#the ironworks twins

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2024: Day 20 - Twins

The Ironworks Twins Need a New Home:

Of all the pairs of twins on Sodor, Arry and Bert are quite easily the most dysfunctional – though that’s not really a fair comparison considering Arry and Bert dealt with scrap all day.

The pair had lived and worked at the Sodor Ironworks and Smelting Yard for almost all their lives. They’d left the factory together, been bought ‘off the peg’ from British Rail together, and spent every day working together. They hauled scrap iron into their yard, melted it down, and turned it into sheets of new metal to be sent out and turned into something useful again. It was not always a pleasant task – Arry and Bert had often been tasked with taking withdrawn engines, coaches and trucks to their ends.

Arry had always been just a little more excited by this prospect than Bert. He was the elder of the two twins, and – much to Bert’s chagrin – was weirdly overprotective of his twin. Somehow, he’d gotten it into his radiators that this meant being supportive of every job he was given, even if it involved the scrapping of other engines. Bert let his twin believe he was a great hero and mastermind – but in all actuality, he wasn’t interested in Arry’s latest scheme to annoy the steam engines or curry favour with their boss.

If anything, Bert was actually the smarter of the two.

And indeed, as the new millennium had dawned and their mainland relatives were withdrawn and cut up in droves, Bert began to quietly pull together as many connections as he could. He volunteered to work away from the smelter’s whenever the opportunity arose, especially as he noticed the manager flicking through locomotive catalogues in his office.

Arry, naturally, didn’t notice that at all.

One evening, Arry and Bert were resting in their shed when they heard a low, distant rumbling. Thinking it was just another load of scrap for the yard, the pair thought little of it and continued sleeping; perhaps it would have been better if they had investigated.

The next morning, the two twins woke up to find a new engine at the fuel tank. It was already painted into their livery, a sneer on their face.

“Wonderful, he’s arrived!” grinned the yard manager, striding out of his office. Arry and Bert blinked, and gazed at their owner as he made his way across the yard to stand between them. “Arry, Bert – it’s been nice owning you, but I’ve put you up for sale. If you can’t find yourselves a buyer… well, I do own a smelting yard! And who would buy twins…”

Arry snarled, his engine revving furiously. Bert thought fast. “We’ll get goin’ with our steel train then, sir!” he practically bellowed, thundering away. Arry spluttered indignantly, and gave chase.

“What was tha’ about?! You want to keep workin’ fer that old knob even after he’s announced he’s plannin’ to scrap us?” Arry demanded, catching up to his twin as Bert began hurriedly shunting together the steel trucks. “No, you dolt,” snorted Bert. “Use yer noggin. Where are we?” “The scrapyard.” Bert groaned, and rolled his eyes. “Sodor, you dimwit! We need ta make our case ta Fat Hatt, and fast.” Arry reared back, his engine coughing out thick black smoke.

“Fat Hatt? You want us ta work with the steamers?” Bert sighed, and finished arranging the trucks. “Yes, Arry, I do. It’s not 1968 anymore – we’re outdated too. Make yer peace with steam now, or we’re not gettin’ a new home.” “We have other options,” sniffed Arry. “We’re maintained, an’ boss put us up fer sale.” Even as he said that, Arry coupled onto the train and let Bert take the lead. Bert couldn’t help but grin – Arry had never let him lead when they worked together, calling it ‘unsafe’ and trying to protect him from whatever was on the line.

“Boss ain’t put us up fer sale,” Bert said coldly, the moment the pair left the smelter’s yard. “He lied. Why sell us when he can sell our scrap? We need Fat Hatt – no, Sir Topham Hatt ta buy us. He’s the only one who would. Now come on!”

The steel train was bound for Tidmouth, with stops all along the route . When the pair arrived at Wellsworth, Bert left Arry to shunt the train away and rumbled towards the sheds. A few moments later, he returned with Edward following close behind.

“So, he’s bought a new engine to replace you both?” quizzed Edward. “Yeah. An’ he’ll scrap us at the end o’ the week if we ain’t bought.” Edward frowned, then smiled at Bert. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. Bert just smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and buffered back up to Arry. “We gotta get goin’ now.” “Bye Bert!” called Edward, already puffing away. Arry waited until the old engine was out of earshot before saying something.

“What. Was that?” “I’ve been talkin’ ta some of the Sodor steamers fer a while now,” Bert replied easily. “Why?!” “Fer this exact reason,” retorted Bert. Arry couldn’t even think of an argument against that – Bert had already managed to get Edward the blue engine to potentially plead their case.

It was the same story at Thomas’ junction. Bert wandered off for a brief moment, found Percy, and told him about what was happening, bending the truth just a little to make it seem like the twins were in immediate danger. And just like Edward, Percy promised to talk to the Fat Controller about their dilemma.

Then, the pair reached the Big Station, bringing the trucks down to the harbour where Henry and Bear were. The two saw Bert coming and smiled. Arry very nearly coughed up all his fuel in shock.

“Afternoon Bert!” called Bear. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” “I wish,” sighed Bert. “But I got bad news this mornin’.” “Oh?” exclaimed Henry, looking concerned. “What was it?” Bert told the events of their morning again, and again Henry and Bear promised Bert that they would try their best to help.

Arry was flabbergasted. He didn’t know what to think! When had his little twin gotten so… mature? Old? Clever? Bert was his younger twin! The one he protected and kept the boss from selling, always being eager and interested in his schemes to make them seem like the best possible engines for the job.

Then again, that had done them a fat lot of good in the end, hadn’t it? Maybe Bert was onto something with this idea of working for the Fat Hatt…

Bert’s plan worked a treat. With not one, not two but four different engines all telling the Fat Controller about the Ironworks twins being retired and even more saying positive things about Bert, he really had no choice but to put forward an offer. To say the Ironworks manager was stunned was an understatement!

Arry and Bert were repainted into a new NWR livery and now work at the Big Station, arranging trains and shunting the harbour. Arry is still brash and difficult at times, but he’s slowly learning how to fit in. If anything, the biggest shock to Arry the Ironwork Twin was to discover just how much his younger brother had grown up.

Back to the Master Post

[happyspookysteamer]

The Ironworks twins. Random Headcanon: They own a few chickens as pets. They really like animals, more than people.

