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faelune-home · 4 years ago

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A Blade of Fallen Petals

(A/N: Sometimes it’s the major story NPCs, and sometimes its the smaller ones. They were only around for so long, but their death still hits like a brick. ;-;

That’s Wilred here. A little story about missing him, and coping with that. I used Lyse as a bouncing off NPC for miqo!Fu partly due to location (since the mini questline that acknowledges him and gives him a resting place in Stormblood goes into the Lochs) but also I find Lyse an interesting character to discuss death, just because for as much as its not presented in game, she’s lost a lot. She’s probably quite familiar with it.

I want to write more of these NPC remembrance stories, and I’ve already done a few prior - one for Minfilia, and two as part of FFXIV Write 2020, both actually featuring Lyse incidentally - but I’d like to do more.

Didn’t do too much editing after I finished writing, so apologies for any iffy errors.

@ffxiv-writers)

Cracking bones pierced the air as Lyse stretched, finally freed from the stuffiness of the castle meeting room. It felt like she’d been up and moving and chatting since dawn had broken, but she could rest at last. Spying the sun in the sky, seeing it just hovering above the walls of the Quarter, she let out a breath of relief. It would be nearing meal time, and she was starving. And she’d have to consider collecting a plate for Fordola as well…

“Well well, if it ain’t Lyse? I figured you’d be busy till sundown,” a voice called, snapping the woman from her thoughts. Gundobald approached with a wave, an affable smile on his face, which she gladly returned.

“It’s getting close enough though, isn’t it? So technically I have been,” she countered, nodding in the direction of the lowering star. “But it’s good to see you, especially after so long.”

“Likewise, lass, likewise. And it's good to be back in Ala Mhigo, even if it's only for a day,” the elder man hummed contentedly, looking around the city with pride in his eyes. Lyse couldn’t help but smile at his reaction.

“Right, you said you’d stay behind for those that couldn’t make the trip,” she mused, remembering the arrangement one of her soldiers - his own nephew - had made to transport the Ala Mhigans home, “So what brings you all the way here then? Just seeing the sights? Taking back stories for the older folk back in Thanalan?”

Gundobald tilted his head. “Aye, I suppose I could do that for them. Rhalgr knows even in their last few days, everyone back in Little Ala Mhigo gains a bit of new life being reminded that their home is free now.” Then he shook his head. “But that wasn’t the main reason I came. It was to pay some respects to some old comrades. The ones that couldn’t be here even to hear the news.”

Lyse lowered her head upon hearing this. “I see. I did learn about the old mercenary monument up north. Probably still fitting for everyone else that uh...passed beyond these lands.” Looking back at him, she asked, “So you’re returning home now? Would you like an escort?”

“Nah, I’m not so enfeebled I can’t handle myself on the return trip,” the highlander shook his head, though there was a friendly glint in his eye as he said it, “Better to keep your men here where they’re needed more, Commander. But if you want, you could send someone to go check on the Scions’ Warrior girl by the monument.”

At this, the woman perked up. “Fufu is here? There, I mean?”

“Aye, I figured you would’ve known, that she would’ve told you. She was up there before I arrived, and she’s still there now.” Lyse shook her head, surprise still colouring her features. Gundobald frowned, but he didn’t sound worried when he added, “Well, I’ll let you look into that on your own. Suppose you’ve been so busy you could do with a catch up with your friend. I’ll get started on my way back.”

He waved, wandering off down the cobbled streets, leaving a pondering Lyse to her thoughts.

~*~*~

The woman didn’t wait long before making the decision to venture to the old tomb, leaving behind an order to deliver food to the resistance’s prisoner should Lyse not return in time to do it herself. A bread roll haphazardly stuffed in her own month would do her until then.

The sky was turning a shade of purple by the time she reached the monument, the clouds painted orange and pink in the fading sunlight. A sole figure sat on the quickly chilling stone in front of the pillar, the only other source of light coming from a small lantern mounted on the saddle of a sleeping chocobo nearby.

“Hey,” Lyse called out, making the miqo’te jump and spin around. A hand hovered over the chakram by her waist, however Fufu quickly relaxed at the sight of her old friend. Her flickering tail settled.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Fufu said as Lyse joined her. The hyur gave the Scion a friendly nudge, lightly scolding her by saying, “Of course you weren’t, ‘cos you never even told me you were here.”

The miqo’te winced, a sheepish smile on her face. “I’m sorry. In my defense I did show up at the palace gates, and I thought about it, but everyone said you were busy pretty much all day. They offered to take a message, but I didn’t want to interrupt or make you take time out if you were doing important stuff.”

“You’re never interrupting,” Lyse chucked, “I’ll always be happy to make time for you or the other Scions if I can. If anything,” she groaned, rolling her shoulder, both girls wincing at the loud crack it let out, “I’d appreciate having an excuse to take a break.”

Fufu nodded. “Alright then, noted.” Both women fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the quiet as night fell, the sounds of the salt waves lapping at the shore behind them, and Fufu’s noble bird snoring softly next to them, the lantern swinging gently on its hook with each breath the chocobo took. Their faint shadows shifted ever so slightly against the stone structure.

“Who are you here for?” Lyse finally asked, the question having been sitting on her tongue since she’d arrived. Fufu didn’t answer immediately, but Lyse didn’t expect her to. In the meantime she added, “I met Gundobald in the Quarter, he said he came here with you. Or more like you arranged to meet here, I suppose, he said you were already here when he arrived from Little Ala Mhigo.”

Fufu’s tail twitched, managing to brush against the hyuran’s arm.

“Someone I knew once.” Was all she said.

“Did I know them?”

“...Kinda.”

They sat again, Lyse willing to wait for her friend to talk, or even if she didn’t at all. But after a moment, Fufu took in a breath.

