#rrisya

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 24: bar

They have two weeks of blissful silence before the first conjurer shows up at the Mriiha General Store one bright morning. Not at the store entrance, oh no, but at the door that leads into their actual home. He’s wearing a white-and-beige robe and a falsely pleasant smile, and Rrisya wants to carve it off his face.

The smile doesn’t waver as he looks down at her. “Miss...Otombe, is it?”

He has the nerve to try to step past the threshold. Rrisya bars the door with her body, tail lashing once before she stops herself. They’re in public and it’s broad daylight, so he’s unlikely to get violent—but by the same token, she can’t be seen escalating the situation. Gods, she wishes Rita were here—but Rita is in Tural, has been in Tural for the past few months, and the only things she’s gotten from her best (only) friend are letters and souvenirs. It’s not enough. Rita’s always been the quickest, smoothest talker. Rrisya can go days without speaking at all.

She’ll have to, now. “Aye,” she says coolly. “Why?”

“I’m from the Stillglade Fane. Hearer Clyde, at your service. We’re looking for your brother.” A significant pause, as though she has more than one brother. “Hahki’a Otombe.”

Kiki’s been essentially confined to the upstairs, warned to stay away from windows. He’s only dared to leave at night.

She meets Hearer Clyde’s gaze and narrows her eyes. “He’s not here. Sorry.”

A muscle twitches in Clyde’s jaw. “Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Do you know when he’s coming back?”

“No.”

He inhales slowly. The smile wavers. He’s being stonewalled and knows it, but they’re on the threshold of a rather busy street and so there’s nothing he can do without risking his vaunted peace and serenity. It would look bad to start demanding answers. “I see,” he says finally. “Do inform the Fane if you see him.”

And then, finally, he leaves. She shuts the door, locks it, and sags against the wood. She feels like she’s run a malm. Like she’s fought a boar with her bare hands. That was terrifying—she can’t understand how Rita does things like that all the time—but it worked. He’s gone. There are ways to fight without a weapon in hand, after all.

But he came to their house. They—or at least Kiki—are not safe. Not anymore.

It’s not until the shop closes for lunch that she manages to gather her family and explain what just happened. Predictably, they aren’t happy. They’re even less happy when she finishes up with, “We have to leave.”

“And go where?” her mother demands sharply. “Our lives are here.”

Rrisya winces, ears flattening. Her mother sacrificed much—Otombe traditions, family harmony—to marry her father and settle in the city. She won’t give that up easily. Luckily, she won’t have to. “Not all of us! Just myself and Hahki’a. And not forever, just until they’ve moved on to bigger problems.”

Her father’s frowning thoughtfully, his tail thumping steadily against the leg of his chair. “...Where will you go?”

The Fane has no jurisdiction outside of the Shroud; they could go over the border to Ul’dah or north to Coerthas and be safe. Rrisya has friends in Ala Mhigo, even.

But she thinks of Ritanelle, who’s sent her long letters praising the city of Tuliyollal, and says, “West. I have a friend there—Rita, you know her.”

That seems to go some way towards mollifying her family; they do know Ritanelle Soleil, and more importantly they know she’s a Warrior of Light and would cheerfully reduce Stillglade Fane to ash if given half a chance. Rrisya and Kiki will be utterly safe with her.

If, of course, Kiki agrees to go. Rrisya pauses and glances towards her brother.

Kiki draws in a slow breath. He’s sat silently during her entire recitation, and she hasn’t been able to figure out what he’s thinking. His ears are still back. But now he rises and says, “I’ll start packing.”

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 18: hackneyed

“They want me to come back,” Hahki’a says at the breakfast table one morning.

Family chatter ceases. Everyone knows who they are—the Conjurer’s Guild, who were incensed when Hahki’a Otombe completed his training and promptly left for the Shroud, never to set foot in the Stillglade Fane again. That was years ago, now. Rrisya’s never been prouder of her baby brother. The rest of the family is too, of course, but Hahki and Beriss’to never would have settled in the city if they didn’t believe in some city values, and neither of them have been entirely sure what to make of their only son wearing the serpent tattoos and feathered cloak of an Otombe shaman.

Mirra is between Rrisya and Hahki’a in both age and seating, and asks—frowning—“Are you going to do it, Kiki?” in a tone that says she wants the answer to be yes. She’s always thought her big sister and little brother were weird.