[voidsentprinces]

My favorite thing about WoL is that they're usually so busy the plot and reason they go places sometimes gets away from them. Like the Ixal Questline. You go out to investigate a supposed Ixal incursion from a downed balloon ship. And then you just vanish off the Twin Adder's radar for the span of like a month or two helping Sezul Totoloc and an eccentric lalafell engineer build a cool airship combining Ironworks, Eorzean and Ixal design into one. And then they're like, "Well...it was nice of you to help and all but why exactly did you come here in the first place?" And you're like, "Oh shit, yeah I should probably report back to the Serpents...REALLY got sidetracked."

[stclover]

subject to changes/additions but these are pretty solid ♥

readmore for genres & recommended starting tracks!

🎧for albums that should be enjoyed through, at the very least, decent-quality headphones

_______________

Violet by The Birthday Massacre (2005) [darkwave]

"Violet" or "Play Dead"

Low Birth Weight by Piano Magic (1999) [lo-fi electronic/rock]

"Crown Estate"

🎧Popular Mechanics by Piano Magic (1997) [lo-fi electronic]

"Revolving Moth Cage"

Odessa by Bee Gees (1969) [baroque pop]

"Odessa (City On The Black Sea)" or "Lamplight"

Main Course by Bee Gees (1975) [soul/funk]

"Nights On Broadway" or "Fanny (Be Tender With My Love)"

---

Permanent Sleep by Lowlife (1985) [post punk/gothic rock]

"Permanent Sleep"

Larks' Tongues in Aspic by King Crimson (1973) [prog. rock]

"Book of Saturday"

🎧MAGDALENE by FKA twigs (2019) [art pop]

"sad day" or "mary magdalene"

🎧CALIGULA by Lingua Ignota (2017) [neoclassical]

"DO YOU DOUBT ME TRAITOR"

🎧Deep England by Gazelle Twin/NYX (2021) [drone choir]

"Fire Leap" or "Golden Dawn"

---

🎧Alter by Lustmord (2021) [dark ambient]

"Perihelion"

Created In the Image of Suffering by King Woman (2017) [doom metal]

"Utopia" or "Hierophant"

Bites by Skinny Puppy (1985) [electro-industrial]

"Assimilate"

Surf's Up by Beach Boys (1971) [progressive pop]

"Until I Die" or "Surf's Up"

🎧Obsidian by Baths (2013) [electronic]

"Earth Death" , "No Past Lives" , "Ironworks"

---

🎧Passive With Desire by Choir Boy (2016) [dreampop]

"Passive With Desire" or "Hellmouth"

Wiped Out! by The Neighbourhood (2015) [electropop]

"The Beach" or "Daddy Issues"

🎧Air Con Eden by Jerkcurb (2019) [dreampop]

"Air Con Eden" or "Voodoo Saloon"

Lookaftering by Vashti Bunyan (2005) [folk]

"Here Before"

Natural Born Losers by Nicole Dollanganger (2015) [alt. pop]

"Poacher's Pride"

[duskstargazer]

[1963]

The twins were still resentful towards each other as they pulled into the yard. They overheard Sir Topham Hatt talking to Toby.

“There simply isn’t room in the schedule. I would have to loan another engine, and I doubt Duck would take kindly to such arrangements. I almost wish we had another engine-”

Sensing a chance to get away from Harry, Bert perked up. “Send me, Toppy.”

Sir Topham Hatt didn’t seem particularly amused by the nickname, but chose to ignore it.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm and …perceived work ethic, but I need one engine, not two.”

“Then there’s no problem, sir. I am one engine.”

“Won’t you two miss working together?” Toby inquired. “You work together all the time. I’d certainly miss Henrietta if we were split up.”

“That’s cause you’re all sentimental - and probably senile.” Bert said the last part louder than he’d intended - not that it mattered to him. “I’m great workin’ on my own.”

“Then go, then.” Harry growled. “Work’ll move a lot faster without you gettin’ in the way.”

“Is that why you pushed me into that lorry?”

“You pulled me!”

“Enough!” Sir Topham Hatt bellowed. “Bert, I will let you work alongside Duck at the Coaling Plant - provided you maintain good behavior. I can and will send you back to the Ironworks on the first offense. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly, sir. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” And he scuttled away, before Harry could comment - or realize he’d been left with Bert’s trucks as well as his own.

[kootiepatra]

#WolmericWeek2024 - Day 4: Nameday

(fic below; also available on AO3 )

Keimwyda looked around at the full room with an even fuller heart. If someone would have said to her even three autumns ago that her nameday would look like this one day, she would not have believed them. She also would have assured them that she needed no such thing. …And she could only imagine how her present-day-friends would upbraid her even now for saying so.

It was clear that the Fortemps had by no means offered empty words when they spoke of considering her family. The extravagant gathering tonight proved it. Edmont had only become ever more fatherly towards Keimwyda since she and Aymeric began courting, and he was properly horrified upon learning how long it had been since her last nameday celebration. He insisted on hosting a feast commensurate with both the hospitality of House Fortemps and the gratitude of his people to their savior. And so now, it seemed to Keimwyda that half of Ishgard must be here.

Most of the faces, she did, in fact, know. From Lord Francel, to Lady Laniaitte, to Hilda, to folks from the local branch of the Ironworks, the room was filled with people she had worked for and with. A few of the Scions had made the journey as well: G’raha, who of course was not about to pass up an opportunity to visit Keimwyda in Ishgard , as well as Krile, whose friendship meant more to Keimwyda than almost anyone, and Tataru, who was all too eager for an excuse to step away from Revenant’s Toll and rekindle associations she had made at the Forgotten Knight. The Leveilleurs were there, too—Ameliance and the twins had insisted on celebrating their friend, and had prevailed upon Fourchenault to join them with some paper-thin pretense of building diplomatic relations on behalf of the Forum.

But there were also many attendees whom she did not know, at least not well. She suspected she largely had Emmanellain to thank for that. He was not like to be contained when an opportunity to flex his social connections presented itself. But in fairness, with what Keimwyda had learned of Isghardian high society thus far, she figured it was scarcely avoidable. One of the high houses hosting a feast in honor of a noteworthy figure? Any noble families who caught wind of it (and did not wish to deliver a purposeful snub) were apt to seek an invitation.

