#there are four High Houses that protect Ishgard with their knights

[ghoulliojr]

this opening cutscene where it introduces Ishgard to you is so sick, i love that the narrator is Edmont's memoirs.

[iron-sparrow]

女士憤怒

Four months. Nearly four months in this gods-forsaken wasteland, this frozen tribute to Man’s greed and endless thirst for power. To Lia, imagining these ruins, this Regio Urbanissima, as a once bustling metropolis seemed an impossible ask. She remembers, suddenly, the scorched settlements and strongholds that fell to Nidhogg’s loyal brood, the crumbling outer walls that protected Ishgard for generations. Could this have been their fate, had the Scions and their enigmatic Warrior of Light not intervened? 

One has to wonder. 

Lia shakes her head, evicting these thoughts from her mind. They serve no one now, and she had felt her mood begin to sink even lower under their weight. She sighs out a breath, waits for the cloud in front of her nose to dissipate, and reaches for the curved snout of her visor. It yields easily when she applies the exact amount of pressure, clicking firmly into place to shield most of her fair features. Other mechanisms in her helmet grind softly as the visor is lowered, bringing the toothy jaw up so that it hugs her own jawline firmly. 

Ishgardian ingenuity. 

In her mind, she sees the map of the area directly beneath her high perch, one she had spent well over an hour studying ever ilm of on parchment before departing on her solo assignment of scouting the region. Though not gifted with wings to fly, her high jumps fueled by training and her soul stone allowed her to find alternate route and vantage spots, making her more difficult for the hostile wildlife and machines to detect much less chase. Now, as she’s knelt atop this fallen structure – once a skyscraper – her keen eyes search through the falling snow for signs of life. Only fifteen of the thirty soldiers had been found, most very much dead already. So where had the others vanished off to? Could they have been spirited away by wandering voidsent? While the Lady Dragoon had not personally witnessed any such monstrosities roaming the region since her arrival, she knew better than to cast aside the possibility. And what of those “blasphemies” that had supposedly been dealt with by the Scions?

Fury, this star seemed to find new ways of testing her children at every turn.

Whatever happened to Ser Alvinne’s convoy, Lia knew in the pit of her stomach they must have succumbed to something unnatural. She had read the coroners’ combined reports, and the survivors summoned forth vivid memories of enthralled heretics serving the will of dragons. An otherworldly shriek. Fear that dug into their bones. But this wasn’t the work of dragons. Her blood did not sense any. 

If voidsent were responsible for this, could that mean the Strange Knight might be near? Halone’s mercy, he better not be dead. Her betters at House Dzemael would not like that. Neither would she.

Well, nowhere left to go but down. Tightening her grip around her Fangs, she propels herself from her perch and begins her rapid descent into the depths below. As her armored form passed through the opening in the asphalt and snow, she felt the world swallowing her whole. Her landing was both heavy and graceful, placing her in a low crouch at the center of this beam of light that shone through the wound above. She lifts her eyes skyward to look at the entrance. Only sixty, maybe seventy yalms above her. She can escape with ease, if a hasty retreat was needed. Then, the Lady Dragoon takes stock of her surroundings, waiting for her eyes to acclimate to the dark.

She hears stone scraping behind her and turns, rising to her feet in that same motion. Something is here with her. She senses it.

A horrifying scream suddenly rings from the unseen. Lia hears herself crying out, answering against her will. The sound threatens to split her brain in half, spiraling down into every nerve in her body and wrapping around her bones so tightly she thinks they might snap.

The shrieking doesn’t stop, and the pain it inflicts is too excruciating for her to silence herself. Gods, she thinks her blood is starting to boil. Her fingers feel hot inside the metal talons protecting them, and all at once, the darkness around her goes quiet. She knows that unholy sound hasn’t relented, but now, her ears are consumed by the beating of her heart and the low growl that seems to rise from inside her chest.

I know you.

She’s fallen to one knee now, pushed against the concrete by the threat she cannot see. A trembling hand reaches for her throat, where a deep blue crystal begins to glow, burning hot despite the cool light it emits. The growling grows louder in her thoughts; and then, a dragon lets out its roar, and the Lady Dragoon feels her mind blank with its rage. 

You know us.

I know you.

You will not join us this day.

I cannot fight it.

Fight it. Burn away the heresy.

The leathers in her gauntlets groan with the tightening of her grip. Gasping the stale air of the underground, she heaves herself to her feet once more, pushing against the crushing weight of enthrallment fighting to steal her consciousness. Her dark eyes lift heavensward, gazing into the light through the narrow slits in her helmet. 

Leap.

Even without wings, she flies. And the cold light welcomes her return. 

[wingedscribe]

Novel

Novel, n.: a fictitious prose narrative of book length, typically representing character and action with some degree of realism.

FFXIV Write 2022 Day 17, this time ft. the gang’s genres of choice for idle reading.

Askirael wasn’t as much of a reader as the rest of her team. 

    It wasn’t that she had some aversion--she knew the general impulse to think a large, muscular person who didn’t actively pursue knowledge was in some way a blockhead, but she was as well-studied as she had to be--people often forgot, next to her combat credits, that she was a member of the Alchemist’s Guild in high standing, and that sort of work required no small amount of study. It was just that when she was left to herself, her first course of action was rarely to pick up a book. There was always something to fix, or something to tend to in whatever garden she’d co-opted from where they were staying at the time, or some new recruits to the Braves that needed training…There was always something to do other than reading, was the point.

Or rather, there was usually something to do rather than reading. Right now, a blizzard was sweeping through Ishgard, so fierce that according to reports even the dragons had ceased sending out scouting parties into the ice-filled sky, and leaving Fortemps Manor for any reason was a fool’s errand. Even Ciel, who hailed from snowy climes himself and outlasted even some Ishgardians when it came to cold tolerance, had opened the door, taken one step outside, turned around, and shut the door firmly. 

    “Absolutely not,” They’d said, and that was that. Now, most of the team had convened in the rather extensive library of the house, both because it had a number of comfortable seats and a fire, and because without anything else to do, the books were very tempting. 

    Ask had been the last to arrive, after having been shooed out of the kitchen while trying to help--which, fair, she wasn’t great in the kitchen--and fully sharpening and polishing every piece of gear she owned. When she arrived, everyone else was gathered around the fire, some on various couches, some just on the floor, and the dark knight took a moment to scan the scene. 

    Hikari, perhaps predictably, was sprawled in front of the fire on their stomach, a book propped on a pillow in front of them so they could read it. It wasn’t any of the research treatises on ancient Allag that the summoner perused for study, Ask could tell from the binding, which meant that somewhere in here Hikari had managed to find their other main reading material: adventure novels, often of fighting giant monsters on the high seas or journeys across distant and incredible lands. Ask had once asked them why they picked novels that were, in so many ways, like their daily life--fighting giant monsters and going on strange journeys were pretty much all any of the four of them had done for the past year or so--and received a lopsided grin, a flash of teeth that Ask was pretty sure had only grown sharper since Hikari was claimed by the Eye of Nidhogg. 

