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axratsffxivwrite · 4 months ago

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FFXIV Write Day 5 - Stamp (The Sharpest Gifts)

Tink. Tink. Tink.

It had taken no small amount of effort for the clan to carve out a piece of Rabanastre for themselves, yet still, in this small section of the ruins, some semblance of life had returned. People were resilient, even in the face of utter destruction.

The Lyros’ forge, settled in the midst of the cobbled mess of reconstruction, was both home and shop, the furnace burning hot outside as Miriam toiled away. Her father had retired for the evening, his orders done. Most of the locals had retreated to their own dwellings, either deep underground or in the few rebuilt structures scattered around. It was far from their once bustling city, but it was home, and not everyone was so ready to run off to Valnain and start new lives.

With each strike of her hammer, steel began to take shape. The metal was folded and drawn out until she was satisfied, then painstakingly shaped blow by blow, molded into something resembling a Doman shortblade. She was no master craftsman like her father, but she was good enough.

Gods, she hoped she was good enough.

She dug deep into the back of her mind, focused intently on her studies in the Doman Enclave. Her time amongst the refugees there had not been long enough to attain any level of true mastery, but she refused to be dissuaded. This was important to her, and it was even more important to get it right.

As the sun fell low in the sky and the last of the daylight faded, she resigned herself to a break. The next evening she returned, working for as long as the light held out.

Her first blade, she melted down after realizing she had overworked the metal. The second soon followed it in a fit of frustration over the shape of the point. Day after day, she spent every moment of her free time fussing over the forge. Blade after blade failed to suffice.

On the fourth day, her father offered his assistance, but she refused. This project was hers and hers alone.

On the sixth, she finally had a blade she was satisfied with. Her stomach tied itself into knots as she painstakingly marked out a shallow pattern in the blade, a series of scales and swirls meant to decorate but not deteriorate the performance of the blade.

That one, too, she melted down after she cut too deep and ruined her work.

On the seventh, she tried again. She forged a new blade, then heat-treated it before she etched it carefully with aether instead of tools.

On the eighth day, now with a process that worked for her, she made the blade a twin.

On the ninth day, she painstakingly carved the mold for her maker’s mark. For this, she did accept her father’s help, and side by side they designed and shaped the symbol by which her work would be known. No more just simply as an apprentice, but a craftswoman all her own. After hours of iterating and designing, she settled on an array of stylized chocobo feathers, arranged like the petals of a lily.

Once the design was set and they had shaped the master die, they crafted the mold with which to cast her stamp. By the time the sun had fallen, she held in her hands her own metal seal with which to mark her work.

It didn’t quite feel real.

Upon the tang of each blade, she carefully stamped her maker’s mark into the patterned steel.

On the tenth day, she sharpened the blades, shaped bronze into a proper habaki, then carved a simple wooden handle for each of them. She stained the handles with seed oil, leaving them a light brown while still accenting the wood grain. She carefully riveted each into place and paused for a moment to look over the fruits of her labor. Her heart swelled with joy, so relieved to finally have a finished piece she could have cried.

The end result made every failed attempt so very worth it.

Out of the same wood, she carved simple sheathes with thin profiles and stained them with the same oil. She took her time, refining them until she had a perfect fit for each of the blades.

On the eleventh day, she measured and trimmed strips of leather to form the straps that would hold the sheathes in place upon their wielder. She carefully chose thin but sturdy, rounded buckles for the straps, redesigning them several times before she was satisfied the straps would lay as flat as possible.

On the twelfth day, she placed both sheathed blades into a box and took her leave from the forge. She made her way through the winding, ruined streets of Rabanastre, her head kept on a swivel. A few ruffians and folks down on their luck eyed her with wariness and temptation, but the clan crest on her scarf held them at bay.

Even those who turned to crime to survive rarely bit the hand that freely feeds.

Miriam made her way to the settled ruin of an old storefront. The walls that yet stood were mostly settled, though the back wall was little more than a pile of rock and dust. The roof had caved in long ago, replaced instead with temporary canvas coverings that draped down over the rubble itself. A crimson cloth hung over the entryway in lieu of a door, the embroidered chocobo-feather fan crest of Clan Delima serving as both a deterrence for trouble and a promise of aid, if needed.

She brushed aside the curtain without so much as knocking and stepped inside. There wasn’t a lot of usable area, what with half the space taken up by the pile of rubble. The near side of the room served as a chocobo nest, with clean straw and blankets so carefully arranged. Atop the nest sat a familiar plum-colored chocobo, his head raised to investigate the new intruder. Recognition in the warbird’s eyes, he let out a soft kweh in greeting.

“Hello to you, too, Exodus.”