“You remember one of the first reports I wrote on my own? For one of my first missions without another Scion watching me.” With a sly smile and a side eye toward her friend, she added, “After the whole thing with the sylphs.”

Lyse inadvertently spluttered as she burst out laughing. “Oh gods! I remember that! Your penmanship was awful, and it was so plain!”

Lyse was already near falling to the floor from hysterics, however the miqo’te shoved the other woman over with an exaggerated pout all the same, though unable to hide the amusement in her voice as she argued, “Excuse you, I’d never done much writing before then, never mind for a fancy mission report. And what am I supposed to even put in one? ‘Went to Little Ala Mhigo, nobody liked me, I had to save some kids from the amalj’aa’? And it's not like you or Papalymo or anybody else was around to help me write it.”

“I kno- gods,” the hyuran gasped, finally trying to bring her laughter to an end. Given their location, things were sure to take a turn, even if Fufu had started the moment of levity. Indeed the woman in question had turned sombre once more. Lyse coughed, trying to stem her chuckles. “Alright, I’m done.”

Another breath out to calm herself, then Lyse said, “I mean, really, it was plain, but that’s fine. It did the job it was meant to do - say what happened, what you did - and you were still new to it all. And teaching you wouldn’t have helped, you probably don’t need to write those anymore. So nothing to dwell on anymore. Right?” Fufu shot her a grateful look. Then she looked up at the stone beacon in front of them.

“Well, one of those kids involved in that whole thing, he’s here now.” Lyse flinched, eyes glancing up at the tomb.

“The one that didn’t die in the amalj’aa attack...but he died later as a Brave,” Fufu said, her face eerily straight, yet her eyes already beginning to water. Lyse herself found her eyes drifting to the foggy horizon, a faint memory of a bright eyed, hopeful looking young man dressed in blue coming to mind.

“His name was Wilred,” the miqo’te added without prompt, “And he meant every word of the Braves’ original creed.”

She shook her head, letting out a shaky breath. “I know a few of the folk that believed in what the Braves were meant to be still stuck with the Scions after that whole mess, but Godsdammit, I wish he could’ve been there as well. He just disappeared one day and then h-he was...he’d been left to rot in Urth’s Fount! He d-didn’t deserve that, h-he…”

Her words caught in her throat, and despite pressing her hands against her eyes to stem the oncoming flood, a sob broke from the warrior. Without hesitation, Lyse pulled the miqo’te into her shoulder, letting her friend weep freely. Fufu’s chocobo nearby stirred, letting out a small chirp at the sound of its mistress’ crying. A glance from the monk let the bird settle again, although the tenseness in its haunches betrayed its worry.

“He should’ve been here, I know,” Lyse mumbled gently, rocking to try and calm the other woman. She bit her lip, trying to think of what she could say to soothe her friend, but coming up short. She didn’t know the boy that well, only recognising him as a passing face in the Rising Stones...and one that eventually stopped showing up.

“It’s more than that,” Fufu hiccuped, lifting her head. Her eyes were already red raw. “He started out so angry and desperate, desperate enough for the ascians to notice him and his friends and...and he was the only one to make it out alive. And that changed him, and he wanted to do good after that. And the Braves were supposed to be his second chance to do that and-- By the Twelve, Lyse, he was younger than us.” Her voice cracked, and Lyse winced.

Still, the woman leaned her head forward against the other’s in a reassuring gesture. Fufu sniffed.

“I know I can’t go back and change things. I can wish and hope and say what I could’ve done instead - and I wish I’d watched him more now, I wish I’d taken Riol worries to heart, and I wish we’d never crossed paths with Ilberd, that I had cut him down where he stood if I knew then what I do now - but I know that won’t change anything about what happened before.” She let out a heavy sigh after her rant, finally seeming to calm. “I wish for a lot of things Lyse.”

“Me too.”

“I wish he had a chance.”

“I know. I wish all the time that Papalymo was still here to help me. He’d keep the resistance in line better than I could.” At that, the keeper chuckled.

Another sniff. “It’s moments like this...losing people I feel like I could’ve saved, it makes me try harder. So I don’t have to lose anyone else. So normal people can have a chance after hardship.”

“For those we have lost?” Lyse said, a small smile on her lips. Fufu smiled back, nodding.

“I wish they didn’t have to die, but I won’t let their deaths be in vain. But...but I guess it all feels like so much sometimes. And I need to be alone to deal with it. I know I could stay with the other Scions and they wouldn’t judge me for it, but just every now and then...” She trailed off.

“I get that,” the hyuran chuckled, ruffling Fufu’s hair, “And that’s fine, good even. It shows that you care. That the whole Warrior of Light title isn’t just for show. Better that than coming across like some soulless killing machine.”

“I’m proud of what I do, since I can help so many people, but sometimes it can feel like a weight,” Fufu pouted.

Lyse sighed. “I know the feeling.”

The highlander stood, her knees cracking, offering a hand to Fufu as well. The chocobo finally woke after a whistle from its rider, stumbling to its feet.

“We’ll go back to the Quarter together, and you can spend the night with me. I can send a soldier or call Tataru’s linkshell to let the Scions know,” Lyse suggested. Too worn down by her emotional outburst to argue, Fufu nodded, the idea sounding appealing at that.

“And in future,” the woman continued, “if you come here again, I insist you let me know. I won’t let you sit here on your own. This sort of thing is better with a little support, isn’t it?”

Fufu looked up at the stars above, the shimmering dots reflecting in her wide watery eyes. She smiled, looking back at her friend.

“I’d appreciate that.”

