#rak’tika greatwoods

[umbralaether]

[impossible-rat-babies]

i am standing by how there hasn’t been a good looking bow in ffxiv in years

[thevthshadow]

“A lifetime ago, when I still rightfully held the name, ‘Djt-dvre,’ I found the wilds of Golmore to be the most beautiful thing I’d ever beheld. After all I have seen… I still do.”

「Day 1: REGAL | BELONGING」

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Prompts by @/SE_bunboi and @/liliturgy on X.

I always love exploring Mishka’s past in “Golmore” through gpose — especially when he’s a Lv.40 ARC running through the wilds of the Rak’tika Greatwood 😅

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[plounce]

thinking about yshtola (i am nearing the end of 5.0 so these are incomplete thoughts) and it’s like... ok imo there are two main character traits for her: seeking knowledge and being a mean blunt bitch. the first i think lends more toward “what is yshtola doing here now in the plot” activity which is important for  a character. the second is what im thinking more about because it’s almost entirely flavorful for her. i think that her being blunt in that way matches well with matoya’s own stubborn pursuit of doing her own thing and yshtola spent a large portion of her youth with matoya, who was stubbornly apart from the rest of the sharlayan elite and made no secret of her disdain for them! so i think being at least partially raised with that gave her a certain tendency for avoiding centralized authorities - see how she leaves sharlayan for eorzea, see how she goes to the rak’tika greatwood and away from the exarch (who she is suspicious of). it doesn’t matter if somebody’s A Good Guy: she is willing to doubt anything to ascertain the truth of it. she’s stubborn but she’s also very humble, because she’ll also doubt her own understanding or previous knowledge (but not to an extent that she’d be gullible - she’ll invite emet-selch to share information, but she still doesn’t trust him as far as she can throw him).

she doesn’t like tricksy machinations and doesn’t engage in them herself and will tell you that right to your face. she says “urianger what the FUCK are you lying about this time” “thancred get your STUPID ASS head on straight” “emet-selch say something USEFUL or shut the FUCK up” “sharlayan you are full of BITCHES and COWARDS” and it is just great every time. she has love for her companions (excluding mr squelch obv) but that love does not hold her back or preclude her from demanding better of them.

she’s not a rude person. she is very kind and has a solid heart in her chest and a great head on her shoulder. she is blunt. (urianger’s a really great foil to her as another scholarly character but as opposed to her, he will circle around something and keep things to himself and try to get everything to work out for the best without sharing anything. meanwhile she will say “alright here’s what i think needs to be done and i’m going to do it. and if i can’t, i need you to.” he’s kind of an enabler; she calls people out. passive vs active. healer vs caster dps.)

and that bluntness lends itself to her choosing to be really reckless! girls will jump into a bottomless pit to save a community of civilians and then do a really insanely risky spell, one that she has already permanently disabled herself (and thancred!) doing, rather than resigning herself to dying, because she will do everything in her power to move herself and the cause forward. she thinks things through, but she thinks fast, because she’s smart and decisive. she is reckless but not rash. and she will throw herself into danger if it’s the best thing to do to help save the day - in the english translation, using her aethervision drains her vitality, but she’s gotta do it to keep others alive and to save the world. it’s a sacrifice she’s choosing to make, even if her loved ones would rather she not do that to herself, please. but that’s a value judgment she’s making, and you probably couldn’t win the argument against her. she’s not infallible, but she’s usually right. she is the sort of person who is full of hope that can be more accurately described as stubbornness. she knows her loved ones for who their best self can be and she demands that of them - which can make her a great character to have around for other characters as well.

there’s also another secondary aspect to this that is kind of more depressing lmao but it is evident that in eorzea miqo’te women are often sexually objectified by the game and by characters within the world, so another reason she might have to have such high + spiky walls up is to like. deal with that. her more suggestive lines of dialogue are about her having sexual control (the lines about having you “over her knee” or putting you on a leash, for example). after the stormblood expac magnai fight:

she’s got it handled, but it does also suck that this is something she has needed to learn how to handle! 

and those are my current #catgirlthoughts

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 15: Replacement

emet-selch thinks too much. emet-selch POV, background azem/lahabrea & wol/thancred mentions. set during shadowbringers, mild spoilers for endwalker + pandaemonium. written for ffxivwrite2024. free day - prompt chosen by random word generator. rated: general 973 words ao3 link

The woman with the dark hair strides at the head of her little group of oddities, moving quickly with purpose and determination.

Perhaps that is finally something they have in common, Iphigeneia and her, some distant spark igniting at last. She has been pushed to her limits on the Source before, but nothing quite like this. Nothing quite so raw. She is doing well for harbouring all that Light within her, barely a trace of it exposed on the outside. Inside, however…

Her aether is blinding. Like an expanding sun in the final stages of life, burning through the last vestiges of its energy. No matter how powerful they are, suns fail. Stars die. They will be gone, but their light can be seen for countless epochs afterwards.

Emet-Selch scowls and sits on a trifling rock, watching the scene play out below. Where are they headed now? And is it of their own volition, or did that clumsy, crystalizing meddler in his troublesome tower send them off to the Greatwood? Two Lightwardens slain makes Rak’tika the obvious next choice. Close at hand, and a friend and ally has inserted herself with the locals.

It is painful, watching the way she cooperates with these fools. Blind, fumbling, out of their depths. The twins, heirs of that blasted self-sacrificing Elezen whose misplaced faith foiled the grand Garlean scheme and set their progress back by another cycle. One has little patience and a biting tongue, the other allows his kindness to be easily manipulated. Regardless, they both wear their hearts on their sleeves. Is their youth to blame for their lack of subtlety? Or because they are Sundered?

The astrologian who speaks in a tongue that cropped up several centuries past, that disappeared as quickly and quietly as it came. No one could tolerate it then, and most cannot tolerate it now. So why speak it at all? To make a statement? Perhaps his only companions in his youth were books written by ancient scholars smarter than he.

The girl with the golden hair, this world’s Oracle of Light, her stagnant, blank, all-consuming eyes a horrifically familiar shade of blue. A connection present, even though Hydaelyn has long since gone silent. How torturous for the girl, to be left unanchored, confused about her place in the world, unfamiliar with her abilities, and drowning in a legacy she never asked to inherit. How very like Venat to leave those she favours to blunder about, asking questions that will never be answered until they pass some ludicrous test and prove their worth.  

The rogue-turned-gunbreaker, an irritating thorn of a man, who spends far too much of his time squabbling with those he calls friends. Quarreling with her, in that pointed, exhausted way of someone at the end of their rope. Always dancing on the edge of something, as if one move in the wrong direction will push him off the edge. Yet he cares for her, that much is clear—love is written on his face in that sickeningly obvious way, even if he chooses not to act on it. How the others can stand their bickering, he doesn’t know. Difficult to believe that this was the man Lahabrea chose to possess all those years ago in his grand scheme to supplant their middling little organization.

Perhaps he chose well. Lahabrea was always the most foolish and reckless of them all. And perhaps—though there wasn’t much left of him by then—he exploited a connection that would bring him closer to his lover from eons past.

His lip curls. Twelve thousand years is not long enough to rid the foul taste from his mouth at the news of that particular perplexing union, but as Hythlodaeus was always fond of reminding him, his sister was a firebrand. She cared as much for the opinion of others as she did for the rules. She walked a delicate line, respecting tradition while flaunting convention, and somehow always being the exception. As painful as it was to observe, he had nothing but admiration for her. Some called her mischievous, but he always found that implied a lack of intellect—and Iphigeneia was the cleverest of them all.

The last Azem. And she was not like any of the others who came before her.

The anger stirs, numb and cold and stretched thin. Grief, he has come to learn, is hell. Twelve thousand years of it even moreso. He would have willingly traded places with her, had he the chance. She should have lived, not him. Just as Hythlodaeus should have lived. Perhaps they would not be in this miserable state had his family not been torn asunder.

Where did she go in those last days? How did she spend her time, in the waning hours before Zodiark was struck and their world split by Hydaelyn’s blow? He has often wondered. She had already spurned the Convocation and her erstwhile mentor both, striking out on her own. There were several places she could have gone and he searched them all. But she simply… vanished, Erichthonios and Pyrrha alongside her.

Perhaps she knew what was coming, and intended to protect her children.

Perhaps she did not, and sought another path.

But he will never know. Whatever plan she had failed—the proof of it is before his eyes. Geneia is long gone, and this shade of her exists in her place. This poor, broken woman, a mage with the fraction of her power, her flame a cold, dead star compared to Geneia’s sun. She could never be a replacement for his sister. She does not have the capacity.

Below, the group moves on, chattering aimlessly as they pass beneath Lakeland’s vibrant trees. With a grimace, Emet-Selch rises to his feet and lets them go. He has had too much introspection for one day.  