Their parents exchange glances. They’re both striving for calm, but Rrisya sees her father’s tail puffing up under the table. Kiki worries at his bottom lip and says, “You know what they’re like.”

Rrisya grimaces. She does know what they’re like. “We must preserve the balance of nature,” “Wood’s Will be done,” “The spirits will it,”—she’s heard all their stupid, hackneyed phrases her whole life, and she can’t imagine how Hahki’a managed to study under them without snapping and bludgeoning anyone with his cane. She would have snapped. But the conjurers are also disgustingly persistent, and she...

Well. She has some sympathy for people who get worn down by them. Not everyone’s family is like her own, close-knit and supportive to the last after weathering the Final Days together. Some people have families like her friend Ritanelle’s, who think she’s dead because it’d be better than her being alive and a source of shame. They’d probably shove Kiki into the arms of the Conjurer’s Guild, if he were one of theirs.

But he isn’t, so she says, “Don’t listen to them. You know what you believe. You know what’s important.”

Her mother is staring at her now. She blinks back. “What? What’d I say?”

Hahki Otombe shakes her head as if to clear it. “Nothing. ‘Tis only that you remind me so much of Grandmother when you look like that.”

“She’s not that much like Grandma,” Mirra mutters. “She’s not telling us we shame the ancestors for even considering it.”

“Did I raise you to speak like that about your elders?” Hahki demands, ears flicking.

The answer comes from all four of her children in unison.

“YES.”

And Kiki adds, “Don’t worry, Mama. I’m not going to do it, I just...wanted you all to know. In case they start being...pushy.”

Beriss’to Mriha’s eyes narrow. He’s a merchant; he’s never lifted a weapon to harm another person in his life. Hells, he barely even leaves the city. But when he and Rrisya meet each other’s eyes—when Mirra twins her tail with her sister’s under the table—when Hahki growls quietly and lays her ears back—she knows they’re united.

They won’t let anything come for their family.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 2: bark

You can spin the long shed fur of antelopes, if you know what you’re doing. You can tan leather with brains or the juices of certain plants. You can gather cotton, flax, nettles. All make fine cloth for a people like yours, who never settle very long in any one place.

Or you can do as Rrisya is doing now, and strip the bark off tall cedar. After her mother is finished with it, it will be thread and mats and wall hangings, sold to delight the eye and lighten the coinpurses of their fellow Gridanians. But now, it’s just tree bark, being peeled off in long, long strips.

It’s meditative, really. She doesn’t have to worry. She doesn’t have to think. She just has to stand here and make sure the bark comes off in continuous pieces. Once she has a tidy stack, she loads it into a basket made of the same wood and carries it to the massive tub her cousins have already filled with cold water—this step isn’t strictly necessary, but it does make beating the bark easier.

And she’ll be spending a lot of time with a hammer in her hand. The inner and outer layers separate slowly. Too slowly for her liking. But...well. It is traditional.

So, too, is the song she sings while she strikes the bark, pounding it into soft shreds for napkins and long, thin fibers for nearly everything else. Besides her, her cousins are joining in on refrains and adding their own off-key embellishments, their voices keeping time. Her people have done exactly this, in exactly this way, for thousands of years.

With the Final Days averted, they’ll do it for a thousand more.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 27: sole

She lives alone. She likes it, most nights. Yes, she loves her family, but they can be a little...much. The city as a whole, really, can be a little much. Too many people rushing to and fro, too many customers in her family’s store, too many adventurers stomping around in their shiny, glowing armor. Her treehouse is much quieter.

Most nights follow the same pattern. She wakes a while before sunset and eats a simple breakfast—mashed chestnuts and fish are staples of her diet. Hiss eats half of it before padding off to hunt for himself. She cleans up from that, and then she gets off on a circuit of her stomping grounds. West to the edge of Amdapor, north to Buscarron’s Druthers. It takes her most of the night only because she wants to be thorough. When the weather is good, she sometimes goes as far as the Upper Paths. By dawn, she’s often on her way home.

Most nights, she doesn’t speak to anyone. Her mind is quiet. Still. Serene as a frozen lake.

But sometimes...

Sometimes she looks at the warm well-lit windows of the Druthers, and thinks about stepping inside. Sometimes she stops to watch a Redbelly camp clean their weapons or dress their catches. Sometimes her linkpearl buzzes silently, and it’s Rita asking her how she’s been, and she considers asking if the woman wants to stop by and catch up in person. Sometimes she thinks of going home—not to her treehouse, but to the general store in the city, with her parents and siblings.