#Final Fantasy XIV #FFXIV #Wilred Glasse #character death #lyse hext #my writing #keeper of the moon miqo'te #my wol #fufu faelune

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farplane · 5 years ago

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the taste of defeat

août 2019: eorzea sairsel and baelsar’s wall. ffxiv patch 3.5 spoilers. 5,043 words. (read on ao3)

Sairsel had been raised under the shadow of Baelsar’s Wall.

Far enough, deep enough inside the forest, it could easily be forgotten—as was the plight of the people who suffered on the other side. Beside it, the Wood still lived, breathed, thrived. Sairsel had never known the world any other way: the Wall had stood, skeletal and cold, in the seasons before he came into the world.

His people lived as the heart of the land beat, calling no place home but the Wood itself. If ever they camped by its eastern borders, the children were under the strictest warnings not to approach the limits of the Wall; all they needed to obey was the shadow of a girl who had wandered too close and returned with a gaping hole in her chest, a memory they were not soon to forget. Nairel—six years her brother’s elder, and nine summers on the day the hunters had carried the girl’s body home—had told Sairsel that their people had very nearly taken up arms against the Empire in revenge, arms long since laid down when the war against Ala Mhigo had been won.

The clans of the Twelveswood had been the first to fall to the griffins’ blades, in those days; the stories of the elders made that abundantly clear. What could they do now, against the might of a magitek empire? They would not suffer the slaughter of all their children to avenge the death of one. The Empire won; the Empire had already won.

The jagged metal spires slicing the sky, in the eyes of all those who lived among the trees beside it, were the forefront of its dominance. Ala Mhigo was an enemy left behind in the past, and a neighbour forgotten in the present.

When the Calamity came, the sky bathed the Wall in its red shadows. Sairsel couldn’t forget the sight of the way the crimson moon in the west had rained down fire, so devastating in its destruction that it spread west, too, everywhere they looked; everywhere burning. The sky had been red, and the Wall had been red. It had stood tall and angry, sharp and unshaken on the horizon, never faltering. Even in the disaster of its own making, the Empire never seemed to suffer. Dalamud was cut down from the sky, and it stopped burning, and the Wall stopped flowing red. Its sharp lines were choked by grey, barely visible, but no one ever came. It simply stood while the smoke drowned the forestborn.

Ever flows—

Months. It had taken Sairsel months to forget the stink of it, the feeling of ash under his feet, so thick it blanketed the earth like the first blush of snow when winter came to kiss autumn. Had the imperials on the Wall felt that fear—the one that crept in and pierced the heart, whispering that everything was lost? Had they seen the sorrow, the loss? His people’s laments and the wailing of the Wood itself had seemed like an echo to answer the waning call of Hydaelyn, her voice long extinguished by the fading of the light.

the land’s—

They never returned west after that; the desolation alone was near impossible to stomach. The whole of the Twelsvewood had fallen so quiet since the red moon had taken to the sky that even the forestborn strained to hear its voice, and in the west, the corrupted aether was so stifling that it was utterly silent. Rock and barren earth, singing no songs but that of the dead. None could live upon that land.

well of purpose.

In the five summers of healing that followed, Sairsel never saw Baelsar’s Wall again, either. With every passing season, it seemed, the imperials encroached upon the Wood more and more: with the threat woodwrath had once posed no longer standing against them, there were only bodies, always too few to oppose them. Sairsel’s heart broke for his home and ached not to be far from it, but for the horizon itself. For skies not darkened by the shadow of that wall. And when his feet took him away at long last, they took him west, as far as the sea of sand—until a daughter of the griffins welcomed him to a home he’d never even known to seek.

“You were a sellsword?” asked the Griffin.

“Aye,” answered Morgana Arroway. Her voice scraped like sand on stone when she spoke of the past. “My brother and I were courted by one of the companies, in the end, that led the charge against the mad king—gods, I don’t even remember the name. But I imagine we would have stayed with them for the new world order, if that order had been ours.”

The Griffin was silent for a moment. Even sitting a ways from them, pretending to be wholly focused on sharpening a new batch of arrowheads, Sairsel couldn’t help but wonder what sort of face lay behind the mask. Did he look kind? Hard? Broken? Perhaps half-mad? Handsome? His silences held as much weight as his words, always spoken in a low voice like a serpent’s venom filled with shards of glass.

The stone, the sand, the broken glass. Everyone in the Resistance had something of it in their voices—the ones old enough to have known the fall, at least.

“I was, too. A sellsword.” Another pause. Morgana made no effort to fill it; every moment, she seemed to be taking the measure of the Griffin. Not out of the same naïve fascination of her son’s that bordered on burgeoning admiration, but the way she regarded every man and woman who asked to lead her sword. “So you would have stayed, then, if not for the invaders?”

“Of course. I never had any other intention. I’d entertained the notion of taking my sword elsewhere, for a time, but never without my brother, and he had a wife and a boy. Never without my family.”

The broadhead in Sairsel’s hand slipped, slicing the side of his finger open. It stung, and his breath hissed; blood welled up from the shallow cut. Both the Griffin and his mother’s attention were pulled to him, but he didn’t look at them, because he didn’t know what reaction he might have if he looked into her eyes after hearing this. Never without her family—without Gotwin, Havisa, Mathias. But her own son? He’d not been born in Ala Mhigo. Him, she’d had no qualms leaving in the Wood with the shadow of a mother he thought long dead.

“Your family—”

Morgana shook her head, jaw tight. “Gotwin, my brother, he wanted to stay and fight—thought we could drive the Garleans back. If not for the child, I’d have stayed, too, but we convinced him to leave. We fought in the arena for a time; earned a reputation. It was right around the time General Aldynn was fighting, too—gods, but they loved pitting the Griffin’s Talons against the Bull of Ala Mhigo.”