Once it became plain during the planning that a small, intimate gathering was well and truly out of the question, Keimwyda had proposed a few invitations of her own: Firstly, as many people from Hilda’s watch as she could spare, as well as any Aymeric and Handeloup wished to include from the temple knights. Secondly, the laborers she had come to know in their efforts rebuilding the Firmament. And finally, her “little siblings” from the Firmament orphanage, along with a sufficient number of adult volunteers to wrangle them. If her nameday was going to be a spectacle, it might as well include those for whom it would be the biggest treat. And if it meant that the party would be less a formal ball and more a community celebration, then so much the better. She would certainly feel more at ease that way.

There was food and laughter and music and dancing and a steady stream of well-wishers desirous to speak to Keimwyda, from the polite acquaintances to the genuine friends to the socialites who very much wanted to be seen making overtures to the Warrior of Light. Keimwyda was happy. She was. She was honored by the gesture. She was glad to see so many people enjoying themselves and enjoying the Fortemps’ generosity. She smiled softly to herself as she reflected on how very far this city had come, and how deeply her heart had become knit to it.

Twelve help her, though, it was a lot . 

With each conversation, without even realizing it, she had been steadily drifting towards the corner of the room. Part of her hoped that maybe, just maybe she might fade out of the center of attention for a minute or two. 

She was just concluding another such chat—a woman breathlessly thanking her for saving her son’s life on the battlefield in an encounter Keimwyda could not remember and was not entirely sure happened—when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She sighed to herself as she relinquished her hope of a momentary reprieve, reaffixed her polite smile, and turned to greet yet another reveler.

She had not expected that reveler to be Aymeric, but gods , did she welcome it.

He studied her face with a sympathetic smile, and wordlessly offered his arm to her. She took it. So he led them outside, quietly slipping through the side door to the terrace. Aymeric had such a better and more-practiced sense for how these functions worked than she did—he managed to make good their escape without drawing so much as a single comment from other partygoers. Keimwyda didn’t know how he pulled it off. But then, she always did admire the grace by which he navigated events like this.

The evening air was, as to be expected, quite bracing, but Keimwyda inhaled it gratefully all the same. Warm firelight spilled from the manor’s windows onto the balcony. The just-rising moon crested the skyline before them. The roar of dozens of conversations dissipated to a gentle murmur behind them as the heavy door swung shut—the music, although greatly muffled, now the main sound permeating the night.

Aymeric silently took her a few more steps before disentangling his arm and turning to face her. She looked to him curiously, wondering what it was he wished to speak about.

But he did not speak. Instead, he just smiled.

He bowed deeply.

And he extended his hand.

Keimwyda wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry with relief as she recognized the invitation to dance.

So she just blinked back the mist and slipped her hand into his. He drew her close. She leaned her head against his. They swayed gently to the sound of the softened melodies wafting through the door—to have each other, to hold each other, for a stolen moment of quiet and peace as long as the cold night would allow them.

Happy nameday, my love.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 40] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content Warning: Description of violence and death.

It wasn't worth translating to Soap or Ghost what their zip-tied Tango was saying to them. They probably didn't care to hear the Arabic verbal barrage the man slumped over Soap's shoulder was spewing their way. The way he immediately carried on after Soap threw him onto the back of the dune buggy would almost be funny if it weren't for the deathly serious context. There didn't seem to be any need to clarify where to go either, as they wordlessly whipped the roaring engine back into motion and tore back into the dunes. 

Meanwhile, Laswell had typed walls of text into her laptop, flurrying fingers stopping with a breath. It left you oddly uneasy without the tapping white noise you've become accustomed to. The room felt lighter since there was no longer the fear of the unknown, but now it was the known that lingered in your conscience. A recently evacuated complex and test subjects with fresh bullet holes in their temples. Only by the grace of sheer luck did Farah spot that lone soul fleeing on foot in the desert. Who knows what evidence he hid with those precious seconds before 141 tore through that quarry. It's impossible to know what might've been burned or shredded, and a flicker of a glance at Price's headcam on screen showed him rifling through mountains of waterlogged documents- utterly unreadable. 

Your stomach nearly flipped as Gaz lifted himself on top of one of the crushers, spotting a dark churned pulp within, the makeup of which you couldn't bring yourself to imagine. There's no doubt that the quarry was the hotspot. One hotspot. For all you know, this could be the tip of the iceberg. Right now, you could just work with what you could and go one step at a time. 

"All Bravo, this is Watcher. Bravo 0-6 I need you to get as much evidence as possible at that compound. Keep your gloves on and head on a swivel. We're sending all of this footage back home. Bravo 0-7, bring the Tango out back and let's have a chat with him. We'll meet you there." Laswell's words painted a clear picture of orders, stern and certain, evident by the chorus of 'solid copy' in response. 

We'll meet you there. She has to mean Farah, right? She's shifting in her seat like she's ready to stand, and every emotion crashes into your mind with such ferocity that it makes your sinews crackle with anticipation. She's standing, and you do, too. You don't know why, but you just did. Firecrackling tension trickles down your thigh, and lightheadedness clouds your senses. 

"Cricket," Laswell gestured to the door with the laptop she'd scooped under her arm. 

Before you could blink, you were already forcing paralyzed tendons into action, hearing the sound of your own footsteps before you could even register the subsequent actions. At least she led the way; otherwise, you'd have no idea where you were going. Once again, you're tapping down the ironwork catwalks, but only this time at an accelerated pace. The stairs crashed under you, fluttering down each step, catching a flash of blonde whip around the base of the stairs toward the exit ramp. With a light hop, she had broken into a jog. You did, too. She pushed past the unlatched door into the white sunshine. You did, too. Laswell swung herself into a smaller, more pedestrian dune buggy than the boys' model. You did, too.

Dust and the smell of gasoline flooded your senses, fighting inconsequentially to keep coarse sand from flying into your hair and eyes. At least Farah would still be on overwatch, though something told you this barren, pathless golden wild didn't come with many passers-by. You gripped the buggy's metal frame like it would be drifting away into that blinding sky if it weren't for your courageous vice, even when your wrist muscles trembled with strain. 

Only when you were in the passenger seat, following the same twin pairs of tracks the task force had left as sandy breadcrumbs, did you actually connect with your circumstance. They're going to have you in the complex, among rank and putrid rotting bodies, sifting through evidence to uncover some key evidence. The smell of a dead body is a hard thing to get out of your system. Let alone the sight. At least you have time to mentally prep yourself for the onslaught, but most of all, you were eager to help unravel this plot. If anything, those bodies should be an incentive to get this intel rather than a root of apprehension. No time for emotions. Just do your job. Do it for Basmala. Do it for her daughter who should be studying in Brussels right now. 