And then a scream splits the night air, or a troop of Wailers march by, or the sky turns dark and her fur stands on end and she knows Odin walks the Shroud.

She carries on, alone, under the light of the moon.

Most nights she doesn’t mind it. Really.

[ffxiv-swarm]

#and in his silence he was as unknowable as god (via @comforthawk)

writing quiet characters

He looked at him. He looked at him in a different way. Blinked. He tilted his head. He looked at him sideways. Under his lashes. In a unique kind of tilt. In a violent sort of way. He stared at him in a kind of way you haven’t read about before. He sighed. He looked away. He looked at a different away. He stared. Considered. Pondered. He was silent but it was interesting, somehow. It was a questioning sort of silence. Puzzled. He was still. He went even more still. He was barely breathing. He was dead with anticipation. He tensed. He relaxed minutely. The seconds ticked by, silently. He waited. He narrowed his eyes. His eyes widened. He followed you with them. His eyes. He did something that was nothing but filled the required beat of a line. He

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 18: A Fish Out of Water

Just come meet my cousins, Rita says. It will be fun, Rita says.

The appointed meeting place is the Serpent’s Moult—neutral ground between the tree-dwelling Otombe of Rootslake and the subterranean home of the de Leval family. Rrisya is early, which gives her plenty of time to fret. This is meant to be casual, fun like her friend says, but she knows her family history. The deepcrofts here had once, long ago—when the stones still sang, as her grandmother says—been the Otombe’s staunch allies, trading gems for food and silver for the masks that let their guardians patrol in sunlight beneath the canopy. But then Gelmorra had crumbled, and now...well, now she’s not quite sure what to make of the men and women who still follow their old ways.

She should be welcoming, she knows. This is Rita’s family, and the Matron knows the poor woman doesn’t have any more of that. (Their loss, as far as she’s concerned. Killing a pair of Wailers should’ve earned Rita a medal.) Rita’s never said a bad word about them, even if apparently her great-uncle’s cooking leaves much to be desired. But they are strangers, and she does not trust easily.

(And apparently their religious rites involve even more drug-laden smoke than her grandmother’s visions do, which is saying something.)

So she fidgets, combing through the thick fur on her tail, and wishes she’d brought backup. Her cousin Mriiha, maybe. Or her little brother Hahki’a, who isn’t so little anymore. Sure, in times of great extremity she can beg the aid of her ancestors, but this definitely doesn’t qualify. They’d probably withdraw their favor out of sheer disgust. Her living family have promised to come, but they aren’t here yet. Her grandmother travels slowly now, and her parents...well, it is a long trip, especially since they must rest after arriving at the Quarrymill aetheryte.

There are footsteps below the tree she’s perched in, and she drops. “Who goes there?”

The staff nearly takes her head off; she’s about to return with a strike of her own, but the gray-skinned, brown-haired woman holding it has already jerked back, her eyes wide. “Bloody hells—oh, you scared the shite out of me! You must be...Rrisya, aye?”

Rrisya blinks at her. Duskwight. Vine tattoos. Knows my name. Wearing silver snake jewelry. “...And you arrre...Glastinelle. Rrita’s cousin.”

Glastinelle nods, ears lifting. “You’re early too. I figured I should get a head start; Rita’s still ferrying the rest of us. It was a trial getting chocobos through the tunnels, I’ll tell you that.”

Some part of her feels she might regret this, but she suddenly has to know. “What do your people typically use for long-distance trravel?” Feet, after all, can only carry you so far, and even her people make great use of antelopes and dire wolves.

Glastinelle tells her.

They’re still talking when Rita trundles up with a small caravan of Duskwights. The Scion grins beneath her mask as she catches sight of them. “I see you two are getting along already!”

Rrisya blinks, looking back on her own behavior. She...supposes they have been.

Huh.

Except then she has to fight the urge to vanish into the treetops again, so clearly being gregarious still isn’t for her.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 21: solution

There was a cancer spreading through the heart of her forest. It had been spreading for five hundred years.

It wore masks, this cancer, and carried spears of steel and bone and carved horn. It stomped through beaten forest paths with booted feet, scaring the game. It aimed knives and bows and magic against her people, the people who had been there since the very beginning, the people who had hunted the Shroud since before even Gelmorra had sprung up under the earth like a mushroom, and said they were the ones who had invited their own ruin. That their ways, their hunting grounds, their careful treatment of the elementals, were an offense. That feeding their families the way they had done for centuries was a crime.