    “I mean, why wouldn’t I? I’m doing what I love, for the most part. Not putting other people in danger, not that part of it, but--seeing new places. Protecting people and testing my limits against giant monsters. It’s nice, even when I’m taking a break from doing it myself, to read about other people doing it, even if they’re all made-up. Especially then, perhaps. All of the adventure, with none of the consequences.” 

    And put like that, Askirael had to admit it made sense--or it made as much sense as any of Hikari’s deep inner motivations ever did. This was, after all, the person who had coped with being brought back to life by mastering a fighting style that relied on bodily flinging themself at their opponents at high speeds. 

    On the couch nearest the fire, Rhel’ir was a bundle of blankets and fur, occasionally sparing a scowling glance to the snow outside of the window before returning to his own book. Snow, he’d admitted to Askirael, had been really exciting…the first few times. After that, though, it had quickly become more miserable than not, especially with how unused he was to cold in general. 

    He hadn’t claimed every blanket on the couch, though, because Alphinaud had the other side of the couch, his own white-bound grimoire open in front of him as well as another notebook or two, cross-referencing notes that Askirael knew better than to even try to decipher--magic was not her specialty. If she had to hazard a guess, Alphinaud had been the first to set up on the couch with his studies, and Rhel’ir--always interested in other people’s business--had been unable to resist the temptation to peer over his shoulder and offer his own opinions. Sure enough, as she watched, Rhel’ir put down his own book--cover fully hidden among the blankets--to squint at something Alphinaud wrote down. 

    “That one’s from Silvairre Vielant’s treatise on aether transferral, I think,” he said. “Not Caerswys’s? She was more writing on the variant aether dispersal from carbuncle variants--” 

    It was a testament, perhaps, to how much Alphinaud had grown since Askirael had first met him that he didn’t bristle instantly, frowning instead. “I--actually, you’re right. I was thinking of Caerswys’s second treatise--but that one was also more focused on arcanima as well, while this was more covered in Vielant’s. My thanks.” 

    “No problem,” Rhel’ir said. “Thanks for letting me look at your notes.” 

    “I’m not sure I could stop you,” Alphinaud said, but it wasn’t as acidly as it would have been back in the Rising Stones, and Rhel’ir settled back into his nest of blankets with a grin, returning to his own book. Askirael couldn’t see what it was, not like Hikari’s, with the sea-ship-and-kraken cover very visible, but she didn’t have to. She’d spent almost two years, at this point, traveling and working with Rhel’ir Lyegha; he could not hide his love of  “trashy” romance novels for very long, even though he was perpetually embarrassed about it. Sure enough, as he started reading again, his ears flattened to his head sheepishly, and Askirael exhaled a short, quiet laugh. 

    She was, for a moment, surprised that he’d managed to find any of those novels here--this altogether seemed a rather more proper library than that, even if it might have a decent selection of novels at its disposal--but then remembered that Emmanellain lived here, and Haurchefant presumably had at one point too (she would be the first to admit she didn’t quite understand how legitimacy affected someone’s life in noble Ishgard), and she could easily see either man enjoying the kind of torrid romance novel that a place so fixated on class and nobility could produce. She’d never had the same conversation with Rhel’ir about why he liked those books in particular as she’d had with Hikari, but it also didn’t take much time around the mage to realize he was at his core a romantic. 

    Although he was far from their group’s only diehard romantic, and Ciel certainly didn’t tend toward the same genres of novel. The viera was in a window-seat, ears flat along his back and eyes wide as he turned the page of his book. Of all the inexplicable-to-Askirael literature choices, Ciel’s absolute adoration of books that terrified him was top of the list. Stories about murder, about the horrors of the Void or other, stranger realms, and here in Ishgard apparently novels about the slow suborning of someone’s mind and will under the crushing weight of draconic corruption were all fair game for the machinist, even if some of them meant he tried to take all three watches at night, too agitated to sleep. 

    She had asked him about that, after the second fear-induced all-nighter she’d seen, and gotten a rueful laugh in response. 

    “I don’t know. Suppose it’s a little messed up, but--there’s something very fun about being scared when the situation is under control, you know. It’s just a book, I can put it down at any point in time, so it’s all the fun parts of being terrified for your life without any of the bad parts.” 

    “There are good parts of being terrified for your life?” Ask had said, deadpan, but she supposed she could understand it. She wasn’t sure a book would ever really scratch the itch only battle really fulfilled for her, but she couldn’t begrudge Ciel his own ways of dealing with the chaos of their life. This book in particular seemed to be leading Ciel directly towards staying up all night in a brightly lit room again, though, which…well. Hopefully the snowstorm would last long enough they didn’t have to deal with a sleep-deprived sharpshooter. Again. Ciel could always be relied on to make sure the rest of them were taking care of themselves, and then he pulled this nonsense. 

    Well. They all were enjoying themselves, at least, and Ask was no closer to figuring out what she wanted to be doing. Idly, she ran her hand down a line of books--she’d overheard some of the others in the Alchemist’s Guild talking about how often alchemy was misused in detective stories, but there was one title they’d mentioned being written by an alchemist and thus being more accurate. And, well. If she couldn’t go outside, and there was nothing else that needed doing…she might as well try to track that down and see if she could figure out what about reading novels entranced the rest of her friends so much.

[ffxiv-ariavitali]

HCs of post HW on how Artoriel and emmanellain would be protective of their surrogate sibling figure Gender Neutral WOL ranging from threats against monsters, stubborn arrogant nobles to suitors attempting to court them?

brothers, attack! :)

❅ ❅ ❅

To say that the sons of House Fortemps have bonded closely with the Warrior of Light was a complete understatement. Rather, their protectiveness over their sibling is so acute, so innate, that they don’t realize it themselves at times just how intense their love of them has grown.

Artoirel can easily manage any naysayer on the political playing field. Having inherited his father’s position as the head of the family, of the head of one of the four noble High Houses of Ishgard, his word doesn’t ever have a chance of going unnoticed. Be it in the House of Lords or a stubborn suitor that think they can curry favor from the Warrior of Light with materialistic items, the eldest son with a silver tongue knows how to dance around these individuals for your sake. 

In fact, it’s quite easy; your uncanny ability to make friends extends to the other noble houses and the current lord speaker of Ishgard. Without knowing, you have provided him with a wide selection of weapons to use, a whole battalion of words that he can speak of. Indeed, he may be biased since you are his sibling, but your deeds have provided you with more armor than he could possibly wish of you to have.

On the other hand, Emmanellain isn’t one for smooth words unless it’s to be said towards a lady. Honoroit has a hard enough time keeping him in check as it is!

Yet, if there’s anything to be admired by the youngest Fortemps son, it’s the fact that he knows all the ins and outs of Ishgard itself: from the back alleys of the Brume to the closed doors of a nobleman’s bedchambers, the man is privy to any and all gossip that it’s almost terrifying. 

As a result, he knows the right people that could spread a single word, a single rumor (be it false or truth) like wildfire throughout the entire city. Words that could ruin a person’s fortune or reveal a backdoor business swept under the rug that shouldn’t see the light of day. He understands the power of words albeit a different manner and he won’t hesitate to call upon his contacts where needed.