The other side of the room was more lived-in, though not by much. A cot served to keep the bedroll off the floor, and a lantern – currently dimmed – sat to offer light once evening came. A footlocker sat against the edge of the rubble, an adventurer’s overflowing pack resting haphazardly atop it.

“...hm, is Kin not here?” She asked Exodus.

“Kweh!” He replied, helpful as a bird could be.

“Well, I’ll wait, then.”

She made herself comfortable and sat atop his cot, holding the wooden box in her lap. She passed the time by making smalltalk with Exodus – or, at least, she tried to. He offered the occasional chirp or call to acknowledge that she was speaking, but she doubted he had any real comprehension of her words.

Though sometimes, he did make her wonder.

As the day’s light began to dim to an amber glow, the curtain finally swept aside and that familiar, handsome young Viera she adored so much finally made an appearance.

Kin’s dark hair had only grown shaggier as time went on, though he now adorned it with feathers and made something of an effort to style it in layers. He wore a loose linen shirt and vest and a tied-off shawl over his shoulders, with strips of red cloth tied around his belt. Black pants tucked neatly into his leather traveling boots, while a pair of matching leather bracers kept his sleeves from catching on the rubble. That familiar red bandana remained tied around his neck, right where it belonged.

His eyes lit up as he saw her. He cast aside his bag unceremoniously and rushed over to her.

“Miri! I’m sorry, were you waiting long? I was helping Marsil at the pub, I didn’t mean to…”

She stood and placed a hand on his chest, silencing him immediately.

“It’s okay,” she replied, “I don’t mind. I wanted to surprise you, anyway.”

With her other hand, she offered out the box to him. Her heartbeat began to quicken and her breath caught in her throat. What if he didn’t like them? What if she had sized the grips wrong? Made the blades too short? She had prioritized concealability over length, but had she gone too short?

He blinked and took the box, his ears drooping to the side as he tilted his head.

“What’s this?” He asked.

“A gift.” She replied. “I, ah… I heard you were leaving again, so I wanted to make sure you had a little something from me.”

He stepped aside and crouched beside the footlocker, setting the box down on what little empty space there was atop it. He carefully lifted away the lid and paused, his ears abruptly pivoting to the front as he focused his attention on the blades. He lifted one of the shortblades out and unsheathed it, his eyes widening as he took in the details on the etchings.

After a moment, he ventured “...did you…?”

“Make them? Yes. I even put my mark upon the tang. A little something of me to carry with you when you go.” She replied, wringing her hands. “It took a few tries to get it right, but I… I know you have a hard time hiding your blades sometimes, and I tried to make these as thin of a profile as I could without compromising their structure or making the grips uncomfortable to hold. They should be easier to conceal while still being effective, and when they're sheathed they're not immediately recognizable as daggers anyway.”

Kin sheathed the blade and placed it back in the box. He placed the lid back atop the box and stood once more. Miriam swallowed back her nerves as he turned to face her. In lieu of a thanks he hooked a clawed finger under her chin and drew her close for a slow, tender kiss.

All her fears faded into nothingness as she melted into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. She snaked her arms up over his chest and around his shoulders, while he held her waist and pulled her close. She surrendered himself to his lead, twining her fingers into his hair as he deepened the kiss. She could still taste the vague remnants of stew on his lips, smell the faint scent of hearth smoke that yet clung to him.

When he finally, reluctantly, pulled away, she let out a contented sigh. You say you’re incapable of proper love, but you kiss me like that? I have my doubts, mister.

Kin leaned his forehead against hers, breathing deep as he held her close. She leaned into him, content to take every moment she could before he left her once more.

He murmured, “when are you expected home by?”

“Dark, I imagine.” She replied.

He offered an uncertain hum in response. “And here I had hoped to thank you properly…”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I was held up at the pub…”

“Well, in that case…” he slowly pulled away, raising a hand to gently caress her jaw. “...why don’t we go find somewhere a little less well-traveled?”

“I think that sounds wonderful.”

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxiv #miriam lyros #kin rehw-marouc #at the end of Return to Ivalice if you talk to Fran she mentions that Doma and Eorzea have agreed to take in Dalmascan refugees #Miri went to Doma and Kin went to Eorzea until the Dalmascan liberation #I feel like it's important to mention kin's aromantic but lacks the words to describe it properly #hence the 'you say you're incapable of proper love' bit he's absolutely wrong but he doesn't understand what romantic love feels like #he DOES love miri it's just a lotta bit of a queerplatonic situation going on there cuz that boy does not have romantic attraction #coincidentally these have all been roughly in chronological order thus far but seeing as this one is present-day i uh #i'm pretty sure the next one is going to be going backwards in time

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