#rip avidia

[aegresitmedendo-blog]

Alright guys, it’s time.

I’ve been away for a couple weeks while I was sorting out some irl stuff, and now that I’ve had the time to really step back from things and look at it all with a more logical point of view, I think I’ve been able to come to a decision about my future in FFXIV right now, and the future of this blog.

Unfortunately, Avidia’s going to be going away for a while, that much is certain. Right now my plan is to have her return by 5.0. I will be writing up a short for people who are involved in her personal story, and who she is also involved with, in order to wrap things up. But for now she is going away. I’m also stepping out of the plot with the Faceless. While They’re awesome, and I think it’s a really cool event, I don’t have the time or the attention span to be able to handle all of that right now, so I don’t anticipate jumping back into it.

I’m not stepping away from RP however. I plan on returning to it soon, especially since I just quit my old job, and will have a lot more free-time now, especially in the evenings. I have a new character who I will be introducing soon, right now I’ve just been fleshing her out into a character I wanna play and feel comfortable playing. Sadly, my phone recently bit the dust, and with it went my FFXIV security token, and I don’t have my emergency removal password on me, so I have to wait for support to get back to me before I can make her into a proper character. She will be becoming my main, and she’s also an Imperial (what a surprise, I made another sassy Garlean).

The url of this blog will most likely change, as will the theme and all of that, but it’s still going to be me running it. From time to time I might post Avidia aesthetic pics as they come across my dashboard, but the focus isn’t going to be on Avidia anymore. Sorry if you came here for her, but I hope you guys like this new character just as much as you liked her.

Thank you for having patience with me through all of this. I’m looking forward to being able to hopping back into things with everyone! I’m probably gonna be looking for a new FC, so if anyone has any recommendations for a good FC, especially ones that accept Imperials, hit me up! And as always, you’re always free to send me a message at any time. If I’m not working I should get back to you pretty quick. I’m always down for some chit-chatting or a game of Overwatch.

Thank you all for hanging around this blog!

[aegresitmedendo-blog]

Writing under the Read More.

It was winter when the woman arrived.

She was Garlean. Tall and imposing, with pale skin and white hair that cascaded down her shoulders. She was neither young nor old, but somewhere in the middle, hovering in that space of middle age where the features of her youth were beginning to fray around the edges. She was bundled up in thick woolen blankets when she entered, wrapping up and over her head, but when they shifted to the side any onlooker could see her bloodshot third eye resting on her forehead.

It was the dead of winter when she showed up to the small, makeshift hospital. It was in the Miyagi province, just one short mile away from the town of Kochi, isolated deep within the forests on the mountains. There was blood dripping down her arms and down the gunblade she held, gripped tightly in her hand, and yet - despite her limp - the woman was not injured. The only blood of her own was the thick droplets that ran down her thighs, leaving a small trail of dots in the snow that would otherwise look pretty if the circumstances had been different. Underneath the blankets the healers could see the swell of her belly, nine months pregnant, and it was for this reason and this reason alone that they took her under their roof.

The labor was quick, but it was not painless, the woman delirious with fever from having wandered the cold for so long; she murmured indecipherable phrases and names, voice barely above a whisper. By the end of it the white sheets she lay on were stained red, permanently marred by a stain that would never quite come out. Laying in the middle of the sheets was a small, squirming form, smaller than even some of the Domans’ children. The infant’s wails filled up the hospital, to the point where those waiting in the lobby could hear them, but the moment she was lain in her mother’s arms the cries stilled entirely, replaced with wide-eyed awe as she looked up at the woman’s face.

The woman smiled, but it never quite reached her eyes.

She left in a week, taking her child with her, and the medics never saw the woman - or the babe - again.

It was winter when the streets burned down.

The infant was now a child of eight years, able to run and laugh with the rest of the children her age. Her mother was but a distant memory, the vague contours and shadows of a face she’d long since forgotten. As far as she knew, her mother had died during birth. All her life she’d been hopping homes, from orphanages to foster homes, until she’d finally been shoved onto the streets with the rest of the unfortunate, hidden youths of the Capital. She never expected to be able to call a place home for longer than a few years at best, but never had she expected her “home” to be ripped so violently on her.