Neither she nor Sairsel could have seen the minute shift in the Griffin’s expression, even if he had not been hiding it behind the mask. She went on, none the wiser: “We were set to have a match against him, and we were approached to make certain he didn’t make it out alive. He’d come to the bloodsands in irons, see, and won his freedom—and by then was costing the wrong people too much coin. I would have gone through with it, but my brother, the honourable fool, he refused.”

Knuckles white-hot as she gripped the hilt of her sword, mouth in a snarl; there was no other way to tell that story. It was the first time Sairsel heard so much of it, but he knew.

“They slit his throat and left him in the desert. I tried to hide his wife and boy away in the Shroud, but I lost them, too. That’s when I joined the Resistance; it’s what I should have done from the first instead of running.”

The Griffin shook his head, his voice raw with quiet anger. “Even scattered beyond that accursed wall, they’ve taken everything from us. We ran to protect our families, only to fall to the blades of those who were content to watch them slaughter us. The only way forward is back where it began.”

“So that’s your play,” Morgana said slowly, after a moment. “You listen to our stories, and then you make a rousing speech of it.”

“Do I seem to you like a man who is playing?”

“No. But whoever you are underneath that thing,” Morgana said, reaching out to tap a finger against the mask, “you should know, already, that I don’t need convincing.”

“So you’re prepared to do what it takes?”

“Anything,” Morgana said.

The Griffin held out a hand, palm angled upwards. Morgana looked down at his gauntlet, as though considering, then slipped on her own to grip his forearm with fingers like claws. “I’m with you,” she said, then tugged his arm towards her, bringing him closer, “but I can’t be doing with the mask. The imperials hide their faces, too, my friend.”

Behind the mask, the Griffin smiled bitterly. “We are brother- and sister-in-arms. That is all that matters.” As Morgana let go, he deigned a glance towards Sairsel; he could feel the weight of that gaze even behind the blank white of the mask as the Griffin motioned to him with a tilt of his chin. “The little Elezen. He’s yours?”

“Aye.”

The Griffin turned back to Morgana. “Has he got the stomach for it, too? Anything?”

Sairsel answered before his mother could do it for him; he wouldn’t have put it past her. “I do,” he said between gritted teeth, wishing that it were true.

The Griffin looked at him. Sairsel did not know what he saw.

The people of the Wanderer were easy enough to find, if one knew where to look—and Sairsel never needed to look very long or very far to come home. It had been months since the last time; he’d found his clan near Urth’s Fount then, as though by some twisted game of fate. He hadn’t stayed long, too distraught and broken to let the world come into focus around him, but his father had come with him to the place where Wilred’s body was found. The water was not stained red. No part of the Wood bore traces of his passing, or his lonely grave—instead the weight had traveled all the way to Little Ala Mhigo and remained where his absence left the greatest void.

“The worst part is I didn’t even know him all that well,” Sairsel had said, his voice half-caught in his throat, “but he was so desperate to free Ala Mhigo when I met him, even though he’d never even seen it. This must have been the closest he’s ever been to it. And I—all my life, I’ve been so close, and I never even cared.”

He’d barely felt the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. “I kept too much from you. I worried that it would only cause you pain to know that a wall stood between you and your mother’s homeland.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. It’s not about my Ala Mhigan blood. It’s about all of us not giving a damn about this—this cruelty that’s been under our noses for twenty years. Twenty years, Baba. All of Eorzea turned their backs on them, and Wilred, he… he died wanting to protect it. Killed by one of his own.” And he’d sounded like a boy, then, even to his own ears: “It’s not fair.”

“One of his own?”

Sairsel had heard the name Ilberd a fair number of times, through the Resistance as much as through what covert information he exchanged with the Riskbreakers. A brother-in-arms. A traitor. No one knew whose blade had killed Wilred, but the whispers running through the Resistance said that it could have been no one else’s but Ilberd’s. Hearing the name was one thing, and hating it, too, but speaking it was something else entirely, too caustic on Sairsel’s tongue.

“An Ala Mhigan. A comrade in his company.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” his father had said, and Sairsel knew that he truly was.

The weight of Wilred’s death had pressed too hard, too close; he’d left soon after.

Now that he returned, it was only in passing again: he found his clan near the Sylphlands, this time, far enough from the Wall that he hadn’t run into the hunters while scouting, but too close for him to be comfortable.

He’d told Gundobald and the Griffin and anyone who would listen that this was his home—that he knew the Wood inside and out, that it was on his doorstep that the imperials had built that monstrous thing. For once, he could show that he was not playing at this for his mother’s sake: he was not two halves, not forestborn one day and Ala Mhigan another, but a whole of a boy who had grown up under the shadow of a chained homeland he’d never known was as much his as the Twelveswood.

He was forestborn. He was a Riskbreaker. He was Ala Mhigan. And he was a damned good ranger.

It wasn’t his first time being sent on a reconnaissance mission by the Resistance; if the gods were kind, the next would be beyond the Wall, scouting the reaches of Gyr Abania. He hoped he would live long enough to see Ala Mhigo itself. The thought that he might not had haunted him on every one of the nights he spent in the Wood on his own, watching for guard patterns and breaches in the Wall’s defenses. It was an inescapable reality, burrowing inside him and settling through every empty space of his being, but he was even more afraid of running than he was of dying.

The Resistance did not own him. It could be easy, he thought: he could send his last report, toss his linkpearl into the bushes, and take the nearest aetheryte to the Goblet. Ashelia hadn’t thrown him out on his arse for associating with the Resistance; surely she’d welcome him back if he said he had given them all that he could. I could not bear it if you became another corpse. Even after all this time, all those days spent with the Resistance wondering if there was even anything left of the boy he had been when he lied to his mother that he no longer had anything to do with the Riskbreakers, the Grand Steward’s words rang as clear in his mind as they did when she spoke them.