Now, both sons are known to be proficient in combat. Though the eldest is more diligent regarding continuous training, that is besides the point because, at the end of the day, it is their duty to see the safety of their nation through. 

It is different with you. Rather, if the reason to their fighting is because you are a part of it, they obtain a renewed sense of vigor, of motivation. When you lead the charge, they feel as if they can defeat anything knowing they have an ally of your skills, strength and sense of duty.

However, when you were injured, found unconscious at Ghimlyt Dark, they learned fear. They knew fear. In their fear, they fought desperately, against the monsters of the Garleans to protect that to which you had gifted them: a chance. A chance of playing their part in the Alliance, a chance to show you that, as you had saved their nation, they will save yours. They will protect it in their own way.

They swear it like a vow, as their knight’s calling... just as he would have done.

[efrmellifer]

Incorrupt

The Vault Reversal AU, Part II

It was with that suggestion that all of it settled over Edmont at once, and the feeling of it was like a coat that was soaked with cold water.

Maybe it hadn’t been formalized yet, but it was clear. The High Houses were honoring the agreement denoted in the paperwork they had spent so long dragging their feet on. Etien was considered the daughter of a high house now, his daughter. But it was only post-mortem.

Etien, so eagerly described by Haurchefant as Ishgard’s Hope Incarnate, was lost to them.

She looked so small, limply held out between Haurchefant’s spread arms. One hand curled around her shoulder, her head thrown back over his arm, her hair trapped between it and her head. The other hand was curled loosely upward but not quite touching her knees, which were bent over his wrist.

Now it was obvious how fragile she was, despite her strength. All the stories were true, but she was still just a woman of five fulms, even with the star’s power behind her.

It was too much to take in, this single fact. His daughter was gone. Their best chance at ending whatever had been set into motion here was gone.

A light snuffed out, plunging Ishgard into darkness again, and none deeper than House Fortemps.

Edmont sank to his knees, caring little for the snowmelt seeping into the fabric, only able to let out a choked sob.

_

With Thordan VII still in power, just currently absent, it was slightly difficult to know how to plan the funeral. Etien—all of them—had been acting against the Archbishop, so calling her death ‘heroic’ would have been met with more than a little pushback, if not outright uproar.

The last thing they needed was rioting in the streets.

...especially when the Temple Knights would be in charge of keeping order.

Perhaps they would be fine without their leadership. That, or Handeloup was about to have a much more full plate.

There was much debate in the twenty-four hours following, all about what to do with what remained of the Warrior of Light. Popular suggestions for how to handle her ranged from what was normally reserved for heretics to heavy-handed measures of ‘kindness,’ and included taking her to the edge of the Aetherial Sea, burying her near somewhere far outside the city, and sending her back to Alder Springs.

It was that option that spurred Edmont out of his grief-laden silence, to bellow that that would not be happening.

With that, the point was raised that regardless of the circumstances of her death, she had been acting in loyalty to a friend. Several friends, in fact. She had refused to let her friends act alone to save another of their compatriots.  Moreover, she was, if they would remember, a child of a high house.

“Would you want Grinnaux given a heretic’s memorial for doing what he judged to be best, for acting with his brother knights?” Edmont asked the Count de Dzemael, finally coaching his tone back from its sorrow-fueled rage.

“I suppose not. Given the circumstance, however, I would think it best we do not hold her funeral in the Vault.”

“Of course.”

_

Saint Reymanaud’s Cathedral was packed with mourners coming to say their final thank-you to the woman who had come to them as a refugee of unjust accusations, and had thrown her lot in with them from the first.

From helping them gather the Deepeyes they’d needed, to protecting them against Dravanians, Etien had served Ishgard faithfully, and its citizens wanted to at least wish so good a servant goodbye.

So came through the somber of every stripe, coming from Falcon’s Nest and Camp Dragonhead, from the Pillars and Foundation.

They passed through, to gaze down at the Warrior dressed for a ballroom rather than a battlefield, in a gown white like the snow, stark against the bronze of her hair.

It was the first gown that had come into her possession since the one she had worn to the Sultana’s banquet.

It wouldn’t have done to have buried her in a dress so stained with the dishonor done to her.

Under her hands, which lay folded near her waist, there was a massive bouquet of flowers to completely obscure the spot on her stomach that would surely have drawn the eyes of those who had borne witness.

Instead of the memory or mark of that blazing light, they would see only lilies and lavender.

But they were doing little looking at her, all sitting at the front of the sanctuary, eyes red-rimmed and bags below them as dark as their clothing.

Haurchefant had tried to give a eulogy, and become so inconsolable halfway through that Estinien and Aymeric had to help him back to his seat. As the three of them sat there, hands on Haurchefant’s back, their composed weeping joined in chorus with his.

Neither Artoirel nor Edmont could even will themselves to say a few words. Emmanellain looked drawn, so sullen he had barely made eye contact with his family.

The sun had long past cast its light through the stained-glass windows and over her when they all finally left the church, too exhausted to do anything but slump to their homes.

_

While they—Haurchefant, Aymeric, and Estinien, of course—made their preparations and set off to track down the archbishop, they left Etien where she lay at Saint Reymanaud’s, under lock and key so only the clergy had any access to her.

No matter where the airship took them, they were silent, no enjoyment in the journey, even when they might have otherwise marveled at the sights, even with so serious a task on their minds.

But they struggled their way through Azys Lla together, two swords and a lance against what few imperial forces were present and the leftover experiments, all the way past Tiamat and to the Singularity Reactor.

“Are you ready to do this?” Estinien asked Aymeric, knowing who they were about to take on.

Aymeric sighed. “Would that I could be the better man, and extend him mercy as my father when he was not so kind to me, but where will Ishgard go if I do not do this?”

Estinien nodded.

“We must do as Etien would have,” Haurchefant added. “She told us Ishgard needed more knights like us.”

_

When they returned, ready to usher in the birth of a new Ishgard, they stopped by the cathedral, none of them yet ready to enter the Vault again, but wanting to offer prayers of contrition for what they had done, and thanks for their success. They needed to, when they had managed to complete their task even without the blessing of the crystal.

But the sight that greeted them before they had even gotten to kneel had them all taken aback.

While the flowers on her chest and laid around her had wilted in the days that had passed since the funeral, Etien had been untouched by time’s hand.

“We thought her unbreakable, but she was incorruptible,” Haurchefant breathed.

“Do you think they might make her a Saint?” Estinien whispered.

Aymeric bit his lip before replying, “She was acting against the See; she would be a Beata at best.”

“Blessed Etien,” Haurchefant murmured, reverence taking over his expression and tone of voice, “I am sure you walk Halone’s halls. Please give Her our thanks and grave apologies. And ask Her to grant us succor now that we no longer have you here.”

Estinien was rolling the phrase around on his tongue. “Blessed Etien.”

“She will always be in my litany,” Aymeric uttered, his voice rough with renewed grief. “Blessed Etien, Savior of Ishgard. Beloved, Blessed Etien.”

[fistsoflightning]

falling snows

that’s right. i am your living legacy.