[princesofilmheg]

home [v]

although ashe’s parents hail from fanow in the rak’tika greatwood, he was born in the forest of the fæ folk. it was destroyed in the flood of light in his absence, therefore, il mheg will forever be his home, his kingdom

[nijohirjesyho]

Wolbert Week Day 2: Parallels

Show me your hands Are they cleaner than mine? Show me your face Did you cross the line? Show me your eyes They any drier than mine? Your soul survives But peace, you'll never find

- If I Say, Mumford and Sons

Ao3 Link

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Nijoh’ir fell behind as the Scions headed out of the Crystarium, stopping just inside the entrance to the city.

Alisaie halted and turned to look at him, concern flashing on her face, “are you alright?”

Nijoh’ir gave a bitter laughter, “as good as I can be, with everything going on. I- There’s someone I want to talk to before I leave. Go on ahead Crim, I’ll catch up with you all.”

She hesitated a moment longer, long enough for him to cross the distance and shove his forehead into her temple, a rough purr rumbling out of his throat.

Alisaie wrapped her arms around him to pull him into a hug. His tail jerked in response before he returned it, rubbing his forehead against hers gently, purring louder.

“I’ll let the others know.” Alisaie stepped back, and raised one finger, “but you had better not be doing anything stupid.”

Nijoh’ir swallowed and shook his head, throat tight, and eyes wet for a moment, “no. I’m- nothing stupid. Promise Crim.”

“Then… hurry back. And if you need to talk…” She turned away from him, hand drifting to her rapier, “you know I’m always here for you.”

“I know.”

He watched her catch up to her brother, the Scions turning to see what she had to say before he pulled away, doubling back. He was tempted to head to his room, but he settled instead for scaling the stairs leading to the scaffolding that surrounded the Crystarium.

It was not hard to find a quiet and dark spot to tuck himself and wait. He suspected it wouldn’t take long, though longer than usual.

He swiveled a crimson ear at a sound behind him. Footsteps. Heavy boots that hit the ground and made armor clink, the sound of a weapon shifting. Not Emet-Selch or G’r- the Exarch. The one he was hoping for.

“There you are.” Nijoh’ir didn’t turn his head to look at Ardbert yet, “you disappeared during the fighting, I was worried.”

“Why. I’m already dead, or have you forgotten?” Ardbert sounded more bitter than usual, Nijoh’ir’s insides grew heavier, and he turned to look at the other now. “I couldn’t be part of that battle.”

Nijoh’ir’s ears fell back, “did you…” Gods had Ardbert found it in him to have the hope to try? He took a deep breath in and looked back out to the woods of Lakeland, “we can’t help it can we? But to try and be heroes?”

Ardbert scoffed, after a moment Nijoh’ir mimicked the sound. “There I go, sounding like the bard I am. Let me try that again.” He turned, mismatched eyes, teal and violet, meeting sky blue. “We always have to try and help don’t we.” It wasn’t a question. Seto had said as much about Ardbert. The Viis in the village had said the same.

And here they were now, dead and dying and throwing themselves into trying to help. “Gods are we a pair.”

Ardbert moved to join him, both of them looking out at the woods, to distant forts where battles had been fought that very night. Because of this night.

“You’re not coming with us, are you?”

Ardbert startled, Nijoh’ir laughed quietly but there was no mirth in it. Only exhaustion, that clung to him, it clung to him more since Rak’tika Greatwood.

“No. I… No. I’m staying here.” Ardbert shifted slighty, as though he was afraid Nijoh’ir would push. Maybe he wanted him to.

Nijoh’ir gave him a sad smile, and simply said, “I’ll miss you. It’s nice having another with me.” He looked away again, “someone who knows how to enjoy the quiet moments.”

“When I said they often didn’t last long, I hope you know this isn’t what I meant.”

Nijoh’ir flicked his ears in acknowledgement, the Miqo’te quiet for several moments before he replied, “I should’ve. Known better, not about you. I never get a quiet moment for long. And Vauthry, we should’ve known he’d never take what we’d been doing lying down. If I’d been thinking…”

Ardbert looked at him, “this isn’t your fault.”

“And the flood isn’t yours.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ardbert snapped, his voice suddenly harsh. Nijoh’ir turned to him slowly, exhausted. “You have no idea what we did that caused the flood.”

“Then tell me.” Nijoh’ir replied.

They stared at each other, Ardbert’s face twisted in pain, and regret, Nijoh’ir huffed softly. “We both have our sins to carry Ardbert. It’s about making sure they weigh as they should.” His eyes flickered away, and then back to him, “is that why you don’t want to come to Ahm Arang?”

“Yes. There’s too many memories there.”

Nijoh’ir’s chest hurt, but he just nodded, “I’ll miss you.”

Ardbert looked surprised, eyes scanning Nijoh’ir’s face, turning to gentle wonder, “you will?”

“You’re better company than you give yourself credit for.” Nijoh’ir finally pushed himself off the wall, to step closer to Ardbert, into the warrior’s space, “I’m doing this for you too, you know. If Hydaelyn won’t, I will.”

Ardbert shook his head, but his eyes never left Nijoh’ir’s, “you… you shouldn’t have to.”

“No, but that’s what it means to be a hero doesn’t it?” Here Nijoh’ir smiled, more forced than he wished but he managed, “and you and I both know what it means, when I kill the next Lightwarden.”

Worry darkened Ardbert’s face, Nijoh’ir shook his head before he could speak, “I’ve known since Lakeland. They- The Exarch said the Blessing of Light would protect me.” He scoffed once, this time the smile was bitter, “but you and I both know how Hydaelyn is about protecting champions on the First. We knew that before Emet’s spiel in the Greatwood.”

Ardbert looked away, clearly in thought, “Didn’t… you call her Sprite, right?”

“I’m not calling her by a dead woman’s name, she’s haunted enough by her.”

“Right. The Oracle of Light.” There was something bitter in Ardbert’s tone but it was clear he wouldn’t elaborate, “maybe she’ll have something to tell you.”

“What, like that Hyadelyn will fix all this, and then another hero will show up in a hundred years and we’ll be stuck in statis from this point? She hasn't said anything since I arrived, why would she now?"

They met each other’s eyes and Nijoh’ir wondered if he too remembered the desperate struggle against each other, neither able to triumph against the other. And that Hydaelyn, who had ignored Ardbert’s pleas for aid had finally answered Nijoh’ir’s call.

“It’s my turn Ardbert.” His voice was soft, gentle, “I’ll finish what you started.” One way or the other, he would see the First restored. “Let this world have one last hero.”

“It shouldn’t have to be you.” Ardbert did not seem soothed by this, by the parallel to his own journey Nijoh’ir’s was taking, the way he had accepted what was happening, “you-”

“You said yourself,” he spoke over him, “that you couldn’t help me. It’s okay Ardbert. I don’t know how else to help you, so let me at least do this.”

Ardbert ran a hand through his messy brown hair, “hells, no one should have had to. You sound like- gods, you sound like her, you- but you came here to save it, you shouldn’t have to be a damn sacrifice for us. For my mistake. Hells, Emet was right. We are just slaves to her will.”

Nijoh’ir sighed heavily, “woe be to those who stand against the Warrior of Light. Woe be to those who stand beside him.” Ardbert looked at him in confusion, but he felt no desire to elaborate on the peace he’d had to make with himself once.

“I’m not a sacrifice for your mistake, and if anyone is asking that of me, it is Hydaelyn, the same way she asked it of you-”

“She didn’t ask it of me!” Ardbert threw a hand out, Nijoh’ir jerked back out of instinct, “she denied me.”

Nijoh’ir’s mouth parted, Ardbert held his gaze, pain filling his gaze, “you- She wouldn’t let me, she took all the others but not me.”

“Gods, Ardbert… I’m sorry.”

Ardbert shook his head, pain and bitterness filling his gaze, “and now here we are, and she’s taking you when it should be me. If anyone deserves to turn into a Lightwarden for this mess-”

“I wouldn’t wish that on you.” Nijoh’ir replied quietly. “You don’t deserve it either. If, for all my sins, I don’t deserve it, I refuse to let you deserve it either.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“What if I say it is?” Nijoh’ir challenged, he shook himself, “what if I say we both deserve to live. That neither of us should’ve died for this, that neither of should feel guilty.”

Ardbert didn’t laugh, he never laughed, no matter what joke Nijoh’ir told, what he said to try and prompt him to even smile, but he did something close, “then I’d say you’re a fool, but I knew that about you. Rather like it about you.”

Nijoh’ir wet his lips, “Ardbert. I-” I like you. You deserved better, I wish I could give you more than this. I wish we could’ve been heroes together, “I want you there. Not at Ahm Arang, but when we go to Kholusia. When…” he swallowed, “if this all starts to go badly, can you…”

“Aye. I can be there with you.” They were still close together, nearly pressed together if Ardbert had been alive, been something Nijoh’ir could touch.

“Thank you.” Nijoh’ir breathed, and then added, “I hope you don’t have to be.”