He was afraid of hurting her, but he was selfish. When he thought of leaving, he couldn’t help but imagine what his comrades would say of him—that he was a traitor, craven, that he had only needed himself to prove that he never belonged. He thought of the Griffin turning that blank-faced mask to his mother and showing his judgement of her even through it. Whoever he was—Sairsel was beginning to think that it didn’t matter, because what mattered was the way he spoke, the way he led—Sairsel wanted to prove himself to him almost as much as he did his mother.

So he did not run, but he did not return to Little Ala Mhigo. He would wait for the others to join him, he said, and one of the Masks replied that they would come.

While he waited, he found his clan. He found the nightfires, pulled his sister from her watch almost feverishly; the dawning of the assault was twisting him with apprehension.

“You have to leave,” he whispered to her, taking her face between his hands. Watching her face like it was the first time he saw it; like it was the last. “You have to leave, all right? Tell your mother whatever she needs to hear to move camp as quickly as possible.”

“Sairsel—” Nairel said, but he shook his head.

“No, listen to me. There’ll be fighting at the Wall, and if—if it spills out on this side, or the Garleans decide to retaliate, they will put anyone they find to the sword. You need to go west, or north, or—I don’t know. Just be as far from the Wall as you all can get.”

Nairel narrowed her eyes; she looked at him like he was half-mad, and for that, he couldn’t blame her. He certainly felt as much. “What are you saying? Why would they retaliate against us?”

Because if we do everything right, they’ll think the whole of Eorzea has moved against them. “I need you to trust me, Nairel. Please.”

For a moment, Sairsel thought that his own sister would turn him away once and for all. She searched his eyes, as though watching for some truth she knew him to be hiding, and, at long last, gave a nod.

“I’ll talk to my mother,” she said, squeezing both of his arms. “We’ll alert the Wood Wailers, too, try to get—”

“No. No Wood Wailers; they’ll only report back to the Adders. Only the clan.”

Nairel’s frown deepened. “Sairsel, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“We’re finally doing something. This is the first step for Ala Mhigo. It’ll be worth it, you’ll see—I promise.”

It made Sairsel ache more than he thought, to slip his hands from his sister’s, but he retreated back into the shadows before she could tell him to stay safe, or anything else that might sound like what Ashelia had told him—it could only hurt more.

The next morning, his people were gone, but this part of the Wood remained as he had always known it. Baelsar’s Wall stood with its sharp edges, dark against the colour of ash, as lightning split the sky.

Sairsel had always hated the Wall’s cold, graceless metal and the angry lights of all the Empire’s blighted magitek polluting the peace of the Twelveswood. ‘Beautiful’ was a word he never would have thought to be applicable to that thing, but tonight, it was—because tonight, Baelsar’s Wall was burning. Shrieking alarms blared, watch dogs barked and howled, and men and women in all the colours of the Alliance shouted battle cries as they clashed against imperial soldiers.

For the first time in his life, Sairsel found beauty not in the peace of the Wood, not in the quiet and the solitude he so dearly sought, but in chaos and violence.

“It will be a long while before the Empire is done paying for all they’ve done to us,” Morgana had said to her unit as they readied for the assault. She’d been restless the whole day before the attack, likely spurred by the urgency of being so close to home yet so many battles far—but Sairsel had an inkling it was the Twelveswood, too: the place that had taken from her far more than it had given. She’d barely looked at him all day. “But for tonight, I’ll be glad to take back some of that coin in blood.”

And blood there was. It slicked the metal footpaths under Sairsel’s boots, and he was glad not to be encumbered by a Serpent’s uniform; he spent much of the assault scouting ahead, and back and forth to ensure the infiltration of each unit, sticking to the shadows. His ranger’s clothes served him than those glaring yellow jackets and heavy boots ever could, and he was thankful for it as he climbed higher through the castrum, closer to the sky, deeper in the blood. Every ladder he found, he climbed.

Morgana was alone, pulling at the collar of her Flames uniform, her sword more crimson than steel when he found her. Far from the fires, the air was cooler, and the breeze blew stray strands of greying hair across her damp forehead.

“All right?” Sairsel asked breathlessly.

“All right,” she replied, weariness sewn into the fringes of her voice. “My unit’s deployed. Everything to plan. Finding higher ground?”

“Aye. Putting those forest-soft skills to good use,” Sairsel said curtly, designating his bow. “I—”

“Wait.” Morgana made a beckoning motion that was more a quick tilt of her head and grabbed Sairsel’s wrist when he came closer, pulling him to the edge of the walkway. “Look.”

Beyond, the sky bled from the steely black above to a soft, dusky blue. And against that blue lay a horizon, bright and clear but for a few wisps of clouds, marked by the rising lines of mountains that spread as far as the eye could see. For the first time in his life, Sairsel gazed upon the other side of the Wall, stretching far beyond the Twelveswood he knew.

“The Gyr Abanian highlands,” Morgana said. She raised a bloody hand, pointing east. “It’s too far to see, but—far beyond that tower, there. You’re looking at Ala Mhigo, boy.”

Sairsel opened his mouth to speak, but found no words. Instead he took his eyes from the mountain peaks and looked at his mother, trying to understand the look on her face. He never quite could, but the intensity in her eyes was more familiar than anything he’d ever seen; he simply couldn’t remember, in that hasty moment, why it was.

“How do you feel?” he asked, quietly. Surely she’d find the question appalling. Surely—

“I feel,” she began.

A crash resounded below, shaking the ground. Morgana swept around and fell into a battle stance—but no attack came. She rushed to the other side of the narrow platform upon which they stood, with Sairsel beside her, a hand at his quiver. A pair in Garlean colours ran across just below them; Sairsel nocked an arrow and readied to draw, but his mother’s hand lowered the bow.

