and sweat beaded on his brow. The server, who caught a glimpse of him, swept in with a glass of milk and murmured, “on the house,” before leaving again, and Rhyle just stared at it.

“Milk helps,” Asana said, gesturing to the glass. He grabbed it, took an experimental drink, and arched his brows in surprise.

“Oh.”

“Better?”

“Yes.” Now he could identify a pleasant aftertaste on his tongue, much more unusual than anything he’d tasted, but not in a bad way. “And I have defeated the food.”

Asana did laugh at that. “Well, from where I was sitting, it looked like the food nearly defeated you in the process! I will tell them to go easy on the spices next time.”

Rhyle said nothing. To thank her for her insight would be to concede defeat, but to protest would be to invite it. No, he had to do this on his own and show that he was strong. When they left Mehryde’s Meyhane behind, Rhyle was filled with a new determination.

I will defeat all of the burning foods. Asana will know my strength.

[kootiepatra]

#FFxivWrite2023 - Day 15: Portentous

The waiting was the hardest part.

Back and forth across the tile floor he paced, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed in concentration. The hourglass on the display stand taunted him. It felt as if an eternity passed between each falling grain of sand. He was half-tempted to throw it across the room—but no. He still needed it.

How irritating.

With a groan of impatient frustration, he went over his notes for the umpteenth time, mentally rehearsing every step he had taken in sequence. Was he sure he had done everything? Had he triple-checked? Quadruple-checked?

Many moons of painstaking research had brought him to this point. It had taken him to libraries, universities, and to the very best experts he could find. It had produced trial after error after trial after near-success. Yet his goal forever eluded him.

He could not tell which drove him more mad: the attempts that had been abject failures, or the ones that had fallen just shy of success.

Could his life’s work at long last be within reach? 

No, he dare not even think it. It would not do to tempt fate this late in the process.

In the adjacent room, his colleagues were gathering. Workplace gossip spread here with a speed so dizzying it could make lightning envious. And thus no few peers were milling about, casually “just happening” to linger in the facility where they had most definitely not been invited. 

He had driven them out of his laboratory once already. Not that he could blame them for wanting to bear witness to history; but the history would only be made if they made way and let him work. 

Assuming he had perfected the formula, of course.

He stalked back over to the hourglass. It was close now. So very close. It took every fiber of his being to muster the self control not to touch it before the appointed time. But soon… just a few grains of sand more… and NOW.

His gloves were already on in readiness, so he whisked the cauldron off the fire and carefully withdrew its contents. He took a deep breath. Gently. For the love of everything good on this star and on all its reflections, don’t drop it.

Was it right? Had it worked? He examined his creation closely, scarcely daring to breathe. It looked right, anyway…

The assembled crew of his peers were quietly mumbling amongst themselves, but snapped to attention when his voice rang out over the din: “I THINK THIS IS IT!”

A collective gasp. A spontaneous half-circle as they crowded around—but not through—the door.

They parted like windswept wheat before him as he made his way through their midst. All eyes were on him as he carefully, reverently, set his miracle down on the table before them.

“Friends… colleagues. It is done.” His words were solemn and portentous. They all breathlessly awaited his conclusion.

“We have done it. No, actually, being honest, I have done it. But I could not have done it without you… probably. Although I have been quite motivated, I must say. Ahem.

“But fellow associates, I present to you…”

You could have cut the tension in the air with a knife—or perhaps in this case, with a spoon.

“THE MOST PERFECT PUDDING ETHEIRYS HAS EVER SEEN!!”

The crowd of loporrits raised a cheer—and also their spoons, head aloft in the air—at Puddingway’s long-awaited breakthrough. 

Gleefully, they descended in a swarm to peer-review his results.

[somethingsbeenthinking]

time is slipping away, being pulled out from beneath my feet and leaving me tumbling clumsily into my own bleak future

[s-lycopersicum]

Character class: Cute Girl

[contac]

[jaypgartifacts]

made up a guy

[howifeltabouthim]

. . . the hope that all of us are travelling through concentric rings of knowledge towards some greater truth. And beneath that hope, the biggest lie: that things are getting better. Portentousness is only retrospective.

Chris Kraus, from I Love Dick

[theminecraftbee]

There are several things Martyn realizes, all at once, when he opens his eyes:

He is dreaming.

It's one of those in-between dreams, the ones that aren't quite dreams.

He is sitting at a green felted table. It is sitting on a stage. The lighting is dim, and no one is watching, but out of the corner of his eye he can see the stagehands dressed in black, waiting.

He is not the only one sitting at the table. There is a Watcher, draped in purple. There is a Listener, draped in yellow. There is someone he recognizes in a red sweater. There is someone he thinks he should recognize, but can't quite, shuffling a deck of cards.