“I hope so too.”

Nijoh’ir leaned forward, into Ardbert’s space and added, “and I wish I could kiss you before I leave.” With that he pulled away, the ghost staring at him with a look of shock as great as if Nijoh’ir had kissed him, “I’ll see you when I get back.”

[theblackestnight-ffxiv]

[ffxivwrite2024] prompt 21: shade

D’zinhla was no stranger to vast forests. Native to La Noscea, her immediate familiarity had been rather sparse growths and the well-tended orchards of the farms near the Grey Fleet, but after leaving her home, her first destination had been Gridania, in the heart of the Black Shroud. Not only was the forest thick and dark to earn its name, it was dotted with the towering trees known as heavenspillars, whose size beggared belief even standing before them.

There had been other forests. The near-tropical riot of Eastern La Noscea’s Raincatcher Gully. The frost-etched conifers of Coerthas, all that remained of their natural trees after the region’s entire climate altered post-Calamity. The strange trees of the Dravanian Forelands’ Chocobo Forest, which seemed as if they had been turned upside-down, standing on thick branching limbs while their crowns were a gnarled gathering of what seemed like roots that had grown leaves. The Fringes, denoting the edge of the Black Shroud breaking into the rocky labyrinths of Gyr Abania. The lavender-leafed Forest of the Lost Shepherd in the First’s Lakeland; when shrouded in fog as the sun rose, it turned into a strange land of mingled pinks and purples that still caught her breath. The Rak’tika Greatwood, of trees that rivaled the heavenspillars, some even said to have contained a terrible serpent to tame its wrath. The Shroud of Samgha in Thavnair, a hot and sticky place thick with natural beauty and peril. Even the broken husks of trees beyond understanding in Ultima Thule, which still yielded lumber as if they had been thriving.

She had seen forests of all sorts, and each time, they were sights utterly unlike what she had seen before. It felt repetitive to make that observation once again, but what greeted her at the edge of the Yak T’el highlands was yet another unique sight.

Yak T’el already stood in distinction from the other woodland of Tural she had visited, the wetland forests of Kozuma’uka; those forests were defined by the branching, meandering, plummeting rivers that nourished them. Yak T’el was a different land, standing on different stone, utterly devoid of rivers or other watercourses as a result. Here there were cenotes, pools of water filling limestone cavities. The limestone therefore defined the land, and how it laid in two layers, with an escarpment dividing the highlands from the lowlands. On the highlands, the forests were tropical, in patches of densities but never so thick that it was hard to find the sun. 

The lowlands were a different story.

D’zinhla couldn’t fully work out what she was seeing, when she first broke the highland forest for the cliffs that plunged into the lowlands. There was no wonder it was difficult to travel between the two, given the height of this wall. What laid below was more forest, but a forest that looked very little like that of the trees above. 

The crowns were not that far from the top of the cliff, and what she could see of their leaves was strange. It was almost as if they were mingled green and blue. It was perhaps not as eye-catching as forests of purple, or red, but the blue was strange. She thought at first it might be a trick of the light, the mottled shadows of leaves above onto the leaves below, but it was too distinct, and there were brighter blues amidst darker, showing that the blue was itself the color of the leaves. Which meant it wasn’t a trick of the strange blue haze that blanketed the forest, refusing to burn off in the sun’s light. From here, she couldn’t see far beyond the crowns, let alone deeper into the forest. The bluish haze and the bluish leaves were certain to create a shadowing effect beneath them, and as that joined with the thickness of the leaves in the canopy, she guessed that very little sunlight penetrated anywhere into the Yak T’el lowlands. 

What she learned of the homelands of the Mamool Ja, of forested lowland poor of resources, solidified that understanding.

When later they were given leave to descend the Ty’iinbek Traverse, she learned just how strange the Ja Tiika Heartlands truly were.

A land of unending shade, which never truly saw daylight. A land where illumination was not from gaps in the canopy or areas of thinned forest, but from the strange flora, fauna, and both simultaneously, which glowed in cool tones of greens to purples, but mostly blue. Frogs and crickets sang as if it were a perpetual twilight broken only by the dark of true night.

As far as she could tell, the only place in all the Heartlands where one could see the sun was atop the pyramid of Mamook. 

It made D’zinhla feel uneasy, and she challenged that feeling, asking herself if it was simply unfamiliarity that made it seem strange and sinister to her–but the behavior of the people certainly hadn’t helped. Not until later… 

But even then, it felt strange.

She was not a person to flinch from darkness; no, she had embraced the darkness within her, and what it meant. She had faced personifications of elemental darkness and even those things related to it, like deepest despair. She faced darkness when she found it, to discover what was within it, what it was made of.

Even still, the darkness of Ja Tiika felt…desperate. A kind of darkness for hiding a terrible secret and the shame it carried. A darkness that concealed the pain of hopes dashed upon the rocks. 

She wondered if the changes promised to the people of Mamook would bring change to the shade that engulfed them.

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 6: Halcyon

“What are you doing?”

Azem looks up at him, their eyes dancing with that bottomless sense of mirth. “Is it not obvious? I’m making flower crowns.”

They present the flowers to them then, pretty little things Emet-Selch could not name even if he tries. He knows he’s seen some of them before, their depictions classic in literature, with their gentle white petals or bright sunshine hues, but there are many others that he doesn’t. Unusual multi-colored leaves attached to the stems of gentle cool-toned flowers, some with petals more geometric than round. 

“Do you even know what flowers you’re working with? They could be poisonous.”

They laugh, though Emet-Selch would not know if it was they had caught his ignorance or if it was that Azem, as always, charged ahead despite the dangers without a care. “Only one way to find out.”

And before he can protest, they reach for a disorganized pile, pull something out of it, and plop it on his head.

He sputters, reaching for the apparently finished crown Azem had been hiding, because of course they were, but doesn’t remove it from his head. “I wasn’t aware I was summoned to be a test subject.”

“A test subject, and company,” Azem’s grin, somehow, broadens, as they resume weaving the stems together with practiced movements. “It’s been a while since we’ve been able to see each other.”

The tone shift is jarring, the wistfulness in their tone almost unexpected. The words are a gentle punch that has him slumping beside them. 

It’s true that it has been some time since they had seen each other. Things have been busier as of late. Azem was out on adventures, as always, and some of the others among the convocation had been sent away from Amarout for miscellaneous tasks. 

Some might call it fortuitous that his responsibilities had sent him Azem’s way, for once, though Emet-Selch would vehemently protest and insist the universe was playing some sick joke on him instead. Truly, the others underestimated Azem’s penchant for trouble, somehow doubling whenever he was in the vicinity. 

“Do you think the three of us will see each other again?” Azem whispers, enough that Emet-Selch has to strain to hear it. 

“It wouldn’t take much to get Hythlodaeus here,” Emet-Selch murmurs. 

Azem laughs, but there’s something about it that’s off. Like a cry, squashed away and hidden away. The stem between their hands snaps, and Azem stares down at their hands forlornly. “Maybe it wouldn’t have, once.”

“We’ll be together again,” he insists, setting his hand on their shoulder. The touch is enough invitation for Azem to lean over, into him, bonelessly collapsing in a way that he was all too familiar with. In seconds, their head is in his lap, and his fingers are now in their hair, playing with it with practiced ease. The flowers Azem had been weaving fall away, some rolling back onto the ground while others cling to their robes and tuck themselves within the folds of the fabric. 

There’s something soft and torn in Azem’s gaze as they look up at them. Their hand, now free of flowers, rises to trace his jaw and settle on his cheek. All the joy Emet-Selch is used to seeing on Azem’s face is gone, as if it had never been there at all. 

“Not for many more lifetimes,” they say, mourning, and Emet-Selch’s own heart sinks deeper and deeper with the weight of it. “I won’t regret it, but I am sorry, my dearest Hades.”

“Thalia? What are you—”

“You can’t hold onto me forever. It’s time to wake up now.”

As if a spell is cast, his gray robes shift to imperial black, white gloves distance him from the softness of Azem’s hair, and he can feel their solid weight against him fading away. 

“Thalia, wait.” He grasps her wrist, he blinks, and they—she flinches when his hand tightens its grip. Those damn eyes of hers are wide, the exact same shade of violet, made brighter by the light of the Rak’tika Greatwood. “What were you doing?” 

“I…” the Warrior of Light clears her throat. “I was just getting this out of your hair.”

As if proving her point, she rubs the stem of a leaf between the fingers of her captive wrist.

“Why bother with such a paltry detail?” He snaps. 

Ellida is silent for a long moment, her expression shifting only into a deeper frown. 

“I was surprised to see you asleep,” she says instead of any meaningful answer. 

He scoffs, drops her wrist. Truthfully, he doesn’t know if he wants the answer himself, at this point. She had ripped him away from that moment of peace so long ago, tainted the memory with her very existence. No answer would satisfy him—there was simply no excuse that made her action so forgivable. 