That they would be hunted, and they would be caught, and when they were caught...

Rrisya of the Otombe saw what happened to those who were caught. Those who survived.

She wasn’t quite as bloodthirsty as some of her people, those who would slit a Wailer’s throat soon as look at him. She was nothing like the Coeurlclaws, for one thing—stupid and short-sighted the lot of them, sure to bring scrutiny those who lived in the forest could ill afford. No, she picked her targets carefully. That one, who harassed an innocent family for gil. That one, who shot a fleeing man in the back. Those two, who had laid their filthy unwanted hands on a Keeper alone. Whether it was petty meanness or greater cruelties, she saw them all. And she watched. And she waited.

You did not tear out a cancer by hacking and slashing away like a butcher. No, if you wanted to remove a diseased limb, a rotten organ...

You were patient. You sharpened your blades.

And then you struck.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 20: petrichor

Rrisya sat high in the treetops, listening to the rain drum on her roof. Sleep beckoned, but she refused to let it pull her under yet. She had things to do. The perimeter could stand another patrol, and when she was done with that she’d need to head to the nearest outpost if not into an actual town; as much as her aunts insisted that the forest would provide everything they needed for life, it was distinctly low on things like hair tonic and canned peaches.

She really should get up. The rain was tapering off. She didn’t move.

Hiss was a big, solid, purring weight next to her. The coeurl cub had been so tiny as a baby that she’d thought he was a runt, but now he was the size of a largeish dog. She’d started teaching him to wear a tiny pack and harness in preparation for an eventual saddle. That was a long way off, though; for now, he was still her precious fuzzy baby. She rolled over, smushing her face into his fur. “Good boy,” she mumbled. The purring kicked up a notch.

Eventually, the rain stopped altogether, and her ears twitched at the sudden silence. Patrol. Shopping. Hunting. Maybe I’ll get some fishing in.

But when she reluctantly descended to the ground, for long moments all she could do was settle with her back against the tree trunk and breathe, long and slow. It had been a dry summer, and she’d almost forgotten how sweet and rich the ground smelled after a good shower. It smelled like peace. Hope. Potential.

Her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her that it very much did not smell like dinner, and if she wanted any of that she’d have to get moving. Grimacing, she cleared her throat and hissed as loudly as she can; Hiss, hearing his name, bounded down to meet her and not incidentally get his ears scratched.

“Come on, furry lump. Let’s do our jobs.”

Time enough to bask in the renewed forest later.

[ffxiv-swarm]

Rita Where she’s from: Racist tree theocracy (treeocracy?) Where she lives: Crystals

Evrard Where he’s from: Snow, dragon-killing, and class inequality Where he lives: Desert capitalism

Gan Where she’s from: Horses Where she lives: Crystals

Rrisya Where she’s from: Racist treeocracy Where she lives: Racist treeocracy (swamp version)

Portia & Tiber Where they’re from: Imperialism Where they live: Pirates (Portia) & crystals (Tiber)

Shinju Where she’s from: *Under The Sea bass boosted* Where she lives: Pirates

Pavo Where he’s from: Murderous bunny people and also sand Where he lives: Desert capitalism

Erasmus Where he’s from: Snow, dragon-killing, and class inequality Where he lives: Griffins and sand. So much sand.

Inspired by a similar prompt about where people are from! Without actually naming the city/place your WoL/OC lives (or came from), what is this place known for?

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 11: ultracrepidarian

They say the elementals protect you. They say that mere mortals can’t even communicate with the will of the forest, never mind appease it. They say that only the Padjals can save you. They say that if you transgress against the elementals’ will, what happens to you will be a fate worse than death. They say that you deserve it.

They are very rarely Keepers, and never Otombe.

Rrisya sits with her little brother, listening to him recount his lessons in the Stillglade Fane. His teachers say he’ll be one of the greatest conjurers Gridania has ever seen next to the horned ones. He’ll be great, she knows. But whether that greatness will be for the city…

He cuts himself off when he realizes she’s stopped responding, head tilting as he takes in her flattened ears and twitchy tail. “Did I say something wrong?”

Mum gets mad when she lectures on Gridania’s faults within city limits, so she shakes her head. “You’re getting to be a very skilled spellcaster. I’m proud of you.”