"Right. What's all this, then," he mutters.

We are playing blackjack, the Listener says.

We are deciding the rules, the Watcher says.

"It's not like we have anything better to do. Honestly, I'm glad you're here. Do you know how boring these guys are?" Grian says, and Martyn decides to quietly file Grian away as a dream-Grian, as opposed to real-life-Grian, so he doesn't go insane and/or stab him when he wakes up. He waits for the almost-familiar dealer to say something. He does not. After another few moments of awkward nonsense dream-silence, Martyn sighs and leans forward on the table.

"Sure, this might as well be happening," Martyn says. "Deal me in. How's the betting work, again?"

"You put your bet on the table. If you beat the dealer, you get to add it to the game," Grian explains. "If you don't beat the dealer, it takes it."

"Yeah, but like, that's abstract, isn't it? What does that mean, exactly, me losing what I bet if I don't beat the dealer," Martyn says.

Grian shrugs. "Don't ask me. To be honest, I'm hardly the storyteller you are."

"Me? Why are you acting like I have any control over these things when you're--"

Are you ready to play?

Martyn shuts up, looks at the Listener, and sighs. "Yeah, sure, I'm ready to play. Why not."

The dealer looks to its left. Grian sighs. "Why are you making me bet first. Again. We should rotate where we're sitting--fine, fine, I know it's an advantage because I'm the worst at this. Uh. Hm. No trading or giving away lives again. Not even as time or something. It makes the dynamics all weird, and I think we could use a nice straightforward death game next time."

(Martyn wants to roll his eyes. Nice and straightforward. Sure.)

The Watcher goes next. I would like there to be deep and wonderful bonds between the players. I would like those bonds to seem unbreakable.

"Coming from you, that's ominous," Martyn says.

Can I not just miss the alliances of the early days? the Watcher says.

"Never left the desert," Grian says, rolls his eyes, and looks at Martyn in commiseration. Martyn just stares back. So sue him, he's a bit more worried about this whole concept than an eye roll and a pithy phrase. Things Watchers want are rarely good.

When the bonds are enforced, they're less interesting, complains the Listener.

Martyn looks over sharply. Hey, wait, he thought--

I didn't say they had to be enforced by rule. I said they had to be deep. Encouraged, as opposed to discouraged.

Just saying. You'll never recapture Third Life.

Martyn swallows. His throat is dry. Weren't the Listeners supposed to be the good guys, here?

Besides, what I want is for each death to be meaningful again. They've felt too meaningless, lately, the Listener continues.

Martyn thinks the dealer raises an eyebrow, but it strikes him he's not exactly sure. Grian snorts. "Meaningful deaths. That's rich for you to say. I mean, I guess they're meaningful sometimes? I don't know, Martyn's the one who understands dramatic sacrifices, I just like killing things."

"Why do you keep on looking at me when you say those things," Martyn says.

"Look, you wouldn't be here if you weren't helping write," Grian says.

"What?" Martyn says.

We're here to play our cards for the story, the Watcher says. Aren't you also one of the authors?

"Me? What? No, I'm--what are you talking about," Martyn says.

Oh, well. I also hope your meaningful deaths make it in, the Watcher says the Listener.

Thanks, even if I disagree on the bonds, the Listener says.

"They hardly ever talk about real, concrete rules they want," complains Grian. "It's easier to understand the consequence if they bring up actual rules. Like boogeyman or no boogeyman."

"We're all just betting on cards!" Martyn says, throwing his hands up. "You're giving me a headache!"

It's your bet.

"Fine!" Martyn says. "Fine! You know what? Screw all of you. I hope this is the last one. I hope we never have to go back to that stupid death game. I hope it's miserable to watch or to listen to or to play and everyone just gives up. How's that for a bet?"

You're no fun.

Is that what you really want?

"Suit yourself," Grian says. "Honestly, if I still had that to bet, I guess I probably would."

"What do you mean, if you still had that to bet?"

"Well, I mean, that's not how blackjack works, is it? I don't just get back my in when I play it."

The dealer nods, and then silently, with a long bony hand, deals the cards.

Grian is dealt the four of diamonds. The Watcher is dealt the nine of spades. The Listener is dealt the five of clubs. Martyn is dealt a jack of spades. The dealer deals itself a seven of hearts. The dealer deals Grian a six of clubs--

"Hey, isn't that supposed to be face-down?" Martyn asks.

"Not here," Grian explains. "They're all face up so we can't touch the cards. So we don't have to. So we can't cheat."

"Who said anything about cheating?" Martyn says.

"Please," Grian says.

The dealer makes a hand motion. Martyn, grumpily, falls silent. He supposes they're playing by casino rules, then. He hasn't been in a casino since--he wouldn't know. Hard to remember anything that isn't this, isn't it? Isn't killing and dying and things out of his control and things very much in his control and, apparently, bizarre dream sequences designed to make him want to strangle Grian.