                           gatheredfates’ [30 day WOL challenge] | prompt: sacrifice

i don’t mean to beat the “haurchefant-related angst” horse but also take this. this fic was inspired by a peculiar crossover-esque screenshot taken by @to-the-voiceless​ involving the quote above!

for as long as lumelle can remember, she’s always wanted to be a knight. not one of the heavens’ ward, mind you—they had to serve the king, and lumelle thought he was kinda smelly back then, and especially thinks he’s worthless as a king now—but a true knight, like her mama in all the paintings hidden behind locked doors and curtains. any time lumelle would ask, she would reply that was when she was young and filled with energy; that her arms today could not carry such a burden of being a knight.

lumelle hadn’t understood, then, what she meant by burden, blinded as she was by the gleaming swords and polished armor… by her own storybooks and young age.

she hadn’t donned her armor since auphine was born, but on the eve of lumelle’s tenth birthday—the one year they stayed home, rather than send her a birthday gift by moogle and a fulm long letter apologizing for not being there—mama had dusted off her gleaming platinum armor and circlet to play lumelle’s knight for the day, taking her through snow-dusted streets proudly.

“now, now, my little bell,” mama had chided when lumelle said she wanted to be a knight just like her. in her arms, lumelle felt safe, even when the stupid boy from house dzmael was just a few short yalms away from them with a snowball in his hands and three other kids behind him. “do you know what it means to be a knight?”

at a energetic shake of her head, mama laughed brighter than the sun, and said, “a knight lives to serve and protect those she loves. her shield becomes their towers, and her sword their final defense. at its very core, becoming a knight requires dedication.”

ten-winters-old lumelle, bright-eyed and still cheerful despite it all, took that to heart and worked to become a knight—and she did. just a fledgling knight by the time she returned home, vishap’s blood on her name, but one regardless

a knight lives to serve. to protect. to sacrifice. there is no greater calling, edmont mutters as he leaves haurchefant’s side, stifling pained tears as reese quietly walks after him. haurchefant surely would have had some witty response if he weren’t currently in a coma, the wound spanning his entire chest a scar thanks to lunya’s quick thinking, and lumelle realizes that mama never told her about being a knight, hoping that her childhood dream would one day die out like so many others.

to be someone’s shield, at the forefront of combat, a knight has to be lucky a thousand thousand times as every hit chips away at their strength.

your adversary only has to be truly lucky once.

francel comes in some time after—his steps are always light, always measured—and sits in the empty chair by lumelle, watching the rise and fall of haurchefant’s chest like a tourney, afraid to look away in the off chance—

“francel,” lumelle mumbles into her knees, and she’s more than certain that she looks like an utter mess; hair loose, tangled, and soaked in blood, her armor with more than a few dents and scratches, and an excessive amount of gauze wrapping the burns from charibert and the deepest cuts from grinnaux. curled up into a ball on her chair as she is, she might as well look like a brume brat. “i’m going to chase zephirin to the ends of this world to strangle him.”

honestly, she thinks she could do a lot more to the heavens’ ward if she weren’t on the verge of sobbing loud enough to wake the dead; first elwin, then haurchefant? she’s half expecting some barmy excuse of heresy to come and meet francel again, and she’ll come back to find all of what made ishgard home gone.

“and i trust you will come back to tell the tale, where i will be waiting with those kukuru rusks you adore… and, hopefully, haurchefant by my side,” francel says like a prayer, a gentle hand combing whatever tangles it can out of lumelle’s hair. by the fury, he’s going to get blood all over his gloves and lumelle doesn’t have the heart to lift a hand against him. 

she wants to promise him she will, her head held high and heart lighter than it is here, but part of her knows no promise would suffice. a knight lives to sacrifice, after all, and she is no more willing to have another pay the price for her mistakes.

“haurchefant will survive,” she promises instead. lunya, reese, a’dewah, duscha—none of them are fools; they know their way around fatal wounds… even if it took lunya everything she had to narrowly save him. the four of them have all of lumelle’s faith and trust by this point in their stories, and if she didn’t believe in them, what kind of friend would she be?

(if she didn’t believe in them, would she still be here in the first place?)

the room falls silent as francel quietly runs his gloved hand through lumelle’s hair until the tangles are nearly gone, and only then does he whisper, “i believe in both of you and your strength.”

...

it feels like another era comes and goes as they wait impatiently, traveling across the realm as always—adventurers aren’t wont to stay in one place, after all, especially not with them and the call of the realm at large. bismarck rises and falls, y’shtola comes back from the very lifestream, garlond ironworks prepares the excelsior for her maiden flight after soleil.

lumelle’s heart stays in ishgard the entire time she’s away, trying to heal before she inevitably finds herself broken again, by some new tragedy that comes into their path. she comes home, picks up the shards of her heart, and on the eve before cid takes them to azys lla, lumelle makes one final courtesy visit to haurchefant’s bedside, just in case this be the last she sees him alive.

(or just in case she doesn’t make it back alive.)

“so the little drake does pledge her life to fortemps,” estinien remarks when she meets his eyes, him leaning next to the door leading to haurchefant’s sickbed. his armor nearly blends in with the wallpaper; lumelle snarkily thinks he’d make for a good gargoyle. “color me surprised.”

she sighs, crossing her arms. “i am much too tired for—”

“relax. i’ve lingered not to insult your friendship, but to caution you. your sword—” estinien uncrosses his arms to pick up her sheathed sword, leaning on the wall besides him, and pull the blade out to reveal a good three-fourths of the blade missing. “failed to survive even with the smithy’s help. if you plan on joining us, i suggest you either find your lance or procure a new blade.”

mama’s sword… and her lance is lost somewhere in ul’dah, likely in the hands of some greedy merchant by now. even if she were to look for a blade suitable for her stature now, the jeweled crozier has surely fallen into chilly night; it’d be near impossible.

“...thank you kindly, estinien.” she toys with her earring as she looks away from the dragoon, sorely regretting not taking more care when she fought grinnaux. to break laevateinn in such a stupid, foolish move during a rescue mission, of all things… how disappointed would mama be in her?

he nods, quietly setting laevateinn back down next to him as he continues his silent vigilance, and lumelle walks past him and into haurchefant’s room, the metal click of her repaired boots catching her off guard. even for this time of night, the manor felt… quiet. peaceful. contented with their circumstances, perhaps.

and then lumelle nearly wrecks that blissful quiet when she rounds the corner to face haurchefant’s sickbed and finds him awake, peacefully listening to francel murmur about a firmament and plans for the future.

“haurchefant?!” lumelle hisses if only to keep herself from screaming loud enough to wake the entirety of ishgard. how is he—it’s only been a short moon or two since she was last in ishgard, and the others had assumed he would take much longer to fully recover and awaken from his coma, so how…?

she nearly falls face first onto the hardwood floor, tripping over herself to sit by her friend’s side as he gives a wan smile. francel, who must have been interrupted by lumelle’s incredibly rude entrance, doesn’t seem to mind her presence at all, drawing another chair out from its place against the wall.

“back in your armor, my friend? i thought you injured as well,” haurchefant wheezes, his voice softer than down and weaker than watered wine. francel, who has quietly shifted his stool so he sits besides her, grips his sleeve tighter at the noise.