“Am I not allowed a moment of rest? I certainly thought you and yours would have preferred I kept my distance.” 

She puts more space between them, now that the choice is hers. “We do.”

“Well then, go make some distance, for however long you can.” He waves her off. “Do you not have better things to do, hero?” 

She’s staring at him. It’s uncanny, how long her gaze lingers, as if she sees something he doesn’t. Her lips are pressed together, something thoughtful in the lines of her face. Whatever had her attention drops away with a quiet sigh.

“Yes, I do.” Even so, she hesitates. “Will you be alright?”

“Excuse me?”

“I—” she shakes her head. “Nevermind.” 

Without another word, she’s marching off, leaving behind a moment that, Emet-Selch knows, is best forgotten. 

[wizardfancier]

Some very last minute Berti-ganda for @woltourney​! Berti is in a poll right now against a handsome cat fellow here.

I thought I’d write a little about Berti and nature, because its one of the first things I decided about his character and one of his biggest features. He LOVES the outdoors. Growing up in Gridania he was always interested in the Botanist’s guild and forest and that love continued as his adventures did - I imagine he was very excited when they got to the Rak’tika Greatwood or Elpis for the same reason: THERES SO MANY NEW TREES HERE!

If you can’t find Berti, he’s probably out somewhere enjoying the sun or gathering some exotic seed or berry. He’s not very good at cooking, so that’s where his involvement ends, but he’ll get you the best ingredients in Eorzea.

In conclusion:

[driftward]

Title: Rains, Long Overdue Characters: Zoissette Vauban, Y'shtola Rhul Summary: A sudden downpour in the Rak'tika Greatwood forces Zoissette and Y'shtola to seek shelter Notes: June YOTP entry - downpour

One moment, they had been walking through the Rak’tika Greatwood searching for any errant sin eaters, the night sky mostly clear, save for a few wisps of clouds overhead.

But only mostly.

But with little warning, dark billowing clouds rushed in, the roar of rain following behind them. Zoissette and Y’shtola scrambled to seek shelter, just barely making it ahead of the wall of rain, into a cave underneath some mighty tree roots. Once they were certain it would provide shelter from the storm, Zoissette took the opportunity to look around deeper inside, while Y’shtola stood in the mouth of the outcropping, looking outward.

This was most peculiar weather, but then, a great many peculiar things were happening now that the Warrior of Darkness had arrived. Y’shtola could not see far into the rain, the water aether thickly hanging in the air as the droplets came down, and she suspected her companion would not be able to see much further.

This was beyond unusual. The Greatwood had weather, of course, but it changed only slowly under the oppressive pressure of the light which was loathe to allow any great changes. And such a storm she had not seen in her three years here, but she was grateful for its presence nonetheless.

It was mighty and powerful and may yet cause harm, but it was a sign of a change most welcome.

There was a bright flash on the aetherial that tickled a memory inside of Y’shtola. She reached for it mentally, trying to recall it, but before it could come fully to mind, the loud crack of thunder reverberated across the land and through the cave. Startled, the hair on her tail and ears on end, she jumped back with a gasp.

Right into Zoissette.

She felt Zoissette’s hands, gentle on her arms. She did not push her away, nor did she reach to hold Y’shtola tight. Instead she just kept her hands lightly pressed against her, neither welcoming nor rejecting, allowing Y’shtola to make the choice, and she was grateful for that. As she took several deep calming breaths, she felt she should have been embarrassed, but found that she was not.

Not around Zoissette. Not even after all this time, surprisingly.

She elected to lean against Zoissette, and as she did so, Zoissette extended her grasp, lightly wrapping her arms around her. It was a relief. To know she was safe was one thing, but to have it reaffirmed in such a way cemented the acceptance of the feeling of being so.

“Well,” said Y’shtola. “I must give mine apologies. ’Tis unbecoming to frighten at such a minor thing, as though I were still but a child. It has been some time since I have experienced such inclement weather, and it seems I have forgotten the experience.”

She felt Zoissette stiffen a bit.

“Three years,” said Zoissette. There was a pang in the tone of her voice.

Y’shtola stayed for a moment longer, before pulling away to stand at the entrance to the cave. Zoissette remained behind as she did so, as she looked out into the storm, watching.

The next time the light flashed, she was waiting. And when the thunder rolled, she did not quail before it.

“I suspect the elements are attempting to rebalance themselves after so long laboring under the imbalance of Light,” said Y’shtola. “Normally I would think such weather would pass quickly, but in this case, it may well not. We should perhaps prepare to be staying here for a while, if we wish to continue our work when it is over.”

“…I had wondered,” said Zoissette. “The rains so far have been so light, but the Greatwood has obvious evidence of deep lakes and ravines carved by waterways. I thought maybe it was a seasonal thing.”

Always keen, Zoissette was. “Nay. Not in the modern era. Though in a prior era, such was common, as I recall from the histories. In any situation, I believe the Greatwood shall handle this and be none the worse for wear.”

“Alright,” said Zoissette. And then, “I am going to start a fire.”

Y’shtola heard her shuffle around in the cave as she begun to do just that, but she stayed, watching the storm outside as the rain continued to come down in sheets. She still could not see as far as she would have liked, but she did see trickles beginning to build into rivulets that would perhaps turn to flows and then more. Fortunately, the cave was high, and there were many deep ravines nearby. They were like to be safe where they were, and indeed, she thought it would be prudent to stay.

Another flash of light, and this time, when the thunder rolled, Y’shtola welcomed it, exulting in the power demonstrated by nature. Yes, this was good. It may take some time for all the elements to fully balance out, but first they would need to vent their wrath, and it would do little harm to her and hers so long as they were not foolhardy in the face of such storms.

Satisfied, she turned to the cave, where Zoissette was tending to the start of a fire. Y’shtola walked over to settle down next to her.

She still found it difficult to face her friend, and so she did not. She wanted to. Her aethersight was no fixed thing, able to be adjusted with effort, and she had tried. Tried to chase that shroud away that covered Zoissette. But she had spent so long in the First, had attuned herself to keenly to search out sin eaters, to better end them. And also in turn to protect her flock, warning against them, especially those too powerful to be overcome by their yet meager might.

And that was what she saw when she looked at Zoissette.

“Do I need to go and warn Slitherbough? Is there a risk of flooding?”

Y’shtola tapped her knuckles against her chin, considering the merits of the question. “I think not. That location was chosen for many reasons, its excellent drainage being amongst them. I confess, I have not considered overmuch on such matters, but their history goes back a long ways, and they still give such its due consideration. There is little we could hope to tell them they, particularly the elders, will not already know. I trust Runar to be able to handle the situation well enough without us needing to go hold his hand.”

Certainly she had taught him well enough that his judgement in the matter would be sound. She would not fret over him, nor hover over him in such a way as to gainsay his instinct.

Zoissette fed another log to the fire, carefully tending to it, helping it grow. “I am curious. Would you tell me more about Runar?”

“Why, that you may have more to gossip about with him? Or perhaps you are hoping for tidbits to tease him with? My sight has changed, but I am not unseeing. I have noticed how you two seem to get on, thicker than thieves.”

Y’shtola felt a wicked smile grow on her face. It was true, however. Runar and Zoissette were cut from the same sort of cloth, in her estimation, and like had taken to like, a friendship having obviously and rapidly grown between them. Y’shtola had not expected otherwise, but it had been a relief nonetheless.

“We do not gossip,” said Zoissette, her tone faintly offended, and Y’shtola laughed.

“You have shared no storytales of your adventures, then? And told him nought of your good companion, the fair, powerful and mysterious Master Matoya?”

“Is that gossip?”

Y’shtola closed her eyes and laughed into her hand. Three years, but maybe Zoissette had not changed all that much from what she could remember.

Except it had only been three years for one of them. Y’shtola let her laughter die, but not her amusement. She was not going to let that bother her. Not right now.

“Well, perhaps first I wish to ask you what you think of him, and then I shall tell you what I know.”

“Well, I only thought it was reasonable to ask, as he seems to know a lot about me,” said Zoissette flatly, and Y’shtola laughed, even as she felt a bit of a pang at that. She remembered a conversation she had had with an amused Thancred once, when he mentioned that one could tell a lot from which particular flat voice Zoissette used. And it had been true. Zoissette could be as dry as Amh Araeng at times, but there were tiny little tells in how she spoke.

And Y’shtola could no longer be certain which one this was.

She had guessed correctly, however, it seemed, as Zoissette continued on, her voice warming. “It is endearing, actually. He seems to look up to me, based only on the tales you have told. But he still managed to meet, and see me, as, well… just a person. Not some hero, not some legend.”

Y’shtola shrugged. “I have taught him well.”