Anyway. Grian is dealt a six of clubs, giving him ten. The Watcher is given an eight of spades, giving it seventeen. The Listener is dealt a king of hearts, giving it fifteen. Martyn is given a six of clubs, giving him sixteen. The dealer deals its own second card face-down. Martyn stops to try to speak, and then shuts his mouth. Right. Dealer's advantage.

He stares at the numbers.

Grian sighs. "Well, I've got to double down, don't I? Fine. I want the whole 'red lives can kill' thing to be enforced somehow. I don't care how. There's my double down."

The dealer nods.

"Why would you want that," Martyn says blankly.

If we all win, that will be interesting with the bonds, the Watcher says mildly.

Grian shrugs. "I mean, we've enforced red names not befriending green names, but not the murder thing before. Figure we should switch up the game, right?"

"Why?" Martyn says again.

Well, it wouldn't do for it to be boring.

"No, not that. Just... isn't it easier to handle when the rules are laid out properly?"

Martyn throws his hands up, but stops arguing. The dealer gives Grian a face-down card. The dealer moves to the next party at the table.

The Watcher looks over at the dealer and makes a cutting-off motion. I stand.

The dealer moves on. Hit me, the Listener says, and is dealt the queen of diamonds. The Listener gestures to Martyn. It seems I bust. Pity. I suppose there will be no guarantee of meaning, then. Not what I'd prefer.

The dealer looks at Martyn. Martyn looks at the other hands. Martyn pauses.

"Wait, this is like, casino blackjack, yeah? I'm only playing against you, not the whole table?"

"Why would you be playing against us?" Grian says. "Writing's a collaborative process."

Martyn looks entreatingly at the Listener, but the Listener is a little too caught up in the bad hand it has been dealt. Martyn looks entreatingly at the Watcher, but the Watcher just looks somehow confused.

"I was under the impression that, I don't know, you all were adversarial."

Why? All we want is the same thing as you: the story to be told a certain way.

Martyn's not sure if he's furious or just numb.

"Fine. Got a sixteen, don't I? Hit me."

Two of spades.

He's furious. He wants to win against the dealer. He wants to win against everyone. He wants his idea to make it through. He has an eighteen, though. There are only two numbers in the deck that will not bust him, and he's no fool. Hitting on sixteen is a risk enough; if he wants his stupid bet of everything finally ending to make it through, he's got to hold here.

"I hold," he says through gritted teeth.

The dealer silently deals itself another card. A three of hearts. Distantly, Martyn's ears rush. He could have taken that. He could have taken the hit. He could have won. He could have had blackjack, and he doesn't know what the extra payout for blackjack even means in a game like this one, but he could have had it, and he held back, he didn't take the risk, he didn't--

The dealer flips up its cards. Seven, eight, three. Eighteen.

Martyn's heart pounds. A stand-off.

Grian flips up his own card and groans. It's a five of diamonds. "There goes that bet," he mutters.

The dealer makes a sweeping motion around the table. The Watcher smiles, a terrible, terrible thing. Martyn, all at once, realizes that he can't ask again. He can't say 'this is guaranteed to be the last one' again. He backs out of his chair. To the sides, he sees the stagehands change the lighting. A spotlight, on him and the dealer--

"That isn't fair," he says. "It's a tie. I should get my bet back, right? It's a tie!"

THAT IS WHERE WE DIFFER FROM THE HOUSES IN VEGAS, the dealer says, and Martyn's heart stops.

(The voice is familiar. Familiar, but he cannot place it.)

YOU SEE, IN THIS GAME, THERE IS ALWAYS ONE THING THAT HAS AN ADVANTAGE. ONE THING THE STORY IS ALWAYS PLAYING AGAINST. ONE THING, THAT INEVITABLY, AFTER LONG ENOUGH PLAYING, WILL WIN.

There, the dealer looks Martyn in the eyes, and Martyn, all at once, knows exactly what the dealer must be.

AND THAT IS ME.

Martyn stares Death in the eyes.

Then, in a cold sweat, Martyn wakes up.

He does not sleep again for a long time.

[2readiscworld]

Hmm. Nanny ogg reading tarot off a pinup calendar is this something

[mcr5truther]

yes yes I know they're promoting a preorder for the vinyl but the caption??

After this album sparked the Return Theories??????

[disco-asphodel]

i LOVE pre-martinaise jeanharry fics where kim has an unnecessary cameo. like oh who’s that hot seolite guy oh i think that’s the pinball cop. whatever. and then they get back to completely ruining each other’s lives

[irradiatedsnakes]

iykyk

[pseudospectre]