“forgive me, but haurchefant; you do understand that lunya did truly mean no speaking until your wound heals, right?” francel says in a smothering sort of way that lumelle remembers from when she was younger and dumber, after each and every time she’d willfully challenge haurchefant in a mock duel and swiftly get her arse handed back to her.

haurchefant only grins wider at that, leaving francel to huff in faux annoyance as he too looks closely at lumelle’s armor. she’d just gotten it all repaired—a job made so much harder without elwin to guide her about it—and now she looked closer to lucia or handeloup than she did before.

“i dare say you did an excellent job repairing the metal,” francel remarks, poking at the pauldrons carefully. “ah, but lumelle. one question.” he politely motions to lumelle’s hip, where laevateinn usually sits, and draws haurchefant’s attention there with it. “where is your sword? i see only your shield.”

“...laevateinn? i—” lumelle politely coughs into her fist to stop herself from wheezing; she has to stay strong, especially now. she couldn’t—she was supposed to be a warrior of light, for halone’s sake, a sword shouldn’t— “the crack laevateinn earned in the vault from grinnaux was, unfortunately, enough to destroy the blade…”

gods, she’s going to end up crying in front of haurchefant someday if life continues to beat her down like this. both of them know just how much she valued laevateinn, after all, it being the final birthday gift she’d gotten before running away from home; she wouldn’t be able to bear them trying to console her over the loss of something stupid like a sword that was already decades old.

(mama would be so, so disappointed in her if she knew that lumelle was even alive. laevateinn was her pride and joy.)

“i know little of where you are to travel next, but excuse me if i find it unreasonable to travel without a new weapon,” francel murmurs, resting his chin in his hands. “but where would one get a sword at such an hour…” she merely stays quiet as francel’s discerning glare is interrupted by haurchefant throwing the thick quilt lying over his chest to the side.

“...if you are in desperate need of a sword,” haurchefant wheezes, sitting up in bed despite all of lumelle and francel’s quiet protests. “you may have mine, from my younger years.”

he points to the wall just above his desk, stacked high with papers he likely brought from camp dragonhead, to a sword mounted on the wall. it’s a tad longer than lumelle’s usual sword… but the way it’s framed above everything else in haurchefant’s room has lumelle pausing. the succession of blades, heirlooms, a knight’s first sword— “but that would mean...”

haurchefant nods as francel tries to keep his shocked silence behind a neutral face, hands folded primly in his lap. most knights who rise to high enough levels consider their first blades heirlooms, legacies to be passed down to their future children���if they are lucky enough to have any, what with the dragonsong war.

but haurchefant was still here, despite it all, and still he would give it up?

“to help my dear friends, i would be more than happy to pass down my first sword to you. tis doing no good merely hanging from my wall as it is.” he nearly climbs out of bed to unmount the blade himself until francel throws his arms in front of the injured knight. if he kept pushing his luck like this, lumelle would make sure herself he wasn’t awake to do so.

“i couldn’t possibly—you still have—” lumelle makes some frantic gestures as she loses whatever fraction of composure she had francel metaphorically beat into her brain during her free time. “reese. what about—haurchefant, i cannot willingly take your first sword when i’m going to commit regicide.”

francel balks at that—oh cripes, he didn’t properly know the full story, did he?—but haurchefant laughs in short wheezes, not as bright as he was before the vault but still there. he lifts his hand to pet lumelle’s head, as if her hair had raised in protest despite the tight pigtails she tied them in, and grins softly. it’s muted, compared to his normally gleaming smile, but it’s still his signature smile.

“you need not carry my legacy by taking up fragarach, but i must ask this you, ser lumelle,” haurchefant says, finally not calling her little or lady, but ser. he folds his hands into his lap, pinched eyes hiding the pain he must be suffering by sitting up to look at lumelle rather than the ceiling, and francel places his hand over haurchefant’s in a desperate plea to get him to lie back down. “please… keep them safe.” he does not mean them, the warriors of light, more than he means her—reese.

every true knight should know a plea for help when she sees one.

“of course.” lumelle puts her hand over francel’s in an odd sort of promise, but one nonetheless, and for the first time in moons, haurchefant’s smile graces the three of them, lying back down at peace with his circumstances.

...

with haurchefant’s blessing, you obtain fragarach.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #15: Shovel Talk

Prompt: scrutiny (free write) | Master Post | On AO3

A pattern of knocks—one two three, pause, one two three—sounded on his office doors. Aymeric looked up from the mass of papers and parchment strewn about his desk, chin balanced in his hand, blinking in confusion. That was one of the coded knocks his officers used when they couldn’t appraise of him details otherwise, specifically to alert him to special guests; one that required his undivided attention.

He hurriedly shrugged his armored surcoat back on and sat upright, hurriedly straightening the paperwork into mostly neat piles. “Yes?” he called out, voice carefully pitched to sound calm and collected.

The left door creaked open, and Lucia leaned inside. “My apologies for the disturbance, Ser Aymeric,” she said in her most formal tone. “A visitor to the Congregation requests an audience with you. May I escort her in?

Not, ‘Are you able to meet with her?’ Someone very important, then, but for the life of him, Aymeric could not figure out who this visitor might be.

“Please do, Ser Lucia,” he said, rising to his feet as his First Commander swung open the door fully. She bowed their mystery guest through first, only stepping inside the office once the visitor came to a stop in the middle of the office, halfway to Aymeric’s desk.

Their visitor was a hyur woman of middle age, her skin a warm golden brown and her dark eyes sharp and observant. She had a strong nose, crows’ feet at the corner of her eyes, and chestnut hair streaked with grey pulled into a thick braid pulled over her left shoulder that hung to her waist; she wore no face paint, save for an Ala Mhigan clan mark in deep red across the bridge of her nose and in an abstract pattern on her right cheek. Her posture was perfectly straight as she politely held her hands clasped in front of her, oozing a surety of purpose and resolve that made her seem much taller than she was.

What drew his attention nearly as much as her cool gaze and regal bearing were her clothes. Her storm grey dress was cashmere, embroidered heavily in dark red thread that formed geometric shapes, with the bottom hem featuring a motif that reminded him of animals—specifically, wolves and bear. The dress was cut to the knee, showing off sensible, heavy leather boots, and was belted with a silver chain. Another silver chain ran from her left hip to her right shoulder, behind which hung a cape with four silk stripes in black, white, red, and storm grey. And the cape’s clasp to the chain was a silver wolf’s head with topaz eyes.

All of it Ala Mhigan.

Aymeric felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. This was—

“Ser Aymeric de Borel,” Lucia said with her parade grounds voice, “I present Lady Angharad Greywolfe of Ala Mhigo.”

Oh. Fuck.

“Lady Angharad,” said Aymeric (thank the Fury, none of his sudden terror leaked through), coming around his desk to bow, “it is an honor and a privilege to meet you at last.”

Synnove’s beloved aunt’s answering smile was small and knowing as she dipped into a return curtsy. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Commander,” she said.