“Wait. I know those men.”

“What?”

Morgana’s fingers tightened around his arm. “I’ve seen them with the Griffin—those traitorous shites.” She gave an urgent squeeze, then a small shove. “You need to go find him. Tell him we’ve got turncoats. I’ll make them talk.”

“Morgana—”

“That’s an order, boy. Go!”

The two men were headed back towards the fighting, and Morgana would be following them down into the Garleans’ hells. It was enough to make Sairsel hesitate, but there was no going against her. Not now. He turned, made to run off—and heard her voice again, quiet, not directed at him.

“Bloody hells, Ilberd,” she hissed, a desperate curse for her own ears.

He never should have heard; he would not, had he been anyone else. But he had a ranger’s ears, and the name cut through the faraway battle and the wind itself, turning Sairsel’s blood cold.

So he’d shown Morgana his face. He’d told her his name, and it had meant nothing to her, and her loyalty had been unshaken—or maybe the name meant something to her, too, and she hadn’t cared. Anything, she had said. Anything it took.

Sairsel tasted blood in his mouth as he ran. He ran until his breath burned in his lungs, ran until he could see the proud line of the Griffin’s back, his black-and-white figure stark against the night. A victory so close at hand below him—and Gyr Abania beyond, at his right hand. Sairsel watched the griffin embroidered on the fabric of his cape and felt, above his rage and his disgust, a grief so heavy and sharp it clawed at his throat.

“Look at me,” he said. His fingers were tight around his bow, the string biting through his gloves. The arrow was already nocked. He’d seen the Griffin in his armour enough to know that his throat was bare, unprotected—Sairsel had wondered, once, about the point of so much armour if one arrow could do the trick. Does he want to die?

The Griffin turned, pinned him with the blankness of that stare shadowed by mask and hood. He said nothing.

“Two of your people are in imperial soldier uniforms. Morgana is chasing after them for turncoats.”

“She’s more loyal than most.”

Sairsel was tired of wondering what lay beyond that mask. The itch to see the eyes hidden underneath was a raging gale, and everything—all of it—made his hands shake.

“What are you really afraid of?” Sairsel asked, breathlessly. “People knowing your face, or your name?”

“You assume wrongly, to name it fear,” said the Griffin. “Is it that you’re afraid, boy?”

“I’m a lot of fucking things, right now.” He raised his bow, keeping the tip of the arrow level with the Griffin’s throat. All he had to do was draw, loose. Set it free. “I knew Wilred. In Little Ala Mhigo. I didn’t join the Resistance until after he went off to fight for the Braves, but—I knew him.” He swallowed. “Did you kill him?”

“He died to bring us closer to freeing Ala Mhigo, like every man and woman here,” the Griffin said, steadfast. No doubts; no remorse. Sairsel ached. “Some of us are worth more in death than in battle.”

“Then you die, too,” Sairsel yelled, his voice rising too harshly from his throat, “and maybe it’ll bring us another step closer.”

And, if not, it might help Wilred rest, at the very least.

Sairsel did not hesitate as he pulled back his bow string as far as it would go, unfeeling. He loosed; pain blossomed in his chest as the arrow flew towards the Griffin’s throat. It would have torn through him, if not for the blade that rose to slice it in two.

No man should have been capable of such a thing—but Ilberd Feare no longer was the man he had once been. And Sairsel had not the sense to let people stronger than he defeat the things that made monsters of someone like the Griffin; not tonight. He tossed his bow to the ground, sprinting forward, and tore his sword from its sheath.

His sword-skill was never good enough; blades didn’t sing in his hands the way they sang in his mother’s. Swords always felt too heavy, their weight all wrong, their steel too firm compared to the wood of the bows that seemed to know his hands, his eyes, his heart. But he was beginning to understand how people worked with swords in their hands—beginning—and so he managed to dodge the first thrust with which the Griffin met his forward lunge.

Sairsel found himself beside the Griffin’s left shoulder, with Gyr Abania at his back as he slashed at that bare throat. The Griffin threw his head back just in time, sidestepped away, then charged back in to throw his shoulder into Sairsel’s chest. That sent him hurtling back, his head and shoulder meeting the unforgiving metal of the platform hard; it knocked the wind out of his lungs, tearing a groan from his throat, and his sword clattered away.

Not like this.

The pain was spreading like wildfires through his body, but his fingers still searched frantically for his sword, and his eyes still saw the Griffin’s blade bearing down on him. He rolled away, scrambling to his feet. His chest felt like it was going to collapse in on itself from the force of the Griffin’s blow, but he could still stand, so nothing mattered. He still had a knife.

“I don’t want to kill you, lad,” the Griffin said, and Sairsel couldn’t see in his eyes if it was true. That didn’t matter, either. He lunged again, slashing and slashing and slashing like a wild coeurl swinging its claws until they found purchase.

And his claws drew blood. For a heartbeat, Sairsel stopped, but it wasn’t enough; only a glancing blow drawing a shallow line under his jaw. It was enough to make the Griffin hiss, but he was a man who barely faltered, and Sairsel had already given up his opening in the hesitation. The Griffin’s blade slashed upward, and Sairsel staggered back.

The pain in his chest changed. He barely felt the blood that began to run down the front of his jacket.

“I didn’t want to kill you,” the Griffin said as he collapsed—first to his knees, then to the ground. And, just like that, he turned away to watch the fighting below.

Sairsel didn’t know if he was breathing anymore, but he knew that it hurt, worse than anything he had ever felt before. Sobs that wouldn’t rise from his lungs died on his lips, and his fingers clawed at the Griffin’s ankles, too far from him to reach. He wanted to ask— he wanted to ask—

“How could you do this do us?” he croaked out.

If the Griffin answered, Sairsel didn’t hear it. He turned his head and watched the mountains fall into the night sky as the fighting went on.