It's so odd to see the quarry in person, like it's stepping into the screen you'd been watching minutes before, even down to the perspective. You've seen Gaz's identical perspective in the passenger seat of a vehicle, the same as you, crashing and soaring over heaving dunes. Only this time, the phantom falling sensation became more real than ever. A wavy view of tall concrete walls came closer and closer, the scorching ground making it look like a hazy grey cloud. Be it your elevated heart rate or the sun pommeling your dark tee-shirt, a thin layer of sweat made your vice on the fuselage slip with every plummeting hill. 

Price's raised palm looked like a torch in the darkness, like a British and moustached Lady Liberty, signalling you into the harbour with open arms. Only it wasn't a harbour; it was a shambling stone construction with a crooked sign hanging on for dear life above a brutally rusted set of doors. Ghost and Soap stood vigil over their catch, guns drawn, like hunters eagerly displaying their game for social media. Poor fucker was zip-tied up like a prized hog with a burlap sack reading 'onion' in Arabic taped around his head. Gaz reached over to place his palm on the roof over Laswell's side of the buggy, saying something in that accent that you couldn't quite catch. Fuck, maybe this heat is getting to you because Price was signalling for you to join, and leaded muscles scarcely cooperated. 

Hot sand took no time to spread their scalding words through the rubber of your boots. The desert sand has a way of being so deafeningly loud with its radiance, like you're hearing the sound of your own eardrums baking. They were talking about the elephant in the room, being the prisoner, and what to do with him. Frankly, you couldn't care less. You just wanted to get inside and get to work, to get out of the sun. It's when you hear your own name in the context of this stranger that your eyes snap into focus. 

"It can't be on the record," Price mouthed, "But Cricket can get us a written transcript when she's done. Right?"

Your face hardened. You were hearing things, seeing mouths move and eyes land on you, but it still wasn't loading in your overheating hardware. Even when your mouth hung open, hot air on your teeth provided an unwelcome sensory overload that made your stomach heave. 

"Wh-" you breathed.

"We'll get you and Ghost to take him over by that old hydroelectric dam, and let us know what he's got to say," Price clarified, those icy blue eyes did not provide the cooling relief you were craving. 

"I doubt he'll just volunteer the info... They- they're probably threatening to do to his family what they did to Basmala." Finally, a sensical thought slipped into your mind and past your lips as the situation clicked. 

"Ghost has a way of making people talk," Laswell nodded, glancing over her shoulder at the phantom.

"He might be better at your job than you," Gaz joked with that shit-eating grin he and Soap liked to sport. 

You managed your fiercest look past your furrowed eyebrows with remarkable ease since it came so naturally. By now, you're well aware that he's joking. Probably. Maybe. 

"I prefer to operate within the Geneva Conventions," you chided. 

"Conventions and rules will only get you so far sometimes," Price swaggered into view with folded arms. 

"And getting them to talk is one thing; getting them to say the right chatter is another. It's yet another thing is to actually understand what they're whaling."

"He's the best chance we've got," Laswell's voice cut deep, not only because you've never heard her be so sharp in your direction, but because she was right. 

You had no problem with catching a dishonourable condemnation or discharge if it meant standing up against torturing someone. Torture. That's what it is, torture. In so many ways, this was out of your league. Out of your skillset. Out of the things you weren’t psychologically equipped to absorb into your conscience. This one little flicker kept you in it, though. Those yellow mary-janes. If this is what it takes to unravel this grisly plot, you'll have to get your hands dirty. You'd rather take the weight on your shoulders of this poor soul's torment over the sleepless nights of feeling like you could've done more. Another set of impossible choices. Once again, a tragic ethical dilemma. If only one of those textbooks back in London had the wise words of some decorated linguist's solution, but maybe that's the thing; history is written by the victors. 

"I'll do it," you insisted dutifully. 

"Good," Price nodded, patting a gloved palm over your shoulder. 

The heat of his palm was unwelcome, but that placid face said that he was aware of your psychological sacrifice, a big ordeal for your rank. These guys have probably done this dozens of times before. You wouldn't be shocked if your lieutenant's number was closer to the combination of theirs. Yet, the crinkled smiling eyes he shared with you, likely somewhat sarcastically, said he was proud. He's definitely more than aware of your recognition of the satire in the action, though. 

"Don't worry about Ghost, he doesn't bite," Laswell grinned warmly, reassuming her position behind the wheel of her dune buggy. 

Oh Kate, if you only knew the half of it. 

Soap and Ghost bantered about something seemingly hilarious while you grappled with the ethical dilemma afoot. Every time you thought the mission was moving impossibly fast, a quick gearshift sent the operation into a new warp speed. The rest of the crew had gone inside, evident by the squealing rust, and Laswell had tore back toward the observatory to fire off more communications. Reality looked like a movie taking place before your eyes as if you were in the front row at a movie theatre. Soap's posture suggested he was just turning to leave, concluding his chatter. No Soap, don't go. Don't help Ghost heave that bound mass into the back of one of the buggies, wrestling against his explosive protests. At least he had the courtesy to buckle him in though, safety first. Now, his gaze turned to you. He was walking over to you. There's that stupid fucking grin. 

"See you soon, Cricket. LT'll make your first time extra special," another slap on your shoulder, he looked like he was on the edge of a laughing fit. 

He was obviously referring to the grim reality of forced information gathering. Obviously, he's talking about the torture. You felt your face scrunch into a tight-lipped smile. He seemed content with your wavering response, turning on his heels with one last look to his comrade. Fucking Soap. It's a wonder what he sees in this grim fucker, and what humour he seems to find in him. Maybe it'll be worth eavesdropping on their next banter session. With sprightly efficiency, he disappeared into the abyss below that collapsed, once vibrantly painted sign. The door clicked shut to a choir of shrieking metal, gone from view. Now you were alone. Alone, save for the dreadful, loathing figure that's utterly disgusted by having to exist in your presence, with their mouth wrapped in cloth that's sparing you from a view of barred fangs- and the hostage. 