“Hmm.” His own ears twist as he drops his gaze. “They want me to stay on at the Fane.” She watches him take a deep breath, watches him straighten up. He’s been taller than her since last year, but now he looks like a man grown instead of a scrawny boy. His eyes, ice-blue instead of her moon-white, are hard with resolve. “I don’t want to.”

She stays very quiet, and waits. She’s good at waiting.

“They—they’re all good conjurers, of course, but then they start talking about the forest and—Riss, how the hells can people so smart be so stupid?! I tried to tell them about how Grandmum and our people have been livin’ with the trees since before Gridania was two logs stacked together and they—and they patted my head! Like a kid!” He’s up and gesturing now, tail lashing. “And they want me to work with them! I’d rather—I’d rather run off to the forest forever!”

“You can.” She reaches for his hands, and he lets her take them. She can’t help the smile that shows her fangs. “You think Grandmum wouldn’t welcome another shaman into the family?”

He’s not looking at her. “I’m not—too old? Too much of a city cat?”

Her heart clenches painfully in her chest. This has to be her fault somehow, for throwing herself wholeheartedly into the ways of the forest and never looking to see if her siblings wanted to follow after all. Most people didn’t decide their life’s path at twelve. “You will never be too old to take a place in your clan, Hahki’a Otombe.”

He swallows, tail flicking—but at least he doesn’t look upset anymore. “And I’ll be able to—to use my skills to help us? And get the tattoos and everything?”

“I’ll sew you a feather cloak myself.”

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 7: nonagenarian

“Auntie Rrisya, will you tell us a story?”

The ancient miqo’te woman rocking in the wheelchair isn’t their aunt, of course, but their great-aunt. She’s watched the Otombe grow and change through the years, transforming from the dozen or so left in the wake of the Calamity to something worthy of actually being called a clan again. Technically she’s the Matriarch, but...well, she’s always been happier simply being Auntie. Though she can no longer race through the treetops, her spear and her mind are still sharp.

And she smiles at the children gathering around her, dark face a mass of wrinkles. “What do you want to hear, my little coeurls?”

“Something scary!”

“An adventure story!”

“I want to hear something fantastic!”

“Something true.” And the girl who speaks is the favorite Rrisya will officially deny having, the youngest daughter of her youngest niece, fearless and bold.

She taps a claw against her lips, thinking hard. “Something...something true. Hmmm. Have I told you about the slaying of the shadowless ones?”

Silence. Silence, and wide-eyed glances; they’ve heard all about the great battles that happened before they were born, of course, the reason none of them need ever fear another Calamity, but none of the grown-ups ever want to talk about exactly how it all happened. It’s her little favorite who breaks the silence. “Were you there, Auntie?”

Now there’s another smile, but it shows fangs—a reminder that when she was young, she was not just their soft great-aunt who sews them adorable stuffed animals but a fierce huntress of their clan. “My dearest friend was. It is something scary, something fantastic, something true—and yes, Mrii’li, it is a great adventure! Now, I believe the way these stories traditionally start is...ah, yes.”

“Once upon a time...”

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 10: foster

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents, Rrisya reflected. They clearly loved her and wanted the best for her and her little brother and sisters. Her da’s side of the family, too, were always coming by with food or supplies or buy orders for the shop, and her da’s mum made the best mi’qabobs. She knew she’d be happy if they were her whole world, if she didn’t have to think about Gridania or the Elementals or anything.

But her mum’s side of the family wouldn’t let her forget. They were in the front room now, her grandma and aunts and cousins (she had clan cousins! She hadn’t even known about them until they showed up—but then again, neither had her mum until her aunts had proudly introduced their children) all talking and arguing and generally being loud. She’d taken refuge with her stuffed ahriman in the garden, hugging its round body and wishing she’d brought her ball with her. There’d been yelling earlier, with Aunt Vayu in her enormous feather cloak demanding to know How could you bring your children up in this city, Hahki?! and her mum snarling back that this was no discussion to have in front of innocent miqittens.

I am twelve, she thought grumpily. I can listen to boring grownup talk if I want. And I know how this city looks at us! Like feral animals. The big Wildwoods and short-eared Hyurs were downright rude to her da and uncle when they didn’t care if she heard them, and she’d seen men staring way too long at her mum. But it was her home. She was going to inherit the shop, probably, so she’d have to be around to run it. The Mriihas were depending on her.