Zoissette worked the fire some, presumably to consider her words before she spoke further. “I thought he was barely an adult at first. He seemed so young. Inexperienced. But, helping him around the camp, seeing how he interacted with you and the others. He’s - he is a good man, I can tell. And, well, now I know that he is a leader. A good one. When I was in the military, I learned there were many kinds of leaders. Loud ones, brash ones, rude ones. He is the rare quiet one. Does not yell. Corrects gently. Tries to teach and learn, not to command.”

“Well,” said Y’shtola, “as I have said, he reminds me much of you, in many ways. Not nearly so good as a student, though perhaps that is because of differences in our ways as compared to theirs. Not nearly so curious, but small wonder that. Curiosity is more like to place one in mortal jeopardy here. But still curious for all that, and I have nurtured that as seemed prudent. As you have surely noticed, I believe you and him to be very much alike in temperament.”

“And that he cares about you is obvious. I - I appreciate that.”

“More that I care for him. He is yet young. I do trust him, but he required much guidance to get to where he is. But, nonetheless, it has been rewarding, seeing him grow unto himself. He is, in many ways, yet a boy, but you are quite right. He has become a voice of reason amongst his people, able to tend to their needs, and a good leader. I could not be more proud. But surely I tell you nothing you have not already learned yourself.”

Zoissette made a soft, thoughtful humming noise, and Y’shtola smiled.

“You find your curiosity sated, then?”

“Yes. Sorry. I just - I am glad for you and him both. That you have found a place here in this world. It is… nice.”

“I certainly find it agreeable,” agreed Y’shtola. “I have learned much from the Night’s Blessed, and they have shown me kindness in return. Certainly, I find them far more agreeable company than the Exarch at his Crystarium.”

Y’shtola still was not facing Zoissette, but she could see her hands as they fidgeted, could see the woman’s body language out of the corner of her eye. Working out a bit of nervous energy, she supposed, but then the movements calmed.

“I think Thancred was right,” said Zoissette, quietly.

“Oh? On which matter?”

“The First has changed you.”

“Perhaps,” said Y’shtola. “But I find I do not regret the choices which have brought me here.”

“Oh, no, sorry. I am being unclear. I know that when he said that, he was just hurt over what you had said, and I think he did not mean what he said. But I think he was right, just for the wrong reasons. I think… I think the First has changed you. And I think it has been for the better. You speak so kindly of Runar and the Night’s Blessed, and it is so obvious that you care for them greatly. Your words, your actions, uhm. I think you are better for having been here. I - uhm.”

Zoissette fell silent.

“As you know, I have little cause to doubt myself,” said Y’shtola, deciding to not let the silence carry on too longer. “But it is, nevertheless, gratifying to hear your confidence in a time such as this, and I value it. I think I know what you are getting at, and make no mistake, the Scions are my family, and the Source my home. I shall fight evermore to preserve it as I see fit. But you are right. Runar, the Night’s Blessed, the First - it is as ever a second home, and one I have oft felt more comfortable in than I could have imagined. Aye. I have learned much here, not only about the people and this place, but about myself. It has not been easy, but I find I would not trade anything for the experience.”

“And I am glad to hear that, too,” said Zoissette quietly.

There seemed nothing more to say after that, and so nothing more was said, the sound of rain filling in the ensuing silence. It seemed comfortable to Y’shtola. While some people could not be around others without prattling away, Zoissette could be content to keep to herself around those she knew, and Y’shtola oft felt the same way. She got up and walked over to sit near the entrance of the cave, and look out into the ravine, just to watch the slow shifting patterns in its aether for a while.

Eventually, however, Y’shtola tired of the rain, and rather wished to perhaps take her rest. She turned to see Zoissette with her knees touching the stones around the fire, leaning far over it with her arms out as though to embrace it, mere ilms from the flames.

“Zoissette!”

Zoissette blinked and pulled back at the same time that Y’shtola lunged for her midsection to pull her back by force, if necessary.

“Whatsoever were you thinking!?”

Y’shtola risked a look at Zoissette’s face. She saw the same thing she had always seen, that eery white helmet, almost too perfect in its faceless perfection, with decorative wings on either side of it. But it was clearly directed to stare at the fire intently, and Y’shtola decided she would not look away.

“…I did not mean to scare you. I just feel so cold,” said Zoissette, lowering her head.

Y’shtola looked down at Zoissette’s arms, to see a red glow fading on the porcelain white of Zoissette’s aether. She gingerly touched a hand to one of the spots, and Zoissette flinched back, slightly.

“And yet you still yet burn, and can feel that as well.”

“Yes. It is… it is… I do not know what to say or how to say it. I could feel the heat, but also the cold at the same time. I - I guess I knew I was being burned, but… I still felt just so cold.”

“The light aether that you yet hold,” said Y’shtola, quietly.

Zoissette flexed her fingers several times, and scooted away from the fire, as well as from Y’shtola. “I will be more careful,” she said.

Y’shtola considered her for a long moment, then moved to be nearer her. Even without looking at her directly, she could see Zoissette tense up a bit.

“Here. I do not feel such unnatural cold, and I find myself plenty warm. So rather than tempt the spark of the fire, I will share my warmth instead. Make space for me, if you would.”

After a moment, Zoissette obeyed, and Y’shtola twisted around to sit such that they were both facing the same way, Y’shtola nestled in between her thighs. Zoissette was taller, and not by a little. Y’shtola’s head barely cleared the swell of her breast, even with both of them sitting. Still, she nestled in deep, and pulled Zoissette’s arms around her, as though she was wrapping the large warrior around her, and perhaps, in a way, she was.

They just sat like that for a while. Y’shtola paid close attention to the sensations of having Zoissette so close, her breathing pressing and relaxing around her, feeling her tense and relax as she shifted, feeling the ebb and flow of her life. Despite her complaints, Zoissette did not feel cold to her at all.

The rain began to die off outside. It was still coming down rather harder than Y’shtola cared to venture out in, but an end was promising to come sooner rather than later. Despite shifting her attention, she was still very aware of Zoissette’s breathing. It had slowed, calmed, and Zoissette had stopped fidgeting.

All in all, it was rather pleasant. Y’shtola found herself glad for the moment.

“Thank you,” said Zoissette, her voice only barely over the rain, so quiet that Y’shtola almost missed it. “I do not feel so cold, now.”

“I suspected as much,” said Y’shtola, quietly. “My living aether, reminding yours to remember to flow rather than stagnate.”

She could feel Zoissette just nodding in response.

“I shall keep you warm as long as you wish,” said Y’shtola.

“Not that long,” said Zoissette, her breathing slowing further, even as her arms relaxed around Y’shtola.

Y’shtola puzzled over the words, as Zoissette fell asleep around her.

The rain continued to fall.

[hazoret]

Every time I enter Rak’Tika Greatwood I forget about the music and get jumpscared by La Hee

[sezja]

Reaching the Crystarium

Set in @theferalscion's fantastic First AU, with permission, because it lives rent-free in my head these days

Previously (and, confusingly, chronologically later): A Lakeside Chat

They reach the Crystarium as the sun is inching toward the horizon - dusty, weary, and in foul moods. Despite Sammet’s best efforts, Guyson has proven himself to be thoroughly inescapable; he’d made no fewer than three attempts to slip away from his appointed guide beneath the violet trees of Lakeland, and each time, the hume simply chased him down - the final time quite literally. Sammet had attempted to simply run, relying on his superior stamina to outlast the hume and escape that way, only to be thwarted when the man simply pursued and then tackled him-

Heat creeps across his collar, remembering. The chase. The wild tumbling scuffle through the grass, wrestling to free himself from Guyson’s grip. The look of furious triumph in the man’s eyes when he’d successfully pinned Sammet to the earth, with no hope of escape. 

And the way his heart rattled against his ribs, torn between terror and… something else, something he didn’t recognize.

Now, with one hand clamped firmly on the viis’ arm, Guyson marches Sammet through the gates at the base of the towering crystal structure they’ve been approaching all afternoon. Sammet’s heart speeds once more, as the gates slide closed behind them once more - he is trapped here, for the immediate future; he does not know, he realizes, the intricacies of navigating life in a modern city. His own life has been removed from the structures of civilization; as a male viis, he’d spent much of his time in isolation in the tallest trees, watching for threats to the Greatwood and the ruins of Ronka - how peculiar it is, to see so many people in one place, men and women mingling freely… to say nothing of the many disparate races.

His hands itch for his bow. Though no threat has presented itself yet, he would feel better if he went forth with an arrow nocked. Their arrival - and his presence - garner no few curious stares. Viis are rare outside of the Greatwood, he knows… and a male viis leaving the forest is all but unheard-of. Most would sooner die.

It makes him feel very strange in his own skin.

Anxiety rises. His vision swims with each beat of his racing heart. There are so many people! People and buildings - where is he meant to begin? 

He turns to ask Guyson - when had the man let go of his arm? - and finds no one at his side.

Anxiety gives way to real fear.