That voice.

Shining is the land’s—

He heard it again.

“Mother?”

light of justice.

It was a foolish thing to ask, because he had never heard his mother sing, and the voice was soft. But it reminded him of her. The echo rose all around him, at once distant and so near it seemed to resonate within his very heart. Like the Wood, on the day—

On the day—

Sairsel reached an arm out again, heavy as stone. His fingers found the narrow spaces in the metal below him, and he dragged himself—wheezing and whimpering—until he could curl one hand against the edge of the platform. He shook as he peered over, lifting his head with everything he had left.

Was her voice rising for the piles of bodies that lay silent upon the metal? Did she lament for him, too—for Ilberd Feare, broken among them, his unmasked face a horror in death?

As the light rose from them into something without shape, something far brighter than the fires and far greater than the deaths that served it, Sairsel’s mind latched onto one last thought.

Does she sing for me?

It hurt so much. Sairsel rolled onto his back again, let his head fall to the side, and saw light again. Not that light—not the light that consumed.

The light of a warrior.

Sairsel watched her, gleaming in her armour, as the edges of his vision blurred and that angry light burst.

#from the heart #c:sairsel #c:morgana #f:xiv

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mygobe · 3 years ago

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Meet The Artist: Tim Swallow from Urth on Vimeo.

Urth Art presents a look into Tim Swallow’s creative process.

Fast. Loose. Spontaneous. Tim Swallow’s work is an embodiment of raw energy. Known for his boldly irreverent and visceral storytelling, Swallow’s photographs are a lasting expression of his own evolution.

Explore Tim's collection at urth.art

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jrpdesignandremodel · 4 years ago

Video

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Our clients wanted the ultimate modern farmhouse custom dream home. They found property in the Santa Rosa Valley with an existing house on 3 ½ acres. They could envision a new home with a pool, a barn, and a place to raise horses. JRP and the clients went all in, sparing no expense. Thus, the old house was demolished and the couple’s dream home began to come to fruition. The result is a simple, contemporary layout with ample light thanks to the open floor plan. When it comes to a modern farmhouse aesthetic, it’s all about neutral hues, wood accents, and furniture with clean lines. Every room is thoughtfully crafted with its own personality. Yet still reflects a bit of that farmhouse charm. Their considerable-sized kitchen is a union of rustic warmth and industrial simplicity. The all-white shaker cabinetry and subway backsplash light up the room. All white everything complimented by warm wood flooring and matte black fixtures. The stunning custom Raw Urth reclaimed steel hood is also a star focal point in this gorgeous space. Not to mention the wet bar area with its unique open shelves above not one, but two integrated wine chillers. It’s also thoughtfully positioned next to the large pantry with a farmhouse style staple: a sliding barn door. The master bathroom is relaxation at its finest. Monochromatic colors and a pop of pattern on the floor lend a fashionable look to this private retreat. Matte black finishes stand out against a stark white backsplash, complement charcoal veins in the marble looking countertop, and is cohesive with the entire look. The matte black shower units really add a dramatic finish to this luxurious large walk-in shower.

#modernfarmhouse #designbuild #homeremodel

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babyawacs · 4 years ago

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@gonzingtwist_ @starwars @pheltzcomics @mrjafri @startrek @trekonomicsbot

thisis a classic degradation of starwars that goodand bad are equally legit just different shades thisisnot howit was inthefirst three evilwas evilwas bad

thisbecame arbitrarily flipping inthe 90s 2000s

thenturned to

blllah sinister suicidemissions after doom after suicidemission in brightside?!?!? bllllllah!!!!!!!!

the…

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samuelmmarcus · 6 years ago

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Traditional Farmhouse-style Home

It’s always a happy day when I have my dear friend Lisa Furey of Lisa Furey Interiors, on the blog! Lisa has been featured many times on Home Bunch and you might recall seeing her home here. In fact, that post became one of the most popular posts of the year!!!

Lisa is back today to share her newest project and I think you guys will love it as much as I do. This is a new 6000 square foot build in the Philadelphia area countryside. On the property, there is a newly raised barn, a chicken coop and a gorgeous stocked fishing pond shaded by a large, very old weeping willow tree. The traditional farmhouse style is beautifully proportioned and detailed in and out.

Get inspired and start dreaming. This home is one that will be hard to forget…

Traditional Farmhouse-style Home

The front door opens to a breathtaking foyer with white shiplap walls, painted in Benjamin Moore White Dove, and beautiful decor.

Console – Dovetail – similar here (huge sale!), here, here & here.

Natural fiber runner – Fibreworks Siskiyou – similar here, here & here.

Wreath – HomeGoods– similar here.

Hurricanes – Pottery Barn – similar here.

Similar Mirror: here & here.

Lighting: Visual Comfort.

Kitchen

I stopped and stared at this farmhouse kitchen the first time I saw it. Take a good look at the details and ideas… This kitchen offers plenty of inspiration!

Kitchen Cabinet Details: Painted Maple Shaker inset cabinets – paint color is proprietary to cabinet shop, similar to Benjamin Moore Nantucket Grey HC-11.

Kitchen Island

The kitchen island is Driftwood, custom stained, Quarter Sawn Oak.

Kitchen Island Dimensions – 10 x 4.

Counterstools are Industry West – similar here.

Faucet: Kohler Artifacts.

Sink: Rohl farm sink.

The black window paint over the kitchen sink is Gravel Grey by Benjamin Moore.

Kitchen Lighting: Visual Comfort.

Hardwood Flooring

All wood flooring is wide plank quarter and Rift Sawn White Oak natural finish, matte sheen – similar here.

Range Hood is custom by Raw Urth – style is Creed.