Footsteps approached, and her ears pricked up. “Who—“

“It’s just your auntie Sahel, jumpy cat.”

Oh. Aunt Sahel was kind of scary, with the big owl mask that covered most of her face—especially now, stomping out into the yard with her spear in hand. As she assumed a fighting stance, staring out into the night, Rrisya cleared her throat nervously. “Um. What are you doing?”

Her tail was puffed up like a bottlebrush. “Blowing off steam. Sometimes grownups get tired of arguing too.”

And then she started to move, and all Rrisya could do was stare. Aunt Sahel’s bone-tipped spear was a white blur in the darkness, weaving figure-eights and circles and spinning, widening spirals as she danced it around the garden. Each footfall was planted firmly where nothing had been grown; when a spin took her into a leap, Rrisya watched with her heart in her mouth as the momentum brought the spear thudding into the ground mere ilms away from a just-ripe pumpkin.

Finally, she found her voice. “I wanna learn to do that.”

Aunt Sahel leaned on her spear, watching her with a look that she realized belatedly was almost wary. “These are the spear hunting techniques of the Otombe clan.”

Before she could think she was on her feet, ears flat and tail bristling. “I’m an Otombe! Just like you and mum!”

“Are you,” she said. She didn’t sound convinced, but before Rrisya could work up a defense she continued, “If you are—truly, that is—you’ll find us after we leave. Look south for the chocobo skulls hung up in blue linen.” After a moment, tail twitching, she added, “Let your mum take you. She...we disagree, but she’s still my little sister.”

Rrisya thought about how sharp bone spears could be, and about how people looked at Keepers of the Moon like her.

And she said, “I will.”

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 15: the thorn in the foot

Walk softly in the forest. Cut no trees. Hunt no beasts, though your family be starving. Let yourself be defanged, declawed; praise us for showing you the ways of harmony and civilization. Remember that you are good and respectable citizens of Gridania, not tree-dwelling savages, and your faith matters not unless it be for the Twelve. Remember you exist only on the sufferance of the Elementals, and you should be grateful—grateful—for your life in such a blessed place, such a holy and peaceful place. Wood’s Will Be Done.

It is a constant refrain in your chest, as near to you as your own heartbeat. Never spoken aloud—of course not, they would never be so crude—but spoken all the same in a thousand sneers and mutters and whispers that follow the curl of your tail. Outsiders think your city is serene, never seeing the rot beneath.

When the whispers rise to a roar—when your people cry for justice—you lift your spear. And you strike.

You need not strike again.

Lower your eyes when you address your betters. Raise no hand in your own defense. Quarry no stone, for we have no need when there is good Imperial steel. Remember that if you prove yourselves, you may become good and respectable citizens of Garlemald and not eikon-worshipping savages begging for the aid of false gods. Remember you exist only on the sufferance of the Empire, and you should be grateful—grateful—for your life in such a civilized place, such an orderly and peaceful place. Ave Imperium.

Across the border, you discover it isn’t so different. True, the ground is bare and the sun is bright, too hot on your thick-furred ears, but you’ve heard this refrain before. You see it written in the eyes of the Ala Mhigans, in the soaring steel of Imperial castrums. Outsiders don’t think of Ala Mhigo at all.

Like your people, they cry for justice. Like your people, they cry for vengeance.

And you’re used to fighting thugs in masks.

[ffxiv-swarm]

“where are your parents?”

@crowsaerie-rp started this and I’ve been meaning to do it for like a month))

Ritanelle: “...Still in Gridania, so far ‘s I know. Da was a bookkeeper at the Ebony Stalls and Mum kept house. They--I don’t know if they still do.”

Evrard: “They are dead.”

Gantsetseg: “Mama and Papa and Da are all still with the tribe, tending our herds and riding our horses. I get a lot of letters from them!”

Rrisya: “My parents run a general store in Gridania with my father’s clan, such as it is. My sister will inherit it.”

Portia & Tiber: “...Our father was the second tesserarius of the first cohort aboard the Agrius. Our mother runs a hair salon in the capital with her sisters and sister-in-law. She...probably thinks we’re dead.”

Shinju: “Running a jewelry shop under the Ruby Sea, in Sui-no-Sato. When I left--to study, you understand--they were doing well.”

Q’sevet & Q’yala: “Our father is nunh of our village, and remains there. Our mothers are a potter and a priestess.”