As he approached, he blocked out the sun, making you look up past furrowed brows to meet his stoic gaze. That stupid fucking white plate in the shape of a skull caught the glare of the sun, eagerly reflecting bleaching white into reluctant pupils. You detested being there with him, and the odd humour reflected in his eyes. Humour, of all things. The fucker had the nerve to smirk at you through dark eyes, staring down his nose at you. He was getting a kick out of how uneasy and upset you were. Sick fucker, it's like he forgot that you're not the one he's supposed to torture. You'd be so much more at ease if it were anyone else. It'd be so much more doable, having constructive reassurance from someone with positive rapport to help guide you. No. Yet another trial by fire, though at least the Grim Reaper was already here to drag you to hell once this was done. Wipe that smug look off your face. 

"In," he flicked his chin to the vehicle that held the writhing subject. 

You detested taking orders from him, turning over your shoulder to the buggy. It's when you felt a featherlight hand on the base of your spine that your nerves sparked alive like firecrackers, leaving tingling flesh in their wake. Scorching breath halted in your throat, threatening to singe fragile lungs. Stepping into the machine like he suggested left your mind spinning. A simple action with dire consequences. He was just helping you climb back into the dune buggy. That's really it. The humming engine matched the vibrations of your humming nerves.

Every cascading hill made the hogtied Tango in the back seat groan against his confines like a cat in a bag. What set your mind at ease was that he wasn't protesting his innocence or asserting some grand misunderstanding with every outburst. This fucker had the nerve to call you every curse word in the book, including a handful of regional phrases that you hadn't had the grace of being exposed to in your academic setting- though you could infer their meaning. This guy knew he was caught, and your masked colleague was interested in making him sing, not scream. 

At least being in motion made a breeze breathe across your damp skin, even though it felt more like standing in front of a hairdryer. Last time you were alone with this man, truly alone, you couldn't control yourself. A spur-of-the-moment action made you act on deeply rooted instincts. Though that time, you had alcohol as fuel. However, this time, you have something much worse; lingering glances and heavy-lidded daydreams that'd spent months marinating. The head has a funny way of prying these unspeakable thoughts from your conscience when you're in heat like this, like you're sweating out the toxins in your system. 

What the fuck am I thinking? This is work. This is a job that has to be done. Seconds earlier, I was considering a dishonourable discharge. That one action. That second of touch did that to me. Am I that touch starved? What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Farah, how copy?" Laswell's voice cut through Ghost's radio over your shoulder, snapping you out of your trance. 

"Peachy," Farah retorted, stern and apathetic. 

"Good to hear. The Bravo 0-6, 2-6 and 7-1 will search the quarry and gather a case. We're counting on your overwatch."

"Rog."

"Watcher out," Laswell ceased the dialogue, forcing the quiet company back into an uneasy silence.

A hazy mountain, long and straight, manifested into the shape of what seemed to be the destination in the afternoon sun. Broad letters in abjad script confidently noted Al Mazrah Hydro, though by the depressed state of the dam, it looked like it had been long abandoned in the peak of the desert's punishing heat. Sprawling vertical streams of orange and red led to leaky pipes, far beyond repair, forking up and down the 100 ft mass of concrete and stone. The closer you got, the more your heart rate steadied, making way for a washing sense of duty. Duty and confidence. It's time to make this fucker pay. Wring out every drop of information that can make his warlord bosses pay for what they did to these people, what they did to Basmala, and all those graveless names from that transmission. Luckily, it came with the bonus of extracting crucial information about his boss or some game-changing intel that could turn this entire operation on its head. Details that Ghost will gleefully unburden him from with practiced brutality.

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Master List

[elliepassmore]

When the Tides Held the Moon review

4/5 stars Recommended if you like: historical fantasy, LGBTQ+ characters, mermaids, carnivals

Big thanks to Netgalley, Erewhon Books, and the author for an ARC in exchange for an honest review!

This book follows Benny as he goes from working at the ironworks to working for Samuel Morgan at his carnival exhibition.

I'll be honest, this book was interesting and nothing was particularly wrong with it, but it just had some trouble holding my interest. For one, I probably could've done with a more interesting first chapter. While Benny cares a great deal about the skill and effort he puts into creating the beautiful cage for Mr. Morgan, I do not. At all. The first chapter being solely about ironworking really did not hold my interest at all and I set the book aside for a week before returning.

Once Benny leaves the ironworks and makes his way to Coney Island and Mr. Morgan things become more interesting. The merman is definitely interesting and sparks a lot of development, plot- and character-wise, throughout the book, but at the same time it felt like there was little forward progression for a lot of the book, which might be what caught me.

Benny, Benigno, immigrated to NYC from Puerto Rico at the behest of his late aunt, who wanted a better life for him. He ends up toiling away at the ironworks until a minor accident puts him out of a job. Luckily (?) he has another offer waiting for him: Mr. Morgan wants assistance with his show on Coney Island. Life does seem to look up for Benny after that, he finally has people who welcome him into their lives and accept him, and the merman offers a perplexing glimpse into a different world. But Benny's comfort rests in part on the imprisonment of the merman, whom he is slowly coming to love. A lot of Benigno's arc has to do with acceptance and doing the right thing even when there's a lot of risk involved.

When he gets to know the merman, Rio, he immediately wants to help. But things become complicated as he also gets to know the other people working for Mr. Morgan and is accepted as one of the family. There are high stakes for the coming carnival season, and saving Rio might mean ruining his newfound family...but helping his friends would mean ruin for Rio.

Rio comes from a culture of merpeople that we really only get glimpses of. It's clear they have a very different way of viewing things than humans do, and sometimes Rio and Benigno clash over this. But despite his circumstances, Rio has always been soft at heart and interested in helping people (which is actually how he ends up in this situation). He's incredulous at the prejudices Benigno faces and encourages Benigno to find people who truly understand him. I did like Rio a good bit, and though I wasn't a huge fan of his narrative style, I do wish we got more insight into him.

I liked the side characters and appreciated that they all had pretty deep backgrounds. Mr. Morgan's show at Coney Island is a side show featuring the 'smallest woman in the world,' Navya; the 'tallest man in the world, Igor; a fat lady, Lulu; the fire-breather, Vera; the 'strongest man in thew world,' Matthias; the flexible acrobat, Sonia; and the 'conjoined twins,' Eli and Emmett. It would've been interesting to have a book about one of them (or all of them), but it seems this is a standalone.

Overall this is a pretty good book, I just don't think it was for me. There's a lot of nuance to the characters and I think the side characters and their relationships helped make the story shine.