“Guyson?” He peers around; the hume cannot have gone far… but he sees no familiar face, only more curious strangers, wondering at him, at his having left the forest at all. He imagines he can see disapproving judgment on their faces - though few of them know aught of the viis at all, let alone the distinctions of their culture - and he bites his tongue on the urge to explain to all and sundry that he has not abandoned his post. He is on a mission, a mission of great importance, if only he… if only he knew which way to go…

Guyson would know, a prickling voice in his mind reminds him. But you didn’t want a guide, did you?

Is that what has happened, he wonders, breathing hard, paralyzed - has the man escorted him to the Crystarium, as far as he ever intended? The agreement was to see Sammet safely through the world beyond Rak’tika, and home again - but the leaders of Fanow won’t know if Guy simply abandons him here, resuming his stewardship once Sammet is prepared to return home. A return that, he must confess, is sounding more and more welcome by the moment. 

If he bolts for the gates-

But to leave the quest incomplete-

He will not have this chance again…

But there are so many people here, so many unfamiliar paths and turns; he does not know how to-

“I take it you don’t like the taste of your own medicine.” There’s a hand clasping his arm once more, firm and - though he hates it - reassuring. Guyson, emerging from who-knows-where, taking up his place at Sammet’s side as if he hadn’t just caused the warder a near panic attack.

“You.”

“Aye.” The man tugs pointedly until Sammet follows, guiding the way to a destination he cannot guess. “I reckoned after all your determination to fly solo, you’d take off at the first sign of independence - but you just stood there like… well.” His gaze flicks upward, toward Sammet’s ears. “Like a scared little rabbit.”

Shame boils at his core, rousing a simmering fury. “I was not frightened.”

“Consider me fooled.”

“I do not need you!” He jerks against the hand on his arm, but Guyson’s grip only tightens. “Release me!”

Guyson jerks them both to a stop - and shoves Sammet against a wall, driving the air from his lungs with the impact. The hume pins him there, both arms held firmly against his sides, so they can look one another in the eye: though Guyson is an ilm or two shorter, his strength is undeniable - more so than Sammet would have anticipated in a gunman, at any rate. And his expression is quietly furious, blue eyes burning.

“What is your problem, anyhow?” Guyson demands, his grip growing even tighter. “I’m here to help you, you ungrateful little-”

“I did not ask for your help! It was thrust upon me by-”

“By people who know good and goddamn well the world’s still dangerous, Lightwardens or no. I’m not here to get involved in your hunt for bards. Wicked white, I just wanna get paid when all this is over, and I can’t do that if I don’t bring your self-centered little arse back to Rak’tika in one piece!” He heaves a heavy, exasperated sigh, releasing Sammet’s arms. They throb - likely to be bruised in the morning. 

And Sammet’s heart is racing again.

He says nothing, though, giving Guyson a chance to collect himself. He cannot fathom the humiliation of a wood-warder who cannot be trusted to perform whatever duties he must alone, nor the personal insult of being assigned a caretaker who cannot even see the importance of his quest. It matters little - he will be rid of this unwanted escort; he must simply bide his time and wait for a more opportune moment to escape. He may even be charitable enough to return to Guyson when his journey is concluded and he has the knowledge he seeks… that he may be safely escorted back to the Greatwood, and Guyson may receive whatever compensation he has been promised, if indeed that is the sum total of his concern for Sammet’s quest.

“Never mind.” Guyson rolls his shoulders, seemingly shrugging his frustration off at the same time. “It’s been a hell of a walk here, eh? Let’s get a room for the night. We’ll head for the Cabinet of Curiosities first thing in the morning.” 

“The Cabinet of…?”

“Curiosities.” The hume takes Sammet’s arm again, more gently this time, but firm enough to brook no argument as he once again takes the lead. “It’s a library of sorts. Books. All the books the Crystarium’s salvaged since the Flood.” He frowns. “You… can read, aye?”

Uncertainty rears its ugly head. He has read very little from beyond the ruins of Ronka - what if the texts here are in a different language? “Of course.”

“Of course,” Guyson echoes, his lips curling into a small smile as he glances back at Sammet. “Well, if you need a hand - or an extra set of eyes - there’s people there as’ll help you out. I bet Moren’ll even know exactly what book you need straightaway. We’ll have all the info you could possibly hope for on bards and then some by the time night comes tomorrow.”

“Moren,” he repeats, seizing on the one fragment of speech that registered as important. He truly has lost the knack of conversation since leaving Fanow as a child - it washes over him like an avalanche, leaving him grasping at a word here or there as they surge past.

As though amused by Sammet’s baffled repetition, Guyson’s small smile grows larger. “Aye, Moren. He’s in charge of things over there. I’ll introduce you.”

“He is… a friend of yours?”

“Not if you ask him.”

Sammet puzzles over this in silence as they continue ever southward, while the sky grows dark overhead. Like many, Guyson pauses a moment to gaze upward as the stars emerge, glittering in their miraculous darkness - Sammet joins him, marveling in how vast it is. Beneath the bright, blue sky when they’d first emerged from the Greatwood, the sight of the sky stretching endlessly overhead had been terrifying, daunting… but this is different, somehow. Far more reminiscent of the impenetrable dark boughs of Rak’tika, muffling the Light - this is comforting. Grounding. 

Were it not for the crystal spire piercing the view, he could very well be back home again.

But there is no time for homesickness, not here at the start of the journey.

“Hey.” Guyson tugs his arm, bringing him back to the present with surprising gentleness. “The sky’ll still be there tomorrow.” It’d be mocking, if the sky wasn’t so new a wonder. “Let’s get in for the night.”

He brings them to a peculiar building, tall and long, stretching into the distance. The Pendants, Guyson calls it, explaining as they walk that it serves as lodgings for those who live in the Crystarium - both temporarily and permanently. The vast size of the building is thus explained, if it must house the many people the Crystarium shelters. There isn’t always room, Guyson goes on to explain, particularly after Sin Eaters attack settlements and drive more people into the city… but there should be a good deal of room available now, now that the world is safer; now that people have begun to leave the assured safety of the Crystarium for the wider world beyond.

Sammet’s throat tightens as they pass through the door and he enters, for the first time in years, an enclosed building. He eyes the door - it isn’t locked, he knows; he could leave any time he pleased. Presuming he can tear his way free of Guyson, of course. Still, his mind screams trapped. Trapped!

“One room, two beds,” Guyson’s saying, to a weary-looking clerk who nevertheless greets them with a warm smile. Guyson eyes Sammet before adding, “On the highest floor you can give us.”

The clerk’s tired gaze moves to Sammet. “Are you quite alright, sir?” His eyes flick briefly toward Guyson’s grip on the viis’ arm; the slightly frenzied look in Sammet’s eyes.

“I… I-”

“This is his first time away from the forest,” Guyson says, quietly. “He’s a little bent out of shape. If you could get us a room with a good view of some greenery?” Oddly touched, Sammet blinks in surprise. If Guyson notices, he doesn’t show it, receiving the key to their new room with a word of thanks and not so much as a glance in Sammet’s direction. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I want a bath before bed.”

As well he might, after tumbling through the dirt with Sammet earlier. The viis simply nods his agreement - though he has been a good deal worse, and gone a good deal longer between baths, he expects the people of the Crystarium will be more inclined to aid him if he doesn’t look as though he has been… well. Rolling around in the grass with a furious hume.

The bathing chambers are on the bottom floor of the building, Guyson explains, leading the way… with one hand still firmly latched onto Sammet’s arm. He begins to wonder if Guyson means to ever release him again. “There’s baths and showers,” the man continues, opening a door to reveal several gleaming empty tubs… which briefly stymies Sammet, better-accustomed to washing up in waterfalls.

“How…?”

“Hm? Ah, right. You’re a proper barbarian, eh?” Guyson releases his arm at last to approach one of the tubs, turning one of the peculiar silver fixtures set atop it… and water pours out, startling Sammet with its abrupt loudness. “It can be as hot or cold as you like it,” the hume says, shouting to be heard over the running water. He continues explaining the workings of the device, letting Sammet adjust the temperature of the water pooling in the bottom of the tub - what a strange thing to create! And how very indulgent, hot water at a touch; in Rak’tika, when they desire hot water, it requires either heating over a fire, or a not insignificant amount of fire shards…

He watches Guyson ready his own tub… and then watches the hume strip off his own clothes, tossing them haphazardly onto a nearby bench, along with his weapons. Wreathed in steam, the man’s body is beautiful, despite its scars; Sammet has only ever seen his fellow viis naked, and every one of them had become familiar, unremarkable. It is strange, then, to see a body he doesn’t know. Strange and thrilling, nearly as daunting as the unfamiliar sky overhead.

Guyson sinks into his tub with a deep sigh. He casts a curious glance in Sammet’s direction… and smiles, asking, “Were you gonna bathe, or were you just here to enjoy the show?”

It makes Sammet’s heart flutter more than it ought.

Muttering, he strips off his own clothing, unties his hair, and - tentatively - steps into the impossibly warm water. “Oh,” he says, appreciatively, as the heat begins to sink into his weary muscles, making him drowsy.