Hoelun: “They’re all with the tribe! Second Papa is a wonderful weaver, and Mama makes the best khuushuur. I know they worry, but I try to write back when I can.”

Erasmus: “...Dead. They died when I was a lad. That’s life in the Brume, y’know?”

Pavo: “My mother is a huntress in our village. I don’t know who my father is.”

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 21: crunch

The noise woke her from a sunlit nap on her sleeping platform. Hiss jumped off her stomach and stalked to the edge; grumbling, she rolled over and squinted through the leaves to see who was disturbing the dry leaf litter at the base of her tree. From the ground, she knew it looked like any other disused camp in the South Shroud; the firepit had been smothered bells ago, and the rough-carved boards on rocks could have last been used as seats in the Fifth Astral Era. Only those who saw the skulls wrapped in blue linen scarves would know it was anything but, and only the truly desperate or determined would come this far into morbol territory.

The shape currently prodding the hearth with a stick was probably elezen; their hooded robes made it impossible for her to see their face but did nothing to disguise that they were hugely pregnant. She saw no visible weapons, sniffed the air—no great soul, whispered the Otogandha hunt god from its totem—but took note of the bulging satchel slung over their shoulder.

They sat down on one of her makeshift chairs and cleared their—her—throat. “Are you there? I heard—I heard that you could help folk like us.” Her voice was shaking.

Rrisya grabbed a mask at random—an aldgoat ram today, a gift by way of one of Ritanelle’s comrades—and jumped down onto a lower branch. The woman had clearly been expecting her, but her dark eyes were wide with shock anyway. Before she could start freezing up—or worse, fleeing—Rrisya spoke. “That depends. What do you rrequire?”

She dropped her gaze and bit her lip; Rrisya’s eyes followed her movements as she flipped open the satchel to reveal an assortment of glass jars packed between herb bundles. “I brought you these. Ah—in...payment? If you’ll...” The mumble was nearly inaudible.

Rrisya’s bare feet hit the ground. Standing, she had the advantage of height—and a better look at her visitor, who was blue-skinned and blue-haired and looked like she could use a few more good meals. “Speak.”

Silence.

And then words poured out of the woman like water from a burst dam. “I need you to kill the Wailer Lancifer Habelliard! He and his squadron—my man was hunting to provide for us, and they killed him! He was defenseless, he never hurt anyone in his life! My children—I—we’re alone—” She dissolved into sobs, and Rrisya stood there like a stone.

It wasn’t hesitation. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was feeling. On one end of the spear, Habelliard certainly deserved death. Deserved it several times over, for this woman’s pain and the lives of her children. On the other…on the other… He is Rita’s brother. What would she say, were I to slay him for a stranger’s sake? Could I face her, knowing they would truly never speak again because of my actions? “Habelliarrrd, you say. Is he not a lieutenant?” She knew he was.

The woman looked up, hastily wiping her face on her sleeve. Rrisya’s heart broke a little. “Um. I...think so…?”

She steeled herself. “I cannot slay a ranking officerr and expect to escape theirr reach. But the rremains of his cohorrt…” She allowed herself a sharp smile, knowing the woman would see it. “I will brring you the heads of the men who fired the arrows, who drew theirr steel against your man. I will see that you have justice.”

Horribly, her visitor looked like she was going to cry again. “Oh, thank you, thank you—”

Rrisya knelt, inspecting the jars that had been intended as tribute. Plucking up one of them—strawberry jam—she closed the satchel and stood up. The woman was watching her now, confusion writ in the tilt of her ears, and she kept her face resolutely neutral. “No thanks necessarrry. Keep your food—for yourr children. You will need it.” She sniffed the air—still clear. This early in the day, the morbols would hopefully be sleeping. “Can you make it back to the path?”

The woman pulled her hood lower and made a motion that was probably a nod. “I’m...I’ll be alright. Thank you—again—Jerresiaux was all to me…”

Ritanelle, she thought, would probably have something encouraging or at least reassuring to say. But all Rrisya could do was nod and leap back into the trees to watch her go.

She had a hunt to plan.

[ffxiv-swarm]

the leafshadow

The Nimble Beast Ghost Barque Mask of Maiming (olive green) Republican Eques’ Chiton (marsh green) Nomad’s Armguards of Maiming Warg Breeches of Maiming Alliance Boots of Maiming (marsh green)