“By your leave, sir?” said Lucia. Fury take her, his First Commander’s smile was absolutely wicked, despite her respectful, deferent tone. No doubt she was going to ‘pearl Rereha the moment she was in her own office.

Aymeric inclined his head to her, and the woman closed the office door behind her as she left.

Angharad’s smile changed: now it more a baring of teeth, and her eyes glittered. Wolves were dangerous, especially when protecting the den, but Synnove had once told him that the sigil of her aunt’s family—Redclawe—was a bear. And as any child of Coerthas knew, if there was anything more terrifying than a she-wolf guarding cubs, it was a she-bear guarding cubs.

He swallowed, but stood up straighter as he pulled out one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk. Lady Angharad strode forward and took the proffered seat with a satisfactory hum, and, once she was settled, Aymeric retook his own seat. He folded his hands on the desktop, to resist the urge to fidget, and met Lady Angharad’s gaze.

He and Synnove had not made any formal announcements about the changed state of their relationship, but neither had they attempted to hide it. There had been little to no negativity in Ishgard, save for disappointed younger lords and ladies, and Count Edmont had been openly delighted. The three other Warriors of Light had also expressed their happiness for Synnove, in their own ways. But they had, one by one, taken him aside privately.

Alakhai had been bluntly straightforward: she’d walked right into his office and slammed one of her combat knives down, point first, into the ironwood of his desk. She’d leaned forward and stared at him, unblinking. He had returned her stare, and eventually she had nodded in satisfaction, retrieved her knife, and left.

Dancing Heron had been similarly silent. She had taken him aside to one of the side parlors at House Fortemps, sat in one of the few chairs that could properly accommodate a roegadyn’s great height, and dragged a whetstone down her sword. The aura of sheer menace had been palpable, particularly when taken in concert with Heron’s easy familiarity with her gear, the age of her sword and how well-cared for it was, and the callouses on her hands.

Rereha had been the worst. To an outside observer, it had liked seemed innocent enough, the bard gesturing expansively while she chattered. Except she had shared, with obvious relish, stories of vengeance on unfaithful lovers, poisoned chalices for caddish heartbreakers, arrows to the heart to reclaim lost honor. Her tone had been light and airy, and her expression gleefully malicious, solidifying in Aymeric’s mind that Rereha Reha was the single most underestimated woman in all of Eorzea.

(One night, not long after the Warriors of Light had ‘spoken’ with him, Synnove had tucked herself into his side and said, awed and respectful, “Lucia and Handeloup are viciously creative.”

Thank the Fury, he apparently hadn’t been the only one threatened within an inch of his life by rabidly overprotective friends.)

Now, though, Aymeric was rather wishing to hear another of Rereha’s gore-filled tales of revenge. What he knew of Angharad Greywolfe was based solely on Synnove’s recollections, and while he did not doubt her love for her aunt, nor her aunt’s love for her niece, the relationship no doubt colored Synnove’s perceptions of the woman. He was in uncharted territory now.

Angharad, at least, wasn’t one to prevaricate. She folded her hands in her lap and raised one chestnut eyebrow at him. “My niece has spoken much of you, Lord Commander” said the woman, “and I quite know how well and how deeply she feels about you. But I would know: what drew her to you?”

Aymeric did not have to think about it. “When first I heard of her,” he said, “it was as one of a group of outsiders seeking assistance from the High Houses in locating the Enterprise as part of the efforts to combat the Ixali summoning of Garuda. My dear friend Haurchefant spoke highly of them all, but especially of Synnove and her immediate friends: their lack of complaint at the inane or thankless tasks set before them; their invaluable assistance in proving the accusations of heresy against Lord Francel de Haillenarte false; and their thwarting of a false inquisitor sowing chaos among our forces. They were honorable women, and Haurchefant never chose his friends lightly.

“I was, admittedly, quite taken with his descriptions of Synnove in particular,” he said ruefully. “He spoke of a serious young woman with a spine of steel and a will of iron. Focused, driven, apparently no-nonsense at first blush. But that she was kind, gentle to those who needed a soft hand, firm with those who required her strength. That she doted on her carbuncles, treated them like her children, and how they adored her in turn. That she had a wry sense of humor, and spoke with obvious excitement and joy about her aetheric arts.”

Aymeric smiled as a memory came to the fore of his mind and said, softly, “I felt awe for her at the first, particularly in the wake of her growing legend as a slayer of primals and the vanquisher of the XIVth Legion. And when I first met her face to face, I did not expect her to be as beautiful on the outside as she so clearly was on the inside.” He shook his head. “That I came to know Synnove as a friend first and foremost, one who was all Haurchefant said she was and more, much more, is a gift for which I daily thank the Fury.

“What drew me to her? Her conviction. Her loyalty. Her delight at remaking the world around her with arcanima. Her enormous heart. Synnove is…magnificent.”

Lady Angharad stared at him thoughtfully for long moments, absorbing what he had told her. Finally, she said, “Once, she had a lover who asked her to put aside her work for the sake of their relationship. Synnove choose to end that relationship. And now she is also a Warrior of Light, who needs must put the good of Eorzea before all else. Are you prepared to handle that?”

Aymeric set his jaw. “First,” he said, “as I said to Synnove when she told me the story, anyone who demands she give up arcanima is a damned mad fool who hasn’t bothered to listen her or to learn who she is. I can only guess at how much the art means to her and has shaped her life.

“Second,” and now his voice turned wry, “I would be an enormous hypocrite to demand of Synnove all her time and attention. I am the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and currently also the interim head of government for Ishgard. My duty to Ishgard has always come first, and must continue to do so, as I know it must be with Synnove’s duty to the Arcanists’ Guild and to Eorzea. All I can ask of her is that she come home safe, as she asks of me.”

Angharad hummed thoughtfully, and then, slowly, she smiled, wide and brilliant and genuine. She shared no blood with Synnove, so she did not resemble her, but Aymeric knew with certainty that Angharad was the person from whom Synnove learned to beam with such true, open joy.

“Two of the greatest workaholics in all of Eorzea in a relationship,” his lady’s aunt drawled. “My, but your friends are going to have their work cut out for them coordinating the both of you into taking a damned vacation at the same time.”

Aymeric burst out laughing, and Angharad joined him, holding onto the arms of her chair to steady herself as she guffawed. When the two settled down again, Angharad leaned back in her seat, eyeing him carefully. “To make it perfectly clear,” she said, “if you break my niece’s heart, your body will never be found.”

He blinked. “My lady,” he said slowly, “I would be disappointed otherwise. Although…”

She made a ‘go ahead’ gesture at him.

“Am I to except such other, ah, talks from members of your family?”

Angharad smiled again: that baring of teeth, fierce and vicious. This time, though, it wasn’t aimed at himself. “Ser Aymeric,” she said, “I am the Greywolfe matriarch. You leave them to me.”

Aymeric let his shoulders lump in obvious relief. Angharad laughed at him, and oh, yes, Synnove had absolutely learned that particular cackle at this woman’s knee.