There’s a quiet chuckle from the tub beside his. “Ah, Sammy. We’ll make a pampered city-dweller out of you yet.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“And I told you not to run off,” Guyson replies, unfazed. “Give me what I want, Sam, and I’ll give you what you want.”

To that, he makes no response, focusing instead on bathing. He does have bruises from Guyson’s hands, red marks ringing his arm where the man has gripped it for the past several bells. Sammet combs his hair with his fingers, thinking. It will be no easy matter to escape from Guyson here - for of course he must; his moment of panic at the gates was only that: a moment. He will acquaint himself with this place, learn all he can of the city, of the people… and when he finds his moment, he will seize it, slipping free of Guyson’s supervision and charting his own course. He cannot afford to grow soft on his journey, after all; he must return to his duties in the Greatwood.

But this is nice.

He dozes off more than once, only a few seconds. The heat of the water, the exhaustion of the day, the promise of safety for the night - it is enough to lull him into sleep…

The last time he wakes, it is to Guyson shaking his shoulder. The water has gone tepid.

Needing no encouragement, he rises, following the hume’s instructions to drain the tub, then drying off with the provided towels. He leaves his hair loose to dry; the evening is warm. Still half-dozing, he follows Guyson’s lead up the stairs… and up and up. On the highest floor you can give us, he recalls, wryly; the hume believes putting distance between Sammet and the ground will discourage him from escaping… through the window, perhaps. As though heights have ever been a deterrent to a wood-warder. He will have to put this theory to the test… in the morning, perhaps.

For tonight, at least, he’ll behave himself. He is too exhausted not to.

The room, when at last they reach it, is smaller than he’d hoped - it is cramped, the ceiling too low, the walls too close. He folds his arms, looking around in rising discomfort; he cannot breathe here-

“Steady.” Guyson crosses the room, pushes the window open. The night breeze wafts in, smelling of… trees and grass; Sammet approaches the window, peering out to see what appears to be a small park. It isn’t much, but it’s green, and it makes it easier to tolerate the cramped confines of their new room. The room which will be his home, for lack of a better word, until such time as they must return to Rak’tika…

He turns, eyeing the bed dubiously; far more accustomed to simply settling into a nook in a tree or slinging a hammock, this is altogether foreign.

Guyson snorts. “Can’t do anything about the bed, I’m afraid. Get used to it.” He strips down once more, drops himself heavily into his own bed, and rolls to face the wall, turning his back on Sammet. “Turn the light off before you bed down, eh?”

Sammet gazes out the window a while longer, shoving homesickness aside.

And thus ends the first night of his quest.

[whimsykeii]

Motherly Advice

Before setting out for the Greatwood, A’lathei goes to her mother for advice. Her mother has some suggestions.

Behind the Scenes stuff under the cut!

Trying out a new gpose comic style. Hope this is a little better to read.

Several things to note: There was going to be more discussed between A’lathei and her mother, but I decided to leave the more comedic bits for an omake, and save the other serious stuff for a later comic, with the Exarch more in focus.

I’zazanh and G’raha fill a very niche trait that Antelope tribe members are raised to respect and find attractive: Intelligence. It’s not too far fetched that she happens to be into Sharlayan Seekers. Y’shtola was a crush for a time, G’raha was a burgeoning crush during the CT raids... etc, etc.

A’lathei is dressed the starting gear in response to Altheia telling them the conversations she has with Ardbert, so she’s messing with the Exarch again. This conversation only happened because she’s overthinking. Back on the First, she was only keeping her attraction subtle because of propriety and out of respect for her girlfriend, who probably hasn’t met G’raha before he went to sleep. (spoiler: they knew of each other)

During Rak’tika and onwards? He’s in danger. So much danger.

[sands-of-amber]

FFXIV Write Entry #3: Keeping the Balance

❀ Prompt #13: Check || Read it w/ notes on AO3 here ❀

“As I have explained many times before, hero, everything in this world naturally seeks a comfortable balance. We Ascians know this all too well.”

Yuna listens to the lilting sound of the Ascian’s voice but does not look up at him as he goes about his work, feeling too awkward to meet his gaze in her moment of vulnerability. Instead she looks off in the opposite direction, trying to focus on a patch of moss winding up the cavern wall to take her mind off of the all-too-close quarters in which she currently found herself with him.

“With your aether having shifted so heavily toward the light, it is only natural that it should want for a little bit of darkness to keep it in check.” Emet-Selch sighs, shaking his head as though chiding a young child as he holds his palm gently against the Au Ra’s shoulder.

Yuna tenses momentarily as the initial feeling of his aether attempting to flow into her puts her on edge, and he seems to notice this.

“Relax. If I wished to harm you I could’ve done so many times before now.” He says with another tired sigh, causing her to become aware of her stiffened, defensive posture. “The more you fight it, the longer this will take. And though I know not your feelings on the matter, I, for one, am not too keen on the idea of lingering here in this backwater for any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

The Warrior of Light lets out a sigh of her own this time, drawing in a deep breath and then releasing the tension in her body with it. “Alright, alright.” She murmurs, letting herself sink down into the coolness of the rock which was currently serving as her seat here in the cavern and trying her best to fight against the natural urge to resist the intrusion of his dark aether.

Collapsing in a cave in Yx’Maja shortly after defeating the Lightwarden of the Rak’tika Greatwood hadn’t been part of the plan, but then again, not much of anything ever went quite according to plan for her and her companions it seemed. At least her body had waited to give out until after her friends had already departed back toward Fanow. The last thing she wanted was for them to worry about her, and it seemed for the time being that most of them were largely unaware of the extent to which her condition was taking a physical toll on her body. She found herself suddenly very thankful that she had decided to stay behind a bit longer to reflect on the cave paintings and the words of Emet-Selch that had gone along with them.

When she’d awoken not long ago, it had been not to the aid of one of her companions, but rather to the sight and unmistakably heavy presence of a certain Ascian looming over her, her body sitting upright and head resting against the cool wall of the cave. When he’d noticed her gazing up at him, he’d given her that signature smirk of his and made some smarmy comment about her finally being awake (his exact choice of words hadn’t fully registered in her groggy mind but she did remember the teasing cadence). He had then gone on to explain to her that he had imbued her with a bit of his aether to help calm the ill effects she was currently experiencing from the abundance of light within her, but that if she wished for true momentary relief he’d need to give her a bit more.

And now here she was, accepting the help of what was supposed to be her sworn enemy and wishing the lines weren’t becoming so confusingly blurred these days. Not long ago he’d rescued Y’shtola from her second foray into the lifestream, and now this… Not to mention the increasingly complicated feelings she had every time the theatrical man deigned to grace her and the Scions with his chaotic presence. And of course there were the stories he’d shared about his motivations and the truth about Hydaelyn and Zodiark. Why couldn’t he just act purely evil and irredeemable like every other Ascian she’d faced until now? It would make things so much easier.

The feeling of his aether flowing into her is strange at first, but it quickly takes on a cool, soothing sensation that spreads down her body and throughout her veins. Where the light had been almost an overwhelmingly burning presence tearing at her insides, his dark aether was a cooling balm by contrast. It wound its way around her own aether and reached into the parts of her soul that were beginning to split, making her feel much more relieved and like herself than she had felt in a while.

Yuna’s eyes fall shut and she melts into his touch, a soft sigh inadvertently sneaking past her lips which earns an amused chuckle from Emet-Selch and in turn her cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“I take it this feels pleasant, hero?” He remarks in that snarky drawl of his, and she doesn’t need to open her eyes to see the smug expression plastered upon his features.

When she doesn’t respond, he takes it upon himself to press her further. “You know, I could do this for you a lot more frequently. And, if I may be so bold, I believe such regular “treatments” as this would be beneficial to us both.”

This gets her eyes to snap open, her neck finally craning up to look at him and meet that self-assured grin with an expression of bewilderment. And of course, this is precisely the reaction he had hoped to pull from her, and it shows in the mirth dancing in his otherwise tired aurum eyes.

“You… What are you implying?” Yuna stammers, any relaxation she’d found having faded and given way to more defensive tension as her eyes search his for the motives behind his words like they so often did.

“Simply that I am here to offer my assistance should you choose to accept it. Did I not tell you as much upon our first meeting?” Emet-Selch shrugs, feigning ignorance at her question as he withdraws his hand from her shoulder.

The Warrior pouts and shakes her head impatiently. “No, you know what I mean. Why must you always dance around the truth and make me guess at the true intentions behind your words? Do you enjoy being difficult to speak to?” She cocks her head to one side and raises a brow accusingly, rising to her feet and facing the Ascian with arms crossed over her chest expectantly, the toe of one boot tapping the hard ground. Despite her diminutive stature and the way she has to crane her neck to look up at him, she stands firm in her stubborn pursuit of the truth.