[sheyshen]

i just mentioned it over on twt but the more i'm thinking about it the funnier it is to me. but. Raya is my main WoL, yeah. and I thought probably should fill in the adventurer team for shb and who gets dragged to the first with the scions. Nhea is fairly obvious since he's Raya's big brother, Layla felt right too since she's close with G'raha (though this would've been before they were dating) so that's 3/4 of a non scions team so I kinda want to round it out with a 4th so it, y'know, works and all.

Raya and Nhea are both paladin/monk so they can fit tank or dps. Layla is white mage so she's heals, so just missing another dps or a focused tank. I thought Vincent would be funnier if he stayed behind on the source and ends up getting dragged back into the role of Warrior of Light since Raya's busy (he's my 1.0 wol so i mean it would make sense) so he's out, busy getting dragged out of retirement by tataru. And a few ocs don't really fit the situation or aren't really strongly connected to the scions so they're out. so my main options are: eloise (bard, was a crystal brave who officially joined the scions with Riol, ends up y'shtola's GF), einar (gunbreaker, formerly of the VIIth legion now mechanic in ishgard mainly working on the airships and doing odd jobs for the ironworks, aymeric's BF), or shana (dancer, nhea's twin sister, member of the red bills and leofard's GF)

originally i was kinda leaning towards eloise, but the more i'm thinking about it the funnier it is to me if it's einar. like he's helping cid with the crystal towers stuff as a favor and ends up later getting yoinked to the first. he's the only garlean, everything is unbalanced aether and no tech he's all that familiar with. and it's too warm. he'd be suffering the whole time.

i kinda wanna make him the designated 4 member of the wol's adventurer squad on the first, he'd hate it so much

[elizabethrobertajones]

Hi! Top 5 NPCs for ffxiv? :>

Joint 5: the bunny girlfriends - Debroye from the bread quest in EW and Lilja from Bozja in Shb :) Debroye is fighting the good fight for flavour and that hardly needs expanding on after the build up Archon Loaf had in the MSQ as worldbuilding for Sharlayan. Lilja is just a badass bimbo nerd who is good enough to work at the Ironworks but cool enough for shiny nail polish and sunglasses in a warzone. They're small characters who you only meet doing side content but they have strong personalities and they get to rep viera girls who are just kinda nerdy and weird. I am disproportionately affectionate to both of them.

4: Gerolt... I think I've just spent too much time doing relic weapons... He's just awful in a really funny way and I wish him all the best and do all I can to ensure he has a better lot in life, and then one expansion later he is once again in deep drinking debt but saying the realest shit while creating incredible artworks. Also he's sort of 1/3rd the parent of the aforementioned child Frog has so I guess I need to at least get child support in the form of the first free weapon of each quest. The AU version of him and Mowen in the relic crafting tools thing actually really moved me and I'm not ashamed to admit it :')

Anyway in terms of "this guy!!" he's so up there and I'm always thrilled to see what Scenario he's in now. Over the long course of the game he's made an impression...

3: Ameliance. I'm certain she's a mob boss controlling everything from the shadows.

But seriously, no. The twins really are favourites but in terms of Top NPCs I'd been wondering about her the whole time since they do make mentions of their family and writing to mother etc and expectations were high, and getting to know her was so utterly wild because the plot demands on her from all directions of her family - her husband, her father in law, her children, the servants she hires who include the hired goons Alisaie brought to the Coils of Bahamut... Like. She is a character who had to be retroactively constructed from everything that has been said in a way that Fourchenault didn't need to be because his template is clear: He's the Son of Louisoix and burdened with cursed knowledge and the weight of history from immediate family and long lineage of being related to founding fathers of his city; he's EASY to write. Now imagine up the woman who MARRIED him, and has stayed married to him. And is going to stay married to him since the twins dealing with divorce doesn't seem like a probable plotline given the emotional directions of the broader story. Okay, now let's imagine a real woman with actual desires and personality who can fit into this puzzle piece.

Fucking Ameliance.

How on earth they convinced me she's real is a feat of writing I am in awe of.

2: Urianger is so important, like. Leave me alone, Il Mheg got me good because ffxiv seems to get everyone eventually, and now I'm nonbinary and he's my nonbinary icon :') SIGH. A Process Has Occurred. I could say more but honestly, I think that sums up that he is important to me.

1: Erenville............. Listen, I own multiple David Attenborough merch people get me because they know it's an easy gift. I had been a kid who sat and poked rockpools and puddles and I put snails in a jar and and of course picked up frogs in the garden. You introduce a character whose job is Animals and especially claims to be an expert in frogs??? He would have been at least with the bunny girlfriends on this list if this was his only contribution to the story. (And I would have enjoyed my feud in peace.)

Instead he's a fascinating guy who stood up for his workers, has leves where he's commissioning presents for gleaners, happily goes against authority to be helpful from the jump.... And NOW we get more content where we get to see him being a grumpy snarky bastard who is the only rational person in Sharlayan AND apparently has been neglecting being the only rational person in Tural too so off we go to see that in action???

I'm marrying him I'm marrying him I'm marrying him...

[theoakleafpancake]

The O'Carrick Family/Hibernia Spiel

(just a few things I looked up and kind of correlated to RA because I'm lowkey obsessed with the entire family as a whole and I don't know what else to do with this knowledge so you, dear reader, are now imbued with it)

"Carrick is ancient Scottish and Irish name that is derived from teh Gaelic word 'carraig' meaning 'rock.'" Dunno if this was Flanagan's intentions or not, but it actually does fit what we know of the family on a metaphorical sense.

Back centuries, people from Ireland were said to have dark skin (and blue eyes). I rest my case.

The name Caitlyn (of Irish origin) means "pure." We know next to nothing about Caitlyn, but it fits her.

Alternatively, the name "Ferris" (also of Irish origin) means "strong man or ironworker." I find that hilariously ironic.

Also alternatively, and someone has probably pointed this out already, Halt's name is from "England's ancient Anglo-Saxon culture...comes from when the family lived near a grove or woods." However, unlike Ferris's name, it does fit.

How royal succession worked in medieval Ireland is actually highly debated and uncertain. There's a whole article here on how this could have worked but my brain says no to summing it up. But something in there mentions that brother to brother succession was usually avoided, so if Halt had become King and let's say he produced one or several heirs, the likeliehood of Ferris having to kill the entire royal family would be pretty high.

Another basic point is that seniority rules, but that seems obvious.