[windup-warrior]

Prompt 14: Validation

False Saviors

“When a man feels that he has a divine mission, say to lift up, to save or to liberate mankind‐‐when a man feels the divine spark in his heart and believes that he is the mouthpiece of supernatural imperatives‐‐ when such a mission in. flames him, it is only natural that he should stand beyond all merely reasonable standards of judgment. He feels that he is himself sanctified by this mission, that he is himself a type of a higher order! . . . What has a priest to do with philosophy! He stands far above it!‐‐And hitherto the priest has ruled!‐‐He has determined the meaning of "true" and "not true"!”

― Friedrich Nietzsche

Though I grew up primarily in Dravania, I was born in the Holy See of Ishgard. My father’s family served House Haillenarte for generations and his wife came from one of the lower high houses. While they were by no means of elevated status, they certainly weren’t any sort of Brume trash. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely nothing against those who call the Brume home. In fact, I likely have more in common with them than I do of any inhabitant of the Pillars. But the whole point of what I was saying is that I came from a good family. A well respected family that had served Ishgard for generations upon generations, ever since coming to Ishgard well before the Holy See closed itself off to the rest of Eorzea. I think my father said they came to Ishgard sometime during the Sixth Astral Era, in the time of King Thordan, First of his Name.

Thordan and his merry men rose to power and thus began a long standing pattern within Ishgard of isolationism, xenophobia, racism, sexism, and classism. It became the Haves and the Have Nots. My father and his family teetered on the very periphery of the Haves, narrowly maintaining their lifestyle, status, and level of acceptance within Ishgardian society, mostly by sacrificing their morals and virtues, compromising their very humanity for the sake of holding on to some sliver of contented power within Ishgard. Now… that’s not really the way I would want to live, but hey to each their own, right?

Right. Anyways. My father’s wife, I don’t call her my mother because I bear none of her blood despite being born of her mortal body, was a sweet, if complacent, woman. She lived to serve and served to live, and when one of the Lords of the high houses sought to exploit that, she was left with a burgeoning bastard child in her womb and a broken heart to match her shame. She died, but not before the Void took hold of her and claimed her body for their own. My father had no clue. I figure he was drunk more often than not and if not, he was definitely oblivious. He joined with his Voidtouched wife only to find that rather than his beautiful wife, he instead had just fucked a monster.

Don’t kink shame, it’s evidently some peoples’ ‘thing’.

Not his though. The succubus managed to leave before he could kill her, escaping with his wife’s body and leaving in her place a tiny baby. A pink and blue haired baby with eyes of fire, molten lava alive in the infant’s gaze, if not her very soul. Judging by what I see every time I look in a mirror, I can only imagine that such a thing would be immensely disconcerting. But I was just a baby. My father didn’t know what to do, but he did know that if word got out that he had not only consorted with a Voidsent succubus but also ended up with a child due to the union, he would be assuredly tried for heresy. Under the cover of night just twenty-four hours later, my father left the Holy See of Ishgard with me and as much of his wealth as he could manage to take in a single trip.

Twenty-one years later, I returned to Ishgard under the protection of House Fortemps thanks to another bastard of the high houses. I owe my life a thousand times over to Haurchefant Greystone and the hospitality of his father’s house was integral to my journey thus far. When I returned, I couldn’t help but wonder just how many of the people I saw would have known my father once upon a time. I had long since abandoned his family name, taking instead Garwynn’s for my own. Though I received my share of queer looks from passersby, my reputation as the Warrior of Light seemed to outweigh their discomfort.

Eventually I was summoned to the chambers of Archbishop Thordan VII. At first glance, he was as unassuming as anyone’s grandfather could be, a wise but stern old man who was well respected as Ishgard’s leader. We spoke of war and of peace and of the things to come and I couldn’t help but worry that there was more to the man than met the eye. He was cunning and ruthless and seemingly willing to do anything necessary to end the war with the dragons. Even if that meant consorting with Ascians, foul scum that they are.

I did his bidding, as ashamed as I am to admit it. But when he eventually threw Aymeric de Borel into the Vault and sought to do away with the truth after everything I had done for him and for the people of Ishgard, enough was enough. We fought our way through the Vault and freed Aymeric then sought to chase down Thordan and his knights before they could make their escape. What ensued was the worst day of my life. Thordan escaped and as he did, I lost the first person to ever understand me in my adult life.

My first true friend, my first almost love, he died in my arms while that pious asshole ran away without so much as a fleeting look back. In a world where so often I felt as though my only purpose was to do the selfish bidding of others, Haurchefant had reminded me that there were genuinely good people in this world. Having him ripped away so suddenly, so callously, so violently… it wasn’t fair. But it was validation… validation of the worst sort and confirmation of all I had known as a child.

Thordan had to die for his sins.

And damn it, it would be by my hand if it was the last thing I did.

[captainkurosolaire]

In-depth Profile, Lord Shiro Elune

(Not really a face-claim but close representation is above.) Note:Stolen/taken from @subetei-noykin

IDENTIFICATION —

“We all seek something, the difference is what you do to reach out for it.”

Full Name: Shiro Elune

Pronunciation: She-ar-o El-une

Pseudonym: Man in the White Suit

Nicknames: ‘King’(Like the Chess Piece), Lord.

Age: Thirty-Eight Cycles

Name Day: 13th Sun of the 3rd Umbral Moon

Birthplace: Ishgard, The Pillars

Guardian: Rhalgr, the Destroyer

Residence: Diamond Sky - Royal House of Elune

REFERENCES —

Motto:  “War has always been waged on foolish self-preservation and on every playing field there has always been a commander more superior and more intelligent who knows how to lead the pawns to the very end. But only through accepting orders.”

Theme Song:

Face Claim: None, created to be the polar opposite of Kuro in every design and way as a natural born rival.

STATS —

“You can all wither away for all I care.”

Gender: Male

Race: Keeper, Miqo’te (Nunh)

Height: Six fulms

Weight: One-hundred seventy-five ponze

Eyes: Piercing Ice Blue

Hair: Pure White

Skin: Onyx-Skinned

Build: Athletically Fit

Scars: None

Tattoos/Marks: Heritage Markings from his blood-lion on his face to indicate he is a successor to his nobility claim.

At First Glance (+5)

A Noble: From just the way he walks it’s dignified and self-important he doesn’t carry a hold of the stress on him because he has little attachment, or has the reasoning to even express it because there are so little things that met meaningful to him.

Calculating: Usually, he holds a test judging people by the act of their character without even them realizing it upon the first reaction and attempts to learn what makes them tick trying to identify if they’re worth his time or they’ll grant him only foreseeable headaches. He usually can identify from the slightest change in someone's reaction, express, body language if someone is up to something and later on when he has an idea of who they are can piece together if they’re acting strangely than normal always staying alert.

Rich: Always he’s usually found often in some type of classy fashion never going out with any messy hairs or grooming himself and dressing in a presentable white tuxedo or dress-suit and usually some jewelry will be held on him.

Cold: Just being around him because of his aspected attunement with ice he’s not the easiest to be around without feeling a few shivers or chills especially when and if he lowers the temperature on purpose. He’s not afraid to be blunt either in personality and will call out anyone for anything that is blatantly stupid or a one-minded thought. He has little to no patience for those who can’t be tasked with simple reasoning or those who are headstrong and the type to charge into something without being prepared, endangering more than their own lives but everyone in accord.