Farm table is custom by family friend – Beautiful Dining Tables:here, here, here, here, here, here (round) & here.

Dining Chairs are Palecek.

Lighting: Visual Comfort Chandelier.

Brick

Backsplash is Savannah Grey brick veneer reclaimed – similar here & here (in tile).

Countertop is LG Minuet quartz countertop.

Open shelving with iron brackets is custom by family friend – Similar Kitchen Shelves: here & here.

Butler’s Pantry

Cabinetry is White Dove by Benjamin Moore painted Shaker inset cabinets with painted wood mushroom knobs.

Countertop is Caesarstone quartz countertop – Raw Concrete.

Faucet: Kohler Artifacts.

Wallpaper is Thibaut vinyl Taluk Sisal in Navy (available through the designer) – similar here, here & here.

Similar Beverage Center: here.

Similar Blue & White Ginger Jars: here & here.

Family Room

This is the type of attention to detail that brings a room to the next level. Black doors paint color is Benjamin Moore Gravel Grey 2127-30.

All upholstered furniture is custom Kravet – Mullen Chairs, Vassar ottoman, Lehigh Sofas – available through the designer.

Area rug is Masland Let’s Dance broadloom, cut and serged – similar here.

All accessories by owner.

Inspired by this Look:

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Sunroom

This is one of my favorite spaces in this house. I would love to read in this sunroom.

Daybed – English Farmhouse Furniture – Louellas Cottage Bed – Oatmeal Wash – Other Beautiful Daybeds: here, here, here, here & here.

Coffee Table – Gabby Clover.

Wicker Chairs – Palecek – discontinued – similar here & here.

Similar Tobacco basket on shiplap clad walls – here.

Pillows and textiles – a mix of owners and HomeGoods.

Paint Color

Paint color Benjamin Moore White Dove OC-17.

Cafe white plantation shutters on windows for light control.

The ceiling fan is by Maverick Fan.

Similar Rug: here & here.

Laundry Room

Cabinets are shaker overlay doors – paint color is proprietary to the cabinet shop but similar to Benjamin Moore Coventry Grey HC-169.

Tile – Marca Corona Terra collection.

Metal Hampers: Pottery Barn.

Sink & Faucet

Sink and faucet – American Standard Country sink & Faucet.

Countertop

Countertop – LG Minuet quartz

Hardware

Hardware – Emtek Hampton knobs.

Master Bathroom

The master bathroom is serene and it features hardwood flooring and light walls. Note the great layout and usage of space.

Sconces – Visual Comfort Boston Loop arm sconces.

Plumbing – Bathroom Faucets, Shower & Tub Filler.

Similar Tub: here.

All stone is white carrara marble.

Knobs are Emtek.

Custom dual vanities with inset slab drawers – similar here & here.

Mirrors: Pottery Barn.

Paint Color

Paint color is Benjamin Moore Pale Oak OC-20.

Chandelier: Visual Comfort.

Mudroom

This has to be one of my favorite mudrooms! Floor is reclaimed Savannah grey brick.

Lanterns is Visual Comfort Darlana Aged Iron – similar here (on sale!).

Chair is Palecek.

Board & Batten

How gorgeous is this combination of board and batten walls with brick flooring? This idea deserves to be saved or pinned!

Grey Mudroom Cabinetry

Mudroom Cabinet Details: Shaker inset built ins – color is proprietary to the cabinet shop but similar to Brewster Gray HC 162 by Benjamin Moore.

Hardware is Amerock.

Similar Baskets: here, here (large) & here.

Rug is Fibreworks – similar here, here & here.

Many thanks to the interior designer for sharing all details above.

Interior Design: Lisa Furey – Barefoot Interiors. (Instagram)

Bring the Holidays Home!

Click on any image to shop.

1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 – 11 – 12 – 13 – 14 – 15 – 16 – 17 – 18 – 19 – 20 – 21

Exciting Holiday Sales!

Thank you for shopping through Home Bunch. I would be happy to assist you if you have any questions or are looking for something in particular. Feel free to contact me and always make sure to check dimensions before ordering. Happy shopping!

Wayfair: 72 Hour Blowout!!! Huge Sales on Decor, Furniture & Rugs!!!

Serena & Lily: Let’s Get Festive!

Joss & Main: Best Prices of 2018 – Up to 70% Off

Pottery Barn: 20% Off plus Free Shipping with Code: CHEER!!!

One Kings Lane: 40% Off Holiday Decor.

West Elm: 20% Off plus Free Shipping with Code: TREAT

Build: Up to 80% OFF on Kitchen, Bathroom, Hardware & Lighting!

Neiman Marcus: Up to 50% Off on regular prices!

Pier 1: Huge Christmas Decor Sales + Free Shipping – Use Code: FREESHIP49

Anthropologie: Extra 40% Off on Sale Items!

Posts of the Week:

Beautiful Homes of Instagram.

Modern Farmhouse House Tour.

2018 Christmas Decorating Ideas.

How to Decorate your Porch for Christmas.

Small Lot Modern Farmhouse.

Family-friendly Home Design.

Newlyweds Home Design.

City Lot Modern Farmhouse.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram: New England Home.

Family Home Renovation with Casual Interiors.

2018 Norton Children’s Hospital Raffle Home.

Transitional Custom Home Design.

Southern Farmhouse.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram: Canada.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram.

Interior Design Ideas: Colorful Interiors.

Custom Home with Artisan Craftsmanship Interiors.

You can follow my pins here: Pinterest/HomeBunch

See more Inspiring Interior Design Ideas in my Archives.

“Dear God,

If I am wrong, right me. If I am lost, guide me. If I start to give-up, keep me going.

Lead me in Light and Love”.

Have a wonderful day, my friends and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

with Love,

Luciane from HomeBunch.com

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