There's an irish myth/legend of "the message of the butterflies...They move between worlds and bring messages and warnings. They are said to be souls, waiting to be reborn on earth." Nothing too specific I found solely interesting—don't get me wrong, it is cool—but I mainly found it eye-catching cause of Will's given nickname in The Emperor of Nihon-Ja. Not that Will is Hibernian, but Halt might've known that.

Leprechauns. "Little People." That's it.

Back to royal families again. One of the popular ways of succession was tanistry, an early Irish law, where the "reigning chief" would choose which of the male relatives to succeed him. Said chosen one also had to be elected from certain people. An interesting idea if the twins' father had chosen Ferris. But this was also banned during the years of James I due to the violence and wars it caused.

Isidore of Seville is known to be "one of the earliest medieval writers [of] Ireland." Ireland is referred to in his notes as "Hibernia." Maybe that's common knowledge already, but I didn't know that. And after the Normal Invasion, it was known as "Dominus Hiberniae."

In another article, it was stated that Ireland was "a country divided into two 'nations.'" The Anglo-Normal settlers, and the older Gaelic Irish. Ferris's name is of Irish descent. But Halt's is Anglo-Saxon and while it's not Anglo-Norman, their namesakes were from different sides. Take with that what you will.

I find it funny that the harp is literally one of the symbols of Ireland and yet Halt is so utterly tone-deaf.

[uldahstreetrat]

27 for Q'ihnn, 31 for Ophianne, 3 for Zana for pre-DT WoL questions. :3

pre-dawntrail wol questions!

oh this is about to be a long one asgfkhssdjf

27. how does your wol feel about allag in general? the tech, the experimenting, the crystal tower? any thoughts on allagan ruins? are they impressed, scared, resentful, neutral?

Q'ihnn actually used to be super interested in Allag when he was younger, studying in Sharlayan. This was, of course, mostly an excuse to spend more time with a certain cute boy, but it taught him a lot that ended up being very useful in the future. I suppose he's... respectful, of what remains. He holds no reverence for its emperor nor is he particularly impressed with their technology anymore, but he doesn't hate it. He's certainly not afraid of it. The people that built it were just people, he wouldn't see their contributions to history buried under the weight of time.

31. how does your wol work out? lifting? sports? walking? how often do they do it? is it for fun or to keep up their physique? do they enjoy it?

Ophianne doesn't often purposefully work out, she spends enough time traveling and hunting and fighting to stay in shape, but as she's picked up more skills over time she's had to make more of an effort to keep her skills with a bow sharp. It hasn't been her weapon of choice for some time, but she keeps a collection of war bows at the Rising Stones with increasing draw weights to continue practicing with. She's rather slim so she doesn't always look very muscular but her back is absolutely shredded, it's a sight to see when she flexes.

3. what is your wol's evening routine? do they prepare for the next day? do they just wing it? do any weapon or gear upkeep? just pass out because that's tomorrow them's problem?

I'm not sure Zana has internalized the idea of a "routine" yet, especially for self care purposes. She has a habit of just flinging herself into bed in what she's wearing, if she doesnt just find a spot on the floor to curl up and call it good there. But with the recent time she's spent in Garlemald with the twins, Alphinaud has at least gotten her into a little bit more of a habit. He tends to find wherever she ended up passing out, wakes her up just enough to brush her teeth and change out of her grease covered Ironworks uniform, and then gets her to bed somewhere she'll actually be comfortable. And anymore comfortable for her is right next to him (* ´∀｀*)

[rikki-roses]

Hello hello i saw an ask meme, so i must inquire:

What is your OC’s favorite nice thing to do for themselves? / How does your OC determine that they’re attracted to someone? / Does your OC believe in soulmates? ♪(^∇^*)

Thank you for asking <3

I'll answer for Rikki (yeah, I couldn't think of a good name so used my gamertag for her and it stuck lmfao, she won't let me change it now lmfao), my Warrior of Light /FFXIV OC as well as The Twins - my two main SWTOR OCs

Rikki: She started as a Scholar and later became a Machinist, so likes to spoil herself with rare books when she finds them; otherwise she'll splurge on fancy metals to take back to Garlond Ironworks and make little trinkets. As for her attraction to Lucia, she liked that Lucia was (roughly) 1.5 feet taller than her and could "toss her around" so to speak, and that she was intense yet low-key - equally happy to go battle some monster or stay at home with a book and a cup of tea; she and Lucia match energy and Vibes very well. Plus she has a thing for butch blonds. She doesn't initially believe in soulmates, but does after she meets (and immediately falls HARD for) Lucia.

Setra: Because of the Jedi Codes she has a HARD time doing nice things for herself. As she learns to, she likes to splurge on nice oils for painting - she mostly paints with charcoal, graphite, and water color; painting oils are the Holy Grail for her. As for her initial attraction to Theron, it was a mix of looks and sense of humor, plus bonding over their respective childhoods with the Jedi Order; plus, they're both flighty when it comes to relationships, so I feel like there was a sort of unspoken understanding because of it. She 100% believes in soulmates; sees it as the Force's will, basically. She's my hopeless romantic lol.

Kevra: She likes to splurge on herself with spa days and fancy wine; she loves to pamper herself. Her attraction to Andronikos started when she realized he was the first person she truly felt "safe" with after joining the Sith; he treats her *well*. Plus they mesh well when it comes to Vibes and humor. She doesn't believe in soulmates; she thinks it's simply wishful thinking.

[saintsmith]

a few major cities in aurena:

in the far northwest, in the polity known as rosyev, there lies the great twin metropolis of kohth. long ago this site served as a meeting place for various tribes and other political entities of greshtal, but during the holy war with the aajakiri, it almost became a battleground. but after careful negotiations between the aajakiri priests of Raam and the pagan greshtal polytheistic shamans, a peace accord was reached ("worship what you like, but worship Raam above all"), and the two war-camps situated near kohth came together as one, their tent cities uniting as a single city, and they constructed a great temple to Raam there, one of the first of its kind outside the interior mountain ranges or the theocracy of mornet. while cosmopolitan now, its culture still heavily relies on a specific blend of greshtal and aajakiri customs and traditions.

to the south, the capital of mornet within the relatively small mornet theocracy is a testament to aajakiri high art and artifice. their crystalline towers and marble arenas stand tall and proud as monuments to Raam, blinding newcomers with their brilliance. it is an ancient city, and has been besieged several times by the dromag throughout history, hungry for its riches. the caverns dug by the dromag digging army still exist below the glamour, and many tenvo, mostly dromag, still live down there. (the old breakthroughs into the kingdom vaults of mornet are permanently sealed off.) in the area surrounding the capital exist some of the few ironworks outside of the interior mountains.