Powerful: Despite his punchable persona he’s very surrounded by a gift of knowledge that has been harnessed and forged into raw power that’s he’s gained over his entire life-cycle undertaking being an absolute ruthless villain and murder to baring curses placed on him to undertake the learning of Voidal Magick all furthering himself and submitting himself as an Alpha to gain enough power in order to always be able to protect his loved ones, no matter the threat. He doesn’t ever seem to fully not be in a situation where he isn’t guarded or held in an internal and external defensive shell but because of that he’s hard to ever get him to open up or loosen up which doesn’t make him anyone’s favorite social pick or choice for inviting to parties unless they’re Ishgard Ballrooms or something where his proceeds and donations can go a long way.

FACTS —

“Stake your pride against mine, but be warn for I have little else left.”

”

Occupation: Lord Elune, White Drago’s Pirate Captain, Brother.

Specialties: Noble Style, Rapier, Jousting, Dragon Riding, Diamond Ice Mastery, Necromancy, Time Magick, Mhachi, Voidal Control, High Intellect, Calculating

Skills: Sewing, Ishgardian Chess, Knowledge, Booksmarts, Cooking, Astrology.

PROFICIENCY —

“What is it that allows your heart to even beat? To sustain you and fulfill your longing existence?”

Education: SIlv’a Elune (Deceased Father) Self Taught, Otherworldly Mentors and Forbidden Books.

Favored Weapon(s): Mol’usa, Rapier.

Secondary Weapon(s): Gemstone Pocketwatch

Magic Abilities: Various Wielding and Manipulation and Control

Magic Strengths: Various Wielding and Manipulation and Control

RELATIONS —

“There is little I wish to uphold, but that doesn’t mean in the slightest. I’m not searching for something to change that.”

Sexual Preference: Heterosexual

Romantic Identification: Monogamous

Relationship Status: Single

Sweet on: Moli, Rose

Alignment: Chaotic Evil

Allies: Ishgard, Goldbrand(Few), Shadow Lurkers, Crew of Undead.

Enemies: Sea Lurkers, Kuro Solaire

FAMILY —

“Those who are self-sacrificial, those are the only ones that can be deemed precisely Noble.”

Maternal: Xusa Moshantu (Deceased)

Parental: Silv’a Elune (Predecessor, Deceased)

Mentor: Various, mainly. Silv’a Elune

Associates: Goldbrand, Elune Staff, Shadow Lurkers

Ayla Moenwyb (Ally, Respected)

Sha Dragonheart (Ally, Brother, Brother-In-law, Former Elune Knight, Best-Friend) Moli Moshantu(Half-Sister, Adored, Protected) Glyda Rose(Respected, Student, Promising, Valuable)

MENTALITY —

“I require no use for those who can’t stand for themselves.”

Social Level: Cold, Isolated, Preserved, Prideful, Calculated, Intelligent, Snoody, Proper.

Optimistic View(s): Refinding something to kindle a purpose, preventing his only sister to never be caught in his trouble since their upbringing was more than unpleasant.

Pessimistic View(s): Surrounding his-self with yes-men and those who have no purpose isn’t something he’llI find worthy to follow or even aid in. It’s only those with a noble cause or potential will ever be worth, all the rest will fall off the board naturally.

One  Positive Personality Trait: He’s a genius even though it can be unbearable for him to hear it from him personally or see it the way he conveys information and can analyze the slightest twitch is remarkable he’s a useful asset in any crew, community, meeting. 

One Negative Personality Trait: Nearly impossible for many to have him open up to them or be able to tolerate his constant arrogant and pompous thoughts.

·One Personality Warning: When it comes to the very limited and selective few he cares about, there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do in order to maintain that over them.

Random Quirk: He’s a Scrooge.

Hobbies: Sewing, Reading, Navigating, Chess, Being an ass.

Addictions: Gaining a new understanding of something daily

Habits: Hands behind his back, proper stances, cupping his chin in thought, pacing.

Pleasures: Quietness, Alone, Stargazing, Drawing, Sewing, Love-making, domineering sex, mental control.

Appreciates (List 5+)

Peppers Calamari Pizza Spicy Foods   Gold/(Gil) Women Wine Golden Azeyma Roses Skulls Books Magic Challenges Frosted-Grape Wine Rain Pain Au'ra Toothpicks Ships Class Losing Culture Tribes Dravaina Hinterlands Coerthas Ishgard Nobility Pasta Dragons Winning Rivals Pets Love Shiva Ice Skating Learning Teaching Chess Crew Danger Sophistication Duels Knowledge Freedom Strong Maps Scrolls Respect Poetry Goblins Music Piano Harp Violin Ishgardian Chess Symmetry Astrology Science Triad

Dislikes (List 5+) Unpredictable Unearned Authority Unclean Filthy No-self worth Helplessness Fools Weaklings Disrespect Losing Free-Spirited Sociality Swines Stupidity Wastelands Swamps Wenches Lalafell Confidence Discrimination Kittens Beggars Praise

Strengths (List 5+)

Patient Outstanding Mentor Loyal to those he cares about Intellect Sophistication Tactician Knowledge Nobility Heritage Magic Can be honorable

Weaknesses (List 5+)

Courage Compassion Love Inner-Darkness / Bringing others darkness out of them and growing it. Power-Hungry Bright, Gentle Souls.

Fears (List 5+)

Returning his state of mind and losing his chance to train Rose. Being unable to protect his sister, Moli. Not able to be there for Sha To forsake his pride. For the Sea Lurkers to destroy those few who matter to him. Swimming, he’s cursed in a way that prevents him from ever entering deep waters or he’ll drown and be taken down as if he has spiritual anchors weighing him down to the bottom.

FAVORITES ––

“One hundred and seventy-four, The exact number of different moves I could have used to prevail against you.” Favorite Food(s): Calamari Pizza, Saucey Foods, Spicy. Favorite Drink(s): Port, Sparkling Wine, High-Quality Juice Favorite Scent(s): Flowers, Camping, Outdoor Favorite Colors: White, Diamond Blue, Pink

TRIVIA - - None currently.

OOC -

Server: Balmung

Timezone: CT

Mun: Male

Experience: Roleplay Experience of 18+ years. Writes in any format, matches length and complexity where possible. Will scene In-Game (When possible), Discord and other mediums as requested, Dungeon Master for a small discord community, Game Designer, Concept Creator.

Type of RP: Any/All, Mature and R-Rated themes included. Long-term Story-lines or One-shot scenes. Enjoys interacting with Canon and OC alike.

Looking for: Non-imbeciles, (IC) -OOC-> Friends, Rivals, Royals, Those with a self-worth or destiny to follow. Some to show him, he’s in the wrong to label everyone right away moronic. Tagged by: @aylamoenwyb Tagging: @fair-fae @ayane-mayuzuma @shadragonheart @parvacake @tessariel-aerlinn @huntress-ffxiv @captain-rummidew @littlestcreampuff @bigmickgaming @robotprinzess Or anyone, sorry if forgot tags still getting the hang of this but know you aren’t forgotten!