Bloodied feet ran across the cracked stone pavement of the streets, her skin blistering and cracking from the heat that surrounded her. It was supposed to be winter - elsewhere in the city it was snowing - but here it felt like the worst heat wave of summer, searing her skin and clogging up her lungs. The smoke was worse, getting into her eyes and forcing her head down to be able to see where she was going. She ran over bodies, but she did not stop for any of them. She knew already that they were dead. She saw it in their peeling skin, their melting faces, their skulls that cracked underneath her bare feet.

Pain seared through the bridge of her nose as she found herself suddenly sprawled out on the ground. Blood - fresh and bright red - smeared along the white ashes on her face, reminiscent of the flag that she’d lived under for all her life. Her hands gripped and slid across the pavement, trying to find purchase so that she might get to her feet, but no matter how much she tried her legs would not follow through and allow her to make that final movement. And then, in an instant, she was suddenly weightless, hauled into the air by strong arms that wrapped around her waist and held her painfully tight against a body. She was vaguely aware of the feeling of movement, and it only registered after a couple seconds that someone was carrying her, sprinting their way out of the flame-engulfed blocks and back to safety.

Those same arms held her as she beat her fists against the person’s chest, tears and screams the only sounds to escape her throat. But the person was patient. They held her until she’d exhausted herself, curling up into a trembling ball, and then they scooped her up again, carrying her to their home.

Her new home.

Septima reminded the child of winter.

Not the harsh, cold, bitter winter that chilled you to the bone with wind, but a more comforting season. She was reminiscent of hot drinks on a cold day; a blast of hot air upon entering a heated home; the pastel lights that filled the streets during the winter celebrations. She was tall and curvy, with hands that somehow remained soft even after all those days of working with machinery. She kept her hair tied back out of her eyes, which shined and sparkled with mirth every time she told a joke, which was frequently.

The child felt like scum every time she laid eyes on her.

Septima was like an angel, a pure and unmarred expanse. She and her children were beautiful, perfect examples of what a Garlean should look like. A complete contrast to the tiny, scrawny girl who always got into fights and came home with a bloodied face. Septima wasn’t alerted to these fights for a long time. The child took great care to ensure that she wouldn’t find out. The blood was carefully and meticulously cleaned from her face, and any remaining bruises were easily brushed off (“I fell! Honest!”). She didn’t tell Septima when she awoke during the night with visions of flames dancing in her eyes, loathe to disturb her sleep. She didn’t tell Septima when she became “impure”, not wanting to taint what she had, not wanting to reveal the crimson stains that were slowly splattering all over her perfect, white mask.

She didn’t tell Septima anything. But Septima found now anyway, one way or another. She cried when she approached her about it, but not because of any impurities. She wept for her and held her and promised her, promised her that she would never abandon her. That she would love her as if she were her own mother.

And for once, the child felt as if she truly had a family to come back to.

Winter symbolized the end. It was the death of the year, the death of the trees, and oftentimes the death of too many unfortunate people who had been caught outside for too long. For Avidia, it symbolized the end of many things. She mused upon this as she stood in the graveyard, wrapping her coat a bit tighter around her. Back in Eorzea, her comrades - might she even call them her friends? - were certainly celebrating Starlight, enjoying the festivities. But here everything was quiet, bleak almost. The sky and trees were grey, and even the snow seemed to be tinged a darker shade than it should be.

Avidia exhaled a soft sigh through her nose and reached up to tug on a strand of hair. In her hands was a bouquet of red roses, the only splash of color to be seen for miles. Carefully, she rested it on the gravestone in front of her, the barest of smiles touching her lips.

It only seemed fitting that she brought Septima flowers during winter.

Even long after she left, the bouquet still rested there, a single splash of crimson against an otherwise endless sea of white and grey.

Perfect.