the deepest inlet to the interior mountains, lying in the nationstate of norkhec to the northeast, hosts the mountain mining city of derthn, once the capital of the ancient dromag empire. here is the only place outside of the Raam priesthood's domain in the mountains that iron can be mined, but one must dig very deep to find it. thankfully, dromag have always been excellent diggers. but one cannot rely on handful of iron nuggets to sustain a city of that size. so the majority of their work consists of mining out the vast reserves of gems of all kinds that reside in the mountain, selling them to the priesthood's saints for the manufacture of aajakiri thoughtstones. being comfortable not only deep in the earth but also at sea (unlike greshtal and aajakiri), the dromag tradefleets are the only of their kind in aurena, sailing around the mainland (from ports such as hovden in olsekr and hvolst in utstr) to trade iron and gems not only with the priesthood but also rich clients in mornet. but many aajakiri will gladly travel (by land) to the northern reaches to find just the right housing for a spirit they've caught.

[thescions]

G’raha in the Twinning dungeon

Send A Muse & A Dungeon Name For A Peek At Their Experience

Although the Exarch had lived within the Crystal Tower for what felt like two lifetimes now, there were yet still parts of it that he did not frequent. If anyone were to ask, he would confess to being wary of its more dangerous Allagan-created occupants, but that would be a lie. He had long since grown powerful enough to dismiss such creatures with little more than passing concern.

No, it was not the enemies lurking below that gave him pause -- it was the memories.

I'm sorry, I truly am. But there is no other way. You are our only chance of success. Our only hope.

Just promise me you'll spare a thought for those you leave behind.

No one, no matter how close nor how trusted, would ever be able to understand what he felt about that period of his life. That time that was erased and yet remained with him, and only him. The only known survivor of an Eorzea that never should have been.

Even if the changes implemented in this time had not erased that linear path of existence, the Exarch could not help but wonder what joy there could possibly be in such a place. If any unfortunate soul were to survive, they would only be condemned to an empty world of solitude.

This is Biggs, third of his name, eighteenth president of Garlond Ironworks, signing off. May the Twelve be at your side, G'raha Tia.

He hadn't listened to those audio logs in a very long time. When the Warrior of Light found and played them out loud, the Exarch could not bring himself to speak or try to tune them out. He could only listen. He could only mourn -- but not for long.

Before his friend could ask, he merely gave a shake of his head and staff both, mouth stretched into a grim smile.

"We must carry on, my friend," he urged, voice tight but generally pleasant. "We can discuss our findings later."

Sometimes he wondered if would be appropriate to hope to tell Biggs just how wonderful his descendant was. How smart and talented and good he could turn out to be. But even that felt like crossing the line.

The Crystal Tower was already taking a toll on his body for merely existing. It would do no one any good right now to provide vague premonitions of one's lineage.

Still, he hoped that changing the Source's fate would not prevent such a brilliant man from being born. The world needed more like him.

[hdawg1995]

"Off the Hook"

prompt 4 (I am unofficially participating in FFxivWrite2023. no order, no 24 hour limit, i'm just writing to write and get the gears turning)

Off the Hook He found himself dangling hundreds of mals up above The Crystarium, the only thing keeping him from death is a versatile lure, the strength of an ironworks fishing rod, and her desire to keep him alive.

“It ain’t fun bein’ yanked outta ya home and havin’ ya life in da hands ‘o someone else, is it?” the miq’ote growls as her grip on the rod tightens. He slowly drifts to face her and her bared moon keeper teeth.

“N-No. its not. You made your point my friend- you made it very clear the last three times. and so for the forth time, I am sorry.” The exarch said. In the moment between slowly spinning to face away from her and back again he is thankful she never catches him in a way that would reveal his face.

At least she respects his privacy if not his dignity or authority.

“If ya think I’m goin’ let cha off da hook with an apology ya got rocks for brains!” she snarls, each word accompanied by the motion of an angler casting their line, throwing him through the sky.

He lands, of course, somewhere soft that takes most of the momentum for him. He is never hurt during one of the Warrior of Light’s out bursts- she doesn’t want to hurt him. She is very angry with him and if anything happened to any of the scions because of him the light wardens would be the least of his problems.

However that was the last time she would do that. He isn't sure what happens- maybe its reuniting with the twins, maybe its getting to know the facet of fishing- but she stops being angry at him and is angry at other things. eventually her anger dies and she is the warrior of light he had known from all the stories.

But these events have long passed. G’raha no longer fears for his life dangling at the end of a fishing rod. No, he simply thanks The Twelve the Fisher of Light has bigger fish to intimidate and frighten.

He watches from a safe and appropriately distant spot as Fourchenault dangles from a fishing rod whilst getting scolded for disowning the twins. He can’t hear much, but judging by the scene she is making, the forum member is doing nothing for his case. G’raha bristles as M’ixie stands precariously on the head of Thaliak’s statue.

“Like I know wat any o dat means! I studied as a Archanist! Nota Politian!” the warrior of light yells as she whips the elder out into the ocean.

“She is going to get suspended from here.” Krile observes as she approaches G’raha. “Or at least a negative reputation.” The lalafell can’t hide the laughter from her voice.

“I may be wrong, but I do believe she doesn’t care.” G’raha glances down in greeting. “M’ixie would be a treat for the marine biologists and fishing enthusiasts of Old Sharlayan, but she can’t stand it here.”

The pair watch as a boat is sent out to retrieve Fourchenault and M’ixie appears to prepare a teleport. When she vanishes G’raha lets out a laugh worth of the old man he once was.

“Whats so funny?” Krile smiles.

He thinks for a moment, looking back at all the times M'ixie had bared her teeth at him for stealing her friends away, had scolded him for being reckless and eventually welcomed him as a friend during The End of Days. He thinks of the fatigued and pained look she had as he begged her to take him on her next adventure moments before his death. He thought when she returned he would be crying for his life, not hers. Yet when she returned it wasn't "i'm sorry for almost dying" or any sort of apology like he would have gave, just a very weak "i'm going ta see Lord Aymeric later. Want to come along?".

“Nothing, I’m just glad I’m finally off the hook.” G’raha laughed.