“Is that much not abundantly obvious, my dear?” A lopsided smirk. She’s so much like Azem when she gets riled up like this. It’s almost uncanny. Emet-Selch thinks with amusement.

Just as she opens her mouth to retort, the infuriating Ascian takes it upon himself to close the distance between them, pressing his mouth against hers somewhat forcefully and shoving the petite Au Ra up against the wall directly behind her. The breath leaves her nostrils in a surprised exhale as her back collides with the cool dampness of the stone, her wrists kept in place on either side of her head by a strong grip. Another calming wave of his cool aether rushes over her, and she feels her body melt into his kiss, lips parting to allow his tongue to dart in and claim hers.

Her tail begins to thrash anxiously against the wall as her lungs start to burn from the lack of oxygen, and Emet-Selch pulls back just enough to break the kiss and allow them both to take in gulps of air. He regards her in this state, eyes half-lidded and cheeks tinted pink, and for a brief moment his face mirrors her own. But that minuscule glimpse of vulnerability is quickly replaced by a triumphant smirk, his hands releasing their grip on her wrists and coming to rest upon her jaw.

“Does that aid in conveying the ever-elusive meaning behind my words, dear hero?” He asks in a hushed tone, his own breathing still ragged from the intensity of the moment prior. “I had hoped you’d discern that just as I am the dark your soul seeks, you serve as the light to mine. But perhaps demonstrations truly work best on you, hm?”

Yuna shivers and swallows as one of his gloved hands tilts her jaw up to hold his gaze, his thumb gently stroking the pearly scales there, while his other hand finds its way into her short lavender tresses, fingers tangling gently yet firmly into the strands. His face is still close enough that his lips would brush hers were he to lean even an ilm closer. Suddenly the cavern feels much smaller, and it’s difficult to think straight with his scent of musk, amber, and a hint of cologne overwhelming her senses and making her knees feel weak.

“I…” Her pale yellow irises dart back and forth between his lips and his eyes, his breath warm on her face. Something in her wants more of whatever that was just now, but she hesitates.

Emet-Selch sighs. “Darling, did I not just demonstrate to you the way that the darkness within me can keep the light within you in check? ‘Tis only natural that we as beings of dark and light should be drawn to one another to maintain the balance.” He quirks a brow, hoping she’ll pick up on his underlying sentiment. “What I offer you is something your sundered companions could never provide.”

Yuna looks down, but he is quick to force her chin back up to look at him. He wants to see her face when she admits it. “I… I suppose that makes sense, yes…”

“Good.” He smiles. “And you must surely understand that the relief I have just given you from your affliction is only temporary, and ere long you will inevitably need another dose of my aether. Unless you would like to continue collapsing in all manner of strange places, that is.”

She takes his smirk as a challenge, and the lively fire he’d loved and missed seeing for so long ignites in her eyes as she returns his playful grin with one of her own.

“As long as we keep these “treatments” of yours just between you and I, I see no reason to refuse.”

And this time it’s her turn to steal his chance to retort away, her hands flying up to grab at the fur collar of his coat and pulling his mouth back down onto hers with a sigh.

[silvaswiftcast]

FFxivWrite2023 Prompt #10 (Free Day): Comfort Under the Stars

Characters: Silva Cataracta, Ricmorn Cataracta, and Hien Rijin

Rating: Mature

Notes: This scene takes place sometime after Shadowbringers Patch: 5.3. Words in [brackets] are in another language, in this case, it's in Doman.

Content Warnings/Additional Tags: Angst, Depression/Anxiety, PTSD, The effects of Light Poisoning, Nightmares/Night Terrors, Sleep Deprivation, Polyamory Relationship (V Relationship), M/F/M relationship.

Sleep was a hard thing to come by for Silva ever since the events on the First. The rough combination of the effects of Light poisoning and the events she saw firsthand did a number on her psyche. She could never get used to the iridescent flecks floating in her eyes, flicking as bright as the sun — even if her eyelids shut, she still saw them. It was an image that stuck with her months later. How her body constantly switched between shivering and the irritable sensation of her skin crawling. Even now, her body still struggled with regulating her temperature sometimes. She switched between freezing to death and feeling like she was the only person suffering in her own personal heat wave.

And then there were the endless nightmares — night terrors. That was the term Y’shtola gave for the horribly graphic dreams that left her screaming in her sleep. Left her fighting invisible horrors and demons that weren’t there. They were usually always the same. The faces of her friends and loved ones covered in blood, lifeless, and devoid of warmth. Their bodies were strewn about in a mangled collection of broken and torn limbs. Though all their eyes held no spark of life in them as they stared back at her, the haunted gazes pierced through her soul.

Their voices would call out to her in the darkness. Loud and deafening to her ivory horns.

You did this, Silva. This is your fault. Why couldn’t you save us? You’re the Warrior of Light. It’s your job to protect us, and you couldn’t do that. You let us die — let us suffer.

It’s all your fault.

It took Silva a long time not to be as afraid of the dreams — that she should always try to get at least a few bells of sleep each night. And find time in her already busy schedule to steal a nap on the nights she found it impossible.

Like tonight.

Somehow, the dancer managed to sleep through most of the night without too much trouble for almost two weeks straight. Something she hadn’t done since she, Ricmorn, and the others first arrived to the Rak’tika Greatwood. Something she thought was impossible for her to do ever again. Perhaps it was a sign that things were looking up for the Au Ra at last.

But for whatever reason, Silva couldn’t fall asleep tonight. And rather than spending the next who knows how many bells staring up at the ceiling and rolling around in the sheets, fighting to get comfortable and possibly disturbing the two men sharing a bed with her, she decided to get up instead.

It was stupid. So unbelievably stupid — Silva knew that. The silliness of it made her want to pull her hair out.

But she knew when not to push herself so hard. This was one of those instances where she needed to give herself some grace. She was still healing from her trauma, and that was something that couldn’t be rushed. For everything she’s been through in her short life, it was understandable that her healing had no approximate timeline.

It didn’t mean she could stop herself from being upset about it.

Frustrated with herself over something so ridiculous, there was only one place she could go to this late at night in the Doman Enclave to try to clear her mind: the private garden behind Kienkan.

The garden Hien kindly asked her to create for him during the reconstruction of the Enclave. The one he helped her build when his important duties allowed it. The one where the two Domans laughed, talked, cried, and danced together away from prying eyes — where they let their intense feelings for one another grow and blossom into what it was today.

This was her sanctuary — her peace. Surrounded by beautiful blooming plum trees and flowers, listening to the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs as the starry heavens above twinkled above her head. This place has heard all her secrets, worries, and fears. She’s watered some of the plant life around her with an ocean of tears — her tears.

Silva wasn’t sure how long she sat on the ground in complete silence until her horns alerted her to the soft sound of a door sliding open. She looked over to the source of the sound to find Hien standing a few fulms away, one of her favorite blankets bundled up in his arms. He gave her a warm, understanding smile when their eyes met.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, coming to join her.

She nodded, defeated. “Too much on my mind.” And when a watery laugh escaped her, his peridot orbs softened. “And here I thought I was doing so well. So much for that.”

Her horns picked up on his quiet sigh as he knelt beside her, wrapping the warm blanket around her shoulders. “Given everything you’ve been through and the hard work you’ve put in to process all of this, I think you’re doing fine. You’re being too hard on yourself, [wildflower,]” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the small patch of ivory scales in the middle of her brow. The young lord shifted to sit beside his beloved, one arm wrapping around her lithe frame while his other hand found hers to lace his fingers through. “We both know that this is something you cannot brute force your way through to the other side. It’s okay — it’ll be okay.”

A hesitant smile graced her lips as she squeezed his hand. “You always know what to say when I need to hear it, [my heart.]”

“And have you not done the same for me when I needed comfort since we’ve known one another?”

Silva snorted, the point of her tail twitching. But he was right. This was something they’ve done often with one another — building each other up when the time called for it. 

And… it always worked.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” she questioned. The way his eyes glimmered in the moonlight at her question was the only answer she needed. He pressed another kiss to the top of her head when she sighed, guilt curling in her belly. “Shit— I’m sorry, Hien. I know you have a busy day tomorrow and—”

“It’s alright, I promise, Silva,” he told her. “I can handle being a little more tired in my meetings. Making sure you’re okay will always be important to me.”

“Besides,” chimed in another voice, “he’s not the only person who woke up to find the middle of our bed cold and empty.”

Silva turned to find Ricmorn standing where Hien had only moments ago, holding a tray with a steaming teapot and three matching teacups. She rolled her eyes when he and the young lord chuckled as he approached them, but it was hard not to laugh a little along with him.

“Perhaps you’ll wake both of us up next time you find sleep evades you, yes?” the white mage suggested, pouring her a cup of her favorite tea and handing it to her.

She gave him her thanks for the tea, savoring the warmth seeping into her palm, before answering. “Yes, yes — I’ll wake you both up.”

“Good.”